[Femboy/M4Futa] The tale of long-ears [Elves] and puffy assholes.

Status: Open.

You wake as you do most days. You stretch your limbs, and partake of the pleasantly fragrant tea that has been set alongside your bedroll. You're halfway done when the first set of long ears appears. Always inquisitive, from the moment you wake. It isn't five minutes later that a pair of sinfully soft lips are rolling up and down the length of your rigid shaft. You haven't even had the chance to piss, and the petite, moonlight-bright eyes are gazing up at you from where their face nestles amidst your pubic hair. Long-fingered hands cup your buttocks, and you grunt. The kiss to your anus is delivered with tentative softness, before it swiftly becomes a tongue wriggling through your ring. Both of your flat-chested assailants purr audibly, going about their oral exploration of your erogenous zones. Inevitably, your breathing picks up and you empty your nuts in the throat of the petite blonde knelt before you.

He gags gleefully, but doesn't miss a drop.

A Matriarchy. The women are taller than the males, athletic to a fault and war-bent from the time they can walk. The males seem a uniform five-feet in height, and it is only in their presence that the women display any degree of gentleness. It is a reversal of all things found in the realm of Man. Their women train constantly. They range, hunt, and make war upon the orcs of the mountains. You find time for your morning piss, and go hunting for the breakfast that is always left for you. Your knee bears your weight better with every passing day. Soon, they tell you, you may be allowed to leave. You are always careful to show respect. Always careful to observe custom, where you understand it. It is an unspoken agreement. If they think, even for an instant, that you will betray the things you have seen, they will slit your throat in your sleep and think nothing of it. Only pity had stopped them. You had been wounded, and at the very end of your strength. The strength of your frame is visible, and a complete reversal of the emaciated revenant their scouts had first delivered to their sacred glade.

The men are more beautiful than the women, which is saying something. Androgynous to a fault, flowing hair, rarely clad in more than leaves and a loincloth. Tight, too.

He is sprawled across the table, beside the remnants of your meal. Your eyes lock on the place where your shaft tunnels into the too-small pink ring between his ample buttocks. He simpers and mewls, fangs showing as his nails draw runnels in the wood. Your hips clap to his backside, marveling not for the first time at the nature of them. They don't do this to one another. You aren't like them, though. With your broad human cock and sturdy frame, you seem like some strange amalgamation between woman and man. You bear features of both. Your balls draw tight, and you earn a screed of blissful elven that comes too quickly for you to decipher. His spine arches, narrow shoulders hunched as you empty yourself somewhere inside of his colon. All the while, his interior clenches and coaxes, milking you for all you have. This one has red hair, like the dying light of the sun. You can't recall if you've fucked him before. You've fucked most of them. It seems to amuse the women, more than draw their ire. The backs of his thighs tremble as you withdraw, his anus puffy and open from use. As you watch, the first rivulets of your seed begin to slide back out of him.

He crouches, turning on wobbly legs, and his tongue goes to work. You whisper praises as he cleans you, heedless of any taboo regarding affixing his mouth to a cock fresh from his own ass. They're getting rather good at it. Half a minute's time, perhaps less, and your manhood shines with nothing more than spit. He grins up at you, and straightens. His walk is a bit bowlegged, and your cum slicks the back of one soft thigh. You're a bit too winded to finish your meal, so you go for a walk instead. They've provided you trousers, a tunic, and even a walking stick. You need the last item less and less.

Revilt is one of the few who has bothered to try and learn your speech. Blonde hair falls to his backside. He is fey, supple, and seems to enjoy you best when you settle your back in the loam. He differs from his kin, enjoying the control found in bouncing himself at his own pace upon your throbbing shaft. When you draw up with a grunt and empty your seed into him, he kisses you. Every time.

He looks distraught when he slams into you, a petite arrow slung from the woods. Only now do you smell smoke.

Rapid elvish is met with a stupefied look. Revilt stomps a foot, and points. You hear the crash of steel. The elf chews his lower lip, and grasps your forearm, tugging. You resist, and he tugs harder. He speaks again, and apparently recalls through his own panic that your mastery of elf-tongue is poor at best. "Orcs," he hisses, tugging once more. "We go. Must go. Come. Run." That doesn't sit well with you. You're a warrior. A woman of iron and combat. But you have no hardened leather or protective tattoos, nor spear or axe. And if the smoke curling at your feet and the distant screams of pain and alarm are of any use in informing your decision, it is unlikely you would offer much aid.

Through brush. Through brambles and thorns. Over a stream, up one hillside and down the other. Night is falling, when Revilt finally tugs you into a cave. His ears are pinned to the sides of his head. Burs cling to his hair, and he wears the same lacerations, cuts, and bruises that you do. He looks most miserable, likely lost in thought and buried by worry for his kinfolk. Neither of you are willing to risk a fire. Night comes, and the scent of smoke never leaves. Chill wind carries it, and before long the elf is huddled to you. You can't do much about the response you make to that. His bare, bubbly backside grazing your crotch. It doesn't take him long to notice. Perhaps it is the absurd hopelessness of the situation. Perhaps it is shock.

Whatever the cause, Revilt plucks his loincloth to one side. You can feel the heat of his asshole against your shaft, even through your breeches, the coldness of his back against your breasts. He casts an annoyed glance over his shoulder, at odds with the small grin he wears. "In?" He asks casually, spine arching as he rocks against your firmness. In, you consider, would be quite nice.

Another long-term idea, looking for partners. As always. Feel free to message me with the idea for who your character is. And let's discuss everything!