Entries tagged with “group sex”.


The first light of dawn found Arlic at the hot springs, soaking in the steaming pool. Once he emerged, the two robed acolytes who had taken away his clothing now rubbed him dry with clean cloths, from head to hooves, then brushed him, leaving his snow-white coat shining and smooth; and then they guided him into the circle of stones, to the altar stone at the centre.

He’d known for weeks that this was coming, but being so close to the altar made it real in a way it hadn’t been before, and his heart hammered in his chest as the acolytes laid a patterned, woven blanket over the stone, arranging it just so, doubled over itself. And with that modest padding in place, it was his turn to settle gingerly onto the altar. A beaded leather cuff was wrapped around each of his limbs, padding the thongs that then lashed him to the four posts around the stone, leaving only his head and tail free. Thus secured, they gave his hooves a thorough polish, ridding them of what little dirt had clung to them between the spring and the stone.

And then, while one departed to continue preparations, the other sat with him. As the sun rose higher into the sky, she shifted a small awning to shade him. It was necessary that he remain there for all of Sowing Day, but it was not necessary or at all desired that he be uncomfortable through it; so she kept the light out of his eyes, shifted his bonds when he found they chafed, and brought him food and drink – sometimes water, sometimes wine.

(more…)

Saeed looked over to his robe, draped some time ago over the back of a chair in his workroom. In moments like this, a little dignity could be a precious thing.

But he abandoned the notion after only a moment’s thought. Dignity was all very well, but he was sodden with his lover’s seed. Even if the robe managed to obscure all of it, which was unlikely given how much of the stuff had landed on his neck and chin, the smell of sex permeated each breath he took and couldn’t fail to fill the whole room.

Besides, if he put the robe on without first taking a bath, it would need such a thorough laundering that there might not be much fabric left, afterwards.

So be it; the sabrecat would trust to the dignity of his own person and demeanour, and dare anyone else to comment on his state.

(more…)

The beat was heavy and pervasive, impossible to ignore. It drove into Arverik’s skull, imposing its order on his breath, his heartbeat, even shaping the rhythms of his very thoughts. This was not a place where anyone with his sense of hearing could concentrate.

But the Tavar wasn’t here to concentrate, he was here to immerse himself in experience. And these humans really knew how to make music.

He leaned back against the bar and surveyed the crowd. Humans made up most of it, of course – this world had been theirs first, and even if it wasn’t their home, the Tavarri hadn’t descended in force; blending had been steady, but slow, in the years since contact. And this venue was built to human rather than Tavarri tastes. But there were some Tavarri sprinkled among them, too – and such a variety of them. Arverik had spent his early years in the Shukarat clan fortress, indeed, within its rarefied central spires. Everyone there had been close kin to the clan; most had been members of the core lineage.

In this one room, with maybe a dozen other Tavarri, he saw more colours and patterns than in all his childhood. It made having yellow eyes instead of green seem rather less significant, and that was another part of why he liked it here.

Seeing them all move together – Tavarri and their smaller, furless, tailless neighbours – was another part of it, of course. What the humans accomplished with mild intoxication, the Tavarri did just by forgoing ear protection: a bit of disconnection from the world, a dizzy whirl that let bodies bump against each other as they danced, and an easy camaraderie in which nobody minded that contact.

Still, he could only take so much of it at a time, and besides, he was getting hungry. He wove his way to the stairs.

(more…)

Markus came to with a throbbing headache and an instant sense that something was wrong.

The last he’d known, he’d been hiking along a quite ordinary forest path. Or so it had seemed. The fact that he was now struggling to regain consciousness that he couldn’t even remember being about to lose in the first place rather suggested that something out of the ordinary had happened.

He was lying on bare wood – smooth, seamless wood, not sawn planks; his questing fingers found no edges, no nails, though there wasn’t light enough to see by, just a tiny square of it off to one side that did more to emphasize the darkness than to alleviate it. He still had on his trousers and tunic, but his cloak, boots, pack, and his belt knife were all absent.

Some kind of prison, obviously. But whose? And what in the world had he done to land himself here?

(more…)

The big, white wolf heaved a sigh.

“For weeks – months – you were dealing with the cold of the northern lands, Kob,” he groaned. “Even when you weren’t complaining – which, to be fair, you did little of – I could hear your teeth chattering often enough. I should think you, of all people, would have the good sense to agree with me about this miserable rain. But you pick now to agree with Tasven about the supposed good weather?”

Kob Lightfoot simply laughed, the cheetah flinging his arms out, palms upward. “You call this rain, Varyn?” He shook his head. “I grew up with rain. Rain is something that comes down in sheets, usually sideways, with the full force of a gale behind it. It floods streets in moments, and would wash out a trail like this in the blink of an eye. It makes rivers overflow their banks and is about as warm as a frost giant’s heart. If you’re not careful – or chained down – it’ll pick you up and carry you out to the ocean before you can blink. That,” the trapmaster declared, “is rain! This is nothing more than a warm shower.” He finished shrugging out of his tunic, tying the sleeves around the waist and letting the gentle rain wash through his pelt.

(more…)

“It’s no good!”

The words barely rose over the howling wind. Allan turned his head, one fleece-gloved hand held up to shelter his cheek from the wind and snow, and stomped over to the one who’d spoken.

“This storm won’t show us any mercy,” she called – not quite as loudly, but she still needed to work to make herself heard. “We need to get out of the wind as best we can, and make some shelter – poor Raskin isn’t doing well out here.”

