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The young dog asking it sits in the corner of the room, slumped down against the wall. Its bomber jacket has torn along the back, exposing some of the filling; not unlike the Doe in the draining pit behind me. It caught me at an unfortunate moment so, it is only fair I return the favour.\n\nThe clocks had just struck past eleven. Saturdays are the nights I sometimes indulge in these little acts of pleasure. It makes for a lovely schedule; Sundays see me miming the socialite for the depraved elite from the corners of the world worth paying attention to so, sleeping in leaves me with the energy needed to endure their company. Just as my occasional debauchery when visiting HafenCity offers me to lay with my favourite pick of the wares in its red-light district, so form my indulgences in the barn the little adventures away from the norm I require to keep my libido in check.\n\nEver since the GDR, I had gotten a taste for the dirty things in life. Seeing those less fortunate than I; picking up something innocent; squeezing it until I feel warmth trickle down my fingers and mat my fur. It was easy back then. No one to ask questions, nobody to even bother looking for someone missing. Well, no one who would have been able to put a stop to my actions, anyway. Germany claimed to have learned from its mistakes but the disdain for those with less than five digits on a hand still lingered. A missing dog may have been followed up on. But a Doe? Nobody cared. And even if they had, they could never have made much out of what I left behind… sometimes, my instincts flared up a little too intensely and left little of those girls to be recognized. I admit that some of my work back then is nothing I would brag about today. It was crude and unnecessary, souls taken a dime for a dozen because what did it matter if I messed up with one? Just get another the next weekend; it was that easy.\n\nI am glad these times are over. After things began to settle and Germany was healing, so was I.\nAnd thus, I take to ferals when the mood begins to gnaw too thoroughly at the back of my head. Forensic psychology would question if they are reading my story backwards, baha! From their standpoint, the question is indeed a curious one… Why do I do it? What makes a mute feral more desirable than a sapient Doe who can sing for me before I squeeze the life out of her flesh?\n\nThe simple answer is: Indifference. It may appear shocking to the average listener but the cold, hard truth is that any victim, be it girl or boy or confused, has no more interesting tales to tell you than a bleating, scared woodland critter. You cannot get them to talk to you. They scream, they kick and they beg. They beg so, so much. You can argue with them, reason with them, or make false promises of the “if you simply talk, I shall spare you” kind. But most won’t listen. They are diminished in their ability to think clearly and even those that do talk, should you dangle the opportunity of distracting you in front of them, have nothing of substance to say. On the rare occasion, you get one that fancies themselves a strategist; smart enough to sweet-talk you into letting them go, something which can be fun to toy with for a little while; the negative epiphany in their eyes, you see? Alluring yes, but it in the end just as hollow as the begging.\n\nBy contrast, there is something innocent in the way a feral behaves. They understand when their time has come and they are not confused by the pain. Nature is neither cruel nor benevolent and, in these moments, I feel much like her; to simply allow things to run their cause with no judge, no God to speak ill of your actions. Most perpetrators who prefer the feral over the sapient will do so for reasons of control. They are frightened by the way something sentient can respond. The sapient tells them how much they hurt it; the sapient can beg, it can appeal to empathy; the sapient will return in their dreams and haunt them. It is cowardice more than anything. A means to offset the lack of dominance in their lives. I have no need for such compensation thus, of course, it must appear odd to the little [i]Wildfang[/i] that managed to sneak into my most private sanctum. Let’s hear what it has to say.\n\n“Elaborate.” \n\nMy voice is calmer than it expected it to be, given the dog’s rude intrusion; I am surprised. Were I in the mood for something decidedly younger than the Doe in the pit, I would have welcomed the addition to the party. Unfortunately for it, I am not so, this may find a swift ending, depending on what it has to say.\n\n“Why do you do… this. The Deer. The whole Zoo shit.”\n\nThe voice, meagre and riddled with hormone tremors as it is, holds a distinct note of apathy to it that is tickling my interest. It still falls short of actual interest but I am willing to listen further.\n\n“Quite rude to ambush the cook in the kitchen and begin criticising how the meat is cut, no?”\n\n“Zoo shit.”, the bundle of misery repeats and defiant this time, chin raised up to make eye contact. Still not much more than indifference to see in the facial muscles. The THC abuse has removed vital aspects of the expression. Oh, how I loathe the frequent users of this drug.\n\n“Zoo shit, Zoo shit, Zoo shit. You’re a Zoophile. You fuck animals. There, that clear enough for ya? I just wanna know why. Motherfucker.”\n\nMy ears slowly lower from their high peaks; I cannot fault them. This one isn’t nearly as interesting as I had hoped. I am unsure why I had gotten my hopes up to begin with. What a bloody waste of time. But perhaps we can teach it a little before planting a nine-millimetre into its frontal lobe. I certainly do not want to sink my teeth into that raged fur; the stench is appalling, even from a distance. \n\n“Such a loud mouth for something so small in stature and status. But we can try and brush up on your manners a little before-”\n\n“You’re not getting away with this, you know that, right?” \n\n“Please.”\n\nInterrupted yet again and by a comment that tangents stereotypes to a point of nearly making me laugh. Nearly. Instead, I feel my fingers twitch with ire and I step up to the bag of misery and firmly grasp it by the front. My left hand digs into the puffed jacket… cheap and with no protection to its insulating layers. My claws puncture the lining with no effort as I raise the dog up to a more comfortable height while studying its movements. And just as expected, I see an onset of defiance, followed by a quick faltering as it opens its mouth to talk; I won’t allow it. Quickly, I smack the handle of the Glock across the dog’s cheek, cocking its face to the right and making it spit out on the floor.