Jack and Polly
I never thought I would have a husband. Or a home of my own. I thought I would live at Bunson’s all my days, or until they realized I was getting a bit long in the tooth, and then they’d put me out in the streets to beg or to find work in the meanest circumstances.
“Would you like the optional readings, sir?”
“My bride may have whatever she likes,” Jack says, and I feel my heart surging. His face is all grave intensity as if he’s plotting to break into my thoughts or perhaps break the neck of the sniffling clerk who can’t stop coughing into his handkerchief. Despite the grim look he wears, I have an odd security that I’ve never had before.
Jack wants me. Begins to love me. Will never let me go. He’d kill me first.
Somehow that’s comforting, in a peculiar way. I’ve been something one step above rubbish all my life, something anyone could toss into the gutter. A thing, not a person.
“I would like a reading,” I say, voice faint.
“And have you the rings, sir?”
“I have one,” I say quickly, sliding off the diamond he gave me only yesterday.
“And I shall have one in a moment. Must it be gold?”
“No, sir, any material will do.”
“Good.” Jack turns and fumbles in his pocket, then pulls out a crown from the handful of copper and silver. He runs his thumb over the surface, grunting softly, and then a silver circle with Queen Victoria’s face on it tumbles to the floor.
I try not to let my mouth hang open like a cod in the fishmonger’s window. Monster, hero, Flameheel, guardian, whatever he may be, he’s not human. No human man can cut the center out of a coin with his fingertip. He slides the thin circle he’s left whole around his finger. “Yes, I have mine,” he says.
“Then I shall begin,” the registrar says in a dull, reedy voice. “I call upon the people here present to witness that I— your name, sir?”
“Jack Springton. This is Polly.”
“Her surname?”
“Bunson,” I whisper. I don’t recall any other one. Maybe my mother never told me before she died.
Jack lets out a long, low snarl that makes the registrar look up, his tiny spectacles falling off his fleshy nose as he swings his head wildly, searching for the sound. “Willis! Shut the door. There must be a mad dog in the street!”
“Yes, sir!” The snuffling clerk goes away to do just that.
“Can we get on with it?” Jack demands.
I stroke his hand with mine, hoping to soothe his impatience.
“We must have him back. He’s a witness to your marriage. Seeing as you came alone, we’ll need him and the page.” He clicked his fingers together and summoned a young man with hair falling over close-set eyes in a sallow face. He leaves his position by an inkwell on a polished wooden desk and scurries forward as the clerk returns.
“Now?” Jack asks in that silky, sinister voice that people should be wary of.
“Very well. With Mr. Titus and Mr. Merriweather standing witness, we shall proceed. I call upon the people here present to witness that Jack Springton takes you, Polly Bunson, to be his lawful wedded wife. Mr. Springton, you will repeat after me.”
“Which bit?” Jack snaps.
The registrar sighs. “Just say this. ‘I, Jack Springton, take you, Polly Bunson, to be my lawful wedded wife.”
Jack rattles the words off, staring at me, his impatient frown gone. His gloved hands caress mine and a true smile blossoms on his face.
“Excellent, sir. Now, continue, ‘I promise to love you, to care for you, and to respect you for all of my life.’”
The smile growing on my face stills. Love? Respect? I’m sure those words are for everyone. People probably say them all day, every day, and no thought goes into it. I would have said it to any man who would take me away from my old life.
But I would wish it were true. I don’t know if Jack can say such things and mean them. Love? Perhaps, in the way we’re learning to. Respect? Well, I suppose he cares what I think and feel, and that’s more than anyone else ever has.
His voice scrapes out, so dark and raspy that the registrar peers over his book in alarm.
“I promise. I’ll love you. I’ll care for you. I’ll respect you, Polly. You are... You are my guide to happiness in this city, this life, and this world.”
His claws dig into my palms through our gloved hands.
My breath catches and swirls in my throat. All the air is gone as I nod. No one could doubt that Jack meant it. If they did, they’d be dead. “I know,” I whisper.
