Damon almost ejaculated again.
The rod was just about to surrender when Margaret stomped down hard, "Who gave you permission to cum?"
The word cum, spoken softly and softly, inexplicably took on an obscene air.
Margaret's tongue tingled a little.
She held onto Damon's broad shoulders, feeling the vigorous heat in the soles of her feet and her heart pounding in her chest.
Breaking the rules felt dangerous and exciting.
Tearing her otherwise well-behaved self to shreds seemed pleasurable, too.
Margaret had too many emotions piled up in her body. She desperately needed an outlet on this night, and Damon came crashing in dimly.
The plan to destroy the garden hadn't worked, and she was now dragging another poor man with her as they ran together into the abyss of worldly loathing.
Damon was really obedient.
When Margaret didn't allow him to cum, he tensed his body, his teeth clenched and even the ends of his eyes were red from holding back.
When Margaret asked him to take off his shirt, he tore off his jacket and shirt almost roughly and threw them to the side.
The night had fallen. In the hazy, ghostly light, the hybrid orc's body looked strong and beautiful. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with walls of muscle. Fine scales were scattered across his chest as well as under his ribs, covering a powerful, firm abdomen like human sweaty hair.
Margaret stroked his pecs.
It was elastic and big. She spared a few squeezes, then pinched his hard nipples.
Damon's throat rolled, full of heat clogging his throat and about to erupt. He clamped his mouth shut and then simply closed his eyes as well, not looking at the young girl in front of him.
Margaret explored the orc's physiology over and over again like an inquisitive student. She pinched Damon's nipples until they were swollen and erect, the skin covered with red marks. Again, she followed the lines of the undulating torso, stroking the scales under Damon's ribs, the quivering abs, and the beautiful mermaid line.
The foot that had been ravaging the rod of flesh became a little tired. Only occasionally would it move to rub the sensitive glans, or roughly grind the pole around.
"I seem to be mistaken."
She said, "The scaly areas are colder to the touch, which is actually the scales blocking body heat? So this thing you have down here, it's supposed to be hot, right?"
Her tone was calm, as calm as an academic discussion.
"Where else do you have scales growing? Do they come off periodically? Is the pain intense if you pull them off?"
"Here..." she poked the tip of his nipple, eliciting a small shudder, "I can't see it, what color is it? Same as your eyes?"
Damon endured the pain and pleasure and answered her in a low voice, "It's hot, it's usually hot, it's hotter when it's in heat."
The arms and legs and feet also have scales that don't come off. The fine scales near the spermathecae were the most sensitive and could probably give you a painful erection if you peeled them off.
Yes, a painful erection.
The nipples are red, no different from the pupil color. Miss, if you want to see it, I can walk to a place with light.
What else do you want to know?
The seemingly innocent Miss Margaret stroked the knot in Damon's throat and gave her thumb a firm squeeze, blocking his hoarse, low words.
The hybrid orc breathed in sharply, his body motionless, the rod in his lower abdomen straight and exposed to the air, the orifice of his glans contracting to spit out burning mucus.
Margaret marveled at his docility.
Obviously dangerous as if he was about to pounce and tear at his owner's neck the next moment, yet always patient and submissive, not daring to disobey any of her demands.
Obedient dogs should be rewarded.
Margaret rubbed Damon's short, sweaty hair and pulled his hand up into her skirt, teaching him to cut her panties with sharp claws.
The thin little pieces of fabric fell to the grass and Margaret's skirt became empty underneath.
She told him to stand up, but she was too tall for him, and tugged at his pecs to make him sink lower.Damon let her have her way, his ears rumbling, his blood flowing wildly through his veins. He entertained some sort of unbelievable suspicion, then watched as Margaret lifted the hem of her skirt and clamped the heart of her bare leg around the long, hard shaft of her sex.
The soft, warm lips of the flower pressed against the hot rod, and the hole that hid it within seemed to contract slightly as it was scalded.
Margaret clamped down on this giant branding iron of a mixed breed orc and shuddered involuntarily at the roots of her thighs. She grabbed his small arm, her nails embedded in the flesh.
"You move." She ordered him, "No thrusting, do you hear me?"
In response to her, Damon gave her a sudden hug.
"No hugging either!"
Margaret's command certainly worked.
Damon held her for only a second, as if he wanted to melt her inside. After being reprimanded, he released her, holding only her waist in a false grip with the palms of his hands. No longer needing guidance, he jerked his hips and waist in a spontaneous motion.
The rod rubbed repeatedly against the lips of the flower, and from time to time the upturned tip went through the center of Margaret's leg and poked into the tiny crinoline skirt. Sometimes it also pressed against the groin of her ass, sliding over the recessed opening and poking at the fleshy beads hidden in the lips of the flower.
Margaret was so pushed up against it that she couldn't stand, her toes barely braced on the floor, her legs shaking terribly. She clutched Damon's arm, but her eyes went beyond him to the brightly lit castle and the dark, dead glass bower in the distance.