Are you ready for the May title from A. Vivian Vane?
What’s that you say? It’s June? Well hush, because it took Amazon a while to figure this one out. I spent much longer than I would have liked “In Review.” And what’s the poing of telling you about a sexy new book if you can’t buy it, hmm?
So, after some delay, here is the newest sexy story out of my studio: The Strange Habits of Desert Centaurs, 13,000 words of erotica available on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Nobles Nook, and Kobo for $2.99.
It’s an exotic romp of lesbian sex, extreme size differences, facesitting, and dom/sub games — as well as, predictably, some horsey bits. I had fun writing this one. I’d never really thought of using sexy centaur until quite recently, but once the idea got into my head it all came together very quickly. I hope you’ll all find it to be something completely new — and sexy!
Here’s the blurb from Amazon, and I’ll follow with a preview of the first sexy scene after the jump:
“The best research is always hands on, and no one does better research than the tiny Dr. Mellifloria Madilla, Chairgnome of Demianthropology! But when Mellifloria picks the wild centaur tribes of the desert for her latest study, things get a little too up close and personal for her tastes very quickly…
Mellifloria Madilla is Baraz-Kesh Technical College’s star researcher. Shera Tijele is a wild centaur who just wants to be left alone. But when the two collide, Mellifloria quickly learns that there’s more to being a centaur bachelorette than hiding in a cave in the desert.
As the days heat up and the water supply gets low, the two women find lots of other ways to keep themselves wet — but will they realize that they have more in common than they thought? Or will it take the intervention of the wild stallions to make the women appreciate one another’s delicate charms?
One thing’s for certain — whatever happens, Dr. Mellifloria Madilla will be sure to add it to her latest monograph, ‘The Strange Habits of Desert Centaurs.’
Contains exotic fantasy themes, size differences, enthusiastic sapphic performances, and much, much more!”
The Strange Habits of Desert Centaurs
A. Vivian Vane
Of all the gnomes of Baraz-Kesh, Mellifloria Madilla was undoubtedly the most curious.
Gnomes are, of course, a famously inquisitive people as a rule, but theirs is a domestic curiosity. Most are quite content to live out their whole lives beneath the craggy hills of Baraz-Kesh, where few “big people” venture, coming up with ever more cunning ways of smelting iron, or pumping steam through brass pipes, or other such properly gnomish disciplines.
Mellifloria did not like dirt, hated smoke, and was largely unskilled with her hands. She left home at nineteen to see the world, and refused to come back until her Unified Thesis of Demianthropology and Participant Observation was both the longest and the most deeply-sourced monograph the Baraz-Kesh Technical College had ever seen.
They gave her a faculty chair, of course. It was the gnomish thing to do.
Desert sun warmed Mellifloria’s hand as she reached back to free her graying russet hair from its bun. Clay dust would gather in it, she knew, but it offered at least a little shade for her neck. She moved with painstaking slowness, careful never to lean out past the pile of tumbled red rocks that framed her window onto the barren plains below.
At forty-nine, Mellifloria still referred to herself — emphatically — as “spry.” There had been a great many of the usual objections when she proposed her latest venture (“too old,” “too far from Baraz-Kesh;” “not enough cheese platters at the budget meeting”), to which the first and only Chairgnome of Demianthropology had replied with an emphatic humph! She was going to study the habits of the desert centaur tribes, and that was that.
Pressed flat on her stomach at the edge of a crumbling mesa, smoky lenses shading her eyes as she peered eagerly at the dusty herd beneath her, Mellifloria had not the slightest regret about her decision.
“Bachelor centaurs,” Mellifloria wrote, lifting herself carefully on one elbow and scribbling with an expensive cartridge pen, “travel in roving packs of generally 6-12 males. They spend most of their time honing their skills with ropes and spears, the primary tools of the centaur tribes. Competition is fierce, as young men are expected to fight for their mates, both with one another and with the adult males who guard established harems.”
Mellifloria paused and peered over the edge of the mesa once more. A lone centaur thundered across the flat, baking clay of the desert. Her chest heaved even inside the broad cloth straps crossed over her torso — Melli supposed there was a limited amount you could do about bouncing, when the power of a horse at full gallop was being transmitted straight through your body. A loose herd of males thundered a hundred feet behind the loner, whooping and whirling ropes above their heads, or waving spears in the air.
