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There is something in the woods. It can smell it—alcohol, first, sharp. Sweat, underneath. Something else, sweet. It moves closer.
It prowls, near-silently, through dew-soaked grass and long-dead leaves. The scents thicken, coalesce. Noise follows. Something is trampling through its woods, clumsy, unpracticed, off-balance. A clearing, near the edge. It’s close now. It crouches, waits, hidden in the underbrush.
There is something—no, someone in the woods. She is off-balance, giggling, stumbling through the bushes. She shivers, squirms, glances around. She smells delicious. It tilts its snout up, trying to catch more of her scent on the air. Clearly, she had applied perfume at some point in the night, but it is almost entirely covered by the stink of booze and sweat. She pushes through the brush, crossing fully into its field of vision, hand out to a tree for balance, and rubs her thighs together, tugs uncoordinatedly at her skirt. It can’t help itself: it feels compelled to get closer. It crawls forward on its belly, paying less attention than it should. A twig snaps.
Her head jerks up, a deer caught in headlights. She reeks of fear. She gasps, sharply. “No, no, no,” she whispers, the tugging on her skirt increasing in frequency even as it decreases in coordination. Her thighs tremble; it can smell her desperation on the air. Another scent overpowers the rest, acrid, as her control on her bladder gives. She cries out weakly, watching helplessly as it splatters loudly against the leaves beneath her. Her heels, impractical for the giving earth, are ruined. She tries to crouch, unsteady between them, putting most of her weight on the tree beside her as she does, and tips her head back, moaning.
It growls, low, subvocal. She’s marking its territory. It can smell nothing but her: the lingering fear, the need, the relief, the anticipation. She has no idea, likely, that she’s challenged it. A shiver runs down its back. It hasn’t had the opportunity for excitement like this in ages.
“What’s a sweet little thing like you doing in my forest? Are you lost?” It taunts, rising from four limbs to two. Before it, she makes a high-pitched noise, stumbling backwards as she tries, fruitlessly, to cover where she is still wetting herself. Well, it simply can’t stand for that.
“Tsk tsk,” it clucks, hums, faux-sympathetic. “None of that now, sweetling. Have you got any explanation for yourself?”
Her eyes rove over its body, wide, mouth gaping. She makes a lovely little noise. The smell of want deepens, mingles with the fear. “I’m so sorry,” she recovers, swallowing thickly, “I didn’t know I was trespassing. I had a little too much to drink and needed…” she trails off, hand twitching as though to gesture.
“To what, darling? Ruin a perfectly good pair of panties in front of me?” She inhales, flushes straight across her cheeks and down her neck. It spends a thought to wonder if the blush goes further, then one more to spin a glorious fantasy in which it takes its claws to that ridiculous pink top and finds out.
“You’re the one who startled me!” She accuses, a surprising amount of fire and clarity for one who seemed much less sober a few moments earlier.
It inspects a claw. “I’m responsible for the bounds of this forest. It’s not my fault an interloper caught my attention. And regardless, sweetheart, I don’t take well to challenges of authority.” It raises an eyebrow at her mess, sniffs deeply to sell the point. This is my claim, it says, you have overstepped.
Her brows furrow, raise, furrow again. “I challenged you? By… what, marking your special tree or something? Like a dog?” She sounds disbelieving.
Its smile is crowded with teeth. “Oh, she’s got it now. You want a prize?”
“That isn’t my fault,” she protests, “I didn’t know! You can’t seriously be mad about that. Look, I’ll never do it again!” It lets the silence stretch as she squirms, increasingly uncomfortable. “C’mon! Let… let me make it up to you?”
It licks its chops. “Cute. You want to make it up to me?”
In unconscious mimicry, she licks her own lips. Her arousal smells delicious. “Looks like I don’t have much choice. Oh please, big bad wolf, what’s a girl to do?”
Despite her best efforts, Pearl snorts. Gem flashes a grin at her, acknowledging the break.
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”
“Hey, you’re the one calling me darling and stuff! C’mon, tell me how I can make it up to you already!” Gem makes her eyes huge, pouting. Pearl wants to bite that lip so badly.
“Well,” it says, settling back in with a shiver, “I can think of a few ways to stake a claim of my own.”
The trespasser’s thighs clench. Her eyes rove its naked, canid form, lingering on the evidence of its own arousal. “…my house isn’t too far outside the forest,” she offers, weakly. “If you want.”
It growls. Another little noise escapes her throat.
“I accept. Lead the way, princess,” it says, snapping its teeth in the air when she doesn’t move quickly enough for its tastes.
