She stared at the moon.

Her chest moved. Her tits moved with her chest. The right one had the red mark of his sole pressed into it — the full footprint shape of it, the arch and the ball and the heel visible in the flushed skin, the evidence of where she had been and what had been placed on her.

She looked at it.

She lifted her right hand.

She pressed her own palm against the sole-print on her tit.

She breathed.

He was moving.

She heard him moving before she processed the direction. The shift of his weight. The placement of his knees in the grass — one on each side of her ribcage, his legs straddling her chest, his weight settling above her with the unhurried comfort of a man taking a position he has already decided on.

She looked up at him.

From below.

The full, low angle of a woman lying on the grass looking up at a man kneeling above her chest, the moonlight behind his shoulders, his face in shadow, the full length of his cock above her — glistening, still hard, the crimson head dark and flushed, the green veins standing out, the impossible twelve inches of it hanging above her face like a monument to the evening’s events.

He was beautiful.

The thought arrived without warning and without apology.

Not handsome — beautiful. The kind of beauty that lives above the category of handsome, the particular, impossible beauty of a creature that is not entirely human and does not have to be, the moonlight on his jaw and his shoulders and the lines of his body making him look like something carved by someone who had no interest in restraint.

She had never looked at anything the way she was looking at him.

She had never been in a position to look at anything this way — flat on her back with a man above her and his cock above her face and the whole world reduced to this view, this angle, this man, this night.

’My lord,’ she thought.

Her hands found her own tits.

She did not know when she decided to do this. Her hands simply arrived at her tits with the motion of a body that has understood what is happening and has decided to participate, her palms pressing against the full flesh of each breast, her fingers finding the undersides.

His hands found hers.

Over hers. His palms pressing against the backs of her hands, his grip closing around her fingers, using her hands as the mechanism — pressing them together, pressing her own tits together, the flesh compressing inward from both sides to form the canyon of her cleavage.

His cock settled into it.

The full, thick, glistening length of him pressing between her tits, the flesh closing around the shaft from both sides with the warm, soft pressure of the most generous cleavage a Viking body can produce.

She felt the heat of his cock against her sternum.

She looked down from her own chin.

The head of his cock emerging from between her tits and pressing against the underside of her chin — the blunt, dark, flushed mass of it touching the soft skin of her jaw, the warmth of it conducting upward.

She looked up at him.

From below. The low angle. His face above hers. His hands pressing her hands pressing her tits together around his cock.

He started to move.

The slow, deliberate thrust of his hips — his cock driving through the canyon of her tits, the head pressing against her chin on the forward stroke and retreating back between the compressed flesh on the withdrawal, the full length of the shaft sliding through the warmth of her cleavage with the wet, slick ease of skin that has been thoroughly lubricated by the evening’s work.

She watched the head.

Her eyes tracking the dark, flushed crown appearing at her chin and retreating, appearing and retreating, the rhythm of it settling into the unhurried, patient pace of a man conducting himself exactly as he intended to.

"Hah—" She breathed. "Hah— Dragon Lord— hah—"

Her voice.

Her voice had changed.

Not the warrior voice. Not the teacher voice. Not even the crying, overwhelmed, ’it hurts’ voice of the last hour. Something softer. The voice of a woman looking up at something from the most vulnerable position a body can occupy and finding the thing above her — beautiful.

"Dragon Lord—" The words came out on a breath. "My lord—"

The words arrived automatically.

Not chosen. Not performed. The body’s genuine output when it has been comprehensively claimed and has run out of resistance and is now simply present in the fact of being claimed.

’My lord.’

She felt them leave her mouth and felt them land and did not take them back.

He looked down at her.

He smiled.

His hips moved.

The cock pressed against her chin again — the warm, insistent pressure of the head pushing upward from between her tits against the underside of her jaw.

"Hah—" She breathed. "Hah— my— hah— lord—"

He looked at the sky.

Not dramatically. The simple upward movement of a man deciding something — his jaw tilting toward the moon, his shoulders drawing back, the full, beautiful line of him above her pulling taut.

His cock swelled.

She felt it between her tits — the pulse moving through the shaft, the head darkening further, the veins standing harder, the particular rigidity of a cock at the moment before release pressing into the compressed flesh of her cleavage from both sides.

He came.

The first rope left him with the force of a cord snapping.

It crossed the eight inches between the head of his cock and her face in no measurable time and landed across her nose and her forehead and her left eye simultaneously, the warm weight of it covering the bridge of her nose, her left brow, her lashes.

Her eye closed.

Not by choice. By reflex. The thick, warm landing making her lashes seal.

The second rope.

Across her mouth. Her lips pressing together at the impact, the warm seed spreading across both lips and trailing to her chin, the taste of it already present at the corner of her mouth where the coverage had been thorough.

She opened her mouth.

She did not know why she opened her mouth.

Her mouth opened and the third rope landed across her tongue — the direct, warm, heavy impact of dragon seed hitting the flat of her extended tongue, the taste of it filling her mouth immediately.

She tasted it.

’I am chosen by a dragon.’

"Haha, now that’s what I like... a cum leaking dragon slayer." Raven looked down at her and chuckled at the way her eyes seemed teary but hollow, as if slowly her body was becoming the dead shell of a woman beneath this muscular exterior.

His hand grabbed his cock, pushing the head over her lips, pressing her cheek inward as her lips parted.

Her mouth slowly opened while his eyes looked down, as if hypnotic to her.

She kept looking at him, her eyes slowly becoming teary and her mouth opening wider and wider to take the girth of his cock head.

"Clean it."

"Mmmmhhnn~~ D--dragon... unmh~ Lord...~~"