02-17-2019, 09:16 AM
Mary asks if he doesn’t already have a queen, and kelpie’s lips twist in a half-smile.
“Ischia has no queen,” he tells her, and while his voice is edged with disappointment it is not at the lack of a female monarch, but rather at the absence of a throne for one to sit upon. “We are but a humble territory, after all.” There’s nothing humble about him, but he is also less than passionate about the lack of a throne than Mary seems to be.
“You already share power with Sinner,” adds the kelpie, sidling closer to the tobiano mare as they walk. “Surely it’s not much different.”
It is different, he knows, but not in a way that matters to Ivar. He has given his consorts their titles to keep them happy, though he is just as inclined to take them away when he is feeling less generous. The title of Khaleesi that he has given to Isobell marks her as unique from the rest, but he’d give Mary her own rank if that was what it took to keep her.
The color shifting mare turns his question of their relationship back to him without giving him the answer he’d requested. Ivar’s frustration at Mary’s refusal to answer is mitigated only by her physical proximity. The feel of her pressed against him is soothing, and the way she reaches toward him distracts the kelpie from the long-term problem of keeping her in Ischia. Perhaps it is better to focus on short term satisfaction for the time being.
“I’d settle for lovers,” he says into the curve of her throat. Her pulse thrums brightly beneath the thin skin of her neck, but his serrated teeth remain shielded behind his pale lips as he slides his muzzle from her throat to her withers. Transferring his own lust is easy; he means to fan the flame of her desire with his hypnosis. The idea of pulling her into the warm water of one of Ischia’s many lagoons is appealing, but his time on land weakens his need for slaughter. Sending her back satisfied to Sylva would surely be enough for his pride.
Ivar traces the pattern of white and blue that Mary has donned for him, and he nips softly at the point of her hip and the rise of her flank. “But then you might not want to go back to Sylva,” the stallion continues his previous thought aloud as he rounds the young ruler. His chest presses against her hindquarters much as he presses lust into her mind, adding: “Or I might not let you go.” with a dark-eyed smile.
@[Mary]
“Ischia has no queen,” he tells her, and while his voice is edged with disappointment it is not at the lack of a female monarch, but rather at the absence of a throne for one to sit upon. “We are but a humble territory, after all.” There’s nothing humble about him, but he is also less than passionate about the lack of a throne than Mary seems to be.
“You already share power with Sinner,” adds the kelpie, sidling closer to the tobiano mare as they walk. “Surely it’s not much different.”
It is different, he knows, but not in a way that matters to Ivar. He has given his consorts their titles to keep them happy, though he is just as inclined to take them away when he is feeling less generous. The title of Khaleesi that he has given to Isobell marks her as unique from the rest, but he’d give Mary her own rank if that was what it took to keep her.
The color shifting mare turns his question of their relationship back to him without giving him the answer he’d requested. Ivar’s frustration at Mary’s refusal to answer is mitigated only by her physical proximity. The feel of her pressed against him is soothing, and the way she reaches toward him distracts the kelpie from the long-term problem of keeping her in Ischia. Perhaps it is better to focus on short term satisfaction for the time being.
“I’d settle for lovers,” he says into the curve of her throat. Her pulse thrums brightly beneath the thin skin of her neck, but his serrated teeth remain shielded behind his pale lips as he slides his muzzle from her throat to her withers. Transferring his own lust is easy; he means to fan the flame of her desire with his hypnosis. The idea of pulling her into the warm water of one of Ischia’s many lagoons is appealing, but his time on land weakens his need for slaughter. Sending her back satisfied to Sylva would surely be enough for his pride.
Ivar traces the pattern of white and blue that Mary has donned for him, and he nips softly at the point of her hip and the rise of her flank. “But then you might not want to go back to Sylva,” the stallion continues his previous thought aloud as he rounds the young ruler. His chest presses against her hindquarters much as he presses lust into her mind, adding: “Or I might not let you go.” with a dark-eyed smile.
@[Mary]