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Marcille’s reign as the new Lord of the Dungeon was proving to be tremendously hard work, she found out. In the few short days since she released the Winged Lion from the captivity of the ancient tome Thistle had sealed it away within millennia ago, she had experienced more fatigue and mana sickness than she thought an Elf body could withstand. Maybe it was her half-Tallman blood that was making it worse, who knew. But what Marcille did know was that it was catching up to her, fast.
Even after the Winged Lion had shared its infinite well of mana with her, Marcille still found herself clinging to her staff, Ambrosia, for support. Days of little to no sleep, running on fumes, straining to keep her weary eyes open, Marcille found it increasingly difficult to remain present and alert.
“How on Earth did Thistle manage this for so long?” she found herself asking time and time again. The Elf that had previously ruled over the Island Dungeon had done so uninterrupted for at least one thousand long, long years, and here was Marcille, struggling to contend with the same duties after a measly handful of days.
She’d taught herself black magic and necromancy, yes, but if she knew how challenging the life of a Dungeon Lord was beforehand, she would have put all her energy into perfecting that craft instead.
Not only was Marcille trying to remain awake and attentive for the one living being in her presence, but she was also simultaneously juggling a hundred other tasks.
As per the will of the Dungeon Lord and the Winged Lion that made it so, the Island Dungeon had undergone quite the metamorphosis since Thistle was dethroned and Marcille took his place. Gone were the seemingly-endless labyrinthian halls that stretched off into nowhere, with gross, ugly monsters lurking around every corner to snatch up and eat any unsuspecting adventurers that strolled on by.
Now, it was more befitting of Marcille’s tastes; more open areas with artificial sunlight illuminating meadows of surreal-looking flowers. Different levels of the dungeon overlapping and coexisting in a mish-mash tapestry of conflicting biomes and environments.
And monsters that Marcille created to fit her own aesthetics, and weren’t wholly unappealing to look at. Winged pigs, giant winged serpents with pastel floral patterns decorating their iridescent scales, dragons that breathed sweet-smelling yet toxic aromas from their glistening maws…
It was like a twisted version of a fairytale, whose glamour hid an underlying aroma of putrid rot.
But in her delirious, mana sickness-induced state, Marcille was none the wiser to the realities of the Dungeon she’d fashioned.
Marcille found her psyche was pushed to its limits, even with the constant replenishment of mana pouring into her thanks to the Winged Lion. Her attention was divided between trying to keep any looters outside of the Dungeon, experiencing every sensation of the creatures she willed into existence, and carrying on a conversation with the Eldritch being that continued speaking to her through the disorientating haze.
Right now, Marcille was in a tower she’d willed to be built within a matter of seconds. Marcille thought that it may have been inspired by a fairy tale she often begged her mother to tell when she was a young child, one about a princess with flaxen golden hair that reached an impossible length. Perhaps she internalized it as an escapist fantasy from the world around her, which was often not as forgiving and magical as it was portrayed in fairy tales.
The tower overlooked the meadows and lakes of the Dungeon, which shimmered with an almost ethereal glow from where she was standing. The tower proved to be a great vantage point for the Dungeon Lord to oversee her personalized kingdom of sorts, and was quite homely and comfortable (just like how she desired).
Marcille’s chamber was spacious, with a large four-poster bed taking up much of the space that wasn’t already allocated to the hundreds of pillows, blankets and cushions that piled almost to the ceiling. The wooden floorboards were almost completely hidden by the variety of monster fur carpets covering it, and Marcille flexed her aching toes where she stood, relishing in the warm fuzziness of the selkie hide that greeted her.
Marcille’s usual dungeon-going attire had been transformed into the black, fur-trimmed gown that the Winged Lion proposed was a more befitting look for the Dungeon Lord. Although she found it kind of scratchy and a little cumbersome to move due to its volume, she did admit it was quite a striking look for her.
It now hung like a heavy raincloud around her, and it was matched by her hair sticking out every which way from underneath her bonnet. Marcille couldn’t remember the last time she tended to her hair.
