Erotic short. An elven scholar observes and participates in the breeding rituals of nearby mermen.
5k, rated E, trans M/various merpeople, one of his tutors. Commissioned by Twitter user ban0gg. Menthe Lorval, a student at a magical university, travels to observe and participate in some merpeople’s breeding rituals.
Featuring huge insertions, belly bulging, oviposition, overstimulation, teasing, D/s dynamics, all-the-way-through, and lots and lots of tentacles. #
Interested in commissioning me yourself? Commission info can be found here.
“Can you be trusted with this, Menthe?” Neres asks. He’s a tall man, tall and cool and made of sharp angles — his skin is a grey-green, has a density to its shade that reminds him of some natural ores, his eyes are a very pale lilac, and there’s a severity to him that makes Menthe’s heart skip a beat whenever he so much as thinks about the man, let alone when he’s in a room alone with him.
He’s not asking the question as a kind of trick — he’s far too literal for that, far too calculated and surgical in his conversations, in the questions he asks, the comments he makes. He doesn’t so much as take a breath, Menthe doesn’t think, without thinking out first what the purpose of it is, what the outcome will be, if it’s worth it, if it’s the right time, how deep or shallow, how quiet or loud, it should be.
He’s asking the question because he feels he needs to ask it — he asks the question because he expects Menthe to be honest with him, and to let him know if he can’t handle it.
“I can handle it,” Menthe says immediately, and he isn’t like Neres, doesn’t calculate his breaths properly — it comes out slightly breathless, and he feels his cheeks burn even though he knows the blush won’t show, because he spent about six hours in front of a mirror with a set of divine candles half a decade ago and carefully sculpted the veins in his cheeks until his all-too revealing blush would never show again.
Doctor Neres looks down at him — the man is a head and a half taller than Menthe, and he stands with his narrow arms crossed over his narrow chest, a chest that Menthe is trying not to look at, because Neres has high expectations of eye contact, and becomes disapproving very quickly if he feels people are showing weakness by breaking it. Menthe’s eyes flicker up to his hairline — Neres always keeps his hair combed back from his head, gathering it at the base of his neck, and despite the fact that he never slicks it back or uses pins — he clips the tail of it at the base of his neck, and the rest is kept in place with magic.
Menthe wishes he knew what spell it was, because he knows from close and careful observation that it’s not an enchantment on any of his hairclips or ties, nor on his robe or coat collars, and Neres’ hair always looks so soft and silky, looks like it would part almost like water if Menthe slid a comb through it, or his fingers.
“I can handle it,” Menthe says again, controlling his breath this time, and Neres raises his chin by the slightest bit, examining him carefully, his expression an unchanging mask of distant disapproval.
It’s not personal. Menthe’s heart beats faster sometimes, when an authority figure looks at him like that, someone he looks up to looks down at him like that, but Menthe’s resting expression is disapproving.
He looks disapproving at his own two children, even as he tells them they’re the defining lights in his life, that they bring him glory and pride with their every step and movement, and they smile up at him lovingly.
“It is not my habit to dispatch a student alone to this sort of research opportunity, young man,” Neres tells him — he hasn’t said it before (Neres dislikes to repeat himself), but Menthe has heard the implication in his voice, seen the evidence of his practice in his choices. He normally sends teams of researchers together, and in the event that willing participants stipulate that only one outside observer attend a closed practice or ritual, Doctor Neres usually goes himself.
“My dissertation is finished and published, Doctor Neres,” Menthe tells him. “I passed my boards, passed my final interviews — my doctorate is assured, it’s just not formalised until our graduation ceremonies come Inkriver.”
“You remain a student, not a research fellow.”
“I’m going to stay on as a researcher, Doctor Neres — Doctor Xerxes has already offered me a Cultivator role within the Arboretum Library, and I am in the process of strengthening my connection with the Oghmian Library in Merryweather, to arrange and assure a library exchange program.”
That makes Neres’ expression change, his left eyebrow raising keenly, and while he doesn’t actually look approving, his thin lips do change in their position — on the lefthand side, his lips curl upward too.
“Very well,” he says softly, and reaches for the equipment case — it contains a scrying orb that will create three-dimensional records of everything he observes, a few transcribing quills to make various notes, notebooks and files, sample vials, everything he might need.