“Right, then. Now you, miss. Repeat after me, ‘I, Polly Bunson, take you, Jack Springton, to be my lawful wedded husband.”
“I, Polly Bunson, take you, Jack Springton, to be my lawful wedded husband.”
“I promise to love you, care for you, and respect you for all of my life.”
“I do!” I bounce once on the balls of my feet, rocking forward. “I will!”
“Say it, Polly,” Jack reminds me.
“I promise to love you, care for you, and respect you for all of my life!” I vow. I have bound myself to something inhuman. Probably unholy. But I can’t see him that way. So many people in this city would have classed me the same as him, dog shite, lower than low because of my poor birth and rough upbringing. Jack will cherish me, in his own odd way, and I shall do the same for him, ever grateful.
But what I feel as he pulls off my glove and presses my ring over my finger is far from mere gratitude.
The registrar clucks his tongue. “I see we’re skipping the optional readings, are we? You may exchange rings,” the registrar says in a disapproving tone, put out that Jack beat him to it.
I push the silver in my hand over Jack’s gloved finger, not daring to expose his claws.
“Sign, madam.”
Madam. I truly am! I’m a madam, a married woman, no longer Miss Bunson, but Mrs. Springton.
I take the pen from the page with the lank hair and feel Jack’s hips pressing into me through the full skirt of my gown. He stands indecently close, sniffing me loudly, one hand tracing down the back of my neck.
No one dares to say anything—and why would they? I’m free from Bunson, but in the eyes of the law and England, a worthless woman of no parentage or means is only an extension of her husband. I belong to Jack Springton, not just as his wife, but his property.
A slick of desire and a whisper of fear mingle between my legs.
I liked belonging to Jack Springton’s household as his housekeeper and servant—but servants can leave if they must. For a wife to leave her husband... Well, I don’t think Jack would ever allow me to leave him while I drew breath.
His arms tighten around my waist as he dashes off his name beside mine, a scrawl he makes with one hand as his arms still fold me tight to his chest. To reach the book, his wrist presses firmly to my breast, and when he drops the pen, his fingers trail over my throat, turning my head for a kiss. “Come,” he says.
Bespelled, I do, floating with him—and soon realizing that we are floating. Outside, we skim the ground, him pulling us upward as easily as if climbing invisible stairs. In moments, we rest on a rooftop as the sun casts dull beams across steeples and the proud, clean facades of the beautiful bits of London—a few miles and a million lives away from the place where I was brought up.
“It’s still several hours until the night falls,” Jack says, squinting into the sun.
“Time for tea?”
“Indeed. And then the darkness will belong to us.”
“Wh-what does the darkness matter?” I ask. The whisper of fear becomes an insistent voice, a child’s call from far away.
Desire only shouts louder as he licks the side of my neck and stops at my earlobe, lips closing over it, sucking as he sucked my nipples earlier, as he sucks my hidden pearl while his fingers ravage me.
“You like things to be done a certain way, my Polly,” he moves his mouth a fraction higher, speaking into the shell of my ear. “You wouldn’t want to be bedded unless it was on our wedding night—and that night is closing in fast. I think I can wait. I used to wait months before hapless humans straggled into my domain. I can wait another few hours before you fall into my bed.”
That makes it sound as if he’s going to fuck me—and possibly eat me. If he eats me in the way that he has been, a sort of licking and chewing without ever swallowing, I will be quite content. If only the little voice would stop its frantic calls. Nothing to be afraid of...
Of course there is. But I think... I hope that there is even more to love.
SHE IS SOMEHOW EVEN more lovely now that she’s mine—and her face has lost that thin, pinched, parched look it had the first time I saw her. My blood was burning with lust, and now it boils with anger. I wonder how often she went hungry.
I have felt those pains. Can relate to them.
“The entire rack of roasted lamb, sir? And new potatoes, minted peas, and a spiced pudding with brandy sauce to follow? Now?”