\n\nIt's done and over with quick and leaves it coughing and twitching on the cold floor. Turning around to tend to my main course in the pit again, my ears are perked to assure the young dog is playing nice. As expected, all I can pick up on is a lot of soft moaning and grumbling as it tries to regain its vision. By the time I turn around to face it again, it has propped its body up on both elbows, saliva drooping from the flews and onto the floor. \n\n“Motherfucker.”\n\nThe word is there but oh, is it a quite one! There is some satisfaction in seeing the dog’s eyes dilute and its ears laid back against the back of the head. The tail is curled and the knees push closer to the elbows in a defensive reaction.\n\n“No one has ever laid hands on you before like that, no?” I muse whilst squatting down to get a bit closer. My left hand reaches out to brush strands of murky hair from its face, prompting much harsher retaliation; its back bows like a that of a feral cat and its hand swats after mine, leaving the body to slump back against the wall. It wants to scream at me, I can tell but the noises are as fumbled as the motions, a mere little huff escaping the flews.\n\n“Fatherless household, I presume?” I continue and immediately, there is more of the same flailing and hissing until, finally, the dog manages to slide its backside up the wall and blurt out a flurry of curses amidst a misting of saliva that speckles my apron.\n\n“Fucking nondo! You think you’re some hot shit?! Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t touch me again! Motherfuck-“\n\nI have raised my palm again and like pulling the needle from a record, the music stops. Fear and confusion pour from the young eyes and for just a moment, I get a glimpse of the real dog behind the façade of rage and indifference.\n\n“Hrm. [i]Someone[/i] has hit you before; I sense familiarity with the palm in your eyes. Not a father though.” I theorize, reaching out once more, this time cupping my hand around the lower jaw of the dog. No retaliation this time, its eyes are docile, the posture stiff, nails scrape across the concrete as my index finger and thumb dig into the cheeks to force the head to turn. “The mother then. Someone does not know what to do with you… least of all yourself.”\n\nI retract my hand and stand up once more, smiling down at the face of disbelieve. Look at that, now this is beginning to resemble something interesting! I decide then and there to allow the dog to bear witness. It’s come a long way to take a glimpse into the pit, why not let it have one before it is pulled inside?\n\n“I know why you are here.” I turn at the heel to face the plastic curtain covering the draining pit in front of us. “You fancy yourself a journalist. The type that won’t be bought. You quit your job at the [i]Schwerin Heute[/i] to pursue your own career. Admirable, were it not for the fact that you were let go for your difficulties with answering to authority. Does your mother know about this?”\n\nI perk my ears to listen for a reaction. Supressed sobs. Not for my recent jab, the commentary prior hit much harder than my palm. I already know the answer, I merely want to assure it is paying attention for what is to come. Not that this should present too difficult a task. “So, I am certain you’d be anxious to discover if what you keep writing about me on your little blog is true?”\n\nAnd with that, I stash the Glock in the leather strap running across my back and pull aside the proverbial curtain and step aside. As if on cue, the Doe down in the pit begins to shake and shiver, rattling the old metal pressure shackles I built for exactly this purpose so long ago. The old pit is a relic of the building’s past, a murky and shallow pool, tiled with small squares that have long lost their pristine whites and taken on the sepia of age. Two large grates run along the drains in the floor, their thick bars used to mount multi-purpose metal contraptions. A modular system of cold, cast-iron depravity, evoking the grace of the late industrial revolution; rounded bezels on thick metal plating, all set in a green ceramic coating. \n\nThe doe standing on the grates is a has her head lowered, her legs are buckling and her hindpatch shows the wet fur of many saline washes I have performed until she stopped soiling herself due to the treatment. The display, delicious as it may be, all pales in comparison to my treatment of hers, however: behind her, forced to exist between her hinds is a monstrous, bulbous and bruised shape forming an udder. The amazing mass of backed-up milk is the size of a beachball, with perky, swollen teats protruding from it like the sensor lances of a marine mine… and oh, one would be forgiven to take to believing she would burst just like one if they were prodded!\n\n“What the fuck…”\n\nThere it is! Oh, it was worth revealing! The sentence is said in defiance and exhaustion, huffed out between laboured breaths! Disbelieve and repulsion and just the fleeting hint of curiosity that sees my sheath finally come to live again. As my dick grows heavy and long, I stand beside the scene, a presenter of the obscure, proud to show off my work and I almost want to bow a little to add to the scene but I control myself. Let’s not push this into the realms of a fever dream. I want the little dog to experience every moment of this with as much clarity as possible. \n\n“You have asked me why I do it before.” I begin and move closer to the Doe. My heavy boots make contact with the tiles and the moment my hand touches her flank, she begins to shudder and release a low bleat. It is not one of panic, merely resolution. She knows her time is coming to an end. “I will show you just why an udder can sometimes be preferable over the swell of a breast.”\n\nThe dog’s face is slowly waning of fear and survival instincts are beginning to kick in. Obviously, it wishes to vacate the scene but I can tell there is that curiosity again to get a closer look. Be it an irrational reaction or the vague notion of escaping the predicament and having a better story to tell, I cannot say. What matters is that it will stay put.\n\nI sit down next to the Doe and softly lean my head against the swollen udder. My dick is throbbing, I can feel it harden and grow so weighty, even my baculum is unable to stand up to it, leaving it to swing forward and deposit a bout of pre onto the tiles. The udder radiates heat, I can feel it burn against my cheek. My ears pick up subtle noises of the insides… the grossly extended milk cisterns housing the tremendous load that is forced to exist inside of her flesh, teased up, heated, forced to produce using chemicals and disallowed to expel any of it using super glue. Many would call it crude but it is, in fact, not much different than the compounds one would use on a sentient being to seal up small injection wounds-\n\n“You are fucking sick. You fucking Zoo, you are fucked. This shit is ass, just fucking… stop.”