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Master of the Kennels

Klia tried to stop her trembling as the hovercraft pulled up to the intimidating iron gates, but her hands betrayed her.  She stuffed them between her legs and tried not to hear Azha’s whimpering.  The gates opened and the hovercraft slipped inside, picking up speed to avoid being crushed as the metal formation clanged closed.

The baying of the harrihounds was deafening as the slave girls were ushered out of the hovercraft and up the stairs to the main door.  Klia stifled her disgust at the blotches on Azha’s pale red skin and hugged her close.  "Hush, little one.  You’ll be – “  Her voice wavered as she looked over Azha’s matted hair to see Lord Wendell’s beady human eyes boring into her.  "Fine,” she finished, with a trembling of her own.

A servant emerged from the home: a slender ranyed like them, his skin the traditional deep blue of males.  He nodded to Klia and extended his hand to Azha.  "You, with me, please.“  His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking that he was giving her a command.

Lord Wendell cleared his throat.  "Excuse me, I believe – ”

“This girl,” said the servant, in the same soft tone, “is for the hounds.  Orders of His Majesty.”

Azha cried out.  Even Lord Wendell looked away.  "Ah.  That explains the request.  Carry on.“

Klia could not watch as the sickly girl stumbled against the servant through a side door.  The harrihounds’ baying grew louder and more frantic.  As Lord Wendell hurried to pull the last of the tributes out of the vehicle, one of the harrihounds’ voices rose to a crescendo above the rest.  Klia flinched and tried to stand straighter.

The servant returned, his expression unchanged.  He opened the door and let them into the main hall of King Thancmar.  Klia’s feet made no noise on the soft carpet stretched before them to the throne at the end of the long chamber.

They arrived and fell to their knees.  Klia did not raise her head until she heard the grunt of Lord Wendell getting to his feet, and then she dared look up.

King Thancmar oozed over the sides of his chair.  One hand, like a string of sausages, rested on the head of the largest harrihound she had ever seen.  His thick mane was groomed to a sheen, and when he curled his lips to show its teeth, they glittered with gold.

"Ahhh, what a jewel you have brought me, Wendell,” Thancmar said, the words sliding out of him like thickening blood.  "Your taste in visiting gifts is impeccable.  Bring her here.“

Wendell gave Klia an almost apologetic look and took her elbow, walking half the distance to the throne with her before bowing and backing away.  Klia willed her body to remain rigid as the king sized her up.

"Mmm, so delicate, so supple, so ready for me and mine.”  And King Thancmar heaved himself out of his throne, towering above Klia so that her head came barely to his waist.  Her throat bobbed as she realized why he had designed his throne this way.  Out from beneath his robes peeked an uncut, hairy cock, like a curious, hideous worm.  She shuddered; he saw, and it widened his smile.

“First me, then the hound,” he said, patting the harrihound between the massive ears.  The animal gave a soft snarl.  Its gaze never left Klia.  She imagined how it would feel, bent on the floor as a show and a toy, and trembled, because she would not have to imagine for long.

“Come here, girl,” Thancmar said, and she stumbled forward to ram his foul-tasting cock down her throat.  She pumped until, as she gagged, he came in her mouth, his whole body convulsing and an inhuman noise growing in his gut.

Klia dared not look at Lord Wendell as the servant appeared once more and disrobed her.  "I’m sorry, sister,“ he whispered to her as he removed her robe with surprising gentleness.  Klia closed her eyes as he pushed her to her knees and arranged her limbs.  She could hear the harrihound breathing hard, the soft whines of arousal in his throat.

She thought of making love to Imper, their bodies a mass of lithe limbs and sweet affection.  She locked her mind on that image and waited.

The harrihound descended like a storm.

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Arranged

I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t ask for the cold, approving eyes of my father, or the fuzzy lines of my grieving mother. The podium yields under me, making my journey that much more difficult, as if offering me one last chance to choose disgrace and flee.

But I don’t.  My groom awaits me, masked under the hot lights, and I rise to meet him.  My peacock feathers spread behind me and catch the light, and I know I am glorious. I hope the guests can’t see the tears.

The fat priest awaits me impatiently, his big shoes tapping. I arrive and close my eyes. I can’t watch him as he speaks away the rest of my life. I don’t dare look at my betrothed.

Everything happens in a blur: the sacred vows, the mumbled permission from our mothers; someone yells out the traditional greeting, and my groom sweeps me down the stairs.  He has still not removed his mask.