A moment passes between them as Menthe takes the case — another of the doctors or professors might tell him to be careful, or “Don’t disappoint me,” or Cultivator Yorvak might tell him not to fuck it up.
Neres says, “I look forward to your final report, young man.”
“Yes, sir,” Menthe says, and turns away with the case at his side, then remembers himself just before he goes out of the room. “Um — give my regards to your daughter, okay, Doctor? Tell her happy birthday from me too.”
Neres meets his gaze, and now he does smile, showing some mild amusement. “You are bordering this morning, Menthe, on the sycophantic.”
“I’m wishing a child happy returns on her birthday, Doctor Neres. Not everything’s about you,” says Menthe, and it makes his cheeks feel so hot, makes his heart flutter — it also makes Neres laugh. Menthe heads out into the corridor, and stops into the lab to pick up his coat and his travelling pack.
It’ll take a few hours to get him to the coast, and then he’ll have to hike for two hours or so, so he trades out his sexy black boots for his more sensible brown ones.
Then he remembers that he’ll be meeting mermen — hot, hot mermen, during breeding season.
And he puts his black boots back on.
* * *
“What do you do?” asks the woman across from him — it’s a public caravan, a long bus pulled by six horses, and it’s a dull drive, in all fairness to her. The road beneath them is a bit too bumpy for him to read without it hurting his head, and whilst he could cast an enchantment to steady his vision and reduce any motion sickness, it can make people nervous on public transport, a mage casting strange spells right next to them.
“I’m finishing up my doctorate at the Dusk University,” Menthe says politely. She’s been looking at his stave, and he’s seen her gaze flicker up to his pack and research materials stowed on the storage compartment over Menthe’s bench.
People like to think of mages as teleporting everywhere, he supposes, or having the money for private travel, but when he doesn’t need any significant equipment and it’s just one researcher being dispatched, it would have been silly for him to requisition one of the private carts, and he doesn’t care for riding horseback.
Doctor Yorvak had brought it up during his interviews, and Menthe hadn’t been sure why, at first, why he was bringing it up, when he’d sat across from him at the table with the other heads of department, and said, “You, candidate, have used a mere fraction of your allotted budget. Your requisition records show regular requisitions of books, certain alchemical ingredients and suspensions, a small number of specialised tools for potioneering, enchantment, and astronomy…
“And yet it seems you have scarcely at all requisitioned travelling equipment, or any of the university’s designated steeds or vehicles, during your five-year program with us, and yet if anything, you have pursued more journeys for your research than any of your cohorts, including several sojourns far abroad — as far as Merryweather, even.”
“I was raised at the Temple of Oghma in Merryweather, Doctor Yorvak,” Menthe had said. “It wasn’t necessary for me to requisition travelling funds — I simply joined a caravan of Oghmian monks, and was given my travel, my room, and board in exchange for enchantment services along the way.”
Yorvak had peered at him over his silver spectacles, his expression difficult to read.
“And this enchantment work you exchanged — what impact did this additional duty have on your time and focus on the environmental studies you conducted whilst in Merryweather?”
“It was elucidating,” Menthe had said. “It seemed a better use of resources than paying for public transport or requisitioning a department vehicle, a driver, when the monks are so eager to permit researchers amongst them, when they are themselves devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. None of the work they asked of me was arduous or overly complex — I grew up doing the same duplication work as a teenager and junior mage at the Merryweather Temple, until I departed to pursue my own studies.”
He had still half-expected to be scolded, for them to complain as to how it impacted the university’s education, and yet instead, Yorvak had turned to the other members of the board and had enthused — as far as Doctor Yorvak enthused about anything — about the devotion a student was showing to sensible approaches to budgetary concerns, to the broader needs of the department, although he was being allotted a far more generous allowance.
He likes public transport. He likes speaking with people, finds it helpful to observe others, to speak with them — make small talk, much like this, even when not with other experts. You never know who you’re going to be sitting next to on a bus like this.
“Oh, wow,” she says, and he watches her face for any indication of understanding, of further comprehension, but there isn’t anything. “What is it you study?”
“Magical zoology, effectively,” he says pleasantly. “Alchemical properties of biological elements, potioneering — a lot of my research has gone into blood and the way that blood is transported around our bodies. Blood thinners and vasodilators to aid heart health, circulatory problems, vasoconstrictors, coagulants…” He stops talking, can see the woman’s interest wane, and he smiles even more politely, adjusting his hands in his lap. “It’s really all very dull, madam — helpful work, work that affects everyone who might see a healer, but not gripping for an outsider to the profession.”
