A Dance For Three...

Silence encompasses the young scout as the moments tick by, his eyes glued to where the cat had fallen only to be quickly pursued by the tainted one. The muscles in his arms, tightly held in place to keep his next arrow aimed at the patch of leaves, had already begun to ache. It was only a matter of time until he would be **** to relax them to avoid another wild misfire. Another 15 seconds with his hyper sensitive owl ears detecting nothing would prove to be his limit, the bowstring losing its tension as he slowly eased back on the grip. He wasn’t so foolish to lower his quill, but his accuracy would suffer if he couldn’t hold the damn string without shaking.

A deep inhale to clear some of the stress, both physical and existential, fills the archer's lungs and returns some focus to his racing thoughts. As the moments stretch onward, despite his unflinching overwatch, worry begins to worm its way into his heart. Logically, he knew that the guilt he was feeling for sending that Sneasel plummeting toward the ground was unwarranted. His people had made life hell for the goodly folk of the forest for decades, raiding the homes of the innocent for food, pillaging and often, much darker desires…

Still…

This one claimed to be unaffiliated with the clan of raiders and thieves. Likely a falsehood, as the tree cats were known for that as well, but if there was even a small chance that truth was behind his words… The freshly minted ranger didn’t like the idea of his first scouting mission ending with wounding innocents. Doubts were beginning to cloud his concentration…

It would snap back into sharpened scrutiny in an instant when he began to detect the soft rustle of leaves being disturbed below him. The bowstring is drawn tight, ready to release its barbed payload in an instant when the tips of two purple wings flap upward into view. The urge to release the arrow early is difficult to suppress, but the avian was long overdue a shot that hit home. He would maintain discipline, honoring those who drove those skills into his skull, and wait for the target to fully emerge! His weapon of choice was primed and ready for what came next, though evidently, he himself was not.

Leisurely but with clear intent, the infected insect arose from the mess of plant matter, though she would not come unaccompanied. The intense focus with which the young warrior had wrapped himself isn’t prepared for what would drift into view. His eyes, formerly narrowed with singular purpose, now stretch wide as the moth woman wings her way up to him, the ****, outwardly facing Sneasel wrapped tightly in her spindly arms. Initial thoughts that this might be some sick joke, a form of displaying her fallen foe's body for cruelty's sake alone, are dispelled immediately as she adjusts her flight to hover opposite the bird.

Fixing her gaze upon him, her corrupted purple eyes peer over the top of the cat's head as it lolls freely to the beat of her flaps. It finally dawns on the young scout that she has effectively taken the cat as a buffer between them. Her intent finally made clear to the ranger, he is left with few options. He was a good shot but her gentle rise and fall with each pump of her wings along with her being mostly obscured with his temporary ally would make the attempt far too risky. Flying to another vantage wasn’t in the cards, either, as that would leave him exposed to a counterattack and was mostly moot anyways as she would simply realign herself and her furry shield. Her infected orbs never leave him as his mind races for alternatives; each passing moment the growing ache in his drawing arm becomes more difficult to ignore.

As his over exerted forearm begins to shake from the taut bowstring pushing back against his muscles, he is **** to choose between releasing the arrow with questionable accuracy, or the tension in the draw. Grunting in equal parts exhaustion and frustration, he eases up on the bow and allows it to slowly return to resting position, still clutching the quill tight should it be needed. Despite the stalemate, he knew there still was one path left to him. He would rest the body and mind, watching for a slip, and waiting for a chance to exploit it without risking the cat. If this beast wanted to claim her dinner, he reasoned, she would have to let her guard down sometime.

The feral, as it would transpire, had other plans for the Sneasel and his impromptu vanguard…

The owl's fresh resolve is tested, hand reflexively re-knocking the arrow and preparing to pull back, as the moth is the first to act. He observed the woman, apparently confident in the ranger’s **** to skewer her fuzzy prisoner, raise her head up just enough to reveal a worrying smirk on her angular visage. The ranger weathered the taunting grin and continued to survey in silence for an opening. Her gloating would afford her no hold over him, he vowed inwardly, nor mercy when the time came. As a warrior, he wouldn’t hesitate.

