The fire leapt in the great hearth, spilling its radiant warmth across the chill stones of the chamber, making the discarded silk of Tycho, the crimson of the passion slave, glow as an ember upon the floor. Like a pool of bright blood it shimmered in the light, ignored by the pair who now lay upon the shaggy pelt of the iyak, the slave rug of love and lust. The snow leopard moaned, his arm draped over the swell of his pregnant belly, the brood of his king lashing out in stubborn protest as the lion took his thighs, parting his legs so that his greedy muzzle may meet the plump perineum. Tycho howled, one clawed hand gripping the rug as the king’s mighty tongue slid along the tender flesh. The lion’s mouth came to the ripe cheeks, parting ever so slightly to reveal the warm, wet button which hung slack and ready. The scents of musk and the spice of Tycho’s nectar flowed from that dark cleft, spurring the king to press his nose between those shuddering mounds. 

“Magnificent,” rumbled King Omirom. “How fragrant this bouquet.”

“Master,” moaned Tycho. “You do me a kindness. For I am but the humble slave to your majesty.”

“You are more than any mere slave,” said the king. “Have I not shown you? Then, I shall have to prove it to you.”

He took up the snow leopard, his claws parting the flabby mounds, opening Tycho to him. Tycho shivered, a knuckle to his lips as the king’s muzzle slipped between his cheeks. The warmth, the scent, all would enthrall him, drawing the king to that puckered ring, dark and wet, eager to be received. His lips encircled the anus of his love, his tongue leaping to lap the sweet dew which flowed so freely from that bloom. Tycho’s mouth hung open, his belly clenching with the elation of the king’s rough tongue on his weeping button. King Omirom, with a great hand, reached around to spread his fingers over Tycho’s swollen belly. The life within the snow leopard kicked against its sire, making the flesh bubble and sway. Tycho winced, but relished the strength of those fingers which splayed over his ripe belly. How the king did run his hand over the hump of his middle, that noble tongue circling, lapping, ready to pierce his trembling core. Tycho’s eyes fell closed, his body giving in to the succulent ministrations of his love. His breath sighed through his nose, his head falling to the rug as he opened himself to the king. 

The lion’s tongue shot forward, thrusting so proudly as King Omirom took the smaller feline. Ever the brave fencer, he plunged deep, finding the shivering core of his love. There, he lapped the fragile gland, stirring Tycho to moan his desire. Curling back, King Omirom slid along the smooth walls of Tycho’s rectum, the muscles quivering, closing around him so as to not allow him to escape. Instead, the king would thrust again, plunging deep, circling the trembling prostate. Tycho let out a groan, his hand on his belly, finding the clawed fingers of his king and master. He grasped that noble hand, so strong, ridged with the tendons which lent the lion his terrible strength. How soft that hand felt, so gently did he cup the gravid orb of Tycho’s belly as the snow leopard let out a cry, his eyes opening to see the lion plucking his slick lips from his weeping anus. 

The golden eyes seized him, drawing him hopelessly into their depths. The king smiled, his face the very sun and Tycho the moon, a mere reflection of the joy which curled those smirking lips, shimmering with his fragrant honey. His hand still upon Tycho’s belly, the lion lowered himself, his great weight pressing down on the snow leopard’s side. His throbbing member, so proudly it stood, caressed the pucked ring, his tip leaking hot precum to spill upon Tycho’s quivering flesh. His body trembling, the snow leopard moaned softly, hot and ready, wishing for that cruel rod to split his cheeks. The king’s muzzle met his lips, the scent of his own nectar on the lion’s breath stirring him with a new emotion. Tycho claimed the king’s mouth with a kiss, his lips parting, his tongue slithering from between his teeth to leap into that waiting maw. This time, he would be the first to explore the smooth gums, to lick the taste of his own juices from the mouth of his love. His slender arm shot up, curling around the broad neck, drawing his master to him. 