\n\nThe dog is incoherent but I have no interest in addressing it for the time being. I draw in the scene of the Doe; my nostrils flare and I close my eyes as my gloved hands roam across the taut surface. I trace the thick veins, feel the resistance they provide against my touch, the scent is heavy with sweat and cold fear, the strained, taut flesh feels so much akin to a balloon against my cheeks… it is wonderful, bizarre and before long, my right hand finds its way towards one of the teats to begin working it with pointed fingers.\n\n“Teasing is among my most beloved actions in encounters such as these.” I mumble, a bit more to myself than to the dog. “When the flesh is stressed to such a degree, when the arousal is packed and swollen as tight as this woodland fleshlight, the slightest caress carries such grand consequences. Watch.”\n\nAnd as if on cue, the Doe begins to buckle and shake, the muzzle opens into another short, hectic bleat. Her muscles twitch with purpose, trying to dislodge her ankles from the shackles but it is a futile effort. As her udder beings to swell yet again, subtly at first but one can tell by the skin beginning to develop further discolorations; small blotches of purple and red are mixing into the pink, little islands of burst veins where the pressure has caused ruptures as the udder is beginning to strain too much under the heavy load. Her milk production is amped and pushed to ludicrous extremes and soon enough, I find myself hugging the engorged sphere with my left arm, enforcing closer contact and allowing her skin some relieve as I help to prop it up.\n\n“Stop. Stop. You fucking sick fuck, just kill it already whyareyoufucking…”\n\nI can hear the tears before they pour from the dog’s eyes. Its body is beginning to shake and it sobs, the hands are pulled up to hide its face, trying to avoid watching the Doe’s demise but it is unable to fully deny itself the memory. “The sight is magnificent, isn’t it? You should consider yourself lucky…”\n\n“Enough. Don’t hurt it! Motherfucker.”\n\nWho would have known the background music the young dog would provide? My dick demands attention but my hands are busy… what a shame indeed but with the dribble of pre increasing as it is, I am hardly in a position to need much stimulation. I can feel the udder begin to enter its finale, the skin and connective tissue anchoring it to the underbelly and the crotch are the first to give. Lateral tears begin to appear in the surface, prompting her to finally sing for me. It is a beautiful noise, a shrill, loud bleating, full of realization and defiance. Don’t you worry, you will get to enjoy it all for quite a little bit longer. Skin stretching and the dermal layers peeling back like the skin of a grape, my fingers can feel the softer layers of the udder’s internals becoming exposed just as the dog begins to get back on its feet. \n\n“Stop it. Please… fuck, it’s hurting, you motherfucker…”\n\nThe voice is strangely delirious. I watch it walk up to the edge of the pool, dropping down over the edge to approach me, fists raised to the halfway point. Something in the chain of command in the dog’s body, there was an error, leaving it unsure as to its actions. But I do not mind the company! Come on in, there is still room for a little bit more!\n\n“Why don’t you try it for yourself?” I muse as within an instant, my hand teasing the nub lunges out to grasp the dog firmly around its neck. The feeble stem is no match for my sizeable hand and the immediate thrashing about is utterly defeated. Hands brought up to try and pry the vice my fingers have formed open are ignore entirely and I slowly force the dog down to its knees and bring the gasping, gurgling face closer as it spews insults at me, the eyes wide and the snout turning to evade what is to come.\n\n“Can you feel it?” I huff down its ears, pressing the face tightly against the bloated, fleshy sphere. The twitching and kicking only intensifies, now the hands are pushing down to press against the udder in vain attempts to cancel the contact of skin. Boots grinding across the tiles, unable to find proper footing, repulsion and fear every time the bare hands touch the hot flesh and the Doe beginning to panic in full as hands are working the overfilled udder, causing yet more spots to underflow with blood. The dog is in a frenzied panic state, unable to decide between wanting to get away at all costs and touching the bloated flesh of an udder in the midst of ripping open.\n\nAdmittedly, I am beginning to have some fun with this!\n\n“Can you feel it? The roughness. The cutitension? Flesh made to balloon. Filled to the utter brim, distended like the belly of a bitch pumped full of a litter? Your hands barely able to make a dent…”\n\n“[b]NAAAAAGH![/b]”\n\nOh, how lovely it is to watch! If only the scents would not offend my nostrils to such degree. If I had more time to prepare, this one would certainly have received a washing before being allowed to play. But alas… \n\n“It’s almost there. Listen to it. She feels the burn, she knows what is about to come…”\n\nAnd indeed, the Doe is bleating and screeching at this point. Less so from the swelling and tearing flesh on its backside and much more from having careless hand shoved into the bloated udder. It can tell the dogs hands are unskilled, not suited to work her beautiful milk balloons in a way that is proper. As much as I would enjoy seeing the reaction, leaving it to experience the finale would be a disservice to both the cause and the Doe. The trauma created from it would be wasted, seeing as I cannot allow the young dog to leave these four walls ever again. And so, I loosen my grip and allow the dog to finally slip out of my grasp.\n\nIt stumbles backwards, heads over heels, screeching, just like the Doe, a sound of terror and repulsion as it struggles to climb out of the pit and return to the spot against the wall. It cowers and hides behind its own arms, the resolve for escape having disappeared entirely. Trauma and situational awareness battle against one another and, for the time being, it sulks, curls into itself and safe for frantic, infrequent wipes across its own face, there is nothing but sobbing and breathing, broken up by a heavy fit of hiccups.