The Greatest of These
A twist and a turn, furry limbs tangled in the cool, navy-blue sheets, and whiskers twitching, twitching, features scrunched. And breaths erratic, labored. And her eyes moving beneath her eyelids. Dart, dart, dart. A squeaky sound. Dart, dart. A jerk. Another twist, another turn, and the pika's eyes snapped open. Wide and confused. And she froze. For a few seconds, she froze (as prey instinct told her to do when terrified). But she couldn't stay still for long. Her energy wouldn't allow it. Soon, the twitches came. And the flashing, darker thoughts. All of it giving way to crying whimper-squeaks.
The room was quiet, dimmed. Their guest quarters on the station. Outside, ships went to and fro. And the stars remained stationary. As the planet did (aside from its turn-turn-turning). And Wasilla, still jarred from her nightmare, began poking and prodding at her husband. Poking with her filed-down claws. "K-konka," she squeaked, somewhat pitifully. Her whiskers twitched. "Konka ... "
A lazy, groggy grunt. And he turned, huffing. His tail smack-smacked against the sheets. And then he went still.
"Konka ... " More poking and prodding. A whimper. "Konka ... "
"What?" was the eventual response. Somewhat sharp (with irritation). A grumble.
"I ... I had a bad dream," she whispered, her paws shaking. "I ... I don't remember," she stammered, "what it was, but it ... " She trailed, taking a deep, shaky breath. "I'm scared."
"Again?" A heavy sigh, the coyote shifting. Flat on his back, now, the back of his head on his pillow. He tried to open his eyes. And scowled. And blinked heavily, several times. And, swallowing, he asked, "Well ... it's gone, now, isn't it?"
"But I ... I'm scared," the pika said, simply. "I can't go back to sleep." As if that were obvious. And it was (obvious). And, as prey, and as scared prey, furthermore, her natural instinct told her that Konka, being a predator, would be able to protect her. He was stronger. He would make it go away.
"Well, you woke me up? What do you want?" the coyote went, taking a deep breath. And then yawning widely, his sharp, white-yellowish teeth showing. He snapped his jaw a few times, and then yawned again.
"I ... I just wanna," she whispered, trailing. And picking up with, "Just ... " Her soft voice began to waver.
Another sigh from the coyote. Rodents were such emotional, fragile things. They were always having bad dreams. Or always being anxious. Always crying. It was always something, wasn't it, with rodents? Them and their ceaseless energy. They took constant care. Constant care.
Wasilla's paws weakly clutched at the coyote's tawny-colored fur. A sobbing sound.
A sigh. Constant care, indeed. And what do I, Konka asked himself, get in return?
The pika's nose, now, went into his fur.
You get her love. Her devotion. Her heart. You get her innocence, her gentility, her faith. Things you do not have. Things you could never have on your own. Things that you lack, she instills in you. She fills your holes. You get more in return from her than she could ever get from you, surely. Do not take that for granted.
A whimper-squeak. That signature 'pika squeak,' that her species was known (and named) for.
Konka sighed again. Maybe it was because he was tired. Or because it was almost midnight. (Or because he truly loved her, as much as he was hesitant to accept that love could be exclusive. He'd married her for different reasons than she'd married him. But, ultimately, she was rubbing off on him. He was becoming more like her than she was becoming like him. And maybe that should worry him. Should it?)
Whatever the case, Konka reached out to her. With his strong arms, and with his strong, sharp-clawed paws, and he wrapped himself around his wife, and whispered, "My little pika ... come here."
Wasilla wriggled a bit, squirming, pressing eagerly against the coyote's bigger body. Both of them bare, in the fur. Both of them breathing softly.
"My little pika," was the whispered repeat. And Konka sighed through his cool, black nose, Wasilla now lying atop his body. Horizontal here, in bed, tangled in the sheets. And his arms were around her back. And fingers in her fur, scritching, scritching. "I will protect you," was the assurance.
A sigh (of what one could've been observed as 'relief') from her.
"I will not let anything get you."
Wasilla, nose in his neck-fur, breathed, breathed. Slowly, softly, trying to calm her rapidly-beating heart. Her tail-less rump being kneaded, now, by the coyote's paws.
