Peach Parlay Afterparty, part 2: Alcoholic Boogalewd - RPLOG

Participants

• Bleu (male herm)
• Richard (male herm)

Date

11/3/2019

• The remainder of Peach Parlay Afterparty - RPLOG. NSFW as heck.

Log

Richard grins deviously. "We're going to play a drinking game. I guess wrong, I drink. I guess right, you drink. No lying." He leans onto the counter. "You have a favorite gender."

Bleu smirks, but he pulls out a second glass, setting it beside Richard's. "You're right." He pours whiskey into his glass, and downs it in one gulp. "Can you guess which one, though?"

Richard narrows his eyes and says confidently, "Women. Like the satyrs of legend."

Bleu smirks, and shakes his head. "Wrong. While I do appreciate a beautiful female... Nine times out of ten it's a handsome man, such as yourself, that gets my attention the most..."

Richard's eyebrows raise, then lower again. He swipes a shot glass from the counter and downs the burning liquid in two gulps. "I might have been projecting on that one. To each their own, I guess." As he's putting down his glass, he remembers the presence of the third man in the room. "...Do you hear that? I think he fell asleep. We should find someplace to put him."

Bleu perks an ear, and he grins. "Think I'll set him on my mantel. See how long he stays there... Guess my wine was a little strong." He picks up the amphora, admiring all the sexy satyrs and cute tanuki, and carries it over to his fireplace, setting it up in a good spot. "With regards to your projecting, anyway... Don't think I haven't noticed you're male herm... Like I am. I can smell it. A lovely mix of feminine and masculine scents..."

Richard smiles and nods sagely. "Mmmhm. Plenty of options. Now, next question: you prefer humanoid forms." He would cut off any protests the Bacchanalian makes before they even begin. "I know. Fuck you, we're getting drunk."

Bleu refills his glass. "You're correct, but I ought to call that a cheat..." He grins, and downs his glass of whiskey, doesn't seeming like he really minds. "I sometimes take on some exotic shapes myself, but I do adore a handsome human..."

Richard says "Amen to that. I'm not necessarily into men, but some stand out from the crowd, and if there's one right in front of me, who am I to refuse?" He leans away from the counter. Looks like his sense of balance isn't all gone just yet. "You have a preference between being on top and being the bottom."

Bleu nods again, with another shot to follow. "Correct again. Which one do you think I prefer, though?"

Richard calmly states, "You've been eyeing me like a piece of meat all day. Top."

Bleu blushes, which is remarkable, because his fur is already red. "I, ah... Can hardly help myself. This one is a somewhat complicated answer," he continues, filling his glass. "I used to be a strict bottom, but I grew much more confident after becoming a satyr. I do prefer to top now, yes." He tosses back the shot, not seemingly affected by the alcohol even now.

Richard smirks like the smug bastard he is. "...Plenty of options..." He says to nobody inparticular. "All right. You like 'em big, but not huge. In the pants, I mean."

Bleu's filling his glass faster and faster with each question it seems. Knocking it back, he nods his head. "Yessss. Big, but not *too* big. How are you reading me so well?"

Richard puts his weight forward on the counter again. "Like a piece of meat. Figured either you're a total slut, or I was already pushing the right buttons. He grabs a glass and takes the tiniest of sips from it. "Honestly, I like to go fuckin' crazy with myself. Best night's sleep I ever had was sleeping on my own cock." He lifts the glass away from his face and points at Bleu with his forefinger, the rest of them still curled around the cup of ambrosia. "You're into major size difference, though. Like, thirty foot tall folks or ones that can sit in the palm of your hand." He raises an eyebrow, and the shot is already heading back towards his mouth...

Bleu gives that some thought. "Eh, only sometimes, on very specific occasions." He smirks. "I *can* be cajoled into it, though..." He looks away with a cough. "As for being a slut, well... What can I say? I'm a horny goat, err, kangaroo..."

Richard grunts. Half of the shot goes down the hatch. "Call that a maybe. Too bad the floor'd fall out if I really cut loose here." He curls his forefinger back around the rim of the glass, extending the rest to make a waving motion with a flick of the wrist. "Go ahead and change into whatever. Or stay as that. Your call." He clears his singed throat. "You've got a favorite body type." Another 50/50 question that skews in his favor. "Yeah, fuck you. *WE* are getting drunk."