\n\nTime for the finale. My left hand is working the nub as my face makes contact with the bruised and tense surface once again, my lips gracing the udder planting small, loving kisses across the flesh. My flews deliver a hint of taste to my tongue and my predatory instincts flare up as my right hand begins to work my dick with long, gradual strokes. I always found that this method helps a great deal in preventing me from simply losing control, the short, harsh strokes on my dick evoke too much the fantasy of a rutting, which eventually coax me into letting go and succumbing to my instincts; I cannot afford such carelessness with the little Wildfang sobbing against the wall.\n\nAnd still, I manage to time things to my full satisfaction! As my balls begin to draw tight, the churning becoming intense enough to feel as tough a pair of skilled palms is working my goods and my knot flares to its full size, the skin hardening and tightening harshly enough to be softly audible, the singing of the Doe reaches its apex and the udder bulges one last time before I open my muzzle and sink my teeth into it! \n\nIt is embellishing the finale just a little bit, I realize. But even with the tautest of udders, the most strained of skin and the harshest of pressures, it is simply not possible to make the flesh of the living burst in the way that excites me most. Anything short of pressurizing it with air won’t have the desired effect and thus, my fangs help the matter by piercing the taut hide and bridging the milk cisterns, leaving the dermal layers to unravel in catastrophic ways, rupturing the enormous globe and spilling blood and milk across the pit, just as I feel my back ache and my body lock in a clench, my orgasm hitting me with such intensity, I can feel my taint muscle pull like a slingshot and downright hurt my pucker as my uncomfortable position does not allow it to fully flex. \n\nBut it hardly matters to me. For but a moment, my mind is blank, overwhelmed by sensory assaults, a delicious battalion comprised of scent, taste of raw milk and gore and the cacophony of the Doe’s final bleat and the dog behind me whimpering, all wrapped in orgasmic bliss. A rope, thick as a thumb and carrying litres worth of semen is propelled across the width of the pit and hits the tiled corner on the other side. The Doe goes limp almost immediately after, the sharp drop in blood pressure and the shock were enough to stop her heart before the final beat. Panting and heaving, errand ropes of cum propelled from my tip are hitting the floor before they eventually stop, reduced to a soft trickling of protein.\n\nThe room remains silent for a bit as I lean against the limp flank, my eyes softly opened and my flews pulled up into a wry grin. Satisfied, spent and with the cold slowly seeping into my buttocks, I finally rise to my full height again, taking time to admire my work. “You were so lovely…”\n\n“You sick fuck…”\n\nAh yes. I nearly was able to ignore it for a minute. My attention is still on the Doe but the dog appears to demand it instead.\n\n“She was happy to provide.” I explain to the sobbing excuse of a canine and emerge from the pit once again. It is now time to deal with it. “I allowed you to partake in her joy, you should be thanking me for educating you on the matter ~” I can’t help the bout of sarcasm. \n\n“Animals can’t consent, how’s that for education, asshole?”, it answers. Even in its final moments, the answers are blatant stereotypes; my patience for these shenanigans is all but exhausted.\n\n“They can’t.” I agree without skipping a beat, my eyes making contact with the dog’s. “But they scream [b]NO[/b] all the same, if prodded right.” My pupils dilute as I speak and I pull my flews up to expose my fangs, leaning forward and raising my shoulders. I give it what it expects; the monster of the woods, with all the cheap theatrics that come with it.\n\nThere’s a short pause. I see the face contort, a flew pulled up to release a stunted noise, much akin to a disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck even are you?”\n\nI smile down at it, my lips parting to reveal teeth and as the corners tuck up into a wide grin but it is difficult to hide my disgust. What an unfathomably pointless exchange. My hand reaches behind my back to produce the Glock once again and aim it squarely at the dog. Then, I pull the trigger.\n\nThe sharp movement of the sled snapping backwards sees my hand shake. I feel the recoil travel up the forearm muscle to introduce a wiggle in my bicep, moments before it has a chance to flex and harden to compensate. It has been a while since I discharged a firearm and despite my strength, I am once again surprised at the immense force. The bullet makes a clear entry into the dog’s skull, slightly offset from the middle. The head cocks upwards and cracks into the old wall with the sound of a mallet hitting brick, barely audible against even the silenced gun. I flick my ears and squint as its head slumps to the left, a slither of blood dripping from the entry wound. Almost clean, were it not for the mess on the wall behind it; a bright fanning of pink matter and red amidst ragged bits of fur and specks of bone, spread like the wheel of a peacock. The hole the projectile buried into the brick behind is deep enough to render it invisible… almost laughable how little it cared about the cranium in its path. The uncomfortable ringing in my ears remains as I use my booted heel to pull up a chair to sit down. \n\nMy ears barely pick up the scraping sounds of the old metal, nor can I make out the crisp sounds of the aging lacquer on the wood seat. Closing my eyes and focusing on the tinnitus in an attempt to force it into oblivion, I make a mental note to procure something smaller for indoor use; Parabellum is simply too loud and woefully overkill at such short distance. A [i]Walterchen[/i] would prove much less bothersome, especially when silenced, but my large hands always had trouble wielding something as small as a PPK… blasted design not allowing for removal of the trigger guard.\n\nAll the same now. I turn the gun in my hand a couple of times, then put it to rest on a nearby medical cart with the barrel facing the wall. Looking down, my cock has almost fully retracted back into my sheath, a fact that coaxes a low sigh from my lungs. I eye the body in front of me and for a moment I consider making use of it while it is still warm. But the curiosity to discover what exactly I’d be getting when opening this particular package simply isn’t there. Ah well…\n\nI push up from the stool and raise my arms high above my head to stretch them, the old bones and joints creaking and snapping. It is time to clean up.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "“Why do you do it?”

