[She seems feverish herself; skin blazing and goosepimpled, breath strained and increasingly uneven. The tighter the grip of the vines around her the more she writhes into them, the rise of her cries and the jut of her chest much more encouragement than protest.

Already--still--her toes curl and tail bobs as she climaxes yet again--not that she ever really comes down between the vine milking her g-spot and the leaves brushing over her skin and feathers and the heat of his tongue and the vibrations of his mouth. She's completely at his mercy, warbling out harsh and desperately pleasured sounds with each move he makes]