Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[#exotic #blowjob #romance #classicman #softcore #thickgirl #oral #outdooors]

HIS BREECHES WERE SMOOTH BLACK, and before ever he pulled his hot woman down with him she was already eyeing the fullness rising up his fly. "Oh, Lord Israfel," came the breathy rasp out of her mouth; she could not help it. "Ah-ah—" He slapped lightly the corner of her face. "What did we say about using real names on the islands?" The baddie crawled up on his long body, curling her soft breasts into him. She gulped, seriously in heat. He was watching her, waiting.

His amber iris turned smoky. His big hand caressed the hot skin at the back of her neck, fisting up to the fat dreadlocks. "Peitho? What did I say?"

She moaned low, loving the lead in his dark voice. "Y-You said we have to use fresh names, m-my Lord host."

Rafel's other hand snaked to choke her. "And what is mine?"

Peitho was on top him, straddling him under a refreshing palm tree. She jerked at his dominant grasp on her, but her resistance was weak. Rafel was testing her. His left hand on her throat squeezed harder—the green and obsidian tattoos of his [serpent symbiote] shifting to his wrist. He held his bitch firm. "What is my new name?"

"Eotigan, sire." She pushed out, nearly climaxing right over his choking hands.

Her face was on fire and she wanted to grind against something bad. Her pink tongue was out, literally, desperate to suck. "You're a real sexy fucking girl, 'know that?" He slapped her cheek again. Peitho trembled atop him. Her thighs were spread open over his own long legs and she held still over him—strung horny to her core. Fleshing out that bald Blackbeard earlier and watching her Host kill all those pirates had her going. She wanted to love him with her hot, wet mouth and pussy.

Her nails scratched at the sleek texture of his pants.

By Venus, the man knew how to dress!

His 'real-man' trousers up under his collared cream shirt—top buttons loose—you add those soot-black Wichita boots, and her Lord was the hottest thing to cross—or rather fly the Cold Sea. And Peitho really did LOVE his BIG, SILVER BUCKLE BELT.

The air was nice and cool under their Palm. It whispered unsung stories as it kissed their skin; he always took her to the best places. Crouched on top his big, husky body, their selves liberal in the elements, she wanted to ride him in this slice of paradise; their only neighbors on this lone isle were the high, green bushes and red, tweeting birds. Peitho had playing in her head her own sensuous funk for Rafel. She wanted to worship him. If he asked her to lick his shoes, she would.

She met his golden eyes when he drew her closer. The heat of her sex balanced right over the hard push of his manhood.

Naughtily, she imagined doing squats.

—pulling him out heavy, and doing squats.

"And what is yours, fine wine?" He fingered her neck pulse.

"Inaia, Lord host. You g-gave me the new name, Inaia."

"Good." Rafel pulled back the hand on her neck, but kept his clutch on her huge braids. "On this island, on the other floating lands, and across the reaches of the Cold Sea, on whatever vessel we may board, to whomever we deem out first names," he told her, "I am Eotigan: an asshole Sergeant of the Naval fleet. And you are, Inaia, my accompanying firstmate. Even when alone with each other, we must use our covers." He pulled on her dreads. "Am I understood, Inaia?"

Peitho gulped and blinked. It was the only movement he allowed her.

Rafel eased up on his grip, dishing her his notorious vampirish smile. "Now, Inaia, please me."

Peitho met his deviant gaze one more second before dropping those pretty eyes to that part of him which she had been ogling all morning.

Under the tall, island palm, Rafel was sat on a Moors mat—which Peitho as his [system] fetched hurriedly out of thin air, from his [Helpocket]—with his back to the rugged tree. The long fronds spread out meters above them, providing the more than enough shade. The bushes around filled them again and again with that quaint, country air. His aura was her aphrodisiac. Her curvy little body was his purpose. They were in the perfect circle. He said, "please me."

She heard, "worship me."

Rafel was utterly transfixed on her as she took her time with his big belt; she knew his gilded, smouldering stare was on her and she gently let her fingers brush and tease his erection while she worked. He lifted up his lean hips and she guided his pants off.

She gasped immediately. He was as a horse under there.

Only his briefs held back that succulent girth. He was so full in it—his unholy size testing the elasticity of the material. For sure her Host was a demon. No matter how many times he'd pounded her, she had never tired of unwrapping his cock.

"Shall I, Sgt. Eotigan?" She purred.

Her small hands had drawn down his briefs but only to his strapping thighs. She asked her filthy question bent under his heavy curve—with his great shaft casting a shadow over her gorgeous face. Rafel was throbbing. Her eyes would be the death of him.

"Please me." He managed to groan out – a repetition; half his brain wasn't working for shit.

Peitho smiled with his fat penis balanced over her nose. She inhaled deeply, watched him jump, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again a second later, she was transformed into his whore. A madly hot baddie ready and primed. She got into character. Her tongue moved out and she licked upward his balls and strong pipe, hissing in sexual glee.

"Ohh Peitho. . ." Rafel grabbed tight to her big dreadlocks.

"Inaia, sire. I am your Inaia."

It was she who corrected Rafel this time, a breath before she opened her mouth and warmly took his cock. She thirstily swallowed his fat penis; he was heavy with seed. She began sucking eagerly and Rafel buried himself thickly in her mouth many times over. She was so good at 'pleasing' him. Under the palm tree, Rafel lifted himself up with his right hand, and with his tattooed left arm he held her in, down on his groin as he moved in her mouth. She sucked him sloppily. She let him slip out wet and shiny and rub, and tap, and play against her face; coat her in her own spit. And she'd grab his lupine hips and gulp his cock again.

