Kobold Bard

Doran lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The urge to laze around other parts of his home was persistent, but he lacked the will to do anything about it. Guard duty wouldn't be for another two days, but the thought still drained his strength now. He sighed, jokes from the mess hall starting to echo in his ears. Maybe it was time to get a hobby. There were certainly tons of spots around here.

He blinked, striking a few off his mental list. Some of those were best avoided at any cost, menacing their patrons and the city until someone high enough got bothered to intervene. It’d been three months since he’d raided a business in armor, which on the plus side meant less work for him, but in turn, gave him less and less excuses to dodge his squadmates’ invitations to their evening hideaways. Speaking of...

He pursed his lips, the echo of a distant warmth tickling pleasantly at his mind. His recollection of last night hadn't returned yet, but the snippets that lingered—a rhythm, a song, thumping feet, swill with a fierce kick…and something else present in all of them. Someone?

He thought until a dull pain in his head resurfaced. This was a matter for later.

Two solid pounds echoed through the house. Doran groaned, then clambered his way out of bed, stopping to throw on a simple tunic before easing his way to the common room. The door seemed intact, which was good. He glared at it, hoping that the unknown visitor had already left in the time it took him to arrive, but to his chagrin, the door thumped again. Swearing under his breath, he leaned an arm on the wall and eased over.

The door swung away to reveal a kobold, hand in the air like she was preparing to knock again. She immediately locked eyes with him, lowering the hand to pull at a strap across her bare chest, and smiled. His brows creased.

“Have I seen you before?”

Her smaller form seemed to relax. “‘Might be’ is the usual spiel I’d give,” she drawled, hands finding her hips, “quite a few song-bolds ‘round town after all. But you, sire? Yes you have.”

He raised an eyebrow. Had they crossed paths on one of his patrols? Their purpose was to spot troublemakers anyways, so the common mass' features were never worth retaining. He squinted at the rod on her back, noting how it resembled the neck of an instrument. It was terrible news if so, because more noise was the last thing his skull needed.

“I’m afraid I don’t currently have an ear to lend you right now."

She cocked her head, eyes narrowing, then smirked. “You sure did last nigh—”

Doran yanked her indoors before she could finish, then leaned out to squint suspiciously around the alleyway. Finding it empty, he closed the door, whirling around to see the bard piled in a heap on the floor, except for one arm that was busy holding her instrument in the air. The...lute, it seemed, was completely unscathed. Impressive, if a bit odd. He almost said that out loud, which might've lost him control of the situation.

“Practiced that?” he asked instead, motioning to her heap of limbs.

“Quite a lot—oh, you meant my entrance, didn’tcha’. Not the best I've had,” she replied, untangling herself, “but very welcoming, thank you.”

It was a good noble impression, but Dorian quickly tabled the thought as she stood and bowed. While his brain was busy catching up, a part of it found something familiar in the gesture, feeling like it was somewhere around last night.

He shifted his feet, looking more through the bard than at her. Light, food, music, all steeped in the same familiar feeling…and then another gap where that sense didn’t follow. Something else that was just as good as whatever happened in the tavern, if his feelings were trustworthy.

Dorian sighed. “So what’s this business you were mouthing off about on my doorstep? ‘Last night’?”

He tried to picture himself with the bard, whose scaly snout stood about the height of his navel. Nothing clicked. Her scales didn't look like they'd be the right feel against his skin, which hadn’t occurred to him before. His eyes refocused on the bard, sinking deeper in thought. She forwent an answer, opting to dust off her tan breeches. He stared until the bard fixed him with an amaranthine eye.

Maybe this was his ticket.

Seemingly unbothered by his behavior, she donned the lute, hooping the sash round her torso so that the instrument spun around to land on her chest. The motion looked very practiced. She sucked in a breath, clearing space among his musings. “Cobwebs upstairs, eh? Do I gotta jog you?”

Her claws hovered inches above the strings, making strumming motions in emphasis.