“Did you lose your eye in a… blood thing?” she asks, and Menthe smiles at her, enjoys the directness of the question as he reaches up and touches his glass eye — tilting his head forward, he pops it out of the socket, and keeps the lid closed as he shows it to her, letting her examine it in his palm.
His vision is worse in his good eye, without the enchantment his glass one casts over the whole of his face, but he sees enough to see the genuine fascination on her expression, her lips parting as she peers with intrigue at it. A few of their fellow passengers show mild horror and disgust, glancing over, but she is delighted, and it is clear.
“A blood thing, yes,” he says. “I have a condition called polycythemia vera — in effect, my body overproduces my blood, and it ends up too thick — it overstuffs my veins, almost. In certain individuals — more common in elves than many other races — channelling magic can worsen the symptoms of conditions like mine. When I was a young teenager, I was focused on a spell, and I ignored my own fatigue, hadn’t yet been fully diagnosed. I thought my occasional blurred vision was normal, just a sign I needed to sleep.
“My eye burst, sort of popped as the blood vessels supporting it bulged — I was under supervision, luckily, so we managed to save the other eye, and I lost a tooth, but it was the last of my milk teeth, so no great loss.”
He pops his glass eye back into the socket, blinks a few times as he feels his vision balance out and normalise, watches the world come back into keen focus again.
“That’s awful, I’m sorry,” the woman says, although she doesn’t wholly manage to hold back her relish at such a gory anecdote, and Menthe laughs.
“A long time ago now,” Menthe says, gesturing with one hand.
“Are you travelling to harvest blood?”
“Blood, among other things,” Menthe tells her, and starts asking questions rather than answering them, changes the subject to her travel to the coast, how she’s going fishing with her sister’s family, how she’s never been fishing before, and hasn’t been swimming since she was a child.
“Have you a change of clothes with you?” he asks in their final hour of travel, and he embroiders a floating charm under the collar of a spare shirt of hers before they part ways.
* * *
“Master Lorval,” says Oni, the merman that had walked up the hill to greet him, and Menthe smiles at him, leaning on his staff as he holds out a hand and grips the other man’s muscular forearm. He’s a handsome man, tall and broad, his hair a thick, dark mane around his shoulders — green-yellow and resembling the sea weeds it has evolved alongside.
“Please, call me Menthe,” he says, and gratefully gives the other man one of his packs before following him down the hill, where rocky outcrops reach out like fingers into the white seaspray of the roiling waters. “Doctor Neres sends his regards.”
“Oh, I never expected that Avex would come himself,” Oni says, chuckling with a fondness that Menthe doesn’t often see applied to Neres. “He’s been witness to our rutting season time and time again — I doubt it would prove interesting to him after all this time. Interesting to you, though, I bet — a young man in his prime. Have you children of your own?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Avex mentioned in his letter you have a condition — is your womb healthy? Your gut?”
They’re blunt and open communicators, merpeople — Oni makes no secret of the way his gaze roves over Menthe’s body, down to his boots, which he seems to look at approvingly, before looking up to his chest, his waist, his backside. They have no shame about sex or reproduction in the way others often do.
“My womb is healthy,” Menthe says. “And my condition is well in hand, which I’m sure Neres also mentioned — I expect he brought it up in case I had an adverse reaction to someone’s bodily fluids, to one of your aphrodisiacs, to someone’s venom… but I’m fairly certain I won’t. I understand my limits better than Doctor Neres does.
“In any case, before you focus on making use of me, sir, I should like to observe your practices, make my notes, take my samples.”
“Oh, you researchers,” Oni complains good-naturedly. “Always with your business before you let us have our pleasure.”
“Such is the nature of exchange, my friend,” says Menthe, and lets Oni lead the way down into the village proper.
The sea foam at the shoreline is turning lilac and pink from the dyes let out by various of the merpeople’s emissions, the suspension their eggs are released in, their semen. This village is a mingling of various species and peoples, and he delights in how many shapes he sees in those on land, moving between the huts and small shacks built on the beach.
The vast majority of the peoples here are made more for life below the waters than life on land, and while a few people use this village on-land all year around — the legged ones that can choose to engage their gills at will, primarily, who might even pass for elves, further inland and with their necks obscured — the houses here are built broadly just for mating season.