Melli returned hurriedly to her writing. She already had shorthand notes from several weeks of observation, but Mellifloria liked to compose the language of her rough draft while she could still see her subjects. She found it helped her generate new ideas as she worked. “Females can be isolated from the herd in two ways,” she wrote. “First, a female seeking a better mate than her tribe can offer will sometimes leave the herd on her own and seek a new harem to join. More commonly, young women are driven forcibly from their herds by their mothers once they reach sexual and cultural adulthood, to prevent inbreeding. They wander alone or in small groups until they can establish themselves with a new tribe. During this time, many are prey for the bands of bachelor males.”
The ink dried quickly in the desert heat. Melli didn’t even need to blow on it as she paused for another look at the chase. She capped her pen and stowed it in her canvas vest, a stout thigh-length garment that draped over both her trousers and her light, long-sleeved shirt. The little woman inched forward, teetering dangerously at the edge of the mesa.
Below her, the chase was wrapping up. Two of the males had put on an extra burst of speed. They moved to flank the lone female from either side, waving their spears threateningly. She veered first one way and then the other, losing ground each time, until a rope thrown from the herd behind her dropped over her shoulders and yanked tight.
It was not, Melli had labored to make clear in her draft, really “rape,” in the way that her people would think of it. The men circling around their captive were already starting to shove and jostle one another, the beginning of a lengthy display that would involve boxing, kicking, and occasionally even spears as they fought for the woman.
For her part, the centaurette (a somewhat less-than-academic term that Milli still found useful in her notes, especially shortened to “et”) would prance, huff, and toss her head from side to side in a show of enormous disinterest, until things really started heating up. Eventually, she would settle down and signal approval, usually of two or three men in particular, and they would tussle to see who mounted her first.
Most of the gang got their turn eventually, of course. But by then the female was usually more than compliant. Mellifloria had seen some of the horse-women stamping and crying for more in a circle of exhausted, sweating men, tails raised high over messy flanks. It was really quite erotic.
Licking her lips, Melli reached for her waterskin. She rose onto her knees, unfastening the top of her trousers one-handed. The little gnome gave a contented sigh as her fingers wriggled down between the loosened waistband and the thatch of her hairy mound, seeking out the eager flesh beneath it. As much as she hated to admit it, the site of a mating left her far too distracted to write. Her draft would have to wait until the men were done with their prey.
Still fumbling for her waterskin, Melli blinked. Her hand groped around on the dusty clay behind her. Where the leather bag had been, there was only a scuff of dirt.
“Looking for this?” an amused, alto voice asked. Melli jerked, almost scratching herself in a very delicate spot, and spun around, thrusting her back up against one of the standing stones as she fumbled with her trousers. She blinked and squinted through her smoked lenses at a figure outlined against the sun.
Melli had just enough time to make out the broad silhouette of a centaur, breast bands strapped across her broad bosom and a familiar waterskin dangling from one hand, before a spearbutt rapped her firmly on the head, and the sun went dim.
Mellifloria came to suddenly and unpleasantly. Water trickled over her face in a steady stream, making her splutter and cough her way to a throbbing-headed wakefulness. Cold air on her bare skin made her curl up, and Melli gasped as her hands wrapped around her body — she was quite naked, and from the feel of the chill in the air she had been unconscious until well past sundown.
A shape loomed over her, illuminated by a small, crackling fire somewhere behind Melli’s back. The shape moved a hand, and the flow of water stopped, leaving Melli sputtering and damp as well as naked.
She was curled on the floor of what seemed to be a cave, dry and sandy and split at the top by a narrow crack that served to draw the fire’s smoke up and out. Below the sooty haze Mellifloria could make out a towering horse’s body with the head and chest of a humanoid woman: lean, muscular, and tanned, with graying chestnut hair tied up in what Melli supposed was still called a ponytail, despite the presence of an actual pony’s tail some five or six feet behind it.
Melli swallowed hard. The centaur held a long, thick-shafted spear in one hand and Mellifloria’s waterskin in the other. Heavy breasts the size of Mellifloria’s head hung naked and unsupported from the woman’s chest — as tempting as it was to think of them as gnomes slapped onto a horse’s body, she realized, those torsos had to be much bigger than a gnome’s for the proportions to work out. Her captor was quite simply enormous, and she was smiling.
“I’ve been reading your book,” the horse-woman said without preamble. Her voice was a deep alto. A touch of an accent drew her vowels out, but there was no hesitation in it. If not a native speaker, she at least knew the trade language very well.
