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A gilden palace. Near its peak: a gaudy chamber littered with wasteful trinkets, each to be smelted on the morrow. Therewithin stood Marshal Ryal of the Starless Ebor, proudly southly wolven. Secretly cursed. Night had fallen, and her leanly squire, Fent, by no means short yet shorter than she, finished unfastening the final straps of her chestplate.

'Ever fancied siring children?' she asked him as he laid down a vambrace and a few other pieces.

'Wha--oh no. Not this again.' He scowled while turning to show his back.

'Fent, I don't wa--'

'Not the first time asked, likely not the last, but it was, is, and always will be.' He coughed. 'I mean, no, Marshal.'

His unawarely shared conviction made her wonder. He finished settling those parts and returned to kneel and undo her cuisses, reaching up her long legs to do the first straps. Those charming eyes of his glanced up then and again at hers. His grey fur. On his face, a healed scar counted single, from not greenness but mastery of defence. 'Stuffy odour in here,' he said, smiling with one corner raised. 'He really did a number on you. You know, how his bestly honour guard scratched your chestplate. Once.'

She snickered, then put a hand to his shoulder. 'You look, good down there; my thighs around your handsome face, rewarding you, right now, if you want...' He had such a thick tongue.

He blinked. The last strap was undone, the plate in his hand as he stood. 'Admittedly a good fencer, that one, though, ey?'

Too much, too little. She hugged him, broad shoulders enwrapping his. Then dismissed him, his concerned face burnt into mind, before the last segment even clinked on the pile tidied anext aureate bedside. Those grandiose jeweled doors he closed on leaving were worth more than home, gold-wise. Whole. For now.

Fur began to bulge her fitted gambeson. Claw to strap to strap, untying each. Her body scared most. Called fierce. Masculinely shaped save for having a slit below, not a length. She sighed. Fent'd go to the lake in the forest to fish like as not.

Adding to the mud already tracked along tiled floor, she untied then kicked off boots carelessly, not a damn left to give about muddy floors since years foregone. Her gambeson clattered and she walked under and under and through beaded silken curtain after beaded silken curtain, over-pronounced floral reliefs itching her muzzle, and out onto the balcony, a piton-fastened rope her belt, sheerly flat chest covered by black fur aglister; the mussed strands, oiled in sweat and incense, puffed out only a bit quicker than the Lord of the northly wolven had when her spear, the spear of Vanton, made him raise blade with flabby arms to defend. He flourished by flailing as a ballerina depicting the majestic orbits of the planets, aided by excessive grease from fattened mass.

Though barely swaying her heftily thick and big, mane-ish hair, fresh was the air. It calmed that rising warmth within if for but a moment, yet still, smoothed its spreading. That sweltering tester inside could not be her bedding.

Some of the houses lay ruined below, taken unjustly, some from unfled hands, although swathes stood clad in ash thanks to the bands who smoked them instead, at least. Mercenaries. Already three throats slit out of battle on this day for looting and a whole band released from service. City folk battle-scattered were still returning to the city, captain Jeri tending to them. A slim lot. Very slim. That their Lord tortured the earth whenever he deigned walk wasn't for what she derided him.

Awash a shade in the unclouding moonlight stippling the balcony, she gripped the railing marble balusters inset with twisting gemmed, rubies, sapphires, granite below an enamelled gold-red snake-patterned slate handrail, one of her lengthening claws digging out a chip from the topline. Ravens'd blanketed aslant the left porcelain terracotta rooves in black.

Lordly Lord Gryvran. She spared him. Hated it when they groveled.

He escaped, late evening. Traitours. To reward her mercy, he stole the spear of Vanton and some pretty wolveness servant she had her eyes on; a sharp witted lass, fit too, but of his ilk withal. Claws could've sunken so easily into his thinningly furred flesh--inhale. Such thoughts did little. He'd be well past the border and farther by now forbye; their machines. They'd have stowed a few somewhere. Gave them haste ayont that of her kind. Plus comforts, such as the argent pipes hidden around a corner past the rooftop to her right.

A hot bath would do well aft this night. Should what others said of them hold. Akin to the kiss of the sun. Gryvran's clearly went unused.

