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"description": "We have been together for a while now.\n\nThe day we met has been etched in memory like a template, ready to be re-created at any moment I feel excited enough. A bleat from the shadows, unexpected and yet very much appreciated. It felt quite strange at the time, have I ever told you? To see someone like you poke her nose under my armpit and wiggle her face through to see what the mighty beast could be up to on the other side. So curious to get a peek behind the curtains, you thrown all reason and sense into the wind, following your senses just to see. Many years and a thousand chances to be burnt taken, yet you could not help yourself when you saw the opportunity.\n\nOr so I had thought.\n\nNo, you were very aware of what I am. Which only made the encounter all the stranger. I had circled around you ever since I first laid eyes on you. It was nothing unusual, of course; I always had a sense for trophies. A Doe with such history and fame… how could I resist to have a little taste? Long nights spent pondering how to get my claws on you without anyone noticing. Sitting, staring into the fireplace, asking the flames licking the logs what you might taste like. A glorified piece of meat, parading herself for a million pairs of eyes, her little tail perked, like my ears were, when lifting that rear of hers for onlookers to gawk at and applaud. Oh, how I knew you were reveling in it! And how much it lit a craving in me to pull you off your high horse! To end you, far away from your admirers, alone and with not another soul to witness your tears hit that tiled floor before your bleats would fill the old walls of my den, volume of both voice and gut swelling until your inevitable, horrifying conclusion!\n\nBut no, you knew. You knew what they call me. You likely know more of the names they give than myself, baha! And when you first showed up, I knew exactly where it would go… as did you. A bizarre arrangement of two animals seeking forbidden thrills. We could not be allowed to be seen together! Just a single stare of an ill-minded individual could have very well ruined the both of us. But that is what made it so very exciting! It felt forbidden, [b]naughty[/b]! And in ways I had not been able to experience since I was just a pup. It felt akin to sneaking out at night, avoiding my father’s keen senses. It certainly felt that way for you, hah!\n\nOur first clash saw you stricken with surprise. Despite all, you had expected another one to wrap around your hoofed digit like you had done with so many boys before. Dogs made to play by your rules, serve you in ways much more slated towards your own benefit than theirs. A game, one you knew how to play so well that they would enjoy how you treated them. With full force, you drove onward only to be hit with a proverbial brick wall that was my unyielding fist that clenched your slim neck. Eyes wide and muzzle agape, gasping for air when reality struck you with the back of her palm! \n\nAnd in time, the proverbial slaps became novel. Our first engagements were harsh. I worked you like I worked many girls before you... perhaps with a bit more emphasis, hah. You squealed and kicked, just as expected; the little trench your hoof left in the carpet is still there to this day, you know? Of course, you do. I showed it to you, up-close, many times in the events that followed. \n\nThe [b]offense[/b] you took when I cast you down was an undisputed highlight for my loins! Like a brat, you had expected a carrying worthy of a bride – no a [b]queen[/b]! – to the sheets and for me to warm you up like a gentleman, never even [b]considering[/b] I could you toss you to the ground and have my way with you. This was [b]your[/b] territory, your world, after all! How could you not end up on top? How would someone [b]dare[/b] to so much as challenge you in your domain? But you took it. You took everything I threw at you, despite your grumbles sounding through the carpet between your teeth. Your hands still worked with the same skill you learned at a young age; your mouth swallowed all my body demanded it to do.\n\n[i]But you did not make the noises I wanted you to make.[/i]\n\nNo, you were stubborn. You weren’t used to be put under duress in this instance and while you never refused, you wiggled about, struggled, pushed my hands until you’d tire out and succumb to the strain of the night. It was an important moment because you knew how it would end. And when we awoke the next morning, I pulled you from the sheets and told you to leave. You were upset once again but you obliged none the less. And off you went. Back into the world where you knew at least [b]some[/b] control. No breakfast for whores in this house.