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Gnawer of the Moon

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Uther's enthusiastic, she'll give him that much. He's fond of holding her down by the arms, which would make her laugh if he weren't so queerly winsome; she could break his bollocks with one careless clench of her thighs, but he's growing on her somehow, like mould on an overripe pear, and she's feeling too fond for her own good. It's a step down and a half, of course: humbling, to be caught up in a lowly human in this way. He's clearly out of practice, poor miserable mite, but he sticks at it for all that, hammering and yammering away at her cavernous cunt walls all the night long until they're both near done for. She didn't think that pig's tail pecker of his would amount to much, but it's nigh on adequate in rut, rearing ruddy and stout above that sweet soft belly of his. She peels the wrapper right back and snuffles out all the faint traces of gnat bread on his knob; why he's got to wash all the good grot away, she'll never understand. Just as well she's got enough to smear between the both of them.

He conks out eventually, of course, being no match for her. She studies him as he sleeps and is astonished at her own reluctance to leave his overclean nest. In the fuck-fireworks' wake he looks as pasty-faced homely as ever and that spunk of his burns inside her like soapwort, but tenderness gnaws worse at her gut, sick-making and unfamiliar. She rolls him over, determined to mash his infuriating mug into the mattress, but he lets out a stiff cheeser in his sleep and she's birdlime in his fragile hands. She kicks the bedclothes back, straddles his legs and buries her face between his bumcheeks where the fart lingers. It counts for half a handful at best, that puny pale arse, but the flesh colours up nicely beneath the careful graze of her teeth and his dun-haloed bunghole lurks tight and tasty, just pleading for her mouth. She spreads him wide and tongues his hot taint from stem to stern, dragging him helpless, mewling from his slumber. He wriggles in her clutches, crying her false name, and she slaps him silent, branding his arse with her handprint. He stills to her satisfaction, and then she hauls him abruptly to his knees. His haunches quiver under her hands and she rubs them down, soothing away the bluster; he's but a yearling to her unnumbered years, and she knows she must be patient with him. His measly coin purse sways before her eyes as he parts his legs in mute appeal, but it's a prize too poor to tempt her; instead she latches her mouth to his arsehole and nurses there, breaching him with her tongue and coaxing him steadily, surely, into compliance. There's not a murmur of protest from his lips but his body holds out, stiff with human breeding, and it only fires her greed higher, draws her tongue deeper. His dung's not what she's used to - it's carrion fare, an acquired taste - but she craves it because it is his, and now hers, and when his belly strains at last in sobbing relief to release a steaming roll of shit down her gullet, the force of her climax beggars her. He wets the bed beneath them with tremulous runlets of piddle, and she begins to think they may have the makings of a true marriage after all.