The waiter stands at my elbow, a frown on his face. “The entire thing. Now.” I don’t repeat my order, but I see most people around us have lighter fare.
“I...”
My glare warns the man in his stiff white shirt and jet-black jacket not to press me.
“Very good, sir.” He retreats, and I can return to my favorite hobby—gazing at my wife.
“Can you do that to all people? Look at them and they obey you?” she asks, sincere curiosity in her sweet voice.
We sit close together at Simpson’s, basking in the darkest corner they had to offer, again something I requested to which the waiter was hesitant to agree. My stare was all he needed to comply.
“I don’t know how well it works,” I say smoothly. “Let’s test it.”
Polly stills, looking at me with nervous expectation in her eyes, fingers splayed on the edge of the thick, creamy linen that covers our table.
“Give me your hand,” I say, sliding my chair even closer to hers.
She obeys, instantly.
I would love to tell her to slide her fingers under her dress and start to stir her fingers in her hot, unopened box, but with the acres of fabric that protect her womanhood from outsiders, that notion is frankly quite ridiculous. She couldn’t obey without overturning the table. Instead, I simply hold her hand, stroking the finger that wears my ring.
“Is that how you got the registrar to marry us so quickly?” she whispers.
“Oh, no. I didn’t want to risk a problem with anyone important today. I simply gave him a handful of banknotes and explained we had an urgent situation.”
Polly jerks her hand away to bring both to her mouth, eyes darting around. “Jack! He’ll think I’m in the club.”
“What club? Why?”
“The pudding club! Going to have a baby,” she hisses.
“Hm. Don’t you want one?” I ask, and I’m suddenly concerned I won’t be able to give her one.
The thought of Polly lying face down, knees denting a mattress while both of her holes spill my seed in copious, sticky trails down her thighs fills my mind.
If I can’t give her one, I’ll have fun trying.
“I’d love a little one of my own one day, but I wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t. There are hundreds of children with no mother and no father.”
She is so good—which must be why she tastes so divine. A gift on my tongue. Her blood is like air and wine in one, and I don’t have to tear into her to receive it.
“A Flameheel mother doesn’t even raise her own spawn, let alone someone else’s.”
Polly’s face loses its soft, contented look. “I hope the children at Bunson’s are faring better because of your kindness, Jack. I don’t know Eric Bunson as well, but he always struck me as cut from the same piece of cloth as his brother. Still, knowing the children have some generous benefactor willing to protect them from him must give him pause.”
My shoulders jump. Kind? Generous? Benefactor, protector? Is that what I am? “Do you like that I’m willing to bring them gifts and threaten Eric Bunson’s life if he misuses them?”
She laughs! A sparkling light laugh that must make me the envy of all the other patrons here.
I wish it was night. I wish our food would appear. I want to grip Polly’s thigh in my hand while I suck meat off bones, I want to grope her soft, heavy breasts when I tear into flesh that isn’t hers, that won’t cause her any pain.
“Your first course, sir. Madam.” The waiter is back with some dark brown broth in bowls with bread rolls beside them.
“Ooh, thank you!” Polly breathes out, and grabs my hand tighter, a happy little clutch.
It occurs to me that she has probably never eaten a meal that she didn’t have to make herself since she was an adult—and that the quality of the food was probably nothing like this. Even my nostrils are twitching with delight just from the steam rising over them. “I love seeing you happy,” I say, and I realize it’s true.
She reaches out and strokes my cheek. Hesitates, and then her fingers slide through my hair and across my horns. For a second, she runs her fingertip along the faint ridges in them, and I feel her touch go straight to my cock—and my heart.
No one has ever come to me to touch me willingly, save her. “You are such a beautiful thing. Such a strange gift,” I whisper, finding her free hand and kissing her knuckles just once. I want her to be able to keep touching me but still eat.
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” Polly whispers back. Her hand finishes its circuit and trails down my face once more.
“I make you happy?”