(more…)

It shouldn’t have been so normal.

It was just another carrier flight deck, with fighters clamped into place in their berths, cargo haulers trundling over the plates, techs scurrying about with the various tools of their trade. Just like the one Drevin had launched from, oh, too many hours ago now.

But it wasn’t his flight deck.

Cognitive dissonance could be a strange thing, sometimes.

(more…)

CHAPTER THIRTY

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I’d not been on the palace grounds since before the coronation; Rebecca had sought me out through the winter, but always our liaisons had taken place in my own quarters, be it on the bed, in the bath, or, one memorable evening in the new year, up against the oak tree in the back yard.

Now, though, spring was in the air, the namesake vines of Yellow Rose House were showing green on their trellises, and the city was abuzz with celebration. There’d not been a royal wedding in twenty years, and then-Princess Meribeth had not yet been a reigning Queen; the festivities surrounding the wedding of Queen Rebecca IV to her young and heroic Prince Consort, Travis Baker, seemed to take all the fervour that the city hadn’t had a chance to indulge at her winter coronation and make up for it fivefold.

(more…)

TWENTY-NINE

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My new quarters, named the Yellow Rose House at some point in the past though it showed no sign of the flowers in winter, were everything Ophelia had mentioned, and more.

The house was a street away from Blue Ribbon House, and that put it on a markedly finer street. Outwardly, it was a modest but well-built little home, crouching among its quite similar fellows; a small family of reasonable means might live here.

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TWENTY-ONE

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As useful as the knowledge I’d brought back was, even that wasn’t the triumph of the night. As the sun was about to set, Travis, the last of us to report back, bustled into our room all out of breath.

He’d been applying his charm around the more social districts of the city, and had learned that Frederic Darcy, the Duke himself, frequented one particular brothel. His usual woman had confessed that she wasn’t exactly satisfied with him – he paid poorly for a man of such means, it seemed, and there had been some question of his sexual prowess as well. Travis wasn’t sure to what degree she’d be willing to compromise herself – the Duke was a powerful enemy, after all, especially here in his home town – but he had learned roughly when the man tended to visit. And as it would call too much attention to his nighttime activities to show up with a full retinue, he usually came alone.

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NINETEEN

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There was a bit of awkwardness as we made ready to bed down for the night. No matter what I’d said earlier, how aware I’d been of the fact that the tents offered little barrier to what I’d been up to of nights and our occasional jaunts into the heather with someone or other had offered even less privacy, I wasn’t accustomed to being able to see anyone else nearby but the one I was lying with. Nancy hardly seemed less awkward about it all, and that was to be expected; but the others certainly had their share too.

Well, the other women did. Travis actually seemed rather eager, though he was sheepish about that in turn.

(more…)

<< Back to Chapter 12: New Equilibrium

Spring had taken its sweet time, but it was finally here to stay. The last of the snow was gone, the air was starting to feel mild, and days were longer than nights again. It was a sunny afternoon without much wind and with only the lightest, fluffiest of clouds to be seen.

In short, it was about as good a day as you could ask for to move house. And with my newly exalted rank and pay scale(the latter of which still didn’t hold a candle to some people I know, but anyway), it was about time to do so.

(more…)

Luke crawled into bed alone, around two in the afternoon; Cal had gone home, looking much braver than the night before, and Luke himself had opted to stay another day yet, to try to make a few arrangements with Jessica. She, however, had gone off to her summer job; so, still feeling a bit drained from the busy night before, Luke had gone back into the guest room for a bit of a rest. He hadn’t intended to actually fall asleep, but as he lay there, relaxing turned into dozing, and dozing into napping.

He woke up to the feel of warm bodies sliding up against him from either side. And while one such he might have taken, so to speak, in stride, with a sleepy nuzzle or a curl of his tail, there being one in front and one behind brought him rather suddenly to full consciousness.

(more…)

Rank had its privileges.

In this case, Valan’s rank was nothing substantial – an acting subbie was hardly in the rarefied upper reaches of command – and his privilege was correspondingly simple: he had a private room. It was enough, though; enough space for the hefty cooler-box that he now lifted from the place it had occupied for the past few weeks.

The door opened on its own ahead of him, and closed behind; a glance over his shoulder confirmed that it had locked itself. Not that he was particularly worried. Most of his gear was with the quartermaster, not in his cabin, and the burden he now bore was the main other thing worth taking – even if anyone had the nerve to try to steal something from the barracks of a Star Lane Authority training camp.

(more…)

(This is the last entry to date in the Felidae collection. To navigate the chronology: << First | < Prev )

It was just a simple doorbell. The lion had heard it from the outside of the door, like now, plenty of times before. But this time, it sounded somehow momentous. Not exactly foreboding, but significant.

Maybe it had to do with the boy standing with him, a year older at seventeen, dressed like him in a fine shirt, tie, slacks, and blazer, the tall cheetah carrying a Tupperware tray.

“Hey, Sig?”

“Yeah?” Sigmund von Klausen replied, the word bearing more than his usual touch of German accent. Or maybe he had actually said “ja”.

“…Thanks.” The biggest thing he was thanking the runner for, of course, was yet to come, but he still had to say it.

The taller, slimmer boy bumped shoulders with him, smiling. “It’s all right, Mike. I’m happy you trust me for this.”

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