It’s an interesting question to ask for someone staring down the barrel of a silenced Glock 17. The young dog asking it sits in the corner of the room, slumped down against the wall. Its bomber jacket has torn along the back, exposing some of the filling; not unlike the Doe in the draining pit behind me. It caught me at an unfortunate moment so, it is only fair I return the favour.

The clocks had just struck past eleven. Saturdays are the nights I sometimes indulge in these little acts of pleasure. It makes for a lovely schedule; Sundays see me miming the socialite for the depraved elite from the corners of the world worth paying attention to so, sleeping in leaves me with the energy needed to endure their company. Just as my occasional debauchery when visiting HafenCity offers me to lay with my favourite pick of the wares in its red-light district, so form my indulgences in the barn the little adventures away from the norm I require to keep my libido in check.

Ever since the GDR, I had gotten a taste for the dirty things in life. Seeing those less fortunate than I; picking up something innocent; squeezing it until I feel warmth trickle down my fingers and mat my fur. It was easy back then. No one to ask questions, nobody to even bother looking for someone missing. Well, no one who would have been able to put a stop to my actions, anyway. Germany claimed to have learned from its mistakes but the disdain for those with less than five digits on a hand still lingered. A missing dog may have been followed up on. But a Doe? Nobody cared. And even if they had, they could never have made much out of what I left behind… sometimes, my instincts flared up a little too intensely and left little of those girls to be recognized. I admit that some of my work back then is nothing I would brag about today. It was crude and unnecessary, souls taken a dime for a dozen because what did it matter if I messed up with one? Just get another the next weekend; it was that easy.

