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Ensnared by Fire, Caught by Desire

She didn't understand any of what was happening to her. She knew deeply that he didn't, or couldn't know. It was all so crazy and wild. It was so sudden and unbelievable. Mary was overcome with a mix of emotions that were both complementary and contradictory at once. She felt excited, but afraid. She was happy, but racked with guilt. Her eyes shed tears and yet all she could think between every hot blink of her eyes was this overwhelming sense of satisfaction. All of this, and yet her poor lover was blissfully unaware only to most certainly be left awash in a sea of confusion and grief after it was all said and done.

Paul, her dearest Paul, was with her and that was all she needed to know at that moment, and it was all she knew she would have in one sweeping gesture of his hips. That was a lie, she knew it was, for it was the many many sweeping gestures of Paul's hips to drove home the reality of her predicament. Mary was nothing but a middle aged wolf of 42 with a family and a husband. She had two wonderful daughters, both young things, not even in middle school, and her husband was a family man who worked hard for her and his adoring children, and yet she was now in her own home, alone, but not truly alone, for there behind her was poor, dear, and unlucky Paul.

Paul, the trusted young goat that lived down the street. The boy was only sixteen. He, the young man that would mow their lawn and trim their hedges every summer, the young man that would clean their pool, who even taught her daughters how to swim. He was the darling polite young goat that would grab their newspaper off the lawn and toss it at their door on the way to school so the sprinklers wouldn't soak it.

He was behind her now, pressing her body, the body of a devoted mother and wife, over the arm of their couch in the family room. Why were they there? Why were they doing this? She was so wet. Mary had been wet even before he first touched her. Was that why? Was she still a young woman in places carnal and not noticed? Had her husband satisfied her so well that for the first time in ten years when he's away for days she can't control her own terrible heat? Was she in control or did she place herself upon the cushioned arm of sin by her own accord without consciously realizing it? Had her heat stolen her sanity so completely that her every action was to become an abomination to her marriage and family, to the trust of the young man to whom had fallen prey to her predatory need?

He was being so so rough with her, so much more rough than her husband ever did or could, and she didn't mind it one bit. If only he could break her with his rock hard body, to punish her for what she'd done. She was in a haze, a drunken state of bliss as the young man rammed his hips into hers without any care for modesty or chastity. He hadn't even undressed himself, no, another lie, she hadn't let him undress himself, or herself for that matter. A single zip, a simple tug of the panty, and they'd both be fully clothed, that was the strength of her need, the haste of her desire, of the desperation of her want.

His hands, slipped up between her now matted fur and the uplifted hem of her sundress, clung to her soft squishy hips, ripened by motherhood. He was using her in ways she'd never experienced, not even when she was young and bounced impishly on boyfriends from high school and before.

Mary thought she was a good girl, a good wife, and a fine mother. Was this to be the price she'd pay for her hubris? She'd believed that she had left her naughtiness behind on the doorstep of childhood and adolescence when she married her husband, a good man and wonderful father. Didn't she? She did, didn't she?

Why then? Why did she have to start touching him on his arms that she admired so. She was only trying to be sweet to the young goat for having worked so hard for her and her husband. Paul did so much work around their home that she and her husband could relax when they weren't taking care of the children, that her husband could sit in his chair and read the paper after work knowing that the chores he could have done had already been finished by the hard working young man from down the street. She had so much peace of mind knowing she could rely on Paul anytime they went out of town, because they could trust him to check on the house to make sure all was well. He even had a copy of the key to let himself in. But now he was only letting himself inside her, stealing away the faithfulness she had to her husband, soiling her with the growing wellspring of pre, tainting her and making her a cheater, a whore. His rigid key unlocking her depths with its length and terrible girth.

She shed more hot tears. Her face was buried hard into the couch cushion with Paul certainly screwing his eyes shut as he hammered into her with blows fit to crack a cinterblock. He was giving her no quarter, sparing her no expense, as if he was a candle and she was the flame. Her body was to burn him to the copper saucer leaving nothing but a puddle of hot white mess after the candles' passing. Mary shed those fresh tears not for herself, but for poor Paul. Her thoughts betrayed her with their awful selfishness. It wasn't Paul's fault at all so why would she say such awful things to herself about the lovely boy?

Mary, she and she alone, had made the first move and she hadn't even realized it. Had she? Could she have been so daft? Mary had invited him inside, the predator, the wolf, bringing in the poor goat to be eaten her her terrible heat. He was overheated from the work, she told herself. He need a rest, she was certain. Was she? She was having him mow the lawn again and weedeat the edges of the concrete path and the patio. Of course he'd be hot and in need of rest. Young men are not machine, they are bodies of flesh and blood, of passion and attraction, and she had no ulterior reason to walk him into her kitchen!