"There ... there," Konka whispered, as gently as he could. And part of him was wondering 'what are you doing.' Part of him could scarcely believe that he was acting in such a tender way. You. A predator. Tenderness?
What are you, Konka? Twitterpated?
And what if I am?
She needs tenderness.
And perhaps I do, as well. A hard thing for him to admit. But a realization that was, more and more, making sense. Predators were often ruled by stubbornness. By instinct alone. They had their flaws. Just as prey had theirs. But where prey were more likely to be willing to admit those flaws and confront them, predators would simply use their teeth. Try to scare those flaws away. But, of course, physical prowess mattered not at all, no, when it came to emotions. When it came to things of the mind.
Wasilla felt a flush of warmth. A feeling of safety. Comfort. Indeed, in the coyote's arms, protected by his claws and teeth, she felt so, so safe. He was her mortal refuge. God, of course, being a Refuge for every problem. Big or small. But there were times when physical touch was needed. When mortal presence was much-wanted. And she knew that God had led her to Konka. And that the refuge she had in her coyote stemmed from His refuge. His love. It all came from Him. And she acknowledged that. That all her blessings came from the Lord. None of this was of her own doing. And it could all vanish in an instant.
And she was truly grateful.
And she let Him know that. She let it be known. A silent, soft prayer in her mind, sent above. A 'thank you, thank you.'
I am so blessed.
Konka continued massaging her soft, furry rump-cheeks.
Wasilla sighed.
"Are you feeling better?" the coyote whispered.
A slight, weak nod. "I'm sorry I woke you up. I ... I shouldn't have. I know you were sleeping ... "
" ... you were right to wake me. You needed me. As a predator, it is my duty to protect you. To comfort you." A pause. "I would not be a good husband," he said, saying it as much for himself as for her, "if I did not do that."
A sniffle, and nose-nuzzling him. And whispering, "But I thought ... a predator's duty was to fight, and hunt, and ... "
" ... I do not know," he whispered. A confession, almost. "I do not know. But I would never fight you, or never hunt you." Paws sliding from her rump-cheeks to her lower back. Rub-rubbing softly, slowly, sensuously. "I need you ... more than you need me," he said aloud. The words coming with much difficulty. But he felt a bit lighter for saying them.
"No. No, I need you," Wasilla insisted. "Konka, I ... I couldn't bear to be without you. And I know that sounds lame. And ... like a cliche, you know, but ... I know we've had our differences. And I know we married each other for very different reasons, but ... you make me feel safe. You're the ONLY one I feel safe around. You make me feel ... not so small. You make me feel special. Wanted. I can't sleep without your scent in my nose ... "
The coyote flushed. And, not being used to flushing, he squirmed a tiny bit, sighing. And replying, "Well, I ... " He wasn't sure what he was trying to say, though, so the words soon stopped. And his angular ears simply cocked atop his head. As she continued.
As she said, "I know that you're supposed to be the 'fight,' and I'm supposed to be the 'flight,' but ... I don't know. I just ... " A sigh. And her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She swallowed, whispering, "I don't wanna lose you. I can't." Her voice started to quaver. "I can't," continued, crying now.
"You are not going to lose me," the coyote assured, hugging her tightly. Tightly down atop his body. "Hush, my little pika. Do not be afraid."
"But ... "
" ... no 'buts' ... no 'buts'," he whispered. "I have promised you my protection. Therefore, you needn't fear."
"I need more than your protection. I need ... your heart. Promise me your heart."
A hesitation. "But ... I have. When we married. That was my ... "
" ... say it, though. Say words ... say words to me, Konka." A swallow. And a sniffle. The crying under control, now. "We've talked about this before. You know I need more than 'show me' ... I need the words. I need to be told." A sniffle. "I ... " She faltered. "I see how you look at other tails. Other femmes. I see your eyes on their tails. I ... but I NEVER look at other males, Konka. I need to know that you take my love as seriously as I take yours ... "
The coyote was quiet for a moment. Predators were good at showing. Bad at telling. Words, blast them, were intimidating, powerful things. And while he could fight with tooth and claw, draw blood, slash into fur and form. While he had killed (and by nature's law, with his predatory need for 'the hunt,' he would kill again), fighting furs was much easier than fighting words or feelings. Because you could not see words or feelings. Could not calculate their next move. Could not smell them. They were an invisible enemy. His senses were rendered useless, and ...