\n\nAnd in any other story, that should have been the end of it. You went to waltz with the grand Wolf and got your little Hinds smacked for it. Like a teenager whose first time went a little sour and left her sitting out at his doorstep afterwards, tossing pebbles across the streets, wondering how she could have been so naïve. And after a while of contemplating, she would get up and walk back home, every step a little reminder of having taken it too far. Every time she would feel her loins warm up from the last bits of his seed matting the fabric, her ego would deflate a little more until, when she came back home, there would be nothing left to do by launch herself onto her bedding. A sad, lone mattress without a frame. Her arms would clutch the pillow and she’d [b]scream[/b]! She’d yell until her lungs turned sore, cursing that pretty boy, cursing the world and finally pretending it was all his fault. Eventually, she’d bury the memory and move on the happier ventures, pretending it never happened at all. But that wasn’t the case with you, no.\n\n\n[i]No, you? You came back.[/i]\n____________________________________________________\n____________________________________________________\n\nLooking up above me, there is the canopy of my bed. A ceiling of old Honduran mahogany that has long since exhausted its natural odor and taken on that of tobacco, wine and sex. Despite cleanliness, some scents never fully fade. But I would not want them to. They are very much me. And they will be there, long after I am gone. The elaborate crown molds surrounding the center of the canopy, featuring a fresco laid in veneer. Exciting scenes of Wolf and Deer, painted out as though they would want to encourage the occupants of the bed into joining them; I love to look at them when the servants work my cock before I sleep. And after I wake up. And when I have breakfast in bed. It reminds me of taping clippings taken from magazines to the slope of the roof protruding into my room above my bed in my family’s estate in Ghimbav. Some things just never change.\n\nYour hand reaching into my chest tuft pulls me back to reality. I feel my eyes widen and my senses run high in the brief moment of surprise; I feel the rims of my lids pull across the eyeballs and blur my vision for a moment before I angle my head down to look at the source of the four digits gliding across my ribcage. My gullet bulges against my lower jaw and I make eye contact with the two, emerald marbles looking back up at me.\n\n“Pardon me, I couldn’t help but dream a little.”\n\nYou remain silent and smile. What a lovely, lovely sight! Furred lips, corners with a soft bit of fuzz pulling upwards and squeezing the slab of skin between them and your eyelids to create a smile. Your eyes remain in their dreamy, half-lidded positions as you angle your head. I love looking at them, you know? Sloped, cleopatra-esque curves, underlined by your copious use of the Clé de Peau blacks I bought for you. They make your eyes your most radiant feature! Not like any of the other Does at all; you have the eyes of a [b]Wolf[/b]! \n\nI can feel your hoof slide over my midriff while I watch your body wrinkle the drenched sheets as you stretch and slowly begin to turn, rolling onto your back without ever breaking eye contact. My hand follows yours, two arms snaking across one another to slip through the palms and chase their ways up the lower arms, finally making a stop at the elbows where they remain. Your muzzle, now upside-down, exposes your gullet and invites my other hand, the right one, to move up and stroke a digit across.\n\nYou know me well by now. Through the skin, you let the insides of your throat dance against my padded digit and already I can feel my loins begin to demand attention again, just like yours. I feel the trachea, bulging through the skin like a thick slab, not unlike the urethra on my cock; two organs made for one another, truly. Every ridge of the little bones that mask the chimney of our bodies. Hard to fathom, at times, how such a simple tube is all that separates us from the afterlife. I wonder what yours would look like when opened up. What tactiles the connective tissue has. How the little bone-cage would sound like when my molars have a go at it…\n\nMy stroke has become more intense and you angle your head further to give me more to feel. Oh, little Doe, I hardly can imagine how you were so shy when we first met! Now, you are positively insatiable, despite all the marks I taught your flesh. I command my sheath to calm itself; the rocket can stay in the silo for the time being. We’ll have plenty opportunity to make up for it in just a little while! When an animal presents you with its neck, it is a sign of intense trust that should be savoured! And so, I do. \n\nClosing my eyes and tracing your jugulars with my fingers, I feel your pulse underneath, the very tick of life itself, a clock that works with untold resilience, pumping blood through the mesmerizing labyrinth growing in your body, like roots of a tree stuck in the soil. I have seen what they look like so many times, it is easy to imagine where they lead and what they do. Feeling the pulse of a creature is soothing to most anyone. A steady reassurance of their vitality and health, a reminder of company. To some, however, it is a source of excitement! Excitement which comes from the control I can exert over it. \n\nMy pawpad gradually becomes a claw. Like a record player lowering its needle into the many trenches to create sound, I bring my nail against the little indent between jugular and trachea, both still so lovely exposed by both your pose and your skin drawn tight by your muscles. I can feel your breath quicken long before I hear it; your heart rate rises, the pulse quickens and your body tenses all over as I begin to draw my claw downwards, the pressure rising with every inch moved.