“Yes. Sometimes you scare me—but not more than Mr. Bunson, if I think about it.”
I don’t know whether to feel pleased, insulted, or just horrified that an adult human inflicted such fear on an innocent young woman—an innocent child! Polly was raised by the horrid scum I killed. Right now, I wish I could spit him out and never dirty my lips with his blood. “My vows were true. And I will still make sure that you like the things I ask you to do. You never have to say yes to something if it doesn’t please you or bring you pleasure.”
Polly nods, cheeks flushed. “We should eat before it gets cold.”
I nod. We should eat—because I want her wrapped around me.
TENDERNESS IS SOMETHING reserved for ladies, genteel folk. I tell myself that if I were a normal housekeeper, married to any normal bloke, my wedding night would be a drunken round of slap and tickle and then a hurried rush in the morning to appear decent before my employers.
The idea that tonight will be something new—and definitely not something tender—weighs on me as Jack carries me home in the darkening sky. He clutches me close as he rises, climbing, jumping, soaring over chimney pots and rooftops. No one seems to notice. I stare behind us and see the smokey blue haze cast by his heels.
“I can hear you swallowing, and I wish you would stop. It makes me want to wrap my hands around your throat while I bury myself in your mouth. And I haven’t figured out how to position us to do that.”
“Mr. Springton!” I gasp, startled by the image he puts in my head—and how wet the throb of his voice makes me.
“ Mrs . Springton. That makes it all quite proper, doesn’t it, Polly?” he asks as we land lightly on our own windowsill.
“I... The fires need to be laid,” I squirm down from his grasp, not entirely frightened, but not entirely ready. I play for time.
Jack lands next to me and smiles, a slow, impudent smile as he stamps his foot once and pivots on his toe. A blast of bright blue fire spurts into the hearth and the dead logs roar to life.
“The lamps—”
“I don’t need them. I can see you in the pitch blackness. Oh, yes. That’s right. When my head is between your thighs, you’re not hiding any secrets from me. I can see straight into that tight little cunt of yours, all the nectar dripping from your walls, waiting to coat my tongue. I can see that tight little pucker down below, too, the second—or perhaps third—place I intend to bury my cock.”
Jack swaggers to me. There is no other word for it, unless perhaps it’s prowling. Yes, he prowls around me, some hungry beast in the wild, shedding his clothes. Hat, cloak, stick, gloves, they peel off in a line as he circles me. “Light the lamps if you like, love, if you want to share the view.”
“F-firelight is fine,” I squeak as he grabs me and kisses me.
“I do love you, you know?” Jack breaks the kiss to squint at me as if I’m something strange he’s just discovered. “This all-consuming desire, the choice of starvation with you rather than fullness without you... That’s love.”
“You won’t starve! You ate almost an entire rack of lamb and twelve potatoes,” I chide, but I’m not truly scolding. I’m singing inside. He said it again. Love.
Is love supposed to be so scary, so exciting, and so comforting all at once?
“Say it back.” Jack’s voice is harder now. His fingers tighten on my wrist, and I almost pull back, but I stop. “Say it.”
The voice was a command, now it’s a plea.
My tongue freezes to the roof of my mouth. “N-no,” I say, and he throws my hand back as if it’s burnt him. “No, Jack! I... It’s hard for me to say the pretty things sometimes,” I stammer, holding my hands out for him to grab, heart hammering when he does, clutching them so that his claws break the skin. “If you put me on the spot like that, I go to pieces. Freeze up. I never... I never had anyone to love of my own. Not that I can remember.” I try to concentrate on my mother’s face, and it’s a blur of tired eyes and graying hair, a hurried shove from her lap, a quick kiss on the head as she rushed to scrub a pot or carry out tubs of filthy water to throw in the gutter.
“Ah. Well. Maybe you’ll say it in a little while?” he asks, his lips brushing mine, then sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth crush it, pulling it in until it’s swollen and tingling from the force of it.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I know I will. Because I do.”