No one stops us for congratulations as he takes me into the consummation room.  He sets me down gently on my feet and I stand, quivering, feeling naked already.  I catch my breath as he puts his hand to the mask to reveal himself.

“Please,” I say, “leave it.  I wish to learn to serve your body before I know your face.”

He tilts his head, and it has the effect of a curious bird, but he complies without a word.  He reaches for the buttons on my dress and slowly undoes them, one by one.  The consummation room, warmed by candles, still feels cold as I am bared.

When my dress falls to my feet, feathers and all, he offers me his back and the buttons on his suit. My fingers feel fat, clumsy, but I manage to disrobe him.  His skin is a pale copper and I cannot stop my hands from lingering.  He has muscles, but they are undefined, potential lying beneath soft, curly body hair.  I wonder what he is thinking about my body.

He turns without warning and tosses me onto the bed – not roughly, but playfully.  Then he is down on top of me, his ass in the air and his tongue tracing my inner thighs.  He notes the wetness of my anticipation and, with a smile visible even under the mask, he backs off, kneeling on the floor to service me.

I cry out, from pleasure and fear.  This is not how a purchased bride acts: she is the servant, not the princess.  But he holds me down, firmly but not without kindness, until I come.  Then he raises his head and watches me for a reaction.

“Please,” I say again, “please.”

He shimmies up the bed so we lie parallel.  He gently turns me away, on my side, and feels between my legs, reaching with his cock until he finds me.  I tremble, waiting for him to push in, but there is a long pause.  His breath grows hotter on my neck, and I realize he has removed his mask.

“Hello, my bride,” a husky, gentle voice says, and we make love for the first time.

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Sugar Sweet

“What’ll it be, sugar?”

The greeting was so Southern that he barely looked up.  "Coffee.  Black please.“

Then he really looked.  She was smiling at him, her sweet round face peeking out from a mane of blonde curls.  Her plaid shirt, tucked messily into her jeans, was open enough at the top to give him a peek.  He found that his ears were warm.

"Oh, eh – my ‘pologies, I didn’t expect – excuse me.”  He tipped his hat and spun around, letting the door rest behind him for a moment. He took a deep breath, turned, came back inside, this time with a grin on his face.

She laughed.  "What’ll it be, sugar?“

He leaned across the counter and looked down at his hands, adopting a contemplative look.  "Well, let me think.  I’m drivin’ my truck across the state border.  I’ve had a long, lonely drive all through the night.  And there’s a pretty girl in front of me.”  He raised his head slowly, a wide grin spreading across his face.  "Looks like I need coffee.  Black, please.“

Her laugh was full and bright as she turned, displaying her round ass under the apron, and fetched him a clean mug.  She poured in the coffee.  "Anything else?”

“Ah, y’know, just a bit of company while I sip this.”  He lifted the mug to his lips.  "What’s your name?“

"Not tellin’,” she said, tapping her chin with a finger.  "It’s more fun that way.  C’mon.“  Suddenly she was all sass and curves as she swaggered into the back.  He looked around at the empty cafe, hurriedly swallowed a few mouthfuls of blistering coffee, and slipped through the back door.

She bounded up to him, her now-freed breasts jiggling wildly.  Her grin was infectious.  "Right here!  On the rag washer.  Hurry!”

She was fumbling with his pants, and he scrambled to help her, caught up in the excitement.  She wriggled against him and worked her hands until he was warm and ready, then she jumped up backwards onto the washer, spreading her legs under her skirt.  Giggling, she reached for his shirt collar and pulled him to her.  They locked lips and he found his way in.

They rocked together, struggling to find a rhythm, until she slapped the washer on.  The unit vibrated beneath her, giving them a cadence to rock to.  She squealed and clutched his shoulders, flinging her head back so that her curls fell around her bare shoulders.  He flicked out his tongue and teased her nipples as she came, and then followed suit, relief from the road rushing through him.

She shoved him off almost as soon as he had finished. “All right, mister, back to your coffee.  It’s getting cold.”

He stood struggling to pull on his boxers, calling after her, “What, no goodnight kiss?”

“I’m just your sugar sweet girl from Georgia!” she called back, and he smiled and went out to caffeinate for another long drive.

