tofi's trail

Karnai wipes blood from his sword, making sure to clean blood and guts from it before he slides it back into its sheathe.

It's late afternoon, almost evening. The sun is low on the horizon, and the battlefield is bathed in the orange of the sunset. He feels the light as though a caress on his skin, and draws a sigh as he feels a bony hand cup one of his breasts.

Nobody sees it, because nobody is really there, but as he stands there, watching his soldiers pick up their dead from the field, he feels fingers slide against his crotch. They slide inside, and he holds back a whimper as a tongue slides along his skin.

He can feel a horn press against his ass, and a hand wrap around his entire thigh. The tongue leads the way for a muzzle, which press in between his legs, against his pussy.

There is a legend about a creature that only exists on the fringe between day and evening, draped in a cape of sunset colours which makes it invisible. It towers, large and imposing, warm and cool all at once to the touch.

It's the Sun Stalker, which creeps into the cracks where it's fingers spread heat and numbness.

Karnai was always fascinated by the creature, eager to meet it, yet told that he shouldn't be. The Sun Stalker was dangerous, and could tear you apart with its many claws and mouths.

He doesn't know if the creature that touch him beneath his clothes is the Sun Stalker, but he wants it to be. Even if it isn't, the excitement of a tongue slipping inside of him, of fingers spreading him open, without anyone being the wiser, had his fluids running down the insides of his thighs. He could feel the creature lick it up with a second tongue, and it drew him to shiver.

When the creature grasped his shoulders and hell him in place, Karnai imperceptively shifted his feet further apart, allowing it easier access that it didn't really need, as it slid a slender cock inside of him, next to the tongue. He barely needed to part his lips to allow the creature inside his mouth.

The cock, the tongues, they delve deeper and deeper, and nobody but him and it knows as they exit the other end, slipping against his skin, dampening his cheeks with invisible fluids.

When it disappears with the falling darkness, it hasn't allowed him to cum even once, and he's shivering so bad it's hard to conceal. He retreats to his tent, where he fingers himself to orgasm, which doesn't make the need inside of him subside.

It has him wonder how he can call it to him, to make it fuck him again, properly, into a mess of bliss and immobility.

Carvings on a Horn 7