The Mledev grunts lowly, body shaking with pleasure at the eagerness with which the sran takes him. He groans softly, before hooking a leg around Ctoślone’s waist and flipping them so the demon is pinned beneath him. At this angle, it it easier to drive his cock deeper into his slaves waiting mouth, and the sound of his balls slapping against the sran's chin soon fills the tent, punctured only by his own moaning.

“Your hands would be better served elsewhere, slave” he gaps out after a moment, as he feels his lover struggling to keep up with his pace.

Ctoślome can barely gag out a confused grunt amid the overwhelming thrusting, and truthfully the words hardly register in his beatific reverie. It felt so good to be fucked! But his master wanted his hands to. Tentatively he unlatched them from his master’s flanks and ran them over the man’s body, looking for a reaction when he found the correct place.

Chúdan lets out a series of soft gasps as the srans hands explore his body, gasping affirmatively and shivering as they find their way to his hole and nipples, respectively.

Ctoślome feels like a drone, exploratory but empty of thoughts, as he plays with his master’s body. It surprises him—delights him—to find these additional buttons of pleasure, like a novice organist discovering what a new stop does when opened. The man’s nipples are tough to reach like this, but the sounds made it worth the effort, and the hole felt to the sran like a gift, a way to encourage the man to breed him more fully by pressing on it with the same eagerness he wanted to feel in each thrust.