03-09-2017, 12:15 AM
Those wings are as soft as she'd imagined, feather-light and warm as they drag her in, and for a while she forgets. There is heat and fire but no time for the teasing and playfulness she most often enjoys, there is only rush and want and need as she presses herself along Charlemagne, forces the mare to dance along the very edges of power just out of her grasp.
She kiss the yellow neck, traces her dark muzzle down the dipping dorsal stripe and the sleek curve of the mare's golden rump, knowing exactly the right touch, the right places. Charlemagne is so different, bright instead of dark, but it is not enough. Djinni is still herself and that is too much, and so she nips harder at the base of the black tail than she might have. She rears up, changes, presses down on the buckskin's back as a stallion. He burns with need - the need to forget - and takes it out on the mare below him, rough and savage as he holds her withers beneath his mouth, scrapes her flawless shoulders with heavy hooves. He holds the magic still, knows she will feel it everywhere he presses against her back, knows it will be enough to keep her beneath him until he has want he wants and then...
He does, and there is bright and molten fire and supreme physical satisfaction...and emptiness.
The pleasures is still seeping through her body as she - she, again - throws herself down, but she feels only the hollowness where something else should be.
She can't name it, not when she refuses to admit to herself that he has tainted everything for her. This should have been enough, a pretty face, a dark wood, her name moaned aloud.
But it was not enough.
Perhaps nothing will ever be enough again.
Djinni has not forgotten Charlemagne (she wishes her pleasure intense enough to blot out the trees overhead) but there is no longer any allure to her, not with her golden (not blue) eyes or sunshine (not midnight) hide. The grullo horse doesn't bother to hide the disappointment in her expression - let Charlemagne think she is the reason - as she presses a friendly kiss to the mare's forehead. She had not promised the buckskin mare anything; as far as Djinni is concerned this had been a legitimate trade.
"I can't give you magic," she tells Charlemagne. "You'll have to ask the Mountain for that." There'd already been life stirring within the other mare's belly, and with the first real smile since she'd met her, Djinni wishes the unborn child to be - at least for a few hours after birth - a lovely shade of smokey grullo tobiano. And then she's gone in a puff of golden sand, leaving Charlemagne used, alone, and still empty of magic.
She kiss the yellow neck, traces her dark muzzle down the dipping dorsal stripe and the sleek curve of the mare's golden rump, knowing exactly the right touch, the right places. Charlemagne is so different, bright instead of dark, but it is not enough. Djinni is still herself and that is too much, and so she nips harder at the base of the black tail than she might have. She rears up, changes, presses down on the buckskin's back as a stallion. He burns with need - the need to forget - and takes it out on the mare below him, rough and savage as he holds her withers beneath his mouth, scrapes her flawless shoulders with heavy hooves. He holds the magic still, knows she will feel it everywhere he presses against her back, knows it will be enough to keep her beneath him until he has want he wants and then...
He does, and there is bright and molten fire and supreme physical satisfaction...and emptiness.
The pleasures is still seeping through her body as she - she, again - throws herself down, but she feels only the hollowness where something else should be.
She can't name it, not when she refuses to admit to herself that he has tainted everything for her. This should have been enough, a pretty face, a dark wood, her name moaned aloud.
But it was not enough.
Perhaps nothing will ever be enough again.
Djinni has not forgotten Charlemagne (she wishes her pleasure intense enough to blot out the trees overhead) but there is no longer any allure to her, not with her golden (not blue) eyes or sunshine (not midnight) hide. The grullo horse doesn't bother to hide the disappointment in her expression - let Charlemagne think she is the reason - as she presses a friendly kiss to the mare's forehead. She had not promised the buckskin mare anything; as far as Djinni is concerned this had been a legitimate trade.
"I can't give you magic," she tells Charlemagne. "You'll have to ask the Mountain for that." There'd already been life stirring within the other mare's belly, and with the first real smile since she'd met her, Djinni wishes the unborn child to be - at least for a few hours after birth - a lovely shade of smokey grullo tobiano. And then she's gone in a puff of golden sand, leaving Charlemagne used, alone, and still empty of magic.
D J I N N I
genie | rose gold tobiano dun | trickster