It was only right and fair for her to invite him inside to cool off. She gave him lemonade she'd made herself. From lemons she had squeezed with the skill of practice. Mary had eyed Paul's body and wished to squeeze his muscles as she had the lemons. She wished to see their strength, and to feel it, she wanted to feel how strong his arms were. She had lured him into their kitchen. The place where she would sink the fangs of her heat into his young flesh. Here upon on the tile where she prepares her family's meals is where she would claim him, and then he would claimed her just had she secretly cravenly desired. She made him a hearty sandwich and watched him eat. She complimented him on how hard he was working and how good the yard was looking after all he had done. She thanked him more than once and left poor Paul looking embarrassed from the praise he felt he had not yet earned. She had felt so hot, even though the AC was on. She was burning up and he was making her feel hotter and hotter. Why, she had felt so hot that her lips were dry, and she had to lick them, almost like she was suffering from a hunger, but not a hunger from the belly, but from somewhere lower.

She tried to busy herself, to distracted herself, by talking out loud her benign thoughts, letting him know the other things that she hoped he could do for them around her and her husband's home. She talked about how excited she was to get a new playset for the girls since they were getting too big for the dinky plastic one that had bought when they were just toddlers. Even as she spoke her husband's name out loud to tell dear Paul that he and her husband could work together, she was rubbing the poor boy's shoulders firmly for a warm massage. With her face buried so firmly into the couch she could only now remember how nervous lovely Paul looked, but she hadn't noticed it at all, so caught up in the heat she was of her treacherous body.

Her desire, so hotly it burned, wouldn't let him return to his work as she knew he was desperate to do. She insisted and insisted he rest, even after he had attested to her truthfully that he was well rested and well cooled. Oh God, she remembered having pouted like a silly girl and even possessed the audacity to ask him to please, please, stay inside with her. The girls were away to visit her parent's for the weekend, and her husband had left her alone for his work in another city. Her husband, working so hard to impress his bosses to earn that promised promotion. She wailed out her anguish into the couch cushions, but that wail came out not as a note of shame or of sadness but of lust and the pain of ravenous need. Paul was giving her everything she had needed from him, all that terrible sick need being sated one blow at a time by his rapid thrusts into her body.

Mary felt like such a whore and she climaxed whilst being bent over the arm of the couch, and there, with her folds clenching at his thick pole like a vice freshly forged, she finally moaned like the whore she now knew she was. She shed more tears even as she felt the corners of her mouth curl up to make a dumb and happy smile only a slut like her could make.

Why had she done this with Paul? Why couldn't she have lost herself with someone she cared nothing about? She had been throwing herself at him. Mary had literally pressed herself against him on the couch and cuddled against his wishes and the best judgement his young mind contained. The poor young man was distraught with nerves, guilt about how he was aiding a cheater, and morals he was shattering by lying with Mary in her husband's home. She was his neighbor, and she was married, he knew her husband, he played with their daughters, but what was he to do? He was young and virile, a fine young man, his strength of will could only last so long with her acting like a filthy whore right in his lap.

She had always found his curled horns to be so cute as they were short and half formed due to his age, a rack yet to reach their grand potential, and she betrayed him with those same horns by grabbed them and forcing him to kiss her. It was her kiss that ultimately broke him. Her tongue had broken the fragile wall of his hormone fueled lust just as easily as it had broken past the barrier of his pinched lips.

Mary had straddled him, rode him through his jeans like a worthless slut. Her body screamed for him to enter her, to destroy her with his virility. He was to pound her, to hollow out her folds, to breed her like the good handsome young stud that he was. His tent was so big, she was moaning for him just from the pressure of his bulge against her panty protected pussy.

She had broken him by then, and he was lost, the poor boy she cared so much about, not as a lover, but as a mother, a neighbor, a friend. She'd broken him with her lust and he was now adrift in the fuel that claimed the futures of so many young men. The passion of sex had gripped him and gripped him as tightly as he had gripped her breasts. She sparred with his tongue, ground on his lap, and moaned so loudly into his mouth that he surely felt the vibration deep in his throat,

Mary wasted no time in getting her needs met. She wasted no time, just like how Paul was now wasting no time at all to sow his seed deep in her lecherous field. He was sloppy, not just in how heavily his balls were leaking pre into her, but in how he moved and worked his body into hers. He was a beast of jerky thrusts and unskilled jabs. She had taken his virginity and her cheeks felt hotter all for it. Hot from tears, from shame, and from how hot her sordid mind thought it was that she had been the one to claim him first. She loved and hated that she had been his first memory, his first conquest. His powerful rapid jabs into her pussy gave her everything she wanted and everything she desperately didn't. The thought of reason and the throes of passion warred in her soul.