Doran winced, then walked past her to lay on his bench, sliding a forearm to cover his eyes. Looking out into the sunlight had been a mistake, made only worse by holding a conversation after, and the consequences had just crept past his own willpower. A single note might've split his skull open at this point. He heard his guest’s footsteps approach, tapping around the bench before stopping near his head.

“Hangover, eh?” she asked in a quieter tone. Miraculously, it didn't worsen the headache. Doran made an affirmative grunt.

“Lucky you, then!” She twirled in amusement, narrowly missing his head with her tail, and stopped in the general direction of where the food scents were. “Downed more myself than I care ‘ta know.” She tapped her scales with pride. Doran kept quiet, which made her glance.

The bard flicked her tongue, setting the lute aside. He seemed too quick-tongued to let that stand. Perhaps her host was badly under. She looked back to where she'd smelled a kitchen; there was an alm, assuming he had the stock. A trip home and back just to fetch her own wasn't exactly short, but there was only one who'd know if a kitchen visit was worth it.

“Your herb drawers. They full?” She kept her tone low, more of her natural scratchiness slipping in.

The man in front of her didn’t move, but there was a grunt of affirmation. Good enough. It could've meant 'full of nothing useful', but that was easier to check herself.

She waited a little longer in case he had any deeper wisdom to share, then entered the kitchen, giving it a once-over as her head crossed the threshold. Human-scale aside, it looked rather mundane, which made her smirk. A simple fellow. Out of habit, her legs approached the nearest table, and found that its top sat just below her collarbone. The smirk widened to a grin.

Her nose had already sniffed out the ingredients, all conveniently housed in a pantry on the far side of the room, so all that was left to do was grab a container of her choice. She mounted the table smoothly, ignoring how the jars there wobbled, and swiped a nice wooden bowl from a stack pushed up against the wall. From this new viewpoint, all the furniture just so happened to make a nice set of islands all the way to her target, which would’ve been a needlessly showy way to do things.

Following her better bard’s judgement, she casually slipped her way to the pantry across the furniture, snagging a few more items on the way with graceful flair. It would’ve made for a good show—she glanced back, half-expecting to see her host standing there—but the doorway was empty. So she finished her performance for one, standing at the pantry with a tinge of fluster. Deft claws made quick work of gathering the mix she needed—luckily all present—which all got dumped into a bowl. He’d enjoy this one, or her pride might risk being down two for nothing.

The lack of ruckus coming from his kitchen made Dorian anxious for the current bout of pain to end. It’d sounded like her footsteps went there, but there hadn't been any more noise after one big table leg screech. He pondered whether he'd just fallen for some ploy, but the house held nothing of value—nothing small enough for her to leave with on those two legs, at least. Bards weren't known for their strength, nor her species for their height. The questions he had about the previous night still lay unanswered. So, who’d he…

A thud came from the kitchen, followed by footsteps, and a light sloshing, returning to his side. Dorian kept his forearm in place till she poked it with a claw. Uncovering one of his eyes, he spied one of his cups in her hand, swishing something inside. The sloshing he'd heard.

“Drink,” she panned, holding the cup halfway between them til he sat up and took it. Dorian squinted at the liquid inside: colorless, but smelling of vanilla. He looked questioningly at the bard.

She sighed, then slipped a knuckle under her jaw, lowering the other to hug her waist. “Vanilla's a personal touch, but the ale you had… Scalewash, eh?”

Dorian’s eyes flashed. That sounded right, but it wasn't the answer he wanted. “And what’s this for, then?”

“Whatd'ya think? Ever cajoled a hungover audience? Doesn’t work.”

Dorian thought rationally. Though he served the city, he had no personal contacts, above or below, that'd make him particularly special. A kobold bard to be the front-runner for some plot against him made even less sense, he hoped. Languishing here was the other choice, which currently wasn’t very appealing.

He downed the cup in one go, then coughed from the bitter medicinal aftertaste. The vanilla had dampened it somewhat, at least. His guest gave a simple nod of approval after he settled, then started returning to the kitchen. “Give it five minutes. You’ll be back to normal.”