I am glad these times are over. After things began to settle and Germany was healing, so was I.
And thus, I take to ferals when the mood begins to gnaw too thoroughly at the back of my head. Forensic psychology would question if they are reading my story backwards, baha! From their standpoint, the question is indeed a curious one… Why do I do it? What makes a mute feral more desirable than a sapient Doe who can sing for me before I squeeze the life out of her flesh?

The simple answer is: Indifference. It may appear shocking to the average listener but the cold, hard truth is that any victim, be it girl or boy or confused, has no more interesting tales to tell you than a bleating, scared woodland critter. You cannot get them to talk to you. They scream, they kick and they beg. They beg so, so much. You can argue with them, reason with them, or make false promises of the “if you simply talk, I shall spare you” kind. But most won’t listen. They are diminished in their ability to think clearly and even those that do talk, should you dangle the opportunity of distracting you in front of them, have nothing of substance to say. On the rare occasion, you get one that fancies themselves a strategist; smart enough to sweet-talk you into letting them go, something which can be fun to toy with for a little while; the negative epiphany in their eyes, you see? Alluring yes, but it in the end just as hollow as the begging.

By contrast, there is something innocent in the way a feral behaves. They understand when their time has come and they are not confused by the pain. Nature is neither cruel nor benevolent and, in these moments, I feel much like her; to simply allow things to run their cause with no judge, no God to speak ill of your actions. Most perpetrators who prefer the feral over the sapient will do so for reasons of control. They are frightened by the way something sentient can respond. The sapient tells them how much they hurt it; the sapient can beg, it can appeal to empathy; the sapient will return in their dreams and haunt them. It is cowardice more than anything. A means to offset the lack of dominance in their lives. I have no need for such compensation thus, of course, it must appear odd to the little Wildfang that managed to sneak into my most private sanctum. Let’s hear what it has to say.

“Elaborate.”

