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[ask-freeglade-blog]

Maybe some buttstuff with the lovely gryphoness getting rimmed and having her hole romped?

                You can’t help but feel decadent watching Nyx work.  Despite the gryphon’s size, she is a pillarof stillness and precision.  Tail holdingstill while her claws manipulate small tools and metal rings with the precisionof a master.  Once in a while, her tailsweeps to the side, grabbing your attention.

               It ishard to tell who is more comfortable. You on your decadent pile of cushions, or she resting on the thick roundsof her own rear.

               “I’malmost finished,” she informs you, giving a slight wiggle in place.  The candlelight ripples on the ebony fur ofher hips.  “Sorry to keep you there.  I just have to get this done.”

               You shakeyour head.  What possibly better thinkcould there be than taking a load off and taking in such a glorious creature atwork?

               Nyxsmiles.  She gets back to what she’sdoing, but there’s a more animated sway to her movements now.  Her tail curls and flicks and she lifts onher claws a little bit.  Whatever she’sworking on must be done.  She never mixesher attention with teasing, and she is definitely teasing.

               “Ofcourse, after a day like that, I could stand to take a load off myself.  And there’s my favorite spot.”

               Shecrows, amused, and smiles over her shoulder. There’s a gleam of gold on whatever she places on her worktable, beforeshe circles back over to where you’ve rested. The divoted mountain of pillows, though offered to guests, surely is fitfor the gryphon.  She does not bother tocoax you out of the way before turning and lowering herself towards you.

               Thegryphon’s feline posterior fills your gaze as Nyx easily settles on either sideof your chest.  The pillows and cushionsdepress under her weight, placing you on a cozy ridge between her and herlowering posterior.  

               Thegryphon’s furred body pins your own, and her black fur rubs against yourface.  You wrap your arms all the wayaround her hips and tug.

               “Youenjoy that way too much…” She laughs, but wiggles against you all the same.

               Theheat of her loins glows against your chest. Fur and thickness fill your grip. Soft, warm gryphon butt to knead and knead and never find deep enough oredge enough.  Her tail rests lazily overyour shoulder, and you tease your tongue over the dark-pink of the exposed holebeneath it.

               Nyxshivers at the lick, and again.  Shepresses back, and your breathing comes with weight and effort but it is worthit.  You nuzzle in, giving nips andtender bites about her tailbase before digging deep.  Her hole is so soft, so smooth, so butterywarm and the way she purrs at each lick is intoxicating.  

               Thegryphon lets go, finally letting her full weight down and there’s a quiet*whumpf* as her rump drives you down into the nest.  Her rumbling pleasure vibrates through as you’reburied against the darkness of her coat, and the heat of her undertail teasingopen against your face…

               If you’renot careful, she might get carried away. But then again, that might not be so bad.

[ask-freeglade-blog]

Yay

I think this format is working for me.  There are some days I simply don’t have time to write but I am enjoying this immensely.

There have been some great suggestions so far!  Both for the poor mouse and for one-offs. I’m happy to switch between both.  I’ll try to get to all the suggestions eventually.

If I take a long time or don’t respond to yours feel free to try again.  Sometimes the spark of inspiration just isn’t there yet. 

[ask-freeglade-blog]

You hear a rustling from your closet.

III.    Commotion

 Power.  The wholenotion seemed silly to Cyrus.  What didhe even want to do, now that he had become a mouse, or a mouse-spirit?  

“At the very least, I should finish what I started,” hesaid.  “If I can get Siobhan’s hair away from that witch, at leastall this will be worth it.”

The owl hooted a sigh and lowered her feathers.  “If it will help you move on, by allmeans.  I cannot leave this cage while itis closed, but those limitations don’t apply to you.”

As she said this, the leash-like sensation around his neck grew slack  Cyrus looked up at the owl, and then squirmedhis way out towards the table.  Despitebeing free floating, the bars, like the owl, felt cold and real against hisspectral form.  The wood on the otherside, however, he passed right through. 

He glanced back.  Theowl busied herself with preening her wings, little clacks of her pointed beaktugging loose feathers and smoothing others back.  He swallowed at the thought of that beak, thelight clamp around his ears...

The book.  He just hadto get the book.  He drifted over thedark of the room to where he remembered the book laying.  Everything was about where he had left, butso much bigger now.  Before he could cross to the desk, ashuddering of wood on a latch got his attention.