Bleu takes that moment to settle back into his satyr shape, though he does rather enjoy being a marsupial. "Right again." He tips back his glass, and downs the whiskey. He's starting to feel the effects of the booze, which is not something that happens all that often. "I generally like a little pudge, but not too obese. Though muscles are sexy... You got a lot of muscle under that shirt, don't you? I'm gonna have to get you undressed..."

Richard downs the other half of the shot. "You didn't make me guess what." Now empty, he slaps the glass onto the countertop. He keeps the glass in his hand. Mostly. There's a bit of fumbling going on. "Hell, you tell me." he says as the clothes around him wither away into a cloud of dust. That dust embeds itself in his skin, forming green tattoos of intricate, curvy script across his slim, athletic upper body that looks like something out of a Tolkein novel. What does it say? Might be 'he cannot understand this, so I can write anything' or something. Or 'nothing is permanent.' It's anyone's guess. "This mutation's adaptable as fuck, man. Can't go full beefcake with it, but everything else is fair game. You want a muscle-beast? I got fiv- five hundred forms, 'n a few favorites that'd be just what you're looking for."

Bleu bites his lower lip as soon as the elf's clothing turns into dust, and the dust becomes histattoos. The satyr steps forward, looking up and down that attractive, athletic form. "Yes... Let me tell you..." He smiles. "You're gorgeous... *Just* like this. Five hundred forms puts me to shame, though..." He closes the gap between himself and Richard. "It's all I can do to keep my hands off of you..."

Richard slurs "Issat so?" He stands from the barstool on (somewhat) stable legs "Bet you say that toanyone who comes into your house and drinks with ya." The tips of his ears are starting to get red. "Pour me another. I just guessed somethin', and one of us is gonna have to down it." The only thing keeping him a bit modest are some Promethean armor plates he had strapped over the mutation's clothes. "Pour it..."

Bleu smirks at his new friend's inebriation. True to form, while he is feeling buzzed, the satyr is holding his liquor far better. "You sure you want more, Sexy?" Regardless, he fills the glass, his gaze fixed on the elf. "Shall I help you hobble over into my bed?"

Richard snatches the glass with sluggish hands. "Not even BOTHERING to answer that one!" He bellows, seemingly ignorant of the attempt to cut him off. "Y'know what? You pour another, we drink at the same time for that. Then we find this bed you're talking about." His free hand points in the vague direction of the satyr. "Drunk you. We're getting... gonna fuck."

Bleu grins. They've completely emptied the bottle, so he cracks open a second, pouring out another round of shots. "You're reserved when sober, but I think you make a funny drunk. C'mon, we shall drink to your health!" He tosses back, then offers an arm for Richard to lean on.

Richard Raises his glass for a clumsy toast. "Cheers. To new friends, t' stuff we did with Magnus at the train, an' to fuuuuck I *am* drunk." He accepts the helping hand without a second thought (or much of a first one, really) and after the toast, he would raise his glass to the ceiling, coming dangerously close to spilling it. "You're all right by me, wine god. I love you, man." Finally, he slams back the glass and lets it fall to the carpet from his limp fingers. "Now come on, I ai'n gon' wait fer him to get here 'n have a threesome."

Bleu's arm settles right around the elf's shoulders, the dropped glass being naught but anafterthought. Clean up comes later. "Mmm, you're cute when you're drunk. I thought you were cute earlier, too. Come along, cutie-pie..." Off into the bedroom, over to the bed. The satyr helps the elf to lie down, before he tips over onto the floor, or someplace else. "Mmm, like my bedroom?"

Richard goes all but limp, face up on the mattress. Stumbling is a tiring way to get around. The remainder of his armor has fallen off on the unbalanced walk to this warm and soft nice place that is good, leaving him totally exposed. His uncircumcised dick is currently set to 'whiskey.' It drapes over a pair of fist-sized balls and almost touches the mattress below. He lazily reaches down to his sack and paws it upwards, revealing a perfect, hairless set of lips and big ol' clitty that brushes up against the back of his scrote. "'Sgood. Ohhhhh fuck I am drunk. Fuck me till I pass out. Then... then wake me up and fuck me again."