He’s not the only land-walker present. He’s the only researcher, no doubt, but he isn’t the only non-merman here to offer his holes for the onslaught of those in rut about him. He can see one orc sprawled on her back on the sands, her tits resting on top of the fat swell of her belly, stuffed with eggs; a pair of elves that look like they might be siblings are moaning and writhing amidst the tentacles that spread around and through them in the water; in the distance, he can see just the head of someone sticking out from the water, and based on their expressions, there’s more going on beneath the waves than he can see.
“Samples first,” asks Oni, “or observation?”
“Samples,” says Menthe, and Oni groans, but goes for the band fastening his loose shorts, and Menthe laughs as he unbuckles his bag. “You know how it shakes out by now, it seems.”
“I always pray for you academic types to change your ways,” Oni complains, “but you’re as immovable as stone.”
“Immovable as an elf like me freshly stuffed with eggs,” says Menthe quietly, his lips twitching. “An elf like me, moaning faintly, scarce able to string two thoughts together, all of your eggs, perhaps, swelling with someone’s insemination about them, my cock throbbing, my cunt twitching, my arse…”
Oni is looking at him, his lips parted, and Menthe looks down at his cock, with is slowly everting from its sheath, slick and ready for action.
“There we are,” he murmurs, and picks up a test tube and a swab to take a sample.
“You people,” says Oni, somewhere between admiring and infuriated, and Menthe laughs and winks at him before he takes his swab. “You want me to be the one to fuck you, hm?”
“I want everyone to race to take me,” Menthe says. “Everyone can fuck me at once, if they like — let’s see how pregnant you can make me, hm?”
“Mm,” Oni murmurs, and eases his prick back into his sheath with a slight wince. “I don’t know whether I want to be first or last in line.”
“Dealer’s choice,” says Menthe. “Call the next one in, will you?”
* * *
Menthe has always seen the value in delayed gratification.
As a young boy, growing up in the Oghmian Temple, he was ever surrounded by monks, clerics, students of Oghma’s word and teachings, or recipients of knowledge from their libraries — academics, in short, many of whom were not naturally social, or playful. Many of the temple’s children were young dedicants to Oghma or another temple’s god — Menthe had been a somewhat serious child, and the children he’d grown up alongside had been similarly inclined.
He had been dispatched to the temple after a bad blood clot — his parents had panicked, insisted they weren’t able to take care of him amongst their other children after the healers had finished with him, thinned his blood. It did strange things to a child, he thought, being rejected so wholly for something they could not control — he recalled Sister Ishka having a quiet discussion about it with him when he was twelve or so.
“They did it to help me,” Menthe had said. “I know that — I know that they loved me, and they gave me up knowing they did not have the resources to care for me.”
“They didn’t try to take care of you,” Ishka had pointed out, simple, blunt, direct. “They received a diagnosis for their sick child, and armed with a label for his illness, they abandoned him. You’re allowed to resent that, boy. You’re allowed to ache.”
Worshipers of Oghma value truth above most all else — he had been grateful for the frankness of the world around him, as much as it could sting from time to time, how adults would tell him the truth if he asked them, how open communication was encouraged.
One truth he regularly had impressed upon him was the importance of patience, of allowing himself time to engage with something mentally and emotionally, to understand it, before he rushed headlong into it.
He recalled being put through his paces during exercises in the temple’s yard, running or lifting, performing magicks that put a strain on his body and his hands, being made to push past the point where he ached to stop, where he was nearly in tears before he was finally permitted to rest and relax and experience the relief of that respite. He recalled monks chiding him for eating the best parts of his meal, for eating all of his favourite vegetables or cuts of meat, before he finished the rest of the plate, advising him that he should eat in a clockwise fashion instead, that he shouldn’t gorge himself on the best parts before he allowed himself the nutrition of the rest.
As a young man of eighteen, he’d begun a relationship with a priest passing through from another temple, a devotee of Deneir, and he’d learned how satisfying it could be to have his orgasm denied and denied him by another man. Already, he’d played in denying himself whilst engaging in self-pleasure, but that was nothing to what he experienced beneath him, nothing compared to —
And nothing again, compared to this.