I SHED MY CLOTHES EASILY , while Polly is in a tangle of buttons and hooks and straps. She vanishes like a ghost into the privy while I stand with her gown in my hand. “Polly!”
“Just a minute! Won’t be a tic!”
I sulk. My bride is probably washing off all the delicious scents and flavors I wanted to imbibe. I can smell her blood, pooling between her legs, and I wanted to inhale her as a drunkard buries his face in a snifter. Well...
After tonight, there will be a fresh flood, once I impale her on my length.
If she doesn’t come out soon, I’m going in.
“How long is a moment?” I demand, pacing.
“Till I’ve had a good scrub.”
“I don’t want you scrubbed. I want you as you are—the wetter and messier the better,” I give one rap on the door, controlling my strength so my fist doesn't go through it.
There’s hurried splashing and a squeak from inside. Ooh, those little sounds. My ears tingle, listening for the sounds of my prey. My hooves itch, my horns ache. I want to touch her. Fuck her.
She’s mine now.
“You’re mine now,” I sing against the crevice of the door, claws tracing down the wood.
I’M HIS NOW. MY HEART pounds, anxious and eager. I clean myself up thoroughly, luxuriating in hot water and fragrant soap, towels that rinse out, and pipes that take it all away. My sighs of relief come out shaky as his claws scrape against the door. “Don’t mark the door,” I call out, voice quivering.
“Then open it so I can mark something far softer and sweeter,” he croons.
The second my fingers touch the handle, I fall through the door and into Jack’s embrace. His bare chest collides with mine as I drop the towel I had wrapped around myself. He’s still in trousers and those boots. Will I ever find out if he has those hooves like he said?
Do I truly want to know?
“Bed. Now. Or floor. Wall. Settee. I don’t care,” Jack growls against my neck as rough hands squeeze my breasts, setting my nipples to searing with sudden, sharp pleasure.
“Bed!” I shout as he knocks me off my feet, only to catch me in his arms and carry me to his room—not mine.
This room is bigger, the bed is bigger, but the whole place seems dark and barren. Jack slams his heel to the ground and the fire roars to life behind the fancy iron grate. In the shadowy glow of the fire, Jack plants my rear on the very edge of the bed and drops to his knees.
I’m learning what he likes, but my stomach is still in knots as he tips my nude body back and splays my legs far apart. With one hungry groan, Jack falls to his work, lapping me up like I’m a custard, his tongue working across me and then in me, his fingers prying me wide open tonight, leaving no trace hidden.
“Jack, please...” I don’t know what I want the end of my plea to be. He pushes his tongue deep inside and it swirls, touching some crinkled spot that makes my knees slam into his shoulders and my breath escapes in a long hiss.
“Oooh. Is that a good sound? I already know your answer.” Jack withdraws, licking his lips. “I can barely scratch the surface of that spot. You narrow inside, a tunnel waiting to be opened. Fingers would be better, but...” Jack stands up suddenly and leans between my legs.
Lit by the firelight, all I can see is the long, thick erection he holds. He jerks it hard with his hand, and I can see that it would easily take both of his hands to cover it. A spasm of pain and pleasure rushes across his face as his shoulders go slack and his head lolls.
“I think this will reach far better, Polly.”
I swallow and sit up, years’ worth of whispered comments and overheard gossip puddling in my brain about what men want women to do, what they ask, what they demand. I know what Jack wants, and I’m not sure I’m going to be good at it. So far, all he’s done is serve me, a thing most women in the world probably know nothing about (well, if the world is anything like Whitechapel).
With my eyes on the floor, I reach for his length, wrapping around it with my fingers. I’ve touched him before, but he seemed smaller then. My hand slides for inches, up and down, feeling coarse hair at the base and smooth, satiny skin at the top, with slick streams running from a wide, oblong tip.
“Not quite like a human’s.”
“More like a cart horse’s,” I blurt, and some of the tension I feel melts as Jack laughs.
