Note: I suck at writing smut scenes. Please gib advice.
You bite your lip, squint your eyes shut and do your level best not to make a single sound as your orgasm crashes through you, you slam home a third finger and hook upwards slightly, the stimulation barley enough to bring you to a weak and starving orgasm that does nothing to alleviate the growing fire in the pit just below your stomach.
You finally relax as the pleasure spasms begin to subside, your body uncurling from within the washbasin. You roll out, your sweaty body now smelling of the faint odor of lust and slightly damp between the legs. The dawning sun peaks through the curtains just as you tiptoe out of the bathroom, your tired and bleary eyes telling of your inner turmoil.
For a full two weeks now, you have held yourself back from throwing yourself at the Prince, rubbing your face against his, breathing in his scent, hugging him tight and never letting him go. You want to carry him with you, and pat his head, and tell him how much of a good boy he is and hold his hand and-
You drag your hand down your face, breathing deeply, trying to clear your head. The day is about to begin, and there was much to do. You go and wake the prince.
It was going to be a long day, for today, the Festival begins.
It happens only every five years, a full week of festivities within the kingdom of Xion. It is a combination of celebrations centered on the praising of some long past hero or city founder, maybe the worship of some obscure god or goddess, you are unsure and you honestly do not care in the slightest.
All that you know is that as a member of the royal staff, you are required to dress for the occasion. You had made the mistake in the past of telling some scribe or other faceless slave of what passed for traditional garb for Hellhounds, and apparently because this festival shares an aspect of traditionalism to it, you are made to wear ‘traditional’ hellhound clothing.
It comes as a surprise to you that your kind are apparently in the minority when it comes to nudity. Even the scaled whore-worms that are known also as Lamia wore shawls and vestments in ancient times to protect their more sensitive parts. Your species made do with fur.
You aren’t entirely naked, of course, some modicum of decency is required of you, and by that, it means that you are given various cobalt anklets and sea-green waistcloths, as well as an ear circlet with a sapphire gem that matches your collar and brooch, your breasts are laid bare and exposed.
When you first came to Xion in chains, you hade no fear of your nakedness in public, even resenting clothing. Now with the passage of time and your experiences, you for some reason find your nudity to be embarrassing, even shameful. It doesn’t bother you when Tyrian glances at you, worryingly enough. If anything it just makes you feel warmer- but not in a bad way.
You are close behind Tyrian, wandering the grand plaza of Xion, the expansive area is rife with activity, travelers wagons with colorful signs and stores are open for business, the kingdoms colors of sea green and cobalt blue are prominently displayed along with tall poles with green and blue ribbons twirling around them. Children run around carrying smaller handheld tributes that mirrored these poles rife with decoration.
There are countless nobles out on parade in their best dress ware, frilly long skirts and hand-woven dress coats. Ornamental weapons and house heirlooms, it is a thieves wet dream, weren’t it for the ever present and watchful eye of friendly spirits and the contentiously dressed and armored Mariner Guard.
Tyrian is in his best clothes as well; a small suite of armor, specifically made for him- entirely ornamental- was about his person. A coat of chainmail with quicksilver links that seemed to glow with a bluish light, along with a ceremonial circlet, as well as a pair of grieves and boots.
On his hip was a silvered Rapier light enough for him to wield, along with the family crest on a shoulder cape that fluttered cutely as he rode. He of course did not know how to wield a weapon with any degree of finesse, despite the hours of training- unlike his sister- but then again, he needn’t have to with you at his side.
You do however draw more attention than you would like, the heat in your cheeks is nothing in comparison to the flames of lust fanning amongst the crowds, you can feel the eyes scathing over your body like some form of attack. You do your best to ignore it and appear as menacing as you know yourself to be. Several nobles make to approach the prince and before you can stop yourself a rippling growl erupts from you, sending them quickly on their way.
Tyrian tries to keep his back straight, to sound imperious as he tries to reprimand you. His words instead come out as a stutter and you instead have to resist the urge to scoop him off his pony and hug him tightly at how helplessly stupid he sounds. You maintain your composure, you play your part, your ears droop and you and back down so that the haughty nobles may approach and speak their whimsy. They won’t be the last of the various emissaries and nobles and diplomats that your dear Tyrian would have to deal with today, and while you are ever at his side in all things this is one aspect you are glad you play little role in.
For this you are just as much a bodyguard as you are eye-candy. Again, you can feel the perverted stares of countless humans locked onto you. You can doubtlessly tell that the men would so desperately pin you down- face to the ground and ass raised and relentlessly thrust into you with a powerful savagery reserved for the tantalizing aspect of taming something known to be indomitable.
