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Chatter filtered through the worn slats of the old barn, the walls doing nothing to block the sound. Harpers paced outside. Above, a white bubble of light protected everyone sheltering at Last Light Inn.
Dammon pressed his mouth to the flat of his tail, keeping watch through a gap to make sure no customers arrived. The only time he got to himself was the time he made for himself. Much like the only intimacy he got was with himself.
His sack clenched, eyelids fluttering as he took himself just up to the edge and held himself there. If someone stepped in, they’d see the empty barn. His forge in the corner, the oxen in the stalls. But if they came around the corner of this stall they’d find the polite, inoffensive smith sprawled on some thick blankets piled over hay, face pressed against the gap and tail wrapped around his jaw, one hand feverishly jerking under his apron and the other twisting the edge of the apron. Daring. Perverted. Things people never assigned to him, the nice, quiet, safe one. Far too boring to jerk it in the barn. Far too lonely to do otherwise.
Would they find that surprising, that he was lonely? Or would they understand? Would this faceless, imagined stranger step closer?
Under their enraptured gaze, Dammon slowly dragged his apron up. Revealed pants tangled around his knees. Plump cheeks pressed together, his sack twitching as he gasped against his tail, the base of his cock. Every bared piece of himself, an invitation to lie with him, to kiss his mouth swollen and enjoy him, to use him for their pleasure. Fingers, tongue, tail, whatever limbs they had to offer, so long as they explored him. Played him. Made him feel—
Something touched his shoulder.
He scrambled into sitting, fear soaking through him. What was it? A fiend, a goblin? Elturel citizen? Any of the other dozen things that had tried to kill him in the last year.
Nothing.
Hells, he had stayed up for too long. He pressed his hand against his heart. The only thing he saw was the dark shadow of the ox on the other side of the stall wall. It lowed.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, then wondered why. The ox was always watching. In the Grove, while he was working. In the Shadow-Cursed Lands, when he awoke with his arm tangled in its bridle as it fled the battle. And now, here.
Still, perhaps he could work out an arrangement with it, just like he had when he slept in the fiend’s barracks. They were living together. Might as well be polite. Dammon secured his pants over a wilting erection, swallowed a freshly acquired potion of animal speaking and said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Am I being too loud? Would it help if I hung a blanket on the wall?”
The ox blinked. “Why? I am but a humble ox. I care not for moo-desty.”
“But I do.” He sighed, suddenly embarrassed he was even asking an ox for the best way to do this when the answer was obviously don’t. “I apologize, humble ox. It won’t happen again. I’ll contain myself.”
“No!” said the ox. It turned its head away, looking back at him through long, bovine lashes. “We are each of us alone in this strange world. Take your pleasure. I have taken mine.”
“Taken..?”
It pressed a heavy cheek against the slat, one black eye glittering in the shadows. “I’ve watched you this entire time. Seeing you bathe in the tub, water running over you…and late at night, lit only by your forge. Your sweat, your spill, they have udderly pleased me.”
A hot, flattered blush bloomed in his cheeks. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The way it spoke, he was suspecting it wasn’t quite an ox. That someone had been watching, that his imaginary audience was real, excited him.
“I’m Dammon.”
“Zlorb.”
“Zlorb?” Sounded fiendish.
“Or Orb, Zlor, make whatever adjustments to my name that your mouth requires. Once you’ve decided on what you wish to moan, turn around, lift your apron and show me a pretty thing.”
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
Dammon glanced around again, leaned against his side of the stall, and slowly undid his belt. Let his pants pool around the top of his boots. Turned himself so Zlorb could see everything. Zlorb lowed again, the potion making the sound a deep rumble of desire. Dammon took himself in hand and stroked quickly, hoping to lessen the heat in his cheeks, shoulder, chest. Draw it all down to his loins, let it gather into a heavy ache, then spill it all over the slats. Leave it there, where the only people who would see it were the ones looking for it.
Or the ones who already knew where it was.
Dammon swore he could feel the creature’s heated gaze on the back of his thighs. Goosebumps prickled over his back, the heat welling up. With his free hand, he dragged at his scarf, felt under his apron for the ties of his shirt, anything for relief. The apron covered the front. Bared his backside. He lifted his tail for his audience. His thighs slowly cooled, then his cheeks, then between—
“Spread your legs,” Zlorb said.
