Page 30 of Feral Keep

The fast fuck is different from the lull.

This is the drive. His hand comes off my belly, comes to my hip as he shifts me—rolling me forward just enough that I’m on my stomach, the furs bunched under my hips, pushing my ass up and back toward him. His knot is still swollen, still mostly sealed, but he’s thickened for this. His cock is somehow even fatter. His tail unwraps from his body and repositions itself under his cock, wrapping around the base right above the knot, cinching tight.

The cock-ring.

The pressure makes him grunt. Makes his whole body go rigid for a second as the tail’s grip restricts the outflow, backs everything up, the cum, the need. His balls hang heavy, bloated with seed that can’t escape because his own tail has locked him shut except for the passage his cock will drive through. The smell coming off him now is different—darker, denser, the effort of holding back sharpening it into something that catches low in my chest.

He fucks.

Hard. Fast. Driven. No patience now. This is the male at the height of his rut, fucking with the singular focus of mounting and breeding and filling, the human part of him barely present, the feral part completely in charge. Each thrust rocks my whole body forward. Each pull back drags the thick heat of his cock through me in a way that makes my eyes water. The knot doesn’t fully unlock—it’s still sealed, still humming—but he’s thrusting with the part of his cock that’s anterior to the knot, driving into me with a force that makes the base of the knot press hard against my opening.

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.