Breezes passed, the wind called, and the stars unwove the clouds. And the palace did sit at the city's edge, the walls at an angle most slight. Fur started thickening.

She leapt over the side of the balcony and landed on rooftiles which split. More followed, sluing athwart aft while she ran down the slant, tickling cool whisps swirling past nostrils, steps to thumps till she turned and kicked out her feet; she slode to the roof lip, shearing clay, and swung herself round at the edge to grab onto the pipes. Chest thrust out, she howled, heart a-pounding as shards cracked below, and the flocked ravens' startling into flight evinced they heard, they heard.

Her guards would soon come looking for the source of that. She pierced the pipes with her claws, steam bursting scalding stray fur regrown in a matter of seconds, and descended to a tower's navy rooftop, tearing out two long streaks of the metal; another tile shattered on the landing, this time by a leg's dewclaw now more talon than claw-like. Thence she hopped down to the allure. Leaning over one of the many crenels, which bore faded engravings that near wiped away at gentle touch, the gold to spare for needless luxury filched by none other than an all but erstwhile Lord, it would seem, she undid her rope to loop it through an embrasure, then hooked it around her hammering of piton into stone. The crenel atop she clamb gave view: this wall, a sheer drop, no moat below. She inhaled. And faced about and stepped back, falling to kick growing paws deep into the mortar joints of two ashlar bricks. She rappelled to the rope's end, three quarters of the way down. Three. Then jumped.

Soft mud. Above packed clay. Hit the ground, sideways. Cracked. Not a siegemaster. But healing quickly.

The forest yet beckoned.

Crawling turned apace to limping to running. She rushed through brush, chausses and braies tearing, leaping over a snag or two or more; it didn't matter, no fear of being seen, no hiding it, just running, feeling the air whip past, the scent of pine and damp earth everywhere to calm, to rouse the fiercest of beasts, beneath starlight brambly canopy broke into patches, patches densening the deeper in she ran, soon but a few beams falling through. The cool wetness of the leaves, of the dirt, dirtying paws and hands, the ferns splashed. Fur thickened, further, further, muscles to a slight swell. Feeling with each lunge, with each bound, freedom and that curse of hers both, the latter an enraging fire best suppressed creeping out from within. Made captive to the basest of urges, one that would, fulfilled, destroy all she'd worked for--

She slipped on mud and tumbled through a bush to downhill. Whacked to branch to branch, snaps. Till back slammed into bark.

A sputter escaped her muzzle, a branch stabbed at her left eye. She breathed. Only, it didn't pierce. It just poked. Estrus...must strengthen the curse's abilities. She'd never tested it before. And that taste. Iron, with something more, something tangier, like in the air it were gone stale-ish. Blood, not hers, dried. As she looked herself over, rubbing her eyes, standing up on twos, the unseen image of the full wer form lay a-silhouette in her mind. Hers was not as so. 'Twas shameful halfway, neither civilised nor of might. And her rear, flat too.

Snuffling, she whiffed woodsmoke. A camp. Ears perked. Not far, left. Instinct bade hunch to keep low, and she stalked after the sound and the pungent, booze ridden odour as though it were that of prey till a beige sliver glimmered tween the edges of two leafy shrubs. There, she crouched, crawling over before spreading the leaves gentle.

Next to the forest-girded lake, at a spot where the trees relented, and in the centre of that, burned a bonfire on the verge of death. Surrounded, by four erst merry now bleary unhuddled figures tall, that less so than she. Half-armour clad; pieces thrown with nary a care for the confusing piles of plate, some more prudent near one or another of the three tents, tents remarkably clean. Heraldry smirched by blood smoked. Wooden tankards in hands, by sleeping heads. Deserters, hers or his.

