Chapter 16
The sunlight pouring through the open shade was cutting.
Violet groaned, shifting against the bunched sheets before snuggling against the broad chest beneath her cheek, squinting against the light. Rourke snuffled and huffed, the muscular arm around her tensing for a moment before he relaxed once more, his deep breaths resuming.
Saturday mornings were for lazing, sleeping off the previous night’s physical exertions before embarking on weekend adventures, and this—nestled against his warm skin, with a leg over his thickly muscled thigh and his heavy cock pressed to her front, his strong arm wrapped around her back—had become her favorite place to be. She’d never been the type to laze in bed, not previously. Too many years of early classes, of TA duties and tutoring sessions and work commutes; too many responsibilities that had her up before the sun on most days. Still being in bed this late in the morning would have been a cause for panic to her then, but then again, she’d never previously experienced the joy of falling directly into bed with an eager partner as soon as she walked through the door on Friday evening, followed by a dessert as large as her head.
Despite the previous night’s activities, there were things she wanted to do today. Cambric Creek, she’d discovered, was full of interesting little diversions for a couple to enjoy hand-in-hand—botanical gardens, interesting galleries, an old-fashioned observatory, and the picturesque little town square—and she had enjoyed discovering them all over the last several months. Summertime had meant street fairs and shopping, concerts in the park and community carnivals, followed by sharing an extra-late dinner before returning to the sanctuary and pleasure of his giant bed. Now that the summer months were waning, the shops around town had already begun to transition to their autumn displays, and she was excited to see what fun things would be on the community calendar.
“It’s time to get up,” she groaned, running her palm down his chest, scratching his solid stomach. Rourke grunted but made no movement. “Common, don’t be lazy. We wanted to go to the flower shop’s plant sale, remember?” She’d already picked out a large rubber tree to place by the sunny window in his living room, a ficus for the kitchen, and a small tray of succulents for her apartment’s tiny window ledge, but getting out of bed would be a necessary prerequisite to procuring anything.
The little shop was run by three identical sisters, each with glossy black hair and beetle-like bodies of iridescent green, who collectively seemed to know everything one could about houseplants. She’d been lured in one sunny Sunday afternoon, entranced by the vivid colors of the stained glass window display, pulling Rourke by the hand. The sisters had converged around her, cooing how nice it was to have a human stop in, and would she be interested in seeing one of their home-cultivated pitcher plants?
On the other side of the flower shop was an occultist’s tea room, a narrow space where Rourke’s wide shoulders and wider horns had been hilariously out of place the first time she’d dragged him in for lunch. Beside the tea room was a small salon which specialized in “cub cuts,” as evidenced by the small, fuzzy worgen and gnoll children whom she’d watched through the window as they zoomed in circles around the harried-looking stylists, and she’d wondered, not for the first time, what her own mixed-species offspring might look like.Not for a decade. At least.
“You need to make a friend,” he’d grumbled good-naturedly that day she’d left the tea room together. “And we need to go getrealfood now because those sandwiches were for children. Pixie children.”
Yes, Cambric Creek was full of strange and interesting things: new discoveries she made nearly every week at her boyfriend’s side, and warm and friendly residents who didn’t seem to care that she was a human. Despite the other species who lived in Bridgeton, humans were still the default majority and mixed-species couples were unusual. Violet couldn’t help but notice the looks she occasionally garnered in her own neighborhood when Rourke came to her, sidelong glances she never experienced when she stayed with him. She had begun to dread Sunday evenings when she would leave the quirky little town and his side, her apartment in the city too empty and no longer feeling like home.
“Moonstone!” she whined into his skin, huffing when he ignored her. Any other morning she might have snuggled back against his warm side and let sleep claim her, more comfortable in his arms than she was in any other place on earth, but today she was wide awake, the mid-week appointment on her phone’s calendar already spiking her anxiety. She wanted to buy her plants and get her coffee and be distracted by him and the town, and try not to think about how nervous she was.
The short, coarse hair that covered his skin was smooth beneath her palm as she ran a hand down his chest, stroking over his taut abdomen. He was thick with muscle, solid beneath her, the warmth of him increasing the closer her hand drifted to his groin. When she palmed the familiar weight of his cock, squeezing lightly before her fingertips drifted lower to graze his heavy testicles, he grunted into the pillow, shifting slightly. It didn’t make a difference how tired he might claim to be . . . there was one sure way to wake him up.
Massive in her hand and impossibly thick, even in its softened state, his cock was a comfortably familiar weight as she dragged her fingers slowly up his shaft and down again, encouraging his foreskin to slide with the motion, gradually exposing his pink head. A tiny bead of moisture pooled in the slit, visible every time she exposed the shiny glans, too delectable to resist wanting to taste it on her tongue. A deep rumble emitted from his chest as she kissed her way down its broad expanse, slowing over his stomach. By the time her lips had reached the crease of this muscled thigh, his cock had stiffened enough that she was able to grip the shaft, leading it to her outstretched tongue.