\n\nClaws are a terrifying thing. Most look at the nail on a dog and think not much of it. Easy to be hurt when yielded with great force, certainly, but otherwise a dull instrument. But not with a Wolf. An old-world predator, a [b]real[/b] predator, one that isn’t watered down like those domesticated counterparts; we are much different! Slipping down across your neck, passing the collarbone like a little speed-bump until I arrive at your left breast. A small mound of soft, perky flesh and fatty tissue, sensitive to the touch, if yet barely able to fill my palm. \n\nFinally, I let my claw enter your flesh. It sinks into the dermal depths as though it were butter; a little bit of convincing and the needle carves its own trenches into the record. \n\n[i]Finally, you begin to squirm.[/i]\n\nYou tense up, your hooves push underneath the blanket and your mouth opens up, about to make a sound. Do you know how pretty the flesh inside your muzzle looks? Gaping walls of a textured opening, pulling the skin around your nostrils tightly. I cusp your lower jawline and slip a thumb inside to feel the warm, pained moan escape from it. My thumb depresses your tongue and your body stiffens and works up. Deeper and deeper my claw digs into your skin and the moment I pass the first dermal layers that I have thus far restricted my little markings to, you begin to revolt!\n\nThere it is, that sweet, sweet moment! The moment at which she noticed that he will not stop. When she [b]knows[/b], he is going to go further than usual! I hear the whimper of yours grow into a bleat and finally a [b]screech[/b], loud and shrill, filling the bed and making my ears turn sharply to absorb every last bit of it! What used to be uncomfortable twitches become frantic thrashes, the mind finally realizing how long it has suppressed its survival instincts, trying to make up for lost time. \n\n[i]But it is much, much too late.[/i]\n\nI hold you in my grasp, barely exerting strength. An almost gentle hug as my thumb depresses your tongue against the bottom of your little muzzle and my claw works to dig deeper, drawing upwards to carve a deep trench. Your hands finally clutch my arms, trying to pry them off of you. I can tell your resolve fleeting for just a moment as your hooves scratch across the bulging, hard muscle in my forearm. Strength you could never even begin to guess at, holding you clenched like a vice. No escape, not a chance to free yourself. \n\n“Shhhhh…”\n\nI growl into your right ear. Not a calming sound by any means, nor is it supposed to be. It is a reminder. A reminder of the duality created by the two of us. Tranquil and panic. Lust and despair. Held in my arms, yet carved by my claws. I am both of them, black and white. \n\nThe claw digs upwards before it stops and escapes the flesh. I can feel it pull out, little flaps of epidermis closing back around the nail before they remain slightly parted, slightly misaligned, the flap only barely hidden by your soft fur. And before you can relax, I move my hand just slightly to the left and begin to dig again. Another journey of the blood-drenched spade into the soil of your body. You are only slightly better prepared than before as I continue, carving upwards once again and finally, I feel hot tears on my wrist.\n\nGlaring down, your face is contorted, your jaws pushing down on my thumb, your cheek muscles and sinews bulging as you try, desperately, not to harm me. Your teeth grind my prominent knuckles, I can feel your resilience; you know better than to bite a Wolf. The black mascara is holding up well for the time being, but the floods of saltwater rolling down in thick, salty drops and wetting your cheeks will eventually defeat it. It is almost over. Just one more to carve and you will see my vision, little Deerling...\n____________________________________________________\n____________________________________________________\n\nThe sky is dark. No clouds to obscure the black canopy spanning across the distance, the seaside looks as though a void of softly swirling ink. The view from the sixth-floor master bedroom is magnificent, overlooking lake Schwerin in its entirety. No boats on it at this late hour. It feels private, despite built in the middle of a thriving city.\n\nMy hands are resting on your shoulders, feeling them tremble. You shiver, not from the cold but from watching yourself in the reflection of the old windows. Marked. All over. Little bits and pieces roughed up, spots and blotches of blood underneath your skin. Bits of fur roughed up or missing. Tonight, was difficult for you. My palms slide across your neck, up your cheeks and I feel your head push into them, seeking closeness and comfort.\n\n“You understand now, do you not?”