Bleu giggles like a schoolboy at Richard's state. "I say, you're either going to be massively embarrassed tomorrow, or very pleased with yourself." He smirks, settling onto the bed alongside the drunken elf, his gaze fixed on those perfectly formed lips that he knew were there all along. The sight causes his vaguely equinoid-shaped cock to twitch, and slip free of his sheath. "When somebody makes such a desperate plea, I cannot refuse, of course. Let me just... Get into place..." he murmurs, before showering kisses to Richard's bare chest, and climbs up over his prone form.

Richard moans at the attention. He is warm. He is comfortable. He is wanted. He is going numb and it makes those little points of pleasure and pressure from the satyr's lips all the more pleasant. He needs to focus to really make out what's going on aside from 'feels nice.' For the moment, he still can.

Bleu is only too happy to provide his partner with all the pleasure he can, and those kisses steadily work their way up over his chest and collar bone, to the elf's neck, as the satyr maneuvers into position over the other male. It only takes a few moments, really, but perhaps it feels longer, before the satyr's flared tip can be felt gently spearing Richard's folds, as Bleu takes his time with ensuring this first penetration is as pleasurable as possible. "Mmm, you're so warm," he whispers, between kisses. "I know you're super drunk... Probably can't come up with too much of a coherent response..."

Truth be told, this mythical makeout session did get a bit of a response. Not a conscious one, butit's something. Richard's cock twinges at the instinctive realization that hey, there's another person here! And that person's gonna have sex with you! Up and at 'em, champ! Groggy as a hungover elf is going to be, Richard's manlier half chubs up enough to drag across the inside of his thigh under its own power. Meanwhile, the hand holding those nuts out of the way wanders a little further down, poking at his pleasure buzzer. He feebly pushes his hips in to the pressure that's trying to spread his sex.

Bleu can see his guest growing aroused, and he grins. "Mmm, don't mind if I do," he murmurs, curling the fingers of his left hand around Richard's growing erection. At the same time, he takes advantage of the elf's feeble push to help press his own shaft into those waiting depths. His kisses grow more passionate, as they crest over Richard's jaw, and over his lips.

Now it's right up in his face. He may be drunk off his ass, but he recognizes this person. With his finite amount of dexterity, Richard ceases his vaginal ministrations to paw at Bleu's back with his other hand. He ends up dropping his forearm somewhere onto the satyr's ribs, then running his hand (well... his wrist, with his hand bent at an odd angle) up his fellow half-man's spine. This clumsy caress ends with a limp grip on one of the satyr's horns. His tongue feels like a floppy lead weight. Not much he can do to kiss back, but a gold star for effort. Speaking of 'horns,' that flared rod of Bleu's is getting intimately acquainted with bits that Richard wasn't born with. They're soft. VERY soft. Like a fleshlight made of memory foam and filled with... it's moving in there. Sweet Aphrodite,it's actually massaging the intruding cock and trying to pull it in further! It's safe to say that those are bits that NOBODY was born with just twelve years ago. Even the dick in Bleu's hand is heavenly soft, despite the fact that it's stiffening to the point where the foreskin is pulling back.

Bleu tilts his head slightly, his tongue prodding at Richard's, the kiss growing sloppier by the moment. The satyr doesn't appear to mind, however. In the meantime, his veiny shaft is plumbing those velvety soft depths, helped along by the other male-herm's pulling sensation. At this rate Bleu will be balls deep in no time. He doesn't want the elf to miss out, either, his hand slowly caressing that sinfully soft member.

The silky-smooth shaft responds well to the continued ministrations, stiffening further and growing ever so slightly firmer. If the insides were memory foam, the external component to Richard's sex is closer to a heavy dough. Soft. Springy. Heavy. The satyr's fingers leave momentary indents where they pass, fading out of existence with each throb of the still-growing meat. It's all the way up to either of their sternums and sagging rigidly under its own weight each time Bleu reaches the nadir of his strokes. Also nearly to Richard's sternum is the animalistic cock of this party animal. Any second now, those instinctual contractions, that steady pushing, and the weak rocking of his hips are going to bring them closer together than ever before. Richard tries to say something soft and sweet, but there's another guy's mouth in his way. Not that it matters. It'd sound the same even without any hindrance.

Bleu's ears perk when he thinks he hears the elf try to say something, but he's too busy still kissing said elf to pay much heed. Instead, his attention is still fixed on both that fascinatingly pliant dick he's slowly jerking off, and the soft, hot cunny he's pressing his more equine-like dick into. He's soon bottomed out, too. That soft warmth is very nice, like a warm blanket caressing his cock. He could get used to it. But he can't just hold still like that forever. All his basest satyr instincts are screaming at him to rut this lover like mad. And he can't resist instinct...