Maybe she just lost the desire to do so, due to all the food on her plate.
Marcille chanced a glance over her shoulder.
Despite the imposing size of the four-poster bed, whose contents were veiled by the blood-red silken curtains that draped luxuriously from the dark wooden frame, Marcille found herself neglecting its call every night to rest. There was too much work to do, too many things to keep track of, too many things that could go wrong should she close her eyes for too long.
Which was why she was just barely clinging to consciousness, staring out of the window of her tower, her staff propping her up as support.
Marcille’s eyelids drooped heavy over her eyes, her lashes fluttering. She licked her dry lips. She internally wished for some water to drink, and it appeared before her in the form of a sparkling goblet sitting on the ledge. She took it with a trembling hand, sipping its cold liquid with relish.
“Marcille, my sweet, are you feeling well?” came a deep, bassy baritone from behind her. “You look positively exhausted.”
Marcille turned her head to look at the Winged Lion. Her only constant company in the Dungeon was lying on its side amid the myriad of cushions and pillows, lounging to its heart content. Even after spending several days basically tethered to it by an invisible rope, Marcille still found herself gazing in awe at the strange being. She had never once guessed in all her travels that she would be the equivalent of a deity’s…bride? Partner?
And yet, here they were, occupying the same space, their conversations lilted and dazy in a way not too dissimilar to a couple chatting nonchalantly about the weather.
The Winged Lion was much taller than Marcille, and that was still evident when it was lying down. Its lean, muscular body was covered head to toe in a hide of thick, daintily-curling golden fur, which seemed to be interwoven with sparkling threads of genuine gold. Its legs, with its pronounced calf muscles and meaty thighs, stretched out lazily like a house cat tended to do. It was resting its head on the heel of one hand, while the other contentedly palmed the thick bicep of its bent arm.
A glorious mane of shimmering golden-brown curls framed its angular, broad face, with its high cheekbones, flat snout, and black lips curled into a wry smile.
Marcille always found herself gazing deep into its yellow feline eyes, which sparkled and shimmered with a light source of their own, they seemed. Cresting its head were two curling black horns, almost like a crown, or a halo.
And befitting of its heavenly image were the two huge wings folded against its back, its feathers fluttering and twitching in time with its lazily-sweeping tail.
Marcille found the Winged Lion to be strangely beautiful in its otherworldliness. No other monsters she’d encountered in the Dungeon could compare to it. There was some kind of allure to it that she couldn’t explain.
“Marcille?”
It took her a moment to realize that in her dreary haze, it had been repeatedly calling her name, expecting an answer. She jerked upright to attention.
“Y-Yes?” she gasped out.
The Winged Lion cocked its head, its gaze never leaving her face.
“I said,” it crooned in that deep voice, “You look like you haven’t had a good night’s rest in days. Have you not taken advantage of the bed I so generously conjured for you? It was made with your comfort in mind.”
Marcille glanced sheepishly off to the side, her fingers anxiously thrumming across Ambrosia’s woven handle. “I can’t say I have, no,” she replied. “It sounds silly, but… I’m just too tired to sleep. I need to keep an eye on things in the Dungeon. I don’t know when the next threat will turn up.”
She’d already made short work of any looters that tried scraping the gold from the pillars she’d erected, and the Canaries had yet to be heard from after she banished them with a flock of bloodthirsty dragons.
Honestly, Marcille’s biggest concern was Laios and the rest of their party. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him, Chilchuck, Senshi or Izutsumi since she unsealed the Winged Lion from its tome. She had no idea what their plans were, if they had devised any at all. And to her mounting dismay, Marcille didn’t know if she wanted them to try and execute a rescue mission.
She didn’t need rescuing. She had total dominion over this Dungeon now. She was the biggest threat in it.
“You are aware that I am all the protection you’ll ever need, Marcille,” the Winged Lion rumbled. Not a question, but a statement. She found herself nodding in agreement. She was doing that a lot lately, she noticed. Her head just bobbed up and down on its own accord.
“So you needn’t trouble yourself with any stray humans that weasel their way in. They’ll be another monster’s meal in no time.” It licked its long white fangs with its velvety pink tongue.
