The Warlock: Re-Written
Warning: This story is stolen!
Once upon a time, I found a great story on the internet. Then, I lost it. This story may have been slowly forgotten, along with the piles of other relatively hot stories I was reading at the time, but since I could not retrace my steps and ever find it again, it became a thing of masturbatory legend! It's been almost five years...
So, instead of whining about it, I decided to re-write it for myself, keeping all the details I could remember exactly the same (except, now the woman is a fox, literally). There is no back-story and no resolution; it's just a nameless evil guy who enjoys ruining people's lives for some kind of unexplained revenge. And I like it! So, I'm sharing the love with you.
If anyone ever finds the original, hit me up with a copy. I'd love to compare.
The Warlock
What perfection.
I tap my thin fingers on the outside of the window sill. The soft, white paint cracks and spider-webs under my nails. Inside the vintage cottage, behind a silk curtain of paisley white lace, a young housewife prepares dinner. Presumably the curvy vixen is awaiting the return of her husband, some vulpine suit with a menial existence. I can hear her sigh over her duties.
She stoops for a moment, and I peer downward, following the sway of her blue skirt. A medium-sized canine is begging for scraps, it's brown muzzle lapping at the air. The woman tosses the mutt a slice of grizzle, and it barely touches the floor before it is devoured. He appears so energetic, innocent, hopeful, and faithful. What a picture of domesticity. The hound licks it's chops, mimmicking my motions.
She is too delicious. A mixing bowl tilts and slides into a murky sink, along with a metal prong from her paw. Like a velvet carpet, her orange arms dipped in black ink from fingertips to elbows, she reflects the stained-glass lamp light in well-groomed angles. Her body sashays to the kitchen table and she begins to watch television from a wooden seat. Her white chest rises and falls with her soft breathing; round, proportionate with a hint at the nipples that lay beneath. Young and firm, with flower-print ruffles draped over her shoulders.
Alone. Completely unaware of my presence. This scene will do. To disrupt the white-collar tranquility of this antiquated setting; it will be profoundly enjoyable. Such miserable, emotional beings. I pull my black cloak tighter around my shoulders, smiling inwardly. The nightly fabric follows my hands as they swirl into the air.
It is musical, the tapestry of deceit I create. I orchestrate my arms confidently. I have enjoyed this many a time. These creatures may struggle, but they will always submit to my will.
The butter crust scent of baking bread increases in intensity as the temperature inside rises slowly. I direct that overwhelming subtlety of warmth and aroma to what rests between her legs. And she barely recognizes the effects, her pink lips swelling with the aphrodisiac. Her pose is feminine, yet intimate, her young legs parted by inches.
And the canine's head lifts, the deep chocolate brown body rising from the linoleum floor. I make him pant; he sniffs the air in confusion. I cease the incessant wagging of his tail, and concentrate on his ever-present male urges. There is nothing I enjoy more than dabbling in the psyche of lesser animals. They bend so easily to suggestion. And I am thrilled to see the effect it is having on him. His cock lengthens, peaking out of his sheath, growing heavier with blood. He is silent and motionless, except for the shifting underneath his belly. It engorges to a point, then bulges outward at the base, popping out with a knot as the pressure becomes too much. It is a deep red with a threatening phallic shape. Perfect.
I shut my eyes. Then with the distinct sensation of fabric falling to the ground, I re-open them anew.
I grin, a long black grin, on a long brown snout. I am on all fours, the scent of female so heavy in my nostrils that it sends me panting. There is an oily, pleasant taste lingering in my jaws. I stretch my new body, feeling the rib bones heavy on my chest, curling the toes out in their useless clawed formation. The stench of my own fur dissipates by my will, expelling a more pleasant plant pheromone. Before I trudge to my goal hiding in voyeuristic view between those smooth Vixen thighs, I make sure to add to that length pulsing under my belly. I concentrate on the expansion, the body so easily complying. I do not stop until it is double that dumb canine's original size. I can feel it hot in my ribs at least a foot in length, with a huge red knot adding a few inches more. It drips a steady string of fluid to the floor, and feels exquisite.
I crawl underneath the circular manufactured wood. She is noticing the spell in the air, the musk that her covered slit is exuding. I see her finger dip down to her white panties, if only for a moment, rubbing then moving to her thigh. The skirt is hiked upwards, the aqua frills ending at her inner thighs, allowing a generous view of her moist hole.
My four legs propel me forward. I know she will resist, but I insist, darting my thick flat tongue to the outside of her lips. She squeals, pressing my muzzle away from her crotch. "Harry! Bad dog!" Her legs tense and move the chair backwards. Her pointing finger taps me on the nose. I squint. "That's a bad dog." If only she knew.
When she turns to look at the television again, I am on her, my muzzle getting in a few swift licks before a paw careens off the side of my ear. My ear rings. "No! I said get away! Now..." Her words barely resound in my mind, before I am tasting the sweetness of her lips again. She grips my ears, trying to pull me away, but I am much more persistent of a dog than she has ever encountered. My neck muscles tense hard against her forearms. "I..." I know she can't resist.
The heat in the air fuels the fire in her panties. And she moans. There is another moment where my flat tongue directly stimulating her clitoris through the material makes her waver and press at my ears, but I begin a low, menacing growl. It is achingly satisfying to hear her yield. And I am such an expert. I nip at the thin underwear with my teeth, slicing a hole through one side, leaving dangling threads and her pussy fully exposed. Yes, my pet, my latest experiment. My tongue elongates with the thought and I let it vibrate into her depths. Her head falls backwards and she is clay now to be molded, gripping my ears reflexively as if to direct where she needs my long tongue most. It is an erotic gesture, but I am well-aware of the sensitive areas that I so delicately avoid. Her musk, like sandalwood and strawberries, it pleases me.