“You are a wonderful wife already, Polly. Such a fine light touch—which I imagine is suitable for most humans. The ones I’ve—encountered—seem to have something the size of a walnut.”
I laugh again. “I doubt the men you’ve ‘encountered’ were feeling their oats, Jack. More like terrified for their lives.”
“That could be it. But I’m not like human men. A little harder,” he urges, showing me, wrapping his fingers around my hand and gliding with me, up and down his rigid cock.
Glide isn’t the word. Soon, we are pumping hard, like working a bellows. Both my hands are around him, and my shoulders begin to ache from going so hard and fast, but Jack is twitching and moaning my name, his fingers buried in my hair.
Until one hand is suddenly under my chin. “Open,” he commands.
My lips part and his length steams in, an angry train that’s hot to the touch and leaking salty drops into my mouth. Inch after inch piles in, hitting the back of my throat, and I gag, dizzy as I lose air and fall back.
“Do you like when my tongue works against your bead?”
I do, but I can’t make a noise.
“I want to feel your mouth. Your tongue. Sucking, licking, biting...”
I bite softly and Jack backs up a bit, a wide smile on his face. “Perfection,” he praises.
SHE IS PERFECTION. Her tight, hot mouth is the perfect channel, the right dock for my vessel. I plow forward, hips fucking her mouth more gently than I will fuck her slit, but with a delightful cacophony of noises. She gurgles, gags, and slurps around me, sucking and drooling as I chase completion. Her eyes keep seeking mine, waiting to see if this is what I want.
“It’s perfect. Everything I desire, an expert’s touch—and yet I know I’m the first one to so defile such an innocent mouth.” I tell her, stroking underneath her watering eyes. “You’re warming me up nicely for your sweet little snatch. Of course, if you want me to warm it up further, I will. I could dine between your legs a dozen times a day, particularly now. You told me these bleeding days are considered forbidden? Then we will break all the rules, because I want your blood, and this is the way nature will gift it to me without causing you anything but pleasure.” I can see her face turning a deeper red, although I’m not sure if that’s because of exertion or embarrassment. I pull my cock from her mouth and she coughs and gasps for air. I don’t let her gasp for long, bending down to kiss her. “I would love to keep playing this game, but I’ll spend down your throat if I do—and I want to come inside of you, buried deep, pressed as far as I can go in your tight, hot tunnel. Will you let me?”
Her voice is rough and weak at the same time. I think I hurt her throat.
Must do better next time.
“All men do that.”
“Well, I shan’t if you don’t like it. I want to, though. I want to pump my spendings deep inside of you and watch it flow back out. I’ll clean you afterwards. And... And I will make sure not to be so vigorous.” I run a hand over my horn, uncomfortable. Flameheels are not apologetic by nature. “I’m sorry. I promised not to do things you disliked, and now you will dislike taking me in your mouth.”
Ugh. Loving a weaker species is problematic—although fucking a female Flameheel is much less enjoyable. Nowhere near as soft.
And they certainly do not reach for me with love, the way Polly is doing. “We are both learning. I didn’t dislike it. It was exciting. It made me dizzy.”
I bend to kiss her swollen lips and flushed cheeks, my fingertips sliding between her legs. The slick sound of me slipping through her folds fills the room. “Very exciting.”
I EXPECT THAT JACK will flatten himself on top of me now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rolls me to my stomach and, when I begin to rise, pushes my knees to the bed so that I’m on all fours. “Stay,” he purrs.
He kneels again, lapping me from behind, suckling on my pearl from underneath. Knowing he can see every part of me leaves me feeling a bit shaken and very exposed—but there’s an odd sort of thrill in knowing he loves to see me like that.
But the rush of excitement and pleasure pales a bit when he grips my cheeks and parts them wide. “Jack!”
“I’ve neglected this spot.”
His fingers dip inside of me, and he rubs my juices around my bumhole. For a moment, I worry that he means to push that long cock of his inside me now, taking every virginity I have in one night.
