Sept Wk 3 Art/Writing Challenge - Something In Your Mouth

[One]

this challenge is open to any typical form of art or expression, including 2D, 3D, poetry and short stories.

in the spirit of Ubique's weekly challenges, i'd like to propose we continue this most TLI'ish tradition. i love to see the pictures posted every week, the poems and the stories. i read and look at everything, and i know others do, too!

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Do you have a slavegirl who looks -much- cuter with something in her mouth? Perhaps your favorite male pet cries with much more fervor, appears that much more edible when he's stretched his teeth around a ball gag. Your lovely mate or mates, do their moans sound more wanton when warped about a bit of silk or leather? Of course there's nothing like offering your sex or even your own mouth to other hungry lips .. Perhaps there are other 'mouths' on your sweetest pet or lover, slave or slut that look better when stretched or full?

Just as Ubi did, i'm a fan of variety .. let's see how we can surprise one another.

[One]

this one's inspired by Takao, Kuromaku, and Infernis.
yeah, you guys did this.

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Pale child of the stars, he thought to himself as he knealt carefully against her pillows. He sank into the bedding but the elf did not turn an eyelash, so exhausted from the dancing that she did not even seem to be dreaming. There, her bare wrist and the thin web of life underneath it's translucent pearl flesh .. Her fingers only just curled, knuckles laid to rest near the sharp spun sugar spine of her ear. So softly she breathed, with her mouth gaping only ever so slightly for breath. Her maids had plaited her long hair into plaits that twined across the linens, as pale a blue and as stark a white as winter clouds.

The club of his cock ticked softly in the air, fully erect, just an inch from her face. To him it seemed incomperably ugly in contrast; it was a troll's endowment, covered in irregular studs of flesh and ropy vein. It was anticipatory, drooling long strings of clear juice that would soon begin to strike her pristine apple-blossom blush. He savored the moment, it could not have been sweeter .. How she had chided him. How she had called him unkind, so cruel, how could he, she said. Her master had laughed! Loud, and long, with the rest of them. He knew she still had her precious membrane. This aroused him most of all.

Long had he stood outside her door, guarding the sanctity of her bedchamber. Long had he escorted her from meals to baths, to meetings with their Lord who simply gazed upon her as something quite precious - so fragile - how -jealous- the troll had felt, for no discernable reason. How valuable she was. His blunt face was a monster in the bruise of the room's gauzy darkness, rummaging into a thunderous frown.

He'd bared her breasts .. They were as he'd expected them to be. Big and soft, unfocused globes that settled toward the tendermost undersides of her arms. He had caressed her nipples with his big fingertips so slowly and carefully so that they would rise to him. He pretended now that their tender blush was for him. Only for him. His enormous hips cast a shadow across her shoulders so large that he'd eclipsed her from the moon. He hunched, lower now, and took hold of the headboard. She sighed as his saline finally touched at her mouth, licking her lips .. As she opened her teeth a little farther he bolstered himself. The bed creaked with his weight, a last adjustment. He presented the huge flare of his cockhead to that most uncommon candy mouth and to his amazement it -opened.- Hurriedly, too quickly, he filled the soft pink cavern she presented with the tip of his meat.

When her mouth began to reflexively suckle him, he felt it boiling. He bared his mismatched, oblong and leaning teeth .. He pushed up his face and strained his bull neck. Not yet .. The troll warrior's heavy balls pulsed and tightened. For several seconds he could not bear to look down on that innocent face, fearing he would lose his control .. But when he did look, she was peaceful still. Only now .. her flossy, tender cheeks were rounded with his girth. She fed upon him with only a shift of her legs .. He watched, then, enraptured. It was better than when she sang, better than the moments when she put her fingers to the harp .. Better than the first night she'd arrived, when she was not afraid of him, and she'd sung him a lullaby.

He reached into her blankets. He felt that he could hide the flat of her youthful, naked stomach underneath one hand. Farther backward, the living armor of heavily muscled arm stretched .. They thought he didn't know where to touch her, he was certain. But he was far from ignorant to such things. He cupped her mons until the moon's most haunting child settled once more into a delicate rhythm of breathing and suckling .. When he divided the first velveteen soft of her nether lips with his enormous middle finger she whimpered around him. It startled him so badly that his dick jerked and it nearly gave up onto her tongue .. But he ground his teeth, scarred pectorals flickering. The urge to come went once more.