" ... Konka," was the tiny, squeaky plea.
He swallowed, and then took a deep breath. "I do love you ... my pika. You know that."
"Say it."
"I just ... "
" ... say it again. Tell me that you haven't bred with other femmes while we've been married. Tell me you haven't." A sniffled.
"I have not," he assured, meaning it.
"But you've ... thought about it?"
No answer.
"Konka ... "
"Yes," he whispered, full of shame. A swallow. "But ... but I try not to. You have to understand. Predators are ... our breeding habits." He stopped. Feeling like he was making excuses. "I have not cheated on you. And I will not. But instincts are hard to control, and ... I do my best," he told her.
A weak nod. "Alright. I ... I trust you," she told him, whiskers twitching. "I trust you," she whispered.
A breath. "I love you," he went, in response. And he licked his own, dry lips. "I love you, Wasilla. Please, know that. Even if I don't make it evident enough ... "
"I love you, too," she replied. Her voice filled with much more emotion. Sounding more desperate, more overwhelmed. "I love you, too, darling. I ... I love you so much." She held to him, tightly, not ever wanting to let go. "I love you ... "
The words, for her, seemed to have a spiritual effect. Seemed to be transcendent. Seemed to build her up, make her glow. The words seemed to give her strength.
Then, why, for me, do the words bring about feelings of being trapped? Being caged? Why do those words make me uncomfortable? Even if I feel the strongest of affections for her (she is my wife, after all), why do the words themselves make me feel like less of a predator? Less of a predator. That was it, wasn't it? The words weren't obviously 'strong.' To the culture, to an 'instant gratification' society, and to the predator mind-set, the words (of 'I love you') were just words.
But they weren't. They weren't just words.
Not in reality.
To pretend that they were was foolish. Was to invite delusion. They were so much more than words. They were WORDS. Not words. And for as much as that phrase, that confession of 'I love you' had been knocked up, overused, abused, trashed, thrown out. As much as society and the individuals therein had tried to disgrace those words with their own falsities, and with their immoral actions. As much as they had tried ...
... they could not tarnish such a thing.
And, to some, it had true meaning.
For some truly GOT the meaning.
As the words of Scripture proclaimed:
'If I speak in the tongues of furs and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.
'Love is patient and kind; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
'Love never ends. As for prophesies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.
'So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.'
For it was true, wasn't it, that everything was built on love. Faith, too. Faith, so needed, so vital to a life, to a soul, was built on promises of love. The love of God. The love of Christ. And the promises made and kept in the confines of that love. Eternal life, the promise of heaven, given, as a gift, through the sacrifices of that love.
Love is a indestructible, merciful force.
And that is why it scares you, Konka. Because it is something you cannot control. You cannot defeat. You cannot own. You cannot bloody. It is something that, instead, controls you. Defeats you. Owns you. Bloodies you.
You, a predator, are ...
... love's prey.
I am love's prey.
"Konka ... what's wrong?" Wasilla whispered, in the nearly-dark. It must've been after midnight, now, station-time.
"Nothing," was all the coyote said. He swallowed, golden, intimidating eyes open. And fixating on Wasilla's eyes. From inches away. Looking at her, into her. Locking gazes. Should he, a predator, fear looking directly into the eyes of another? In the context of 'the hunt,' he would've relished it. But in the context of intimacy? It was much harder. It required a baring of one's self. It required vulnerability. "Wasilla ... my little pika ... "
" ... yes?"
"I love you so," he breathed. "You have ... you are making me, daily, to be better," he whispered, "than I was. I can distinctly BE a predator without ... being a 'default' predator. I cannot change what I am. But I can BE what I am," he told her, "in wiser, more fulfilling ways ... I know I try your patience."
A moment of silence. Before, "I'm pretty sure I try yours, as well."