My stomach tightens, and my quim throbs suddenly. I don’t think I’d mind. The forbiddenness of it mixed with the first feeling of true safety and pleasure I’ve ever had wraps everything in a haze of want and soft, blurry acceptance.
His finger pushes into me, just to the first knuckle, but I gasp loudly and pull forward. “Please...”
“Stop?”
“No.”
“Please what?” His finger burrows deeper, causing a strange fullness, but no pain.
“I don’t know.”
“I won’t go in deep here, if you’re worried. But I do intend to take you here, as often as you like. If you’re afraid of a mess, don’t be. I can tell when entrails are full and when they’re not. I could fuck you quite comfortably tonight, spread your cheeks and slide in to my hilt.” His finger begins to work, thrusting in and out slowly as my head dips to the mattress and my knees slide far apart. “Good?”
“Not... yet?” I don’t feel pain or pleasure, only a confusing sense of shame and excitement.
“Then we’ll wait. Time enough for that later, but fill you I will. Every spot. All mine.”
“Oh, yes,” I breathe out as his finger leaves me and both hands fasten to my hips again. He dips down, licking a slow, teasing line across my quim, a line that turns to a sloppy feast as he rubs a palm against my curls while lapping me, faster, harder, scraping over my tight nub with his teeth and sending me keening and shaking to the very edge—but not over it.
“Budge up, love,” he orders, scooting me forward. His knees plant themselves alongside mine, bare hairy legs next to mine. I hear two heavy clunks and a rustle of fabric. “What was—”
His hands slide over my back, then around my front, anchoring to my breasts as they sway and bounce as we jostle. “I can feel your cunt pulse. A heartbeat. Hungry. Not as hungry as I am. Do you know... Do you know how badly I wanted to consume you? To tear you open to find your soft, red flesh?”
“No. I can’t only imagine. Was—Do you still?” I whisper as his back weighs heavily on mine, his hips cradling my arse. I feel that wide, thick head of his cock rubbing between my legs.
“More than ever, but I could never. Not now. Still, I think the only thing that will soothe the urge is tearing into you some other way. Feeling your hot insides coating me, one way or another.” His whispered words press into my shoulder as his mouth opens and his teeth clamp down.
There’s a flash of pain at the nape of my neck and an answering shooting sharpness as his cock forces its way in deep and hard, all at once. “Ohh! Oh, oh, Jack. Oh, God.” I cry out, pitching forward, but Jack holds me up, forcing my quim to stretch around him as inch after inch opens me.
“I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry.” One of his hands kneads my breast, working the nipple, the other slips around my waist to rub my aching cunt. “Are you in pain?”
Yes, a little. A lot.
There’s the burning sting of being stretched and so full. Tears start to my eyes, but I don’t think it was Jack’s intent to hurt me. His fingers and hands have worked diligently to bring nothing but bliss. “You’re just a big lad, and all virgins have a bit that has to be broken,” I reassure, eyes shut.
“I’d hoped I’d stretched you enough with my fingers,” he murmurs, holding still inside of me.
“You did, for a cock belonging to a man. Yours is much larger.”
Much larger—and maybe that’s good. The sting is fading. The pressure builds and I like it, the heaviness of his rod weighing inside of me, the stretch now starting to lose its sharp edge. Pleasurable waves work through me as my body adjusts.
“You just soaked me, pet. Is your body trying to soften the blow?” he whispers.
“Mm.” A noncommittal noise as I push back against him, an obscene squelching of stuffed cunt and fluids assaulting my ears. I bite my lip, ready to stammer an apology when Jack sighs and kneads my rump and breast harder.
“What a glorious sound.” He licks my cheek, and I feel his hard horn brush my temple. “Open your eyes, sweet, delicious Polly. The view is... stimulating.”
For him perhaps, but I can’t see anything like this. I thought all women laid on their backs or stood bent over if they were in a hurry or afraid of being caught.