There were two, a ways off to the right, who thought the thinner shrubs there. An ashen equid and a brown wolven, fitter than any mercs ought be, sat snout to muzzle in front of each other, legs wrapped and lengths, lengths she smelt all the way from here, in each other's jerking hands. The equid's, a blunt cylinder with a bistered and pink streak marbling, a thin medial ring somewhat below the centre; the wolv's, so vividly red she'd swear it glew, at its base a gorgeous knot yet unswollen, and a fine tip, its end. Slightly longer than the equid's too. Unusual. It lay across the equid's wrist, thicker than the others', till he leaned forwards and kissed the wolv, that red further brightening as it engorged with blood, the veins surfacing. Her hands drifted to her thighs, angry at herself for this spying of concealed act, her other peeling away the last few remnants of leathers stucken by mud. The fur above there'd lengthened, but also... softer. Warm, and soft as heavy, albeit resistant, hair. Pre flowed from both's tips, the shafts beginning to squelch, the shafts nearing, yes, and her own fluid flo--

A woman shrieked. From the middle tent. Though her blood boiled, she kept behind the shrubs and circled to the tent, its back open.

A vixen and the pretty wolv maid, rope bound, both partially exposed, silent. A wolven who was male, dressed full, was pacing 'fore the maid. He'd welted her, leaving a dark weal on her muzzle. Her teeth, canines, unharmed, at least.

Two shadows on the other side, the wolv walking to open the tent and welcome them in, arousal already reaching Ryal. Such rich scents she picked out that debauched carousing scant failed to spoil, but her eyes narrowed. Even now she would brook this not; she could take them this way, split up. She tensed, to lunge in, deal justice--

A twig snapped behind and she span as a soldier lunged shouting and she seized and pinned him to a tree, senses razored. The camp jolted to life, red eyes rubbed, weapons unsheathed and scrambled for. Veins thumped as the one in her grip squirmed. She let him go and dashed into the camp and seized a wolv to hurl him into his fellows like a rag doll.

Merely to stop mid-throw when that one's bulge passed her thigh, a scent seldom indulged in tempting for ever few having enjoyed her form cutting through the bloodlust: the tangy, pungent bite of pre thickly cloying to her flaring nostrils. Her chest heaved as she shook her head to clear the smell, only to make it all the more smothering. In that pause a hand grabbed her wrist, followed by more on her arms.

Hemmed in by a stag, two wolvs, a bear, a tawny lion, desires unmet told by the smell so grouped, zesty as her own, their heads sobered. Her claws flexed as afire inside was set. So much meat with naught but ragged cloth between. It was daunting. The background blurred as though fogged, the bonfire mended flared, a lantern afield snuffed. She had to flee; she couldn't risk this. Not that bloat. With a snarl she gritted her teeth and started thrashing, trying to wrest back control from them but mostly herself with kicks, even as her slackened grip on the arms she held retightened, that bulge once again rubbing...

An idea struck, an image so sudden, so bright, that it near burnt the muddle away. Heatening lust suffused began peeling off from bodies, the urge to rub whereagainst, proving nigh to outlast, became a path with pride facing no future burden: she would sate these base cravings of hers, of theirs, on her terms and her terms alone. And keep them off the two in the tent till they exhausted themselves.

She shoved them back in one push, lashing at the others, then pounced the closest and, using a single slash, liberated his length from his leggings; as soon as it sprang free, hardening up towards her groin, she grasped and tugged it long her thigh, its fairly wide girth dwarfed. She would later have their tongues. Meat would come first to ignite interest.

The others stared in dumbfoundment, a few slack jawed. A blade dropped. She loured to kneel on a single knee, caressing her abs through fluff and her flat chest with the stunned soldier's length as her eyes flicked to half, shoulders level with his ribs even though she knelt amid a dip in the ground.

Control was hers so long they entered not. A second drunker than the rest stumbled forward, length in hand, flaccid. She didn't mind. With gentle touch she pumped it across her muzzle, eyes dancing from shafts to eyes here to those leering, approaching unarmed.

Emboldened by the heavy drunk, a third, a fourth, all seven environed. Each sought to touch the fevered skin beneath her fur. She dug into the chaos, grinding against their lengths. Two to three easy in both hands at any given moment. She drank in the sight: twin cerise shafts on a rangy fox, the equid and wolv she'd watched, a lion's barbs, two more wolvs and their to-swell knots, a stag's pink tube.

Blood-stuffed meat, dusky reds, wolvenhoods, and milky browns and marbles, hard because of her shoulders, because of her flatness, all over her. Her. She loved this. They loved this.

