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149280
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9b5becdd7de19c11f7e9c275a625e010
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Explicit
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crusch lulu (overlord (anime)) directed by gridanon
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Description

Crusch Lulu showing off why scalies give the best head!

Tech Talk

This was made using a local install of Reforge for Stable Diffusion using 3WolfMond: https://huggingface.co/Xeno443 . I'd recommend any or all of the 'Mond models, they're all some of the best furry SDXL models.

For the upload Tail Tagger was used to assist in tagging: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Along with the JPT-3 for AI assisted tags: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

AI Story - Tongue Tied

The dim torchlight of the lizardman hut flickered across Crusch Lulu's alabaster scales, turning them into molten silver whenever she shifted. She knelt before you on the soft pile of woven reeds that served as bedding, her ruby-red eyes glowing faintly in the low light—large, luminous, and utterly fixated on your exposed length. The air was heavy with the damp musk of the Great Lake, the faint mineral tang of underground water, and something sweeter, warmer: the subtle, feminine scent that rose from between her snow-white thighs, already slick with anticipation even though she had yet to touch herself.

Crusch tilted her head, letting the long cascade of her pale, almost translucent frills spill over one shoulder. Her lips—thinner and more delicate than most lizardmen's, yet still beautifully scaled at the edges—parted slowly, revealing the glistening pink interior of her mouth. Then came her tongue.

It slid out inch by torturous inch.

Long. Impossibly long. Forked at the tip like a serpent's, yet thick and plush along its length, glistening with saliva that caught the torchlight in liquid beads. The twin tips quivered independently, tasting the air, tasting *you*, before the whole muscular ribbon descended in a slow, sinuous wave. It was easily eighteen inches from root to fork, maybe more, and every centimeter of it moved with deliberate, predatory grace.

"Mmmh… so thick already," she purred, voice low and throaty, vibrating through her chest scales. "I can feel your heat just from breathing on it. You're already twitching for me… aren't you?"

She didn't wait for confirmation. She never did when she decided something belonged in her mouth.

The forked tips brushed the underside of your shaft first—soft, feather-light, exploring. One prong traced the thick vein that ran along the bottom while the other curled teasingly around the sensitive frenulum, flicking with tiny, rapid movements that sent electric jolts racing up your spine. Then both tips met at the slit, lapping delicately at the bead of precum that had already welled there. She hummed in approval, the sound vibrating straight through your cock.

"Delicious," she murmured, tongue retracting just enough to let her speak before sliding forward again. "Salty… warm… I want *all* of it."

Her lips closed around the head—hot, wet, impossibly soft despite the faint texture of her scales at the corners of her mouth. She sucked gently at first, just enough to hollow her cheeks and create a perfect seal. Then that monstrous tongue began its real work.

It coiled.

Not once. Not twice. The entire length wrapped around your shaft in a slow, spiraling helix—three full turns from base to tip—squeezing with perfect, rhythmic pressure while the twin forks at the end danced independently over the head. One prong flicked relentlessly at the slit, dipping inside just enough to tease; the other circled the corona in tight, wet loops. All the while the thick middle of her tongue massaged the underside in long, dragging strokes, the texture rougher there, ridged faintly like velvet sandpaper.

She moaned around you, the sound traveling straight down your length like a tuning fork. Her throat worked visibly, scales shifting as she swallowed excess saliva, preparing.

Then she took you deeper.

Her jaw unhinged slightly—lizardman anatomy at its most erotic—and inch after glistening inch disappeared past her lips. The heat was overwhelming, a furnace wrapped in slick muscle. Her tongue never stopped moving: it continued its spiraling caress even as her throat opened to accommodate you, the forked tips now flicking at the base while the coiled length milked every ridge and vein. Wet, obscene slurping sounds filled the hut, mingling with her muffled moans and the occasional wet *gluck* when she pushed herself to take you to the root.

She pulled back slowly—agonizingly—letting you feel every inch of that tongue unwrapping, dragging, squeezing as it retreated. Strings of saliva stretched between her lips and your glistening cock before snapping. She licked them up immediately, forked tips chasing the strands like a predator after prey.

"You're throbbing so hard," she whispered, voice husky, breath hot against your slick skin. "I can taste how close you are already… but I'm not finished with you yet."

She dove again.

This time she set a rhythm—deep, slow, deliberate. Down until her scaled nose pressed against your pelvis, throat convulsing around you in rhythmic swallows; up until only the head remained trapped between her lips, tongue swirling furiously around it like a living whirlpool. She varied the pressure, the speed, the pattern: sometimes the forks pinched and tugged at the frenulum; sometimes the whole tongue flattened and dragged along the underside in long, worshipful strokes; sometimes it corkscrewed so tightly you could feel every individual ridge.

Her hands—slender, clawed, yet impossibly gentle—slid up your thighs, holding you steady while her tail curled lazily behind her, the tip twitching in time with her own growing arousal. You could smell it now: the thick, sweet musk of her dripping slit, the scent of a female in heat who was thoroughly enjoying her work.

Crusch pulled off with a wet pop, tongue still extended, dripping. She looked up at you through snow-white lashes, eyes half-lidded with lust.

"I want to feel it," she breathed. "Every pulse. Every hot spurt. Let me drink you… please…"

She engulfed you again—faster this time, hungrier. Her tongue coiled tighter, squeezing in waves that mimicked the contractions of a greedy cunt. The forked tips fluttered wildly over the head while her throat worked you in deep, rolling swallows. She moaned continuously now, the vibrations constant, overwhelming.

Your balls drew up tight.

She knew.

Her pace quickened—frantic, filthy, perfect. Slurping. Sucking. Milking. That impossible tongue never stopped moving: spiraling, flicking, stroking, squeezing. Her throat opened completely, taking you to the hilt over and over, muscles rippling in a swallowing massage that pulled you inexorably toward release.

When you finally broke, it was cataclysmic.

The first thick rope shot straight down her throat. She moaned in ecstasy, eyes rolling back, scales flushing a faint pink beneath the white as she drank greedily. Her tongue kept working—coiling, squeezing, milking—drawing out every pulse. Spurt after hot spurt flooded her mouth; she swallowed convulsively, throat working visibly, not wasting a single drop. The wet *glk-glk-glk* of her gulping filled the air, obscene and beautiful.

She kept sucking even after the last tremor faded, tongue gently coaxing, cleaning, cherishing. Only when you were completely spent did she finally pull back—slowly—letting your softening length slide from her lips with a final, loving kiss to the tip.

Crusch licked her lips, forked tongue sweeping over them in one long, satisfied pass.

"Every… last… drop," she whispered, voice thick with pleasure. Her ruby eyes gleamed. "You taste even better than I dreamed."

She rested her cheek against your thigh, tail curling contentedly around your ankle, the picture of smug, well-fed satisfaction.

And still that long, glistening tongue flicked lazily at the air, as if already anticipating the next time.

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