My voice is calmer than it expected it to be, given the dog’s rude intrusion; I am surprised. Were I in the mood for something decidedly younger than the Doe in the pit, I would have welcomed the addition to the party. Unfortunately for it, I am not so, this may find a swift ending, depending on what it has to say.

“Why do you do… this. The Deer. The whole Zoo shit.”

The voice, meagre and riddled with hormone tremors as it is, holds a distinct note of apathy to it that is tickling my interest. It still falls short of actual interest but I am willing to listen further.

“Quite rude to ambush the cook in the kitchen and begin criticising how the meat is cut, no?”

“Zoo shit.”, the bundle of misery repeats and defiant this time, chin raised up to make eye contact. Still not much more than indifference to see in the facial muscles. The THC abuse has removed vital aspects of the expression. Oh, how I loathe the frequent users of this drug.

“Zoo shit, Zoo shit, Zoo shit. You’re a Zoophile. You fuck animals. There, that clear enough for ya? I just wanna know why. Motherfucker.”

My ears slowly lower from their high peaks; I cannot fault them. This one isn’t nearly as interesting as I had hoped. I am unsure why I had gotten my hopes up to begin with. What a bloody waste of time. But perhaps we can teach it a little before planting a nine-millimetre into its frontal lobe. I certainly do not want to sink my teeth into that raged fur; the stench is appalling, even from a distance.

“Such a loud mouth for something so small in stature and status. But we can try and brush up on your manners a little before-”

“You’re not getting away with this, you know that, right?”

“Please.”

Interrupted yet again and by a comment that tangents stereotypes to a point of nearly making me laugh. Nearly. Instead, I feel my fingers twitch with ire and I step up to the bag of misery and firmly grasp it by the front. My left hand digs into the puffed jacket… cheap and with no protection to its insulating layers. My claws puncture the lining with no effort as I raise the dog up to a more comfortable height while studying its movements. And just as expected, I see an onset of defiance, followed by a quick faltering as it opens its mouth to talk; I won’t allow it. Quickly, I smack the handle of the Glock across the dog’s cheek, cocking its face to the right and making it spit out on the floor.

It's done and over with quick and leaves it coughing and twitching on the cold floor. Turning around to tend to my main course in the pit again, my ears are perked to assure the young dog is playing nice. As expected, all I can pick up on is a lot of soft moaning and grumbling as it tries to regain its vision. By the time I turn around to face it again, it has propped its body up on both elbows, saliva drooping from the flews and onto the floor.

“Motherfucker.”

The word is there but oh, is it a quite one! There is some satisfaction in seeing the dog’s eyes dilute and its ears laid back against the back of the head. The tail is curled and the knees push closer to the elbows in a defensive reaction.

“No one has ever laid hands on you before like that, no?” I muse whilst squatting down to get a bit closer. My left hand reaches out to brush strands of murky hair from its face, prompting much harsher retaliation; its back bows like a that of a feral cat and its hand swats after mine, leaving the body to slump back against the wall. It wants to scream at me, I can tell but the noises are as fumbled as the motions, a mere little huff escaping the flews.

“Fatherless household, I presume?” I continue and immediately, there is more of the same flailing and hissing until, finally, the dog manages to slide its backside up the wall and blurt out a flurry of curses amidst a misting of saliva that speckles my apron.

“Fucking nondo! You think you’re some hot shit?! Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t touch me again! Motherfuck-“

I have raised my palm again and like pulling the needle from a record, the music stops. Fear and confusion pour from the young eyes and for just a moment, I get a glimpse of the real dog behind the façade of rage and indifference.

“Hrm. Someone has hit you before; I sense familiarity with the palm in your eyes. Not a father though.” I theorize, reaching out once more, this time cupping my hand around the lower jaw of the dog. No retaliation this time, its eyes are docile, the posture stiff, nails scrape across the concrete as my index finger and thumb dig into the cheeks to force the head to turn. “The mother then. Someone does not know what to do with you… least of all yourself.”

I retract my hand and stand up once more, smiling down at the face of disbelieve. Look at that, now this is beginning to resemble something interesting! I decide then and there to allow the dog to bear witness. It’s come a long way to take a glimpse into the pit, why not let it have one before it is pulled inside?

“I know why you are here.” I turn at the heel to face the plastic curtain covering the draining pit in front of us. “You fancy yourself a journalist. The type that won’t be bought. You quit your job at the Schwerin Heute to pursue your own career. Admirable, were it not for the fact that you were let go for your difficulties with answering to authority. Does your mother know about this?”

