Tiefling and Dragonborn

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Small Book.pngThe following article is a /tg/ related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find tl;dr and an occasional amount of awesome.
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Part 2

There are positions of weakness and there are positions of weakness, I reminded myself, as the nails of my toes curled deep into the floor of the bath - one in that corner, one in the other. I am a proud Turathian, and, as such, there is always an escape, and a bargain, and it ends with me triumphant.

I am resilient, I told myself, my eyes fluttered tightly closed, my chin held high. This damnable bathwater would boil a lesser woman. Brimstone blood. It helps for something. It did not, in fact, help for the heat of her finger, which relaxed deep inside me like it owned the place, moving with only the slightest rhythm. Even that was unbearable.

"Please." My employer said, her voice steaming like a cup of Arkhosian coffee, and it was at that point when I ran out of breath to be breathless of and I realized I had been gaping like an idiot up at the ceiling of her scarlet tent from what must've been - I didn't know. Some duration.

And then I looked at her, and realized too late that doing so was a bit of a trap. She hung over me like a death sentence, her powerful legs wrapped around one of mine, snaked so carefully around. Pinning me. Her breasts were pressed up against my shoulder, her snout nuzzled into my neck, whispering like a venom.

I am not a breast woman, but the softness, I understand, is the appeal. These had those, but the firness felt from the one that hung over my chest was surprising. Erect, it seemed. Just as weak as me. Small victories are important.

"You really must tense so?" And she punctuated it with a jolt from her finger which burned up my spine.

"You're not exactly being gentle." I managed.

"This is a performance review. We're celebrating, my dear-" she said, with a flick of her tongue across my collar. "It can't really be done with reservation."

"You've dragged me into- in... into a painfully warm bath with-" I as interrupted by a kiss upon my cheek, or how the lizards would approximate it. She frowned - perhaps she disliked the taste.

"To reward you!" A little laugh. "You sneak so good, you stab so good, you work for so many young guns! Sometimes you're hard to find, you're on elsewhere, and my assassins die. All of them. Even from the fancy shadow guilds." The finger slipped out, and then I realized there was something left, pressing inside me, making me squirm.

She had gotten two while I was distracted, the wretch. And one was prowling into my lips as if searching for something.

"Why... is... that?" She asked.

"Because..." I answered, and I had nothing to follow it up with. It did not, exactly, sound like an accusation.

"Because..." she answered, with such a happy mocking tone I felt something rise up inside me. "You're good! You're very good. You're the only one who can keep up, honey. Only one little flaw. Maybe two."

My lips said "yes?", or simply "yes". I had no breath for it, but I parted them and my tongue flicked out. Good enough for her, it seemed.

"Poetry, Poetry. The maybe-flaw is, "you want to kill me". Forgivable. I do business with those all the time."

She did something, between my legs, and I had no idea what. "The actual flaw," she followed, "is that you don't know what the clit is. Weakness. Very large weakness."

And I collapsed, and gasped, and she managed it with a finger. My iron grip on the side of the bath relaxed, my vision clouded, and my eyes flashed back up as far as they would go without asking me first for a moment.

Her grip briefly went elsewhere. To my thighs. It seemed a bit of a respite until I was lifted up, my back finding sloppy purchase on the edge of the bath, her iron grip so unkindly hooked into my thighs, one foot on one top corner, the other foot upon the other top corner.

She smiled so widely, and her snout traced up against my dripping leg. "It's that part of you-" she explained "-that lets me does this." and her lips parted mine, and her tongue blazed across me, and her eyes looked so appraisingly up at me, watching and judging every twist and moan I made.

I made a lot, given. Short, breathy, desperate, loud. It was like being wracked with a whip, if you could imagine pleasure from that. Every little trace of her tongue made my back snap like a lash, and it was only from the anchoring of my grip that I didn't fall out and break my neck.

Every joint of mine, tightened, one by one, until my world filled with light and suddenly the world felt beautiful. I slunk down, she let me go. Catch and release.

It wasn't beautiful. That I know. Magic, perhaps, a little in everyone's body. "...I know... what the clit is, you wretch."

"Really." She said, rising up from the water, her finger running down her hip.

"Then get to work."

I hate every bit of her, I told myself. Every bit except the taste.