They twined perfectly together, two birds against a deep blue sky, circling and spinning in a display of passion no other could understand.

His missiles flew, streaks of white, around which she tumbled and jinked, leaving blossoms of fire behind as a bouquet of his admiration for her skill.

Hers curled out, to which he dived, outpacing each burst to form a waterfall of smoke chasing at his tail. The two birds of steel circled once more, the backdrop now painted in splashes of grey, as each sort to catch the other in their sights.

She was Queen of the skies, and he, her King, her nemesis, her dance partner. Seven times they'd performed this number, and each time her passion had been shot down by his stoic perfectionism. And like any woman determined, she rose again each time.

The king in his black and gold had fallen to the rear, so she tucked and rolled, and for a brief moment they corkscrewed together, belly to belly, proximity alarms becoming the drumbeat of their song. Then they broke, parting for space as the ballet took to its next act. The Avant, missiles spent, they would charge one another as jousting knights of the sky.

The first lance, her teeth in tight rictus grin from g-force and jubilant glee, she swooped high, and he ducked low, the burst of their intent raking the clouds alone.

The second came in loops, he arcing up to catch her first, she turning her graceful assent into a dangerous stall, to plummet down upon him. Both passed by, so close as to imagine they saw the helmeted face of the other.

Then the third pass. No more toying, no more dancing, it would be a decisive clash, nose to nose, as her engines screamed, her laugh filled the mind, if not the air with the extremes of her acceleration. Her soulmate of the skies accepted the challenge, and did the same, crimson roses of cannon fire falling from his prow, as she stitched his sky with tracers.

She'd have him, she'd down him, she would become the ruler of the deep blue above. Almost, her reticule danced, her machine blared, her heart soared.

Till a staccato of impacts rang through her hull, and the cockpit filled with the sirens of his finale.

"No, no, no no no!" She screamed, desperately clawing at controls to stay in the air just a moment more, "You won't take me down this time King. You hear me! Not this time! King! King!"

The hatch exploded, breath punched from her lungs, and she was falling, tumbling, her shell of metal and glass torn away, breaking up and plummeting into the brown and green below.

"Kiiiing!"

***

Lasair Còig shot up in her bed, panting with her fur a mess, and her paws sweating.

It was just a dream, a memory that was still fresh after five years of peace. And worse than any memory, it was of her last flight before the civil war came to a close.

The dobermann bitch limped into the shower, her black and brown coat glossy and oily from her night time flying. She'd left the war with medals, money, fame, and a leg that didn't quite work right. But that wasn't all that marked her. When she'd signed on, joined ‘Her Royal Highness's Air Force’, she'd had her ears clipped to fit the flight helmet, leaving them slightly truncated, but pointed and jutting upright. It told anyone in the know how she’d served, if her fame hadn't gone before her.

Wet towel wrapped about a tight chest, she passed rows of pictures, newspaper cuttings, photographs from events. The Queen of the sky, Duchess Bhictoria's flying ace. Lasair had been a silver-clad symbol of hope above the battlefield, one that still got brought out whenever they needed a little good will from the survivors of the bloody Sibling's War.

Sighing, clean, yet exhausted from another lonely night of only memories, Lasair checked her calendar, and confirmed that that was to be her fate yet again.

"Fucking Memorial Day," she growled, a feint country brogue still in her maw despite the years of city life. It wasn't the true Memorial Day, just a convenient one for the public record, 'Somehow' aligning perfectly with the coronation, and the general amnesty. Still, she would be expected, and she would have to give a speech, receive another unearned medal, shake hands with...

The black and brown bitch tossed her official jacket into a suitcase, snapping it shut, snatching a cane on her way out the door, leaving the empty house with nothing but memories, as she thought longingly of blue skies.

***

It was ten at night before they were finally finished, and ten thirty when she shuffled and clicked her way into the bar. “Fallen Ace's”, a pilot's bar, halfway from the city to the airfield, and an annual pilgrimage for Lasair. Slightly smokey, air-chopped by an old fan that made one think of helicopters, Fallen Ace's was not the sort of bar you went to because you wanted a drink, it was one you went to because it was your last chance for one. Memorabilia covered the cracks in the paint, and old classics drowned out the groaning of dying refrigeration.

Still, there was nowhere else she'd be on Memorial Day.

"Queen," the old lioness, Ester, gave her a creaking nod, already pulling her a pint as she limped her way to the bar. Ester was a friend, to everyone. Quiet, patient, always ready to ground someone too high, or lift them up when too low, a perfect bar woman. The mug slid across the counter, foam just kissing the rim, sweat beading on the glass, "Saw your speech."