His hand still upon Tycho’s belly, the king felt himself being pulled down. Despite a strength which could hurl a bull to the ground, the powerful feline was helpless in the arms of the gravid snow leopard. His great strength fled from him, lost as the nimble tongue of Tycho was drawn across his mouth. He fell atop the slave, his mouth opening, pulling from his love. His tongue dangled from his lips, twisting in the open air to mingle with the tongue of Tycho. Together, they would cleave together in their rhythmic dance, the king’s hand gliding up Tycho’s belly to cup a bloated breast. His other hand would seek to plunge between the flabby cheeks, to place two fingers to Tycho’s gaping ring. Carefully, he slipped into that weeping bloom, caressing the quivering gland to make the shimmering precum spurt from Tycho’s cock as the snow leopard would whimper his jubilation. 

The king pulled back, slipping in once more, his other hand flicking the erect nipple which trickled its white essence to seep into Tycho’s fur. The snow leopard dared to open his eyes, seeing the gleam of the king’s golden gaze upon him. His hands shaking, he placed them upon the broad chest, finding the muscles swimming below his fingertips. Slowly, carefully, he tread the expanse of tawny fur, finding the rippling abdominals. Such strength, he thought. Here was one who could possess him, who he would gladly open his womb to. The unborn within him stirred and Tycho felt the desire to be taken. He wished for nothing more than to bring pleasure to his love. 

“Master,” he sighed. “Can I not please you? I am your slave, I must do as I am commanded.”

“None has commanded you, my little one,” said the king. “But only do you wish it, for it is your place.”

“Yes,” replied Tycho. “I wish to please you, master.”

Bred for the pleasure den, his body was a lifetime of training. He would stir the passions of his master, bringing him to exquisite desire, shrieking his ecstasy for all to hear. The king laid his great body upon the rug, his muscles drinking in the firelight. How his body glowed, golden and pure as Tycho raised himself on his hands and knees. His pregnant belly sagged between his thighs, his navel rubbing so deliciously on the shaggy pelt of the rug. Seeing the wavy muscles of the king, he longed to let his stomach rub across the ridges of the lion’s belly. To drag his gravid middle along the golden fur like he was a dragon, slithering through his golden horde. Tycho licked his lips, the fires of lust burning so brightly within him. He came to straddle the broad waist to lay his pregnant belly on the king’s stomach. The snow leopard placed his palms on the broad pectorals and dipping down, his rump rising towards the ceiling, he laid his lips between those swells of iron hard muscle. The king let out a groan, his hand coming to take Tycho by the head as the snow leopard slid back. 

His thighs spreading, his withered nethers rubbed along the throbbing rod of his master, filling him with an eagerness to bring pleasure to the noble beast. Down the ripples of the king’s stomach, he slid, his tongue circling the deep well of the king’s navel. His fingers played along the supple fur, his belly now nestling between the thighs of the beast, his navel pressing against the churning orbs that were King Omirom’s balls. Those swelling plums, fat with fresh seed, pulsed against his gravid stomach, reminding the snow leopard of the treasures which they contained. His flower opened, gushing his honey to make slick and shiny between his ripe cheeks as he began to tilt his belly. Slowly, he rose, falling back, rubbing his gravid stomach against the king’s balls. The lion trembled, groaning in a low rumble of pleasure. Faster, Tycho rubbed himself, grasping the hard thighs for support as he slid upon the furry scrotum to place his belly to the king’s erect cock. The crimson lance wept its shimmering fury, precum flowing down the smooth, veiny flesh. Tycho rose up the shivering rod, his hips creaking as he circled and fell back. Again, he rose, again he fell, growing bolder with each movement. Faster now, he stirred the desires of his king, bringing the lion to arch his back and clasp Tycho by the biceps. 

“Ah, my little one,” the king groaned. “Oh, how you know the ways of love.”

“It is my desire to please you,” said Tycho. “And master, I am but a humble student in the arts of passion. Do not waste such time flattering this slave.”

“But I must,” the king said. “For none could bring me such joy.”

