graasvoel

Though the spotted mare was enchanting, and her troubles intriguing, he had not ended his encounter with her as sated as he had hoped. In fact, it seemed that way with many Helovian woman. They all wanted to talk—emotions, feelings, relationships. Meanwhile, the vulture was more interested in the ’relation’ part of relationships. The more carnal, the better.

It would be a lie to say that he did not enjoy the company of women, whether talking or pursuing a myriad of possible pleasures. But, lately, it seemed that the latter was lacking in the man’s life. So he had left the butterfly-winged woman, flying further north. And though his swarthy coat with thick, shaggy, and made for handling the cold and harsh Dorobian Plateaus, the permafrost of the Steppe on which he landed made even him intake a icy breath from the chill.

“Just when I thought my balls couldn't get any bluer,” he grumbled to himself he spoke to the puff of powdery snow that slowly settled around him. His deep, rough voice carried well in the still air—he was surprised that no wind whipped across the steppe. The Plateaus of home were nearly constantly inundated with harsh, cold winds.

The small amount of sweat that gathered on the thick muscle that tied his neck to his shoulder began to quickly ice over; no matter the temperature, the vulture would always sweat. Especially from flying, it was always hard work to raise his heavy, thick body into the skies and pump his massive wings. The wings, in question, slowly tucked loosely into his sides as he snorted away the smell his own hot, sweaty man.

I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it

graasvoel

The giant pegasus had been so preoccupied by the dull pulse from his groin (he wasn’t sure if the cold made the sensation worse or better) that he hadn't paid any attention to the ‘rock’ behind him as he had landed—until the ‘rock’ spoke. Dark brows raised, hot red-and-yellow eyes widened as his bearded chin jerked around, finding that what he thought was the smooth, icy top of a rock was, instead, a bony old stallion with all of his hair beneath rather than above. Gaal’s head cocked slightly—at the current moment, we would prefer to have all of his insulation beneath, as well.

The curiously undulating and gyrating snake wrapped and writhing around the old man’s horns drew the vulture’s sharp gaze away from the mass of reddish-brown hair. At first, his raised brows knit together in confused curiosity—glad to have something take his attention away from his personal, masculine discomfort. Though, upon further examination of the stallion and snake before him, his attention was immediately and forcefully brought back to his own, uncomfortable pulsing.

It was true that the man’s shaggy, burnt orange under-beard did a relatively capable job of concealing what the snake’s circulating motions blatantly do not hide. But the Korofi stallion has been in too many whorehouses (both upstanding and salacious—when one has been in the latter, it is easy to understand how the first exists) to be ignorant to the other stallion’s current condition.

So a bawdy guffaw coupled with a crude grin fills the cold air with clouds of condensed, hot breath. “Us ‘mother fucking peg-asses’ wouldn’t need to be announced if you weren’t such a verdraai,” he used his mother language as his gruff voice sounded amid his laughs, uncertain of the term for ‘horny old stallion’ in the common tongue. His sharp, raptor gaze darted pointedly to the suggestively bulging hair beneath the man’s barrel before returning to seek his bright green gaze, “Though good on both of you for not needing help in this cold weather. I certainly do—eh, would.”

Another low chuckle sounded roughly from his throat, though this one shorter and self-deprecating, coupled his quick verbal correction. He shook his great body roughly once, sending a spray of iced sweat shattering to the icy tundra, lingering for a moment more as if this man’s sexual gratification would somehow ease his own carnal aggravations.

---

verdraai = pervert/exhibitionist

I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it

graasvoel

The vulture’s lingering is greeted with an appraising look and a few steps that brought the dark, older stallion closer—though there is intention behind those rickety steps (the snake’s blatantly carnal stare is lost on the giant), there is also caution etched into the movements. Hot, sharp, red-and-yellow irises blink once in uncertainty at both the stallion’s intentions and the sudden leaping, hot pulse beneath his flank.

The sexual act of stallion with stallion is not a novel idea to the vulture—the dark, dingy houses of the Eahira (or low-class whores) had catered to such tendencies in their shadowed corners. All thirsts could be slaked in Uumalah. Though the vulture had never, personally, delved into such shadows—he had always been perfectly sated by the Mahzia (high-end whores)—it would be a lie to say that the sudden gust of hot air against his flank did not feel pleasant. In fact, it was so pleasant that his his own painful predicament became even more painful, so prolonged was his released already by the teasing of the butterfly-winged mare before he had landed on the Steppe.