It was a waste, a terrible, awful waste, bottling his potent release and sending it off to be refined into little blue pills for human men. Now that she knew how sweet it was on her tongue, howgoodit felt to be filled until it ran down her thighs and made a mess of the towels upon the sheets, she hated the idea of him selling it. Her tongue pressed into the slit on his head, lapping up the beading precome before sliding into the edge of his foreskin. She’d perfected the art of maneuvering her tongue into the nerve-ending-packed sheath, sliding around his cockhead from within, licking the inside of his foreskin and tugging it gently with her teeth, as she did then.
“What are you trying to do to me,” he groaned, his giant hand landing on the back of her head, thick fingers threading through her hair as she bobbed shallowly on his length, sleep forgotten, and she smiled around him in satisfaction.
He was too big to suck properly. She’d tried, more than once, determined to mimic the abilities of the woman in videos and the countless other women whom she was sure would have been happy to take her place, but all that she’d managed to do was make herself gag on less than a third of his prodigious length.
“St-stop!Hugghhh. . . ”
She’d pulled back in surprise from where she’d knelt before him, months earlier, a thin strand of drool connecting her mouth to his cock, only to watch her giant, strong boyfriend retch dramatically. “I can’t—I can’t deal with gagging,” he gasped, hunching nearly to where she knelt before him, horns cutting through the air. “Hurgghh. . .you gag, I gag. Don’t-don’t do that again. If I wanted a deep throat that badly, I’d buy one of those milking machines.”
She’d wound up curled in a ball on the floor, wheezing with laughter at his feet before he’d controlled his gag reflex enough to scoop her up with a growl, bouncing her down in the center of his giant bed and forcing his mouth between her legs.
Since then she’d perfected her alternate routine of licking and sucking on his bulbous cockhead, stroking him in the way she already knew he enjoyed and mouthing at his heavy sack. Rourke groaned as she worked his foreskin back, sucking his head into her mouth as her hands squeezed and stroked. A stack of towels now lived on the bedside table beside the pump-sized bottle of lube, just within reach, and she snagged one then, depressing a dollop of the clear, viscous gel into her palm. Despite the copious amount of semen she collected from him each week at the farm, weekend morning yields, after passion-filled nights, were considerably less impressive. Enough to necessitate a towel, but not enough to need three.
“You really want those damned plants,” he groaned, tightening his hand in her hair as she sucked harder. Her job at the farm necessitated short, well-kept nails, and in the last several months, she’d discovered another perk to the low-frills manicure as she coated her fingers in the thick lubricant. It was a juggling act—keeping her mouth around his cock and milking his balls with one hand, while using the other to work two fingers into his ass, the tight ring of muscle sucking her in as she pumped against him, seeking his sweet spot—but it never failed to make him erupt like a geyser.
She remembered wondering if he would always be so uptight and controlled, or if he would grace her ears with a full-throated moan of pleasure in the privacy of his own bed. She’d long ago received her answer, and his deep bellow rattled the walls as his orgasm hit. When the first burst of his thick cream hit her throat, she swallowed greedily, endeavoring not to choke as her mouth was filled. The towel came in handy to catch the overflow as his balls throbbed in her hand, spurt after spurt until he sagged, his spent cock slipping from her lips.
There were two hampers in the bathroom—one for daily use, and one for the cleanup towels that were washed separately with a special enzyme, several pods of which she’d brought home, just in case, thinking of Mrs. Muehlstein and the sanctity of her cardigans. Towels cleared, hands cleaned, and then she was back in the bed, climbing up his body and collapsing against his heat.
“It’s time to get up,” she whispered against his throat, nuzzling into the thick hair there, arching against the hand he stroked down her spine. His wide, pink nose pressed to her hair, agreeing with a grunt when a deep, lushly-accented voice broke the quiet of the room.
“Junie, do not—donoteven think of it. Get back over—Junie!”
The high-pitched yip of Rourke’s neighbor’s little dog rose in volume and the man’s voice took on a desperate tone. Rourke snorted and she managed to stifle her giggle as the man’s voice beseeched the dog. “Junie,please. . . you’re gonna wake up Mama, and then we’ll both be in trouble. Is that what you want?” The dog continued to yip shrilly as if that was exactly what she wanted, and Violet was unable to hold back her laughter then, climbing from the bed, pulling Rourke’s hand to follow.
By the time they were both dressed and ready to leave the house, the small terror known as Junie had been re-corralled in her own yard. Lurielle stood barefoot in the grass, her thick thighs and full bottom encased in a pair of tiny, terrycloth shorts and t-shirt with the logo of the local observatory emblazoned across it. A few yards away, Khash knelt, his own generous ass in the air as she gave instruction on where exactly she wanted him to dig a hole for the mum plants sitting on the patio’s edge. When she saw Violet, the elf waved brightly.
“Well?” she demanded. “How did it go?”
“The video call was this week,” Violet began, feeling her pulse kick up at just the thought, “and they called me back for a face-to-face. I meet with the director of development this week.”
“Perfect,” the elf crowed. “They’re going to love you! Just remember, they’re all about the community angle, the legacy of the town and their name, blah blah blah. Don’t undersell that end of it.”