“I can’t see your face,” I complain.
“You can’t see a lot of me. Not yet.”
I WANT TO SEE HER FACE , but I don’t want her to see my monstrous legs or my hooves. Not yet. Besides, the sight I have now... I don’t know how any other position can compare to this one.
When I straighten up, I put my hands in the small of her back, letting her begin to speed up, each bump of her hips earning a deep, surprised sound of pleasure from her. I want to comment on her noises, on her scent, on how good it feels to plunge myself into her flesh without hurting her—but for the past minute, all I can do is moan and grunt, and try not to come too quickly. When she slides forward, she reveals her blood-stained outer lips, the ones that used to be such a pretty peach. Now, they are crimson, and so is my cock.
My cock, covered in her blood, feeling her hot walls squeezing on me...
“I want to fuck you now,” I whisper through clenched jaws.
“I thought—oh, God... I thought that’s what this was called?” she whimpers in delight, her walls fluttering against my rod.
“It is. But You’re stretching nicely, aren’t you? Ready for more,” I praise. “Ready to let me fuck you properly, my good girl. My perfect, darling wife.” Each word earns a hard thrust, a squeak from her as I ram in, a moan of loss as I pull out. “Tell me I can fuck you hard and make you come, Polly. I want to feel your cunt gushing out your juices. Tell me I can?”
“You can!” Her voice breaks as I reach under her and diddle in her messy curls, stroking circles around her bead and slamming my hips against her soft, white globes.
“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jaaaack !” Her calls of my name rise, crescendoing desperately while I beat myself with her softness, my cock swelling, thickening, preparing to let loose the second she arrives.
I feel it happen, the torsion of her walls that milks me as she buries her face in the covers and screams out a guttural, animal-like cry.
The blood cry, without the killing.
It’s glorious. There’s a spray of blood and her cum against my balls, and I dig my claws in, leaving ten perfect diamonds of blood on her arse, a bridal belt for my lovely wife, no longer my virgin bride.
My own cum leaves me in heaving explosions, violent jerks by an unseen hand. It’s like nothing I've ever felt, and it fills her and overflows her opening, still tight, even after I’ve stretched it so viciously. Hot cream streaked with her blood flows down the backs of her thighs and spills onto the bed.
I pull back, and she falls forward, curling up as if she would hide what a beautiful, soaking mess she is.
“Please, Jack, I’m—”
Whatever protest she was about to make, I ignore, pushing her onto her back, no longer caring if she sees me. With a harsh pant, I stuff three fingers into her swollen, ruined slit and swirl my wrist around. “So hot and wet still.” She quivers, a mix of pain and pleasure on her face. I remove my fingers and hold them up, showing her our glistening combined offering in the firelight. “Want a taste?” I ask.
Polly hesitates, mouth open, lower lip trembling.
I expect to shock her, to see her refuse.
It stuns me when she nods once and softly says, “All right. A little one.”
I suck greedily on two fingers and lick my palm, but I dab my forefinger on her plump, quivering lower lip and watch her lick up my cum.
“It’s a bit bitter,” she says.
My dear unshakeable, brave, beautiful Polly. “Look at me?” I whisper.
She does, taking me in as I stand by the bed, covered in our fluids.
Her eyes travel down. Human-like thighs that turn to hairy hocks, then shining black hooves.
“You’re ever so handsome,” she says.
The swelling and bursting I had in our coupling is nothing compared to the feeling in my chest as she holds out her arms to me, nothing but gentle happiness and exhaustion in her eyes.
“Will we do this face-to-face now?” she asks as I join her on the bed.
I want to. I crave it.
But she’s probably a little sore.
I’m such a selfish creature by nature, and I see nothing wrong in putting one’s own needs first. But for once, or maybe more than once since meeting her, I would rather take care of her first. “When you’re rested and ready,” I reassure.
To my surprise, her fingers trace down my chest and close over my wet cock. “In a few minutes?”
“I love you,” I sigh—and I mean it.