Moves Like Sombra
“What is this?”
Sombra looks to the side and sees a piece of paper held inches away from his face. “A flyer?” he replies flatly with a sneer curling at the edges of his lips.
“No, you dunce!” The page is shoved closer still and one carefully manicured finger reaches around and jabs at it for emphasis. “What’s on the flyer!”
He rolls his eyes and snatches the flyer into his own grasp so that he can better inspect it, even though he already knows full well what it is. It is an advertisement for the New Lunar Theater, where The Nightmare of the Opera will be performed in the weeks to come—with a few special modifications to the script tailored to the venue’s particular proclivities. It promises a “titillating spectacle” and everypony on the staff intends to deliver in that regard. The production’s star performers are arranged in a collage, mostly in the form of headshots, but some of the more high-profile among them get to have their chest visible. Sombra, however, is shown with his whole muscular torso on display, dark form framed by an open purple robe, leering provocatively toward the viewer while slicking back his mane.
“Mmm…” He makes a low grumble in his throat. “They didn’t get my good side.”
Chrysalis roars indignantly and takes the flyer back once more and then proceeds to rip it to pieces, wastefully leaving them to scatter on the floor. “How do you always get to be the one displayed most prominently in the advertisements?!” she yells as she glares at him with emerald fire blazing in her eyes from behind the tangle of her turquoise mane. “You’re not even playing one of the lead roles this time!”
“Is that really what you’re getting your non-existent panties in a twist about this time?” Sombra asks with one eyebrow quirked upward. “You get to play the role of a lifetime, the Nightmare herself, and it’s not enough if you can’t flash your vag on a piece of paper that goes up on every street corner?” He has to give himself pause for a moment and consider the implicit power of such a position; he has to suppose that there is something appealing about it.
“But it’s every damn time!” Chrysalis clenches her fists, wringing at the air. She might look more like a foal having a temper tantrum if she didn’t have her melon-sized tits hanging out. “How did you end up being the face of this dump? I can think of a dozen dancers who would be better as our headliner than you are!”
“And I’m sure you aren’t every single name on that list…” he mutters under his breath before saying, “You make it sound like these are decisions I’m in charge of making. It’s up to the proprietor and her agents to determine what’s most viable for advertising, and if they think that I am most fitting for that purpose, well…” He turns back to the mirror, where his focus had been before this interruption, and he flashes a grin at his reflection, his sharp, predatory features and his chiseled frame facing back at him. It may only be rehearsal, but it is still important that he looks his best, to remind everypony why he was the one shown so prominently on all those precious flyers. “I can only say that they must have good taste.”
“Psh, I bet it must be because you’re rutting the owner,” Chrysalis grumbles with her hands planted on her hips.
Sombra barks with laughter, throwing his head back, bellowing and booming in the enclosed space, and he whirls back toward Chrysalis. “Of course I am,” he growls with a toothy grin, “twice a week bare minimum. And we always celebrate with a fuck after every performance.”
She blinks.
“Or are you telling me that you don’t get to have any action with her?” he asks, leaning closer.
That gets Chrysalis to flinch. Her eyes quiver and her ears fold back and her lips steadily curl back to reveal her own snarling fangs, but this front can’t conceal the verdant blush rising in her cheeks. “Sh-shut up! That doesn’t matter!” she sputters defiantly.
Sombra revels in her flustered, wilting display for a few moments longer before he lets out a prolonged and satisfied sigh. “No, Chryssie, it doesn’t matter,” he says as he stands. Though Chrysalis maintains her anger, he catches the way she takes a step back as he comes up before her. The dark unicorn looms just a couple inches taller than the changeling, and though the shapely curvature of her bosom and thighs provides her with substantial width it can’t compare to his sturdy muscle-girded frame. He wears no shirt, fully disclosing his broad shoulders and round pectorals and sculpted abs. He does wear pants, but the tight jeans do little to conceal the promiscuous girth of his groin, bulging through the denim, and he isn’t even hard yet.
“What matters, Chryssie, is how you look—” He reaches out with one finger and prods at her chest, right in the sternum. He puts a little force into it, but she doesn’t budge. He’s thankful, at least, that she has some nerve. “—and how you dance.” He backs away, and this time he moves with a cadence in his hoofsteps, stamping at the floor and swaying his hips. He turns about in one fluid motion and tosses his mane, ending with a flourish of his hands.