Tycho looked away, blinking back the tears which were forming in his eyes. The heat of joy bloomed in his cheeks and he was grateful for the steely fur which covered them. Pushing himself back, he then turned his attention to the throbbing obelisk of red flesh which thrust so proudly, so arrogantly up from the golden jungle of the lion’s pubic fur. Placing himself between the lion’s knees, his gravid belly upon his lap, Tycho would take hold of that quivering rod. The warmth of the smooth flesh, wet with sweat and precum, would make his palms grow hot as he slid up the king’s cock. King Omirom groaned, closing his eyes as with his thumb, Tycho began to circle the spongy tip. His other hand could come to cup the fattened balls, to squeeze them like ripe oranges. His fingers curled around those precious orbs, the claws tickling at the plump perineum. The great body shook below him, making Tycho smile as he slid his hand down the king’s fiery lance. The veins of azure and black swelled below his fingertips, pumping the hot blood which made rise the lion’s mighty scepter. 

Up, Tycho rose, coming to that weeping tip. He circled the gaping urethra, relishing the agonies of his master. Though he was a slave, it was in this moment, that he would claim the lion, that he might find himself instead the master and the king his whimpering slave. Trained in the seventy-two movements of love, Tycho would let his thumb slip down the plump undershaft, his other hand grasping and so slightly tugging the bloated scrotum of the king. The lion’s body trembled on the verge of ecstasy, but Tycho would expertly release his hold, preventing that final climax. 

“My little one,” the king sighed. “You will see me destroyed if you keep like this.”

“I should not think to do so, master,” said Tycho. “My master is so strong. His will cannot break easily.” Tycho pushed himself back, rolling on his gravid belly to bring his muzzle to that noble member. “But, I do fear that he may come very close.”

The life within him stirred, lashing out against the pressure of the snow leopard’s gravid body against the rug. Flurries of clawed feet bubbled his flesh, spurring Tycho’s mounting lust. His cheeks grew inflamed, drunk on the heady aroma of the lion’s male sex. His snout fell into the wiry tangle of pubic fur. The fragrance of that jungle filled his nostrils, and Tycho inhaled, drawing the king’s manly essence deep into his lungs. His tongue clove to his palate, letting the bitter tang of sweat and oily musk play across the roof of his mouth like a fine wine. Every sensation was an electric spark which exploded in his brain like that of stars in the sky. His eyes opened, seeing colors growing richer, the sounds of the fireplace popping just a little louder. Every nerve stood on end, tingling in rapt anticipation as he let his muzzle nestle into that tangled weave. 

The snow leopard’s tongue slid from between his black lips, slipping through the damp fur, tasting of the raw masculine virility of his master. His maiden flower gaped between his cheeks, unable to hold back the warm flow of his slick honey. Slippery and shiny were his thighs, wet with the moist dew of his growing passions. Tycho’s languid tongue slid down the king’s pelvis, the snow leopard moaning softly in sweet little sighs of whorish contentment. His mouth discovered that throbbing pillar, the crimson tower of veined glory and with glee, the snow leopard sought to climb that pulsating rod. His lips closed against the plump underside, tasting of the heat and the sweat which clung to the tender flesh. Up, he traveled, tracing the bulge of a blue vein until he met the glistening tip. Winking at him like a single, black eye, the king’s urethra flowed with the shimmering trickle of his precum. The spice of his manly wine filled the shallow cup that was his foreskin, spilling over the crimson rim to cascade along his erect penis. This, Tycho did lick, savoring the taste, the warmth of his master. His lips met that leaking tip, kissing deeply as he claimed that offered chalice. 

Above him, King Omirom did quake in jubilant agony. His great body, honed into perfection by a thousand battles, yet found himself to be utterly conquered here upon the rug. For this was a battlefield which the great beast could not dominate. Here, the battle would go to the passion slave, finding here, the advantage upon the iyak rug. Trained in the arts of love, as the knight was trained in war, Tycho would stride that rough terrain as a colossus, his hands practiced in the ways of joy as the warrior was in the movements of the sword. His weapons were his teeth and tongue, his fingers which moved with expert grace. Tycho’s lips closed, sipping the trickling precum of his master, letting the brew flow down his throat. The platinum collar around his slender neck, that which proclaimed him the property of King Omirom, glinted orange, bobbing in the firelight as he swallowed. His mouth then opened, his lips spreading over that spongy head. His tongue squirmed from between his lips and the king groaned. 