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Alley-Oops

Becca’s foot tapped impatiently as she waited near the gym entrance.  No sign of her brother, or any of the rest of the team, for that matter.  It was annoying enough to have to ferry Victor and his friend Luke around to and from basketball practice during her winter break, but when they disappeared to snog the high school girls, it was that much worse.

Another five minutes passed.  Becca fiddled with her boxy phone and sighed.  She had given them the fifteen minute warning thirty minutes ago, with no text in response.  Drastic measures would have to be taken.

She strode across the court, her street shoes squeaking.  At the other end, the door to the locker room hallway was propped open with a brick.  She peered in, but there was no gender designation here, so she slipped inside.  "Victor?  Luke?“ she called softly as she crept down the hall, her fingertips brushing the rough bricks.

A shadow loomed in a dimly-lit doorway ahead, and she started.  "Hey, someone there?”  She tried to keep her voice from wavering, but it was impossible, as spooky as the drippy pipes and abandoned yet echoing passages were.

The shadow shrank and then a tall, lanky man-boy peered around the corner, half-hiding his face and wry grin.  "Hey, Becca.“

"Oh.  Luke.”  Becca put her hand to her heart.  "Thank god it’s you.  Fucking creepy place.“

"Come on in,” Luke said, gesturing her into the doorway and vanishing.

She hesitated.  "Isn’t that the boys’ – “

"It’s just me,” Luke called back, still out of sight, his voice betraying broad sweeps of movement.  "Victor’s off with Fenny.“  Becca rolled her eyes; her brother had a string of awkward, messy high school girls, and Fenny was the latest whack job.  With a last glance over her shoulder – because convention was convention, after all – she entered the boys’ locker room.

Luke was buck naked, still dripping from his shower, his impressive cock hinting upward and a confident grin pointed at Becca.  She blushed furiously and covered her eyes with her hand, leaving enough space between the fingers to stare.  "Luke!  What the hell?”

She was four years his senior and still had to admit that, standing posed like that, he cut a more impressive figure than any of her peers.  He kept smirking.  "Isn’t this why you came back here?“

"I – no!  No, of course not, I’m seriously just trying to leave.”  With each word, the gaps between her fingers widened until finally she just dropped her hand.  "Homework.  Due.  Sometime.“

He seemed to swirl something around in his mouth, finally deeming it worthy of voicing: "It’s not gonna suck itself.”

“Honestly!” Becca almost shrieked, but then she caught herself.  Not that she could ever admit it, but – she had harbored a secret crush on Luke since they’d met, when he was a precocious but soft-spoken thirteen-year-old as tall as she was at seventeen.  Her throat bobbed.  "Are you sure,“ she said in a tiny voice, "that Victor isn’t here?”

“Positive.”  He rested his hands on his bare ass.  "Pretty please?  I’ve always seen you staring.“

Again, she swallowed hard, her gaze drifting down to his slowly awakening manhood, and then she made up her mind.  Summoning all the huffiness she could, she plopped down on her knees on the rubber mat and cupped him in both hands.

"This is for that three-pointer,” she said, and took him between her lips.  He gasped and jerked, but she held him still.  "And this,“ she said, pulling away and grinning up at him, "is for being a cheeky little bastard.”  She nibbled down the length of him and he hardened so quickly she was afraid he would come before she’d had enough time to make it worth his while.

“Control thyself,” she chuckled, and went back to work.

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Hindsight

Elsa’s heartbeat drubbed in her ears as she flew through the forest, unwilling to let the groping branches slow her down.  Her long hair streamed behind her, tickling her hide like a gentle whip.  Somewhere behind her thundered much bigger hooves than her own: the Chancellor’s warhorse, built for the battlefield but trained for the woods, for the hunt.

Her flanks steamed with exertion in the cool morning as she found the deer path.  Her kind rarely mingled with their ancient ancestors, but right now the deer-centaur was grateful for the velvety ears flapping at the sides of her head and the graceful, swift animal body below her torso.  Bare breasts bounced against her ribs, a painful reminder of why the Chancellor was bearing down on her now.

Elsa leaped over a fallen log and skidded to a stop.  She stared into the liquid eyes of the warhorse, stamping and tossing his head, and when she dared move her gaze upwards, it was to take in the hard lines of the Chancellor’s face.

He might have called her his little forest child before he threw the noose around her torso, but she did not register it.  Her head roared with the possible scenarios playing out right in front of her.  The Chancellor dismounted, pulling hand over hand on the rope even as Elsa dug her hooves in, and then they were so close she could smell the beer on his breath.  He reached up one gloved hand and caressed her ear with deceptive softness.

