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Save Point: Taking One For The Hounds

Age Of Worn Bronze

Cleo gets up onto her knees, absently-minded fingers the chained collar around her neck, and then smiles and begins to masturbate herself gently as she remembers being raped last night.

"A well-stretched pussy, a nicely loosened ass and a bellyful of warm come," she murmurs to herself, caressing a thoughtful paw, and flexing her hips. "Such nice dirty young werewolves."

This feral pack are stragglers and bandits and eaters of flesh, of course, a living backlash against society and reason that praise themselves as Hounds (capitalised when they say it) and so of course they do not know who she is, and spent a lot of time trying to guess (or force her to tell) last night when they were ploughing her. Since her morality is even more widely open than her legs, she accepts this and understands that they were just trying to have some fun, and would keep her for more if they could. There are no other captives, since the hounds are sharp of cock and do not tire. Given a few hundred years they'll learn better, assuming no enterprising heroes round them up and kill them first. Until then, it's her or each other, so their actions come as little surprise, and the female hounds are just as enthusiastic as their male counterparts.

Since she didn't want to have to kill them all, she let them capture her and have their fun. It takes a lot to distress her now, after so much time, and she finds she welcomes the extremes. Besides, her journey was boring and there is no companionship within two days travel (which is why, after all, they've pursued their banditry and mayhem here). She could have beaten them into submission, made them lick her ass and mount her one at a time as their alpha bitch, but it would have been pretty similar all told and she couldn't be bothered with all the casualties. Those dramatic red slow-motion sprays of blood are really hard to get out of body fur, especially once they've dried. Come is much easier.

Once again, she wonders if the bet regarding travelling the entire length of the spine mountains range without wearing any clothes at all was in fact a good idea. It's certainly possible - she has all spring and summer, maybe even autumn - and all she has to do is get there, without even crossing the mountains themselves. All she has to do is be the animal she is, and she has fallen in amongst other animals of similar kind, and found herself a nice den, and a pack for company.

Of course, even if she makes it, she has to stay bare-clawed and naked (presumably whilst doing whatever chores are required) until the time limit has elapsed. And the penalty for failing is not that great, just a fun little submission that could be quite enjoyable.

She'd rather it was her, doing it to him.

The hound-bitches are out hunting, and the males who aren't with them are asleep against a mountainous stacking up of dirty bones, poorly firelit by the remnant fading ashes of last nights blaze. Some would see the bones and think of primitive greed and savagery, and dogs gnawing. She can see, with her Eye of Re, that the bones are stacked to form a primitive scale model of the spine mountains (vertically exaggerated) more accurate than any human could hope to match, but then, no normal human would ever notice. There is artistic discontent already amidst the hounds, a brilliance that cannot quite be buried beneath the animal and a pile of bones.

She just cannot resist leaving them a note, just for being so very interesting, and so she searches around silently for a suitable bone, at last finding a peculiarly star-shaped vertebra that looks as though it originated from a shark. This is even more interesting, but how it got here is not currently her concern. She presses the vertebra between her legs and grinds herself up against its pitted ossuarical surface, holding the pose carefully for just a couple of seconds to allow her scent and theirs to marinade into it, then positions the resulting scent marker atop the highest peak in the mountain range of bones, like a star.

Once she's gone, they should sniff it out in an hour or two. She wonders what they will make of her love note.

"I'm sorry I can't stay for more fun," she whispers silently into the distant ear of a sleeping hound, into an empty space filled with bones. "But I don't want to kill any of you in the course of my graceful exit. Consider it a friendly goodbye."

She reaches out to the faded remnants of the fire, and the still warm bones, and the hot erections of the sleeping hounds as they dream in the early morning. It is easily enough, and she silently melts through the metal of the collar with her fingertips and flexes it open, putting it down again atop a handy nearby skull like a warriors crown. The skull grins; it knows it looks good.

In a few seconds she is gone, and never sees any of them ever again.

~*~