“So please, come to bed, won’t you?”
Marcille eyed the golden being, then the curtained bed. She shook her head again.
“Thank you for your consideration, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” she lamented. She turned back to peer out the window of her tower, when she was struck by a disorientating dizziness that nearly made her crumple to one knee. She sagged, and the Winged Lion was upon her in an instant, one warm hand pressing on the small of her back. Its thick fingers spanned the length of her spine, and its touch was inhumanely hot, like it had been holding its palm over an open flame.
“Marcille!” it boomed out, voice laden with concern. Marcille straightened herself back up again, screwing her eyes shut tightly and taking deep inhales through her nose to fight off her nausea. “I’m okay,” she croaked out. “Just mana sickness. It’s really affecting me lately. I think it’s because I’m spreading myself so thin…”
It was like every monster inhabiting the Dungeon was her Familiar, and she was flitting between each of their shared consciousness in a haze of colours, sounds and scents. Marcille felt like she was fragmented, being pulled into a hundred different directions.
The Winged Lion paused for one long moment, and all Marcille could hear was her own laboured breathing bouncing off the walls of her tower chamber.
Then, when it spoke next, its voice was lower, deeper, with an almost purring quality to it. It made the hairs on the back of Marcille’s neck stand on end when it said: “If mana sickness is affecting you this severely, there’s only one reason for it.”
Marcille cracked open her eyes and peered into its own, which were staring down at her with a glint of…hunger?
“Which is?” she asked.
The Winged Lion leaned slightly closer, and Marcille could feel its whiskers brushing her cheek. “Our shared mana is interwoven, yes, but only so much. We are connected on a spiritual level, which is how you are able to use as much of mine as you desire. There is no bottom to the well of mana that I possess, but there is… an obstacle.”
“What kind of obstacle?” Marcille inquired, turning her whole body to face it now. Its large furry hand still hadn’t lifted from her back, and she was growing acutely aware of just how much it enveloped her torso.
“A physical one,” the Winged Lion crooned. “One that can be easily broken, and would allow you unfettered access to the rest of my mana. With that obstacle overcome, you will no longer experience any mana sickness. You will be rejuvenated and exhilarated beyond description.” Its black lips curled into a grin, and the very tips of its fangs poked out. “But…in order for us to overcome that obstacle… we will need to engage in an…act, of sorts. A purely intimate one.”
Marcille could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, and her tongue felt like a dead fish in her mouth as she tried getting it to work.
“W-What are you getting at?” she squeaked, knees knocking together.
The Winged Lion leaned ever closer, and fell to its knees. Even then, it still dwarfed her, and its curling black horns only made the tight squeeze in Marcille’s gut wrench even tighter.
“What I’m getting at,” it purred, a contemporary phrase sounding alien on its lips, “is that in order to fully connect as one, we need to be intimate with each other.”
Its yellow eyes glittered. “Fuck, as you Elves would say.”
Marcille thought she would just about die from embarrassment. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought those would be the words to fall from this monster’s mouth, and it made her whole body stiffen up like somebody had shoved a spear up her ass.
“WHAT?!” she shrieked, her voice ten octaves higher than usual. “ARE YOU MESSING WITH ME?” She brandished Ambrosia like a weapon, despite not having any intention of using a spell on the golden beast kneeling before her. “BECAUSE IF YOU ARE, IT’S NOT FUNNY!”
Here she was, being propositioned for sex by a monster! Marcille had half a mind to go diving headfirst out of the window to avoid this unbearable conversation.
But the Winged Lion’s gaze never left hers, and she realized that it was being absolutely one hundred percent serious. If the gleam of hunger in its feline eyes was anything to go by, at least. Not to mention the subtle flicking of its pink tongue over its lips.
“I assure you, I do not jest,” it said. “This will be a benefit for both of us. You will be able to tap into my wealth of mana and never experience its sickness ever again, and I will be further connected with you.” Its brows hung low as it crooned in a seductive purr: “And I’ll get to experience Elf cunt again. It’s been so long since the last time.”