Tycho began to circle that velvet glans, his tongue sliding along the flesh of the king’s foreskin, probing, slipping beneath that fold of crimson to rub deliciously upon the spongy tip. The king’s balls churned, growing fat in his palm as he gave a squeeze. The king’s great body stirred, the muscles of his powerful thighs bunching as the lion clung to the shaggy pelt of the rug, his belly rising and falling with each panting breath. The cunning snow leopard grew more bold, tugging the king’s scrotum, slipping a finger behind the bulging sac to caress the wrinkled flesh. Gently, did he let his claw slide along the plumping perineum, making the king arch his back with a sudden cry. 

“Little slave,” groaned the king. “You torture your master so.”

“I give my master the pleasure he so craves,” remarked Tycho. “And the pleasure I crave.”

He pressed his lips to the king’s tip, his tongue darting into the gaping urethra, lapping the hot spring of pumping precum, sipping the spicy elixir with delight. His milky breasts sagged between the king’s thighs, their erect nipples rubbing delectably upon the rug. The shaggy fur of the iyak was chosen for its stiff, bristling hairs, each of which tickled his sensitive flesh. His nipples ached, weeping their sweet milk upon the rug as he lifted his shoulders. His body came alive, his chest pressing into the king’s groin. The softness of his breasts enveloped the king’s balls, swelling until they so utterly consumed the lion’s shivering cock. Trapped between such pillows, the king could do nothing else but grasp Tycho’s biceps, his golden eyes growing wide. 

“W-What have you done?” the king wailed. 

The snow leopard smiled, his black lips glistening wetly. Between his heaving breasts, their ebon charms running with threads of pearly white, the ruby of the king’s tip poked up. Precum spilled across Tycho’s chest as the snow leopard closed his arms, his breasts hugging that veined pillar of manhood. Slowly, his eyes blazing like chips of topaz in the firelight, Tycho lifted his chest. His breasts slid up the king’s member, falling back down, their soft, sweet flesh engulfing his rod. 

“Ugh,” the king moaned, his hands trembling as he clung to Tycho. “You shall unman me, little one.”

“Mmm, I fear that nothing shall ever unman you, master,” sighed the snow leopard. 

Tycho’s muzzle fell towards his weeping breast, his tongue seeking that flowing tip. There, he raised his breasts, milk and precum pooling like shimmering wine between his shuddering mounds. He lapped the mixture, slurping greedily as his tongue slid around the trembling tip of that crimson lance. The king could do nothing else but groan, his moans of ecstasy becoming whimpers as he let his head fall back upon the rug. His muscles quivered, his body growing tight with the mounting need to release. Tycho’s lips closed around his tip, kissing his manhood as the snow leopard would let his pendulous breast fall free. Shimmering precum splashed across his fur, mingling with the dampness of his own milk. He rolled on his gravid belly, his fat rump jiggling in the air, wobbling cheeks splitting like ripe fruit to release the aroma of his lust as he seized the king’s cock. With a claw, he delicately peeled back the tender foreskin, rolling the thin flesh like a rind to reveal the spongy glans of his love. His mouth closed once more around the lion’s cock, his tongue sliding along the plump undershaft as Tycho would suckle. 

The wet slurping of Tycho’s mouth echoed in the bedchamber, the crackle of his saliva popping with the logs which blazed so brightly in the hearth. Expertly, Tycho shifted his grip on his master’s cock as a warrior would the hilt of his blade, his muzzle driving down to dip into fragrant scruff of the lion’s pubic fur. King Omirom gave a sigh, knowing that this was a battle the great beast could never win. Here upon the rug of love, the little snow leopard was the true master. His hands lost their strength, falling from Tycho’s arms as the mighty body laid itself upon the shaggy pelt. Sweat clung to the king’s skin, making his shaggy mane lay limp upon his broad forehead. Meanwhile, Tycho’s lips closed around the base of the king’s shaft, swallowing that shivering rod down his gullet. His clawed fingers cupped the fattened orbs of the king’s manhood, rolling each one in his fingers as he slid back up that red pillar. His tongue slithered around the veined pole, lapping the tang of the king’s flesh. His lips relaxed as he reached the weeping tip, his eager tongue so nimbly circling. Then, without warning, he would plunge again. 

