Greatwater Lake the fall of new york city

She was displeased.

The man she had chosen for herself remained with her, but now there was a second that she did not want. A creature born to the desert-people who was a formidable specimen, and would have been a prime target for her lust should he have been unaffiliated with the palace.

The arrangement was made and must be fulfilled — Zharille knew this, although she loathed it. As she paced along the southern edge of her lake, she rumbled a note that carried across the glassy surface.
Soon, she knew, her fire-time would come.
She looked to the shadows of the tree line for @Kaxwaan.

The ogre woman calls for him.

Stirred from rest, he moves like something conveyed by water, a clot in a blood vessel.

As he draws near he glowers upon her awful form; this is the perfect word for it, because she inspires awe, if nothing else. For she was to the average wolf what a dinosaur would be like to a bird.

His eyes appraise her by inches.

The pale shape of her man comes in to view. She doesn't know what it is by silhouette alone - his ears gone, his body hulking - but she sees him and is pleased.

Crooning to him, she strides close. There is no need to inspect this man the way she did the offered one of the desert; Kaxwaan was her prized ox, she knew she had chosen well.

Lust boils her blood.

She clips at him with eager teeth, goading him, seeing if he will reach for her or feel the urge that she does; though it is not yet her time, what better way to insult the desert than to have her fun?

Kaxwaan is no eunuch, no inexperienced boy.

But he takes the bait not with a lecher's theatrics but with subdued reverence. Enthralled by the tigress, he nips along the solid curve of her shoulder with bared teeth. His movements are heavy-handed and they linger, as if inebriated.

He takes a great amount of pleasure in the way her flank warms his cheek for those moments where he grazes alongside her, their paths and bodies overlapping like two birds in flight.

Then they separate, and he nimbly turns around for more.

There is no aim with this act except pleasure and it is no surprise the man knows his way around. The animal grunts of Zharille fill the territory and when they are finished with one round, the man is eager for more.

The ogre obliges.

Let all who wander by the lake hear them. Let the tribute man see them, and know he was not invited. On and on this would go until Zharille was too tired to stand, but satisfied.