Stares are not all that you have to contend with; there are also the children that run rampant throughout the festival. Either by themselves or chased by fretful parents or sitters, they barrel through the crowd, pursuing each and every attraction, fists clutching tickets and prizes.
There are of course, older boys, among the crowd, older, but still young enough. These ones seem to run past you in particular. Among them, are ones brave enough that sprint by you and with nervous hands they run past and Touch your Fluffy Tail.
Part of you wants to roar or growl at their impudence, but there is another more maternal resonance inside of you that seems to ring true and you are almost of the inclination to whirl around and scoop these children up into a warm hug and protect them. They are so sweet, young, and innocent, not knowing of their actions so much as they are just obeying childish delights.
It’s an instinct- a feeling that you do not know whereabouts it came from. What is more worrisome is that you are by no means adverse to it.
Despite your species being known for their indomitable will, you find this whirlwind of emotions inside of you just as equally hard to suppress. It takes a considerable amount of concentration to not just snuggle Tyrian right here and now, in front of everyone. Your hands twitch and you curl your lips back into a false smile, trying to hide the warring emotions within you.
It happens just past noon, when the festivities of the day reach their crescendo, and preparations for the evening feast are undertaken. The day was particularly hot, enough that you had begun to sweat, and Tyrian was also looking vulnerable.
You had decided that the armor could be done away with, he had no need of it now and as far as you were concerned the chainmail shirt he had on underneath was ostentatious enough. You unceremoniously scoop Tyrain up off his steed, not at all bothered by the additional weight the armor provided.
You shush him at once, his awkward babbling and stuttered demands just furthering that festering heat inside of your chest. You have to bite your tongue- hard- in order to prevent yourself from squealing aloud.
You find a dressing tent that one of the many traveling performer use for their plays, You bear your fangs and order several of the women out, despite being in various stages of undress, if that wasn’t enough to force them to leave you hold up your brooch, emblazoned with the royal crest.
The half naked women scurry out of the tent in short order, clutching whatever they can grab over their exposed breasts and hips. You can hear various cries and the sounds of applause from outside, perhaps the crowd thought this to be another part of the play.
You set to work unfastening the straps and clamps that held the princes armor together, you start with the legs, and then the arms, next comes the chest piece, while lastly comes the waist shroud and this is where everything goes horribly wrong.
You were under the impression that the hip shroud- a circular skirt of armor, was something that was exactly that, a circular skirt of armor that was attached to the belt. You were not aware that it was in of itself chainmail pants with an attached armored belt-skirt. When you unfasten what you thought to be the belt holding the hip shroud in place you were in fact, undoing the young princes belt. You had taken to ignoring his stuttered demands for you to cease, because you simply couldn’t let yourself listen to him for fear of being overwhelmed by his adorable helplessness- by just how much he needs you.
So when you let go, and his pants drop, you are mightily surprised by the silken undergarments staring at you, and the smell–
You don’t even remember bowling Tyrian over, hugging him so closely that he could hardly breathe as you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his scent while your hips humped against his leg, his knee forcibly ground against your aching nethers by your movements, your tail fanned the air behind you and you found yourself licking his face, sweet kisses against his lips as you tussled his hair, taking his head and pressing him between your breasts as you rocked your hips slowly back and forth against his, feeling the bulge in his undergarments, knowing that only a simple layer of cloth separated you from what you Need–
Voices approaching the tent rip you out from your dream just seconds before the two actresses enter. You don’t think you have ever moved so fast in your entire life, and you know that you will never move as quickly again.
When the two actresses enter, they are surprised to find the Prince of Xion and his Hellhound Guardian finishing in adjusting his chainmail. The prince, seems quite flustered, his face bright red and his mouth slightly agape. His guardian seems calm, almost at ease, eyeing the two women as they enter, while tugging a strap tight before tucking it away.
The day can’t end soon enough. For the remainder of the festival, you put on a cool face, calm and confidant, snarling at anyone who gets to close. Tyrian hasn’t said anything, but he keeps fidgeting with this crotch plate, trying to adjust it, and you notice all too well how he’s looking at you. You can tell that he wasn’t adverse to what happened.
He wants it to happen again, but he’s young, so he doesn’t know why. His body does, but he doesn’t understand.
It is that innocence that rips into you; breaks down all barriers save for your last shred of willpower keeping you from dominating him right then and there. It is physically Painful for you to resist at this point. Your hips, grinding against his is what you exist for in this moment- and all that is keeping the beast in check is the simple fact that if you did so, you would never see him again.