Tycho plummeted, crashing into the king’s pelvis to set the lion to moan his joyous agony. Deep, guttural cries of elation would bubble up in the king’s throat, a song of purest love which floated upon the midnight air to dance among the stars. The sliver of the moonlight streamed through the window to spill upon the steely body of Tycho. Silver and orange, like molten gold, flickered and swayed along his spotted fur, radiant in its splendor. The little slave had transformed, becoming at once something beautiful and terrible. Like a god wrought in metal, a being wholly divine which the king could never hope to hold, for to claim such a creature would be as to grasp the living flame. King Omirom watched, his breath stolen from his lungs as the slave rose, his eyes meeting those of the lion. They were blue as crystal, raw ice which dared the lion to take him in their holy lust. 

Tycho rose to the leaking tip, his hand closing around the king’s cock. With just thumb and forefinger, he twisted and stroked just below his lips. With his other hand, he closed around the base of the king’s shaft and proceeded to do the same. His hand then fell, sliding along the throbbing rod, his tongue still circling, not releasing the weeping tip of his master. The king’s belly clenched with a gut shattering moan as the slave grew faster in his pace. His fingers closed tighter, moving with a speed that made the lion dizzy with elation. The bedchamber swam before his eyes, his body surrendering to the pleasures of this little feline. Tycho inhaled the rich aroma of his love, tasting the biter tang of precum, seeking that first thick strand of virile seed. His belly grew tense, the fires of the passion slave burning so intently that he feared he would be reduced to ashes before the king would scream his final exultant shriek. 

King Omirom could not speak, but only let his mouth hang open. The cries of his jubilation rang out upon the stones as he screamed his love. The deep moans vibrated with the stunted groans which came in harmony to the high-pitched shrieks of elation as his balls retracted. His cock shivered, ready to burst. The tickle of virile seed was swelling in his rod, preparing to flow freely as Tycho grasped his cock hard and tugged. The first ropy strand came in a molten blast which filled the snow leopard’s mouth. His cheeks swelled with the rich semen of his master and Tycho swallowed the pungent wad with delight, letting it pool hot in his pregnant belly. He craved so much more, stroking greedily to coax the king’s essence from that spurting tip. 

His arms swelling with primitive strength, the lion sat up, snatching the shrinking Tycho in his claws. The snow leopard came free of the ruby scepter, his belly sliding along the rippling abdominals of the lion. Milk pattered on the king’s chest as Tycho found himself laying on the great feline. His pregnant belly heaved, quivering in joy as he let his gravid middle rub against the hard stomach of his master. His swollen breasts, their nipples firm and erect, slid along the compact pectorals, causing Tycho to shudder as his lips found the mouth of the king. 

“A-Ah, little one,” the king roared. “Ah, you wicked creature. You shall pay dearly for making me desire you so greatly.”

The lion took him into his arms, their mouths crashing in a bruising kiss which sucked the breath from Tycho’s lungs. His ballooning breasts came to his chin, so crushed was he against the great beast as the king would roll. Tycho now found himself on the rug, his master poised above him. Those golden eyes were molten amber in the glow of the firelight, the silver of the moon whispering against the tawny back, making the ridges of the lion’s muscles stand like steel cables in the gloom. 

“You wicked little demon,” King Omirom growled from deep within his broad chest. His manhood wept its fury between his legs, a rod of brightest crimson, luminous in the shadowed room. “I shall have to punish you for this.”

His claw came to Tycho’s wet, quivering lips, slowly tracing the ebon pillows as the snow leopard sighed. That same finger then crested the steely chin, gliding down Tycho’s throat to touch the collar of platinum. The king paused for an instant at that band of bright metal, before continuing down the furry chest to slip between the milky breasts. His muzzle lowered to Tycho’s bosom as he grasped the snow leopard hard with both hands. Hot lips met willing flesh and the king once more climbed the slope of Tycho’s pregnant belly. 

