Cunny is always the right choice

The choice was a no-brainer. You needed something tight and warm wrapped around your throbbing cock. Preferably something that you could knock up too. You had no qualms about using and abusing Laethir’s salacious elven body, but pussy was really where your heart lay. He is a good nut-gargler though. The various fond memories of him desperately chipmunking your twin orbs while they clenched and unloaded in some cunny always brought a smile to your face.

Since Mylora was out running errands, you turned your focus to finding someone else to bear the exquisite honour of being swollen with your clutch of illegitimate Halfbloods. The household, as it stood, was ill-suited to your tastes. Most of the servants you passed were older, worn by years of labor, not fit for the vital task you were to foist upon them. Your majordomo’s hand was obvious in that arrangement.

Treacherous cur.

With a quiet huff, you shifted course, your body gliding smoothly across the polished cobblestone as you made for the kitchens. If there were any worthwhile prospects left in your household, they would be there, tucked among the bustle and heat, overlooked and unguarded. Some lucky lady would have the privilege of having a private session with their prince.

You rounded the corner with practiced silence, your approach softened to little more than a whisper of movement. From the shadow of the doorway, you paused, letting your gaze adjust as you took in the scene before you, considering with idle scrutiny what the day might yet offer. Your slitted eyes gleamed with avaricious lust.

The kitchens sprawled wide, a network of open rooms and adjoining spaces built to sustain feasts and entertainments of considerable scale. Heat clung to the air, thick with the scent of baking bread, simmering broth, and sweet spices. Copper pots gleamed dully in the firelight, and long wooden tables were crowded with half-prepared dishes and scattered ingredients.

At the center of it all stood the cook, a broad-shouldered, matronly woman whose presence filled the space as much as the ovens did. She ruled her domain with sharp eyes and sharper hands, her voice cutting through the noise as she barked orders or cuffed a lagging servant. No one lingered idly under her gaze.

Off to one side, a single Halfblood guard occupied a stool near the wall. His posture was lax, his attention anything but disciplined. Even from where you stood, you could see the unfocused gleam in his eyes, the slight sway of his frame. Drunk, no doubt. His gaze wandered freely, settling with little restraint on the movement of the servants as they worked.

The rhythm of his distraction was not subtle. Nor, it seemed, was it particularly hidden as his hand shamelessly worked underneath his fashionable pteurge you made all the guards wear. On some of his more vigorous strokes, you could even see his pathetic excuse for a cock as the wide strips of leather flopped out of the way. Pathetic. You were twice his size, easily.

What drew your interest more was the cook’s reaction. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she glanced his way before returning to her work. Amusement, perhaps, or something more flirtatious. Either way, the arrangement was clear enough. He tolerated the fat, old cooks’ attention, she ignored his excesses as he salivated over the younger, nubile prizes, and the rest of the room carried on as though neither existed.

Setting aside the thought to flog the guard later, you turned your focus towards the women he was ogling.

A small cluster of women moved between stations, hands dusted with flour or slick with oil, their garments marked by the labor of the morning. Most were human, as was common in Vyruun, though a few stood apart.

An unfamiliar elven woman caught your eye first. Slender, poised even in the midst of work, her movements were efficient without being hurried. There was a quiet grace to her that set her apart, something that stirred a flicker of recognition, reminding you faintly of Laethir except she had such delectably small tits you could not wait to suck into your fanged maw. Giving them little nips of venom as you watched her squirm in painful ecstasy. You watched her for a moment longer than the others, considering.

However, another woman drew your attention to herself. Near one of the long tables, a younger woman worked dough with steady, practiced motions. Orcish blood marked her lineage, though faintly. The slight prominence of her lower canines, the strength in her arms, the grounded way she held herself. Flour dusted her skin and clung to her hair, catching the light in pale streaks as she moved. While you were never one to turn down a tumble, your standards were higher than most smelly orcs could provide.

The room continued around them, a steady rhythm of motion and sound, unaware of your presence in the doorway. You remained there a moment longer, half in shadow, weighing your options with measured patience.