A deep, sensual breath expanded his large, slabbed sides—bringing his attention away from the questioningly outstretched, reddish muzzle and towards the now poorly-concealed bulge that peaked from beneath the other’s ruddy beard; his nostrils scenting the other’s arousement. The vulture shifts, his feathers ruffling in the short, throwing beats of hesitance; refusal chipped away by each pulse of his heart that stroked the growing heat between his thighs.

Bright eyes grew scorching as his sharp gaze snapped back to the stallion’s horned head, raptor gaze glancing at the young snake’s pertinent stare before landing on the soft, grizzled red muzzle that now was against the shaggy, swarthy skin of his own flank. “Perha—” the attempted nonchalance of the vulture’s gruff reply was ruined by the break of his voice. He cleared his throat, before speaking again, “Perhaps verdraai aren’t.” His rough rumble echoed the man’s sentiments, repeating the word in a non-butchering fashion—as if that would someone restore some semblance of equity in this sexual encounter. The vulture was not used to being disadvantaged (or less experienced) in erotic encounters.

But there was one thing the vulture was sure of: he knew what position he wanted to assume in this dalliance—though he wasn’t sure of how to express such a need. So, instead he swung his haunches away from the black stallion—slowly, so as to not imply rejection. His own, pale thick muzzle reached out, a mirror to the caution and question Albrecht had shown moments before, towards the other’s auburn flank. Thick lips part, seeking to lip the webbing membrane that joined haunch and barrel.

It was strange for the vulture to mirror, rather than lead…but uncertainty still etched ever large, heavy muscle of his great, swarthy body. However, more overpowering than uncertainty was lust.

I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it

graasvoel

"You'll crush me you know.”

Thick lips curve into a lopsided grin as unease and uncertainty slowly ebbed away in the face of the heat that now pounded (most deliciously and painfully) beneath his barrel. A low rumble only added vibration to the growing, twitching, bouncing muscle hung low. “I’ve handled all shapes and sizes,” was his amused growl back, though any more teasing and lustful banter was cut off as the black man was suddenly shifting his tall, lanky frame closer to his gargantuan, muscular one.

Hot, red and yellow eyes watch the angles of bone and lithe muscle shift beneath the reddish-brown skin; the vulture lifted a massive wing in response to the old stallion’s pressure, the vast expanse of feathers folding him close into the sweaty heat that was Graasvoel’s side. Black nostrils, stark against his white muzzle, flare as he sharply inhaled at the whip-like strands of Albrecht’s tail that smacked across his broad, swarthy chest.

Though he wasn’t entirely certain what he was doing, carnal instinct and desire thirsty led him along this path, following the older, darker stallion’s motions. His muzzle reached out, teeth bared to roughly groom and nip at the top of the man’s tail—a bite snagging and pulling skin as the other licked salt from his navel. A low, rough groan rumbled from his chest—ears slowly slipping backwards as consciousness left and pure, erotic need replaced it.

At the hot breath that tickled the hair and pulsing structure just behind his navel, anymore thought of ’how,’ ‘if,’ or ’why’ was chased out of his skull by unadulterated lust. Great wings snapped out in a rush of cool wind and disturbed snow—but the vulture paid it no mind. Instead, his attention was wholly focused on the dark spine and ribby frame that he now sought to grip between his feathered, thick, tawny forelimbs.

There was no hesitance, no pause or question that he usually afforded the women he bedded for pressing inward—no, because this time, despite being atop, he was not the aggressor. And it was a unique, and not wholly unwelcome, experience. (Truthfully, the vulture quite liked being pursued, he would realize when thinking back on this occasion.)

—fade—

Sweat dripped, despite the crispness of their surroundings—and it was only now that the vulture realized just how open their surroundings were. He was never one to hide his encounters, but this one… This one was different.

However, whatever shame his austerely heterosexual upbringing and culture caused to swell in the face of what he had done was (mostly) swept aside for the sheer satiety he was now experiencing. He had been rough with the black stallion (biting, gripping, thrusting)—far rougher than he was with any mare. His great wings had been spread, to ensure that his heavy weight was not entirely on the other, and ‘crush him.’ But that had been the extent of his gentleness—the wanton nature of this encounter robbing him of any control.

Though, now, as he slipped heavily to the earth behind the elder stallion, his starkly white ears swiveling uncertainty—now what? “Gat gaabaa,” he muttered to himself, shaking his great head tiredly, before attempting a, “I’m Gaal—fokenwil, I’m rubbish at this.” And he tried a feebly, tired, lopsided smile—though the warm glow in his red eyes told that, despite his awkward words, he was thoroughly sated.

---

Gat gaabaa = ass creeper
fokenwil = for fuck’s sake

I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it

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.

I do not want to repeat my innocence
I want to repeat the pleasure of losing it