"Perhaps. But ... you are not a burden to me. I am sorry that, at times, I ... stray," he admitted, "from what I am to be. From my role as a husband, as a protector. As a predator." For didn't his 'role' as a predator matter more in the context of love, how it was defined by love, than how it was defined by instinct? Wasn't he more than the sum of his genes? Didn't he have a choice in every matter?
He could be, after all, a typical predator. And he had been. For most of his life. And that was natural. So he was told. So he'd believed. But not everything natural is meant to be. Death is not natural. It was not meant to be. But was brought into the world through our own faulty decision-making. Our own flaws. Our own sins. We fell dead in the Garden. And, through our transgressions, death came into being. We brought it upon ourselves. But, oh, the Lord is merciful, and knew before there was time. That we needed to be saved from ourselves. And, so, He came. And, so, we are redeemed. Oh, that you may believe, and that you may be given new life. Oh, but that eternal life is a gift given freely, because love is merciful.
It was too much to ponder, at times.
And that is why, too often, the coyote preferred not to ponder it. Because it made him feel things. And he did not wish to confront those feelings. He did not wish to confront himself, or greater, eventual truths. For, after all, wasn't faith just like love? Love made you vulnerable. And so did faith.
They were very much related.
You could not have love without faith.
Nor could you have faith without love.
These sibling forces were the cornerstones of existence. Of thought. Of reason. Of experience. Without them, life was meaningless. Life was nothing. And Konka was beginning to find that out, all too well. He was beginning to understand that.
Just because my instinct tells me that I need to indulge in a predatory lifestyle does not mean, he realized, that I need to indulge in it. And does not mean that such a lifestyle would be right.
Wasn't that part of the Lord's prayer?
'Your will be done.'
God's will be done.
And not our own will.
What we want, and what we think we deserve, and what we think is right, the sins we pursue for the sake of our own happiness (with the excuse of 'God made me this way'), all these things are so often so far from the point. They are selfishness. 'It makes me happy.' 'I deserve it.' Excuses of the selfish.
Personal happiness, yes, should come into play.
But it should not be the point.
Should not be the motive.
We are to lead selfless lives. Selfless (not selfish). Outward, light-shining lives, receiving joy through giving joy.
So, you have a choice, Konka. It comes down to this.
You can be the predator you have always been. You can keep clinging to that way of life. Knowing that it does not make you whole. You can entertain the temptations (the lust, both sexual lust and blood lust).
Or you can let go.
Let it go.
And give in. To love. Your wife, Wasilla. To give her everything you have. To stop holding back. To God. To open up to Him. To trust that He knows better. To allow whatever emotions are brewing beneath the surface of your sharp exterior to surface, so that you may finally deal with them.
Deal with it.
Submit.
Or resist.
It is your choice.
"Konka ... "
And he made his choice. Showing it with a passionate, lip-locking, lip-sucking kiss, his sharp teeth brushing her lips as he sucked, nibbled. As he panted for a huge breath. And as he said it, as well. As he said, "I love you, my little pika. And I am going to love you ... as best I can."
"That's ... that's all," she whispered, panting lightly, her heart welling with emotion, "that I've ever wanted. I've just wanted to have all of you." Her voice seemed to cry out with want, with need. Seemed to break a bit.
"You will have it," he assured. "Oh ... come here," he whispered, drawing her muzzle to his. Allowing for another kiss. "Let us breed," he said, plainly, bluntly.
She pressed her muzzle to his, tilting her head. Her wet lips brushing his, saliva exchanged, stringing. Both of them slightly drooling.
He had the longer tongue. By far. And he used it to lick and lap, lap, lap at her, until she pulled her head back. An inch. And, lips parted (to pant), she let him lick broadly across her lips, her chin. He even lapped at her whiskers. The sensitive whiskers, meant for feeling things in the air, meant for sensing. All wetted and lapped by his warm, worming tongue. She sighed pleasantly, her bare body sinking down atop his own.
His paws dug into her brownish, greyish fur. Her soft, soft pelt. And he ran his paw-pads up and down, up and down, claws scritching along the way.
A sigh.
The lapping gave way to kissing (once more).
