Funatic
patreon
The Gamer Chapter 1262 – A night to forget
🕑 Added 2022-08-08 23:11:50 +0000 UTCHalf an hour and many an indecent act later, John found himself as Nightingale’s backrest. The comb he had brought in last time served its intended function this time around, repeatedly stroking through her hair. Although the bathroom was deliberately dimly lit, as close as John was, he could catch the purple note of the strands again.
“How do you feel about visiting a gala with me and Lydia on Monday?” John, soft-spoken, addressed the topic that he did not manage to before the goddesses had descended on him. “It’s over in Germany. I’d take you along on the teleporter.”
Nightingale turned her head, indicating she wanted another part of it combed. By now, John had realized that the primary enjoyment she derived from the process was having her scalp scratched. The drawbacks of not having proper hands only kept mounting. “A gala,” she sighed thoughtfully, “an opportunity to show that I am a lady overall, not just one of the night.”
“You are the lady of the night.”
“You caught my true meaning,” Nightingale reprimanded with a chuckle. “I enjoy sex. It is all too easy to obey urges in your presence.”
“I have long cultivated this level of charisma and attractiveness.”
“Successfully.”
“If I hadn’t figured out a thing or two about what women want by now, I would be an utter disgrace.”
“What do we want?” Nightingale asked, intrigued.
“A man who tells you what to do,” John presented in his most overplayed, chauvinistic voice. A light pinch of Nightingale’s claws on his foot made him giggle. “A good morning kiss, an orgasm before breakfast, a stocked kitchen, a small room hidden behind a bookshelf, a thermos full of hot tea, some time to yourselves, and a thorough fuck in the evening,” he gave the serious answer. “Admittedly, not applicable to all of the fairer sex, but that’s a non-exhaustive list.”
“Good basics.” Nightingale pulled her foot back. “Yes, to the gala question.”
“Great. Lydia also told me not to mention that you should come properly dressed.”
“And why, my suitor, do you tell me this?”
“To have an excuse to hear you talk more,” John confessed. Placing the comb at the edge of the bathtub, he returned to perverted actions. His hands found her breasts. “You know, I think I am honing in on how dominating I can be with you. You did not mind submitting to Nathalia’s authority.”
“Seniority and experience mean her lead is clear,” Nightingale stated.
“There’s quite a few that would still try to push back.” There was only minimal reaction to his touch, a little gasp or prolonged breath here. Not every boob-fondling venture was done entirely for pleasure’s sake. Not of the purely sexual variety, at least. Having those petite, soft breasts in his palms was a calming sensation. “I know what men want: to touch women,” Nightingale asserted.
“Guilty as charged.” John did not even try to defend himself. “Anyway, I feel like you’re notably submissive, but not really cut out to be a submissive, if that makes sense. Good at taking the reactive or supportive role during sex, without being too much into following orders or being ‘used’.”
“And I have found that I do not enjoy pain.” She winked over her shoulder. “Besides the occasional spank.”
“Wonder what it is about those that are so widely popular,” John hummed. Even the more dominantly or sadistically minded members of his harem did enjoy a clap on the butt. It probably had something to do with that part of the body having taken heavy impacts for as long as humans and their ancestors had fucked in doggy style. Even in other positions, the butt always served as a cushion at some level. “Evolution is weird.”
“Evolution is wonderful,” Nightingale disagreed. “Do you not wonder what harpies will be in another few generations?”
“About the same as you are now?” John asked. “You filled a niche in the sexual market, so I don’t think you still have the pressure to keep rapidly developing in any one direction. It’s like crocodiles – why change much when you got it figured out?”
“I don’t care for that comparison.”
“But you both like gobbling things,” John joked and was lightly pinched in the foot again.
“You are a jokester when you get comfortable,” Nightingale reprimanded, with a bit of amusement in her undertone. For someone actually offended, she cuddled against him way too much.
“Don’t make me feel so comfortable then.” His hands went from her breasts to her wings. Wet, the gown of feathers was not quite as pleasing to touch. The fluffy bits stuck to the quills, so there were more hard bits to what was previously an almost entirely soft experience. Not that her quills were rigid, just considerably less puffy than the rest of a feather. With absolutely no ulterior motive, he suggested, “Want to get out of the bath?”
“Wash me once more,” Nightingale demanded and pointed at a loofah.
The key to a girl without hands certainly was to scratch places she couldn’t on her own. Grabbing the loofah, he scrubbed her down in almost all places. In terms of a bathing sponge, this one was of a very soft make, but he still didn’t want to work her breasts with it. For her feet, he turned it around and used the rough side.
While he was kneeling in front of her, John sometimes looked up to check what expression was on the harpy’s face. He had nothing against cleaning a woman’s feet whatsoever, even if they were that of a bird. Only if she had indicated that she was doing this for the power dynamic rather than her own comfort, then he would have been uncomfortable. He still may have done it as a rare treat, like he allowed Siena to be the dominant in the room somewhat frequently.
Nightingale only seemed thankful for the treatment and held their casual conversation without change. “What do you want tonight to be, my suitor?”
“A night to forget,” he revealed, while giving the base of her talons some attention. “The kind of night that you don’t remember all that well. It just blends into the haze of pleasant memories that eventually made you fall in love with me. A wonderful night that was only a consistent standard of a pleasing life being held.”
“A splendid and relaxed night.” Nightingale nodded and pulled her foot back. “Will you take a meal with me?”
“I already ate,” John confessed.
