…are the best tongues.

She could feel his as he ran it slowly, almost painfully so, over her sex.

He started at her clit, her engorged nub painful from her heat, oozing her musk around that dextrous flesh as it caressed her. Moving up her lips, parting them, tasting her, the tip lapping over her entrance.

Dripping juices, her depths promised the passion of her heat, the fertility of her womb. His forked tongue dipped in to her ever so slightly, making her shiver and squirm, the bindings the only thing from keeping the werebeast in place. Without them, she would simply push back to mash the sergal’s face into her cunt.

But as She was, the bitch could only lie there, huffing and moaning, as the male slowly shed his clothes, continuing to prepare her pussy for more of his flesh, for his seed.
His tongue was long. But their night of mating would be longer.