He did so as much as his pants allowed, tilting his hips back. Slowly his sack unstuck from his leg, hanging free, bare and vulnerable. Available. Aching and needy for touch. Imaginary fingers ghosted over his skin, over his sack and between his cheeks, chased by his tail. He drove the tip against his taint, sending clenching little shocks of pleasure through his pelvis.
“Enter yourself.”
He paused for a moment. “Not dry.”
“Dry. Ah, yes. You require something. Mucous. Slime.”
“Er, I can make do with—”
Something wet touched him.
He whirled around. A long thing stretched through the air, all the way back to the ox. Color whorled over its surface, shifting like the fuel slicks that covered the floor of his old hellish shop. Light gleamed off its smooth, soaked length. Hells, what was it?
“You will allow me,” Zlorb said, pushing against him. Images filled his brain. Filthy images of Dammon, from Zlorb’s perspective. Of half-closed eyes and wet lips and long, naked lines of his body. Of the tendril, pumping into his body. A promise to hold back strength and acid, to only please.
“What are you?” Dammon gasped, stroking himself. A fiend, likely, but he’d dallied with a fiend and they were unforgettable. This was mad. He should be terrified, but perhaps he’d found the limit of how much fear he could feel. Seeing those visions only excited him.
“A simple ox.” With that, the tendril breached.
“Hells,” Dammon groaned. His legs went weak, only the rough slats holding him up. He could feel every span of the tendril as it slipped inside him, pressing against his walls, curling against his prostate. “Yes, there.”
“I will give the orders. We will test your limits. I will have all of you,” Zlorb said, keeping a knot nuzzled against the spot as more of the tendril slipped inside. Dammon tensed and slammed his hand over his mouth. Oh, hells, it wasn’t particularly wide, but still it went deep, deeper than anyone had gone without working him open first. Deeper, perhaps, than anyone had ever had him at all. Gentler, too. It didn’t fight against the angle of his body, it formed perfectly around his bends. Filled only as much space as he could offer. Without the tendril’s coolness, he wasn’t sure he would know where it started and he stopped.
The cool should have relieved him, soothed the fire in his belly, but it only stoked it stronger. Dammon panted. His hands shook and fumbled with his shirt.
“I will do that.” The ox flickered and melted through the stall wall. The tendril thickened and split, wandering up Dammon’s body in long, cool trails, undoing his belt and shirt and apron and leaving only his pants around his ankle. Leaving him curled over a tendril, claiming more of him than any other. With every push into new depths, his rear tensed, twitched. He cupped his sack and felt his stones jerk with his hole, Zlorb controlling his body through one digit.
For a moment, the assault stilled, then Zlorb pulled out, a rush over his sensitive rim. Back in, twisting as it went. Thickening. Dammon cried out against his palm. Wet covered the inside of his thighs, his chest, his cock, slowly marking him.
His whole body rocked as it thrust again. His everything ached.
“Hold me,” he mumbled.
It wrapped tighter around him, forming small cups that sucked his ribs, pulled at his nipples, pressed themselves against his neck like a dozen kisses.
“Hells, I could kiss you,” Dammon said.
Zlorb’s oxen face shimmered to match the tendril, then shaped itself into an amorphous head, nearly tiefling in its size. The featureless face of his imaginary lover, painting in shifting, shimmering colors. Tendrils unfurled from its forehead, curling around themselves until they were nearly horns. Slowly the creature leaned in, forming lips and a mouth as it neared his.
Dammon’s eyes went wide as it pressed against him. Its mouth moved over his in half a kiss and half a bite. Fierce and hungry but with nothing sharp, without the threat, only the need for another’s mouth. The edges of its jaw spilled over him like a lover’s hands, pulling him close to it, flowing into his ears and cupping the base of his skull. Its horns wrapped around his, slowly pressing against them, filling his brain with a hot, pleasant ache. Dozens of tendrils ran through his hair. Pulled his bun. Overwhelmed him.
Please, he thought. Could it hear him? Did thoughts go both ways?
It snapped his hair tie, hair falling around his face as he kissed back, opening his mouth, silently begging for it to fill him there, too. It obliged, twisting around his tongue and into his throat. Half tongue, half cock. He moaned again, pinned between the shifting mass of color and the stable wall, his shaft rutting against nothing as it slipped around the base. Teased him, covered all of him except his cock.