It took the little she had to disobey that whinging needy calling pressing to plunge one in. She would weather it, their groping hands, the growling, harsh breathing, and the insistent prodding between her legs beaten back by having no thigh gap and pressing thighs together tight enough to make them yelp, the bear behind the greatest offender and most punished. She looked forward perverse to the dismay that would whelm them when it struck: try as they might, they would not penetrate her; nor would they dominate her. They could scarce look down at her as it was.

Wanton competitiveness lustful spurred them to vie for her attentions, jostling to steer her ministrations. She allowed it, lost to smouldering and the single-minded drive to slake it. Amid it and the irritating ball slapping, she managed to say loud clear, 'Go inside me and you die.'

Snatching and releasing, smearing pre along her fur. That bear slipped between behind; her eyes widened, relaxing when it failed to breach, unable owing to her thighs it was now trapped tween. The long, pinkly flushed thing pointed straight, shined by her fluids but missing her clit and dripping pre unto that of the stag who blenched, only to come back near as fast to touch tips with him.

She reached for the thick equine column, now splotched in streaks of white, then dragged it up her chest through wet fur, the thick pillowy volume yet holding up, to her collarbone, his sponge prest light to the notch there. The end was perfect for the dip, nestled cosy. And so it was with some reluctance she, slowly, managed to get him and his wolv mate side by side, their mouths agape when theirs throbbed in her right, squished to each other with massaging presses to draw out each and every twitch, ebb, and pulse. They kissed and licked.

The stag took a step closer; she yanked him to her, having his join the bear's between, still missing her clit, and squeezing them as his eyes rolled back. The bear's breath on her nape told the story same.

Her fevered burning ached, for each member she fondled, clutched, wrang, kneaded, and milked fed that fire, her slickness pargeting her hams.

The equid's tip began to flare, and her slit clenched defensive and yearning at the thought of its flared head stretching her the image she cringed at. No. Her season would end on with pleasure external.

The stag thrust, but not trying up; forwards, as he came, almost none of his spend touched her vulva, hosing the bear's groin. He confirmed her suspicions when over he leant his snout pass her neck to nuzzle the bear's stout throat. Swore the bear cooed.

As those two softened, the wolv in her other hand moved from it to round her thighs while she grasped the lion's with it, guiding it over her muzzle; hot trails of pre smeared the top of the fur, thicker emissions coating her nostrils, dripping to her lips and stringing as she dragged it lour. She kept her muzzle closed, much to the lion's grunting disappointment, which was soon washed away by her sliding the sheer dord of her fur along the side of his length; the small barbs pierced not, instead furrowing through.

The stag and bear stayed, hardening anew. Rising torrents of hand sweat, of semen and nectar, drove her ardour onwards, senses narrowing till the brush of fur on fur close so engrossed her tongue became leaden, word a trial of their own. Strands began building, each pass of hers, of his and theirs, adding more, more, connecting her fur to tips and shafts.

The lion grumbled a sympathetic warning as she lifted his to pat her brow with its warmth--thus, a potential feat only she could achieve was inspired; she swipt it across her eyes, and he gasped at her eyes speckled with white strings.

She didn't even blink; it didn't sting. Neither did her sight blur all that much. She aggressively rubbed her face on his length while the wolv and equid pulsed, the knot of the former a massive fist. That inside her...no.

A hand, the lion's, made to grab her head; she slapped it away, she would not be controlled, and pulled back her lips, toothy fangs sharpened bared an inch from his length as she growled. He recoiled--though further hardened--but she pulled him back.

Hot pulses thrummed against her palms. By the time she rose to plane the lion's tapered tip along her jaw, her entire face was connected to his and the others' who weren't between her legs or on her thigh, in strings from globs of pre. Her pupils and irises were varnished, vision barely hindered by the semen, and still she continued, fever unabated.

She traced up to swirl the tip through the mess on her muzzle, that on her jawline rivered by her drool escaping tween her lips' grins. Strands roped to plaster her fur to the lion's groin then thighs, striping her paws and wherever and whatever they gripped. No part untouched, polished in lacing slick trails.

The stilled water to her side reflected her form, veneered white in varying shades, thicknesses, in opaque splotches, translucent patchworks.

