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I try to help her, but it’s obvious I don’t know what I’m doing and am too far gone in the throes of sexual desire to be of much assistance. I’m too focused on touching her rather than building the breeding nest.
“Here,” Becky says, taking up a position on her hands and knees, maneuvering herself so that her chest (and belly, and pelvis) is supported by a veritable mountain of pillows—and positioned so that her face receives the unencumbered airflow of the fan.
As I take her in, I can understand why all the blood in my body has routed to my pelvic region, heating my pissing organ and my breeding sac, tightening both to an uncomfortable degree. I have to mate with her. It’s become an imperative.
My hands clamp around her ample rear cheeks, making Becky’s breath catch.
Lowering myself over her, I nose her hair, sniffing hard behind her ear before I lick along her throat.
My pissing organ nudges the juncture of her silken thighs, making her back arch.
I press forward. The penetration is unexpectedly wet, even wetter than our first coupling. Rearing back from her creates the addictively delicious friction that I have hardly been able to stop thinking about.
As I pull my organ free of her, her channel emits an explicit sucking sound that excites me.
I fill her again, sliding deep and withdrawing. I speed up as my hand slides under her to find that area between her legs that makes her react. When I find it, my fingers stroke her until she’s bucking under me.
The sound of our damp skin slapping and sticking to one another as I pound into her silky tight grip makes for an obscene harmony. Tension coils in me, tighter and tighter—until my seed shoots out, feeling hotter than fire as it erupts from my breeding sac.
Becky cries out again, her insides milking me just as hungrily as the first time.
And I catapult after her, spurred into another emission, sharing with her a few last vigorous thrusts.
When I finally withdraw my pissing organ, blue seed drools out of her swollen, thoroughly used channel.
My ancient Yonderin instincts are intensely pleased to see this visible testament that I’ve claimed her.
I help her to the siphon room so that she can void, then I insist on helping her clean up her seed-oozing channel. Then I guide her back into our breeding nest where I help her mound her pillows under herself until she’s comfortable, and I hold her in my arms all night long.
CHAPTER 12
The two of us do get better at our cross-species communication. Days pass pleasantly with hard work, inside and outside the shanty.
“Becky?” I call, making my way to the porch.
Paco rushes past me and takes the steps at a leap. He’s fortunate that the porch holds his weight. “ReeeEEEEEE!” he cries, his ears up high, his mouth held proudly in the air as he calls to her too.
The screen door bangs against the frame as Becky steps out on the porch. “Shoo,” she automatically tells Paco, who, instead of obeying her order, turns his massive head and grabs her skirt in his mouth. To further the impression that he has a boundless penchant for jackanapery, he tugs on it.
Becky gasps and tries to snatch her skirt hem from him.
Looking delighted, Paco’s ears lower as he settles in for the ensuing struggle. Shifting his weight to his rear hooves, he has more power as he yanks on her this time.
Becky squeaks and slides forward.
“PACO!” I bark. He may be playing, but he could have unbalanced her and caused her and our tadpole harm.
The beast ignores me.
Although his withers barely come up as high as my mate’s elbow, he’s sturdy as a wagon full of railroad ties (and nearly as heavy) and determined to wreak havoc. Everywhere his mouth is touching the fabric of her garment, he’s leaving green grass froth. As the foam slicks her formerly clean clothing and her hands, Becky makes a cry of dismay.
I’ve reached them. Sighing, I stalk up the steps and do the expedient thing—I lift the whole ass into the air, which startles him into releasing her dress.
He even makes a reverse bray, nearly squealing as he sucks in air, and his tail slaps from flank to flank, the bristles hitting my arm, little stings.
“Stop harassing my mate,” I warn him sternly.
Falling still, he gives a sullen honk.