The mental pep session would be challenged however, as the Venomoth allowed one of her thin, chitinous hands drift toward her prey's chest and softly began to caress the fluff. The archer couldn’t stop himself from cocking a brow as the feral ran her fingers through the cat's short fur, her corrupted eyes never leaving the birds for a second. Back and forth, stroking and scratching, the tenderness would go without the notice of the unresponsive man; This self proclaimed ‘Kale’ if the avian recalled correctly. Despite this, the woman continued her exploration of the man a little while longer before halting the molestation, her piercing gaze ensuring that she held all of the young owls' attention for what came next.

In one quick motion, her roaming hand would glide up and under the chin of her arrow-proof vest, grasping it firmly before raising his sagging face to meet her own. Skilled or not, the dutiful bird wasn’t prepared for that thin strand-like tongue to slip free of its owner's maw and take a wet, prolonged lick across the muzzle of her victim. Dumbfounded at this disconcerting display, the ranger can do nothing but watch as the subsequent laps along the cat's face become increasingly perverse. He knew that to endure this humiliating turn of events was to save the feline’s life, but the soft moans now accompanying each lick made it hard to not feel shame for watching such deviancy. The unbroken scrutiny of his feral opponent further sapped his will as she was, instead, emboldened by his wavering resolve. Unsurprisingly, he is the first to break the staring contest, turning from the scene in disgust to collect his focus.

This didn’t make sense! He was never one to shy from a fight, rather he relished the chance to hone his budding abilities. This, however, none of THIS is what he was trained for. How could he snipe a target with a (presumably) innocent man held between them? How could he fight and foe seemingly more intent on mocking him than trading blows?!

The conflicted ranger suddenly realized he’d inadvertently and stupidly taken his concentration off the dangerous girl, driving himself to face her for fear of a sneak attack. As his attention is returned to the matter at hand, it becomes evident that she has made no move toward him. They both hang there in the evening breeze, her eyes still roaming over the flustered bird having likely never left him. A gasp is stolen from the owl, though, seeing that she has ceased her tasting of the kitty and instead tasked her slender tongue with invading his mouth left agape by the toxin.

Having regained her unwilling voyeur once more, the one-sided kiss deepens with the sounds of gentle suckles and breathy moans soon emanating from the pair. This display of lewdness finally shook the archer from his iron stance, the extended wing arm providing him with his ranged weapon starting to sag off target. The warm feeling of flushed cheeks were next to **** his **** attempts to remain on task, though the burning in his feathered face was proof that he was failing in this regard. Seeing that her provocation had begun to take hold, the Venomoth continues to test the limits of the foolish fowl’s determination.

With a final throaty exhale accompanying the *POP* of parting lips, her owl encompassing eyes narrow dangerously and a sinister grin creases the insect's saliva slickened maw. In a heart stopping motion she suddenly releases the tight grip on her feline toy and he begins to slip from her arms causing the shocked ranger to flinch forward as if to make for a catch. The kitten's descent is halted almost immediately, however, a fresh squeeze keeping him locked against his captor. The owl's blush burns all the brighter when a staggered hissing, almost like mocking laughter, comes from the ever watchful moth. Anger bubbles within his chest at the callous taunting and soon threatens to boil over into reckless action. His emotional response is blunted however when he realizes exactly where Kale’s head has wound up. It lags there, half buried and muzzle poking out between two lucious violet breasts. The two mounds, previously hidden in the fluffy material about her bosom, bounce causally along with her rhythmic wing flaps to rub against either side of the dozing feline’s face.

She doesn’t stop there, choosing to turn up the pressure on both men, one literally and the other figuratively. The ranger is made to gawk as the moth woman commences the swaying of her hips behind the dangling plaything. It’s subtle at first, almost entirely hidden behind the limp noodle legs of the Sneasel, but soon her pace quickens, as does her enthusiasm. The sashay of her thighs begins to affect the hips of the feline, the motions jolting them to follow along with her performance. It isn’t long before her sensual dance envelops the entirety of her shaking form, the unaware Kale being **** to keep up. It wouldn’t be long before the gyrations and the carnal presentation began to have an effect on the moth’s captive audience…

Arms fully drooping to his sides, the drawn quill left to fall harmlessly from his grasp, the young scout now stares in morbid fascination at the mock embrace. His purple tormentor leans further into his budding desire to know what she was capable of as her hand once more strokes downward across the cat's chest. It doesn’t waste time with pawing and rubbing and instead traverses his soft belly to grasp at the treehopper's exposed sheath, the tip of his penis already begging to join the fun. She lets her fingers remain there for a time, her unyielding gaze drinking in the emotions roiling within the torn avian.