In it she basked, basked in that this, this decadent luxury would humiliate any other. But not her. Head held high, she embraced it. It made her look good.

The lion moaned and she whipped her gaze back and then, with a roar, he came.

Thick pulses splattered her face. She bore it not stoically, not with stress on her features--with smug and sincere satisfaction, unflinching narrowed open eyes filming white. Great sheets erupted to ribbon on, past, her muzzle, over her ears which held up, matting fur, short eyelashes, plashes bare audible over the lion's roar.

Rivulets streamed down face and neck, her fingers pumping his whole length from base to tip, rubbing, milking to prolong his peak. She wanted it all. She wanted him to have it all. The musk was overwhelming, the heat, the scent, the wetness meshing in confused, clouded mixture. The rest joined at different moments, the lion panting hard still going throughout and even past some of theirs, stream aft stream, loads heaped back up by spurts, by blasts. Her pupils and irises and sclera became brilliant whites.

When at last he finished, the stag and equid soon aft, the sighs of the others lost in that roar now unhidden, eyes shut in disbelief at this thrill, fain, daubed in mixed spend that hung from her jaw, semen-soaked fur plastered to her searing skin, strands connected every part of her, muzzle to brow, cheeks to eyes, a netting of white annexing their softening lengths to her charge.

And not a lick of disgust or shame to endure, only pride galore, as with dignity, she held poise composed. Though fever inrisen was a fortnight to end, for its goal would lie farther inside than any length could e'er reach without her meting of death condign, this, this was handsome, an adornment of a kind she would shed with naught less than a fight: it was that of her skill, marked and claimed by herself using that of others.

She reclined, stretching strands from clotted face and mottled chest, in the muscles of which and of below white rivers were forming, chiselling her appearance.

That seeing through it became a struggle hardly mattered. Sharpened senses mapped each squelching strand and splash with perfect clarity, but one missing, and she catalogued every twitch and whimper she had charmed from calming lion, who leaned back, a fellow of his, whose length lay across his thigh, holding him up and joining hands with her to coax out the last residues of fluid, the sounds of one still stroking faded to the background, a litany blissed.

Others would see her as degraded in a state such as this. Ha. Never had she felt so vaunted as with semen dripping from her fur, it a mantle.

His breaths slowed, harsh pants gentling as he came down from his high under her touches. She released him at last to sink back onto her haunches, knees to the ground, face upturned at tilt slight and glazed in the fruits of her labour.

Heat and scent and semen; this was stellar.

A wolven appeared behind and shouldered the bear an inch aside and thrust up to her slit.

And she squeezed her legs so hard he screamed and wrenched it back before his tip could enter.

Her pupils shrunk to dots. The others glared at him, the bear slagging him, merely to otherwise continue. This was her fault.

Her reflection, no longer proud and dignified, now shocked, the composure broken. Was that what she looked like to them? A powerful, haughty female warrior, brought to heel by their masculinity, marked and claimed--Dominated. In a way not even penetration could have matched? She knew this could hap.

Claws. Long. Flexed. They were wrong. That wasn't what she was. She hadn't asked for it.

She narrowed her eyes and snarled and shoved the circle away, a fist pulling then cuffing that wolv hard across the muzzle. 'Ever try that again and you die.' Her voice was strained, ragged, but strong.

The wolv yelped and scrambled back, clutching at his muzzle. A bruise would form, only, after the swelling. She rose on legs unsteady, swaying as unsated heat warred within, still to lift by his neck he who dared aim flout the agreed. Tips nipped past fur. Skin pricked.

'I w-won't!'

She dropped him. The tent. Strands of white between her face and the lion's length stretched with each step, drawing a lattice down her neck till she lurched; they severed; much of it flung back and replastered her, each glob re-clinging to fur, a few thinned clumps ruptured rilling down her cheeks, matting lashes, every hair recoated.

From the tent, one of the captees met her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

Of them all, the stag swashed at her a blade she clasped; it snapped.

She rushed over, then stopped to comb off the shoulder-padding bulk of the mess.