“Ugh, m-master,” Tycho whimpered. “Your slave has committed a grievous offense. You must punish him.”

Tycho’s leg rose, parting to wrap around the lion’s waist. The jingle of the bells on his ankles chimed as he reached up to let his fingers splay in the tawny fur of the king’s chest. 

“You simply must,” Tycho panted, his voice thick with desire. His blue eyes were half-lidded, his nostrils flaring. “You must punish your slave.”

“So I shall,” whispered the king. His great hand came to Tycho’s thigh, his fingertips caressing the downy fur. The wetness of Tycho’s lust made his fingers slick as he drew the snow leopard to him. “For you have committed a grave crime in making me crave you so dearly.”

His erect cock quivered, leaking the thin stream of his potent seed to puddle on the rug. The king leaned into Tycho, his bright tip sliding between the spreading cheeks, pushing against the puckered ring of the snow leopard’s glimmering anus. Tycho’s lips would part ever so slightly, his gleaming teeth shimmering as his fangs opened in a breathless sigh of adulation. King Omirom’s golden eyes would close, drawing into himself as he shifted his hips. His cock pressed deeper into Tycho’s ring, the flesh beginning to stretch. The snow leopard gave a pained wince as agony and pleasure would vie within him. The ruby tip of the king disappeared into him, the erect shaft, made slick and shiny by Tycho’s saliva, sliding effortlessly into the parting petals of his maiden flower. The snow leopard’s belly began to rise, swelling with the throbbing meat of his love. He watched, his fingers grasping with white knuckles to the burly arms of the king, as that crimson lance would vanish within his quivering body. The roiling abdominals of the lion were as the sea at sunset, shifting and rolling with their own delicious current. 

“A-Ah,” Tycho moaned quietly, his head falling back upon the rug.

Thrusting mightily, the king so proudly stormed that quivering bastion. His lance, never faltering, would crash the gates of Tycho’s womb, stirring the snow leopard into a paroxysm of ecstatic glee. The room would ring out with the shrill cries of love, a song that hung on the damp night air to lift the heart of the great feline as he pulled back. His hips circling, the king would come in once more, rocking the gravid body of Tycho. The snow leopard, his claws grasping dearly at the powerful arms of the lion, did let out a scream of jubilation, his prostate shivering as the weeping spear of the king would caress that swollen gland. Virile seed flowed from that tip, pouring the essence of the beast deep into the fecund womb of the snow leopard. With relish, Tycho would lap that thick mixture, his belly beginning to gurgle, swelling ripe with fresh expansion as his womb would bloat. 

“O-Oh, master,” moaned the slave. “Oh, more. Please, give your slave more.”

“My little one is so very greedy,” said the king. “Very well, I shall not hold back.”

The king pulled back, his crimson rod sticky with the freshly flowing semen which pumped another ropy strand to paint the walls of Tycho’s quaking rectum. That wet, alien world drew the king back in, like fingers hugging around his cock. So tight, the lion would grit his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut from the strain as his manhood would find itself milked of precious seed. Tycho’s pregnant belly clenched, muscles rolling in a rhythmic dance which sucked that red lance deep, caressing, stroking so that the great beast who pressed himself to Tycho’s gravid middle would grunt and moan. Unable to pull away, the king would push further, deeper, slamming into the core of the yowling snow leopard. Together, their cries would rise into the night, playing amongst the frosty stars to make the gods above look down from their celestial palaces with eyes jealous of these two mortals would find a love greater than they. 

“Ugh, master,” whimpered Tycho. 