If Marcille’s face wasn’t red already, then it certainly was now. She felt light-headed, and it wasn’t the mana sickness’ doing this time.
“Why spring this on me now?” she insisted. “Why didn’t you tell me that such an influx of mana would make me feel so terrible?” She bit her lower lip. “And…why this way? Why…sex?”
Marcille was by no means a prude. She’d had sex plenty of times, usually with Elves, but the occasional Tallman too. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong in doing so, but the idea of doing it with a monster…it just felt so out there, so surreal, so…bizarre.
Especially for the reason it was proposing. She knew mana had its ties to spirituality and life essence and all that magical jargon she learned about in the academy, but for it to also be linked to something as carnal, as desirous, as intimate as sex was a new one for her.
She didn’t know if she hoped the Winged Lion was poking fun at her for being so gullible so as to believe its perverted words, or if she hoped it was a genuine discovery she’d made all on her own.
Becoming the Dungeon Lord meant being kept on her toes, Marcille supposed.
The Winged Lion straightened up, and its wings fluttered with a quick flurry of feathers and cool air. “I didn’t think it would affect you nearly this badly, I suppose,” it stated, sounding honest, like it truly hadn’t anticipated the waves of magical nausea to sweep over Marcille so violently. “I would have definitely told you about it beforehand, if I knew you would be struggling so. However, maybe it’s a good thing. We can use this opportunity to strengthen our bond. You could become the strongest Dungeon Lord this place has ever had.”
When it said that, Marcille thought back to Thistle, and her stomach squeezed.
“Did you…Did you have- did you do this with Thistle, too?” she inquired.
The Winged Lion’s eyes narrowed, and for the briefest of moments, Marcille could have sworn that she saw its pupils warp and distort, forming a figure-eight with the faintest glow of vibrant purple from deep within. But then they were gone, and the Lion shook its head, its ringlets bouncing.
“No,” it stated matter-of-factly. “I never did. Thistle wanted no part in it, and I respected his decision. I would never force anybody to do anything they didn’t want to.”
For some reason, Marcille felt a cold shudder run down her spine at that, like somewhere deep inside her, she knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
But it was quickly overshadowed when the Winged Lion pressed its other hand to Marcille’s bare shoulder, and her skin burned with the intense heat that radiated from its calloused palm and fingers. Its touch sent a wave of goosebumps across her flesh.
“So, what do you say, Marcille?” it whispered. “Will you let me take you in all the ways men and beasts know how, so you can unlock your true potential? Will you let me have your flesh to treat as my own?”
Marcille stared deep into its yellow eyes, framed by golden fur in a mane of golden-brown curls, and with the twisting knot in her gut unravelling itself, she nodded once, as she found herself doing a lot lately.
“Yes,” she breathed, her lips quivering. “But-” she choked out, before the Winged Lion could say anything else. “I have to ask…”
“Yes?”
“Will…Will it hurt?” That was one of Marcille’s biggest concerns, admittedly. She could handle sex with beings that looked like her, even if their ears weren’t pointy or they weren’t the tallwoman whose blonde bangs swept across her near-sighted eyes, but sex with a monster…whose biological compatibility she didn’t know the first thing about… That would be enough to make anybody take pause.
The Winged Lion shook its head.
“It will not,” it replied smoothly. “It will feel like all your deepest, darkest desires being given the attention they deserve. Now, if you please…”
With care unbefitting of a monster with its appearance and size, the Winged Lion scooped Marcille up from the floor, and straightened to its full height. Ambrosia clattered to the floor when it slipped from Marcille’s grip, as she marveled down at the monster cradling her against its torso.
With one furry arm supporting her back and the other supporting the crook of her legs, with its biceps cushioning her trembling frame, the Winged Lion approached the four-poster bed. The one that Marcille had barely ever even laid upon, and was now imminently going to be fucked into by a monster three times her size. The thought alone had her covering her beet-red face with her hands.