The festival ends, the opening ceremonies of the evening that marked the beginning of a full week of calibration had Tyrian and you upon a platform with the other various nobles of importance, giving a toast to the continued wellbeing of Xion, and a prayer to some goddess that you didn’t care to remember. You made a good show of standing behind Tyrian, stoic and menacing, but inside you were anything but.
When you put the prince to bed, and when you know he’s asleep. You slip into your next-door quarters, and enter into the bathroom and find a towel, you roll it up and you bite down on it. You find a hairbrush, and you let its handle penetrate you as deep as it can go while you muffle your cries as you furiously begin to fuck yourself, grinding against your most sensitive spot until tears are streaming down your face and drool runs down your neck. You bury your face into the bathmat and buck your hips against the handle of the brush.
It of course, is not nearly enough.
You fall asleep, curled in a ball. Your womanhood is almost painful to touch- locked on the verge of release but missing that simple single important thing that was a male.
You knew that you could likely demand any number of strapping human men to see to your needs as the princes’ guardian, but you didn’t want any of them. You already knew whom you wanted and he was the one thing you knew you weren’t allowed access to in that singular special, intimate way.
You cry, of course, silently, and then you go to sleep.
The next few days go by in what could only be called a self imposed state of misery. Your body is rebelling against you, your true nature as a hellion beast demanding that you rape and dominate the gem of your hearts desire, while your steely will cultivated over the long years and hardened by your natural obstinacy as a hellhound keeps from falling over the brink and breaking the tender, sweet affection the young prince had for you.
Your vulva ached, and your womb felt as if it was leaden- filled with gravel while yet somehow terribly empty. There was a void inside you, and it was sucking any feeling of contentment and pleasure, and replacing it with a gnawing, pulsating, agony. Each day was worse than the last, and by the end of the festival, it hurt for you to walk- the way your thighs brushed against the exterior of your womanhood was like tiny little needles digging into your most sensitive parts.
It was made all the more terrible, because right before you at any given moment you had the cure, sitting there, eating, reading, sleeping, playing, practicing, riding, bathing, changing, or even resting its head on your lap. All you had to do was partake, all you had to do was pin him down and Take What You Needed.
Your mind was beginning to fracture and break because of it, you could feel your sense of self start to spiral downwards as you did your damned best to disassociate yourself from your surroundings. You had even taken to stealing the prince’s dirty laundry, locking yourself in your bathroom, smelling them as you desperately tried to achieve an orgasm denied to you because of this terrible Heat.
It was during your rare moments of solitude, you’re off hours, in the early morning, just before the sun rose over the mountains.
You were bathing, scrubbing yourself down with frigid water until your entire body felt numb. You were starting to think that this Heat was causing you illness, as you felt a lack of strength and dexterity in your movements, perhaps you really were sick. You didn’t know, but you knew that you cared enough of this tiny spark of trust and affection you had with Tyrian that you will die before you even dared to dream of snuffing it out because of your Hellion urges.
Your door opened, despite it being locked. Then again, you doubt if there was anything that could ever bar her from entry, the Queen of Xion, Virma of the Storm.
She is one of the few things that you truly fear, one of the few things that you allow to see that fear manifest on yourself. Your hackles raise, your ears flatten back and your tail stiffens, you are ready to run at the drop of a feather, though you are more than aware that she could smite you without even allowing you to take a single step.
She is dressed in nothing but a nightgown with a silken ribbon tied around her waist, it is but a simple garment, yet it somehow manages to extol her beauty despite her bedraggled appearance, turning into a harried rose, magnificent in any circumstance. Her hair cascades down over her shoulders as she regards, brushing her bangs out of her face. With a gentle wave of her hand, the door closes behind her, and you are locked in the room with the woman who is the mother of the boy you with to ravage. There is a reason why you do your best to avoid her, why you seek to glide beneath her gaze whenever possible.
You stutter out your greeting, standing abruptly and stepping out of your washbasin, bowing and averting your gaze, going through the motions.
She does away with any semblance of niceties and conduct, stepping over to you mid sentence and grabbing a handful of your breast. You shut up at once, not making a sound, nor moving at all.
She squeezes, almost mauling your breasts before bending down and placing a nipple in her mouth, you can feel her suckle, your confusion only spiking higher, was she drunk? Was she unwell? Was she attracted to you? Should you reciprocate? Sh-Should you?
She relents, licking her lips, frowning in what you assumed was disappointment, she traces her hands down your front, massaging just below your belly, humming to herself, lost in though it would appear, before abruptly reaching between your legs, and thrusting two of her icy cold fingers straight up into you.