She is begging for release within five minutes, mercilessly shaking her hips and fluffy tail, but every time she is on the edge, I back away. She shoves forward with her hips, tears forming in her eyes, but I deny her and the slick, stain-finish of the chair grows darker, absorbing her juices. "Harry." A command and question in her panting breath. "Please." I marvel at her loss of logic, the loss of will, to ask her dog, an animal with no way of acquiescing to her request, to beg a dog to make her come. It is unbearably humiliating to imagine, and that single thought fuels my actions.
I snarl and lift my paws up onto the chair, saliva and her pussy juices dripping from my maw. My shaggy muzzle is a few inches from hers. The insinuation I am making is very clear, but she feels the need to further clarify. "Harry! What's gotten into you? Get down!" I enjoy how instantly her mode of thought changes. Right on the verge coming, and now telling the family pet to stop. She glares downward in horror. My pre-cum is most definitely forming a viscous puddle on the fake tile, the red slit she stares at is dripping it's sticky juices along the inside of her thighs. "Holy shit, dog! You're huge!"
I continue our game, stabbing forward awkwardly with these canine hips. And this is her internal cue to escape. The chair stumbles backwards in her haste, slamming the room-divider as we roll together. Her paws grip the shag carpet of the adjoining living room, and a brass alarm clock tumbles from an end table. The slippery floor under my ticking claws only prolongs her feigned sense of hope. "No, get the fuck away from me, Harry!" She finds her footing, tugging herself forward by an armchair left forever reclining, the pink doily disarrayed.
When my front paws are solid against the carpet, the short game is over. With two steps my front paws are in the air and my shoulder firmly nudges into her back, sending her reeling. She is left helpless, clutching the arm of the faux-leather couch, her tail high in the air, my large paws holding her in place on either side. "Harry! Stop! Harry!" Another pink doily falls to the floor.
Never has a canine taken so much care in allowing their bitch time to truly feel the penetration. My hips are not a blur, but a slow insistent maneuvering. I am hunched over her back, growling like a feral mutt and snapping wildly at her slightest movement. When her will is sufficiently sapped, when the shifting of her hips ceases, I let my thick cock spear its slimy tip into her vagina. "No." She tries to move, but my jaws crack together like a steel trap.
She is achingly tight, and dripping wet. I shove forward a few times making her take every single inch at my own errattic pace. My thick cock stretches her, scraping at undiscovered nerve endings along her tunnel. For a few seconds, she is silent, gritting her teeth and grasping at the seat cushions with claws extended. When I finally hit bottom inside her, she grunts loudly. I do not allow her time to adjust, immediately increasing the pace of my thrusting. Her breasts pop from their cloth prison and swing inches above the couch.
I am surprised at how quickly she is responding. She is powerless to stop me, and the realization sends shivers through her furry form. I have total control over her pleasure and pain. My own eyes flutter with the pleasure.
I am insistent. I slam her cervix and try to bury more of my length inside. "Yes, Harry! Oh, fuck me." The housewife enjoys the torture; her vagina squeezes my canine rod like a vice. Suddenly, I feel her internal walls yielding around my tip. I thrust harder, pushing into unexplored territory and hear a very audible sound like the snapping of fingers. The pleasure is overwhelming, then I slide inside. It takes all the force I can muster, but my knot is now butting against her lips. She squeals and shakes. "Yes. Don't stop!"
I let the dog's instincts take over, ramming my length in swift, wild thrusts. I am desperately trying to shove that huge knot inside of her. The thought consumes me, the need to come is becoming unbearable.
I hear a door slam, then loud footsteps. But, there is nothing that will stop me. She is screaming out her pleasure, moaning loudly in orgasm, the side of her muzzle pressed hard into the couch. "What the hell?" A male voice booms.
At that moment my knot slips inside, and I howl. She coughs slightly, squeezing her eyelids closed. My cock spasms and I can feel it pulse before I fill her with my seed. My hips reflexively hump with the sensation, and blast after blast from my over-sized balls inflate her womb. It feels like more than a minute before the muscle contractions slow, and her insides are achingly tight. The constricted, trapped shaft is firmly milked by her walls.
I hear her sobbing from underneath. "I'm sorry, Jack."
Apparently, their conversation had continued further during my enjoyment of the creature's endowment. I twist my long neck, seeing another fox dressed in a business suit, his eyes pained and in obvious disbelief. It is the suited husband. "This is sick! How could you?" He cringes and averts his gaze.
"I would never..." Her words falter.
I pant, grinning wide and smacking my lips in a yawn. The uncomfortable silence shared between them is enjoyable, but as the concerned husband has come home to shatter any hopes of a second round, I decide to take my leave. Still tied harshly, I close my eyes.
For the second time this evening, I reopen my eyes. The white paint of the window sill cracks under my fingers. The scene is dramatic, chaotic. There is a trail of fallen objects leading to a country living room, where a Vixen is being used by a confused and happy mutt. The cottage is suddenly alive with loud voices and there is smell of burning bread, wafting from the shutters. A man in a suit is crying.
I breath deeply, smiling, surveying my handiwork. I pull my black cloak over my shoulders, enjoying the coldness of the night. Such weak, pathetic creatures, every single one. They are insignificant toys, and nothing else.
And with a sneer of contentment, I slip into the darkness.
Comments? Praise? Criticism? I love 'em all...