He found that nub of flesh he knew would be there. Once more his conscience needled him .. his master had warned him. What had been his words? The troll rubbed and pushed the nub of flesh back and forth. It was so little that it hid against his fingerprint, even when it came to life - thickened - and began to pulse. 'All that she does not yet know belongs to me. All that she will learn of the flesh. You shall not teach her. I shall keep her, my artifice of carnal ignorance, until it pleases me to sully her.' The troll returned the sight of his single functioning eye to her face. She was flushed now, moaning around his tip. He pushed himself farther into her, and her delicate lips snapped into place behind his head to engulf it. " .. There .. " he whispered. He'd not said a word to her until then, and she could not hear him. "There. You are safe. You are quiet .. " his baritone pushed through his chest, his nerves were on fire.

The troll couldn't bear it. Not any more. Her tongue writhed now, against the split in the back of his head. Her tender face was drowning in fever, in delight, her slight - impossible - incomperable shape arched between his thighs. In one respect, he observed as he uncorked his thick cock from her face with a sloppy 'pop,' he had obeyed his master. His searing come gouted across her throat, spilled onto her breastbone and covered her palepink nipples with sticky dripping strings. With that single middle digit he was inspiring it. She could not help it either .. she was waking. He reached down quick as a viper and covered her mouth with his palm to douse her screams. His angel, his master's brightest seraphim, came violently and writhed underneath him in blind rapture. Her bright violet eyes were so terribly awake, full of tears, painfully lovely. His heart thickened.

"Now you will know," he crooned, leaning close. His square head and asymmetrical face, blunt push of his nose and curl of his mouth bowed. His broad, hard back curved, his abdomen clutched. He bent so near to her that the downy hairs that had escaped her plaits gusted around her terror-stricken features. He nearly kissed his own knuckles. Her fear smelled like clover and bluebells. "Now you will know who your real master is. When he takes you first .. I shall come, in the night, and take you again. And again .. "

[Twerlinger]

Just because I got some new toys and wanted to see how they would work

[Stormbringer]

Here's one from an ongoing series on my site.

And to be fair, it was Taria who started the challenges before Ubique took it over

[taria]

>.> Did I? Glad you guys enjoyed the idea.. I love seeing what you all create each week and that you are enjoying the challenges I created so long ago.. Even if it has passed hand-to-hand ^^.

[Ehlanna]

Belated entry:

[Ehlanna]

And a picture by Unique:

[mozenwrathe]

*Some people honestly believe the only thing that looks good in a slave's mouth is their shaft. Of course, that is the way Belariath works... usually. Though if you ask others, not always is it something sexual they want in the mouth and against the tongue of a chosen pet. Many of those who believe that sex is their right to claim have attempted to force others into their way of thinking. Some days it works better than others. There is a tale about a group of Ishtarians within Leaina'Tyrne who chanced upon a strangely shaded barbarian, demanding he kneel before them all and give them all pleasure in that fashion. Let us say the story didn't end well for them at all, and the barbarian cast out from the coastal city for "crimes against proper citizens." Oh, and there was much snickering at the Healer's Haven within the town itself for weeks.*

It's A Great Way To Start The Day
by Ánië Vanimedlë

I can remember traveling to a town on the western coasts named Leaina'Tyrne one year, but for what reason I can't really recall. There was some call to arms by a torian spell-sword named Lady Dearbháil of the Gleaming Glaives against a chirot necromancer and his minions - living and otherwise. Not that normally I would have gone to that woman's aid, but I have a decided dislike for necromancers. They have always chosen to ruin whatever plans I have had for something special, merely because they could. I cannot say the campaign was a brilliant one, but it was swift and the necromancer was slain. When it came time to lick our wounds, the spell-sword told us about this one tavern within the city itself who had a most interesting head cook. Apparently no less than seven people challenged this cook to a duel of some kind, only to be defeated handily. What the duels were, Lady Dearbháil refused to tell us at the time, only able to smirk quietly to herself. Giving all those willing to go into the town enough coin to buy whatever they really needed, Lady Dearbháil's seneschal Aibhlinn provided the curious with instructions on how to reach the tavern the cook worked in.