Tucked against the far wall, between a stack of colorfuljars, a slotted door shuddered.  Hewinced away, fighting the urge to skitter.

Whatever it was, though, couldn’t hurt him.  It probably couldn’t even see him. For all he knew, he only existed to the owl.  So he drifted down, finding his way to thecloset and shoved his nose through the doorway.

Cyrus was greeted upon the other side by the pointed nose ofa rat shoving back into his own.  Her furwas thick, gray, and obviously roughed up from a scrape or two but stillgroomed into place.  The tail trailed offsomewhere into the dark, and he could almost feel her whiskers twitch at hispresence.  

The rat gave a startled squeak.

“Sorry!” he said, and shrunk back.

To his surprise, the rat turned her head and looked here andthere in the dark, as if searching.

It’s alright, shethought, and he could hear it—just barely—being close to her.  Can’tstand spooks but you’re a little squeaker, aren’t you?    Thegray furred rat raised her head and gave a buck-toothed grin. Well? Are you there?  

Cyrus stared.  Thecloser he came, the clearer her thoughts felt.  And when he touched her whiskers, he felt herwhiskers... not like he was touching them, but like they were his.

The rat laughed, muffled into her paw.  Comecloser.  A kindred spirit is hard to findhere.

[ask-freeglade-blog]

A dragon giving the reader a good lick.

               Youwere, for a lack of a better term, stunned by the presence of the dragon.  He was like a cloud shadow at first, and thena thunderclap when he landed.  A wind allto his own making leaves and windowboards shake.  Your hiding spot was pretty good but youinsisted on looking and that juststarted all this trouble.

               No onewould blame you for looking though, because a dragon is such a rare sight.  And this black-scaled beast is like lookingright into the night.  The kind that’sflecked with bits of stars, traces of clouds and bright things driftingthrough.  He smells like dusk—you don’tknow why but you want to call it that—and it’s weirdly pleasant.

               Youmust smell nice to him because that’s how he finds you first.  Snout first, the dragon broaches your hidingspot like it was some sort of easy game. Silver scales, then black, and eyes that look like distant moons gazeright through you.

               Eachbreath from the dragon is a hollow gust and you feel like the scenting alonemight just inhale you.  A grain of athing to the creature.  His lips curl inamusement and he rumbles, his voice thrumming through your bones.  Loud and vibrant, even his whispers are hardto make out with words so low.

               Hisdraconic smile parts and his rippled tongue, narrowed but not forked, slips outand curls over your face.  You shiver,seeing the way the dark ruby insides of his mouth peek behind tongue and teeth.

               Slickdrops of saliva mat your cheeks and neck. He lazily lays a forepaw against your lower half, blanketing up to yourwaist between just two toes.  Yourbreathing is labored, but he allows it as he gets a good taste.

               Affection?Curiosity? Teasing?  Or maybe rawhunger.  It is hard to tell what thisdragon’s game is.  His red tongue slapsagainst your side, making an audible smack before it teases under yourshirt.  You squirm sensitively as he letshis tongue roam as it will.  Leaving youto face down the humid breath of his maw, so tempted to see its dark corners…

               Eachlash warms your skin and leaves it shining and slippery.  Then with a rumble he leans back andconsiders you a bit longer.

[ask-freeglade-blog]

Endo vore scene with Dahlia

If you insist…

You don’t know why you left the safety of your bedroom.  If you’d had just closed the blinds andminded your own business, she would have moved on.  She probably wouldn’t have even noticedyou.  Instead, you had to look out.  You had to see white-shines and silhouettesof teeth in the darkness.

I’m going out, youtell your mates.  They don’t think it’stoo weird.  You wander when you need to,get some fresh air and count down to getting on with it.

This time you go just a bit further down the road.  You duck into the space between all those homes, thinking you can go back and meet herhalfway.  But you don’t need to.  She’s there, waiting for you.

The smell of her is like a drug, intense heat lacing throughyour head.  Wild dogs and old sands, andthe scent of a woman.   Adrenaline spikes through your blood but thepulse in your heart is screaming to run toher, not away.  Your instincts feelbackwards because you don’t care.  She ispowerful, and beautiful, and right in front of you.

Standing in front of the hyena woman is like standing infront of a great redwood.  Toweringshadows, and barely lit fur speckled with brown, black, and a rusty redmohawk.  When you’re close enough herclaws encircle your shoulders and she holds you in place.

