Page 17 of Feral Keep

9

MAEVE

His tail is wrapped around his cock.

It cinches before he drives in—a coil at the base, tight, deliberate. Now the tail pulses there while he fucks me. Slow thrusts. Deep. The girth dragging against my walls on every pull, the tip curling forward on every push. His cock is enormous and the tail around the base makes the cock seem even thicker, the stretch at my opening constant. The musk of him rises thick and warm off his skin with every slow drive, dark as the ground where he found me, except now it’s mine to breathe instead of just walk through.

He’s not rushing.

The camp-brain keeps saying the same things: big, inside you, can’t stop it, not hurting, not hurting, why is it not hurting. Under the litany there’s something closer to wonder than fear now, small and unfamiliar, a feeling I don’t have a camp-word for because nothing in four years ever needed one. The venom has the pain locked down. Whatever his tail puts into my skin, and it drips cool at the base of my spine every few minutes, keeps the cracked ribs quiet, keeps the stretch from becoming a tear.

Nothing softens it now: no pain to blur the edges. Every inch of him. Heat off his cock. The flex of the tip finding the spot on my front wall and pressing it like a question I don’t have an answer to. The tail pulsing at the base, rhythmic, steady, a second heartbeat between my legs.

I try to go upstairs.

The women in the camps called it that. Going upstairs. When your body was being beaten, when the clearing work got so bad your hands bled and the eunuchs wouldn’t let you stop, you sent your mind somewhere else. A room above the room you were in. Gretchen was good at it: she could go upstairs for hours during a punishment detail, come back down when it was over, wipe her face, rejoin the line. I never learned the trick. My mind always snagged on something physical, a sound, a pressure, and dragged me back.

I used to envy her for it, quietly, the way you envy someone a skill that might save your life someday. I wonder if she’s using it right now, wherever she is, whatever’s being done to her body while mine lies here in furs that don’t hurt. The thought lands hard and I have nowhere to set it down.

His cock flexes. The tip presses the spot. My hips jerk and I’m here. In the furs. Against his chest. His cock deep inside me with his tail cinched around the base like a tourniquet.

I can’t go upstairs. He won’t let me.

The tail does something I don’t expect.

It tightens. Not just pulsing now—squeezing. The coil at the base of his cock constricts and his breath changes behind me. Harder. A rumble in his chest that vibrates through my spine. His thrusts get slower but heavier. The kind of thrust that pushes my whole body forward in the furs.

He’s building.

I know building. The camp taught that too—the guards got louder at the end, rougher, faster. This isn’t faster. This is the opposite. His hips driving forward in long, grinding strokes while the tail chokes his cock at the root. Holding it in. Holding it back.

His balls press against me on every push. Heavy. Fuller than before—heavier against my skin, hotter, the way they swing and slap with each slow drive. The tail is keeping it in, his body building it up behind the coil, and the difference lives in his cock. Harder. Hotter. The cock swelling against my walls with each stroke.

He fucks me like this for a long time.

I stop trying to go upstairs. There’s nowhere to go. His cock fills every corner of the room inside my body. The tail at the base keeps tightening. His balls keep getting heavier and his thrusts keep getting deeper, and there is nothing in the ceiling to look at that is more present than what is happening between my legs.

His breathing roughens. A growl—not at me, not a threat. The sound a body makes when it’s holding something back that wants out. My hip tightens under his hand. His other hand settles low over my stomach. The cock swells. Thickens. My walls stretch around the extra girth and the old vigilance in me says more, he’s getting bigger, and then⁠—

The tail releases.

Everything happens at once.

The knot fills so fast I gasp. The swelling—not gradual, but a sudden expansion at my opening that seals me shut around him. His cock goes rigid. The tip locks against my front wall. The vibration starts.

Not the low hum from before. This is deeper. Harder. A buzzing pressure that moves through the knot into my walls, into the bone of my pelvis, into my spine. My cracked ribs pick it up and the venom chases the ache before it can land.

He comes.

The first surge hits like a wave—hot, thick, a flood of cum that fills the space behind the knot and keeps going. His cock pulses in long contractions, each one pushing more into me. Without my permission, my walls clench around him. Gripping. Pulling. The reflex that makes my body milk his cock like it knows what to do with this even though I don’t.

Nothing about him slows.

A sound rumbles out of him against my back, low, barely words. “More cum.” It’s aimed at nothing I can name—my body, his own, the both of us together—like even his voice is just one more thing pouring into me.

A minute. Two. The cum keeps coming. His cock pulsing, the knot rock-hard, the vibration relentless. My belly is warm. Not the gentle warmth from before—a spreading heat, a fullness that pushes outward against his palm, low on my stomach. His cum pools inside me. Thick. Heavy. More than a body should hold. The smell of it rises even from inside me, warm and salt-heavy, threading under the woodsmoke that always hangs in this room.

He still doesn’t stop.