Her head tilting this way, that way, eyes closed. Lips pressing. Sucking, drawing from him the very breath and taste of life and love, of connection and intimacy. Drawing from him, in many ways, nourishment. This was an act that fed the body, yes. But also the mind. And also (and most importantly) the soul.
A low growl escaped from the coyote's throat. And he shifted his bare body, in a light wrestling, tussling way, moving Wasilla from her position atop of him. Moving her beside him, on the bed, and getting her to her back.
She panted, squeaky-squeaking, shifting.
And he growled again, showing his teeth, groping her breasts and tweaking her nipples.
A little moan, breasts rising, falling.
He rubbed them thoroughly, and then wriggled, positioning himself atop of her, now. Their positions reversed from what they had been a minute ago.
"K-konka," she panted, her paws on his sides. His heaving, furry sides. Her fingers clutching. She swallowed.
"W-what," he huffed, somewhat impatiently. He was still a predator, after all. And a 'change of heart' could not change the fact that he was, indeed, the impatient type. That he was stubborn. That he was blunt. That he did have trouble dealing with emotions. These things were not going to change. Especially not overnight. "What is it," was the added demand. "I want to have sex with you," he growled, with a bit of a frown. That being the case, what was the delay?
"I know. I know. I just ... let me ... let me," she said, pawing at his body, her paws touching all over. Working underneath him. She managed to brush his tufted, furry sac. "Let me," was all she said, too caught up in the moment to get any rational words out. To make fuller sentences.
"Only," was his ultimatum, "if you let ME."
A fervent, squeaky nod.
And growl of (pleasant) acknowledgment from him. And he, grunting, rolled off of her. And laid back, closing his eyes. A smile crept onto his muzzle. His teeth showing. He was going to enjoy this.
She shifted, wriggled, and got to her knees. Crawling a foot or so, stopping. Reversing positions atop of him. Horizontal once more, atop his body. But facing the opposite direction that she had been a few minutes ago.
They were in a 'sixty-nine' position.
Konka wasted no time in prying her warm, wonderful thighs apart with his paws. And giving an immediate, broad lick of her vulva. One. Two. Lick-lick. Taste-testing licks. And he licked his own lips, and then gave a third, broad swipe of his tongue across those pouting, flower-petaled pussy-lips. And he heard her hot, heavy sighs. And her chitter-sounds. And he put his nose right against her labia. And sniffed. Sniff-sniffed at her scent. That distinct scent of femininity, as well as her distinct, individual pheromones. A throaty growl, and several lusty huffs, and back to licking. Lick-lapping.
Wasilla's breath was shaky. Her belly-fur meshing with his belly-fur, though their bellies were reversed. Huff. Puff. And she put her muzzle to that tufted, furry sac of his, and she began to mouth it. Wet, wide mouths. That turned into short, sweet sucks. Matting the fur with her saliva. Sucking at the orbs, drawing them into her muzzle (as best she could) and then letting them go, and then sucking some more. And delicate nibbles on the sac, here and there. Nibble-nibble.
And Konka loved it. And showed his appreciation by burying his muzzle between her legs, deeply, and letting his broad, canine tongue drag between those folds. Drag from top to bottom. In very wet, very warm slobbers.
Squeak. Squeak. She panted, mouthing his sheath now. Which was already bulging. Already on its way. She loved his genitals. They were, in her mind, divine. She'd thought this many times before. And still believed it. Always would. That loose, healthy sac. That sheath. That knot. The raw, swollen girth of him (at seven inches). In her lusty, loving haze, she adored his body, his masculinity, and gave a sharp, loud pika-squeak as his penis poked into view. Her muzzle moving, breath panting, panting, and she slipped her lips around his emerging length. Letting it leave his sheath (so that it could enter her muzzle). She suckled on his penis-head, the slightly-salty, musky taste leveling off as her saliva mixed in.
"Mm. Nnng," Konka grunted, lazily licking, now, at his wife's vagina. Between those fleshy, delicate folds, licking at the opening to that raw, muscular tunnel. That source of all his pleasure. That source of such promise. It was, to him, her honey pot. And he lapped up the errant juices that were lightly leaking out.
