.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
graasvoel
There is a relief that courses, swift and sure, through his veins as the black stallion smiled lazily at him—though the vulture seeks pleasure for himself, he is not an inherently selfish creature. So, being entirely inexperienced in the area of gratifying other males, there had been some (a lot) of uncertainty in his success at bringing about both his and the older stallion’s complete pleasure. (And, truthfully, if that had been the case, the vulture wasn’t sure if he would be expected to stand for the black just as the black had stood for him—would he be able to do it?)
No matter, that was not the case, as a distinct scent of masculine post-pleasure wafted into his flared, heavily breathing nostrils. At the other’s teasing, any awkwardness melting away at the other stallion’s ease with the situation. Though a tension passes through his tired muscles at Albrecht’s last sentiment, "Maybe you should come here more often.” To Gaal, this had been a dalliance, a daring venture into unknown lands of lust because he had been so starved of satisfaction before landing in the Steppe. The idea of repeating such a forbidden (though entirely pleasurable) act hadn’t crossed his contentment-dulled mind.
He shook his great skull slightly, to clear it of any deep thoughts of taboo or how his culture would frown on him now; those thoughts were too heavy for the light, airy bliss that filled him in the current moment. So, instead, he grinned roguishly once again at Albrecht, “Perhaps you should visit me,” he returned playfully with a wink, instead of committing to any future dalliance—thought it would be an outrageous lie to say that the vulture didn’t want to ‘come here’ (meaning in Albrecht, no matter the Steppe) on the morrow.
But, instead, his great wings began to unfold, sending flurries of cold snow and wind as he began to lift his heavy, sweaty, sated body into the skies; his masculine muscle not yet entirely swallowed by his sheath. “The pleasure was mine, Albrecht,” he said in departure; and, though he began to lift away, his red-hot eyes couldn't quite leave the black’s.
No matter, that was not the case, as a distinct scent of masculine post-pleasure wafted into his flared, heavily breathing nostrils. At the other’s teasing, any awkwardness melting away at the other stallion’s ease with the situation. Though a tension passes through his tired muscles at Albrecht’s last sentiment, "Maybe you should come here more often.” To Gaal, this had been a dalliance, a daring venture into unknown lands of lust because he had been so starved of satisfaction before landing in the Steppe. The idea of repeating such a forbidden (though entirely pleasurable) act hadn’t crossed his contentment-dulled mind.
He shook his great skull slightly, to clear it of any deep thoughts of taboo or how his culture would frown on him now; those thoughts were too heavy for the light, airy bliss that filled him in the current moment. So, instead, he grinned roguishly once again at Albrecht, “Perhaps you should visit me,” he returned playfully with a wink, instead of committing to any future dalliance—thought it would be an outrageous lie to say that the vulture didn’t want to ‘come here’ (meaning in Albrecht, no matter the Steppe) on the morrow.
But, instead, his great wings began to unfold, sending flurries of cold snow and wind as he began to lift his heavy, sweaty, sated body into the skies; his masculine muscle not yet entirely swallowed by his sheath. “The pleasure was mine, Albrecht,” he said in departure; and, though he began to lift away, his red-hot eyes couldn't quite leave the black’s.
I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it
@Albrecht <3 This was fun & fabulous thread! I think this is a good place to wrap it up? :P
Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.