"Same one I give every year." She sipped, sighed, and sagged into a stool, nodding to a few familiar faces, and eyeing a few that were now just decorations frozen in newsprint. It was good to unwind, touch base, and keep up old ties, and that's how it went for over the next hour, till a newcomer entered.

Outsiders weren't unwelcome, but the atmosphere of Ace's often swiftly turned them away. But not this one, a retriever, a little grey in his blond coat, with ears clipped down to nearly snubs. Clearly a flyer, you could see it in how he walked, a directness that said his eyes were range finders, and his body the craft he piloted. He gave a respectful nod, and jinked about the regulars, pulling up to the bar in a smooth motion.

"A pint of your local, if that's still available." His tone was low, controlled, the tone of a steady father, or a teacher from a private academy, perfectly precise. 

"Always is," Ester replied, casting an eye over him while her paws moved mechanically on the pump. "You here for the memorial?"

"Yes," he sipped, paid and nodded without any complaint. "Was going to stay with an old friend, but had to make other plans. Heard about this place, and thought I'd drop by before finding a bed for the night."

"Always someone willing to help a veteran out on Memorial Day. Find yourself a table, friend, and I'll see if anyone has a couch available."

He did just that, and sat himself in one of the quieter booths, not disturbing anyone. Yet a minute later, Lasair, still found herself drawn to stare. Something about the stranger had gotten under her fur, making her unable to unlock from him. Perhaps it was the drink, or the fact he was new, or maybe just the confidence of how he'd moved, but next time she topped herself off, she got a second, and limped to his table, cane abandoned in what could have proved foolish bravado, but didn't.

"Mind if I sit here?" She placed the second cool glass by his first, fingers lingering on the rim till she received a nod.

"I won't say no to company," the strange retriever replied, "Not as if my name's on the seat."

She slid into the booth opposite the handsome dog, his golden fur shining softly under the buzzing fluorescents. She took a drink first, eyeing him, as he did her.

"It's Brosnaich," he spoke first, divining her first question, "my name. I don't need to ask yours, Ms Còig, I'd recognise you anywhere."

Lasair rolled her eyes, just as her mind rolled his name around an imagined tongue to feel it out. "From the television, I hope you're not disappointed in the real thing."

"From your books, and your speeches, and no. I'm not disappointed," His smile was genuine, and his speech faster, matching hers as if he shared her enthusiasm for the moment. "You measure to everything I expected."

"Starting to think you didn't accidentally stumble onto my tail. You're not a journalist are you?" A deflection, a dodge to hide the faint blush she felt in her cheeks, not sure why Brosnaich's admitted interest in her had her wound up so quick. "Half the things in my name weren't written by me."

"I know. And no, I'm not here for a story, at least, I wasn't. I didn't plan on meeting you, certainly not like this. But, as I have, there is something that I've always wanted to ask you, if you don't mind."

"Ask away, only fair after you answered me."

Brosnaich leant across the table, conspiratorially, his blue eyes unmoving from her as if expecting her to dive out of sight. "Why did you fly? Your biography said it was out of duty, a responsibility. But I don't think that was you. I want to know what made the queen of the sky take flight, time and time again."

"Why did I fly?" She took a heavy pull, "you sure it wasn't for loyalty to the duchess? Patriotic love for my fellow dog?"

"No, that doesn't seem right either," He sipped his beer, eyes not flickering from her.

"What if you don't like the answer, what if I say something that spoils that image you have of me?"

"I would rather know the truth, from your own lips, than spend another second asking."

Her heart was rapid, her pulse suddenly aflame. The intensity and conviction in that look and that voice, she felt like she was in the cross-hairs again, who was this man to make her feel such things after five years of nothing? She drank again, and leaned back in the worn leather couch, warning lights blaring, crash harness squeezing, her fingers on the trigger.

"To chase that deep blue sky, a place where countries and nations meant nothing. To be free to turn and see, the whole world fall away, into nothing but clouds and horizon. To know I could have flown far enough, kept going, and maybe... Just maybe..."

"Maybe you would have found a sky without borders."

They looked at each other again, and were both smiling.

"Get up," Lasair growled, forcing broken muscles to obey, wobbling slightly with the drink.

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I leave-"

"You need a place to stay, right? I've got a bed you can use."

***

They didn't even finish stripping by the time they hit the covers. The moment the taxi had dropped them off, she'd been kissing him like she was starved of oxygen, and he was her O2 mask. It was the same desperate embrace the rest of the short trip to the door. Her fingers worked at his trousers, popping the button and pulling the zip, while his clawed desperately at her jacket.

Both were breathing hard, and her leg was still bothering her, but they pushed through it. She shoved him, throwing him roughly onto the bed, while his claws finally hooked into the fabric, and ripped her jacket clean off to leave her bra and belly hanging in the air above him.

