DOG WITH TWO TAILS

guard her

bridegrooms

kings of cities

Sappho, Fragment 161

Sansa arched her back as he moved to her breasts, his mouth wide open on one as he bounced and caressed the other. Oh, the pleasure of it made her hum. Her fingers twitched with the maddening desire to touch his face, to feel the leathery skin of his left cheek sucking in as he drew on her nipple. Behind the pillar, she felt his fingers entwining with hers. Sansa caressed his short fingernails, the wrinkles on his knuckles, the creases in his palms. She felt a sudden giddy thrill when she discovered the exact area on his wrists where the skin was no longer smooth but hairy, the hairs thick and wiry—so very different, so very masculine compared to the faint downy softness that covered her own arms.

She concentrated hard, trying to memorize the features of his hands, failing to notice that another pair of hands were cutting the cords of her bonds. There was no time to enjoy her freedom as her wrists were quickly ensnared, pulled to her front and once more tied together.

"Now," he said aggressively, his voice urgent and low, as if born from a distance. "My cock's so fucking hard I could use it as a battering ram."

She heard the sound of a stool being kicked away. She felt Sandor's arms digging into her sides, pushing her up against the pillar, while other arms, hardly felt at all, gripped her legs, guiding them so that they encircled his waist. A hand reached down between them and worsted wool crumpled, caught only by his spread-legged stance.

"You want this," he rasped in a low, faraway voice.

It wasn't a question, yet it demanded her answer.

"You want this?" he asked softly, pressing his lips, plump on one side, burned away on the other, against her throat. That spot where the pulse was beating, beating, skipping: yes, yes, please …

"Yes."

And then he was guiding himself inside of her. She sucked in her breath—would she ever grow accustomed to it? He felt as massive as before, her nerves down there spiking at the burning, wincing thrill. He rocked himself in, once, twice and on the third time, it seemed as if her body all but pulled him in, swallowing him up. She let out a startled moan, the back of her head smacking hard against the pillar.

It hurt: his size, the odd angle, her bruised head but the pinch of pain did nothing to diminish her pleasure. She squeezed him, muscles clenching, holding him inside, tightening around him. They stayed like that, perfectly frozen, for a few moments. Oh it was right, so blessedly right, that he should be where he was. She leaned forward, finding his mouth and kissing him wetly.

He ended the kiss with a sharp thrust up into her, pushing her against the pillar, his head falling into the crook of her neck. His fingers drifted low, sliding to the place where they were joined, witnesses to the slick entrance and exit of each stroke as if he needed to be convinced of her acquiescence.

Perhaps due to her blindness, it seemed as if all her other senses were heightened. She felt the smooth silk of her blindfold, the tease of his pubic hair, the worn wood of the pillar behind her. His tongue licked her jawline just as his hips pulled back, then pushed—Oh Gods be good. She ground her hips hard against his to get closer to the sensation.

With her legs still about his waist, he carried her away, one hand supporting her hips, one hand cradling her head. They kissed as he continued to thrust, working her back and forth. Sansa heard the brief sound of fabric flapping and then felt herself being laid down on a bed, luxuriantly covered in what could only be lion pelts. He kissed her more deeply and she groaned, kissing him back in response. She pulled him closer with her feet, toes digging into his muscled buttocks, heels and calves sliding against his skin with each thrust.

"Move her to the edge. I want to kiss her now."

Sandor pulled out of her suddenly. A whimper of disappointment formed but had no time to escape from her mouth as he lifted her whole body forward, so her head lolled off the edge of the bed. She felt her hair brushing the floor for a moment before her head was cradled by a hand, gauntleted and cool.

A mailed thumb landed at the edge of her lip, rolling it down and she felt the press of a mouth against hers in a deep kiss. As if in tandem, she felt another thumb, one of bare skin, touch her between her legs. The press of the two thumbs sent a shocking physical rush of blood to her brain, making her go rigid with fright.

"Calm down," he said. "The Dothraki Kings share with their Kingsguard, there's no shame in it for the girl. You've already enjoyed servicing us both."

Behind her blindfold, her eyes grew wide with fear. She had heard of this awful practice, that a horselord, a khal, shared even wives with the men sworn to protect him, his bloodriders.

"Who are you sharing me with?" she asked, her brow furrowing deeper into a horrified frown. As far as she knew, there was no man Sandor Clegane would call friend, let alone a bloodrider.

She heard him laugh his deep, dirty chuckle, "The Hound."

From the opposite direction, "You're so dirty-minded, Sansa. I like it!"

An ocean of relief flooded her veins and she let out a long airy breath. A flurry of conflicting emotions ran across her face before settling on a look of maidenly indignation.