The growing heartbeat in his ears drowning out the soft rustle of leaves, the uncontrollable quiver in his lip each time he drew breath, the devilish heat rising up in response to the debauchery he bore witness to… All of these things fought for what remained of his willpower, all of them shaming him for his useless inaction. He couldn’t solve this problem, he couldn’t solve ANY problem. With nothing more than a few thrusts of her curvy figure, this vile woman had undone what took years to build within him. He felt like crying; to simply let it all come out and wash away the terrible things he was feeling. He wanted to weep for the failure of his teachings, weep for the Sneasel whom the woman treated like nothing more than a sexual object…

But most of all…?

He wanted to weep because it wasn’t HIM.

That last thought broke him, and though he would try to deny it, the tapering cock that had begun to creep out from between his legs would dispel any lie he told himself. He knew he should feel rage, aversion, SOMETHING other than desire for the woman who toyed with him now. When his wettened eyes returned to her violet glow, it felt strangely comforting to know she hadn’t forsaken him. Her hand resumed its play at the dark furred purse of her puppet, gripping tight and rolling its contents about her palm. Lost as he was in her warming gaze, the owl would absentmindedly drop a feathered hand to his own crotch to coax his member out with soft grasps, mirroring the fondles wasted on the unresponsive Kale.

The insect woman would leisurely begin to close the distance with the swooning pervert, each flutter of wings bringing her a bit nearer to the man pawing at his growing girth. When it became clear that her sway with those of the opposite sex had not failed her, she would approach, unafraid of any resistance from the lustful owl. Light as the midnight wind, the infected enchantress brings her sultry spectacle to a close and hovering just out of arm's reach. With the source of motion driving Kale's own perverse gyration ended, his limbs sluggishly wave in the breeze before they too came to a stand still. Though, as the feral would have it, this wouldn’t be so for long.

The provocative dance now ceased, the ranger has nothing left to distract him from the eyes that so enrapture him. The haze that surrounds him proves a burden to his reflexes, as the Sneasel is suddenly sent rocketing toward him. He barely manages to get one arm up to catch the improvised kitten missile before the cat smashed hard into his chest, driving them both to the bark with a pained, “Auuuggcckk??!” The landing is less than graceful, the owl laying sprawled across the back after having the breath knocked from his lungs by the unexpected strike.

Groaning and after having regained some of his senses, his attempts to get a leg under himself is thwarted by a new weight pressing down against his torso. With some aching effort, he is able to crane his neck enough to find the cat slumped face down into his chest plumage. Whether the downy fluff softened the blow or the feline is just a heavy sleeper, it matters little as there he lay, still out cold against an owl shaped pillow. Grunting in annoyance, the bird tries to dislodge the useless man from his entanglement only to gasp once more in pain as the weight upon him nearly doubles.

Through eyes half-clenched against the sting of his fresh bruises, he spots the long glassy leg of the Venomoth, hardened stomper atop the head of the Sneasel, to pin both it and himself to the branch. A worried glance up toward his captor reveals the looming woman to be casting her spell once more, corrupted orbs ensnaring him as she lends forward, the cat's face being driven harder into his feathery middle. The sting of his wounds are mitigated somewhat by the pressure of his **** acquaintance squishing his bird pecker tightly between them, causing it to resume its needy pulsing. That heat in his loins would threaten to overwhelm him once he realized how the moth had occupied her now empty hands.

He gawked in awe as one of those slender graspers would cup and then caress one of the mounds on her chest whilst it’s partner drove it’s fingers deep into her drooling snatch. Deep, guttural moans would come, growing in volume and frequency as she worked herself over for her captive audience of one. The moments slipped by, further gropes accompanied by the occasional stomp to keep the archer at FULL attention. Soon though, the feral would need more than simple teasing to get her where she’s going…

Panting hard at her rough treatment, the naïve scout would be given a show to remember as the moth would crouch low to grip both ankles of her kitten toy and without much fanfare, shove both his hindpaws deep into her well lubricated tunnel. Gasps of pleasure escape her as next the cat's calves are **** into the sweltering love canal, and the leg standing atop her two marks begins to quiver. Though they might occasionally flutter due to the carnal business below, her eyes never leave the young ranger. She watches his expression intently, consuming the ongoing array of fear, doubt, perversion, and shame. Through it all, the man has one singular conclusion coloring all of the other emotions running through him. All of the toying, the molestation, the torment she had put the feline through.