Richard's pair of grapefruit-sized balls rest against Bleu's belly. Soft, soft, soft. It seems as if the nanites concentrated all of the tenderness in one place when crafting this mutation's marathoner's physique. Within that velvety sack, two balls that feel more like lumps of clay weigh heavily between the two impossibly-gendered 'men.' Richard drapes his previously unoccupied hand across Bleu's back, smearing just a drop of female fluids over the goat-man's skin while barely maintaining a grip on that horn with the other. They could stay like this. It's nice. It's warm and relaxing. It leaves something to be desired. Richard may not even realize that his cunt's moving of its own volition, pulling Bleu's baton within a hair's breadth of his cervix. It's not close enough. The elf's hips fidget in an attempt to close the gap. Whether or not he meant to, he moves in just such a way that his partner's shaft pushes on the undulating muscles inside his sopping wet tunnel of love, and those in turn put pressure on Richard's prostate. The elven man makes yet another noise at the sensation no non-mutant could feel, though this one was never meant to carry any verbal meaning. His prick is at full mast and full hardness, just under a foot long. It pulses outward against Bleu's fingers with a surprising amount of firmness. A bead of clear, thick liquid builds at his tip...

The satyr still hasn't moved yet. The animalistic voice at the back of his brain keeps telling him to rut Richard with everything he's got, but the simple pleasure of being hilted within his lover's warm, vibrating cunt is quite simply wonderful. He becomes dimly aware that Richard's cunt is still drawing him in, however. More pleasant sensations to compliment everything else that's rocking his body right now. The satyr doesn't even really need to rut the elf. His arousal, and the climax that will surely follow, is building quite nicely on its own, so perhaps it's more enjoyable to let the elf's body do all the milking, after all. Beyond that, Bleu's right hand slowly caresses Richard's side, whilst his left remains fixed on the pulsing prick in his grip. The satyr reluctantly breaks the kiss, and he casts his glance down, as if hungering to give the tip a lick. "Well... Mmm... Bet that's tasty. Wonder if I can reach it with my tongue..."

'More.' That's probably the most cogent thought Richard can muster. His hips are moving in lazy, frantic circles as he tries to find that feel-good spot again. His cunt keeps pulling inward in waves to make sure the possible source of even more pleasure can't - and wouldn't want to - leave. "More," he mumbles aloud. Body nanites shrug to themselves and take the confused signals coming from his mind as a command. The sleek sylvan shlong pulses with his alcohol-addled heartbeat. On every beat, it pulses. On every pulse, Bleu finds his fingers able to encompass less and less of the rod. It's not getting harder. It's getting wider. Pulse. Thumb to pinky finger might get around it. Pulse. Make that the ring finger. Pulse. Okay, *maybe* the middle finger if he squeezes. Pulse. Scratch that. It's as thick as a soup can and the impatient, glossy red bell on the tip is up past Bleu's floating ribs. Wait... wasn't it- Pulse. It's up to the ribs proper. Throb. Inching towards the collarbone. Throb. It's resting just under Bleu's chin. He becomes aware that the weight against his abs is also heavier and buliker, each nut well up to the size of a coconut. All in all, everything seems to have grown half again in size. As outside, so inside. Richard's precum factory swells to keep pace with the rest of the production line. His tongue dangles over the corner of his lips as he discovers that his slowly shuffling hips don't need to aim for a particular target anymore. The G-spot is real, and in his case, it exists in duplicate. The surface tension on the natural lube at his dick-tip breaks as more fluid leaks out. A drop of it runs under the curve of his glans, arcing along the spongy surface before it can run down the shaft only half a fingertip's breadth away from the crown's edge.

Bleu perks his ears again when his partner speaks the first coherent word in quite awhile. "More?" he asks, but just as quickly his question is answered. The satyr watches in rapt fascination as Richard's length begins to grow, longer, wider. His fingers no longer wrap as easily around that girth. On the other hand, the leaking tip is now within reach of the satyr's lips, and he'd be remiss to not treat his guest to a complimentary blowjob. And so, instead of kissing Richard's lips again, he dips his head down and begins to lap at the precum glistening on the crown of his lover's dick. Seems Bleu can have his cake and eat it too. In the midst of it all, Bleu is starting to slowly roll his hips along with Richard's movements, letting his cock rub along every single sensitive inch inside the other herm's pussy.