“Come closer, my sweet,” he said, and reaching for her wrist, he guided her hand to his fine tunic, the belt of which had come unknotted in the wild chase.

Elsa whimpered, but did not try to extricate herself from his grasp.  He must have dabbed on the musk of some great horned beast, because she was finding that her resistance was lessening and her heat was rising.  She flailed, but her heart was not in it.

And when he pulled her down to nibble at the sensitive places behind her ears, she melted into him, her delicate legs collapsing beneath her.  He sank down into the loam beside her and pulled his tunic over his head so they were both bared to one another.  Trembling, she took him in: the powerful leader of the civilized tribes, scars lashing his chest like thick ropes, his bearing regal but not haughty.

Without standing, he came around behind her and gently opened her lower lips, teasing them with his erection.  She mewled and raised her hindquarters so he could slip inside, which he did with a satisfied noise.  He was larger than the the other deer-centaurs, but Elsa had taken men before, and he was a most exquisite specimen.  He filled her, with his presence and with longing, and she pressed her furred bottom back when he came forward until it was too much, and she climaxed in a rush of wild huffing breath.

She bent, exhausted but not without thrills dancing through her, and let him finish.  He clasped her on the edges of her back legs to hold himself fully in her.  Man and forest girl lay locked together, for the first time since the Hind Hunt had begun at the start of the Chancellor’s reign.

Elsa shivered and bit her lip, praying for the next year to come quickly.

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The Trader

“Dad!  Dad!  The trader’s here!”  Lee pounded up the path, his boots flailing, and he vaulted into his father’s arms.  "Can I get something this time?  Please?“

"Perhaps,” Keane chuckled, lifting his boy onto his shoulders, “if you behave.”

They headed down the steep path, Keane’s sure feet stepping over the pebbles and loose shale with confidence.  Soon, he could see the shape of the small cart and equally small mule hitched to it, the driver perched on a box with his head thrown back to the sun.  Keane’s brow twitched.  It was someone new.  The usual trader was a grizzled old man from even higher in the Highlands, of foul breath and constant bottle.

This man was a vision.  His hair was lush, a golden brown, thick but tight against his head in restless curls.  His eyes, which lit up when he looked down and saw them, were an impossibly clear green.  A lump rose in Keane’s throat and he swung Lee off his shoulders.

“Run along,” he said hoarsely.  Lee gave him a pitiful look, but his father was unmoved.  "Go!“ he grunted, indicating with a hand his precise amount of amusement at the boy’s defiance.  Lee scampered away the way they had come.

"Ho, traveler,” Keane said when Lee’s dust cloud faded.

“Ho, friend.”  The trader touched the bill of an invisible cap.  "Come for my wares?“

"Come for more than that,” Keane grunted, attempting a smile, but the man’s beauty was blinding.  He looked down at his hands.  "I’m sorry.  We get few travelers this far north.  It is – unexpected to see another face.“  The words tumbled awkwardly from his tongue.

The man was looking sideways at him, and at this last he smiled and turned back to the sun.  "My mule will wait a while.”

He stretched out his hand for Keane to help him down.  The bigger man took it, his arm burning where the other touched him.  He met the trader’s beautiful eyes.  "So will my wife,“ he said.

A knowing nod.  "The trader comes but once a year,” he said, then laughed and added, “and so he does.”

The trader dropped softly off his cart and pulled Keane to him.  Keane tasted distant lands, strange bazaars, foreign women and men.  He drank in the kiss and returned one that told of the powerful Highland winds, the winters with only family for comfort, the slaying of the wolf that had pestered the flocks.

They broke away, their hunger piqued, and without losing touch walked without a word to the nearby stone formation.  Boulders worn smooth by time welcomed and sheltered them as they lay curled into one another, moving without regard to time, the mountain whistling around them.

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The Kids’ Table

Every year, it was the same: Tommy and his parents arrived too late for appetizers, were squeezed at the end of their respective tables, and had to celebrate Thanksgiving with old Aunt Dorothy’s foul breath in their faces.  He hated this time of year and most of all he hated his extended family.

Except for his cousin Louisa.

They were roughly the same age, both just sixteen, though Louisa boasted a few months on Tommy, and he had always thought she was the most beautiful creature in existence.  Even after he found himself a working internet connection and entered the wide world of porn, he was never able to find a fantasy that came close to his dear Louisa.