"Hmm. Mm ... " Her lips, loose, luscious, bobbed. She slid her ringed lips up and down the first four inches of his penis, which was so pink, so stiff. And her tongue ran along the underside of the shaft. Her lips firmly brushing the flesh on all sides. Her muzzle twisted a bit, turning, and sank. Down, down. Pause. Pulling slowly back. And she stopped to actively suck. The sucking sounds evident, audible. Suckle-suckle. A free paw reaching for that furry sac, tugging at the thick curls of fur. Bumping the swelling, tightening orbs.
A pleasured whine from him. Loud and unmistakably canine. Another whine. Panting hot, heavy breaths on her glistening pussy, which was pinker than before. More blood having gone there. Her pussy-lips pouted, begging for stimulation. And, blind with lust, he gave it. He licked her all over. He nibbled on her tufted, furry mons, burying his nose there. Or trying to (as best he could, from his current position). He got drunk on her scent, and then lapped her sweet, flower-like petals. Moving up, moving down, and moving up again, and ...
... a sharp inhale from her. As if her breath were being stolen, restricted. Konka, in his frenzy, had taken to assaulting her erect, un-hooded clitoris with his tongue. "Uhn, uhnn ... uhh," Wasilla squeaked. Crying it out. Huffing hard. Trying to say something. To get him to stop. It was too much, too fast. Too sensitive! But he probably didn't realize ... what he ... he was ... d-doing ... " ... oh, ohhh. Ohh! Uh!" The pika squeaked. Sharply, loudly, as her species did. She shook, her muzzle no longer on the coyote's shaft. But a few inches above it. And she drooled helplessly, twitching with pure, explosive pleasure. Beautiful bliss!
The coyote had (at least, subconsciously) known what he was doing. He was giving her pleasure. Worrying about her pleasure more than his own. Worried about her happiness more than his own. And knowing that she, as a femme, could experience multiple orgasms, he found no need to refrain from giving her one so early on in the act.
Wasilla cried out. Again. Squeaking. Again. Shaking. Her breath unstable. Her vaginal muscles fluttering, rippling in violent, pleasure-sparked tremors. Fluid trickling, squirting from her, to the coyote's muzzle fur, glistening on his small whiskers. Landing on his lips. He took several savoring swipes of her femininity with his tongue.
"Oh ... oh ... " Wasilla swallowed, her muzzle dry. She licked her own lips. Huffing. "Oh ... Konka," she managed. The pleasure. The pleasure pulsed, pounded through her veins and arteries, making her heart to leap, making her body to tingle. Oh, pleasure. Oh, had that felt good! Oh.
" ... too intense?" he panted. His coyote tail tried to wag beneath him, but was unable, for it had no room to wag.
A very weak nod. "Yes!" was the overwhelmed squeak. Not a mad squeak. Just overwhelmed. She had NOT expected that. And hadn't been prepared for the force of it "You ... don't lick my nub so hard." A pant. "Too ... sensitive," she panted. "It ... but, uh ... I ... I see stars," she said. For, indeed, her vision was sparking. "Oh, wow." A hot, needy squeak. "Oh, wow ... " She shut her eyes, shiver-squeaking. Trying to come down from her orgasmic high. She felt wonderfully dizzy. And, therefore, couldn't (and didn't) resist when she found Konka's strong arms and paws moving her body. Positioning her on the bed, on her back.
The coyote, murring, growling, slid between her legs.
"But I ... " A breath. Her eyes hooded. "But I didn't get to finish g-giving you ... "
" ... you can finish giving me muzzle tomorrow."
"I want your ... "
" ... just relax. Let me pleasure you. Let me ... let me love you," he whispered, "as fiercely as I can."
Her eyes watered, and she had to shut them. A weak, shaky nod. "I love you," she blurted.
And he replied, as evenly as he could, "I love you, too ... my little pika." His belly descended upon hers, and his strong chest laid upon her bare, loose breasts, squishing them down a bit.
"Oh. Oh, Konka ... I'm so glad," she went, tears flowing now. She was crying. Not a scared crying, as had been the case when she'd woken up from her nightmare (which was, by now, long forgotten). But a relieved happiness. A happiness stemming from a long, dry wait. She'd been waiting SO long for him to be like this. To be this tender. To be this attuned to her body and her mind. Attuned to her needs. She'd been waiting SO long for him to not be afraid of their love. And, oh, it was worth the wait. She threw her arms and paws around his back, holding on.