It’s painful enough to bring tears and for your breath to catch in a loud hiss as your back goes ridged. You don’t know what it is that she wants, if you have offended her in some way? Was this a revenge of some sort? Your jaw clamps shut and you nearly bite your tongue, you don’t know what she is doing, she’s never acted so blunt before. You have always taken her as the kind of women who weaves her plots in grandiose patterns that leave her out of the picture. You groan, small hiccups of pain as she works a third finger in, kneeling in front of you, examining your pussy with a clinical detachment. She is spreading you open, your legs shake and you almost collapse as she finally removes her hand.
You can tell that she is angry now; you can feel the electricity in the air as she lastly grabs your hips, feeling your waist and rubbing your ass. She finally steps back, pulling her bangs out of her face again, she folds her arms and stares down at you, uncaring of how you tremble with confusion and palpable fear.
“What is it that you are not telling me?”
You don’t answer at first, you are even more confused now, she inspected you over thoroughly, did she think you were hiding something? Smuggling contraband or the like? What was she getting at?
“I- I don’t know what you-“
“You’ve been in this household for well over six months. You should have been showing signs well into the third.”
“Signs?” you sputter.
“Exactly, so I can only be led to believe one possible option, that you are barren.”
“Infertile, sterile, childless, whatever you wish to call it.”
“You… You think I’m…”
“Spit it out, Hound, I am not in the mood.”
“You think I’m barren?” You sputter.
“What else would explain this empty womb of yours that I feel.”
“I… I haven’t… When would have I? …”
“What? Bedding the prince?”
“You really are nothing but a stupid dog, aren’t you?”
“… I don’t understand.”
The queen sighs airily, rolling her eyes and jabbing you in the nose with a finger sparking with power. “Why do you think I allow you to serve this household?” She asks.
“I-I am to protect the Prince, and serve him.”
“Wrong.” She snaps, “You are not to serve him, you are to wring him dry and sow your field with his seed.”
Silence, not even the wind blowing outside your window. You stare up at the Queen with wide eyes. Your tail quivers slightly as you try and process what it is that she has just said.
“You… Want… me to…”
“I want you to have children with the boy, I want you to be stuffed full with entire litters.”
You have nothing to say. So you say the only thing that you can.
She laughs. A snicker more than a laugh, but it is chilling all the same, that perfect face of hers twisting up into a derisive grin as if she was talking to a particularly stupid child. “Now why would I tell a stupid dog like you?” She turns to leave, leaving you with a parting order.
“Now, be a good dog, and do what the dread darkness that saw you spawned intended.”
Fear of reprisal alone is what held you in check. Now that fear has been replaced with an order. You find yourself in the princes’ room. Shaking, your cunny sopping wet with anticipation, your heart beats like a trip hammer and your breath is coming in ragged pants.
You ball your hands into fists, grabbing at your arms, trying to hold onto something as the flicker of sparks alight in the corners of your eyes. You are almost whimpering, almost upset, at the turn of events. You had held yourself back, when in reality you were expected to take the prince at your first chance and fuck him raw- fuck him until he’s shooting blanks into you and then fuck him even more until he is begging and you are screaming.
Such lust and passion rolls through you, demanding that you bed the prince right now, that you fill yourself with his honeysweet seed and have yourself a litter of yipping pups.
But there is that hesitation that keeps you from doing so. Pulling back on the reigns of your desire with a firm hand of will, searing the innocence of the prince into your mind, emblazing the imagined face of him- recoiling in hurt and pain, the look of betrayal in his eyes as you savage his body. You force yourself to ask the question, of how would he like to be treated as a toy for your desires to bat around, how would he receive you- using him as a breeding stud?
This miserable thought and self-loathing dread torments your mind even as you make your way over to the bed, rolling the sleeping Tyrian over so as to face you, before you even know what you’re doing. So you do the only reasonable thing, and punch yourself in the gut, and than once more for good measure. The pain brings control back, if only slightly. It is enough.
The commotion stirs Tyrian in his sleep, slowly, peacefully; he opens his eyes, and stares up at you with that slight smile you remember so much.
Now or never.
You bend down and kiss him.
You sit Tyrian in your lap; his skin is pale pink, contrasted against your charcoal black hues. His body is warm, burning up against your touch, his cheeks are a rosy red much like his twitching member hidden beneath his cupped hands. He wiggles in your lap, stammering and looking up at you with his soft blue-white orbs.
You take your time with this, breathing in his sent, wrapping your arms around and hugging him sweetly, a low hum in your chest sets him at ease with your close familiarity. You won’t hurt him, you wont let harm Ever come to him. He has no reason to fear you at all. There is no one else in this kingdom that knows him better than you do, loves him more than you do.