Perhaps I should have had an idea of what I was getting into when I learned the tavern's name was Faolchú Ceiliúrann Sí Breáthacht. Not that I had any idea what the name of the tavern meant, but something about the first word had me thinking about fur for some reason. As it happens, the head cook of the tavern was none other than a wolven. Not the largest or meanest wolven I had seen in my days, but he was definitely not interested in playing with his food. A concubine, he was clearly the property of the tavern's owner, a rather brusque looking Tribesman by the name of Kiwidinok. The wolven himself had a name, but most just called him Cócaire. Apparently it was another word for "cook" or "chef." It had been so long since anyone not his master called him Cócaire that he just answered to it. Not that he had any reason not to, for those under his command in the kitchen also called him the same name. Notably enough, the barkeep's name was Freastalaí - another concubine of Kiwidinok, whose "name" actually just meant "bartender." It seemed to be quite the theme for the place, really. The Tribesman had slain the previous owner of the tavern in a duel to the death, then had the man resurrected out of some debt of honour. In turn, he got the tavern and all of the slaves within as bounty. The story behind all of that was apparently very interesting, but not one Kiwidinok was willing to tell us visiting torians. Leaina'Tyrne, it seemed, was very big on keeping local dealings local.

Anyway, Cócaire was in fine form that day. He had apparently physically thrown out an ogre who was a little too far in his cups to be dealt with peacefully earlier that morning. When the ogre had tried to get a little of their own back later on, the wolven cook had broken the ogre's nose, had it healed... then broke it again. What was the strangest part of the tale was Cócaire then stuffing the ogre's mouth with some freshly baked vegetable bread slathered in venison gravy. The ogre, upon being force fed... just sort of gave up being hostile and sat there chewing for ten minutes. It was as if the wolven's food was a grand pacifier, or Cócaire had thrown a little something extra into the dough to make the ogre more easy to push and prod into where he needed them to be. Either way, this cooking of this wolven chef's was something I just had to see for myself now. Even if I was a little wary of eating any of it, I still wanted to see for myself just what this big hairy beast was capable of when it came to food.

There has always been some part of me that refuses to believe wolven are good for anything more than target practice. I have never had much appreciation for them, vulpani, or any of the furred races. Perhaps it is my intrinsic belief torians are superior to all the other races that causes such dismissive thoughts within my head. Still, each of the other races had something useful about them in one way or another. Even the chirot, despite their desire to destroy we of the glorious wings and beautiful visage, had a place in the world. Normally, that place was about as far from me as possible, but occasionally some of their kind would own stores I needed to frequent. As long as it wasn't a diehard zealot, I was pretty much fine with them. The chirot necromancer that Lady Dearbháil had sought to challenge had been a zealot, using the bodies of dead torians as her front lines just to mock us. Even then, the male had been overconfident, and his place in the world was now feeding the worms and grubs with his corpse. Back to wolven though, for Cócaire was definitely not one disproportionately proud or direly disparaging of his ancestry. He simply was. If he had been of any other race, could none have taken him seriously though. Not with some of the words I heard flying from his mouth in that strange accent of his. Even for the people of Leaina'Tyrne, his speech was definitely off.

Keeping with the weirdness of the day, I found the wolven cook looming over what had to be four different fae - one of them being a pixie. This was the first time I had seen this Cócaire, and whom had to be Freastalaí leaning on the bar just shaking his head in mirth and amazement. Apparently we had arrived to an argument in progress, and the pixie leading the verbal charge against the wolven cook's ideas of what truly magnificent sweets could be made of.

"SUGAR! It must have sugar! Lots of sugar! Enough sugar to make a sugar casing with sugar spears and sugar shields with! That is what sweets are, stoooopid furry male who-don't-know-what-sweets-are-'cause-they-tongue-too-long! Sweets have to be sweet which means it has to have sugar in it! Everyone but you knows that because you don't know nothing!"

Little did I know at the time, but she had been raving at the wolven for a good portion of an hourglass. One of the regulars there, a dwarven woman named Emsiesye, had in fact been timing the pixie's rant. She was quite impressed, considering the pixie had managed to call the wolven at least five different kinds of dog, four different types of stupid, and seventeen different words for corrupt. If anything the pixie was talented with that cute little mouth of hers. So very enchanting it was, those tasty lips moving with such swiftness. I wanted to go there, spin her to face me and bite them until she whimpered and wilted against my touch. Not that I don't like males at all, but she was the one making most of the fuss. There was another fae there that looked quite appealing as well. Him I could see on his knees teasing me between my thighs both front and back with leather collar around his throat and his length between his legs, but that wouldn't get me fed. It'd bring a smile to my face, yes, but that was beside the point. Emsiesye had not gotten the names of any of those fae by the bar counter itself, but she was certain eventually one of them would say something that resembled a name. That, or she'd just grab one by the butt cheeks and knead what she wanted to know out of them. And there was something I could easily agree with the dwarven woman. It was a plan I could get behind - complete with pun.