“Then you will watch me eat.” They headed back to the living room, where Nightingale opened her fridge. It was filled almost entirely with chunks of cured meat, with an occasional large vegetable, like a whole sweet potato. Nightingale ‘pecked’ a whole lamb leg out of the fridge. She only shortly had it heat up in the oven, then devoured it mostly raw. Holding it in one claw, she tore strips from it with all the grace of a bird of prey.
She gnawed the thing down to the bone, using her dextrous tongue to loosen whatever scraps remained. Even when there was nothing left on it, she kept chewing, as if to sharpen her teeth. There was quite a bit of animal left in the lady.
“Would it be offensive if I asked you whether harpies like to eat rodents?” the Gamer wanted to know.
“It would not, for we do,” Nightingale responded. She brought a metal bottle filled with peppermint-infused water to her mouth and took a couple of gulps. After all of that, she stretched and continued her response. “I once kept mice like you would keep chicken for their eggs.”
“I won’t even pretend that I don’t think that sounds weird, even if it makes perfect sense,” John told her. Mice were notorious for how quickly they bred and reached adulthood, so keeping a small farm indoors would probably yield enough adult individuals for the frequent breakfast rodent. Eggs were easier to harvest though. “Why did you stop?”
“It was a bother and a bad look in the court.”
“Since we are on the subject of chickens, kinda, how do you feel about eggs?”
“I like them when they are prepared for me,” Nightingale wiggled her claws. “Peeling them is a pain.”
“Note to self, to win a harpy’s heart, present her with boiled eggs,” he said out loud.
“Cheese,” Nightingale added, further elaborating when he gave her a questioning glance, “I adore cheeses, particularly the mouldy variety.”
“Brie, camembert, such things?”
“In all of their goodness,” the lady of the night confirmed. She lightly flapped her wings, perhaps to lose some of the remaining moisture. A burst of lavender filled John’s nostrils. He inched closer to her. Gently, he took hold of her wing again.
As his hands came into contact with it, the darkness of her wings seemed to manifest into feathers. It was like a shape veiled by the night becoming clearer as one focused on it. The purple-tinted gown presented a smooth, layered surface. With a little bit of force, he pushed inside. It was like his fingers were surrounded by the midnight sky woven into a cloud of the finest cotton fibre.
John was so entranced by her wings, he barely noticed Nightingale move until she was sitting on his lap again. This time, she was facing him. Those wonderful wings enveloped him. Like a cocoon of calming moonlight, her feathers whispered over his skin. The entire world grew darker around them, the embrace of the night goddess turning from a physical to a supernatural experience. All of him was being coddled by her presence.
“How do you feel, my suitor?” she whispered.
“A bit tired,” he admitted. “It’s been a short day and I haven’t done anything besides having fun, but… just a bit tired. I’m not used to the limitations of one body anymore. There’s so much to do and so much my harem deserves.”
“You should be with them if it weighs you down,” Nightingale whispered to him. “You kept me company last night. I would not…”
“No, I want to be here,” he assured her. “And they like their time on their own. I’m a bit superfluous, really.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I was just making a joke.”
“I do not approve.” Tiny up and down movements made her feathers glide over his exposed skin. “You court the embodiment of the night, my suitor. Take pride in the interest you have been given.”
“Don’t inflate me too much, I might explode, Nightingale,” he responded and was softly bit in the ear. “Alright, no more jokes,” he chuckled, understanding the signal. “I’m just a little tired. No need to worry about me.”
“Take a nap,” Nightingale ordered, the darkness around them growing even denser. Scarcely, John could see the very couch he was sitting on. “A little rest, here in my arms. The night is mine and I share it with you.”
John rested his head against her shoulder, where the shortest and softest of her feathers, almost resembling fur, marked the beginning of her wings. “I just might,” he whispered, closing his eyes. Nightingale hummed a little song for him.
Relaxing, he felt himself drift. Unable to fall completely asleep, the Gamer was as if suspended in a dark and gentle space, without gravity or other bothering pulls. There was only him and the brush of her feathers. “I sang for many crowds in my life. Shortly in a bar, long in the home of my first patron, Maximillian’s mother, and most for the courts of Austria. My name from the days of my brown coat is known. You could know it, if you so desired.”
Quietly, to stay in his relaxed trance, he responded, “You are my songbird, my Nightingale. I don’t need to dig up anything before you want to let me know.”
Nightingale’s little laughter made him relax a little further. “Then let me divulge a detail,” she continued. “A lady of the court not covered by the privilege of nobility has an uncertain station. Even the most beautiful voice will not keep a position, unless it is backed up by a force of character. A commoner has to be beautiful, talented, and learned. I was born beautiful and with a voice that I honed. To be learned, I studied justice. Not law. Justice. Lashes and treats of equal impact, not number.” She leaned a little closer to his ear. “You are a just ruler, my suitor.”
John only hummed in response, finally claimed by sleep.
He woke up on his side. He felt not fully rested, but satisfyingly refreshed and too parched to remain still. Nightingale still embraced him. “How long was I out?” he asked.
“Only twenty minutes,” she told him, pulling her wings back.
Although John immediately missed their presence, he was happy to stretch. “May I?” he asked and pointed at the metal bottle on the nearby table. Nightingale stretched out her leg and handed it over. “Thanks,” he said and downed three deep gulps. The minty water flooded through his system, kickstarting his mind with the refreshing cool. “Much better,” he exhaled and put it back on the table. “Well, before we get lost in the question of how one studies justice, how about we go out?” the Gamer suggested.
“A superb idea,” Nightingale agreed.