The butt of the oversized spear thumped lightly against the floor, and Mellifloria swallowed hard. She had no desire to earn herself another crack on the head with that thing. The polished haft was almost as thick as her fist — she would have needed both hands to wrap around it. The sheer difference in scale between the two of them was dizzying. Melli sat up very slowly, her arms wrapped around her knees to draw them against her chest.
“Tell me,” the centaur said, “what have you seen of the women that evade the bachelor herds? What becomes of them if they choose not to join a stallion’s harem?”
As she spoke, the woman turned in place, shuffling in a circle until her hindquarters faced toward Mellifloria. The spear twirled lazily, end over end in the woman’s hand, its point flashing in the firelight.
Slowly, the centaur backed toward Mellifloria. Her tail swished from side to side. Beneath it, Melli could see a fold of dark, wrinkled flesh, gathered in a loose sheath that dangled between the big hind legs, and she blushed as she realized that she was looking at her captor’s private parts. They were thick and rubbery, and they gleamed in the light. As they drew nearer, Mellifloria could smell a wet, musky odor underlying the general horsiness of the cave.
“How do those lone women find…pleasure?” the centaur drawled. Her tail hiked firmly to one side and stayed there. Long legs bent, angling the dangling folds down toward where Melli still sat, arms curled around her knees. The gnome felt her blush deepening.
Demianthropology was, Mellifloria reflected, a challenging field. A good observer participated in the local culture. The more immersive the experience, the better the data…but you generally tried to disengage before things got quite that immersive.
The horse-cunt dangled above her, fleshy lips parted and dribbling a little stream of wetness down between the centaurette’s thighs. The pungent smell of it filled Melli’s nose. She realized, as she breathed the damp musk, just how parched her throat was — the water that had woken her had not, apparently, found its way into her mouth. Unable to stop herself, she licked her lips.
“I don’t — ” Melli began, and then broke off, startled by her own hoarse croak. She did her best to wet her throat and tried again: “I haven’t observed any,” she admitted, and then rather daringly added, “until now, assuming you’re one.” She sighed resignedly. “But I take it they live near the edge of the desert, and molest passing travelers? Without their consent,” she added a touch more sharply, “which is not how my people do such things, if that matters to you.”
Her captor chuckled and crouched lower. Big hind hooves shuffled apart on the sandy floor. Even lowered, the big woman’s cleft hung well above Melli’s head.
“Molest?” the centaur asked. Her voice was surprisingly gentle. She shifted her powerful legs, and the lips of her dark slit parted, dripping, for a moment, before slapping softly back together again. “I haven’t molested anyone,” she said, “though, if it helps with your book, I do sometimes…entertain…like-minded travelers. There are many good reasons to avoid the bachelor herds. You would be surprised how many women have found companionship in evading them, and of how many races.”
The centaur shrugged with her whole body, lifting first one flank and then the other in a ripple that made her dripping folds jiggle. “But you’re free to leave any time,” she cooed sweetly, “the same as anyone that comes here.”
With deliberate slowness, the big woman raised Mellifloria’s waterskin to her lips and drank deeply. She gulped down big mouthfuls, water spilling out and running down her chin in a heartbreaking waste. Melli watched in dismay. Her own mouth hung open, panting with need.
Far too quickly, the centaur tipped the skin all the way back and squeezed the last few drops from it. She tossed the empty sack carelessly over her shoulder and into a jumbled pile — her clothes, Melli realized, turned inside out and no doubt thoroughly pawed through.
Her captor stretched lazily. Muscles rippled in the woman’s tanned shoulders. Melli wondered just how far she could heave that oversized spear, and suspected glumly that it was quite a ways.
“Or you could stay, if you like,” the centaur invited pleasantly. Her pussy dribbled eager wetness above Mellifloria’s head, promising a very specific sort of stay. “I’ve blankets and hides for the cold, and a secret spring nearby for water. My…guests…are always very well-treated.” She smirked over her shoulder at the shivering gnome. “You might even learn a few things. For your book, no? But please, don’t let me stop you.” She turned one palm up in an inviting gesture, pointing toward the mouth of the cave. Beyond it, the desert looked very dark, and very cold, and very dry.
Mellifloria closed her eyes for a moment, sighed, and opened them again. She craned her neck to look past that dripping horse-snatch and meet her captor’s gaze. “You seem very practiced at this,” she said, more than a bit accusingly. The other woman grinned and shrugged, unashamed — and, Melli noticed, not offering a denial.