His eyebrows raised. “You got a timekeeper?”

“Nah,” she replied, grabbing her lute.

“Then how do you know that?”

She returned, lute raised overhead, and slid into a simple wooden chair placed opposite to the bench. A ponderous hum rose from her throat as she set the instrument in her lap, claws fiddling into a tuning routine. "Fancy a guess?" she asked, grinning.

Faster than he could reply, she made a few testing strums, scaled head turning one way, then another from the reverberations in the room. Then came another round of fiddling and strumming, and another, and another, until her focus finally returned to him.

The air had changed, somehow.

Even in a simple wooden chair, with a third of it left unfilled, the bard appeared to be the perfect expression of serenity. Dorian found he couldn’t look away—or rather, felt rather strongly that he'd miss something if he did. Concentration suddenly swept across her face, and Dorian felt questions die in his throat. It felt like the moments before a play, in a packed theater.

How did they end up here?

The first note was soft, finding more space to echo in the room than he’d lived in. Dorian furtively glanced around, seeing nothing different about his own walls. The second rang clear, like water from a cold, still lake. It splashed his eardrums, and he gasped, inexplicably stung by these invisible waves. It sent goosebumps rolling down his skin. Her face hadn’t changed, offering no answers to the slow war she was fueling between his senses. The dull ache in his skull was present, but losing priority.

A third note. He blinked, and was greeted with a different scene. His cushion suddenly grass, the common room a lakeside. The water was a perfect mirror of the sky, stretching out further than his eyes could see.

Doran's skin still imposed that he was indoors: the grass felt too fibrous, the sunlight lacked heat. The image didn't falter. The bard was nowhere to be found, nor could he recall much about her, save the eyes. He clung to that, so much so that the sunlight slowly took more of her hue, until everything was cast in her faded purple tinge. Around him her melody continued, infusing his room and, perhaps, binding this world together. A sliver appeared—a sharper recollection of merriment, from a very recent time. Dorian latched onto it, working his brain to align with the mood.

He leaned over the 'water' as it were, trying to picture anything in the reflection: himself, the tavern, anywhere he had been. But this new light made everything murky, his own face a featureless black under the bangs. Dorian began his retreat, resigning to wait for another glimpse, but the plucked twang of a string stopped him. The scape shimmered, and the tempo changed, thudding his eardrums a little faster. The purplish tinge faded away to grey, stormclouds forming in the sky around him.

What played in his ears now stirred a twisted sense of familiarity, despite the off pace and rhythm. More importantly, shapes were appearing under the water, sharpening from grainy blobs. The perspective currently appeared to be near the end of a table, its corner visible over a lighter, arm-shaped fuzz. A blob rose to fill most of the scene, then returned to the table. A mug, he realized.

That must've been full of the 'wash, and this was likely his past self. The perspective swung to include a group of other shapes at the same table, wildly gesturing and drinking. It was true that his workmates often tried dragging him to places like these on evenings. So what of the kobold in his room? Did she come here, or after?

Another pluck rippled the surface, scattering the scene, and his train of thought with it. A glance up showed his surroundings now caught in a grey downpour of rain. There was nowhere else to look but the pool, it seemed. He returned his eyes to the surface, waiting. When the shapes reformed, it seemed that time had passed since the last scene, given how the people around moved more loosely, and also from the larger cloud shifting about in the background. Everyone’s attention focused somewhere. His past self was slow on the uptake, taking another swig before following suit.

The view centered on a void. A column of nothingness standing there. He squinted at it, finding the appearance more like a thick set of billowing mist than a hole. Given his past self's lack of panic in the moment, this clearly wasn't the actual appearance. Was 'Scalewash' truly this bad on the memory? Chords surged in his ears, and it was like the wind menacing the lake's surroundings had finally found him. No one in the memory budged, all seemingly focused on this new existence.

The tune was still off. Dorian felt rather strongly about that.

He watched this void glide across the floorboards. It seemed to skitter where it wished, skipping tables, dodging bodies, but somehow leaving a trail of sharpened details in its wake, even colors oozing in as it went. Then it whirled towards a long, high platform central to the space.