Chrysalis glowers back. Her chest rises and falls with her heavy, deliberate breaths, but she remains steady. “I’ll have you know that I’ve got all the looks I need.” She places a palm on her bosom and on her stomach, which each respectively then trace upward over her collarbone and neck and down along one thigh. The emerald leotard she wears leaves little to the imagination, showing the smooth black and green chitin in a V down her front, all the way through the cleavage between her pert, round breasts, her slender arms and thick, shapely legs fully exposed. “And I’ve got the dance too.” She follows through with the motions of her arms and extends them and then her wings behind her as she twirls like a ballerina, sweeping one hoof across the floor.
“That’s good,” Sombra replies, and for a moment Chrysalis seems taken aback by this, betraying a flicker of disbelief—he wonders what kind of response she had expected. “But you’re going to have to use both of them together if you really want the best results. You need to use moves that show the world what you are.” With a mere tensing of his hips and knees, he leaps up into the air and does a full flip forward, his inky mane and tail spinning around him. When he lands on the ground, he drops to his knees and slides forward, careening straight toward Chrysalis, but just before collision he vanishes in a puff of dark smoke. The changeling gasps and backs away only to come into the grasp of the stallion’s hands as he rematerializes behind her, catching her, and in her shock she can’t immediately bring herself to protest or resist. “That’s how you become a headliner, my dear,” he hisses into her ear.
She only then shrugs out of his grasp and plods away, grumbling. “Of course I can do that,” she mutters with a huff and then does a halfhearted twirl. Her eyes settle upon the far side of the room, where there is less clutter of supplies and clothes and overflowing cupboards, the floor cleared in front of a wall-spanning mirror. She grimaces, as she often does, at the sight of the personal privileges which are afforded to Sombra, but nonetheless she bounds over. “And I can show you!”
“Please,” Sombra says with an amused smirk, gesturing for her to continue, “by all means.”
Chrysalis glowers and snarls back at him but says nothing. She takes in a deep breath and clasps her palms together in front of herself to focus.
But before she even starts moving, light flashes around her, a wave of magic washing over her like green flame, for a moment completely enveloping her. When the fire dissipates, Chrysalis is replaced with Twilight Sparkle, and when she starts to shimmy and shake, she carries herself with a playful fervor that the young alicorn is known for. This only lasts for a short while before she transforms again, and she flips the curling tricolor mane while showing the pink thigh of Cadence. She struts as Luna (Sombra wonders how much amusement she might share to see this display) and flaunts as Celestia. Sombra has to notice, though, that each form is progressively more curvaceous than the last; Celestia’s jiggling assets could have smothered him. Then one more time, back to Chrysalis, albeit retaining the ludicrous proportions, stretching her leotard to its absolute limit with breasts that eclipsed her torso and an ass that could bury chairs. She sways and undulates and stomps and finally ends with her form in profile, jutting out front and back.
Sombra claps, and with a cast of an amplifying spell the sound redoubles upon itself to replicate the sound of an audience. “Not too shabby, Chryssie,” he says without much in his tone to suggest sarcasm or derision.
Chrysalis still frowns back, but for the time being she is riding high enough on the adrenaline of her activity to not get riled. “Of course it is, because I know that no one else in this ramshackle establishment can ever hope to match me,” she boasts with her enormous chest pushed out proudly. “You all can play at the roles of other ponies, but I can be whatever pony I need to if it means a few extra bits and a little cocktail of love for me.”
“Naturally, it is what comes easiest to you,” he replies with a nod. “It will be quite effective for milking ponies for their pocket change even if it doesn’t get you the headliner role.”
“As if there was any doubt that—” Chrysalis snaps toward him, venomous all over again. “What?”
“It’s a very handy trick to be able to use,” Sombra muses while stroking at his chin, “but it’s just a gimmick at the end of the day. Anypony can put on glamours and make their ass fatter. I told you, this is supposed to be about showing off what makes you special, Chrysalis, cheese legs and all, and it’s not enough just to do something that only changelings can do. Nopony’s going to be able to see what you are if you’re gallivanting about in some other pony’s skin.”
She comes up to him to snarl, and perhaps without thinking presses her bosom into him in the process, enveloping his body; the advantage of mass is weighted far more in her favor now. “And just what would you suggest that I do, mister tall, dark, and edgy?”
“Go out on stage naked, spread your legs, and point to your crotch,” is what Sombra is about to say, right on the tip of his tongue.
Right before something occurs to him, an old memory rising up to the surface.