The snow leopard’s shaking hands fell from the arms of the king, his claws grasping at the shaggy rug beneath him, clinging as his body was rocked. On that giddy sea, he was cast adrift, left to float helplessly on the current of sweetly bitter bliss. Tears flowed from his eyes, dampening his spotted cheeks as his lips would curl into a smile of deepest elation. His breast heaved, the nipples erect, leaking still their sweet milk, flowing in threads of gleaming white to mat his fur and make wet his belly. The king brought his great hands to the little feline’s sides, his thumbs circling around the swell of Tycho’s belly. Gently, he would trace the curve of round hips, coming to grasp the flabby buttocks, dimpled with maternal padding. The steel grey fur was like molten silver in the waning light of the moon, kissed with the rich amber of the firelight, a scintillating cascade of colors which only further enhanced the unnatural beauty of the snow leopard. The king, for all his wealth, found no treasure which could compare with the shrieking creature in his arms. He lowered himself, his stomach pressing against Tycho’s swollen belly, making the life within him stir in protest. Tycho let out a sharp cry as pain and exquisite pleasure filled him. 

“My little one,” the king whispered, his lips grazing the panting mouth of Tycho. 

His kisses crested the delicate chin, his lips traversing the curve of the supple throat. Once more, he felt the cool metal of the platinum collar, the etchings that proclaimed Tycho as belonging to him and him alone. He held his muzzle there, tasting of the bitter metal. The chime of bells sounded, Tycho’s ankles shaking as the lion pumped his virile essence into that expanding womb. King Omirom pulled his head back, his hands slipping beneath the snow leopard’s back. Gently, he lifted Tycho, drawing the snow leopard up into a sitting position. The king, seating himself upon the rug, allowed the mewling slave to fill his lap. Tycho found his weary head resting on the broad chest of his master, the thrum of the great heart a pounding drum in his ears. His slender arms would slither around the massive shoulders, his face burying itself into the scruff of the king’s chest. His lips, so wetly glistening, sought the nub of erect flesh which dared to peer out from the tawny sea. The lion shuddered, feeling those warm lips encircle his nipple, the clever tongue which flicked at that sensitive bud. 

With hands made terrible and strong by the sword, the king would take hold of Tycho’s buttocks, each palm filling with ripe, jiggling flesh. Like fresh dough from the royal ovens, he kneaded those mounds of tender flesh, his claws sinking deeply into the snow leopard’s rump. Tycho plucked his muzzle from the king’s shiny nipple to utter a wail of delight, his breasts trickling their joy down the king’s rippling belly. The crimson lance shot upwards, lifting the snow leopard from the lion’s lap with a thrust which made Tycho howl. Faster, he began to bounce, his cheeks being split wide, spreading as a flower would open its bloom to the rising sun. 

“Ah, master,” Tycho moaned. “Oh, yes.”

His gravid belly rubbed against the king’s stomach, his flesh tingling with the sensation of his swollen middle as the hard muscle glided along the curve of his stomach. His navel circled the king’s bellybutton, the golden piercing tugging just enough to bring a sigh of joy to the snow leopard’s lips. His head fell against the broad chest, his rectum hot with the molten virility of the king’s pumping seed. His womb lurched, overfilled, yet still hungry for more. Loose strings of white semen spurted from his bruised flower as the king lifted him, sliding him along his sticky spear. 

“Master,” whispered Tycho. “I fear that I cannot hold much more.”

The king’s lips met the lobe of Tycho’s ear, his breath hot and wet as he exhaled. Shivers of delight ran down Tycho’s spine, his skin tingling as the deep voice of the lion purred into his ear. 

“But you must,” he said. “For I still desire to take you from behind. For that is how strong sons are made.”

“Mmm, but you have sired such a strong one already, or can you not feel him kicking against my womb, my master?”

The king’s mouth closed on Tycho’s lips, a kiss which brought the heat to bloom in the snow leopard’s cheeks. 

“Still, my little one,” the king said, his hand coming up to fall upon Tycho’s cheek. “We can make him grow stronger.”

“My master,” Tycho wept, his fingers tangling into the flowing mane of the lion. “I only wish to please you.”

“And so you have,” said the king. “More than you can ever know.”