"I am not. It's you!" she cried, kicking out at him, trying to put the weight of the blame on him, even though this was her dream. He dodged, then gripped the leg that would have struck him if possible.

He was still licking her toes when a sheepish, befuddled smile crept onto her face.

The Hound kissed her forehead as Sandor slid his hands beneath her buttocks, rolling his hips and planting himself deep, until his pubic bone thumped against her.

Sansa felt so warm and knew she must be blushing furiously, the blood of her body throbbing just below the surface of her skin. Her face was red with shame but her heart leapt into a happy rhythm.

As happy as a dog with two tails.

The Hound kissed her, his tongue moving inside of her mouth in unhurried exploration while his thumb remained on her lower lip. The thumb then journeyed inside of her mouth, so that both his tongue and his thumb were penetrating her.

Sandor began to gently rub her and she could feel the tremors running through his body, hear his short deep grunts coming ever faster. A knot built somewhere below her tummy, still faintly painful, yet it made her squirm in pleasure. Her body caught, ice and fire, frozen and burning at the same time. Abruptly, the Hound ended his kisses. Sansa's head hung upside down off the bed for a moment before he again cradled it with one hand, while with the other she could hear the sound of him opening his breeches.

"Do you want to taste me, little bird?"

Sansa pictured licking his thumb … and she knew what service he was requiring of her. Lady Myranda had whispered of it, so dark and dirty, during their pillow talks. But the girl shrank back from the duty no gently bred lady would ever be expected to perform. She wet her lips to say no.

No was the answer but her tongue had grown fat and it wouldn't move in her mouth. Instead she pressed her lips inward, though she didn't know if she truly meant to protest.

Sandor sniggered, while the Hound gave an indignant grunt. "It is only courteous! After all my services for you. A lady must never forget her courtesies," he rasped. In that deep grumbly-growly voice, a voice that made her idiotically malleable to anything he wanted. Anything at all.

Decisions, decisions, they hung in the air, demanding her attention and before her brain could decide, her mouth was opening. First just a little, then as wide as she could when she felt Sandor's massive member grow even thicker inside of her.

"You look like a fledgling ready for supper," the Hound said, letting out a deep, slow chuckle as he gently tipped her head back. "I won't keep my little bird waiting."

Sansa tensed, waiting, breathless …

And then it hit her … a ball of spit, landing on her tongue before rolling down her throat.

She heard them both burst into raucous raspy laughter, deep guffaws from the belly that lasted for far too long. She wanted to slap him but he had her at his mercy, legs held, hands bound, blind and helpless.

"Oh, aren't you funny! Just full of japes," she cried.

"I'm awful. Now pull your knees to your chin, girl. He don't want to feel anything except cunt."

Sansa whimpered and groaned and complied. Sandor renewed his thrusting, the bed shaking from both his laughter and his movements.

A vein in her neck began to beat. His spit. It had been utterly tasteless, horrible and … a tiny terror blossomed, a dangerous thought was born in her brain, enough to tie her insides in knots:

Men were delicious.

Well, at least Sandor Clegane was delicious.

It was her last moment of coherence. The knot below her tummy became tight. His spit had doused her, pleasure-soaking her nerves with a substance more intoxicating than plumwine. She gasped. "Oh, oh, ohhh."

For a second, it seemed as if she could fly, the featherbed rising with her, lifting her back until it arched—that good feeling becoming hideously strong. So strong it hurt, so good she broke apart into more little feminine cries of oh, oh, oh that the Hound's mouth, positioned upside down from hers, caught from her lips while his mailed hands held both her cheeks firmly in place.

Sandor drove into her once, twice, three times, then bucked violently, filling the air with a succession of stuttering grunts, low and guttural, as if wrenched from his chest. She had no time to struggle with her own feelings before the Hound's hands hooked into her underarms.

"My turn to get my cock wet," he rasped.

Sandor shoved him, hard enough that Sansa could hear the Hound stumbling backward a step.

"Savage cunny … as tight as fists wringing out a sodden rag," he muttered incoherently. He held her possessively, thrusting into her as long as his erection endured, before releasing her into the waiting arms of the Hound.

The Hound lifted her up, twisting her around, as easily as if she was a rag doll. Before she knew it, she was sitting on his lap astride him, her bound hands encircling his neck, his thick member sliding into her. She was so wet that his penetration was a velvet-smooth ripple.

"Like a horse, ride him, ride me, like a horse," Sandor muttered from behind her, grabbing her buttocks and motioning her to move her hips up and down.