Tempted to revel at the feeling of it, she steeled herself and ran into the tent. While they stared at her crusting form, wide eyed and blinking, she hefted the two onto her shoulders and, sighting the equid slapping that wolv once more, sprinted towards the forest's edge. She stumbled over the blurry line of undergrowth and dropped them, almost forgetting to untie their bindings. Each rope slashed easily, though the vixen screamed. Aft barking a warning when they stared, Ryal ran back into the forest. Deeper than before. Further. Further.

Scents so thick continued to envelop, even amid the chill night air. She stumbled into a tree at a glade's edge where water scent floated, dazzlingly starred sky revealed, and clutched at its trunk for support, muzzle tilting heavenwards as she panted, spine arched, stretching, tail risen, claws furrowing the hitherto scarless bark.

A leaf crunched, close behind. She froze.

They'd followed. This was it. She would be bred, impregnated, and ruined. She'd seen what'd happened to her mother, her line was terrible at breeding. She tried to turn around but her body wouldn't let her. Her rear only rose. Shame. Either she herself or her body was betraying her; it made no difference to what would come.

A grey-furred hand touched her left shoulder; another, her arm of the same. Gently. A scent--her squire's: Fent.

Humiliation swept away any relief, eyes trained on the bark.

Turned he wasn't behind her anyway. Was standing beside.

'Ryal, are you hurt?'

She said nothing.

'Ryal speak to me! You're nude in the wood, covered in buckets of come, come that I can't even smell under...oh.'

All she did was look at him and nod, grimacing.

He coughed and straightened, although his lips were straining against his teeth, his fingers and legs fidgeting, the pads of his hands sweating. He whispered something about her scent. 'H-how can I help, Marshal?'

'I need to breed, but I don't want to, I'd hate it.' Flakes of bark were strewn.

'Is...that offer from before still open?'

'Yes, yes, sooth.'

He walked behind and dropped to his knees. Hands unamply warm gripped her inner thighs, a chill shiver of his banished through will unbothered by semen. Or a pretender good.

He understood how bad she'd gotten. He didn't tease. Straight away his tongue pressed to her vulva, somehow burying it as a smothering blanket. It was so broad. It had only been thick whensoe'er she'd seen it. Had it changed shape?

'What, what happened to fishing?'

'The lot you ravished scared the fish off; threw a lot of things in, lot of noise.'

Claws' grips laxened, scribbling little marks. He pushed his tongue up, at the zenith his tongue tip still worshiping her clit, and, pushing lips, smoothed down. Ichor pooled, escape tongue-blocked. He'd experience a decade or so in this task.

Her claws raked--dug, into wood, a belying pretence afforded. 'How many?'

She could feel the stretching of lips, the curling of a smirk. 'Twelve--'

It poured out unblocked into his muzzle, gasp met, then joined by her lascivious laugh till turned empathetic pant by his draining guzzles.

An almost religious-imbued fervour underran the full immersed licks kneading plump outer and inner folds. Her tongue lolled. Could see tree grooved and leaves fluttered and flitted in flickers juddering.

The flow raged, it raged amid squelches to not slicken but outright striken. Soused as a treat she could better devour and smushed face adazed bedaubed imagined from eyes engulfed by starlight wavering twixt branches grown wicked--

Moonlight it grew she grew larger. So fast it hurt as she yelled at it, kicking but he held.

It did cease. But this curse would run its course into her being bred. She saw it. It smouldered for now but it the fuel, his handsome figure, wonderfully by her side always save the now literal, would soon stoke.

He stood, face beautifully soaked. He was hers, hers.

He ran a hand across her back. 'You're mauling the tree.' His breath was warm.

And she, his. She would be ignit.

'For it's not enough, not enough.' Bark splintered.

Bristled furs felt good till his hand left quick. 'I have an idea. Something like it.' He leant back to undo his pants flap. Both cords, kept careful straight, unlooped through each hole, stroking them, smirking. Teasing.

He hastened when she growled.

The last was undone; she looked down and, from an ordinary sheath, it--it was strange, strange. Red, very red, yet knotless and smooth, like a vase of sorts, tapering from the base to a fine, slightly curled tip, a length swelling to a small grabbable outwards curve rather than a bulge, and veinless too.

And long, she found as it reached her navel. She gulped. Almost made to kick but for instinct again to prevail, albeit enjoined by some reason this time.