That war wasn't fresh or new, she had been fighting it from the moment she unzipped his jeans. His cock was so big that she gasped and hummed happily, like a fucking whore, when she saw it bounce out in attention once freed from its denim prison. It was bigger than her husband's. Oh, only slightly longer, but his shaft was so girthy it was like her husband's fine knot from its very base to the crown of its head. And the poor boy's nuts were so fat. She'd never been with anyone that was not a fellow canine so she did not know until then that goats were so well blessed.

Her jaws ached from trying to fit him between her cheeks. All she could do was spit and slobber over his tool so that he could pry open her pussy with it all the easier, and pry it he did in the end. It was a fight for him to pierce her tunnel. She was so tight around him that Mary felt like she might break, but that just made her submit to him all the harder, to squeal for him all the louder, until he finally touched her cervix and she shivered in orgasm, the first of many.

They had no clock in the living room so she did not know how long they were rutting like animals. She came so many times from his voracious need to bury himself within her that she wasn't sure she could even read the hands of a clock anymore due to the sexual haze she was lost in. It was only due to exhaustion, her finally being laid out over the creaking arm of the couch, that her weary mind could finally be satisfied, to be satiated just enough for her senses to return to her in tiny increments. Every thrust Paul gave her returned a little more sense, even as it sent more and more lightning flashes of pleasure throughout her being.

She was at his mercy. Locked under him on couch she knew he had yet to cum. He was too good a lover with so much potential. Darling Paul had gritted his teeth from the start and attacked her body with his own with the goal of breeding her long and hard, as if by instinct. It was natural for him to do this, to assail her with brutal pleasure until he could last no longer. The couch had already slid across the floor from his thrusts that it had bumped into the far wall. He had fucked her across three feet of paneled flooring.

Mary listened to his snorting and snarling like it was music, even as she was reminded that this was the Paul she had broken with her betrayal and selfish wants. He was nothing but an animal breaking in his female, and she'd been the terrible cause. Oh, her poor and innocent Paul!

She was of sound mind, crystal clear thoughts rang in her mind like dreadful chimes. Regret, guilt, shame all joined with pleasure, ecstasy, and bliss. So much to be ambivalent about, so much to hate and love herself for, to admire and to despise. Paul was nearing his limit and she knew it was true. She longed for it as much as she feared it. His thrusts were growing shorter, and his nuts had drawn up tightly behind her. Her cunt ached from the furious sex it had endured, but it was pain not without pleasure. It only made her body feel hotter, and a body as hot as hers needed to be extinguished with the soothing wash of a man's seed, and poor dear Paul would extinguish her awful whorish body with his own.

Paul erupted within her like champagne unleashed from its bottle. He had edged himself in her body for so long that he released evening she could have ever hoped and dreaded him to. All of his youth, his desire, his passion, poured out from him in sloppy eager bursts that filled her rapidly and then sloshed out onto the hardwood floor. Her husband had never filled her so much, not even close, as had no other man she'd been with. Such was the gift herbivores had, to shower a woman's body with their sexuality in ways a canine simply would never match. The fact it was dear Paul seeding her, that it was his cream pelting repeatedly at the abused entrance of her womb, made his climax all the richer and more vile.

His body was heavy as stone as it draped over her own. Her dress was rolled up around her hips. Her panties down around one ankle. Her tits somehow had somehow stayed inside her dress throughout it all. If she could only extract herself from underneath Paul she could discard her panties and none would be the wiser if it weren't for the cum still oozing in streams down her thighs. She knew she was a whore. The transformation done, the rite completed, and the guilt ate at her harshly as she wore the title in her mind.

Paul was now quiet. He was slowly coming off of his passion fueled high. His orgasm had freed him from the prison of lust she'd locked him within. She had no tears left to shed. The fur around her eyes was dry with her body's salt. His hands still held tight to her hips. She found each of them with her own and squeezed them. She squeezed with affection, with remorse. She couldn't speak. All she could do for him was pant and breathe with the heavy breathes of a woman well fucked. Her cunt still twitched around him as it swallowed all it could. She was grateful she could not speak. If she had uttered a single word she would have again found the strength to sob.