She set a leisurely slow pace: the good feeling, that perfect satisfaction had peaked inside of her and she wanted to bask in the lingering warmth of its sun. The Hound leaned back and she could hear the creak of the bed as his hand splayed palm down on it. He braced himself so he could lever his hips, touching her innermost spot with the tip. Sansa could feel the strength of the Hound's eyes upon her, hear his steady breathing—an animal calm.

A mailed finger traced her cheekbone. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't draw breath to beg or squeal," he said after a long pause. The Hound punctuated this with a change in pace, hard and fast strokes, his hands moving to her waist and back to pin her in place. In and out, in and out, as her breasts bounced in rhythm.

A pair of hands reached from behind to massage her nipples. Around and around as if he was slowly polishing her. "You have to rub her between the legs while you fuck her. That button is like a little cock. Pay attention to her pleasure, dog. That way she'll keep coming back to you for more."

There was something funny here: it made her giggle to hear Sandor's thoughts spoken aloud to the Hound. Who would imagine such a thing?

She stopped laughing when a cold, mailed hand slid between her legs, the thumb suddenly cocked to press against that hard bundle of flesh every time she slid down. From behind her, the upper curve of her spine was grazed with a very warm and very hard, perfectly beautiful—cock—whispered her deranged brain. "Sandor," she breathed shakily.

"Come on, come on, come on," the Hound muttered rapidly like a madman. "Sing for me, little bird." Confusion swirled inside of her. It was a very distracting request, her thoughts so muddled, a woman possessed in every sense. She was out of her mind; why, she could barely remember her own name.

"Lady Sansa," the Hound's laugh was like a loud, irritating bark. She felt his fingers slipping and sliding against her as she tried gracelessly to keep up with the pace he liked. "Feels good, huh, girl?"

Sansa couldn't see yet she felt the Hound's stupid grin.

She didn't bother to say anything. It was good and she felt herself grinning back at him, itchy with mindless excitement. She had the absurd desire to shout out his name—Sandor! Oh Sandor! —the inelegance of lovers' talk at last making sense to her. She was surprised by the responsiveness of her own body. A touch of his mailed hand, a hot caress against her back, was sending her off, lighting her up as if she was a dim room he had barged into to set all the candles aflame.

Sandor took the palm that was curved on her ribcage and held it in front of her lips. "Spit," he said. She did as he demanded, both aroused and repelled at the thought of his hands upon himself, slick with the wetness from her mouth.

He knelt beside her, his teeth scoring her shoulder, while the Hound continued to thrust his hips against hers with rough, frantic motions. She was surrounded, a man in front, a man behind, strong arms holding her tightly as two mouths left wet marks on her skin.I wish I could grow as small as a seed, a tiny mustard seed, and he would swallow me and carry me in his body, safe and warm from all harm, she thought, overwhelmed by the sensation of being held so completely. The good feeling had peaked but now it was mounting again. Oh, she couldn't stand it, her head tossing as her body began to quiver. There was such a surge inside of her, an old, animal memory racing in her blood …

In Winterfell, she had owned a mare, a gentle bay. Sansa had taken the mare hawking one day and while following her hawk, they had come across a ravine not seen until it was too late. The mare was a good jumper, leaping over the ditch instinctively. The thrill of that unexpected leap—for one weightless, precarious moment—then the dark and dizzying collapse as hooves thudded against the hard-packed earth. It made her gasp, a breathless shock of pleasure, a sudden hard twist of her hips. She was no longer riding her bay mare but a giant black courser. At the nudge of her heels, the stallion broke into a full gallop across a vast landscape of plains and steppes as a sea of grass blurred against the shifting clouds of the bright blue sky. She rode him hard now, thrilled at the feel of his muscles rippling underneath her, all around her, only her power holding him in rein. The sinews along his great bull neck trembled. She moaned as she traced them with her tongue, the veins there as thick as on a swollen horse's c—

"Fuck! Fuck!"—she had clamped down so tightly on him that he seized in a stunned but instant halt. She could feel Sandor's seed, ropes of warm liquid, trickle down her spine. The Hound's hips arching up and up. An agonized rasp ruptured from out his chest—between her legs, the delicate, fibrillating pulse of his manhood. "Bloody hell, just one more minute," the Hound cursed—for the beginning of the end of what he wanted to last for another minute or for another Age.

She sucked hard on the skin of his neck. Even his sweat tastes sweet, Sansa thought as the good feeling came again. Not as strong as the first time but still delicious, tightening, loosening, sending fluttery kisses that made him clutch onto her like a dying man; his grunts smothered in her hair. Her spasms repeated. Sustained. Then it was only an echo in their throbs.