They didn't need words. He lunged up, teeth latching onto the straps and snapping the cups off her modest breast, his muzzle burying itself between the mounds of firm flesh. He suckled like a newborn, his hands massaging and pinching as his tongue swirled and played with her stiff nipples, which grew hard and slick with spit, her gasps and moans music to his ears.

"Fuck me," she hissed, gripping the back of his head, dragging him in deeper while her knees hit the mattress, and her hind paws kicked free of her trousers. Her pants were soaked, a wet ruin clutching her begging spade.

"Yes Ma'am," Brosnaich grinned, delighted and euphoric, paws grabbing her by the firm buttock and pulling her up his body so they could grind against each other. Maws met, stinking of drink and exhaustion, but they didn't care. Her shorter coat meshed hard in his double layers of white and gold, belly nipples dragging lines in the slight gut that had come from five years of peace time.

She pulled away, paw still wrapped in his ruff, eyes wild as she gasped for air. Questions about who, and why, had long been lost, replaced with a ferocious need to have the man below regardless. Fumbling in haste, she finished divesting him of everything that was getting in the way, leaving her leering down at a body once firm and peak, now a little fatty at the edges, and with a package that wasn't a monster, but a fair and moderate size. But she didn't want him for girth.

They kissed again, hungry for each other. The bitch's weeping sex dragged up and down a thigh, while the dog's red rod escaped his sheath to rub on her belly. Gasping, desperate, they humped back and forth a moment more, leaving soaking trails in the other's fur, till it became too much.

Taking the initiative, he grabbed her by the shoulders and rolled, pressing her to her own sheets, belly up and panting. Pushing her thighs apart, he settled himself between, their heat and damp filling the room and mingling, their musk becoming a bouquet of raw passion.

With one arm, he pressed her lower, holding her down and open, while the other moved like a spider across her front. It brushed her collar, her breast, her rib, her teats, before landing on the barrier of her briefs. He didn't ask for any further permission, already knowing, just grabbed the hem, and pulled to let her flower breathe free.

For a second, they lay, naked and glistening. Him, throbbing and ruddy, and her, swollen and ready, two parts of a puzzle waiting to snap together.

Then, with a feral grunt, Brosnaich pushed forward, his head slipping into a wet canyon, threading the needle with peerless precision. His length followed in a careful approach, one which ended with her legs raising and soft locking around his rump, heels resting either side of a slow wagging tail.

"You like that?" He asked, resting a moment so they might both appreciate each other. Her, walls parting, folds squeezing, flesh wettening. Him, girth growing, tip jutting, balls churning. He wasn't a giant, breaking her in, and she wasn't a damsel, unused to a male touch. That wasn't what had drawn them together, it wasn't what made the contact so potent and raw.

"Yeah," she huffed back, heart hammering as her hips rolled, paws roaming his body from shoulder, to neck, to face. "I can take it."

"Good," was all he said, drawing back a moment as she sucked her lip at the feeling of his warm rocket dragging on her tingling clit, and plunging back with a wet slap of balls on butt, both gasping, and then chuckling, at just how right that had felt.

The dance began, and while it was not a dance of aerial manoeuvres and twisting drifts, it was no less exhilarating and breathtaking. She heaved, and he thrust, as a slow tempo took over, the moist smacks the beat, and the gasps and laughs the lyrics.

"I've dreamt of this moment," he panted between kisses, a paw cupping her head, holding her eyes on his while his hips thudded into her thighs.

"Fantasising about fucking your idol?" she laughed back, ending in a moan as the tip of his shaft flicked and dragged the length of her g-spot. "Do I live up to your, imagination?"

He didn't reply with words, just his cock driving harder and deeper, the half formed knot now tapping at her cunny, while his balls slapped at the swell of her arse. Her fingers raked at his back, grabbing and scratching, claws digging in with each thrust, not hard enough to puncture, just enough to tell him that he was hitting his mark.

"You've never disappointed me," he caught a growl in his throat, the well-educated accent breaking as her sex squeezed and coiled down his length. He had to kiss her to keep from saying more, to press his lips to the jutting nubs of her nipples and suckle like a pup, or lick the thin and smooth fur that lay in the valley between her breasts. His muzzle was assaulted by her scent, her taste, and it sent him into a spin.

"Just ‘Not disappointing’ eh?" Lasair's thighs synched tighter, forestalling all further pounding, her paws going from grasping, to stroking, ruffling up his thick double-coat to hold his face and let him see her grin. She was tired already, the sex so far and the day she'd had exhausting her, but for him, she had to push her limits. Holding him tight, she tucked, and swung, barrel-rolling across the crumpled bedding, till he was driven into the mattress, and she was ascendant on his lap.