As he moved his hips forward.
Bumping.
Some grinding.
Huffs and yips from him. The sizzling seconds of initial penetration. That thrill. That firework moment when his penis first slippy-slid through her sheath-like muscle. It was always that way. Always a body-shock. The first few seconds of intercourse. The sudden heat. The slickness, the moisture. The pulsing. The realization that you were inside her body in such a way. It always took a minute to adjust to. And, once he adjusted, the heat and pleasure spread from his penis to the rest of his body. Making him growl. Making him feel like a raw nerve of pleasure.
"Oh ... oh," panted the pika. Her walls accommodating him. Her loins filled, the lonely, empty throbbing, the need for fullness satisfied, replaced by such presence. Oh. But not quite enough. There was something else needed: friction. Oh, friction.
And he needed that friction, too.
As much as her vaginal walls longed to be brushed by his penis, his penis longed to be brushed by her vaginal walls.
So it was that he humped. Burying his penis in her furnace-like femininity. So hot. So completely squeezing and rippling on his shaft. A helpless yip. And he pulled back, an audible, slippery sound coming from the source of their union. And he slid back in, and pulled out, his hips grinding to hers, their fur matted with sweat. Both of them huffing, in the throes of sweet, sweet sex, simplicity of motion, synchronicity of intention.
At the basest, most biological of levels, her body just wanted his semen. And would do anything to ensure that he gave it to her. And no one else. Pleasure, in this aspect, was a weapon. Used to get his sperm.
And he wanted to ejaculate in her womb. To plant an offspring in her. His offspring. His genes. To sow her. (But, really, he couldn't. Coyotes and pikas weren't genetically-compatible. Canines and rodents, no. He could not get her pregnant, even if she'd been in heat. If they wanted to have children, she would have to be artificially impregnated with rodent sperm. Or they would have to adopt.)
But, while biological pleasure was in play here, it was not the driving force. It was too callous. For who could believe, in their right mind, that sex was made for simply that? That it ended there? Simple reproduction? All for the sake of the gene pool?
A function, yes. An important function of the act. But, one had to believe that, ultimately, God's intent (in the grand design) was for sex to be about the union. The love. The emotion inherent. For it was the love that gave this meaning. True, lasting meaning.
More than instinct.
Much more.
Yes, love. Oh, yes. Love.
She wanted to fuse with him. To brush souls. To have his most-treasured body part inside the most-treasured part of her own body. The vulnerability and trust and affection so evident in the act was beautifully radiant, never-ending. She wanted to touch him, feel him, know him, be 'one' with him. She wanted to get closer, closer, as close as two corporeal entities could get. Two physical creatures could not get any closer than this. Lips locked, genitals joined, bodies naked and pressed, arms around.
He wanted to show her his love. Through his strength, his body. To give her pleasure. To make her happy. And, in return, to receive happiness and pleasure from her. As a predator, he wanted to sow her to mark her as his own. To leave his stamp on her. For he loved her. And ... and ...
" ... uhng, uhn," the pika squeaked, pant-grunting. Clutching desperately to her husband's back. Arms flung around him. Her breasts heaved. "Uhng." Her vagina was being stretched by the base of his knot.
"It is ... it is ... al-alright," Konka grunted. "My pika," he panted, swallowing, huffing. Hump-humping. Little by little, as easy as he could.
She gritted her teeth, nose flaring. Whiskers twitch-twitch-twitching, and ...
... PLOP!
"Ohhhh," was the heavy, pleasured sigh. From him. As his knot went in. 'Tying' their genitals together. They would be stuck, now, for the next forty minutes. And they couldn't part their bodies even if they wanted to. Not without ripping her vaginal muscles (which would be beyond painful; and he would never hurt her like that).
Light, squeaky sounds from her. Pant, pant.