“Gods, if Laios could see me now…” she lamented. Knowing him and his monster-obsessed brain, he would be either pushing her out of the way to get a firsthand experience himself, or following it up with a hundred very personal questions about it.
Maybe she’d explode his head or something to get him to shut up for a bit. She could always revive him, after all.
The Winged Lion used one muscled arm to part the crimson drapes concealing the depths of the bed inside, and the mattress sank under its weight as it leaned in, resting on knee on its edge. The sturdy wooden frame creaked under its immense size, and Marcille allowed herself to be gently laid upon the mound of satin cushions and pillows covering the bed.
The light peeking through the drapes cast everything in a dark, sultry red, and Marcille was grateful for it, as it made it impossible to tell just how fiercely she was blushing from pointed ear to pointed ear.
The Lion crawled into the depths of the bed, allowing the drape to fall behind it, and it cast them both in the ethereal gloom. Its sparkling golden fur took on a rusted hue, but its yellow eyes still shone and glittered with an insatiable, lustful hunger.
Marcille would never have expected anything like this to ever happen to her. She watched with wide, curious eyes as the Winged Lion’s huge form towered over her on its hands and knees, its huge wings curved in and around it. It almost seemed like it was hiding this moment from any prying eyes, so that it was just the two of them engaged in this surreal, erotic affair.
Its muscle-bound arms were pressed into the cushions on either side of Marcille’s head, effectively caging her in and under its body. The intense heat coming off of it made beads of sweat roll down her collarbones and into the depth of her cleavage, which heaved against the material of her fur-trimmed dress with each deep exhale she took.
Marcille stared up at the Winged Lion, anticipating its first move.
In the red gloom, she could smell it: a thick, rich smell, like baking bread, combined with a spicy, aromatic odour that reminded her of cinnamon.
Or maybe ginger?
Either way, she drank it in, letting it fill her senses as she quivered below this monster that, not ten minutes before, she had never once thought of as anything close to sexually arousing.
Speaking of-
“I have another question!” Marcille suddenly blurted out, momentarily disrupting the mood. The Winged Lion merely nodded, giving her permission to ask whatever banal question she had in mind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but… what…equipment… do you have down there?”
Marcille had definitely gotten a masculine aesthetic from the Winged Lion, due to its rumbling deep voice, leanly-muscled body, and the presence of traditionally male attributes. But as far as she could tell, it had never once referred to itself as a male, and that made her question if it even was one at all. Yes, it proposed having sex with her, but with what? She had a pussy, which was currently beading with moisture beneath her dress, but what did this monster have?
“If you’re asking what I intend to fuck you with, it’s what you Elves commonly associate with males,” the Winged Lion responded gruffly. “A penis. Or, as I like to call it, a cock. I don’t perceive gender in the same way as you Elves do, I just happen to take on the form of whatever I feel is most attractive to the Dungeon Lord.”
Initially relieved that she had an answer, that only made Marcille’s panic flare up about something else.
“Wait! If you have a pen- a cock, then does that mean… I can get pregnant?”
That was the very last thing she needed right now. There was no way in Hell she was gonna be popping out a litter of half-Elf half-Eldritch babies (cubs?) nine months from now as a result of this dicking down session.
Marcille felt her whole body deflate with a sigh of relief when the Winged Lion shook its head, its curly mane tickling her sweat-shining skin.
“No,” was its gutteral reply. Its voice had grown significantly deeper, given the intimacy and rising tension of the moment. “I do not have that capability. You needn’t worry about that. Although…I would like to try.”
Hearing the Lion say that made Marcille tense up again, until a reverberating chuckle from deep within its chest made her realize it was taunting her.
She bit her lip impatiently, and wriggled her hips underneath its huge body.
That seemed to bring the mood back to where it was before, and the Winged Lion made its move. Its head dipped, and its mouth came tantalizingly close to Marcille’s bare shoulders and collarbones. Its black lips parted, and she felt the moisture of its hot, panting breath against her skin. Its fangs peeked open, and then its pink tongue dipped out and traced a wet line from below her jaw, along her jugular, to the dip of her cleavage.