And every year, it was the same: Tommy was shoved into a hard folding chair at the end of the kids’ table, far away from Louisa’s place at the head, where she sat every year because her family arrived precisely an hour early for the festivities.  But this year, fate had declared (thanks to a punctured tire and the resulting delay) that things would be different.

Louisa gave him a brilliant smile as he came in, stopping him in the doorway so that his parents bumped into him.  Muttering, they pushed past and he finally found his will to move, shuffling to the impossibly empty seat beside his cousin.  "Hey,“ he managed.

"Hi, Tom,” she said.  His heart twisted.  No one called him anything but his juvenile nickname, if anything.  Here she was, new curves gently outlined in her silky dress, treating him like an adult.  He shifted so the excitement tugging at his slacks would not show.

He sat down and scooted under the table.  Almost immediately he felt a soft pressure between his legs.  His eyes bulged but he managed to maintain his composure.

Louisa leaned forward, following her hand.  "You’re the only one who notices me,“ she said very softly, her breath making Tommy’s neck tingle.  "I wanted to show you my appreciation.”

Her hand kept working, finding the right angle to make him hard almost instantly.  He tried to hold in his breath so he would not moan, his gaze frantically calculating whether any of the dour adults several yards away had noticed his sudden fluster.  He leaned forward too, because that was how it went in his fantasies.

“If you – ”  Grunt.  " – want to go watch – “  Huff.  ” – a movie we could make this – “  Choke.  ” – more adult.“

"No more kids’ table,” Louisa said with a bright smile.  Her fingers lingered, squeezed affectionately, then withdrew.  "All right.  You go first.  I’ll follow in a few minutes.“

His heart pounding in his ears, Tommy scooted his chair back and hobbled to the stairs.  Down on the ground floor, there was no activity; everyone was upstairs waiting to eat.  He waited.  Wondered if she had set him up.

Then, she was there, her delightful scent floating along before her.  She turned the corner and flipped her hair until it was wild.  "Ready?” she said, beaming at him.

He managed to stop himself from coming in his pants as she glided towards him.

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The Bid

“Excuse me.”  Laurie tugged on the usher’s sleeve with as polite an expression as he could muster while other auction attendees elbowed past him.  "I have this special ticket – see, my dad couldn’t make it today, but he’s an official – “

The usher plucked the ticket from Laurie’s fingers with looking at him.  "Front row, third seat from the right, your pa’s name’ll be on the back.  Git in there.”

Laurie sighed and slipped into the stream of well-dressed men flooding into the auction house.  His father had refused to explain, mumbling something about “being a good grown-up lad” as he handed over the ticket in a fit of coughing.  Dutiful to a fault, Laurie took the ticket.  Now he was here and completely confused.

The auctioneer started almost as soon as he sat down between two mustached men who refused to look at him.  "Do I see ten?  Ten ten ten on the floor, do I see ten, yes, ten, ten to number twenty-eight, do I see fifteen, fifteen?  Fifteen, all right, thirteen, thirteen, we are bidding on a fine fine set of lovely luckies, all the way from Care-oh-LINE-uh!  Thirteen, yes, I see you there, sir, thirteen.“

As the hubbub continued, Laurie raised his hand tentatively.  The auctioneer squinted, pointed.  "Yes, you in the front there, the little one, thirty-five, I see you, thirty-five thirty-five do I see forty?  Forty?  No?  Going once, thirty-five going twice…”

Laurie held his breath.

“SOLD, to the little man in the front, for thirty-five dollars.”

An unexplainable excitement filled Laurie’s chest as he rose to follow the frozen smile of the blonde assistant.  She slipped behind the heavy curtain and Laurie held his breath as he went in.

Beyond stretched another huge, heavy curtain, dark and velvetty, but cut in places to reveal small clear boxes at about elbow height.  Laurie bent to look inside one but the blonde assistant batted him away.  "Touching only, kid.  Here.“  She scrubbed roughly at his hand with a cloth soaked in the unmistakable smell of antiseptic.  "Let it dry, then have your fill, then meet me at the other end.”

She disappeared.  Laurie frowned as he approached the nearest box.  It had a man’s hand-sized opening, and into this he slid his arm nearly up to the elbow.  The plastic passageway curved upwards and he followed it, fingers tingling with anticipation.