“Actually, you know what,” he remarks with a grin unconsciously spreading across his muzzle, “I happen to know something special. A secret weapon, you might call it.”
“What?” Chrysalis squints at him skeptically. “What’re you babbling about now?”
“It’s something that can make you insatiable, Chryssie,” Sombra murmurs to her while he nestles in closer still to her, wading into the depths of her cleavage, and he reaches around so he can grip her rump. “Far more than just making yourself bigger would.”
She growls and bares her fangs, clearly displeased with his advances, but he can see the twinkle in her eyes that shows her curiosity getting the better of her. This is what would always inevitably prove to be her downfall, he knows. “And just what would that be?” she grumbles.
“It’s a dance, naturally.” He pushes on her, forcing the changeling to move, and he leads her in a slow makeshift waltz, circling about. His crotch is grinding at her waist all the while, throbbing faintly. “A very special dance; my first wife taught it to me. All you have to do is perform it, and whoever’s watching will be completely engrossed with it, unable to think about anything else.” Their horns, one curved and scorched, the other crooked and gnarled, knock into each other as he leans closer to her. He breathes in her bitter smell, long tainted by the hate that burns in the core of her being. “With something like that in your retinue, nopony could ever challenge your position again. Why, you would be able to wrap this whole theater around your little finger.”
Chrysalis seems dubious at first, but the curiosity continues to eat away at her. Sombra can feel a tremble through her form, an anxious twitch in her tail. “Okay, f-fine, show me then,” she mutters under her breath, tacitly admitting her defeat, but he will not lord this over her. For now.
“Very well, if you insist,” he croons to her while reaching up to caress her cheek with one hand. She twitches again but otherwise doesn’t attempt to shirk away up until the moment when he separates from her and steps aside.
Instead of standing in the center of the practice space, however, Sombra proceeds to stride further beyond to the cupboards and begin rooting through them. “Come on, don’t tell me you have to prepare yourself for this,” Chrysalis groans while crossing her arms beneath her bosom—the huge mounds are coming dangerously close to popping out of her leotard completely.
“But of course, who would ever go out for a performance without looking the part?” He peers back at her and offers a wink. “It is vitally important to channel the proper energy for this dance or it simply won’t work. You wouldn’t want to get an incomplete experience, would you?”
Chrysalis grumbles and seethes, pinching the bridge of her muzzle, but doesn’t say anything else.
Sombra chuckles and takes a bundle of clothing with him behind a dressing blind—not really for the privacy, since it’s certainly not like either of them has anything to hide from the other at this point, but to maintain some element of surprise. There is a playful giddiness bubbling inside him, the sort he hasn’t known in quite some time, the sort that would be unbecoming of the regal eminence which he makes an effort to present under typical circumstances.
“It’s just too easy,” he whispers to himself, unable to repress the grin spreading across his face now that he’s concealed, “how can she make this so easy?”
He chooses to ignore the nagging thought at the back of his mind, the feeling that he’s forgetting something.
A few minutes later (with Chrysalis impatiently inquiring many a time why it was taking so long), Sombra reemerges. His jeans are replaced with even tighter black pants that cling to his toned legs and bulbous groin, with long boots that tromp against the floorboards. The ruffle shirt he wears covers his arms with its long, billowy sleeves, but with it completely open in the front his muscular chest is still fully exposed to his audience of one. Chrysalis might be enticed, but she doesn’t show it.
“Are you about to tell me that flamenco is the secret to popularity?” she asks dully.
“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” he replies with a few precise and rhythmic taps of his hooves. “This, I assure you, will be quite unlike any dance you have seen before.” He grins at her. She only scoffs.
“Now watch carefully, my dear Chryssie,” he then says, his jovial tone shifting to one that is sterner, more commanding, “you will want to be sure to catch every detail, lest you fail to grasp the true form of this performance.”
“If the whole point of the dance is that it’s supposed to be utterly enthralling”—she wiggles her fingers mockingly—“then surely it shouldn’t matter how much I look, I’ll just be drawn in anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Sombra admits while stretching and loosening his joints, swiveling his arms and legs, “but if you want to be able to perform this for yourself, then you wouldn’t want to miss a second of it, would you?”
Chrysalis purses her lips and then eventually says, “All I’m saying is it had better be a damn good show.”
“Oh, it will be.” Sombra still smiles at her. “I’m sure it will be on your mind for quite a while.”
And then he poises himself to start, one leg in front of the other, hands clasped together and held above his head, standing straight and still.