Well, you’ve done nastier things in the name of social science, she reminded herself silently. The grub-pot feasts of East Gratta came to mind — those had certainly been worse than a bit of centaur puss. Really, the big woman smelled almost pleasant, by comparison; more like wet hay than anything else. And the wetness would be a mercy on her parched lips, if nothing else.
Slowly, Mellifloria uncurled herself and stood. She shivered in the desert air. Moving closer to the centaur’s hindquarters came very naturally — the big woman was a heat source, at least.
Melli laid her hands tentatively on the backs of the other woman’s legs. She felt coarse horsehair and tough skin, warm to the touch and somewhat dusty-smelling. The centaur did not flinch, as a horse might have; indeed, she pressed backward, nudging Melli’s hands encouragingly.
“Just so you know, I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.” Even standing, Melli had to tilt her head back to look up at the bigger woman’s pussy. She felt more than a little intimidated — it had to be five or six times the size of her own. The dangling lips were as broad as her hand; the parted opening between them wide enough to slip a fist into. She licked her lips and tried to suppress a girlish flutter of performance anxiety. “Er…d’you have a name? If we’re going to, um, you know, I feel like I ought to know it…”
The centaur laughed. “Shera,” she said, “Shera Tijele.” Her hips wiggled. “No more talking, now. Lick me. Begin with my lips. They are nice and wet for you, yes?”
Blushing, Mellifloria took a deep breath. She ran hastily over her handful of erotic encounters in her mind. There was nothing particularly useful in them — Mellifloria had never had much time for lovers, though she’d gone through the motions politely with a few gnomish suitors. Abandoning memory as unhelpful, she took a deep breath, stood on tiptoe, and, throwing caution to the wind, pressed her mouth against the centaur’s dangling cuntlips.
Eyes closed, Melli felt the embrace of steaming flesh as a purely tactile sensation. She craned her neck to tilt her face upward, until it was almost horizontal beneath the centaur’s long body. Shera’s soft folds hung down against the gnome’s cheeks. They were amazingly supple — wet and silky-smooth, smelling strongly of that strange, horsey musk. Melli wriggled her nose awkwardly up and down, trying to find an angle at which she could both breathe and go on kissing the centaur’s sex, and she felt the big woman’s body shake as Shera laughed.
“Good,” she praised, her voice a distant rumble. “Lick me, yes. Trace the outlines. Take your time. Study me, hm?” She gave a knowing laugh.
Determinedly, Mellifloria flicked out with her tongue. She let her own lips part, panting musky-smelling air as she ran her mouth slowly along one side of the horsey slit. Wetness covered the inside of Shera’s curving folds in sheets, and Mellifloria lapped at it eagerly.
The gnome’s hands scooted higher on her captor’s thighs. Squeezing, Melli pushed herself harder against Shera’s puss. She sucked experimentally at a fold of dark flesh, and felt it give way, slipping between her lips and into her mouth. Mellifloria suckled greedily at the fleshy lump until she heard Shera moan.
“Lower,” the centaur urged. “Find my clit!”
A deeply competitive streak had always motivated Mellifloria’s explorations. She felt the same streak well up in her as her lips squirmed down the stretchy opening, suckling Shera’s wetness. The ease with which the big woman’s skin stretched and pulled beneath her touch was amazing. Melli slurped determinedly at the curve of one fat cunt lip. She sucked it until it spread, wing-like, apart from the other, exposing the pink inner walls of the centaur’s tunnel. Slicked with Shera’s flowing juices, Melli’s lips and throat were deliciously moist at last.
The cavern began to echo with wet slurping sounds as Mellifloria worked her way down the bigger woman’s slit. She scooted forward until she was standing fully underneath the centaur, face upturned to caress the drooling crease. A thick, wrinkled fold of black flesh crowned Shera’s entrance, and Melli took it between her lips eagerly, searching with her tongue to find a way beneath the hood.
Both women moaned aloud as Melli tugged and sucked, leaning back to stretch the skin taut. Her tongue sought the stiffened nub beneath it; flicked experimentally up and down.
Shera jerked and gasped, one hoof stamping, and Mellifloria thrust her tongue out even harder. Prudence and academic integrity both dictated that she play along with the strange woman’s game, but that being the case, she was determined to get the better of her captor one way or another. Wetness slicked the whole of the gnome’s face as she flicked back and forth with her tongue. Above her, Shera whined and stamped, swishing her tail from side to side. The woman’s excitement was contagious — Melli couldn’t help feeling a rush of erotic pleasure at her success.