They brushed something smooth and impossibly soft, and a delighted giggle sounded from above it. It was warm, wet flesh.  Laurie jumped and almost withdrew his hand, but now something came alive between his legs and he could not resist.  He reached upwards again and this time felt more aggressively; his fingers slipped up to the fingernail inside the silken lips, eliciting a gasp from the invisible girl.

Biting his lip in determination, Laurie slipped in and out of her until his hand was wet with her delight.  Thirty-five dollars well spent, he thought, because suddenly he remembered that there were five other boxes.

He skipped on down the row.

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Sparks on the Line

It was time.  Keela glanced up surreptitiously from the product she was assembling with trained fingers to see Leader standing on the stairs near the door, tapping his shiny black shoe.  His hands drummed an awkward rhythm, out of time with the inoffensive music blaring overhead; it was this sound that had caught her attention.

Leader acknowledged their eye contact with the slightest tilt of his head and disappeared up the stairs.  Keela waited the appropriate amount of beats, then yawned, rubbed her eyes, and palmed her station off.  She slipped out of her factory overcoat and hugged herself in feigned need for the toilet as she went up the stairs.  None of the other dead-eyed workers even blinked.

Leader’s office was dark, but she knew well enough to slip in anyway and flick on the lights.  The overhead buzzed stubbornly before tossing its half-hearted glow across the craggy face of Leader.  He was still wearing his dark supervisor’s apron.

“Bend over,” he said, flipping one gloved finger in a very clear gesture.

Keela bowed and lowered her torso down over her legs.  She wrapped her hands together and rested them at the crack of her bottom while the sound of squeaky shoes told her Leader was coming around the desk.  His rough hands raked her pants down to her ankles.  She shivered at the unexpected cold, her skin pimpling.

“Over,” Leader said again, and Keela clenched the backs of her knees with the crooks of her elbows.  Now she held her breath.  She knew this sequence of sounds by heart: zzhhhipp, as Leader’s erect cock slithered out of his slacks; crackling, as the device came alive; and then the impossible tingling of the charged air moving closer to her buttocks, to her pussy.

Keela almost screamed as the current raced through her anticipating flesh. The device lingered between her asshole and her pussy, meandering with no hurry down, down, then up, up, inside of her, filling her with the all-encompassing shock of an instant orgasm.  She rocked against the device, barely registering Leader’s hungry slavering, coming as hard as she did every day when he brought her into his office.

A tiny puddle of drool collected at the small of her back.  Something else wet and warm slithered down her leg, landing on her skin in time with Leader’s grunting.  The device switched off, leaving the air in the office dead and silent.

He waited the appropriate amount of beats.

“Get out,” he said.

Keela scrambled to pull up her pants and, without looking at her boss, slipped back out to the factory floor, her body still quivering with pleasure.

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Apocalips

The oceans were boiling.

Her seafoam hair tossed by the hot crosswinds, Atom waited at the edge of the cliff.  Debris whipped around her naked body as she swayed in time to the silent song of her planet’s destruction.  She was the last experiment, the last adaptive life form to be introduced onto the dying world, and her bloodline had failed.  Taurus was a miscarriage of an experiment.  So they burned the evidence.

Her slender fingers danced across her bare clitoris.  She leaned into herself, gasping.

A telltale whisper of bare feet made Atom turn her head slightly to catch the approaching figure in her peripheral.  "Rino,“ she said softly, dropping her hand.

Neutrino, his haphazard face obscured by his customary hood, bowed slightly.  "So they cast us aside at last,” he said, a sweeping gesture taking in the dying water below them.

“There are worse ways to die than seeing the end of the world.”  Atom had always longed to find a neuro-dump of poetics, but she had been denied this one pleasure by her creators and did her best to compensate.  "Rino, hold me.“

He came beside her and wrapped her in his corded arms, and she closed her eyes to forget that he was a conglomeration of all of the dead scientists who had built their careers on Taurus.

She slipped her hands beneath his robe to find his growing erection and pressed it to her hairless mound.  "One last time,” she said when his dark red eyes met her pale yellow ones.

Something not quite human dug her nails into the bare back of something over-human.  Perfect breasts brushed patchwork skin.  Fire rained into the sea, turning the water into a fine hot mist that pinkened them both.

Their final coming was together, roaring, howling, as the cliff beneath them surrendered to the beams of flame and collapsed into the sea.