That broad-headed spear in Richard's folds is moving. At first, it only has one direction to go: out. His dumb expression mixes with a wince at the retreat of such a beloved new companion. All the muscles in contact with the rock-hard ram can do are slide past it as Richard's own lubrication works against him. A wave of relief and renewed pleasure wash over his entire body as that full feeling returns. His breath hitches as Bleu hilts again, welcomed back with a jolt of reflexive contractions. Upstairs, Richard's blurry, bleary eyes recognize that something's going on in another department. That shape is a good person, right? Must be. Couldn't be anything else. Feels so good... In a moment of shock, it feels *too* good. The other sensitive sexual slit at the very tip of his cock registers a warm, wet stroking. He squirms. His monstrous, malleable manhood twitches. Drunken digits claw at the covers, too weak to find any purchase. His executive office, already running on a skeleton crew, finds itself taking a break as a deluge of important documents arrive. All of them are good news with a minimum of paperwork, thankfully. Sign here for ecstasy. The motions of the man inside his womanhood massage an anatomical paradox of vaginal wall and prostate. What was once an intermittent drip of pre develops into a soft flow, draining upwards past hands that hold him close and a hard, solid chest.

Bleu is quite content to make this as slow and thorough a fucking as possible. The man he's breeding may be inebriated, but he'll be damned if this tryst won't be something the elf will remember for days afterward. That warm stroking at the tip of Richard's cock continues, intensifies. The goatman's tongue delves into the slit, and his hand slowly slides down along the side of that impressively-sized maleness. Within moments, Bleu is cupping Richard's wonderfully heavy balls, feeling their new heft, giving a teasing squeeze in order to egg him on to orgasmic bliss. The satyr's rocking motions remain fairly slow, though the output of his own precum is very heavy, lubricating that already soft and slickened passage he's fucking.

Wet and willing, if not very able, Richard's arms drag across the sheets with no destination. Irregular breaths and gasps emanate from the elf as the satyr drives him wild. Richard manages to get his jaw closed. Half of his lower lip is between his teeth. One eye is wide open, the other droops nearly closed. His toes curl, then his knees, brushing the back of his calves against the furry legs of his lovemaker. Combined fluids comingle between his thighs, forming a delta for the tributary of precum that makes its way down from the oasis at the tip. Saliva and salt slicken the whole end of his cock into a glossy beacon of bliss. A new pressure on his nutsack beckons one of his hands over to investigate. Like a dry octopus, the hand glides across the covers and up the side of his hip. When it finally gets there, it finds some weird bony thing with five little bony things sticking off of it. Whatever it's doing there, it feels pretty okay. He droops his hand over it to keep it there.

Bleu's head dips down lower... and lower, slowly engulfing more of Richard's cock within his maw. He's sucking hungrily, savoring the taste of the elf's pre, but eager for more. As Richard's hand covers his own, he gives yet another squeeze to that heavy sac, and he murmurs around the cock in his maw. Their combined lovemaking is messy indeed, combined fluids spilled out between them. The satyr's baser instincts are finally starting to win out, however, as his slow, steady rutting into Richard's hot pussy has worked him up to a climax, his heavy, fuzzy balls tensing up in preparation for letting loose a torrent of satyr cum within the elf's depths.

That soft wetness at his tip, those slicked sandpapery digits running up and down his cock, that cleaving presence inside of him and its gush of pleasure... it's more than a sober mind could bear, let alone for someone who's traded IQ for BAC. His breathing accelerates as he approaches his own climaxes. A rush of warmth fills Richard's spasming passage. The suffusing heat worms its way into every crevice. Like moonshine, but without the buzz. Buzz... oh right. What's left of his functioning grey matter recalls that there's a doorbell which could use a ringing. So far, it's gotten only teasing caresses from what feels like a cotton ball. He clutches the hand squeezing his cushy sack. With that hand occupied by reflexes, his other draws near to it, and then bypasses it and all obstructions with desperate dexterity. It's on a mindless masturbatory mission for more pleasure. Around the side of his scrote and to the nub at the center of it all. His fingers wipe through the slimy mess that's accumulating between his legs and fumble for their target. He finds it. No, wait, that's not it. he's numb, but not *that* numb. Especially not there. He's barely got any hair down there, either. Maybe if he pokes at it more things will start to make sense. He tenses his legs in a futile attempt to sit up, hoping to find more leverage. Instead, he finds a wide, wet, welcoming hole and a clitoris (somehow) at the bottom of it. This is making the opposite of more sense. He knows for a fact that his cunt is full (so full!) and the bean is supposed to be at the front, not the back. Did he somehow reach under himself? No, that wouldn't... y'know what? Thinking can wait until later. Keep prodding to figure out what this vag is doing here. Things will start to make the opposite of the opposite of more sense soon enough.