This isn’t your duty; it’s your honor. He slowly pulls his hands away from his erect penis, the boyish musk tickles your nose, and you can’t help but smile and place a quick kiss on his head. You are so very gentle, lightly taking your thumb and pointer, encircling the base of his penis, and with light, easy strokes you begin to masturbate him, feeling his reactions with your body, listening to the slight intake of breath and stiffening of his back, how his toes curl, how he squirms at the unfamiliar pleasure.
Your heart flutters a bit, you are helping him grow up, showing him something wonderful, and watching as this boy becomes a man. Even more than that, you get to receive the passion of his first time.
Leaning forward, you let a string of drool leak from your tongue and land on the tip of his exposed cockhead, warm and wet, you finally wrap the rest of your paw around his shaft, fully ensconcing his cock in your warm, wet grasp. He moans- his voice now high pitched and almost girlish, his eyes screwed shut as you begin to jack him off properly. Soft wet sounds come with every stroke, your saliva acting as an ample lubricant as you set a comfortable pace.
It shouldn’t be much longer now; you can smell the pre leaking out of his tip, warm white milky cream that makes you lick your lips at the thought of tasting it, but for now you’ll have to satisfy yourself with what he releases onto your waiting hand. That may not be far off, his hips buck slightly, and you can see the telltale signs of an encroaching orgasm.
You hold him tighter, and ramp up your pumps, squeezing nice and firm, making sure to really work his cock with your paw, his breath comes quick and fast, his eyes are screwed tight and he opens his mouth for one, long, lustful moan you can feel his cock throb, his balls clench as you watch thick, virile ropes of pearly white cum shoot out from his urethra, splattering across his chest- one even splashing across his face, marking a thick gooey trail from cheek to cockhead, his last few impressive spurts shooting out and coating your hand. You slow your strokes, making sure to give him the most out of his orgasm, and milking every last drop from his maleness.
You giggle happily, “Very good, sweetie, you came to your hearts content, good for you,” you say, licking his face clean of his cream.
You bring your cum soaked hand up to your lips, and with relish you lick, cleaning your fingers of the sweet cream you milked from Tyrian, the young prince boy still in the pleasant throes of bliss, his whole body a tingling mess of nerves and pleasure. You smile, finishing your sweet treat, his cock has gone flaccid, its contents expelled in the most delightful of ways. Sweat drips down his body in shiny rivulets, and cum stains his chest.
“I’ll be gentle, sweetie” You whisper, the Prince stares up at you with a gaze you can’t bring yourself to meet.
“W-what are you…”
His penis lays before you, hairless and erect and without the warmth of a woman sequestering it away, but not destined to remain like that for long as you pull yourself up onto the bed, just as nude as the prince.
Your heavy breasts drag over his legs until you rest them on top of his cock, looking up at him you can see his cheeks glow red. He always has liked your boobs, stealing glances of them when he thought you not to be looking. You can feel his cock pulse in between your tits as you let your saliva drip from your tongue. You rub your breasts, squishing the lubricant around his boyhood He squirms, the sensitive head rising up through your boobs, With his hardness growing you start moving, gently stroking your tits up and down, squeezing them together.
You can feel the heat rising in you both; Tyrian begins to pant, trembling, his hips thrusting up into your tits ever so slightly with each stroke down. You can smell the arousal like a fine mist, his precum beginning to leak from his tip like water from a damaged faucet on a pump. The expressions he makes are always cute, but when he feels pleasure they become almost irresistible. You lean down and gently lick the head of his cock with your tongue as it peaks out from your cleavage, tasting the sweet pre that his cock releases. He gasps and shivers from the treatment, your warm wet tongue only adding to the variety of sensations that he is feeling.
You can tell that he is about to burst soon, the way his toes curl and body trembles, how he holds his hands up to his mouth, you know him so indecently well, that edging his ejaculation is almost second nature to you, you do so as to ensure that the prince has a nice and healthy cum, making sure to empty his balls properly of all their delicious semen.
You relent in your ministrations, giving his cock one last little lick before you pull away your breasts, his firmly erect penis standing stiffly, glimmering in the faint light of the morning. You climb up onto him, and straddle his waist, he can see you now, see you fully, your toned body is in full view but most of all is your sodden cunt, dripping its love juices onto the sheets with every heavy breath.
You don’t say anything, and neither does he. Perhaps he knew that this moment was to come sooner or later, he only tenses as you slowly lower yourself onto him, your lower lips meeting the head of his cock, and for a moment their is a second of resistance before you push down, and your pussy swallows him to the hilt.
