Dreams featuring a kobold who's caught my attention rather a lot lately that I wanted to write down so I could waggle it at them teasingly later.

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It starts in a way both familiar and, for a kobold and their dragon, very appropriate. You're pinned; one forepaw splayed across your chest, one across your belly. Gentle, affectionate, pleasant rippling of fingers against scales, but a pin nonetheless that merely lets you squirm as the dragon's head descends, their nosering brushes against the lower curve of your tummy, and vanishes between your legs.

There's the flicker of a tongue against your taut cleft, shorts having long since been discarded. It dips inwards, probing and spreading its tines to part those lips and coax your clit forth. Then there's the brush of scaled lips, surrounding, drawing insistently snug, until it's standing as proud as it's able. The dragon holds there for a moment. Breath bathes your scales, bathes that rampant, softly throbbing bud, and the split tips of that tongue dance along the underside.

Those tines splay around the base of it, and alongside the heat of the touch (and oh, there's draconic heat in that touch), there's a deeper, more forceful sensation that shares many of the same qualities but tingles besides, and touches far deeper than mere warmth could reach. The warmth bathes your flesh. The tingle twines around your essence and ripples, flickers, *squeezes* with each slow journey from root to tip, drawing outwards until the flesh responds. And your flesh does respond: Swelling firmer, thicker, more overtly, deliciously apparent with each pass, every ascent a flowering of pleasure in your hindbrain. This feels appropriate, too.

It's here that those tines begin to root against its tip, delving against an opening that isn't there. But that tingling heat is still at work, deep inside you, and a certain pliance lingers, and moment by moment the sensations shift. Pressure gives way to a sensation of... penetration? Of the air caressing rather more surface than there was, and that contrast spreading. It feels like the satisfying unravelling of tangled threads, a release of tension that you weren't even aware of... and when the heat of hir muzzle enfolds you again it's twice as intense, that tongue's touch registering as *inside* in a way that maps oddly to your idea of your body plan. That's when the pressure of paws finally lets up and you can rise on your elbows and look down at the way slowly-withdrawing lips (beneath eyes that meet yours anmd dance with pleased amusement) expose inch after inch of twin erections much like their owner's own. They're gaining definition as you watch, curves defining themselves as ridges, settling into a form familiar from your time spent working over their templates. And they feel so weighty and full, bobbing in the air above your belly as your dragon's tongue flickers against one, the other, and then away.

Gradually the weight of arousal softens, as does its more literal counterpart. Your dragon's lazy smile is still there, and as they guide your feet back into your shorts and scoots them up along calves and thighs and tail, it becomes apparent why. Without the benefit of the dragon's sheath, your new arrangements rest heavy among snug fabric that doesn't at all hide - merely outlines. It seems you'll be wearing skirts for the next while.

Or blushing a whole lot.