By this time, I had learned to control myself and not fuck my mortal partners to death – though I had to admit that I was likely yet too weak to perform up to my ‘usual’ standard anyway. Serana and I had experimented with a few, including myself having ‘sampled’ Ingjard a time or two on this trip, despite my finding the rather slightly built, stern Nord not particularly appealing. However, I found mortal partners generally unfulfilling, as they simply could not keep pace; normally, I was just getting started as they spent themselves. Still, I was determined to try a Khajiit for size, as it were…
That first night, Kharjo began to set up his own tent as Ingjard and I pitched ours.
“Kharjo,” I interjected, “what are you doing?”
“Ehh…? I am zetting up my tent, my lady.” The Khajiit’s low, buzzing accent milled ‘s’ sounds into ‘z’.
“We do not need two.” I tried to infuse a promise into my tone. “Build a fire instead.”
He hesitated only a moment, long striped tail switching, feline whiskers and ears waggling, as he no doubt contemplated the implications of sharing a tent with two human women. “Az you weesh, my lady.”
“And you can dispose of the ‘my lady’ nonsense.”
“Yez, my— Az you weesh.”
Ingjard paused as well, eyed me, a rust-coloured eyebrow raised; turned back to her task. The stiff redhead had not been an enthusiastic lover, as I suspected she was either not attracted to me – perhaps not to women – else was simply afraid of me. Thus, I could not guess how she might feel about our new situation. We would find out anon.
Supper concluded, conversation waned with the remaining daylight. Gratefully, I removed my helmet without feeling as though my brains were cooking whilst my skin reddened and blistered. Ingjard idly poked the fire as I rose, pretending to yawn and stretch. “Well, I am for bed. Will anyone join me?” Of course, Ingjard would not be fooled, but I sensed our newest follower knew not yet what I was.
The tall Nord glanced up – not at me, but at Kharjo.
The Khajiit was staring at me, yellow feline eyes glowing in the firelight. “I am… feeling a beet tired myzelf.”
“Not too tired, I trow.” Surely, he could not fail to catch my intent now, as, smiling, I held open the tent flap.
“Khajiit need only a catnap to rise again, ready for… anytheeng.”
“You can nap later. You will need it. And I will see about getting you to rise.”
He began, actually, to purr. Which brought Vilja abruptly to my lust-filled mind, recalling when she had once threatened a Khajiit bandit with something like thrashing him so badly he would be unable to purr. With some difficulty, I thrust thoughts of her aside.
Ingjard, intriguingly, got up to follow him. I tied the flap open as I ducked in after them. Dusk calmed the chill breeze, yet Kharjo soon had two braziers glowing inside. (Instead of campfires, he tended to build bonfires on a scale befitting the festival of Fiery Night – doubtless because his race, originating in the warm, dry hills and plains of Elsewyr, found Skyrim perpetually cold.)
“Do you theenk… Could you close zee tent, please?”
“Do not fear,” I responded, “I will warm you.”
Purring, he began to remove his plain steel armour. The tent smelled of wet fur, though not unpleasantly (unlike ‘wet dog’). Rather, the cool air was redolent with a spicy scent, the likes of which I had never encountered. Combined with the odours of sweat, the earth and grass upon which we encamped, the night’s promise of snow, it was… potent. My ardour intensified.
Ingjard, staring moon-eyed at him as she knelt nearby on the furs in the confined space of the tent, emitted a small whimper as she began to fumble with her own scale hauberk. I felt rather affronted that she had never reacted to me thusly; however, I assisted her, then Kharjo. Enthrallingly, his torso emerged: arms and biceps well defined, stomach moderately rippled, narrow waist; a mottled pattern of brown-and-black striped fur; under-breeches still covering the main point of focus, which already tented promisingly.
I gestured to Ingjard. “Help him with those.”
She knelt in front of him, unhesitatingly reaching to fumble with the draw to his breeks. Meanwhile, I pulled off the rest of my accoutrements, sat back to watch. As Ingjard jerked down his under-breeches, Kharjo’s member sprang from its confinement like a triggered ballista. Curved toward the roof like a small mammoth tusk, his long cock was the only part of him that was not furry – or so I thought at first. Its stripes matched his tail, which whipped about. Though not quite prehensile, he seemed reasonably adept at tickling her with it, draping it over one shoulder, curling it back and forth across her naked back. The tall Nord giggled and moaned simultaneously as she grabbed for the shaft, began to stroke it two-handed. The head, pink rather than purplish as were most humans’, disappeared in her yawning mouth as she thrust it in, greedily sucking and bobbing on it. Though unimpressed with her technique myself, the feline’s purring intensified.