\n\nMy voice feels raspy. I have growled and shouted a lot tonight. Your name, many of them. Many a command. I can still taste your fluids in my mouth, numerous kinds. Your answer comes in form of a little nod as you keep your head lowered, your hoof moving to brush past the fresh wound on your breast. It has stopped to bleed but it would require stitches to make it disappear. \n\n[i]Neither of us wants it to.[/i]\n\nMy loins twitch as I look at it from above, straining in the black silk pants I confined my endowment to. It aches to have another go at you but I could not imagine performing even just one more time today. I have lost count how many times I allowed my aching balls to clench in climax tonight and as I roll my shoulders to slip off my morning robe off of them, I can feel the tweaking strain in my taint; this will hurt tomorrow, if not nearly as much as you will. I place the robe, a Holt Renfrew, around your shoulders and admire how lovely it mends with your fur in the dim light; cobalt blue and a grey, paisley shawl collar. I turn around to prepare a little reward for you and me, feeling your eyes stare into my back as I walk to the dresser to the left of the bed, holding glasses and a decanter.\n\nTwo crystal snifters are filled with a neat shot of Camus 4.160 each as I return to stand behind you, slipping the stem of the glass in-between two waiting digits of your left hand raised. “Et in cervam ego.” I let our glasses clink together at the rims. The little toast is barely returned, the sip you take is absent-minded. I can tell from the soft flinching in your nostrils how undecided you are about the taste. For a moment there is silence. Then -\n\n“It’s ‘cervis’, Mister Sooniecher.” \n\nThe voice is meek, nearly a fleeted whisper. I can feel you tense up in my grasp, your tone almost defiant.\n\n“Not anymore.” I answer after a short pause. And as you look up at my face, finally making eye contact again, I point at the single letter I carved into you. Your eyes widen with wonder! I can feel your body pressing into mine with the eagerness of a lover and letting me witness a wonderful, little smile sneak itself onto your face! I place my palm across the H in your chest. The fresh scab is brittle and I feel warm blood seep from the wound and soak through my fingers; the sensation accompanied by circling the snifter under my nose before taking another swig of the Cognac, letting my flews pull up to savour the taste as it runs down my throat.\n\n“Happy birthday, Deery.”\n\n[center]______________________________________________________________________________\n_________________________________________________________________________________\n[url=https://www.furaffinity.net/user/goocasden]Enayaray[/url][/center]",
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The day we met has been etched in memory like a template, ready to be re-created at any moment I feel excited enough. A bleat from the shadows, unexpected and yet very much appreciated. It felt quite strange at the time, have I ever told you? To see someone like you poke her nose under my armpit and wiggle her face through to see what the mighty beast could be up to on the other side. So curious to get a peek behind the curtains, you thrown all reason and sense into the wind, following your senses just to see. Many years and a thousand chances to be burnt taken, yet you could not help yourself when you saw the opportunity.
Or so I had thought.
No, you were very aware of what I am. Which only made the encounter all the stranger. I had circled around you ever since I first laid eyes on you. It was nothing unusual, of course; I always had a sense for trophies. A Doe with such history and fame… how could I resist to have a little taste? Long nights spent pondering how to get my claws on you without anyone noticing. Sitting, staring into the fireplace, asking the flames licking the logs what you might taste like. A glorified piece of meat, parading herself for a million pairs of eyes, her little tail perked, like my ears were, when lifting that rear of hers for onlookers to gawk at and applaud. Oh, how I knew you were reveling in it! And how much it lit a craving in me to pull you off your high horse! To end you, far away from your admirers, alone and with not another soul to witness your tears hit that tiled floor before your bleats would fill the old walls of my den, volume of both voice and gut swelling until your inevitable, horrifying conclusion!
But no, you knew. You knew what they call me. You likely know more of the names they give than myself, baha! And when you first showed up, I knew exactly where it would go… as did you. A bizarre arrangement of two animals seeking forbidden thrills. We could not be allowed to be seen together! Just a single stare of an ill-minded individual could have very well ruined the both of us. But that is what made it so very exciting! It felt forbidden, naughty! And in ways I had not been able to experience since I was just a pup. It felt akin to sneaking out at night, avoiding my father’s keen senses. It certainly felt that way for you, hah!