“Pretty thing,” she says. “I like the ones who find me.”

The gnoll trails her claws over your shoulder and neck.  You feel them rake through fabric, leavingwarm little lines before her padded mitt cups against your cheek.  She leans down and buries her nose in yourhair, drawing a deep breath of your scent. Then she licks her lips.  

“Ah…”

“Dahlia, sugar.  Saymy name.”

“Dah..lia…”

When you whisper the words, trembling all the way, her drool-slicktongue washes over your face.  She tastesyou, holds you.  You even feel theteasing press of heat against your thigh, but she is too hungry forpleasantries and for fooling.  A wind hushesaround and effortlessly she picks you up.

Dahlia cackles in your ears, shaking your bones.  Honeyed and manic, she parts her jaws and witha wet slap clamps down over your shoulders.

You wiggle, struggle, and grasp at her fur but there’ssimply no overpowering it.  The smell ofher is more raw as you slide over her tongue, feel her throat grasp and tug atyour skull.  Her teeth tease and tickleyour skin but mercifully don’t clamp down.

The gnoll throws her head back and you slide down into darkpink, slipping and sliding.  Her bellystretches with her whole meal, and she licks your legs like cleaning bonebefore a final *gulp!* And you sink down, deeper, darker, hotter… until youreach the squelching floor of her stomach.

She pats you through her stomach and lets out a little urp, andthen a delighted, wild laugh into the night. Somewhere, other hyenas echo her cries. You don’t think much of it, though, or where her wild feet are taking her.  For now, the hyena queen is sated and thethrobbing fear is gone.  You are whereyou belong, now.

[ask-freeglade-blog]

Introduce us to some aspects of mouse culture--for example, do they have weapons and warfare? I like the mouse archer Lily from Mice and Mystics. Do they have holidays? Religion? How do they interact with humans and other large folk?

II. What We Are Now

Cyrus flinched away from the Owl, swimming backwards throughthe air.  He felt a tug, similar to the witch’s touch, but much less painful.  The tether seemeed to hold at the back of hisneck like a leash, making him drift back towards the owl.

“There’s not much more to be afraid of now,” she cooed.  “I’ll keep you safe. Safe as one can be in such a place.”

 The mouse squeaked and tilted his head at her.  He did not expect to be around still, letalone in such a peculiar situation.  Fearfelt, for the moment, a rather strange reaction.  ‘He’ was still probably in the owl’s stomach,as far as he knew.  The memory of the feeling lingered on hismind.

 He propelled the other way, finding his movement easy solong as the white-feathered creature did not interrupt him.  He tried to pass through the owl, but foundhe bumped face-first into her neck just as he would when alive.

 “Mm, yes, you’ll want to figure out what’s what.  I will teach you some.”

 Cyrus folded his arms and sighed a wispy sound.  “Your mistress turned me into a mouse, butwhat did you do to me?”

 The owl smiled, visible in the tilt of her beak.  “You can refer to her as ‘the witch.’  And to me as Angel.  As for what I did to you… it’s no troublefor an owl to bind a mouse.  There is acovenant between the Lady of the Moon and the Mouse Prince of old.  It’s a bit of a… strange relationship.   Wehunt you because we love you.”  Her beakclacked.  “I have power over you.  You have the power run, feed, live, multiply.  And other things as well.”

She preened at her wing a bit.  “You’ll figure it out sooner or later.  I’m not exactly your schoolmarm.”

[ask-freeglade-blog]

I. Food or Familiar

I.                     Food or Familiar

                 Cyrus held his breath, making sure to count every second that he spent inside of the witch’s domicile.  Each second was a second too long, but it was a risk he’d had to take.  He had watched the woman take a slip of hair from Siobahn’s book, and knew that she could only have been preparing for some wicked machination.

               He’d broken every rule, crossed every threshold and broken into the manse of the most powerful woman.  Against every caution, against his own every promise.  

               He groped his way along in the dark, feeling along shelves and seeing only by light of pale green fae-lamps and otherworldly concoctions.  Along to the small table he’d watched her open a leather-bound tome, folding it between the pages, and then disappearing upstairs.

               Cyrus’ lungs ached, begging for just one breath. He scrambled to pry open the strap of the book, opening the bindings and turning to where he thought the hair would be kept.  He flipped past page after page of diagram and script, looking frantically for that thin red line.