The brisk tempo in his ears fell to a waltzing pace, which similarly calmed the lake's winds. It shot up a stool onto what turned out to be the bar counter, and swirled something around it—a hard edge just barely clearing the cloud of mist, which also seemed to be shrinking.

As it slid along the counter, a crowded line of drinks and plates came into definition behind it, looking completely undisturbed. The miasma had thinned enough to show two columns moving on their lower side, exposing their gliding as really a series of careful, balanced steps along the wood.

Anticipation bled through to him from the Dorian of the past. The waltzing melody broke down to single notes, punctuating every new step along the bar. The crowd seemed to be sharing this sentiment, given how many torsos leaned in its direction.

A tail burst into definition, twirling around what he'd thought to be standing still. As it slowed, the strings plucked the wood-tap of a raised leg returning to the bar. A split-second later, the first chord: a low, grounding note for a jovial tune. Around him, countless faces cheered, and though he couldn't hear them, the music filled his chest all the same.

A kobold leaped from the cloud, clad in naught but tan breeches and dark stockings, dancing with all the sea's vigor trapped in those blue scales. The tune was infectious, their enthusiasm even more so, as he found his view tip, then bob as past Dorian rose to join the dancing mob. That bard was in his home. The remark she'd pulled on their meeting returned, creeping through his mind like molasses.

Watching his own merriment, he caught a lingering gaze, until he’d drunkenly fallen, or stumbled, into her arms. A vixen, she a barkeep's uniform, and smiled a practiced smile, but there was a look in her eyes that he apparently couldn't miss. The music fell to a din below as her paws guided him away. The bed they’d found was soft. Or was she softer? There was a strong echo of comfort in the room, getting blurrier as his head hit the pillows. Warmth settled next to him, fur sliding under his chin, and staying.

How did scales compare? A part of himself wondered.

The music distorted as the ceiling beams faded to nothingness.

Dorian became aware that he'd been laying in silence. Blinking again, he found himself home, the bard in the same place he'd left her.

“Nearly slipped into a medley there on ya. Can’t do that for free,” she teased. “And stop gawkin’ like that.”

Dorian had half a mind to tell her no. The other half wanted to ask her price. She broke eye contact to gently lay aside the lute, another smirk breaking past the faux-irritated demeanor she wore at his staring. “Must’ve liked it that much, eh? Don’t be sh—”

“You’re gifted.” It came as easy as breathing. “No, you’re the best songstress I’ve ever heard. Your hands. Claws. They…” He struggled to find the words. “Things I've never seen! How did you do it?”

Her eyes seemed to twinkle. “Dunno. All you, ’mafraid,” the kobold replied, moving to hop on her feet.

“What bid you to come? How did you find here?” he blurted. Things were slipping out of his control again.

She laughed, the sound like soft panted growls. “You know now, don’t you? Men don’t get far with that much Scalewash in em.”

“The...barkeep? The vixen?”

She nodded. “Aye. Roped me in too. You were too sunk to make any moves, after all, and I speak good drunkard.”

“Oh.” He looked at the lute, and frowned in acceptance. Easy to believe, compared to what just happened. “I owe you my thanks.”

“No moping, sire. All’s well that end’s well, eh?” she chided, finally descending from the chair. Dorian felt a spike of urgency. This time was about to be at an end.

“Isn’t the tavern quite far from here?”

She paused, head titled inquisitively. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Are you…needed there tonight?”

Her hips cocked to one side, one clawed hand reaching down to rest on her tan waistband. Her index idly slipped under the fabric, lifting it away, then slipped out to let it snap back in place. Dorian swallowed, the display easy to track at his current eye level. Why was that important to know?

Her snout tilted upwards, giving the appearance of looking down on him despite her smaller stature. Dorian felt quite aware of himself at the moment, all too busy holding a growing list of intrusive thoughts at bay from her display. “No,” she finally replied, “you were today’s last stop.”

