13. Maeve #2
My hand grips the furs. My face presses into the thickness of them.
I should go quiet, every old instinct screaming it.
But his fist is clenched in my hair, pulling, holding me in place while he drives, and the position puts me completely under him, completely unable to move in any direction except into his cock.
“Mine,” he says. The word torn from his chest. “Own this. Own you.“
Two sentences. Simple. Feral. The most direct claim he’s produced, and it lands in my body like prophecy.
My throat does something complicated hearing it.
Prophecy is the word that surfaces because it’s the only one big enough, and it scares me that my mind reached for it without permission.
Ownership is supposed to be a camp word, a word for cattle and workers and things with numbers instead of names.
It isn’t supposed to make my hips roll up to meet him.
His cock is shaking. The vibration changes, becomes more pronounced, more erratic, the pulses speeding up. The tail cinches tighter around his base. The pressure builds. His breathing goes into sharp, choppy gasps. His hand in my hair goes rigid.
He fucks deeper. One final hard drive that pushes the knot against my opening, that brings his hips flush against my ass, that locks him as deep as physics allows while his balls are still full and heavy.
Then he comes.
The flood is massive. His cock pulses and throbs inside me, hot thick cum pouring into me with a force that makes my abs clench involuntarily.
His hand locks in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my neck to his mouth, his venom marking while he’s cumming, while every muscle in his body is locked tight, while his tail’s grip is wringing him dry.
The orgasm hits me suddenly. No climb. No warning. Just the pressure of him inside me, the pulsing of his cock, the knowledge that he’s giving everything he has, and my body answers with a clench so hard my teeth lock and the sound that comes out is muffled by the furs.
“Yes,” he says. Ragged. Rough. His voice cracking. “Good mate. Good.”
The fast fuck ends the way it always does—with him locked deep, his cock still pulsing, the tail slowly unwrapping from his base now that the immediate need is passed.
He’s breathing hard. His forehead drops to my shoulder blade, the horns framing my ribs, his whole nine-foot frame momentarily spent.
But not for long.
The second fast fuck happens before I’ve finished coming down.
He shifts. Not pulling out—just changing angle.
My hands are reaching, helping, because my body knows the rhythm now.
This is the cycle. The orgasm bleeds into the shift bleeds into the next position.
His hands on my waist, lifting me, turning me so I’m on my back, my legs bent and spread, my heels pressing into the furs.
The knot is still swollen, still there, but he’s re-hardening, the cock already thickening again, the venom already working, driving the need back up before the last orgasm is finished.
“More,” he says. Not a request. Not a question. Just what’s true.
He’s on top of me. His weight is enormous, his forearms braced wide enough that his body isn’t crushing, but there’s nowhere to go.
His shadow fills my whole sky. His cock drives in and the position is tighter than the last—my legs bent so tight they’re almost to my chest, the angle driving the tip of his cock directly against the spot with each stroke.
The orgasm that’s still dying blooms again.
His tail is already on my clit, the bone-white tip sliding between our bodies, pressing directly on the swollen ache with each one of his thrusts.
The tip of his cock finding the spot. The knot bumping against my opening.
His breath on my face. His gold eyes watching my face while I come, watching the moment the second orgasm—or is it the same one still, just evolving—rips a sound from my throat that doesn’t come from my training.
It comes from my body.
His cum floods again. Massive. The tail cinches—is he using it as a cock-ring again?—and he’s pumping harder, faster, the desperation written across his whole face, across the way his muscles are shaking with the effort of restraint.
“Keep,” he says. The command rough and broken. “Inside.”
I clench. Hard. Deliberately. The first time I’ve come while thinking, while adding my own pressure to the effort.
My walls grip. The contraction pulls him deeper and his whole body goes rigid and he comes again, flooding, endless, the knot locking so tight at the base that nothing gets out, everything belongs to the space between my legs.
The orgasm peaks. Holds. Breaks.
I collapse under him, breathing hard, my body completely wrung. His wings unfold—the membranes spreading wide enough to block the canopy light, turning everything into a shadow-cave where it’s just his weight, his cock, his heat, and the endless steady pulse of his cum inside me.
The third orgasm is building already. The tail is still on my clit. The knot is still locked. His cock is starting to soften—not weak, just transitioning to the lull-state—but the damage is done. My walls are too sensitive, too ready.
“Again,” I say. The word surprises me. I’m asking. I’m asking him to do it again.
His eyes drop to mine. Gold and dark and completely clear. He sees the choice. He sees the moment my camp training loses the argument to my body.
He kisses me.
His mouth is hot. It tastes like venom, copper, something that’s just him, his breath filling my next inhale with the same dense, warm smell that lives in the furs, in his skin, in me now too.
His tongue slides in—prehensile like his cock, moving with intention, with feeling.
The combination of his mouth, his cock, the tail on my clit—it’s enough to send the orgasm that was building into a full rip.
I come against his mouth, my walls clenching, his cock throbbing in response, the vibration from the knot joining the pressure from the tail and the heat of his breath until everything blurs into one long wave.
The lull finds us tangled.
My leg is slung over his hip. His arm is under my waist. His cock is soft inside me, the prehensile flex gone completely idle, the knot still there but softened just enough to let blood flow, to let my walls relax.
His cum is heavy and warm and endless inside me, leaking out slowly where the seal isn’t perfect, dripping onto the furs, marking the place where he keeps me.
I’m aware of my body in a way I never was before the camps. My muscles are coming back—not strong, not yet, but the outline of strength is visible under the skin, muscles remembering what they were supposed to do.
My hunger is honest now. Not the screaming panic of starvation. Just hungry. An ache I can live in. An ache he understands, because his hand is already finding food, already feeding me pieces of fish—softer than the meat, easier on the teeth, the nutrients different, intentional.
“Eat,” he says.
I eat. His hand comes away and my mouth opens automatically, a learned response that shouldn’t be learned in only seven days but my body has learned it perfectly.
Food in. Swallow. Open. Food in. Swallow.
His eyes are tracking the motion of my throat, tracking the point where his cum sits heavy below.
“Good,” he says. His voice is more human now. The feral edge fading back into the background, something steadier and more careful stepping forward in its place. “Body strong.”
“Yeah,” I say. The word feels true in a way it shouldn’t yet. “Getting there.”
His hand moves from my belly to my shoulder. Tests the range of motion gently. I roll it backward and the grind is there but the pain isn’t, just resistance and the knowledge that it’s improving.
He grunts. Satisfied. Reaches for more food.
Between the second and third fast fuck, I ask the question that’s been sitting in my body since the lull started.
“How long?” My voice is quiet. Conversational. The way you’d ask about weather. “The rut. How long is it?”
His hand stills on the food. His eyes move to my face. He’s considering the question the way a feral male would consider a threat—weighing, measuring, deciding if the answer is safe to give.
“Two more weeks,” he says finally. The words are slow. Chosen. The human part of him wrestling the answer into form. “Maybe three. Body tell.”
The light coming through the canopy gaps has gone the color of dusk, deep orange bleeding across his crimson skin, catching on the curve of one white horn. His face in that light looks less like a monster’s and more like a male working hard to get a sentence right.
Two more weeks.
Fourteen days of this cycle. Fourteen days of the lull, the fast fuck, the long knot. Fourteen days of knowing that when this rut ends, he might leave. The rut isn’t permanent. It always ends.