In the middle of rising, her knees buckle a little at the sound. Catching herself, she recovers, smoothing down her skirt as she stands fully. There’s a sweet little wet patch on the back, standing out in stark relief to the rest. Following instinct, it drops back to all fours, lunging forward in one smooth motion to get a whiff of it. They both moan simultaneously, her hand hovering above its head as her legs tremble.
“Void,” she gasps, “okay, yeah. This way, then.”
—
The cabin is quaint, cozy, full of luscious plant life on just about every surface. The furniture is made of beautiful, polished wood that shines warmly under the lamplight. The quilt on the bed is clearly handmade, stitched with care, in a number of beautiful colours. The pillow is plush, inviting, clearly down. And every inch of the space smells like her, like shampoo and detergent and nights spent sweating into the sheets and body odour and skin and something earthy.
The quilt, it finds, looks better when she’s stretched across it. The flush is back, and this time it doesn’t just entertain the fantasy of tearing her shirt, raking its claws across the fabric recklessly. It catches her across the collarbone, and she cries out as the skin tears, blood welling up in dots. Just a scratch, really, but it laves its tongue across it anyways, in something approximating apology. She pants, hands fisting in the fabric beneath her.
It pulls back to drink in the sight of her, torn shirt laying open and exposing a lacy little bralette that does nothing to hide her chest, skirt riding up on thighs still tacky with drying piss, showing off a little peek of what looks like a matching set of underwear. Very, very cute.
It lowers its head into her breasts, suckling at the skin exposed above the lace, before a firm shove at its head redirects its attention directly to her nipple. It pays dedicated, exact attention to one until it’s dragged to the other, pressing a gentle kiss to it before circling it with its tongue, moving to suckle at it after it’s teased long enough.
“Fuck, hold on,” she gasps, yanking its head back and tugging impatiently at the band of the bralette until she gets it up over top of her breasts. “Now, good, again.”
It obeys—for now—and returns to work, dragging its lips along the underside of one to see which spots get the best reactions. It adjusts pressure, position, as she sighs and gasps, back arching, hands tugging at its ears. It sucks on as much of her areola as it can at once and she lets out another choked cry, convulsing beneath it. Pleased, it moves to the other side, copying the gesture, palming absentmindedly at her chest as it does.
“More, puppy, please,” she begs, hips rolling. Obliging, it moves further down, sucking a trail down its stomach, taking pleasure in the way she jerks and convulses at particularly sensitive, ticklish spots. It licks across the jut of each hip, rising above the waistband of her skirt, and then bites down on one. She whines, loudly.
Rather than attempting to remove the skirt, it simply pushes the fabric up above her waist. Out of the way, it can finally see the damage to the pale pink lace of her panties, which leave next to nothing to the imagination. They’re soaked, dark nearly the whole way up, and she’s been worked up for a long time now, clearly, because the fine hairs on the insides of her thighs shine with slick in the low light. Without hesitation, it noses its way into her crotch to get a whiff. The smell of her is nearly overwhelming, concentrated, still sour with piss. It groans, licks across her thigh blindly, patiently, over and over, trying to get as much of the taste of her into its mouth as possible.
“Oh, void, please,” she pants above its head, hips jerking as she tries to get any sort of real contact. Instead, it switches to the other thigh, paying it the same loyal attention. On this one, it decides to leave a bruise, sucking hard, introducing a little bit of teeth when she makes a sharp, enthusiastic noise.
Once its had its fill of discovering what desperate, pleading sounds it can wring out of its prey by teasing, it settles in on its true prize, licking its tongue long and flat across her underwear. It repeats the motion over and over, focusing on the crease of the panty against her thigh, pushing its tongue just slightly underneath the edge while she whimpers into open air. Occasionally, it switches over from one side to the other. Tiring quickly of this game, it hooks the crotch of the panties with one claw, pulling them to the side to truly bury its snout in her and get to work.
It sets to the task of eating her out with fastidious, practiced dedication. It buries its tongue in her, licking upwards, trying again and again to get as deep as possible. It moves to sucking at her labia, ghosting over her clit, sucking gently at it before returning to fucking its tongue into her once more. It doesn’t stay in any one place for too long, even as it can hear her disappointment when it changes its focus from something she’s enjoying. The purpose isn’t to make her come, after all. Not yet. This is about her making up for a wrong, not being rewarded. She’s clearly forgotten. It bides its time to remind her.
Instead, it adds two fingers at once, rough and impersonal, in direct contrast to the way it sloppily, hungrily sucks on her clit. It expends enough care to mind its claws, to stretch her thoroughly, but not much beyond that. She makes another long string of half-curses as it crooks them, probes as deep inside her as it can get, scissors them more quickly than it probably should.