Menthe had stripped off his robes and underclothes, stripped off everything but for his sexy black boots — to protect his soles from the potentially sharp texture of the rocky extensions from the shoreline, as if he was going to spend even a moment on his feet. The waters lap and rush about his ankles as he walks out from the beach, and he looks at the swirling colour in the water, the pink mist that colours it, the tiny purple fragments and pieces of glittering dust in the midst of it.
He’s knee deep in the water when a tentacle first reaches for him, and he sighs at the sensation of it, committing the texture to memory for him to make notes on later — the tentacle is slicker than the water of the shore, lubricated with its own gel-like emission, and as it curls around his calf he feels the suckers drag just slightly at his leg hair, feels them press into the flesh when the tentacle coils tight and grips him.
The effect is almost immediate — as the suckers press down, as the tentacle grips him tight enough to begin to drag him forward, their nearly microscopic teeth are able to release venom into his flesh. It doesn’t hurt. He feels the pressure, feels the slight pinch, even feels from the larger suckers where the teeth are penetrating the flesh — not enough to make him bleed, but enough to feel — and also feels the sudden heat radiating up his leg, blooming outward from where they’re touching him.
When the venom is carried up to his thighs, his hips, he feels it make contact with his crotch and he moans — he had already been wet, his cock already hard, but it’s nothing compared to the aphrodisiac-aided arousal he experiences now, the throbbing want that suddenly courses through him, his skin so hot it makes his mind spin.
He stumbles in the water, dizzied and drunk with it, and another tentacle curls around his other thigh, a larger one about his waist, and there are suckers all over him now, suckers that will leave a myriad of circular bruises in lines up and down his skin, and he’s wailing because two of the squid-like merman’s arms have settled over his tits and are squeezing.
He’s got rather a large chest, in proportion to his body, enough that he always makes sure to wear a supportive garment for his back and to strengthen it with enchantment as well, to make sure the weight of his tits is spread equally over his shoulders, that they don’t make him hunch or pull elsewhere on his spine. What with the squared-off robes he wears, the shoulder pads, the tailoring he favours, people don’t even realise until he has them off.
Neres knows, of course — he’d seen Menthe swimming laps in one of the springs in the basement of the department, and when Menthe had pulled himself up and out of the cool kiss of the tingling water, his gaze had roved Menthe from top to tail, over the curve of his tits, of his belly, his hips, his thighs.
“Sir?” Menthe had asked, and Neres had looked down at him, raised his hand, and Menthe’s eyes had fluttered shut, thinking he was about to reach out and touch one of Menthe’s tits, thinking he’d play over his nipples, but he’d just reached up and touched his own chin.
“Miraculous, what you can fit under those robes of yours, Mr Lorval,” he’d commented, and made his way out again.
Funny, that he’s thinking of Neres’ hands on his tits right now when these tentacles are curving and curling around them with a strength and dexterity Neres could never manage on his own — they squeeze at his nipples, and Menthe yelps and cries out as he feels the tiny little teeth dig into the sensitive flesh, making them throb under their touch.
He throws back his head to cry out, and as soon as it tips back, his mouth open, one of the thicker arms slides right down his throat, and Menthe chokes, his eyes bulging wide and wet on one side as he tries his best to cope with it, to control himself. After a few seconds of struggling in the tentacles swarming all over him, he schools himself enough to breathe through his nose around the thick meat, slightly salty, that’s filling his throat, sinking down, down —
Gods, he can feel it in his stomach, feel it pressing in deeper and deeper, and his scream is muffled around the tentacle as he feels it begin to tunnel its way through his guts, turning and twisting through his insides, taking every turn it can. When he looks down at his belly, he can see it mazing through him before his eyes, the tentacle easily working its way through the labyrinth of his insides, can see the tentacle’s imprint through his belly, see it coiling within and through his intestines, and then —
He whines, tears on his cheeks at the sheer sensation of it, as he feels the tip of the tentacle push out of his arse, feels the thickness of it push his hole open wider.
And then all at once, it turns back on itself and forces itself into his cunt.
The sensations are utterly overwhelming, of all the tentacles sliding over his skin, biting and sucking greedily at him, twisting and tugging at him, squeezing him, wanting him — the first egg forces its way past his teeth and over the weight of his tongue, and he chokes anew as he rapidly blinks the tears away and looks at the egg sac over him.