The other fae were chiming in as well, but what flew from their tongues was far less hospitable. It seemed the fae contingent were decidedly upset about a suggestion by the cook that not all sweets were made of sugar. Apparently the pixie herself thought such an idea was blasphemy in a book. Given what was next out of her mouth, it seemed she was more than willing to take the argument outside with the wolven. Size difference not withstanding, most would consider such an idea tantamount to suicide or slavery.

"You-you-you-you moron! Flea bitten dogeared dumb-muzzle! You can't cook if you don't know how to make proper SWEEEEEEETS! Your owner should fire you and put you into a kennel to make you know your place in the world if you-you-you-you-you REFUSE to make SWEETS with SWEET THINGS like SUGAR and MORE SUGAR! I will make you understand even if I have to beat you with sugar beets until you start crying like a starving baby kitty-kitty!"

Yes, indeed. She was incensed. I don't believe I had ever seen a pixie that angry before. To be honest, I didn't know any fae to be able to start spewing venom of any sort at one of the larger races without actually having been attacked physically first. One had to believe the cute little thing in her rather decorative dress had not had a proper sweet fix in quite some time. Her eyes were staring straight up into the maw of the verbally besieged wolven cook. Money was busy changing hands to see how long it would be before Cócaire lost his mind and tried to savage the pixie, or if the pixie and other fae would throw themselves into a murderous frenzy and try stabbing the wolven to death in protest. Either way, the small gathering of people in the tavern smelled blood about to be spilled, and the floor of Faolchú Ceiliúrann Sí Breáthacht would be getting a new stain or two smeared across it. Now, I love the feeling of a full grown pixie warming my bed, so I was tempted to snatch her away along with her friends to show them a better way of using those tongues of theirs. From the way one of the swordsmen beside me was adjusting his breeches, he had similar thoughts for the fire fae male who even now was leaning up on the counter to try to get into the face of the much taller wolven.

"Yeah, Mister Fur For Brains! You should know better than to try to trick a pixie about their sweets. And here the tavern owner said you actually know your way around a proper kitchen. Maybe on your belly and sniffing around for the scraps, but that has to be eat. Talking about sweets not needing sugar to be properly sweet is madness. Madness, I tell you! Is that foam I see around your mouth there, Mister Fur For Brains? Maybe you need to see a Healer to cure you of whatever is affecting what is between your ears!"

Okay, now I knew these fae were all completely insane. Nobody sat there an insulted a wolven in that fashion without having some sort of combat sense. And from what little I could tell, none of the little gathering knew how to hold a longsword for the life of them. This promised to get very messy, very swiftly and brutally. The glare that Cócaire gave the four or five fae was definitely not a promising one. His claws slowly carved a groove into the counter top. From the sigh and the shaking of his head, apparently this was not the first time Freastalaí had witnessed this scene. From the front of the tavern itself, Kiwidinok himself found the entire thing entertaining. It was as if he already knew how this entire situation would play itself out.

"Enough!" roared the wolven, clearly having no more patience with the verbal bombardment from the fae contingent. Most males I had known would have tried to grab that one pixie by the hair and shove their manhood down her throat to shut her up. Of course, they might have found themselves the size of a pixie soon after... or missing said manhood through one means or another. The concubinage left the wolven a little without certain rights and privileges as a completely free person would have had. Though from the movement of the wolven, he wasn't reaching for his chain mail kilt to drop it. His torso swiveled swiftly as if to deliver the back of his hand to the lost of the rabble rousing roster. The chilling snarl heard low and loudly from his throat was chilling even to me, and I had faced off against three of that chirot necromancer's largest and most disgustingly put together minions from beyond the shallow graves.

What transpired next was something I would never forget. The wolven's speed was almost painful to watch as into the mouths of each of the fae - including the pixie - was shoved a different candied fruit. Not only were they candied, they were huge pieces, wedges even. Nothing small about the servings at all, and by the looks on the faces of the fae, their flavour wasn't minuscule either. Eyes opened wide as if feet had been staked with hot iron pokers. Hands flapped in frenzy like they were trying to take off in flight. And for the first time since those torians and I decided to drop into this tavern, was all completely silent. One had to figure the wolven's shout from before had something significant to do with it, but the majority of eyes were on the five little people... and one rather menacing dark elven dame who slowly approached the counter as well.