Bleu had been hanging there on the edge of a precipice. A yawning chasm that once plunged into would mark the release of everything the satyr is holding back. All he needs is a nudge. A push, to send him over. And when he's caught there, filling his lover whilst simultaneously sucking the elf's dick, that sudden, unexpected fingering of his own slick pussy and sensitive clit makes his eyes roll back,and he emits a muffled, bleating moan around the dick in his mouth. His whole body shudders with intense pleasure, and before he can even form another coherent thought his testes let loose, flooding Richard with his first heavy helping of satyr cum...

More of that warm sensation! As a bonus, something's making the bell end of his dick resonate, stirring every nerve in its bulbous tip. It doesn't make sense, and Richard doesn't care anymore. Do thing = feel nice inside. Do thing more = more nice feeling? Let's find out. This scientific process from a sloshed man with stars floating through his vision plays out as him crunching his legs in against those fuzzy pillars until they buckle. The unforseen outcome of this is a sudden impact against his chest, followed by a comforting weight that sandwiches the stupidly huge 18-incher against him. His hips rock in earnest, pushing the soft snake up and down against this unexpected presence that's spreading that warm feeling to his outside even as his insides keep getting stuffed with that cinnamon whiskey bottle burn. His precum is oozing steadily now. He dimly recognizes that his tatooed chest isn't pooling with the stuff. Doesn't matter. Hand's still down at a button that's communicating to him loud and clear 'Push Me' and an uncharted chasm. His twitching fingers move aimlessly about both. Not much more he can take...

Bleu finds himself suddenly yanked harder against the elf under him, which causes his still-cumming cock to get driven even further into the man he's breeding. He's still sucking off from the elf's cock, moaning fitfully around that girth while Richard continues to manipulate the satyr's clit, causing more explosions of pleasure in the back of his brain.

Richard keeps thrusting against the unknown surface and into the slick, tickling mouth of... yes. Yes, there is another person here. They're so close that even with his double vision he can focus on them. Beyond a foot or so, it's nothing but a blur. The fact that this person's head is just beneath his chin and he can still feel them lapping at the crown of his cock are absolutely lost on him. The the tingling heat of Bleu's seed inside him blossoms into a firestorm that consumes his entire body as the satyr's fitful thrust drives his hips against Richard's clit. Richard would be happy that his unintentionally roundabout approach worked if he had any idea what was going on. Instead, the most he can express is a loud, trailing moan as his female sex contracts harder and faster than before, frantically stroking the Dionysian dedicant's dick for every drop of cum it can get. His body goes stiff. Those curious fingers investigating the other cunt curl and quiver. Back up above, Bleu's skilled mouth and orgasmic moanings finally cause Richard's female orgasm to cascade into a simultaneous male one. The dam breaks when the goatman's tongue runs around the edge of Richard's crown and then ravenously back to the slit for another helping of pre. Richard's moan rises in volume once more, then is cut off by a rhythmic gasp-then-hiss which repeats in time with each spurt. The first shot to rush from his oversized nuts could fill half of a champagne glass in a single spurt. It's only the first of several.

There it is. The satyr tastes his partner's seed, and immediately swallows, groaning with pleasure as he does so. His own flow, on the other hand, is beginning to taper off right about, though his feminine orgasm is still cresting, a flush of fluids washing over the elf's still-questing fingers. The goat bleats, and sighs, his right arm gripping around Richard's waist even tighter, whilst his left hand remains in place, squeezing and groping the heavy nutsack to coax out every...last...drop.

