Bred for Pleasure Ch. 02

Meghan slowly collapsed to the carpet, breathing hard. Rake's eyes were intent and wide, but he kept to his discipline, easing in and out of the new playmate. Marigold wound her fingers into the carpet, her cheek pressed down, eyes closed, whimpering through her pleasure.

"Stop," Meghan said, sitting up. Rake growled again. She couldn't blame him, poor thing. She pulled the two apart and Marigold slid belly down to the floor, the bob tail erect and trembling. Meghan straddled the prone girl, facing Rake, whose organ pulsed and dripped. She grasped one of Rake's hands and squeezed, slicking her palm, then wrapped it around the bob tail and spread it there. Meghan rose and aimed the girl's vestigial organ carefully, eased herself down on it, felt the hard shaft twitch and slide within her slowly as she fell. It fit so well. But the bob tail was different from a cock, she soon found. It was muscular, could move of its own accord, could twist and wiggle in a way she hadn't felt before.

Meghan revelled in the novelty for a bit, encouraging the feline Companion to manipulate the shaft as she rose and fell, sliding on its firm length. They found a slow rhythm together, the striped girl bunching her buttocks to give resistance, flexing the bob tail inside Meghan as she impaled herself, rising again in joy.

Meghan reached for Rake's dark member and drew him closer, opening her lips to taste the tartness of his citrusy juices and Marigold's musk. She licked the knob, stroked the slippery shaft, pulled him into her mouth. Making a tight ring with her lips she sucked and worked her tongue around the spongy crown, holding to his thighs as she ground herself down on Marigold.

Rake stroked his oily fingers into her hair and held her there. His Quivertail swung low and tweaked at Meghan's nipples. He trembled in obedience to her, didn't thrust, didn't pull back, but he leaked into her, a slow pulse of fluid into her mouth, tasting as fruity and thick as that morning. But this time she was orgasmic and quivering with her own arousal. The slippery fluid seeped from her lips, dripped on her breasts where the Quivertail buds rubbed it into her taut nipples, pulling and twisting. She groaned, long and low.

Rake's training reached its limit. His hips jerked and a pulse of semen surged up his shaft. Meghan felt it swell and burst into her mouth, pouring out, then another and another as Rake shook with each pulse, his hands still holding her tight to him, his tail pulling her nipples tight. Meghan ground down onto the bob tail, rotating her hips against Marigold's muscular flexing and came again to the point of near unconsciousness, dizzy with pleasure, hanging on to Rake's legs to keep from falling as she let his cock slip from her lips, thick semen running down, splattering on Marigold's golden thighs and round, tight bottom.

Meghan slid forward and reluctantly, slowly off of Marigold. She lay to the side and pointed to the girl's tangled fur. "Clean, Rake." And he leaned down and licked his semen from the wet pelt. Running his tongue with the grain, with long strokes he cleaned her, not neglecting the bob tail, which, soaked with Meghan's juices, still stood, lazily flexing. Then Meghan directed him to clean her breasts and lay, head on the small of Marigold's back as he thoroughly sought out every drop and puddle.

"Marigold, you surprise me," she sighed, and the striped girl whispered.

"As in sleeping-drink spices,

softly she loosens in the liquid-clear

mirror her fatigued demeanor;

and she puts her smile deep inside.

And she waits while the liquid

rises from it; then she pours her hair

into the mirror, and, lifting one

wondrous shoulder from the evening gown,

she drinks quietly from her image. She drinks

what a lover would drink feeling dazed,

searching it, full of mistrust; and she only

beckons to her maid when at the bottom

of her mirror she finds candles, wardrobes,

and the cloudy dregs of a late hour."

Some time later Meghan woke. The three were entwined on the carpet, spent, Rake curled around Marigold, the girl's head on Meghan's shoulder. It was dark. Not even the redeye's glow lit the apartment. Stranger still, there was silence. Meghan disentangled herself and said, "Redeye, why is it dark?" No answer. She stepped outside, naked, heard the wind cutting through the spires of the circling City, but not the lifelong hum.

In the faint light of a warm March afternoon above the Arctic Circle Meghan saw the still forms of several redeyes.

"Is anyone here?" she called.