He cums immediately, an aching moan whining from his lips as his hips shake, his eyes rolling back as he grabs your hips and squeezes, You shudder, something deep in your soul unlocking as you feel his cum splash inside you, warm expulsions of semen coating your inner walls with their sticky seduction. You feel his heat welling out of his member, furtive expulsions of semen leaking into you. He whimpers, chest heaving as his orgasm tapers off, sweat beading his brow.
“I…” You breathe, you feel dizzy all of a sudden, your tail waves furiously behind you as you raise your hips. “…More,”
You slide back down his length, and you lean down, your face closing with his, you place your lips upon another and kiss. You slip your tongue past his lips in a passionate embrace, pulling him further into you; his member stiffening again inside you as your ministrations are lain upon the young prince, heavy, panted breathing and sweat fills the room with the scented sounds of your gentle copulation. Tyrian has managed to work his hands around you, hugging you back, grabbing at your tufts of fur and even reaching the base of your tail, grabbing lightly- sending bolts of sensation streaking up your spine. Your pussy lewdly clenches down on him tighter with each stroke. You moan into his mouth, still riding atop of him, you dare not let him go.
He begins to reciprocate, more and more he starts to buck his hips up into you. He is not impressive in length or girth, he is but a boy, but he is filled with the vigor of a youth in the throws of puberty. He releases into you again, hugging you tighter as he thrusts up into you completely, his boyish member enveloped by your hot, squeezing walls.
Again you feel his cum slather your insides, thick ropes drenching your passage and seeping into you, filling not only your womb but something else as well. “G’boy…” You moan, kissing his forehead, “Such a g’boy.” You are beginning to slur your words, staring into his eyes, nose to nose mouth to mouth, breathing in his scent more than you are breathing air. You shudder, a soft whimper more suited to a puppy rolling from you as you start to ride the wave of your orgasm right as his begins to ebb, the last drops of his seed-taking root inside you.
You lay there like that, feeling more exhausted than you thought possible- but also feeling infinitely satisfied. With your arms wrapped around the young prince, holding him tightly, hugging him close, you feel his cum settling deep inside you, bits of it leaking back out- you hike up your hips, trying to hold as much of it inside of you as you can.
Six times more, that is how many times you wring seed from him. You pump your hips back down against his, each impact eliciting a soft yelp from you and a moan from him until he shudders, thrusting up into you, shooting his warmth into you. You ride him through each orgasm, his sensitive member like a lightning rod over stimulated. He whines, cries and begs and squeezes you tightly, but you offer no mercy in this- so infatuated you are with the act of breeding- forcing him into another almost immediate orgasm. He is almost delirious by the fifth one, laughing, giggling, and kissing you repeatedly as he rubs your breasts.
His boyhood is small, not even five inches erect, but he more than makes up for that with youthful vigor, cumming again and again. He can’t stimulate you with what he has, but even so, the act alone is enough to bring you to one more orgasm as he peaks for the final time. Wrung dry, only a soft trickle is deposited up into you, but even so you lock you’re his against his, ensconcing his member, squeezing him tight, making sure that every last drop of cum is bottled up inside you.
You can almost imagine the litter of pups growing inside you, their sleeping faces and tiny tails. At the thought of it, your tail wags lazy and sluggishly. You gently whine and lick his face- his shuddering pants and half lidded gaze turning into an almost drunken giggle at your tenderness. You love this boy- this prince. You love him so dearly and it almost hurts. You wont let anyone else have him, now that he’s yours.
If you were able to, you would shatter the sun, and forbid it from ever rising again, that is how much you wish for this one singular moment to last forever. His arms wrapped around you, and you reciprocating, Tyrian is nestled between your breasts, breathing softly as you bury your nose into the top of his head. With the covers over both of you, warmth and the scent of your shared passion circle around you like fading dreams of last nights tryst. The song of birds and harpies haunts the morning hours now, sun filters in through the window. You feel sadness when Tyrian begins to shift in your arms. You don’t want him to wake up just yet, you want to hold him close to your chest even longer, you want him to feel the beating of your heart and let him know that you care so much for him. The day can wait, what matters most is this very moment lasting as long as it possibly can.
Tyrian moans softly, and his eyes open to meet yours. He looks up at you over your breasts, his eyes shining and cheeks flushed red, and he is no doubt remembering the feeling of releasing inside of you, of how he took you and you him. You smile warmly and cup his cheeks, pulling him up and kissing him gently. You circle your arms around him and sigh. You so truly wish you could stay like this, to waste away the day, making love and holding him close to your beating heart, you’d want nothing else had you the choice. Such a luxury was not afforded to either of you, and if you were ever to experience this bliss ever again, the day must proceed. There was much to be done in preparations for the second evening of festivities. Tyrian had to be present for the entirety of it alongside his sister, and you were of course expected to be at his back. Before that, the queens’ personal maids would have to tend to you, grooming you and braiding your hair, fitting you into royal apparel. You have no doubt that she would also take that chance to speak to you about your activities last night. Before any of that could happen, there was the matter of the morning bath. You kiss him on the forehead, and reluctantly get up, to go run the water.