Each egg within is the size of a fist, and he gets no further warning before the onslaught begins, egg after egg sinking into his mouth and forcing its way down his throat and through his guts. He’s never felt so impossibly full in all his life, and he can’t help how he’s writhing with the sheer sensation of it all, the slickness inside him, the eggs, the eggs —
When the first egg forces its way out of his arse, sliding down the length of the tentacle within him, the sensation makes his whole body jerk, but that’s nothing compared to when it forces its way into his cunt and he feels it shove against the underside of his swollen cock.
He’s coming before it even lets down into his womb, and he writhes as if he’s being electrocuted amidst the web of tentacles holding him up, utterly overwhelmed by the slide of each egg into his cunt, against his cock, forcing through the tight ring of his cervix and settling into the core of him. Each egg, stuffed at the top of his cunt’s channel, rubs against the other eggs that are travelling through his guts, and his every inch of skin feels ready to sing, feels like it is singing.
He doesn’t know that he’ll ever be able to return to research after this — is it any wonder that for all Oni’s complaints, it’s vital that research and observation must come before any of them join in with the fun?
His next orgasm crashes over him with the strength of a lightning flash, and his scream can only be so muffled by the tentacle inside him.
He passes out, he thinks, somewhere between orgasm six and seven.
* * *
Menthe comes to on the shoreline, paralysed by the number of eggs that are stuffed inside him, swelling out his belly so that it’s almost like a table he’s settled on — a huge cock is sliding deep into his cunt in slow, easy movements, and he moans softly at the sensation of it, of the rub and drag inside him.
“Ah, you’re awake, Master Lorval,” says Oni, tugging on the open ring of his arse with his thumb, and Menthe laughs giddily.
“Please, Oni, call me Menthe, I told you,” he slurs out — his throat is bruised from being battered with cock and tentacles and eggs, his tongue aching and tingling with all the aphrodisiac fluid clinging to it, all the cum, no less.
“Mister Lorval,” says a familiar voice in front of him, and Menthe stares up at the face of Doctor Avex Neres in front of him, slightly blurry. “I might have advised you prior to walking into the waves that your prosthetic might falter exposed to so much moisture for so long, as I would with any other… strenuous exercise.”
Neres’ fingertips are cool where they touch his chest, sliding down to the nipple on one of his tits and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, and Menthe groans at the sensation, soothing on his sore and hot and throbbing tit, sending radiating waves of cooler sensation through the tissue around it.
“How’s your vision?” asks Neres smugly.
“Not the best,” Menthe admits.
“May I?” Neres asks, and Menthe hesitates before he nods his head — his arms are bound up in tentacles too, ones that are kissing up and down his forearms and shoulders, the sensations pleasant, distracting.
Neres’ cool fingers are even cooler on his face, and Menthe looks at Neres’ face with his good eye as he gently takes Menthe’s glass eye out and begins to wipe it clean with a cloth — he doesn’t wince or make a face, doesn’t show any disgust or horror at what he’s doing. He wears a frame of false teeth that supports some of his missing cheekbone himself, Menthe knows — it was one of the first things he’d learned about the older man, the two of them discussing their respective prosthetics.
He comes back with a patch once he’s set Menthe’s eye into a case, and after settling it over his empty socket — the protective enchantment fizzles gently over Menthe’s skin as it presses tight against the skin, keeping out any dust or sand that might get into the socket without his eye in place — he rests his palms on Menthe’s cheeks.
“How was your daughter’s birthday?” Menthe asks faintly, and then moans when Oni twists his hips as he thrusts inside him.
“Oh, she had a lovely time, but now I’m thinking about my enjoyment. You don’t seem to be going anywhere…” He slides his knee against the bulging swell of Menthe’s belly beneath him, sliding against all the eggs dimpling the flesh, and Gods, it’s a miracle he’s still got organs in him, because they’re all he can think about, all the eggs stuffing his womb to bursting, and now the cock sliding into his cunt. “May I?”
Neres uses the precise same tone now as he had a moment ago, offering to take out his eye — silently, feeling his lips pulled into a slight smile, Menthe nods his head, and he obediently parts his lips as Neres pulls his robes open and slides his cock, hard and long and slender, between his lips, over his waiting tongue.
He flicks both of Menthe’s nipples as he begins to synchronise his thrusts into Menthe’s thrust with Oni’s into his cunt, and Menthe gives himself sleepily over to the wonderful, wonderful tide.
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