Dragoncrest Cliffs & Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, (mtr.)

Everyone had their Achilles' heel, and his happened to be his cock and balls. (Some might say it was a defect of his sex, but Vercingetorix had even less self-control than most.) With each movement, each touch, his trepidation and anger and resolve all melted away until he was dark putty in her paws. Her words were meaningless to him, just gentle murmurs against his flesh. Flesh was all that mattered, now.

As she stretched out with a question, he settled ever-so-slowly against her, finding the most comfortable position for the both of them, his hips astride hers, his stomach along her spine. Yes, Verx whispered against the curve of her neck, the sound drifting up to tickle the feather-light hairs around her earlobe. He nipped that, gently, briefly. I'm always down to try something new, he chuckled, voice a little hoarse.

He began to move against her at a crawling yet insistent pace, hoping she'd move her goddamn tail out of the way before Hypothetical Offspring Nos. 5.1-5.2 million (or however many fucking little swimmers there were) ended up on the floor of the apothecary instead of where they really belonged. Well, not like it mattered, now. Still, waste not, right?