Almost curiously, Mellifloria reached her hands above her head. The angle was awkward, but she fumbled until her fingers gripped the sides of Shera’s slit. Wet flesh greeted her touch, and she tugged, pulling the opening wider. The centaur yielded with a groan — her dangling folds stretched in Melli’s hands, opening to accept her fingers deeper into the lust-soaked passage, and Mellifloria explored Shera in wonder as she suckled the big woman’s clit. The centaur’s cunt was a huge, steaming cavern, wider around than Melli’s arm and dripping with a thick, slippery wetness.
“Oh, god!” Shera gasped. “You little tease…go on, then!”
A thrust of her hips stretched the flexible cuntlips wide. Melli’s thumbs slipped on slick flesh, and then with a squeak she felt them vanish, sliding deep into the eager snatch along with the rest of her hands. Strong walls gripped her like a vice, embracing her arms nearly to the elbow in a wet sleeve of horse-flesh.
The centaur gave a delighted coo and wriggled from side to side. Her walls squeezed around Melli’s hands in a powerful, rippling contraction. Dizzily, Melli realized she was feeling what a centaur stallion’s prick must, when he mounted a female.
“Pound it, you little minx,” Shera panted, “you horny sandcat — show me what you’ve learned of our pleasures, spying on us!”
Mellifloria lashed out with her tongue in response, returning to the fleshy nub beneath the hood of dark flesh. Shera’s clit was thicker than a gnome’s thumb, tucked demurely beneath a wrinkled sheath but throbbing with lust. The centaur’s cunt squeezed tighter as Melli dragged her tongue back and forth along the gleaming length, and hot juices squirted down her arms with each rhythmic contraction.
“N-not so hard, you brat,” Shera stammered breathlessly. “That’s not a toy! Aaah, you’ve learned a thing or two, watching us…all those weeks, up on the bluffs, peeking at our mating!” Her body quivered. The wet tunnel seemed to suck Mellifloria in, drawing her arms deeper and deeper until her elbows were rubbing against the floppy cuntlips. “Did it make you horny?” the centaur teased. “Did you rub yourself, up there on your own? I know how you two-legs are…I’d be the same if I could reach my own pussy!”
She laughed breathlessly, her whole body rocking to slam down against Melli’s. The little gnome swayed on her feet, almost bowled over — it felt as if the only thing holding her up was the centaur’s clenching pussy, holding her arms firmly in place above her head.
“Suck it, god, suck it,” Shera shrieked, her voice rising uncontrollably. The sound echoed off the walls of the small cave; Mellifloria was sure they could be heard for miles, out over the flat desert plains. “Suck me off, god, yeeesssss…!”
The shriek rose into a wordless wail, and Shera reared, her forelegs leaving the ground as her cunt exploded in a shower of hot fluid. For Mellifloria, it really was a shower — a thick spray from above, drenching her in a wash of musky-smelling juices, pumped from the centaur’s crotch in sticky waves. The big woman spurted uncontrollably, until Melli’s hair was plastered flat and she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the rivers of girl-cum running down her face.
Arms aching, Mellifloria pounded Shera’s cunt as hard as she could. She was quite certain the centaur’s body could take any force she could muster and then some. Her fists slid in and out, balled up for extra force and laid side by side as they plowed her captor’s tunnel. Melli sucked blindly at the clit in her mouth, determined not to let go until Shera begged her for mercy.
The control was, of course, entirely illusory, which Shera reminded her of by simply stepping forward when her spasms subsided. Melli’s hands slid from the centaur with a loud sucking sound, and she stumbled, lips suckling on empty air as Shera’s dripping clit slid away with the rest of her folds.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the cave were two sets of panting, one much deeper and slower than the other. Mellifloria coughed on warm, musky-smelling fluid, and swallowed more, guiltily grateful for the moisture. She rubbed ineffectively at her eyes with a lust-smeared wrist, squinting through the sheen of girl-cum at Shera.
The centaur turned in place, grinning, and her gaze travelled up and down Mellifloria’s short stature with satisfaction. “Now there’s a proper houseguest,” Shera rumbled. “Naked and wet and stinking of cunt — just the way I like ’em.”
Liked the preview? Want to read more? Mellifloria and Shera have much more learning to do about one another, and about the centaur stallions as well…all to be had for $2.99 Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, or Barnes & Nobles Nook!