               The next page he turned flashed, black scrawls illuminating.  He something hard churn inside in his gut, and he cried out voicelessly in breath. The world rapidly shrunk as he tumbled down, feeling his body knit and twist into something else.

               All that he was crammed into something smaller. He could feel his head, his thoughts constrained and confined to a tiny mind, nearly bursting as he fell onto the table.  Holding his hands in front of him, he saw paws.

               Then he felt a sudden snap on the back of his neck. Thin white nails lifted him up, and he looked in wide-eyed terror into the face of the witch.

               She has long hair, raven black, and he could not tell where her curls began and her smokey robing began.  She strokes over the bridge of his nose and smiled, amber eyes flickering.

               “Naughty thing... you should have known better,” she said.

               He let out a frightened squeak and she laughed. He squirmed, attempting to kick himself free but her grasp on his scruff was absolute.

               “Oh, well, I admire what you were up to.  The willingness to do anything for someone.  It’s a trait I value in many of my finest servants.  Like Lore, here...”

               She paced across the room, waving lights to life with her hand and approaching a cage of woven-vines and iron pikes. Inside, a white and red-feathered barn owl whipped her head around to stare at the pair.

               “You know the price of trespassing here,” she said, opening a hatch on top of the cage.  She stroked the Owl’s head with her free hand, and she squinted her eyes shut in pleasure.  “But I’m willing to cut a bargain.  Serve as my familiar, and I’ll let you keep that little form of yours.  Or, accept your punishment and I’ll forget all about this little transgression.”

               The witch twisted her fingers over Cyrus’ scruff. He stared down, wide eyes, paws stiff with fear at the owl below.  She bounced in place, beak scraping his toes and tongue flicking threateningly.  The feathered mask and slip of beak opened to what was, for the boy-turned-mouse, a fathomless maw of pink and shadow.

               “Whatever you choose, it will be to my pleasure,” she said, her whisper tinged with honey and malice.  “Food, or familiar?”

               A painful tug, like a crochet hook dragged against his heart and yanked, shook Cyrus until he squeaked in pain.  The owl swayed excitedly at the sound.  He could see the threads that would tether him to this awful woman.

               Servitude, or oblivion.

               Familiar, or food.

               Cyrus looked at the owl.  Had she made the same choice once?  Chosen to be bound to an evil being forever, instead of freedom?

               He could not have that.  Even if it meant giving up.  Even if it meant that his friend would somehow have to break the witch’s grasp on her own.  He had done what he could, and perhaps his folly could serve as further warning to her.

               With a resigned breath, he wriggled in the witch’s grasp and pushed his paws against her fingers. She leaned back and gave a cold laugh.

               “That’s a first,” she said, shrugged, and let go.

               In the few seconds that he fell, Cyrus could make little of the witch’s queer monologue.  His paws grazed the owl’s beak, and he bounced once against her tongue before getting lodged in her gullet.

               The embrace of her throat was almost tenderly warm. She snapped her beak shut and gulped fervently.  Cyrus squeaked, squirmed, and slid down, down deep into the bird’s belly.

               The barn owl crooned, no doubt being praised for her obedience and swift dispatch of his mousey self.  In the time he had left, Cyrus squirmed against the slippery, squeezing dark and wondered if he would have made the same decision if he could go back and do it again.

               Yes, he thought, as the owl’s body squeezed around his.

               Yes, he thought when his fur itched and new aches took to his legs, his stomach, his shoulders.  

               No matter how bad it got, how much he hesitated, how much he wished he had never come he grasped at the soft flesh beside him and sniffled.  Better than being bound to her.

               When he let go, things got quiet except for the river-like rush of blood around his ears.  The lub-dub-lub-dub of the Owl’s heartbeat.  The squeeze around what felt like most of him, or something like him, as his predator almost gently urged him to sleep.

               And after that...

               After that...

               ...

               Cyrus was formless vision.  He still felt small, mouse-like, but also like nothing at all.  If he focused, he could see the barn owl sitting comfortably on her roost in the rafters.  She brushed a wing over her belly, then smiled and tilted her head at him.   She leaned forward and brushed against him, propping up his spectral form.

               “... well,” she said, with a queer contortion of her beak.  “Looks like I finally have a familiar of my own.”