The sensation was jarring, and left a trail of sticky saliva in its wake. Marcille groaned quietly as the Lion licked at her again, tracing patterns and streaks across wherever it could taste her skin.
“Your sweat tastes sweet,” it rasped, voice heavy with barely-contained arousal. “Like sugar. I wonder if the rest of you tastes as delicious.”
Hearing this monster talk about how she tasted made Marcille’s pussy quiver more, and she ached to be free of the confines of the dress it donned her in. The Winged Lion lapped at Marcille some more, drawing out some more soft pants and moans from her as it traveled down further and further. It dipped its tongue down between the valley of her breasts, sampling the cooling sweat that collected there.
One of its hands, with black claws tipping its thick fingers, took a hold of Marcille’s bodice, and peeled it away from her tantalizing flesh.
The cool air made her pink nipples perk up, but they tingled deliciously when the heat of the Lion’s breath misted over them. It dipped its head, and trailed its tongue over her right nipple with a wet, slobbering sound. Marcille choked out a cry, arching her back under the small burst of pleasure.
Her hands involuntarily scrambled for purchase; one grabbed a satin pillow and squeezed it, and the other fisted through the curls of the Winged Lion’s mane.
The Lion lapped at her nipples, sucking and licking and letting them bud in its hot mouth before releasing them, letting the cool air bite at them.
Marcille was fighting the urge to rut against whatever contact she could make against the Lion, and her legs bent open as far as they could, the expanse of her dress forming a stifling barrier between her needy pussy and the monster sampling her goosebump-prickled flesh.
The Lion’s mouth moved further down her torso. Past her breasts, past her sternum, past the flat slope of her stomach, past her belly button. The thick black fur of her dress concealed everything below the broadness of her waist, but that didn’t last long.
The Winged Lion’s claws made short work of the dress as he rendered it in two with a slash, and Marcille was momentarily distraught by the loss of the only clothes she had. That was before she remembered she could simply will whatever attire she had in mind into existence, and the Winged Lion would make it so.
Now that her whole body lay bare to the salivating monster above her, Marcille watched through half-lidded, lustful eyes as the Lion settled back onto its haunches. Its hulking size made the bed creak loudly beneath it, but it didn’t give way.
Its head was positioned right between Marcille’s plump thighs, and she could feel its breath wafting over her pussy. She could smell her own arousal combining with the spicy-bakery aroma rolling off of the Winged Lion in waves, and the combination made her head woozy with delight.
“Please,” she wheezed out, one hand covering her mouth. “Please…”
“Please, what?” the Lion taunted, its whiskers tickling the pale flesh of her inner thighs as its head encroached closer to her glistening cunt.
“Please,” she choked hoarsely. “Eat me.”
Those words seemed to ignite that strange distortion in the Lion’s eyes again, the purple figure-eights manifesting in the red gloom before being engulfed again by its normal yellow.
“With pleasure,” was all it snarled out before its mouth was on Marcille’s pussy. She howled in ectsasy, arching her back and raising her hips so that she could grind against the Winged Lion’s hungry maw.
Its tongue sawed in and out of her cunt, drinking up every drop of moisture that dripped from it. Its breath wafted over her folds, its saliva slicking her clit and making it burn raw with ache. One of its hands rested atop her pubic mound, rubbing its calloused fingertips into her flesh as it ate her out like it was a starving beast eating its last meal.
The sounds it was making were absolutely obscene, and ordinarily Marcille would have hated to hear it slobbering and panting like a frenzied animal. But in the moment, it just elevated her need to release.
When she felt it building, she twisted at the curls of its mane, wringing her hands as she fought against the mounting pressure in her groin. Her legs were hooked over its broad, heaving shoulders, and she almost felt inclined to hitch herself further down the bed to be closer to its hungry maw.
If it ate her whole, she wouldn’t even care.
The Winged Lion continued slobbering on her cunt until Marcille felt the squeezing of her inner walls, and she lunged forward, grabbing hold of one of its horns for purchase.