'I won't slide in, not by mistake, nor on purpose. I swear it, Ryal. I do.'

She whined, and he leant down, the fur of his front meeting her back, muzzle to neck, the warmth half her bulk natheless welcome, and asked, 'Do you trust me?'

She whimpered. She looked back. 'Yes.'

He thrust across her vulva then clit; she moaned, long and deep, the slide ever-so complete and frictionless yet tugging. The thrust so, so long and slow, as though she a contrabass and it a bow along forever drawn.

'Tell if I should slow.'

'Keep going.'

And he did. Each motion had her flay strips from the tree. He guided that softly curled tip to nestle in her hood and half-gird her clit for a brief flash; her eyes shot wide, tail set awag thumping into him.

She hadn't even noticed before: there was no ungainly sack hanging from him, no annoying swinging into her. His were internal. A faint whisp of savoury odour from that which for too long had fared unenjoyed waft adouble.

A rent bay arose from her throat as back into his next grind she rocked, shock bled into rapture.

That he did not try to mount full or penetrate delighted, tapered length's glide over, over, around, around tender folds giving fulfilment adequate, nay, better, with the risk of being bred, of being filled, of being stretched absent, such threatening of pain having been ever the more looming with what little her narrow hips could have borne. The peril of bearing and what it would do conjured horror aplenty to douse any desire for penetration or mounting. Truly no loosening of entry nor afterhood distending of mid would be, n? riving forme to be therewithin born, thought of aught rooting pounded to inexistence. Save growing instinct. No, she'd quell it. Make it unhad.

He stayed outside without protest, velvet coasting slick tween folds. Not demanding penetration or release inside, happy continuing in lieu the slicking and kindly tease along folds to bring joy without the falsely told necessity of the paired mentioned. An unsteady series of building shivers, quivers began to rattle him, becoming more and more aligned with her own. The heat could refuse to break for hours. He really would remain, wouldn't he. He would. But would she at this rate.

Oh the lack of ugly veins the lack of unneeded protrusions, the focus of flesh distilled. The incredible precision of that tip tracing over clit. The rock of his hips against her rear. To each she heaved herself back, to each she beseeched for more. She'd ask for too much.

All the same, the haze yet refused to lift, heat continuing to build even as judders wracked her frame.

Lips already doused, saliva started dripping to the forest floor. His length was beginning to tremour, and although his pace faltered, it was renewed swift. Even without the suffocating swelter she would've reveled in this. It was passing closer to her slit, no, she was moving closer... was she... no... stop...

Instinct pulled her lour half forwards then slammed it back hard.

But he'd crouched in time, his face resmooshed as she skid over his muzzle and halted at his ears.

He did shout at the impact. Then inhaled and inched back. Before she could say a thing he got up and seized her hips, holding both up tight, and resumed. 'It's a nice view, but..'

By him, for her, foresight summoned of character nobler over. His pace quickened amain, trembling a foreshock clue to soaring pleasure. The quakes approached constance, pace of both grown demanding of both, rocked sharp into each roll of her hips as higher still the other they worked.

Ropes shot out to decorate her clit with a fine gauze and it almost brought her to a another peak, splattering her inner thighs, abs rewarded a blanket of warmth, warmth perfectly blanc and sweetly smelling. Had he come? He sped up, undeterred.

She blinked. That was pre.

Fangs caught on her lour lip till for the tang of blood trickled she bestirred.

All narrowed, narrowed to that velvet sliding so perfectly with her, building until the world blacked and nectar brast, webbing his length in clarity and shine, the aftershock twitching of her hips certain to have his follow but that his underside, cruelly untended, faced the forest floor throughout. She panted, and he slowed, and she slowed, in increments, then leagues. The forest was still.

Only the smallest smidgen of wits returned, mostly that of character, unsated. But now as though...untruly to her it had been brought to this step. She felt it; her ancestors, flowing through veins to bring her, her true her to the fore.

'Was that...' he huffed, 'enough?'

She brothe sharp. And whirled about to face him, grab him, and press his back to the now entirely smooth tree. His response was delayed, quiet and tensed.

'No, then?'