One hoof stomps loudly in place; Chrysalis flinches slightly from the sudden noise. Sombra moves slowly and deliberately, swaying from side to side, waving his arms in languid arcs. Every few seconds, however, this is punctuated by another stamp of a hoof, like a metronome keeping time. As he shakes his chest, he feels himself slowly relax, unwinding from the pressure he had felt in putting this performance on, now able to simply enjoy himself as he would for a typical show. He had almost doubted that he would remember the moves, yet now they flow effortlessly from the depths of his unconscious mind.
All the while, he keeps his gaze upon Chrysalis. He can see the cross expression on her face at first, and he’s sure he can imagine exactly what she’s thinking: “Some dance, I wouldn’t give a single bit to see this.” Over time, however, she softens, the tension in her form loosening, and that’s when he knows that he has her undivided attention, and so long as he keeps this up, she isn’t going to be concerned with anything else. She doesn’t seem to think much about her own body as she starts to move, to shift and sway in time with the motions of the dance.
“Where did…you say you learned this dance again?” she asks in a languid tone of voice, almost tired despite her active movement.
“From my wife, I told you,” he responds gently, as a teacher reminding a student to remember the lesson material from five minutes ago, and then stomps again. “She has a real thing for bringing ponies together, you know. You’d get along with her, I think; she has a real positive aura. She just wants everypony to have a good time.”
“That does sound pretty…pretty good,” Chrysalis mutters blearily. Her green eyes are turning glassy, their lids drooping. She is copying Sombra’s motions now at the same time that he is performing them, as if the two of them are completely in sync with each other. The arcs of motion are considerably greater in her case, though, with her still-enormous breasts and buttocks swinging about, a quartet of black balloons. Every time she raises her leg to mirror the stomp, her bosom bobs ponderously up and down and seems to slip a little more free from her leotard, slivers of green areoles beginning to peek from beneath the thin layer of spandex.
Sombra would be lying if he didn’t say that this is bringing him some pleasure. He can feel the throbbing of his loins rousing from slumber, excited by the sight before him as well as the inherent rush of adrenaline that came from putting on a show like this. His own tights are becoming tighter still as his shaft pulses and stiffens and juts out in front of him, tenting the velvety material—he would be more careful to avoid showing himself so blatantly during a performance that doesn’t specifically call for such debauchery, but for the time being he isn’t much concerned with that. He thinks that it isn’t necessarily inappropriate either.
“Sombra…what’s…ohhh…” Chrysalis groans as her wardrobe continues to malfunction yet further, but now it is no longer merely because the leotard is losing its hold on her. With every swing, her breasts are oozing further out of their confines and hanging a little farther downward, arcing farther out to either side of her. Her rump balloons at the same rate, swinging behind her, and though Sombra can’t see the way the leotard begins to wedge between her buttocks, he can see it tighten over her groin, thinner and thinner, dangerously close to exposing her vulva. The repeated stomps are only serving to pose further strain on the outfit, pounding like a battering ram on a gate.
“It’s exactly what I told you, Chryssie,” Sombra replies. “You just can’t resist this dance.” He is grinning at her, even though he can’t seem to muster the taunting malevolence he wants to aim for. Strange, but not enough to make him want to stop and think about the situation, especially not about how his tights are constricting not merely around his groin but his hips, or about the way his chest seems to jiggle in a way that chiseled pecs shouldn’t have. The show has to go on, after all.
Chrysalis moans, a low crooning sound, and when she closes her mouth again she grinds her lips together, a glossy sheen manifesting upon the mounds as they thicken and extrude from her muzzle. Her breasts finally pop free from their confines entirely in a great heaving avalanche of flesh, now coming to rest nearly at her knees at the lowest part of their arc, great dark orbs which each likely weigh more than a whole adult pony with nipples broader than dinner plates. Her ass wobbles about and her thighs grind together, but the encumbrance of her legs isn’t enough to slow down her dancing.
Stomp.
The two of them slam their hooves on the floor in tandem.
Stomp.
Their forms sway and ripple and swell.
Stomp.
Chrysalis churrs contentedly amidst giddy giggles.
Stomp.
Sombra finds difficulty remembering why he’s doing this, but it’s too good to stop.
Stomp.
It doesn’t matter that his pants are ripping and his shirt is baring a lot more than muscles.
Stomp.
“The stomping is the most important part, though,” Amore said after demonstrating it. “You don’t want them to go under too much.”