His penis's movements were extremely-limited, now. Down to a range of inches to a range of just a centimeter. They couldn't even be properly called 'thrusts.' But the 'barely motions' were enough, just enough. To slowly tick, tick, tick him closer. And his own arousal, and the heat of her body, and the way her slick, hot vaginal walls snugged and fit around his member like a glove. Whine. Yip-yip. Weak, limited hip-grinding, closer, closer ... " ... ah, ahh ... ahhnnn! Uhn, uhnnnn, nn ... aroo-OOOOO!"
Wasilla squeaky-squealed. She felt the convulsions of his cock. Trapped as it was, she felt it pulsing against her pussy-walls. And her roundish, swiveling ears vibrated with his unchained coyote howl. That feral, primal howl. Dripping with pleasure and release.
"Aroo-OOOO!" Konka yipped again, growling, letting forth all kinds of staccato coyote-whines. Oh. Oh, pleasure! Bliss rocked his body as he shot steamy-white semen, spurt after spurt. Spurt. Spurt. Each ejaculation a jolt. Jolt! A twitch and a whine! Pleasure! Punching! He drooled, slobbering on Wasilla's shoulder. Before nibbling on it. He gently bit the pika's shoulder. His sounds muffled in her fur, now. Keeping a gentle hold on her with his teeth. He needed to bite something.
And she, eyes closed, began to pant. Harder, harder. Already under heavy exertion, but feeling a rising, welling. The close, tight friction of his trapped cock convulsing, and the flood of hot semen, and his biting, his breath, his ...
... penis was milked. Milked by the sudden, fierce rippling of her vagina. Her entire groin wracked with tremors. Spasms! Flinging pleasure! Milking every last drop of male's milk, her cervix dipping into the pool of semen that was available. And there was a lot. With no way for any of the semen to leak or drip out of her (as it always did), it flooded her. He felt his member cushioned by a sloshing, gooey liquid. His own fluid.
" ... uh! Uh!" A sharp, loud squeak. Another. Squeak!
Konka panted heavily. "Oh ... oh ... "
Wasilla shivered, enduring the lingering throes of her second orgasm. Konka had rarely taken the time and effort to give her more than one! He'd always been more concerned about his own pleasure. A quick hump, a quick tie, and an awkward silence filled by her attempts to get him to talk.
But this time was different.
"That ... oh, that ... " A huff. A breath. And she flushed, blushing, but said it anyway. Said, "That was the best breeding of my life ... that ... oh. Oh, thank you. Oh ... "
"It was the best of mine, as well," he told her, nose-nuzzling her.
"You're just ... you're just saying that." She knew that Konka had been with dozens of different furs. Before they'd gotten together. That predators were casual breeders. She hadn't asked him for specifics, but she knew he must've had many different femmes. And how could she be better than all of them?
"I am not just saying that. I am not," he whispered, nibbling on her cheek a bit. A hot sigh. His sharp teeth showing. "I assure you. I ... " A hesitation. Born of habit. " ... I love you, Wasilla. If our marriage has been anything less than fulfilling, it is all the fault of mine ... and knowing what our love CAN be, I endeavor to make it as such: as full and as rich as a summer flower." Uncharacteristic poetry from him. Spoken in the moment, in the afterglow of expressed passion.
A sniffle. Her eyes watery. She cried quietly for a moment.
He just held to her. Nibbling on her fur with his sharp teeth. Doing it in such a delicate, protective way. He was a predator. Was her protector. And would keep her safe from harm, be it physical harm or from bad dreams. He would do his best. And he would, indeed, kill for her. She was his. His wife. His prey. His love.
A few more sniffles. And a light cough. And a whispered, "Thank you ... thank you ... "
Konka just gave a light, polite nod. Closing his eyes and settling his nose against her neck. Feeling her pulse. Smelling her scent, her heat. Her sweat-matted fur. But his knot was a good thirty minutes from softening enough to allow a pull-back. So, he took a deep breath, and suggested, "We, uh ... what ... " He stumbled. He was not used to this. And it kind of scared him. But he shoved the fears aside. "What would you like to talk about?"
"Intimacy," was her response. "Us."
And, so, that's what they did. Baring their souls, speaking in quiet, whispered tones. Bodies stuck together. But it didn't so much matter. For, at the moment, neither of them wanted to part.