A cool wind sweeps off the glinting, murky surface of the lake, fresh, quiet, and as it’s brittle whisper surrounds him, worry for all that they’d fled, feared, seems finally far away; or at least for now, moved from the forefront of his mind. The enticing flavour of womanly grace lingers in the air about him, a fog, thick, potent, present, so wicked that every breath taken inebriates him all the more. Senses yield willingly to the nurture of her sensual touch - ears, craving the soft feminine moan, eyes, rolling in the dainty, porcelain perfection that she has always embodied, lips, whiskers, ghosting further afield still as they stand wanting.
Stars above wink shyly…
The moon’s pasty cheek blushes the sultry crimson of anticipation as the blood vessels throughout him engorge. His own memory of their love, own lust, is ever present (has always been) - yearning - and his excitement is startlingly fast to snap up the bait she throws; masculinity is like a hungry child, restless, insatiable and wanting. Though already his stands like a giant beside her, the stallion’s virile, steaming impression seems to double - but there is softness nestled beneath the sheen of moonlit contours, tenderness and care.
Lips turn skyward and peel clear of the dull incisors beneath.
The nymph speaks, her voice so feathery against the thunderous throb of his pulse, that he is forced to swing eyes down and reassure the rise of intent. The thought quickly dissipates, his dove stands enticingly, submissively, taunting the willpower within him to bend, and yield he does (a slave to irresistibility and feminine manipulation). Pumping nares abandon that lean, brawny forehand for the treats laid out back; his lips travel coarsely, boldly, ravaging hot skin along the way like pirates through a treasured camp. Nora is glorious, a trove of new and wonderful delights, and he uncovers fresh maternal meat that had once been taut with the innocence.
The legacy of their sweet swallow’s lingered like proud battle wounds.
But time is brief, and though fascination tempts his interest, the pressure building drives him forward.
Teeth glide along the length of up-tilted quills, the beloved birth right shared between them, and now too gifted on to their child. There is a changed flavour about those steaming flanks when his nose aims a descent upon them -sweet, honeycomb - and unlike anything he can recall. He lingers in the inviting glow, the teeming desire fanning around it, with whiskers skimming that nearly naked skin.
I love you, she whispers through their darkness.
Blonde rims seal against the power in those words; they descend through him, warm his bones, stroke his soul, as though written by the verve of the very universe itself. He wonders, lingers - has she ever professed as much before?
“I love you more…” he returns easily, a low hum (though lucid), unable to rid that rising need from his throat.
Crest bows as his cheek slides back along the barred span of her rib cage. Velvety maw seeks the sinew lining the near upper pinion, and though peals flash and tease a nip thereon, a soft, pillowy kiss is placed in their stead. Loins surge with glee, mentality in their own right, and force his course back on track; hooves knife through the soft clay bank as he drifts along further ambiguously, ever nearer to that ultimate goal. |
