In the darkest hours of night, when everyone had finally retired, Farengar stuck his head out through his open door. He looked around, to make sure no one was there to witness what he was about to do. No one could know his secret. No. One. Quietly, oh so quietly he crept towards the Jarl's throne, above which the skull of Numinex hung. A hand slipped into his pocket, feeling around for that one silver ring he kept with him for times like these. The mage slipped it onto his finger, and climbed onto the back of the throne, standing tip-toe so that he could reach the dragon skull. He grasped the snout and hoisted himself onto it, thanking the Nine that whatever held it up there was strong enough to hold both him and its usual occupant.
Not like he wasn't a usual occupant himself, though.
Farengar looked quickly over his shoulder at the guards who would, under normal circumstances, stand at their posts on either side of the Jarl's throne and by the door. A remarkably strong sleeping potion in their mead had ensured him privacy, and for that he still owed Arcadia. He quickly disrobed, all the while stroking one of Numinex's horns. All in the interest of the advancement of knowledge, he told himself. He wouldn't admit to himself that there was also a part of him that wanted to get it in with the majestic scaled beasts.
With both hands secured on the dragon skull's horns, the mage began rubbing his hardening length against its skeletal snout, moving his hips all around. The bone was hard, rough, and that was exactly how Farengar liked it. He dared to slide a bit farther down on Numinex's ancient head, allowing his cock to slip through one of its massive nostrils, positioning himself so that he could bump against the top of the cavity with every thrust. And he did so, as vigorously as he had in nights past. The uneven walls of the dragon's nostril cavity raked lightly against his penis with each hard thrust, causing him to gasp and moan. He didn't stop, though, and hoping his enchanted ring would grant him enough stamina for the act, Farengar pulled out and then slammed right back into the skull. This was repeated more times than the mage cared to count, until he finally climaxed inside the dragon with a shout, not even bothering to silence himself.
He collapsed onto the dragon head, panting, clinging to the horns like his life depended on it. And it was then that he heard that voice, that accent, and realized he'd forgotten that Irileth was a light sleeper, and that he had been making more noise than an elk on fire.
"Farengar, what in Oblivion are you doing up there?!"