Our first clash saw you stricken with surprise. Despite all, you had expected another one to wrap around your hoofed digit like you had done with so many boys before. Dogs made to play by your rules, serve you in ways much more slated towards your own benefit than theirs. A game, one you knew how to play so well that they would enjoy how you treated them. With full force, you drove onward only to be hit with a proverbial brick wall that was my unyielding fist that clenched your slim neck. Eyes wide and muzzle agape, gasping for air when reality struck you with the back of her palm!
And in time, the proverbial slaps became novel. Our first engagements were harsh. I worked you like I worked many girls before you... perhaps with a bit more emphasis, hah. You squealed and kicked, just as expected; the little trench your hoof left in the carpet is still there to this day, you know? Of course, you do. I showed it to you, up-close, many times in the events that followed.
The offense you took when I cast you down was an undisputed highlight for my loins! Like a brat, you had expected a carrying worthy of a bride – no a queen! – to the sheets and for me to warm you up like a gentleman, never even considering I could you toss you to the ground and have my way with you. This was your territory, your world, after all! How could you not end up on top? How would someone dare to so much as challenge you in your domain? But you took it. You took everything I threw at you, despite your grumbles sounding through the carpet between your teeth. Your hands still worked with the same skill you learned at a young age; your mouth swallowed all my body demanded it to do.
But you did not make the noises I wanted you to make.
No, you were stubborn. You weren’t used to be put under duress in this instance and while you never refused, you wiggled about, struggled, pushed my hands until you’d tire out and succumb to the strain of the night. It was an important moment because you knew how it would end. And when we awoke the next morning, I pulled you from the sheets and told you to leave. You were upset once again but you obliged none the less. And off you went. Back into the world where you knew at least some control. No breakfast for whores in this house.
And in any other story, that should have been the end of it. You went to waltz with the grand Wolf and got your little Hinds smacked for it. Like a teenager whose first time went a little sour and left her sitting out at his doorstep afterwards, tossing pebbles across the streets, wondering how she could have been so naïve. And after a while of contemplating, she would get up and walk back home, every step a little reminder of having taken it too far. Every time she would feel her loins warm up from the last bits of his seed matting the fabric, her ego would deflate a little more until, when she came back home, there would be nothing left to do by launch herself onto her bedding. A sad, lone mattress without a frame. Her arms would clutch the pillow and she’d scream! She’d yell until her lungs turned sore, cursing that pretty boy, cursing the world and finally pretending it was all his fault. Eventually, she’d bury the memory and move on the happier ventures, pretending it never happened at all. But that wasn’t the case with you, no.
No, you? You came back. ____________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________
Looking up above me, there is the canopy of my bed. A ceiling of old Honduran mahogany that has long since exhausted its natural odor and taken on that of tobacco, wine and sex. Despite cleanliness, some scents never fully fade. But I would not want them to. They are very much me. And they will be there, long after I am gone. The elaborate crown molds surrounding the center of the canopy, featuring a fresco laid in veneer. Exciting scenes of Wolf and Deer, painted out as though they would want to encourage the occupants of the bed into joining them; I love to look at them when the servants work my cock before I sleep. And after I wake up. And when I have breakfast in bed. It reminds me of taping clippings taken from magazines to the slope of the roof protruding into my room above my bed in my family’s estate in Ghimbav. Some things just never change.
Your hand reaching into my chest tuft pulls me back to reality. I feel my eyes widen and my senses run high in the brief moment of surprise; I feel the rims of my lids pull across the eyeballs and blur my vision for a moment before I angle my head down to look at the source of the four digits gliding across my ribcage. My gullet bulges against my lower jaw and I make eye contact with the two, emerald marbles looking back up at me.
“Pardon me, I couldn’t help but dream a little.”
You remain silent and smile. What a lovely, lovely sight! Furred lips, corners with a soft bit of fuzz pulling upwards and squeezing the slab of skin between them and your eyelids to create a smile. Your eyes remain in their dreamy, half-lidded positions as you angle your head. I love looking at them, you know? Sloped, cleopatra-esque curves, underlined by your copious use of the Clé de Peau blacks I bought for you. They make your eyes your most radiant feature! Not like any of the other Does at all; you have the eyes of a Wolf!
