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