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.

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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