“Stop jerking.” Queen Verma snaps, your ears twitch, flicking forwards in a muted frustrated response. Her hands run through your hair, braiding your bangs into twin braids. You had thought that this kind of work was beneath her, you were wrong, and its uncomfortable. It is not because of fear, an inner warmth is giving you some strange immunity to the normally bowl wrenching fear that you felt in her presence before. Now, with it buoying you aloft, she is just a supremely powerful human woman, and nothing more. She is also absolutely awful at braiding hair. She’s dressed in her usual attire, a silvery blue dress of scales, made from the carcass of a mighty sea leviathan. There are all manner of rumors of just what kind of beast it had been in life, but now in its death, it served a purpose. “I can feel my son upon your skin.” She casually mentions, once more nearly pulling out some of your hair as she finally finishes a single braid, and begins on the other. “How many times did you take from him?” She asks, and you assume she is wondering how many times Tyrain came inside of you. Your body heats at the memory of the wonderful feeling. You are hoping that you could persuade dear Tyrian into lying with you again at the end of the day, but you have the feeling that he would still likely be recovering from last night. “Six or seven times…” You say.
“Excellent,” She grins, “That should be enough for even a weak seed like his to make a fertile bitch like you gravid.” She reaches down your front and rubs your belly. “It must have felt wonderful, acting as your nature intended.” She’s whispering in your ear, it is exceptionally uncomfortable. “It was a relief.” You tell her, such was an understatement but not a lie.
She goes back to braiding your bang; you grunt as she jerks your hair again, it is starting to annoy you a great deal. “Tell me, did he struggle?” She asks.
The question makes you wince; did she think that you were so crass as to savage Tyrian? Did the fact that she had to make her consent apparent in the first place tell her enough that you were no lay animal like your sister hounds? “No.” You tell her.
“He is a submissive brat, that much is true. He’s spineless. He’s more like a worm than a man, really.” She comments with a sigh. That’s enough to spark anger inside you despite your present company, and its almost enough to make you throw caution to the wind and lunge for this witches’ throat.
You grate your teeth. “Shouldn’t you be a little more compassionate?”
“You watch your tongue, hound.” She retorts. “I am supremely compassionate, but only insofar as it extends to the good people of my lands, and those who serve with use. I have not the time for those who are too weak, or too stupid to have my mercy wasted upon them.” Her icy hands rest on your shoulders, colder than they were before. “It was only when you arrived, that I finally found a use for someone so exceedingly mundane as him, that much should be clear to you.”
“You heartless bitch,” You feel yourself snap, turning around, glaring up at the storm queen, your claws digging in and shredding the armrest of the chair you were sat upon. “You’re his mother.” A growl itches in your throat. “Start acting like it.”
A bolt of lightning arcs off her brow and incinerates a portion of the floor. You should be scared shitless but once again there’s that warmth inside you that seems to melt away any tendril of unnatural fear that tries to rip into you. She stares you down, her eyes cold and pitiless like a basilisks own.
“What’s the matter?” You growl. “Aren’t you gonna zap me? Turn me into an ice cube?” You lay your hands across your belly. “Aren’t you?”
Verma glares her hatred for you, you almost think that she’d be willing to act on it, you almost think she is going to call up her power and turn you to dust. She doesn’t, she composes herself, and still glaring, still filled with a hellish level of anger she brushes her hair out of her face and turns, leaving the dressing room.
You quirk a grin, as moments later her personal maids filter in, looking spooked and cowed.
It is almost time for the second day of festivities to begin, the evening nearly upon Xion. You are with Tyrian, he is in the process of changing into his formal armor, two servants going over the various buckles and straps. He looks like a toy soldier when fully dressed and ensconced within. It is more than enough to make you smile. You stand off to the side, waiting patiently when you hear the clack-step of Myrian in her armor.