With a shrill, keening cry, she came. The Winged Lion’s tongue was still embedded within her channel when her release came pouring out in a hot wave, soaking her thighs, its face, and the silk sheets beneath them.
Marcille’s whole body quaked with aftershocks as she panted and gasped through her orgasm, letting her release slick down her thighs. The Lion lapped up every last drop like she was an oasis in a desert, and she loved it.
When it finally withdrew its head, she could see her release glistening all over its mouth and tongue, with a string of her essence connecting its black lips to her quivering pussy.
“You tasted incredible, my sweet,” the Lion rumbled, its baritone causing shivers to break out across Marcille’s body as she slumped back against the pillows. “Your cunt was the best I’ve ever tasted. I would like to try it again, eventually.” It licked its lips, but didn’t even get close to cleaning itself of her release.
“But for now… I’ll have to make do with giving you my cock.”
That made Marcille’s lashes flutter back open, as she’d been basking in the afterglow of her intense release. Looking down the expanse of her body (which she noticed had drops of her own release on it due to the Lion’s messy eating of her pussy), she saw the Winged Lion rising to its knees. Below the meaty abdomen and tapered vee of its pelvic bones, it suddenly had an engorged cock poking out from the nest of thick, curly fur.
The cock was definitely not that of a human’s.
At least, not entirely. It was as long as Marcille’s forearm, and about as thick. It was slender, and curved upwards, with an almost humanoid quality to it. It lacked foreskin, but the swollen tip already had a thick string of precum swinging from it like a pendulum.
In the crimson gloom, it almost looked like blood.
It was hard to tell in the semi-darkness, but Marcille could tell that its colour was closer to purple or black than any natural pigmentation found in Elves or Tallmen. Along its sides ran two symmetrical rows of soft, barbed quills, each about as long as Marcille’s little finger.
The strange-looking cock gave a jerk, signifying its desire to release in something tight and warm. Below the cock were two furry balls, each the size of a plum, and even though Marcille had been assured that there was no chance of getting impregnated by the Winged Lion’s cum, she still feared its potency, if the size of its balls were anything to go by.
“That’s…your cock?” Marcille breathed. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but she’d kind of been hoping it would have had the familiar biology of the Elves and Tallmen she’d shared one night stands with. That would have made this situation slightly more easy to digest.
The Winged Lion nodded.
“This is one of them,” it replied, while slowly hiking Marcille’s legs higher up so that they were resting on its meaty thighs. Her body was angled up towards it, her cunt exposed to its cock, still throbbing with aftershocks.
“I have a variety to choose from. I can manifest any genitalia I can think of, some of which you wouldn’t even know what to do with. But for now, I’ve chosen this one. I’ve heard my barbs can fill your cunt like no puny Elf’s dick can.”
Marcille shouldn’t have been so turned on by the sound of this monster speaking in such vulgar terms to her, but she’d crossed the line of normalcy back when this thing carried her to her bed with the sole intention of fucking her brains out.
“Just…be gentle. Please,” she pleaded, readying herself. She was still coming down from her first orgasm, and didn’t want to hurt herself in the process. She’d gone multiple rounds in one night before, but never with a monster whose dick was half the size of her damn arm!
The Winged Lion settled into position, angling its throbbing blackish-purple cock right by her snug pussy. It rubbed its flared tip against her folds, soaking them both in a mixture of their essence. It purred in satisfaction at the brief contact.
“I will, my sweet. I will.”
That was all the warning Marcille got before the Winged Lion started to breach her cunt. She gasped, hands fisting into the cushions beneath her as she felt its cock sliding deep, deep, deep. So deep she thought it would never stop. The mounting pressure in her groin was only amplified by the claws digging into the plump flesh of her thighs. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to sting.
When the Winged Lion reached the base of its dick, it slowly drew out, then went back in. This repeated several times with increasing fervor and momentum, and Marcille was panting and keening under the sensations rippling through her body.