“I thought the whole point of this was to hypnotize somepony,” Sombra asked, perplexed, though he continued unerringly to follow along with the mare’s motions.
“That doesn’t mean we’re trying to put them to sleep,” she answered with a smirk and a laugh. She looked so beautiful when she laughed, lighting up resplendently. “The percussive rhythm keeps them focused on you. You want them to follow along.”
He chuckled back to her. His gravelly voice couldn’t compare to hers.
“But you have to be careful about how you do it, though,” Amore said in a low whisper while she pulled him closer, her creamy bosom pressing on his muscular chest. Both of them took this in stride, continuing their languid tango. “If you allow yourself to get too engrossed in the dance, then you will start to fall under its spell as well.”
Sombra scoffed and grinned. “I would never allow myself to fall prey to such an amateur mistake.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Her own smile was thin and enigmatic, golden eyes sparkling. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what kind of chaos might erupt from such an outcome.”
“I suppose it must be quite…lovely.”
They came together to kiss.
Stomp.
Sombra blinks and shakes his head. He blanked out for a moment, but he seems to have still been dancing the whole time, unimpeded. Goodness, what an amateur mistake he nearly fell prey to.
There is something rising up past the end of his muzzle, a rich purple mound that shines with a glossy sheen. By the time he considers that it must be a lip, the wobbling mass has already risen higher still. He can feel the plush folds press together when he closes his mouth after letting out a prolonged moan, and it feels good. It’s an odd discovery, though he also considers that these lips must be quite conducive for sucking dick, which is perfectly fine. He might be in need of that real soon, as his cock is throbbing needfully while it bobs about, every pulsation bringing with it a redoubling of pressure as the shaft thickens and lengths in front of him.
Chrysalis is also moaning, voice heavy with passion and lascivity. Sombra’s focus extends beyond himself for a moment so he can observe the changeling, and oh how much of her there is to observe. Her sprawling immensity all but obliterates the structure of her body, breasts like boulders hanging nearly to the floor and showing no signs of stopping, covering torso and waist and legs, all but the hooves, and her arms could have been hidden too if she weren’t holding them upward. The jutting shelf of her rump and thighs only comes into view when she sways to one side; with enough force, a bump from that swinging mass might be enough to send somepony flying. Her own glossy green lips wobble gelatinously as she shakes her head in time with the rhythm of the dance, and just like how Sombra’s field of vision is steadily filling with purple it is getting harder to see the changeling’s eyes.
Stomp.
There are a number of thoughts racing through the noise in Sombra’s brain. There is the obvious arousal which is building within him, loins yearning for release, for satisfaction, and the sight of Chrysalis only spurs on that need all the more. How he wishes to dance with her, to tango, to shake, to thrust, to partake of her flesh and scent and juices, it makes his mouth water. Yet there is also lament, for he can see that she is still so much bigger than he is. Though his fat buttocks jiggle tantalizingly, so welcoming to grasping hands, they are only the size of beach balls, and the breasts which jut out from his pecs are merely large enough to strain the span of his arms. Despite his inability to remember that these things are not the way they should be, he can still deduce that it is unlikely he’ll be able to catch up since both of them are growing at the same rate, Chrysalis just had the fortune of a head start from her earlier dance, and that is unfortunate.
All the same, Sombra continues to smile dreamily in the midst of his internal thoughts, the lament washing away like dirt and grime in a warm shower. It doesn’t matter if Chrysalis is larger than him, since he can still admire her glorious size, and he’s sure that she must enjoy it herself as well. Amore has always told him that ponies being able to enjoy themselves, to love themselves, was the most important thing they could strive for.
And, even if his tits and ass are smaller, at least he still has a battering ram of a cock and heavy, swollen balls dangling between his legs.
Stomp.
The two of them had been standing a few paces apart from each other when this started. That distance doesn’t seem so significant anymore when their front-facing assets are in the process of bridging the gap between them, the tip of Sombra’s penis waving closer and closer toward Chrysalis’s bosom. A low growl of anticipation rises from Sombra’s throat as he considers the idea of ramming his shaft into that cavernous valley of chitinous black cleavage and sawing back and forth with the pliant flesh all around. He is already getting some early sense of that, however, with his breasts beginning to extend far enough that they bounce around the base of his cock.
“Somby.” Chrysalis’s crooning voice calls to him—the syllables are muffled and slurred from her lips rubbing together, but Sombra is able to understand without thinking about it. She sounds tired and needful in the way that one does after a long day of performing, when sexual release is the only thing on the mind. “Why are we dancing?”