“Good girl, yeah,” she grits out, clit twitching against its tongue as it pulls its fingers out far enough to get in a third. It pulls back to respond.
“I should be saying that to you,” it says, “look how open I’ve made you.”
She, of course, can’t crane her neck to see herself, but the idea of it—gaping, stretched wide, sucking greedily at its fingers, leaking slick across them—clearly gets to her. It can smell her pleasure on the air.
“That’s enough, I think.”
A brief expression of confusion flickers across her face as it pulls its fingers out, grabs her by the hips, and tugs her down the bed with one solid movement. In another, it flips her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up until her back is arched to an uncomfortable degree, skirt flipped up over her back. It pulls her panties down her thighs, gropes her ass, spreads her wide. She groans at the manhandling, burying her face in the sheets. Her hair is a tangled mess.
It takes a long moment, drinking in its fill, palming at her ass, running its thumb through her slick. She whines, tries to squirm back on it, but it raises its palm and lets it fall, the smack ringing in the small space alongside her pained cry.
“It’s time to make good on your promise, princess.” It finally, finally, lends a hand to itself, bright red head shiny and eager under its fingertips. It’s ready.
When it mounts her, it’s in one smooth movement. She pants and scrabbles at the quilt beneath her, unable to catch her breath properly or take a moment to adjust.
“No!” she gasps, “c- condom-?”
It smacks her again for her insolence, hard. “You owe me, remember?”
The noise she makes is pathetic, pitiable. Not enough for it to stop, though. It starts up a driving pace, focusing only on itself, on how good it feels to rut into something hot and wet and tight, how badly it needed to use someone like this.
“Don’t-! No, please, stop,” she begs, writhing against the sheets. Its hips jerk harder, dragging its claws down her sides.
“I own you,” it growls, “I lay this claim. You belong to me, and you’ll be used how I see fit.” She moans, going limp overtop the sheets, letting it manhandle her into a slightly more favourable position.
“Don’t wanna get- get pregnant,” she sniffles, breath hitching, breaking off into another moan when it accidentally drives into something that clearly feels nice for her.
“Don’t care, didn’t ask,” it teases, licking and snuffling in behind her ear. “You’ll stay here, all bred up like my little bitch, round and full, for as long as I like you like that. You’ll never leave. You’ll take what I want, when I want it, and you’ll like it, won’t you?”
Her cry is long and muffled, biting into the bedding and arching her back. She tries to snake a hand down to reach her clit, but it traps the wrist out of the way.
She clearly gets the message—it will decide when she comes, if at all—and she relaxes into the motions, giving in. It fucks into her relentlessly, the wet sounds of skin on skin echoing against the cabin walls, settling the both of them into a rhythm.
After a time, she speaks again. “I still have to—I have to go,” she moans, eyes watering, drool at the corner of her mouth. It grins, bright, amused by her pain.
“You’re not going anywhere until I’m finished, gorgeous. Better figure it out, haven’t you?”
She whines, high, thin, squirming as best she can against its cock. “Please,” she tries, starting to cry in earnest.
“Aw, bunny,” it coos, running a paw down her back, “it’s so difficult, isn’t it? Why don’t you just go ahead, you’ve already wet yourself once tonight.”
She visibly shudders, sobbing, as her obviously overtaxed bladder is all too eager to give up the fight. It smells stronger than before, this close, soaking into the beautiful quilt, the sheets beneath, its fur. Her walls flutter around it as she clenches and releases, and it simply can’t last.
With a grunt, it buries its teeth in the back of her neck, scruffing her, and finally, finally the tension snaps. It comes in long, hot pulses, pulling out to watch the last spurt land against her, to see it spilling out. It’s bred her up now; it’s sure it’ll take. Satisfied, it rubs roughly at her clit, and she jackknifes off the bed, coming not far behind.
Pearl moves immediately into action, stripping off the bedsheets, wiping them both down with a dry corner of the quilt. “Bath, love?” she asks, running a hand through Gem’s hair.
Gem groans. “Don’t wanna move,” she tries, burying her face in Pearl’s stomach.
“I know, baby,” Pearl laughs, “but we’ve got to get all cleaned up or you won’t like how you feel tomorrow.”
“Or smell,” Gem says, crinkling her nose. “You stink.”
“Whose fault is that, again?” Pearl teases, raising an eyebrow. “C’mon now, up you get.”
The bath is a wonderful balm on their sore muscles, and they sink into its warmth gratefully, hazy and glowing with exhaustion and satisfaction.
“Maybe I can be the monster next time,” Gem says, yawning. “Some sort of witch?”
Pearl lets herself imagine it. “Maybe,” she says, indulgent. “Next time.”