When the Winged Lion plunged back in at an unexpected speed, she saw stars, and squealed in pleasure. Egged on by her blissful reaction, the Winged Lion began pistoning in and out of Marcille’s cunt, sawing its dick almost all the way out before slamming back in with a hearty grunt and slap of its balls against her ass. The tightness of her pussy being stretched and filled by this inhuman cock was a strange one to be sure, but the serration of the flexible barbs lining its dick made ripples of pleasure quake through Marcille’s body.
She tried meeting its frenzied thrusts by angling her own hips and wrapping them around its muscular torso, but her limbs were turning to jelly with how rabid the Lion was taking her. Its body hunched over hers, its muscled torso pressing down against her own, its golden-red fur tickling every exposed inch of skin on her body.
Its spicy, baking-bread smell filled the enclosed canopy of the four-poster bed, and its wooden frame shrieked in protest almost as loudly as Marcille howled in ecstasy.
Its thrusts were getting faster and faster, deeper and deeper, her cunt squeezing tighter and tighter.
Her pleasure increased tenfold when the Lion’s head dipped and sucked heartily on one of her breasts, its velvety tongue rolling the hot bud of her nipple in its salivating mouth. A deep groan from within its chest caused Marcille’s own chest to vibrate, and she found herself rapidly approaching her second climax.
“I’m-I’m gonna-!” she screeched out. Her heart was pounding faster than ever in her chest, and she felt like her whole body was about to give out.
“Do it then,” the Lion snarled gutteraly into the side of her throat, where it slobbered and licked at the dip of her jugular. “Cum for me, right now. Coat my cock in your release.”
With that, Marcille shrieked and contracted every muscle in her body. Her cunt spasmed once, twice, three times, as her orgasm reached its crescendo. It poured out of her in a hot stream, and the Lion’s groan of release mirrored her own, even if it was like the sound of roaring thunder. Its cock twitched violently within her pussy, and Marcille could feel its hot cum filling up her channel. Its inhumanely-large cock plugged her entrance, stopping most of it from spilling out, but she could still feel several stray drops trickling out from where the two of them were joint.
Marcille, thoroughly spent and exhausted, collapsed back onto the bed, her arms sprawling above her head as she caught her breath. Beneath her sweat-slick, release-spattered skin, she could feel an almost electric thrumming. She knew a lot of it was the aftershocks of experiencing two mind-shattering orgasms in quick succession, but she also recognised a good portion of it as mana.
The Winged Lion had been telling the truth. Them deciding to fuck until they couldn’t see straight actually helped her replenish her mana and tap into its infinite supply of magic. In fact, it only took Marcille to start coming down from her post-orgasmic bliss to realize that she hadn’t felt any mana sickness in the whole time they’d been intimate.
“I feel…much…better…” she panted, feeling the sweat cooling against her skin. The Winged Lion was softening inside her, and her toes curled when it withdrew from her with a satisfied grunt. Its barbs rippled along her inner walls, stimulating her clit as they brushed out, and once it was fully out, with it came an outpour of its hot cum and her own release.
Marcille tried her best not to cringe at the sensation, but found herself slightly enjoying the feeling of the evidence of their deed pooling around her thighs and ass.
“I’m glad,” the Lion rumbled, voice hoarse from the events of the evening. “I told you this would be the best way to replenish your mana.” The creaking of the bedframe (which somehow was still intact, miraculously) and the shifting of its immense weight told Marcille that it had lied down next to her in the nest of cushions and pillows. She didn’t open her eyes though, still basking in the bliss of the moment. She could smell its spicy bakery aroma filling her senses, enjoy its intense body heat radiating from its muscled form, feel its fur tickling her naked form. She could also no longer feel its cock at all, despite its groin pressing against her outer thigh (the fur there was plastered with their essences).
Marcille’s exhaustion and contentedness took over, as she felt the energy leaving her sore muscles, her eyelids fluttering until they were so heavy she couldn’t even open them.
“Sleep now, Marcille,” the Winged Lion crooned, tracing one claw along the edge of her jaw as slumber slowly overcame her. “Sleep now, for tomorrow is another day.”
Marcille’s last thought before she lapsed into well-deserved unconsciousness was that she didn’t mind dealing with mana sickness every now and then if this was the cure for it.