"Ah~!"

No more speaking. She began to rise and fall in a rolling wave, hips undulating, more dragging herself against him so she never broke contact with the thick warmth of his fur, or risked losing the delicious fullness of his throbbing prick in her folds. He lay beneath, shocked at first, before getting the rhythm, paws landing on her sides to ride along with her, to dig into her black flanks and feel her pulse beneath the skin.

She was flying high, floating above now on a constant burn of euphoria, as her cunt rubbed and sroked, back and forth on the fat throbbing heat of his knot. A fog clouded her mind, taking her far away to distant skies, her approaching orgasm a sun looming on the horizon.

"I'm, getting close," he warned, not wanting the moment to end, but unable to fight the mounting pleasure of the bitch above as she squeezed and tugged on him. Fat wet labia squelched and slicked his cock, which became a piston sliding in a snare of flesh, his balls convulsing in their sac, lurching thick and ready.

"Hold it a moment," she cooed, her hand tightening on his chest. She needed him a moment longer, just another half a dozen breaths to really send her over the edge. And she wanted him to get there too, to be together, to reach their heights as one.

"Might not last, should probably, pull out," Brosnaich stated. It wasn't a suggestion or instruction. It was fact, and he left it to her, left it unsaid what he would want, even as he bit the inside of a cheek, felt the knot straining of thick lips, began to tug ever so gently down on her hips.

"I'll take the risk. If you'll take the shot."

She pushed back, hard, and he pulled her the rest of the way. A low howl escaped her muzzle as the bulging glands pressed into her sopping sex, strained open the little hole in a perfectly painful way, till the rising tension that was paid off beautifully by the sudden snap and thud, when that gorgeous swell made a home inside her vestibule.

She barked. He snarled. Their paws gripped tight as they came to a dead stall, unable to breathe as they plummeted over the edge.

"Oh, gods!" Lasair moaned, shaking and rattling as she came apart on his lap, fur on end, teeth bared, eyes wide. She arched back, breasts jutting, sending a spray of moisture flying from her skin.

"Damn," Brosnaich grunted, muscles tensing, joints creaking, as his load rushed through straining tubes, from balls to knot to tip, buried deep in welcoming flesh that drank every gush down like a woman dying of thirst. He jerked, hips twitching, while his hands clenched and pawed, his jaw clamping shut as a trickle of drool ran from the corner.

She fell, and he caught her, each a trembling mess of fur, gasping in each other's arms as they shivered through the protracted climax. The knot kept him hard, her cunny kept him squirting, two perfect machines working in synchronicity to empty balls and fill a womb, whatever the outcome.

"We..." she panted, voice almost lost as she nuzzled into his ruff, "are definitely, having another round, after that."

"That sounds good," the retriever croaked, stroking her back, nose buried between her pointed ears, savouring each huff of her scent. "Maybe, when the knot's down, we can go again."

"Mmmh, yeah," was all she could manage, languishing in the sense of pulsing within, keeping his seed warm, his shaft trapped, as they both blacked out.

***

Lasair blinked her way awake. No bad dreams, no nighttime flights, just a constant sense of warmth, and the rise and fall of another's chest. She didn't want to get up, deep satisfaction making her paw at the slumbering golden body beside her, wrapped about her, as she drew sighs through his coat.

Events slowly came back to her, and she smiled. A claw ran little circles across the male's sleeping belly, as she contemplated what she'd done, and what it might mean.

Nature, however, did call, and his knot was long gone since their fun, leaving just a crusty trail dried against her thighs and his sheath. She disentangled herself carefully, and limped to the bathroom to take care of business, and get neatened up just a little, expecting she'd be a mess again before long. 

She got a pot of coffee started on the way back, smiling to herself as she looked over the gently snoring form of the man who'd given her the best night of her life. And she barely knew anything about him. That seemed unfair, given he knew her, and curiosity soon overcame her manners as a host, leading to her bending over and rummaging through the drifts of abandoned clothes.

Soon after, she put his wallet back down on the dresser, an identification card pulled out and lying in the open; Brosnaich Seachd, Commander of His Royal Majesty's Strategic Strike Force. Callsign, King.

She could have done anything to him then. The general Amnesty had let all Duke Tagraiche's soldiers vanish into obscurity, yet her nemesis, the man responsible for shooting down so many of her comrades, had delivered himself right to her bed. Her fists balled.

***

When the former king of the sky woke up, he found the bed was empty, the house still, a mug of coffee waiting for him on the nightstand, along with his wallet, his card, and a note:

Next round, Bòrd Cruinn airbase. I'll be waiting for you.
~Queen