Dorian hummed. It wasn’t uncommon for taverns to go door-to-door, soliciting new patrons with their talents. The city was certainly safer if she'd made it this far undisturbed, which meant she could make it back just as easily, except now there'd be a piece of him leaving too. A piece he hadn't yet figured out.

“Rest here, then, and go on your way tomorrow,” he offered, “it’s the least I can do to repay you.”

The bard hummed, making a small show of considering his offer, before smiling down at him. “Very well, Sir…”

“Dorian.”

“Sir Dorian, I’ll oblige.” She walked over, offering her palm, to which he cupped his around. “Ghorra,” she offered, squeezing lightly into his palm. “Now, two things: bath, meat. Where are they?”

He chuckled at her toothy grin. “Straight to business, eh?”

“A stay ain’t a stay without those, Dorry,” she shot back, palm still comfortably atop his.

She'd given him a nickname. Her hand felt warm. The scales on her face were no bigger than rice grains, and rolled over her smooth, angular head in patterns he couldn’t trace. Her snout had a more rounded shape, wider at the sides than he'd seen on others of her species. It meant for a larger snout, which in turn meant more surface area on the end—where her ’lips’ were.

Dorian defied the impulse to focus on that line where her jaws met, looking up at the simple pair of bleached horns zig-zagging from the top of her head instead. The ridges along them reminded him of shells he'd seen in the market. Dorian blinked. Her torso…didn’t seem…scrawny…

“Bath. I’ve got a tub inside, through that corridor behind you, first door on the right.”

Ghorra’s eyes lit up, though she already appeared to be smiling. “Where’d you get one of those?” she trilled.

The bard also didn’t wait for his response, sliding her hand off his as she spun to follow his directions. Her tail rose to replace it, trailing up his forearm to give an appreciative brush as she walked away. He spied one of her claws hooking her waistband. Dorian looked at his arm, the sensation of scales replaying on his skin. Every detail about this bard just so happened to be searing itself into his mind. She hadn’t seemed to notice, which was a boon, but it’d felt like he hung somewhat on answering her question.

The washtub had been given as repayment from a bathhouse owner for resolving their personal favors, so it ran on the bigger side, and filling it was a pain. He’d rigged a barrel above it with a cork to pull out for filling, which she’d hopefully see. He looked at the bathroom door, now empty of kobold though she'd left her breeches in the doorway. Was the washtub low enough for her to get in?

A sudden pop, followed by flowing water was his answer. Dorian exhaled, then made his way to the kitchen. A good performance did wonders for the appetite, and this visit would be worth using a slab or two for her fancy.

Dorian stepped away from the fire. He hadn’t heard or seen Ghorra since he began, and her absence was becoming rather unsettling. The meat would slowly cook if left there. He decided to go check.

She was still in the tub, apparently having gotten too comfortable. He took in the sight for a moment, his smaller guest reclining on the tub’s side, arms slung over the edge, head in the air and fast asleep. He cleared his throat, making her snout jerk toward him with a murmur before her eyes reopened.

“Zzat you, Dorry?” She groggily turned over, leaning her front on the tub wall to cross her arms on the edge. “Took you long enough.”

“Do scales take that long to clean?”

Ghorra clicked her tongue. “Not the point. This here ain’t a one-bold tub. Not letting ya waste water.”

Dorian glanced back at her breeches, then to her, then to the scaly back surfacing behind her.

“Food’s gonna burn,” he lied.

“Then stop dawdlin and get in! Or d’you want wet kobold all over your woods?”

He narrowly avoided choking. “Fine.”

She had a point. Rationally. And it wasn’t as if he’d never bathed communally before with strangers, though the sexes were usually separate. This was similar, just in the privacy of his own home, between them. He shed his clothes without further ceremony, noting that Ghorra’d turned to back him as he dropped his pants, then gingerly slipped into the water. It was cold.

They sat in silence for a while, until her tail poked his side. “Hey.” He spun to see Ghorra waving his lye bar. “I’ll get yer back.”

Dorian’s brow creased. “You can climb people as well as you play?”