I knee-walked beside her, began to stroke the soft hair covering the Khajiit’s legs and buttocks, the finer matting on his chest. I flicked and pinched his pinkish nipples, tongued my way from one to the other. Pushing him prone to the sleeping furs, I commenced licking him all over, as I imagined a cat might groom itself – or one another. The taste was of ‘normal’ sweat and the spice I yet could not identify. I licked his ears, cheeks and whiskers, almost lipless mouth, kissed him; he returned it as a cat might lap milk, tongue darting in and out instead of swirling, dueling my own. My tongue travelled over his sharp teeth, reminding me of Serana’s. I shivered, suddenly needing that member to indulge my nipples as I pushed away thoughts of the arrogant vampiress.
Ingjard seemed almost frantic in her treatment of his shaft as I proffered him a swollen teat, then the other. He actually kneaded my breasts – thankfully, claws retracted – purring all the while as he licked and sucked; reached for my dripping sex, prodded, flicked, poked. Growling, I straddled his face. His whiskers tickled my thighs so that I snickered, abruptly gasping as his oral appendage darted at my nether lips, traced the outline, grazed my crevice. When it encountered my Sword of Dibella I shouted my pleasure, grabbed his head in both hands as if to thrust it inside me. It felt… exquisite, certainly unlike anything I had heretofore known. His tongue buzzed all over my aching cleft, darted, as would a hummingbird, probing, seeking my nectar. Abruptly he seized my swollen bud; I climaxed in a shudder, crying out as my trembling body arched, jerked. I half-stood to my knees, removing my over-sensitive sheath beyond reach of that talented tongue. I could not quite believe that he had brought me thus so quickly.
“Kharjo eez…” he began, licking whiskers shiny with my juices, “wet.” The man-beast did not appear perturbed, though I had heard that Khajiit did not bathe, as, resembling their wild and domestic cousins, they disliked water – at least immersion in it. Withal, also similar to their animal kin, they were otherwise fastidious about cleanliness, grooming themselves and – dependent upon the closeness of their relations – one another. Of course, what flowed from me was not water, and so Kharjo, purring continually, golden cat-eyes hooded, wiped a hand across his mouth, licked his fingers, combed my secretions from whiskers into furred jowls, over his ears. I do not know why I found the gesture profoundly erotic; astonishingly, I came again, though hardly touching him.
As Ingjard continued to work over his cock, I recovered enough to push her aside. “Let him lick you,” I encouraged.
Ingjard, tongue travelling over her own garnet lips, complied, though not without a wistful glance at Kharjo’s engorged member as she released it to me. Whimpering once more, she rose, squatted over his mouth, screeched as she experienced the same sensations from which I was still recuperating.
Turning my attention toward her former occupation, I was pleasurably surprised to find his long, curvy shaft covered with fine fur, save the pink head. Wrapping my hands around it, there was, to my delight, lots of room, although my hands were not small. I began masturbating him, moving both fists in the same direction, then working them apart and together again; it was a little awkward at first, due to his curvature, but I soon got into a rhythm. Starting slowly then rapidly, I changed pace and direction. His rumbles of pleasure emerged, almost muffled, from beneath the screaming Nord woman who writhed atop his head, thrashing as though he sought to toss her – perhaps in order that he might breathe, she determined to smother him.
A sudden huffing sound vented from the Khajiit as I thrust his cock into my mouth, engulfed it as deeply as I could, pulled away, swallowed it once more. I sucked it, thrilling in the tickling sensation its fur imparted on my tongue and inside my mouth; smooth going in, it resisted as I withdrew, just as though a cat’s pelt would resist, were it petted against the lie.
Ingjard caterwauled, her climaxes apparently following one upon the next as I continued to suck, dip up and down on the Khajiit. Just as I anticipated getting that member down betwixt my other lips, Kharjo’s whole body stiffened. He managed to thrust aside the other woman, whom had quieted somewhat and turned to observe as she rolled off him.
“Hunk-hunk-hunk,” he voiced, in time with the sudden spurts of sweet cream exploding into my mouth. “Hunk-hunk-h-hunk-hunk,” he repeated, a seemingly endless stream of ejaculate spraying as I backed off slightly. I let it pulse, aiming for my open mouth, uncaring than much missed, squirting across my cheeks, chin, an eye. Ingjard, panting, joined me, thrusting face and tongue forward to catch stray pearlescent gobbets, lapping them from my neck and cheek. I seized her head in both hands, pressed a fierce kiss upon her as my tongue fought for admittance; swapped the slightly spicy taste of Khajiit semen with the slender Nord. She squirmed, at first resistant, then stiffly accepted the shared gift.
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