Sombra is silent for a while as he thinks, but the inside of his skull is noise, so he chuckles and replies, “I dunno, Chryssie!”
Chrysalis hums loudly and licks at her lips (her long tongue doesn’t seem quite as impressive anymore with there being so much more area to cover). “Then why are we bothering with this?”
“I would usually say because of the raw sexual thrill inherent in dance,” Sombra says glibly, “but I suppose that doesn’t compare with the raw sexual thrill inherent in sex.”
Stomp.
He steps forward, but he continues to sway and shake along the way without thinking about it, keeping time with the music that he imagines accompanying him, shredded remains of pants left in his wake. Chrysalis matches him, though it doesn’t take much effort from either of them for the flared tip of his cock to come wedging between her breasts, and then everything shifts over to an even baser form of autopilot. The changeling’s bosom smothers him, though as he comes closer his penis comes to rub against her stomach and then glance upward, sliding along the crevice formed by her cleavage and out into the open air, a pillar that acts as a barrier between them. This isn’t enough to deter either of them, though; they may not be able to kiss each other, but they still kiss nonetheless, slathering Sombra’s length on either side with smooches—the stallion is almost unconscious of how the spongy spire is connected to him.
They groan and moan at each other in a cacophonous chorus. Chrysalis backs away, stumbling, and falls, but she doesn’t have far to go with her rump easily cushioning her. Then Sombra has her pinned, pressing down on her with his cock as he starts to buck his hips, rubbing across the whole front of her body, over the sternum, between the breasts, and upon the vulva, teasing the clitoris. He grasps at her smooth flesh, both for support and to heave it around himself, while his balls slam into her thighs like wrecking balls. She reaches for the shaft, holding as much as she can, and continues to lavish the bulging underside with affection even as the surface becomes slick with pre. Both of them are dimly aware that they ought to be aiming for some form of penetration, to let the moist heat of Chrysalis’s innards clamp around Sombra’s cock, but that would require separating and repositioning themselves, and neither has the foresight or patience for that.
They clench and contract, and each can feel the trembling that runs through the other, eruptions building in their loins. Shrill cries fill the air just as a jet of cum flies from the end of Sombra’s penis like a broken water main, spraying spurts of sticky fluid clear across the room. Some of the white flecks land upon Chrysalis, trickling over her face and chest and matting in her mane, but she scarcely takes notice of this in the midst of her own orgasm, a less forceful leak from her nether lips that dribbles between her legs and over Sombra’s testicles. As the climactic finish drains them—in multiple senses—they gradually slump further, the flow from Sombra’s loins diminishing until it’s nothing more than a lazy trickle. The log of a cock between them, like a built-in body pillow, softens enough that he is able to push it to the side and the two of them can see each other properly.
“Chryssie.”
“Somby.”
Not that they can really see or even understand each other so well with the way their lips are, but they scarcely seem to be bothered by those details.
They lean in to kiss, mounds of purple and green mashing upon each other. Chrysalis gets to be on the receiving side of some smothering as Sombra’s breasts roll over her shoulders, though he is still firmly entrenched within the valley of her own cleavage, making it seem less like he is the one wholly in control despite being over top of her. They might have been completely satisfied there for hours with Chrysalis’s ass acting as a mattress for the two of them to recline upon.
Sombra pulls away just enough to make a muffled whisper. “You danced so beautifully.”
Chrysalis chuckles, the sound rumbling in her throat, and she brushes her fingers against his cheek, sharp nails tantalizingly tracing over bare fur and skin. “I had a good partner to show me the way.”
“You can only butter me up so much.” He makes a low, yearning growl while he reaches around the changeling’s breasts and tugs on them, collecting them around himself, reveling in the softness.
Chrysalis reaches around him in turn, clasping at his lower back, just over the base of the buttocks, and her thighs squeeze on his legs and balls. He rises, pulling both of them upright, tangled together in their conjoined mass of flesh. Even the slightest motion is a complicated dance of shaking and jiggling and spilling, a cascade of bodies shifting over each other.
“I think I’ll butter you up as much as I feel like, stud,” she intones with a gleam in her half-obscured eyes.
Sombra throbs as they come together to kiss once more.
But there is a part of him that is still thinking about dancing, as there always is, pondering what he should be doing to perfect his craft and to remain the center of attention. Their dance was good, but it could still be better. They would have to continue to practice it if they were going to show it to an audience.
It would be an unforgettable performance.