“Hellhound,” Myrian begins, she stares at you for a moment, eyes narrowed, as if calculating something. Your back straightens and you stare back, unsure as to what it could be that she was seeing. She refocuses and looks directly at you. “If you could come with me?” She orders more than asks; you look to Tyrian, asking his permission without speaking. He nods curtly with a smile.. You follow Myrian, leaving the room but not going far before you are what she deems suitably away. She has that seemingly permanent look of disappointment on her face as she turns to face you. Her arms crossed her armor has recent signs of damage inflicted upon it. You save your questions as she begins. “I’ve decided that due to the light of the recent events, with the late attempt on my brothers life, that it would be folly not to take action in hopes of preventing such occurrences in the future.” You cock your head to the side slightly.
“Those would be?”
She clears her throat, she doesn’t seem happy. “I’ve decided to post an additional guard and caretaker to Tyrian’s side. I would like you to instruct them.”
You are silent for a few seconds before speaking; something very much like jealousy is roused within you. “Is that so.” You have been learning the ways of royal court politicking, and you have learned that no action is ever at face value alone. Every tongue is forked, and every offered hand hides a concealed blade. You give her a sidelong glance. “Is there anything else, I should know about this?” you ask. Myrian shakes her head.
“Why should there be anything else. I fear for my brothers safety, nothing more.” She says, adamant. “They will be with you by the next day,” She snaps, brushing her hair back, she turns and leaves you. “There are other things that need my attention.” And with that she is gone. You are left standing alone, your tail swishing in the air behind you. Another caretaker. The thought makes your stomach churn. You shake your head, it shouldn’t be that bad. They would likely be a knight from her retinue or a practiced maid house servant with knowledge of assassination techniques, something like that. You shouldn’t be so concerned. After all, if it serves to help protect Tyrian, it is for the best.
You make your way back to Tyrian, now suited in his armor, you smile at him and bid the servants away. He tries his best to keep his eyes off of you, to varying degrees of success. You are after all, suited in your own festival garment, your own tufts of fur, and various Xionite bangles. You rub his head, tussling his hair, he squirms and giggles. “C’mon. The festival is starting.”
It’s late in the morning, and almost early afternoon by the time you awake. There is a soft ache in your bones that reminds you of last night’s festivities. It is a whirlwind of emotion and memory. Foremost being the lanterns that were strong across streets from rooftop to rooftop, majestic things that burned with alchemical fire in countless various hues. You had taken Tyrian off his pony and carried him on your shoulders, and at the end of the festival, after a grand feast under the light of the midnight moon, you had retired back to his chambers. Nothing had come of it, stowing his ceremonial armor, and you away with the gaudy trinkets, you had pulled the covers over you both and drifted off to sleep. You look down at your dear Tyrian, wondering what it is that he thinks of you. It is a thought that you had considered bore but never really ruminated on. Are you his wife? His lover? Or are you a mother to him, or a big sister in the continuous absence of both of those two things. Maybe you are a mix of all of those things together. More likely you are the one person in this entire kingdom that he can fully trust to look out for him without the want of some grand ulterior motive.
There is a knock at the door, soft and light. Tyrian stirs, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He looks up at you from between your breasts and you smile down at him, saying nothing and shaking your head before pulling him closer. A few minutes more like this couldn’t hurt. Before you can both drift off the knock comes again, and you still a growl that threatened to rumble out from your throat. Huffing, you throw back the covers before pulling them back over Tyrian. You shrug on a nightgown that barley falls past your hips and make your way over to the door, a scent prickling your nose- something familiar, but you ignore it. It had become common knowledge within the castle walls that you slept in Tyrians’ room, despite it being only a few days since the habit had started. It had mostly been just rumor, but from that rumor others were born into existence. It rankled you to no end just how lurid they would become, whispers of the Prince using you to release his pent up desires, charming you into submission so as to act as an outlet for his urges. You wonder how long it will be until they make it past the castle walls, and you have to contend with more than just blushing maids and giggling servants. You sigh, and open the door.
You’ve had to deal with this bitch every time you make the rounds with the Prince within the city walls of Xion. She’d always be there, puffing and preening, making chatter with the Prince and casting sidelong barbs towards you. You remember her name now, Colta, a griffon Matron. “Oh, well, if it isn’t the dog.” She stands a few inches taller than you, her skin a creamy white with amber brown feathers in contrast to your own ashy grey and black hues, and her hazel eyes clash against your own ruby red. You don’t know why she is hear of all places- when the band around her neck, her dress that is much like your own servant outfit, and the conversation with Myrian yesterday comes crashing back into the forefront of your brain. You nearly have an aneurysm right then and there. “G’mornin’ to ya, pigeon bitch.” You snarl through grit teeth. She glares right back at you; you can hear Tyrian in the room behind you, hurriedly pulling on clothing. You flex your claws, and wonder if you can take this haughty griffon out before he can finish dressing, and stop you.47016 Views