Emsiesye apparently knew of the moriel well enough to know more than a little trepidation. My newly deemed dwarven associate - as my fellow torians and I had commandeered her table - gave us an abbreviated rundown of who the woman was, and why more than a few people had at least one hand fall away from their tables to keep close to their cutters. Apparently, this Iymafae'mice was a necromancer of ill-repute. And to think my table had just gotten rid of one. Her favourite thing was to find someone to offend her "delicate senses," slay them before all their friends, and then turn them into a minion. A "close personal friend" of a few of the local lairds, she was pretty much considered untouchable by most in the township. And now, it seemed, she was after a new target: Cócaire.

"You there, loud and furred one. You will give me one of these sugarless sweets as well. I wish to see if it is worth all the screeching and yelping I have been forced to listen to."

Her hand was extended in a slow and elegant fashion, but it was clear she was not asking for a sample but ordering one from the wolven. His response was priceless: "If you want one, you'll have to select from the nine different types I have. I wouldn't presume to know your tastes, Iymafae'mice, but I will tell you that the wine you apparently hate so much was used for the three golden ones there. The mead that friend of yours almost spoiled with his poisons was used for the two on the far right. Though worry not, he failed miserably and had to explain his actions to Thiarna Egnarod and Thiarna Hernothne. That one on the furthest left was made with dwarven tongues in mind, so it may be a little strong for you, and..."

As one could expect, the moriel went straight for the one the wolven cook insisted would be not quite what she wanted. The way she licked her lips as she took the first bite should have warned him - or rather, poor and unassuming Freastalaí - something had gone horribly wrong. The second bite and the methodical chewing was met with Cócaire's just watching her eat. It was his personal pride on the line now, something which one could see him reaching for a hand-and-a-half sword to defend. For what it was worth, the concubine cared nothing for whatever protections or titles the dark elven necromancer had to her name. He only cared about what Iymafae'mice said about the finished product.

The pixie and her fae companions were too busy reaching for a second piece each to really concern themselves over the fact death on two legs was standing right beside them. Apparently had they all nothing to say at the moment, as the five of them were busy stuffing their faces with the second helping. They must have missed the mention of potential poisoning, for all of them reached for the ones made with mead. Apparently, a certain pixie had forgotten about the natural sweetness found in both fruits and honey. The wolven cook had not, and it had proven something he used to surprising effectiveness in his cooking and baking. Before I could get up the nerve to go and ask Kiwidinok about the recipes his concubine used, the dark elf had decided what she wanted next.

Lunging across the counter, she grabbed Freastalaí by the collar and pulled out a mithril dagger. Placing it to his throat, Iymafae'mice looked over at the tavern keep with a blood curdling smile. The words that flowed from her mouth were filled with mirth and sexual overtones and undertones.

"I need to borrow this for a while. Say... two hours or so. He is going to be feeding me these lovely treats of your other pet. I trust fifty mehrial will be enough to cover both the treats and... the 'treat' here. Going to use this private booth over here to enjoy my lunch. Please, do be a dear and ensure that nobody bothers us? And worry not, good man Kiwidinok, your bit of human fluff will not be harmed to any real extent. A little exhausted perhaps, but there are potions for that, yes? Excellent. Now then, cook, I know you have at least four more platters full of those candied fruits. Place the best ones on a tray and have one of your serving lads bring it to my booth and leave it there."

What made it worse was that she started giggling half way through what she was saying. If you've never seen a moriel giggle, consider yourselves fortunate. It was like seeing madness through a silken screen and knowing it was watching you while stroking itself to your visage. Not exactly the best image to carry with you when a little tired. Biting the unfortunate bastard on the throat almost lovingly, Iymafae'mice pretty much carted the concubine Freastalaí to the booth she mentioned, closing it off with a heavy curtain and possibly bespelling it immediately after.

The tavern keep saw the pile of coins tossed onto the counter carelessly by the dark elf, motioning for his head cook to go into the kitchen and do what the dark elf said. Sighing, he had one of his tavern slaves count the mehrial pile - a svelte human girl with oddly dark green hair and violet eyes. She motioned back to him that the moriel had, in fact, left sixty mehrial on the counter. Rubbing his temples, the Tribesman coughed and told his slavegirl to put the coin away in the coffers, for there was not much else to be done than to serve up the customer's order. The last thing that I could remember hearing in that tense moment before the entire tavern broke up in laughter was the pixie slamming her hand on the counter with a small pile of mehrial and copper coins.

"I want more like the dark-dark pointy-ear lady had! Gimme!"

[-finis, at 11:00am, May 15 2012-]

** so everyone knows, a lot of the names and words today were found using an English to Irish or English to Gaelic translator. so feel free to look up what some of them meant.

[Tehya]

Enjoyed this story and am looking forward to the next part.