All of it was for HIM.

A show, an enticement designed to cater to the deepest and most depraved notions within him, long since buried by years of training. She had broken everything inside the ranger without ever taking an aggressive move against him. And now…

He wanted to see more…

That is why he didn’t budge an inch as she continued her performance, why he never shed a tear for the one he briefly knew as Kale when he slipped between her tenderness to be claimed by her womb, and that is why he speared her depths when at last she straddled him. He would know nothing more than hunger and lust from this point on. And the once promising young scout wouldn’t have it any other way…

The air was thick and damp when at long last Kale would yawn away the weariness in his numbness in his dazed mind. Disoriented as he was, it would take awhile for him to notice how confined his limbs felt. When gravity became a simple enough concept to grasp, he could sense that he was in an awkward, upside down facing position and was being jostled about for some reason. Finally gathering enough sense to know that something was off, he would open his Sneasel eyes.

Adapted as they were for low light situations, the gift of sight doesn’t dispel the growing worry in his stomach. Rather, they would add the last piece of this confounding puzzle and strike dread into his beating heart. He was in a tight, fleshy chamber and the walls were slicked with a pooling liquid that coated most of his form. The realization would eventually dawn on the trapped kitten that he had been bested by the moth and she was currently enjoying the spoils of victory. The conclusion is an unsettling one.

If you had any energy left in your body, you might have cried out, begged passers by to save you or even made your plea to the feral herself. The thought is a ridiculous one, you know, but any fading ray of hope would be better than admitting the doom that awaited you in this beast's stomach. One particularly violent shake snaps you from your self pity long enough to wonder why the woman would be bouncing about in such a manner. Maybe she was flying away with you, having left that useless ranger behind?

The bird…

You grimace in the darkness as your thoughts turn to the one indirectly responsible for your fall and subsequent devouring by this damned bug. If only he had managed to hit ONE of his shots, maybe shown even a touch of the ferocity he boasted when firing upon you, things might have turned out different. Except now, because the supposed marksman couldn’t shoot straight, here you slump; soaked in god knows what, tossed to and fro by the rocking of her belly, and… with an odd pressure now poking at the back of your head?

Limited in your movement, your arms remain tightly clamped against the walls above you as your neck struggles to turn your face toward the strange prodding. With the sensation now pressing against your muzzle, it’s all you can do to **** an eye open to witness the source of this new annoyance. At first you see nothing but an undulating ring of flesh, squelching lewdly before you. Another few seconds, though, and what appears to be a thin pulsating protrusion worms its way through to greet you. It’s gone again within a fraction of a second, though it reappears suddenly, and then again, and again; each arrival driving it just a tiny bit further up towards your baffled expression. When it all finally clicks in your overtaxed brain… The bouncing, the clear viscous fluid lining the walls, the tapered tendril repeatedly making its presence known…

She didn’t eat me…

The thought is sickening as it begins to form, the disgusting truth almost more than you can bear.

She’s not fleeing from the ranger… And that… THING is his… And they’re…!!

The distressing notion is interrupted when a muffled groan from beyond your prison is punctuated by the thrusting owlhood driving hard one last time and lodging deep, its tip aimed directly at your forehead. You’d scream if you knew what to say as the ranger, meaning his own conclusion just you arrived at yours, cries aloud and proceeds to blast you with his boiling seed. Efforts to block or struggle away from the jizz geyser are all in vain, so tight are your accommodations, and by the fifth or so expulsion of warm cream, your weak resistance crumbles.

As the last few shots ebb from his spent penis to spurt across your muzzle, your vision begins to fade as the limited air grows thicker still. Splotches assail your one eye not covered in bird spunk and you know the darkness is coming. When you draw your last breath, you curse the foolish bird who only JUST NOW decided to start firing straight…