Ghorra snorted. “Nah, but we’ll figure it out.”

The water drew glimmering streaks down her scales as she rose to her feet. Dorian traced them, webbing down the chest, beading over the stomach, merging into the thigh-abdomen crease, running down, down to…the water. The surface was just high enough to keep everything else hidden. Ghorra approached, a sashay in her steps leaving a gap to see her tail snaking in the water behind.

It was harder to feign ignorance to that taut frame the closer it got, her shifting scales accentuating the sway of her hips even further. A glance up showed that Ghorra was fixated on him, thin tongue lolling past her needle-like teeth. Her tail slid over his stomach, thumping him twice underwater.

“Turn,” she intoned.

Dorian obeyed, pulling his leg from under her to spin onto his knees and prop his arms on the tub’s edge. It left most of his back exposed to the open air. Ghorra drew closer, a bout of interest interrupting her lye hand from starting a lather. Instead, she raised the other to trace along an odd discolored patch.

“What’s this?”

Her question provided a much needed distraction from the steady build of his own arousal. With how vulnerable their current situation was, it’d throw this entire session sideways if he wasn’t careful. With any luck, her curiosity would last long enough for the willing participant between his legs to get bored, and quit rising. He sighed, mostly in relief.

“An old scar. Old enough, at least.”

Ghorra’s palm gingerly pressed into the tissue. It was smooth, soft, and warm. She remembered the lye in her other hand. “And?” she prodded, starting to draw frothy swirls over the region.

“Got in debt this one time, before the guard. Worst of the worst, or so he claimed,” Dorian muttered, eyes drifting closed. “I dared to differ.”

Ghorra chuckled dryly above him. “This yer tab?”

“Yeah, but later. Fought enough of 'em off that my choices were ‘work or die’. So I worked.”

Ghorra repositioned herself behind him, straddling his lower back as she set herself to scrub. Her hands said that he was rather well sculpted. She snaked her tail down a thigh, the first coil starting dangerously close to his jewels. If he noticed, she caught no sign of a reaction.

“Long tale,” she quipped, gliding her hands up to his shoulders.

“You asked,” he droned, feeling her ministrations start testing the bounds of what 'back' meant. He should’ve stopped her. He was more than capable of washing his own collarbone after all, but being like this, feeling Ghorra’s weight, felt pleasant. Intimate. Familiar. He didn’t protest when her arms hugged him from behind to start on his front.

Where had he left off in his tale?

Her arms had started high, driving a steady wall of froth down his underside. Maybe this was a little too far, but Dorian found it hard to protest. The bard had been nothing short of amazing so far.

“Ghorra,” he spoke sluggishly, “I can see why you fell asl—”

A tight ring caught his shaft in the water, forcing an instinctive jerk from his hips. He hadn’t been distracted enough to keep that second brain at bay. Ghorra purred behind him, tilting her hand this way and that, feeling every surge that forced its way past her fingers.

The bard purred in his ear. “Get me too, Dorry.”

As she finished speaking, Ghorra slid off his back, flopping unceremoniously into the washtub. Dorian reared up, turning toward the sound of her splash, and felt a long, warm gullet clamp over his cock. He looked down in shock at the diffracted eyes staring up at him from beneath the surface. Ghorra exhaled around the shaft in her mouth, forcing out as much of the diluting water as she could.

Her first suck nearly knocked Dorian over. Any liquid left in her maw from exhaling was forcibly pulled down her throat, leaving his cock at the mercy of her wiles. He’d seen a lot of air bubble up from her, more than he thought a kobold should have, yet she kept her hold. Caught off guard, he reached for her, but staggered when she swallowed him stronger than before.

Dorian found the strength drain from his legs as the assault showed no signs of easing up. He fell backwards into the water, spine coming to rest on the tub wall. Ghorra moved with him, caught like a fish on a worm. She harnessed the weightlessness that the water offered, letting his hips lead her mouth around like it was just his shaft in the water, floating.