I can feel your hoof slide over my midriff while I watch your body wrinkle the drenched sheets as you stretch and slowly begin to turn, rolling onto your back without ever breaking eye contact. My hand follows yours, two arms snaking across one another to slip through the palms and chase their ways up the lower arms, finally making a stop at the elbows where they remain. Your muzzle, now upside-down, exposes your gullet and invites my other hand, the right one, to move up and stroke a digit across.
You know me well by now. Through the skin, you let the insides of your throat dance against my padded digit and already I can feel my loins begin to demand attention again, just like yours. I feel the trachea, bulging through the skin like a thick slab, not unlike the urethra on my cock; two organs made for one another, truly. Every ridge of the little bones that mask the chimney of our bodies. Hard to fathom, at times, how such a simple tube is all that separates us from the afterlife. I wonder what yours would look like when opened up. What tactiles the connective tissue has. How the little bone-cage would sound like when my molars have a go at it…
My stroke has become more intense and you angle your head further to give me more to feel. Oh, little Doe, I hardly can imagine how you were so shy when we first met! Now, you are positively insatiable, despite all the marks I taught your flesh. I command my sheath to calm itself; the rocket can stay in the silo for the time being. We’ll have plenty opportunity to make up for it in just a little while! When an animal presents you with its neck, it is a sign of intense trust that should be savoured! And so, I do.
Closing my eyes and tracing your jugulars with my fingers, I feel your pulse underneath, the very tick of life itself, a clock that works with untold resilience, pumping blood through the mesmerizing labyrinth growing in your body, like roots of a tree stuck in the soil. I have seen what they look like so many times, it is easy to imagine where they lead and what they do. Feeling the pulse of a creature is soothing to most anyone. A steady reassurance of their vitality and health, a reminder of company. To some, however, it is a source of excitement! Excitement which comes from the control I can exert over it.
My pawpad gradually becomes a claw. Like a record player lowering its needle into the many trenches to create sound, I bring my nail against the little indent between jugular and trachea, both still so lovely exposed by both your pose and your skin drawn tight by your muscles. I can feel your breath quicken long before I hear it; your heart rate rises, the pulse quickens and your body tenses all over as I begin to draw my claw downwards, the pressure rising with every inch moved.
Claws are a terrifying thing. Most look at the nail on a dog and think not much of it. Easy to be hurt when yielded with great force, certainly, but otherwise a dull instrument. But not with a Wolf. An old-world predator, a real predator, one that isn’t watered down like those domesticated counterparts; we are much different! Slipping down across your neck, passing the collarbone like a little speed-bump until I arrive at your left breast. A small mound of soft, perky flesh and fatty tissue, sensitive to the touch, if yet barely able to fill my palm.
Finally, I let my claw enter your flesh. It sinks into the dermal depths as though it were butter; a little bit of convincing and the needle carves its own trenches into the record.
Finally, you begin to squirm.
You tense up, your hooves push underneath the blanket and your mouth opens up, about to make a sound. Do you know how pretty the flesh inside your muzzle looks? Gaping walls of a textured opening, pulling the skin around your nostrils tightly. I cusp your lower jawline and slip a thumb inside to feel the warm, pained moan escape from it. My thumb depresses your tongue and your body stiffens and works up. Deeper and deeper my claw digs into your skin and the moment I pass the first dermal layers that I have thus far restricted my little markings to, you begin to revolt!
There it is, that sweet, sweet moment! The moment at which she noticed that he will not stop. When she knows, he is going to go further than usual! I hear the whimper of yours grow into a bleat and finally a screech, loud and shrill, filling the bed and making my ears turn sharply to absorb every last bit of it! What used to be uncomfortable twitches become frantic thrashes, the mind finally realizing how long it has suppressed its survival instincts, trying to make up for lost time.
But it is much, much too late.
