Django and the Art of Seduction

~Nestled in a bed of brightly colored linens and plush pillows, a slim, petite Amani troll slept, a skull much larger than his own clutched in his arms. A bright orange mohawk fanned out over his pillow, and occassionally, his long ears would twitch in his sleep. The little troll painted such a sweet picture of macbre innocence, how could any man resist?

In the doorway of the adorable little Amani's hut, loomed a dramatic figure, his lavender eyes glowing in the gloom of the night. Moonlight reflected off his lucious cerulean fur, and the wind blew from the south, blowing his magnificent plum locks to roguishly to the side. His shoulders were broad, and his body looked like it had been carved from marble, his muscles rippling beneath his fur like waves on the ocean. He had a masculine square jaw, and his tusks curved from his jaw like thick branches jutting out from a tree. With the grace of a panther, he stalked across the hut, climbing into his prey's nest-bed with a devious grin curling the corners of his lips.

Delicate green eyelids fluttered as the little scout-turned-fortune teller sensed the forboding figure above him, and he parted pouty lips into a wide yawn, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes in the cutest manner possible.

"Wha' d'jou wan' now, D'jango?" he asked sleepily, his voice soft and sweet, like honey for the ears.

Though the intruder was normally as cold as ice, the Amani's pure spirit melted his frozen heart, and without hesitation, he lowered himself over the smaller body, holding him close while nuzzling a mossy cheek.

"Ah jus' wanna play," he crooned, his voice deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. Strong, weapon calloused hands trailed over the scout's thighs and plush, perky rear end, kneading the smooth, plump flesh smoothly, but firmly. Beneath the dominearing male, the thin, lithe body writhed, a quiet moan slipping from full, delicious lips.

"Oh D'jango," the sweet Amani moaned, throwing his head back and spreading his legs, baring his tight little hole to his gentle conqueror. "Take meh," he pleaded, clutching his skull to his chest. "Please, I wanna feel ja thick man'ood poundin' inta mah cute lil' ass an'-"

~

"That story is a complete lie!" a young voice barked, breaking the spell caused by the flowery, descriptive words. The speaker was well into his teens, a lithely muscled Orc with dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail.

Across the small room, surrounded by teenagers of varying ages and races, sat a ragged looking troll rogue, his plum colored hair a tangled rats nest on top of his head. He blinked, once, twice, then held up a cerulean furred finger. "Ah will 'ave joo all know, dere realleh do be a Amani forchune tellah named Kin'tai, an' 'e realleh be a cute leetle sleep uv a mon!" he informed the disbelieving youngster, his short, fang like tusks barely jutting below his lower lip. "An' ah realleh deed sneak inta 'im 'ut an' raveesh 'im!"

"Yeah," the teen snorted, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. "That's why you built yourself up so much in the story. Totally believe you. Uhuh."

"Oh, shut up, Kalgar!" a young bull snorted, rolling his eyes as well. "You're just jealous because you can't get any!"

The words seemed to strike a nerve in the orc, who balled up his fists and stomped his foot on the ground childishly. "You shut up, burger boy!" he snarled, then promptly turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving the story teller alone with his audience of youngsters, question marks dancing in the air around his head.