The man flung his arms out of the water, grasping desperately at the tub’s wooden rim as he fought against breath, tears, and the urge to fold himself into a pretzel: the rhythmic swallowing down his flesh hadn’t been interrupted by a single thing he did. Every move he made met just enough resistance from her to coax urgency from his hips, the need to ram her mouth slowly consuming his mind. A shudder ran through his body as one of her hands caressed his ballsack, seemingly aware of his careening path to climax.

Ghorra was simply too much when underwater. Dorian drew in his spasming, mutinous legs, his lust and need too great for them to disobey, and grabbed the bard’s horns, grinding himself into her with loud groans. It didn’t feel as good to hear his voice alone. The guard burst to his feet, his horn-grip raising her in tow, and pulled her back until his shaft was half-freed from her scales. They shared a look, both hyper aware of the angry organ throbbing between them.

Her gaze was smoldering and tender, like her tongue wasn’t teasing his underside. It made him want to melt, and pound her into putty all the same. His mouth moved unbidden.

“Ghorr—AH, I…”

One of her scaly hands found his, pulling it off her horn to intertwine their fingers.

“I knuw. ‘Shhme fr me.” She vibrated her response over his shaft, promptly sucked in a breath around it, and waited, squeezing his hand for good measure.

Dorian tightened his grip on the other horn and worked his hips into a desparate blur, savoring the slurps and moans emanating beneath him, and the raunchy sounds of his skin slapping her scales. It didn’t take long to climax in this final stretch, Ghorra trilling around him as he hilted her mouth to dump heavy doses of cum down her gullet. The way she jumped from each spurt fueled his arousal even more, until a light push came at his thigh. He let go of her horn.

Ghorra pulled off him quickly, a stray gob of cum seeping from her jaw. Another spurt nailed her on the chest, drawing a needy hiss from her throat. The bard whirled toward the nearest edge of the tub and bent over, resting her hands on the rim for support, and spreading her legs. The cunt presented to him was absolutely glistening, her tail fanning the air toward him as if to entice him faster.

“C’mere, love,” she crooned, “I’ll lend ya an ear and then some.”

Dorian couldn’t be more erect if he tried. When his dull, smooth head brushed her folds, an eager shove of her hips popped his head into her depths. Ghorra grinned to herself, panting from how close his size came to crushing her walls. He’d hit all the right places without even trying. She made another shove backward, moaning in anticipation for his full length. Strong hands hugged her tail to his chest, sending a thrill up her spine. A glance back showed he was planning to return her fevor—exactly what she’d hoped.

He couldn’t stop the moans spilling past his lips: she was hot here, hotter than her mouth had been, and he was certain her overwhelming arousal was the only reason he fit. Still, she’d stoked a fire in him that wasn’t about to die out two inches deep into her cunt. He slammed the rest of himself inside in one go, basking in the walls wriggling over his cock.

They were strong, but not enough to trap him. It was mind-blowingly good, but he now had experience under his belt. “My turn,” he growled.

It was all Ghorra could do to keep her legs straight. Dorian pounded her so hard it spilled water over the edge, his head thudding so deep her body arched in reflex, and even then it couldn’t keep up with his speed. Her vision blurred as he fucked her right through another orgasm, growing more sure that she could see sound than the last. In this moment, his voice carried a certain ring to it that she craved. Though her heartbeat ran faster to his, their hips crashed to a steady beat. Inspiration was appearing in the middle of her ecstasy.

She’d congratulate her bard’s intuition on such a great find, if it wasn’t already busy trying to answer how to pluck strings and ravage this cock at the same time. Dorian’s hands suddenly grabbed her waist with finality, hips flattening themselves into hers with a steady press.

Ghorra felt it through her walls. She knew what that pulsating pace of the shaft inside her meant, and ground herself back, despite the fact that he couldn’t be driven any deeper. The feel of cum entering her, slimy and dense, seeping into her caverns and crevices. If only something came of this.

Oh, how she envied dragons.

Then again, there would be a 'child', in a sense: they’d already made the beginning notes, and it had the makings of something great.

A proper name would come for this later, but for now…

Mead's breed would work just fine.