I hold you in my grasp, barely exerting strength. An almost gentle hug as my thumb depresses your tongue against the bottom of your little muzzle and my claw works to dig deeper, drawing upwards to carve a deep trench. Your hands finally clutch my arms, trying to pry them off of you. I can tell your resolve fleeting for just a moment as your hooves scratch across the bulging, hard muscle in my forearm. Strength you could never even begin to guess at, holding you clenched like a vice. No escape, not a chance to free yourself.
“Shhhhh…”
I growl into your right ear. Not a calming sound by any means, nor is it supposed to be. It is a reminder. A reminder of the duality created by the two of us. Tranquil and panic. Lust and despair. Held in my arms, yet carved by my claws. I am both of them, black and white.
The claw digs upwards before it stops and escapes the flesh. I can feel it pull out, little flaps of epidermis closing back around the nail before they remain slightly parted, slightly misaligned, the flap only barely hidden by your soft fur. And before you can relax, I move my hand just slightly to the left and begin to dig again. Another journey of the blood-drenched spade into the soil of your body. You are only slightly better prepared than before as I continue, carving upwards once again and finally, I feel hot tears on my wrist.
Glaring down, your face is contorted, your jaws pushing down on my thumb, your cheek muscles and sinews bulging as you try, desperately, not to harm me. Your teeth grind my prominent knuckles, I can feel your resilience; you know better than to bite a Wolf. The black mascara is holding up well for the time being, but the floods of saltwater rolling down in thick, salty drops and wetting your cheeks will eventually defeat it. It is almost over. Just one more to carve and you will see my vision, little Deerling... ____________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________
The sky is dark. No clouds to obscure the black canopy spanning across the distance, the seaside looks as though a void of softly swirling ink. The view from the sixth-floor master bedroom is magnificent, overlooking lake Schwerin in its entirety. No boats on it at this late hour. It feels private, despite built in the middle of a thriving city.
My hands are resting on your shoulders, feeling them tremble. You shiver, not from the cold but from watching yourself in the reflection of the old windows. Marked. All over. Little bits and pieces roughed up, spots and blotches of blood underneath your skin. Bits of fur roughed up or missing. Tonight, was difficult for you. My palms slide across your neck, up your cheeks and I feel your head push into them, seeking closeness and comfort.
“You understand now, do you not?”
My voice feels raspy. I have growled and shouted a lot tonight. Your name, many of them. Many a command. I can still taste your fluids in my mouth, numerous kinds. Your answer comes in form of a little nod as you keep your head lowered, your hoof moving to brush past the fresh wound on your breast. It has stopped to bleed but it would require stitches to make it disappear.
Neither of us wants it to.
My loins twitch as I look at it from above, straining in the black silk pants I confined my endowment to. It aches to have another go at you but I could not imagine performing even just one more time today. I have lost count how many times I allowed my aching balls to clench in climax tonight and as I roll my shoulders to slip off my morning robe off of them, I can feel the tweaking strain in my taint; this will hurt tomorrow, if not nearly as much as you will. I place the robe, a Holt Renfrew, around your shoulders and admire how lovely it mends with your fur in the dim light; cobalt blue and a grey, paisley shawl collar. I turn around to prepare a little reward for you and me, feeling your eyes stare into my back as I walk to the dresser to the left of the bed, holding glasses and a decanter.
Two crystal snifters are filled with a neat shot of Camus 4.160 each as I return to stand behind you, slipping the stem of the glass in-between two waiting digits of your left hand raised. “Et in cervam ego.” I let our glasses clink together at the rims. The little toast is barely returned, the sip you take is absent-minded. I can tell from the soft flinching in your nostrils how undecided you are about the taste. For a moment there is silence. Then -
“It’s ‘cervis’, Mister Sooniecher.”
The voice is meek, nearly a fleeted whisper. I can feel you tense up in my grasp, your tone almost defiant.
“Not anymore.” I answer after a short pause. And as you look up at my face, finally making eye contact again, I point at the single letter I carved into you. Your eyes widen with wonder! I can feel your body pressing into mine with the eagerness of a lover and letting me witness a wonderful, little smile sneak itself onto your face! I place my palm across the H in your chest. The fresh scab is brittle and I feel warm blood seep from the wound and soak through my fingers; the sensation accompanied by circling the snifter under my nose before taking another swig of the Cognac, letting my flews pull up to savour the taste as it runs down my throat.