He lowered the snow leopard to the rug, pulling back so that his sticky member popped free. Strings of warm semen clung to his bubbling tip, linking him to the battered anus of his love. Tycho’s blossom spurted thick, white sludge to ooze down his thighs as the snow leopard rolled onto his side. With the help of the king, he struggled onto his hands and knees, his rump thrust skyward. His gravid belly sagged to the floor, sloshing with the warm seed of his love. His buttocks, made fat by his gravid condition, wobbled, the heavy cheeks parting of their own accord to display the gaping ring which bubbled like that of a cauldron, boiling with the virile essence of the lion. 

His gravid belly roiled, demanding the lance which hovered, poised over his ring. The flowing seed of the lion pattered on his rump in thick droplets, like melting candle wax. Each drop would make Tycho shiver in anticipation as those claws would clasp his buttocks. The king bucked his hips, his rod entering with a wet squelch. Loose seed sprayed from Tycho’s bloom, splashing down his thighs and across the lower belly of the king. The lion slid deep, plunging with reckless desire to claim at last the shuddering bastion of the snow leopard’s womb. His lance pierced the quaking gates, sundering the last defense of his love. Tycho raised his head with a shriek of utter ecstasy, his fat rump pressing back into the king, pushing against the lion, driving the beast deeper still. The king gave a sudden grunt and fell atop Tycho’s back. The weight of the beast pushed his belly down, stirring the life within him to lash out. Such sensations would be too much and Tycho could not hold back his pitiful male fury. King Omirom’s seed fountained against his prostate, pummeling that weeping gland to make the shimmering precum erupt from what remained of Tycho’s groin. Trickling fluid spilled itself upon the rug, becoming the last remains of white seed which was squeezed from his withering balls. His belly clenched painfully as the air was blasted from his lungs and Tycho fell upon the rug. 

His face, hot and damp with sweat, would plunge into the shaggy pelt, seeking succor where he would find none. His arms were draped before him, his wrists crossed in the manner of the surrendering slave. The king pushed deeper, pulling back, circling his hips to lift the snow leopard’s rump up. Then, with a sudden push, he dropped Tycho back down, his shivering rod plunging deep into that alien world, piercing the core of his love. The wiry fur of the king’s pubic area tickled Tycho’s ass, the king locking his pelvis to the jiggling cheeks of the snow leopard. Hot semen continued to spurt from that scarlet tip, filling the hungry womb of Tycho, bloating his swollen belly until he appeared pregnant with twins. The king’s hands slid from the wide hips of the snow leopard, travelling up the ribs of his love to then splay across the ripe belly. How he savored the growing expanse of Tycho’s gravid abdomen. Fingers dug into yielding flesh, thumbs circling, caressing his lover’s ever expanding middle as Tycho would groan his love for the king. 

His pace slowing, King Omirom plunged deep and held, his balls venting their fury into the whimpering snow leopard. Tycho did not lift his head, but his ass would press against the pelvis of the king, circling, coaxing that throbbing rod to surrender every virile drop. His thighs quivered, crusted and damp with spilled semen. His milky breasts leaked upon the rug beneath him, wetting his belly as the king filled his palms with gravid flesh. Every stroke, every sweet movement was enough to make the snow leopard moan, singing his hymn of love so that the lion too, did join in that chorus. Their soft, grunting calls filled the bedchamber, like the first voices who were raised in the primal night, finding each other in the new world. His hands climbed the shuddering orb to cup the round breasts and the king lifted Tycho once more into his lap. Gently, so as not to bruise a single petal, he pulled his member free. Loose seed spilled from the snow leopard’s rump, matting the fur of the king, but the lion would pay no mind. In his arms panted the snow leopard, Tycho’s face drawn and wan from the tumultuous exertions of their love. 

The little feline raised a hand and the king seized that tiny claw, enveloping it with his own massive paw. His lips sought the neck of the snow leopard, kissing the sweaty fur, drinking in the aroma of their love which clung like a heady perfume. 

“My little one,” said the king. “Though, perhaps not so little anymore.” His hand came to rest on Tycho’s belly. 

“Master,” sighed Tycho. “I am made bigger by your love. Have I pleased you?”

“You have,” replied the king. “You have pleased me so much.” His finger hooked the ring which pierced Tycho’s distended navel. “And for that, I will show you how a slave can claim a king, for this night is not yet over.”