You wail in frustration as you remember your monstrosity, your imperfection. Marty, sweet beautif...

You wail in frustration as you remember your monstrosity, your imperfection. Marty, sweet beautiful worldwide splayed-flat Martyn wants to be inside you… Wants you to be able to take him in, all of him. Your mouth is dripping with saliva, what must be buckets of the stuff, hungry to him him your lips, tongue, throat… But that’s not what he wants, is it? No, noooo no no. That’s not enough.

“Cara…”

But you don’t have anything else! Zith-Zi… Zith-Zi, the OTHER Zith-Zi, SHE has the ‘she’. The pussy, the cunt, the vagina, the vessel. She has the beauty, the femininity, the truth, the equal-and-opposite! You have the void, the hungry, slurping, yammering, angry, [green]envious[/green] void, and NO WAY TO FILL IT.

“Cara…”

But wait! There is a way, isn’t there?

You switch your position atop your beloved boyfriend, your lovely landscape, your rugged little halfling husband-to-be, your perfect wonderful place to be free and loved and cared for and whole at LONG LAST. Shapeshifting your hand into a scaly, warty green fist—just for a sec, it’ll be pretty and small and pink and girl again soon!—you use its increased size to bind both his wrists. With your other hand—shaky, but swift, shirin-swift, and PURPOSEFUL as never before—you all-but-rip your bodysuit from what’s beneath. You expose a small, pert chest: your own land’s humble hills, which you will into mountains of mammary magnificence, full and womanly. You expose narrow, boyish hips, which you force to fill out, fat and ripe and BREEDABLE, the hips of the mortals who make more mortals.

And if you lack that one PARTICULAR part, well… You still have one hole.

“Car—AAAAH!”

Your hands roam over Martyn Meadowgrass’ body as if it were your first time feeling him. You chart him like a cartographer—ironic, since that’s sort of one of his special skills. Every patch of hair becomes a field or forest, every mole or freckle a local landmark. He squirms, twisting in your grasp, and his gasps and groans are the rumbling of thunder, his deep breaths the shaking of the land that is his body.

“Cara…”

The sound of your own name from his lips is like lightning, lighting up your body with a lick of heavenly energy. That erotic electricity runs down your spine and to the root of you. You open your mouth to reply and all that emerges is a sound—not a word, not a moan or sigh but a SOUND, something deep and primal, like the crackling rush of flame.

“Cara…”

You pin him down upon the bed by his wrists. Marty looks up at you and his eyes, HIS EYES, like lakes, like OCEANS. With your hands now occupied, you can only explore him with your mouth, and eagerly you do so. With lips, teeth, and tongue, you rip clothing from flesh, expose more skin—more terrain to explore, more map to draw and paint with strokes of your paintbrush-ink quill tongue. His legs thrash, and you kick off your boots, pinning his ankles with your pronged, two-toed ‘hooves’.

“Cara…”

As thunder has no intrinsic meaning, neither does his voice. It sis imply a sound, a booming sound, a rumbling sound that makes you quake and quiver, shake and stir. You answer his noise with your own, a gleeful shriek and roar. You hold him down, spread him out flat so you can see him, all of him, as one whole piece. His body’s topography rises and falls, beneath you, pink and orange and white and off-white-brown. Your eyes dart here and there, taking it all in like a pilgrim seeking a fabled temple in a far-off land.

And between his legs, you find it.

“Cara…”

Gods, it’s beautiful. This holy-of-holies… This monument to manhood. Your own equivalent throbs in time with his as shirin-spiked sensitivity rips through both your bodies, bouncing back and forth across your expanding empathic link. Martyn Meadowgrass’ repetition of your name is swallowed up by something more guttural, more ancient, as your own lust ripples through him, and his reaction amplifies it further. The feedback loop fills you both with need unbound, unhindered…

Except that it IS hindered, isn’t it?

“Cara…”

But wait! There is a way, isn’t there?

And if you lack that one PARTICULAR part, well… You still have one hole.

“Car—AAAAH!”

You slam it down upon him, around him. There is a shooting pain for a moment, such that a shout like a volcanic eruption explodes from your mouth before you can stifle it. You clap both hands—mismatched, one still large, over your mouth, only belatedly realizing that your map might not stay flat this way. When you look down, though, the blue-grey frozen-over lakes of your lover’s eyes are wide, staring, transfixed and shiny, running like rivers. He doesn’t thrash, doesn’t wrinkle or rumple to terrain.

(Marty’s such a good boy~)

You place your hands upon his abdomen, lift your hips, and slam them down again. It still hurts, that little hobbit cock inside your ass, but it’s a good hurt, because it joins your kingdoms—his land, your land, married by monarchy, made full of bounty! You feel it, that FULLNESS. It isn’t bodily fullness, but spiritual fullness, a pure fulfillment of purpose… A fullness of SOUL, of SELF.

“Fuu—UUU—uuuckkkk!”

You don’t know if that’s your voice or Marty’s that you hear, or both at once, or some combination—the voice of the new, conjoined, full and finally realized you. Why didn’t you do this before?? This… This is what you were made for! Not to ride dick, though FUCK that’s a good feeling working in and out of you, but to be FILELD. To be made whole by the [green]consumption[/green] of another. Who needs the pink shirin, that feeble aphrodisiac? You are [green]succubus[/green]! You are [green]<WANT>[/green]—the feeding of it, the sating of it, the sharing of it, the [green]SMOTHERING[/green] of it.

“I… I’m… I’M…!”

You feel Marty’s meat throbbing, twitching, pulsing inside you.

Warning