Carefully, it twisted his arms over his head, wrapping tightly around his wrists. More of it poured into his throat, just like it poured inside his rear. For a moment, he imagined each end meeting somewhere in his middle, the paths of his body completely mapped in cool colors.
The tendril in his mouth widened, and a voice murmured in his ear, “Breath.” Fresh air filled his lungs, dizzying. Could Zlorb get in there? Would it?
Hells below, this thing was going to take every inch of virginity he had. It coursed in and out of him, a cool tide his body had yet to warm, fucking him so completely even his thoughts were ruined. He tensed and relaxed in time, and with every relaxation it filled the space, holding him a hair more open, filling him a little deeper.
“The perfect place to bury my lust,” it moaned. “Let me have you.”
Each delve dragged another moan from both of them, the creature plying and stretching him like he might work metal, testing each limit and slowly finding a way past it. He writhed, the deep stretch and weight in his guts fanning his flames, until the heat was unbearable. Sweat poured over his chest. Mingled with Zlorb. Mixed more of them together.
Dammon shook, unable to finish with nothing on his cock. The more he gave, the more it took. The more it took, the more he wanted. His strength melted, sinking him to his knees. He collapsed forward. Clung to it as he tried to stay up. It continued to ebb and flow into him, to muffle his voice and murmur soft, sure commands in his ear.
“Arch your back. Spread your knees. Lovely, look how you’re sweating. Shaking. Uncurl your fingers. Lift your tail. Wrap it around your neck. Open wider. Beautiful. Do you know how beautiful you are inside?”
Helplessly, he shook his head, uncaring, silently begging it to stroke his cock.
“Alive,” it hissed. “Alive and flushed red with need. Your blush, your heat, the pulse of your systems. Look at you, in the dirt, brought low by your nature. You’ve spent so long on the edge, and all you crave now is a stroke and a spill. You fight for it. Struggle for it. It has consumed your everything.”
He groaned, the creature buzzing as his voice went through it. He felt it in his throat, felt its pressure against the collar of his tail. Feel how it filled him, his smallest units melding with its. It twisted deep inside of him, pressing a threat against his bladder, his abandoned cock dribbling on the hay.
“If I give you want, you want, tell me, will you keep me? Let me stay with you? Ride you into Baldur’s Gate? Have you as my personal project, to redden and rut and ruin?” Images assailed his brain, of it stroking him under his apron, cooling him during his work and heating him back up afterwards, fucking him from the inside before riding him from the outside. Protecting him, top, from anything they met on the road. Holding him at night. A partner that nothing could take away from him.
Dammon gasped as it pulled out, collapsing forward onto his elbows. He coughed and managed, “Yes, just touch me!”
Slick lengths of tendrils coiled around his cock, looping and melting into a soft, puffy, slick tube that sucked him, swallowed him, fought to pull away. Bliss and agony. He buried a strangled cry in his forearms as it sped up, taking him up to his sack and rolling over the length of his cock. Into his cock. Wet pulses, like he was orgasming in reverse, claiming even that finality. Dammon’s eyes rolled back. His eyes watered. He curled into a ball, cock pressed against his stomach, Zlorb wrapping over him, back into his mouth, its voice finally breaking as it quivered against him, as he shook inside of it. As he cried out. Throbbed. Spilled.
“More, give me more,” it groaned. Tiny bubbles of his tears floated inside of its head. Pearls of his come decorated its middle, marking Zlorb as the one who undid him. Proof of Dammon’s pleasure. “More life, more heat.”
Dammon melted against the floor, his body open. Mind open. Its thoughts brushed against his, sharing its delight at mingling with his spend, the glee it felt being squeezed and pierced by his body, how much it wanted more. When it took him again, worked him back to hard, his thoughts were so shattered he didn’t marvel at how it managed. He simply took what it gave. Rocked to its motion. Came as it beckoned. Gave for it over and over until he was dry and stiff and sore and still willing.
Then it slipped completely inside him, all of it condescending down to a slight pressure in his rear. It even pulled his pants closed behind it. He fell asleep with his hands tucked between his thighs, a single clump of tendrils laced between his fingers, Zlorb’s soft thoughts brushing against his, mingling with him even in his dreams.