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Small Mercies

b/w photo of interlaced hands
man & woman, photo by Christania

Emma leans forward, smoothing the mixture of baby oil and lidocaine ointment across what used to be Dance’s bottom–what used to be quite a nice muscular ass. What it’s become is a surreal combination of the spooky, the transcendentally beautiful, and the absurd. Trying to remain bipedal with twelve feet of anaconda musculature hanging off your pelvic vertebrae is asking for a backache of Biblical proportions. She sympathizes, although she’s got far less reason for her wonky backbone than he does, now.

“I do not understand being so tired all the time,” Dance says, slightly muffled, laying on his belly with his head resting in his arms.

The tail is visible briefly, freshly oiled like this, sprawled out in brown shadowy loops that gleam with little bluish and purple and green glints. Little glints of white and of dark blue show up in diamonds and bars of darker brown skin. The track of glinting scales runs up his back midway between his shoulders now. She knows more of them will be growing out, as the texture of his skin has begun to change subtly up to the base of his skull. She smoothed the oil mixture on all of that, up under his hair. Neither of them is sure how far the scaling will go, or if he’ll lose his head hair.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Silly,” she says, because he does know a lot of reasons, perfectly plainly, why twelve feet and growing would exhaust him, just from hauling around the weight. It’s hard to guess at the resources the thing has been soaking up.

The scales stir and roll lazily under her palm, and the tip comes up and slides along her arm, curl around her shoulders. “Yeah, I’m starting to get tired too,” she says, and brushes more of the mixture onto the tip as it rises in front of her, hanging there as if waiting for her to respond.

“Better?” she asks, and it makes a little flippy waving gesture, and flops back onto the bed with a vivid cartoonlike gesture of exhaustion. “Any other bits need a second coating? Dry bits?”

A loop midway along rises in front of her. “How far along there? Okay, let me get some more on my hands.”

The tail wiggles a little, like a man shifting around while locked out of a bathroom he needs desperately, and she chuckles. The tail speaks for Dance’s sense of humor, his whimsical side, for his temper, for his more childish id, and he has very little ability to stop it from doing whatever it wants. And it is still a baby, still clumsy, still learning how to manipulate objects. She saw it fling a fork across the room in frustration that morning, and Dance painfully got up and cleaned up the mess himself, clenching his jaw, while the tail coiled and twisted around his legs and got in the way, like a kid having a tantrum.

“There,” she says to it, smoothing more oil mixture onto the loops in front of her. She says then, “Let me look. Is it peeling yet?”

The tail tip comes up and touches her arm, then slides rapidly up her arm, up to her face. “Yes, love? What? Show me.”

The base of the tail arches up, shifts over to one side, and Dance gives a little grunt, butt shifting.

“Yes, love, I know what you want. In a minute,” Emma says, stroking her finger along the tip gently, and watching that tail base shift ecstatically even further aside. “Now let me see if any of this is peeling, I need to put extra oil on it, so you won’t hurt so much later.” After some time examining spots where the surface skin was cracking earlier, she gets up and washes her hands and puts on gloves and gets out what she’s going to need next. Condom onto the dildo for him, and check there’s enough remaining in the bottle of lube. She uses a lot when she’s fucking him like this.

She returns to Dance’s side and warms up lube in the palms of her hands, and strokes that on in quite a different location. He gives a sigh, and gets his knees under him, hoists his pelvis up for her to get at him. Her hand slides across the little pouch of skin, and it relaxes opens for her, and his cock spills out into her fingers, already hard and eager and half-erect. He leans his head into his forearm and says, quietly, “I still don’t know how on earth you found a sex place out here to buy toys–”

“You should have seen the tacky lingerie!” She smiles, and smooths on more lube, and slides the first finger into his anus, and he gives a little eager panting noise, pushing up into her touch. God, it’s so hot inside him!

“–but I’m so relieved you did!” he gasps as the second finger slides into him, and then he’s not talking, just making those noises. Good noises.

His lower back is far too stiff with pain to move or rock much, it’s her arms that provide the motion and pressure he needs. Her hand on his cock is stripping up and down his shaft at the nice, steady, even pace that he needs to build upward toward climax.

She knows she’s doing it right when the tail comes up and climbs around on her, stroking her legs, with the tip exploring over her back, touching her hair and her face and down over her ass and cupping her boobs, doing all those touches he would be doing with his hands if he was in a different position. The odd part is that it feels so oddly good, not creepy at all. The affection is clear. He always loves touching her.

“Ready, love?” she asks, sliding her fingers out of his body, and pressing the cone of the dildo into place instead. He gasps, pushes into it, with that good groan, the one that says he needs exactly what she’s giving him, it’s not too soon for him. She drives the length of the dildo into him in little rocking stages of possession, a little deeper on each stroke, in and out of him at the same pace as she’s fisting his cock. She cups her little fingers around the tip of his cock then, pushing hard against the glans with each stroke on his shaft, and he gives a louder, harder gasp.

She’s pushing inward and dragging outward on him, front and back, with all the strength of her arms, trying to prevent him shifting his ass around very much, and he’s still rocking a little in place, making a tight noise growling down in his throat. Good sign, that means she’s got the dildo’s arch turned the right way, she knows it’s hitting his prostate gland–which seems to be pretty far up inside him, but it always was–and he’s making that little groan every time the tip of the dildo hits him there.

It doesn’t take long, in clock time, really. It just feels like a long time when her arm muscles are starting to tire out. But she loves seeing him lose it, just give himself over to the pleasure of climax.

“Oh,” Dance gasps, his spine humping upward like a Halloween cat. “Oh.”

What takes real skill is to get him safely lying down again, tail stretched out in comfortable bends, cleaned up, before post-coital exhaustion takes him down within about eight minutes. He never used to be sleepy after sex, but now it knocks him out completely, sometimes for a couple of hours. With his tail in so much pain, that’s a blessing she figures she can help along as much as possible.



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