That groping encourages his partner's prodigious jizzmakers to keep going without the go-ahead from the upper head. It would have been on hold forever if it had waited for that. They gush continuously into the goatman's gullet. Each shot is a mouthful at minimum. The second spurt outstripped the first one in quantity by a narrow margin. The third is only moderately smaller than that, and with each pulse it decreases in amount by few thick and salty spoonfuls. Back at other end, Richard's motions are no longer under his control. Erratic jerking motions are limited only by his forearm, stuck between the two male-herms' hips, and the outer edges of Bleu's lower lips. Meanwhile, the other hand is grasping at Bleu's ball fondler. They grab the first solid thing they find - his wrist - and push that hand further into the mushy beanbags of baby-batter.

By now Bleu's cumming has dropped to a minimum. Only a couple spurts, here and there. He doesn't bother to even attempt to extract himself, however. He's too busy enjoying that afterglow, and continued gulps of semen from the other's cock, until even that begins to subside. They'd reached the top of the mountain, but now was the time to start coming down again, it seems. Slowly...so slowly, the satyr begins to draw his mouth away from his friend's cock, his tongue dragging up along the underside until his lips finally pull free, and he sighs. "Mmm... Gods... You're so tasty..."

Richard breathes ragged breaths, inhaling sharply when Bleu's last, lingering post-orgasmic lick hits him. Hot breath rolls across the cockhead before it can start to go limp. He shudders, a comparatively tiny gob of cum that'd been caugh halfway up his shaft working its way out. Someone's talking about tasty stuff, and frankly, he could go for a drink and a snack after all that sperm he shot. Closest thing to both of those is to recycle, and wouldn't you know it: there's a dollop of cream right there. It's even got a ringing endorsement from... he stops staring through the ceiling to check who. Goat...drinks...person. You know, that guy. With the drinks. If he says it's good, it must be. He releases his most available hand - the one on Bleu's wrist - and scoops a fingerful of it up. It's deposited in his mouth after only a couple of tries. Salty. Creamy. Pretty good, but there's not enough. No, wait, there's some over there. He goes to lick it up, not really caring that it's on the other guy's cheek. "Shumting ahn yer faesss..."

Bleu finally releases his grip on Richard's sac, slipping his left arm around the elf. He squeezes, still not withdrawing his shaft from the other's folds. The warmth around his cock is comforting, enjoyable. He sighs, and grins, giggling when Richard licks his face. "You're drunk off your ass, man. I don't know if you even know what I'm saying..." He slowly rubs Richard's back, content to hold him close.

"Fffffuck you. M'not drungh..." Richard...attempts to say. It's all a mumbled mess. "WeE're drumk. *On* myasssb." He groans contentedly as the other alleged lush pulls him close, running calloused hands across the landscape of lean muscle. He tosses his own arm over Bleu's body to reciprocate the gesture. Through the passage of time, the rush of sex, and the lack of distraction, he's regained some of his senses. Not firing on all cylinders, mind you, but it's a start. One of the first things he remembers is his manners. "Was graeph," he continues to try to speak, nuzzling into the space above Bleu's shoulder, "ffhanks." His speech is hampered mostly by the booze, but party by the sticky stuff still on his tongue. He could use another drink. What's on tap again? Oh yeah, there was one that was mentioned in particular. It's rude to drink alone when there's company, though. Especially if it's their cabinet you're drinking from. "Mm'therstee... mebbe we ken sherr some vvobker..." He trails off. Any tension in those muscles disappears in seconds. His hot, liquor-laced breath by Bleu's ear at regular intervals. Every now and then it hitches into a quiet snort before resuming.

Bleu's pretty goat ears prick upward at Richard's words, and he chuckles. "Me, drunk? Pish-posh. Imma satyr, my dear. Satyrs don't get drunk... At least not easily." He gives the elf a playful kiss to the nose. "Mmm, vodka, though? I feel like I should limit you to just one glass... Mmm, c'mon, let's get you up. I can't make the bottle levitate over here, after all." He starts to slowly try and shift the other man, tugging him close, and then lifting him off the mattress. "We'll move to my couch, get a fire going, and share that glass of vodka you want..."

He would find the elf completely unresponsive. Looks like the post-coitus crash has caught up to him. He could swear he saw the faintest of smiles on Richard's lips when that tender kiss landed, though. Given that Richard is six-foot-something tall and looks like he goes on 10k runs for the fun of it... that drink is going to have to come to him.

Bleu can't shift the elf but a few inches. Reluctantly, he'll have to pull himself away from Richard, to go grab that bottle. Whether Bleu will attempt to wake the sleeper is another question entirely.