GLUG! GLUG! GLUG! GLUG! GLUG! GLUG!

She moved down with her mouth as he pushed in, perfecting their rhythm.

GLUG! GLUG! GLUG!

"No, no. No. Aah—" Rafel grabbed her head with both hands and pulled back. His dick slid out wetly from her mouth. He was heavy and dripping at the seam of her lips. "You're gonna kill me, woman." He groaned. He was now kneeling on the mat in the sands. Peitho was on her hands and knees before him, her mouth directly in line with his parabola, hot and waiting. "You're gonna kill me," he repeated, "who taught you that shit?"

PAH!

He slapped her fine ass through the robust curve of her own feminine pants. His girl really had some ass on her. Her butt just about made anything look good. Him spanking her was well earned. She was a little Rasta whore; she had been rolling her tongue on his penal hole while he'd been inside of her mouth.

"DAMN, GIRL!"

PAH!

He palmed that hefty booty again.

Rafel was slowly rubbing himself to stave off a sudden jerk-off. Her amazing blow had him on the cusp of shooting in her face, hair, nose, her sweet eyes, the sand—every fucking where.

He sat back down on the soft mat, erect as a bastard. He told her. "Go slow."

At this point, Rafel was begging.

Peitho took him in her mouth again—and she sucked slow. He let her take her fill. And it was she who turned around by herself, pushed down her fancy tight-pants to expose that fat round butt, and guided him inside of her. "Yeah, Inaia. Bounce on it, girl." He kept his arms akimbo and let her enjoy herself, pronouncing the 'girl' as 'gurrl'. Clearly the many dialects of Corynthia and its isles had begun to thread into his tongue. He even bore an islander name now:

Lars Eotigan, Naval Sgt.

Rafel thought it necessary. No, impudent.

He had left the. . .his [Redeemer] twenty-one months ago in that mansion home at Onijo omi. And he for sure knew she had been sending out troops, and cavalry, and fucking Dragonriders to find him. Ravenna de Vries was Empress—and she had a bit of her father in her. She was using all of her powers to hunt down the ginger-haired devil who abandoned her. How dare he break up with her?

Rafel was running—had been running, from his severe loss at Stormanos. But he was also running from his scorned ex, who was still a powerful monarch with tens thousand military.

"It's okay, sire. You can think about her while you fuck me." Peitho's sugar voice slithered to Rafel behind her as she worked her ass on his dick.

Rafel shook his head. He shook twice the green-eyed brunette hovering in there. And then he grabbed his Inaia, grasping her waist to still her clapping buttocks. To be sure she knew he meant it, Rafel brought her back up against his chest—fondling her supple peaks while he was at it—and grated in her ear. "I don't want to think about someone miles away while you're riding me. Not even her. When I fuck you. . .I fuck YOU."

"Ohh—" Peitho had lost her voice.

His dirty words, and the dark way he spoke to her shattered her into bliss. Only her Host could be demonic and romantic at the same time; there was an ocean of love in those leopard-yellow eyes.

But Rafel wasn't done.

He stood with her, hefting her up easily in his arms and held her against the Palm. Shadows of leaves weaving in the breeze spanned his strong shoulders and back. She caged him in with her legs and hands. And when he began to move, Peitho thought she might see God. Or at least, the Martyr.

Rafel kept his pace at a slow gyration; he was letting her feel him, and feed on him. And enjoy his cock. Only moments later she began to shiver and he dropped down to the mat with her again. Just as she reached for her release, Rafel pulled out of her; her groan was stifled when he replaced his penis with his face. Rafel put his mouth on her and Peitho let out a sweet, tortured orgasmic cry. "Ahh...ah...ahhhhnnnn—"

He held her down, tonguing her slit, and her clit; he devoured her, but also stroked that warm place, basking in her heat and smell. He slowly entered her with his sinister tongue and Inaia forgot her Sergeant was in charge. She grabbed to his slick red hair and yelled in Astorian, "yes! Fuck! Eat that pussy."

Peitho came again just by looking down on Rafel between her oiled thighs. He rose above her, to his feet, grabbed his cock, and snarled with eyes on fire—literally, "keep 'em up, woman!"

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

His divine seed poured out of him, his abs bunching up as he jerked over and over on her below him. She put her upper thighs to her belly, watching him come on her pussy. And to this view of her [Host]: mighty, heavy, pulsing, and milking on her, Peitho came a third time.

She desired to taste him in her mouth, but she suspected he might faint if her lips touched his nosh again. So Peitho naughtily settled with picking up his seed off her belly and tasting them fingers. Afterwards, she pulled him to her and spooned his heaving handsomeness. She kept rubbing his pecs down as she admired his giant form. "Eotigan?" she cooed. "Yes, filthy lass," he growled, his eyes shut. Peitho laughed. "We've got a new job offer."

"Why didn't you ping it as a notification?"

Peitho's finger skirted his nipple. "Uh. . .because we are both wrung out."

PAH!

Rafel slapped her naked, big butt and rumbled out in rich laughter. "Inaia's got jokes, huh. What's the job?"

"Slave masters." Inaia replied her sire. And Naval Sgt. Eotigan clasped the beautiful rastafarian girl at his side and enjoyed the southern tropical winds—at least for another ten minutes, before he had to go break some chains. . .and heads.