She smiled, teeth and fangs, sharp and thick, bared; while that calmed him, she leant back to take in the view of him pinned and anointed. His scent was piquant. That tapered length glistled under the starlight, the whole fulsome flushed crimson with arousal, a stark relief against fur grey. A few ropes of pre, beads gathering at the tip, still linked her to him, hung slackened.

Her gaze shifted lour, then back: there, underneath the sodden yet silken ebon fur, blazoned her folds, outer lips parted revealing robust inner folds reddened purple by engorging of blood, a clitoris emerged full and proud at an inch long.

She gripped his shaft in one broad palm and eased forward. His breath caught when she pressed the tip to her clit--too soon, e'en after that. She wanted this to last. She moved it away slightly.

And so at first so slow so slow she went she pressed she fidgeted and fiddled, so slow so slow and so slow. Her left's fingers were webbed by pre mingled with her fluid. With time ample enow to lull the trees did the threatening of release of his ebb to whereapon, 'Lo, rejoice,' she said to him, 'Lo, rejoice,' she said to him, 'for þe eald t? becweþan guerdon unt? þe forberan hæfþ cuma.'

'I-what the swive are y--'

His query, cut ashort by that she re-appresst that curl to vulva afresh.

Eyes drooped to lids half, shuddered exhales stirring ruffs, paid no heed, focused rather on the glide.

Although his abs were admirably firm, hers were harder, so much so she had to lighten her pressing into him lest she crush he who whimpered. To his credit, howsoe'er, the whimpers graduated into guttural moans and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She smiled, returning the gesture with hers around that of his.

She thrust and he thrust and she thrust. He murmed deliciously as he moved with her, her clit rolling on the upstroke. Up along already parted folds his length drove, touching, to slither past and back down, and a strangled coo slipped out from her muzzle as she staved off any doubling over of herself or of him with her right clutching his left upper arm.

Dark fur below was further matted as grool trickled, pooling under. His muzzle gaped while he began to gasp, paws scrabbling for purchase wherewith to steady himself. For none to be found amongst smoothed bark, he found such amidst untamed fur. She collapsed the gap between their hips through a single reangling.

Soon hips rose and fell at a rate frantic, the swell of both auguring their fruitions. It was with rippling bursts, great and slight, that crested apon themselves, the moment of the peak. Near at once did it whelm them, his acome but a half second aft hers, both curling over to the other's chest. And at that, at that pinnacle, on the upstroke,

for a day, her heat quenched.

His tip laved her clit in spend and her slit his entire length, his underside especial, in ichor. Jets of silvered white towered while geysers of glinting cleardom sprayed; in seconds she was caked atop, all that priour come exceeded in sheer volume, and ayont those boundaries of duration did it persist.

He did just as well: each and every single last individual sole fur strand of his entire lour half was to match his face and upper body, legs definitely included, matted if not drenched, the added weight enough to drag him down were it not for her embrace. They were both painted. He wasn't as haughty as she was so layered, yet laminated with sheets silvery armoured sheening to bewitch, glossed lips to lap and burnished fur tips set aglint gleaming to entice the running of hands to deepen to the lil' clumps and spread the slush to lushened fluff.

And they were both slumping. Spent and sated. He nuzzled into her ruff, and together they fell, he on her, then rolling beside, to the duff.

Snuck between breaths was, 'Is it bad, that the come on you, ah, felt good on the slide?'

She stared at him blank. Then punched his shoulder. 'Texture, is texture. Oh,'she hugged tighter, 'mind doing this with me daily for the fortnight?'

'Gladly. Should, I clean you?'

'And I, you? Aye. But later.'

She couldn't help noticing that, before allowing the shutting of lids, never had the wilds seemed so beautiful. The way his length curved up her vulva was damn nice too.

---

After having licked each other clean, tongues at first hesitant, then thirsty to do it despite the fouling taste, eased by the mildew and wicked, cloths, they returned to the city at noon. Though a smell lingered about the two, she waved off the stares from her fellow southly wolven. She parted ways with him at the baths in the palace. Gryvran's bath was, of course, the only one of a size able to accommodate her.

She dipped her feet; and recoiled: cold.

She groaned.

The pipes.