I perk my ears to listen for a reaction. Supressed sobs. Not for my recent jab, the commentary prior hit much harder than my palm. I already know the answer, I merely want to assure it is paying attention for what is to come. Not that this should present too difficult a task. “So, I am certain you’d be anxious to discover if what you keep writing about me on your little blog is true?”

And with that, I stash the Glock in the leather strap running across my back and pull aside the proverbial curtain and step aside. As if on cue, the Doe down in the pit begins to shake and shiver, rattling the old metal pressure shackles I built for exactly this purpose so long ago. The old pit is a relic of the building’s past, a murky and shallow pool, tiled with small squares that have long lost their pristine whites and taken on the sepia of age. Two large grates run along the drains in the floor, their thick bars used to mount multi-purpose metal contraptions. A modular system of cold, cast-iron depravity, evoking the grace of the late industrial revolution; rounded bezels on thick metal plating, all set in a green ceramic coating.

The doe standing on the grates is a has her head lowered, her legs are buckling and her hindpatch shows the wet fur of many saline washes I have performed until she stopped soiling herself due to the treatment. The display, delicious as it may be, all pales in comparison to my treatment of hers, however: behind her, forced to exist between her hinds is a monstrous, bulbous and bruised shape forming an udder. The amazing mass of backed-up milk is the size of a beachball, with perky, swollen teats protruding from it like the sensor lances of a marine mine… and oh, one would be forgiven to take to believing she would burst just like one if they were prodded!

“What the fuck…”

There it is! Oh, it was worth revealing! The sentence is said in defiance and exhaustion, huffed out between laboured breaths! Disbelieve and repulsion and just the fleeting hint of curiosity that sees my sheath finally come to live again. As my dick grows heavy and long, I stand beside the scene, a presenter of the obscure, proud to show off my work and I almost want to bow a little to add to the scene but I control myself. Let’s not push this into the realms of a fever dream. I want the little dog to experience every moment of this with as much clarity as possible.

“You have asked me why I do it before.” I begin and move closer to the Doe. My heavy boots make contact with the tiles and the moment my hand touches her flank, she begins to shudder and release a low bleat. It is not one of panic, merely resolution. She knows her time is coming to an end. “I will show you just why an udder can sometimes be preferable over the swell of a breast.”

The dog’s face is slowly waning of fear and survival instincts are beginning to kick in. Obviously, it wishes to vacate the scene but I can tell there is that curiosity again to get a closer look. Be it an irrational reaction or the vague notion of escaping the predicament and having a better story to tell, I cannot say. What matters is that it will stay put.

I sit down next to the Doe and softly lean my head against the swollen udder. My dick is throbbing, I can feel it harden and grow so weighty, even my baculum is unable to stand up to it, leaving it to swing forward and deposit a bout of pre onto the tiles. The udder radiates heat, I can feel it burn against my cheek. My ears pick up subtle noises of the insides… the grossly extended milk cisterns housing the tremendous load that is forced to exist inside of her flesh, teased up, heated, forced to produce using chemicals and disallowed to expel any of it using super glue. Many would call it crude but it is, in fact, not much different than the compounds one would use on a sentient being to seal up small injection wounds-

“You are fucking sick. You fucking Zoo, you are fucked. This shit is ass, just fucking… stop.”

The dog is incoherent but I have no interest in addressing it for the time being. I draw in the scene of the Doe; my nostrils flare and I close my eyes as my gloved hands roam across the taut surface. I trace the thick veins, feel the resistance they provide against my touch, the scent is heavy with sweat and cold fear, the strained, taut flesh feels so much akin to a balloon against my cheeks… it is wonderful, bizarre and before long, my right hand finds its way towards one of the teats to begin working it with pointed fingers.

“Teasing is among my most beloved actions in encounters such as these.” I mumble, a bit more to myself than to the dog. “When the flesh is stressed to such a degree, when the arousal is packed and swollen as tight as this woodland fleshlight, the slightest caress carries such grand consequences. Watch.”

And as if on cue, the Doe begins to buckle and shake, the muzzle opens into another short, hectic bleat. Her muscles twitch with purpose, trying to dislodge her ankles from the shackles but it is a futile effort. As her udder beings to swell yet again, subtly at first but one can tell by the skin beginning to develop further discolorations; small blotches of purple and red are mixing into the pink, little islands of burst veins where the pressure has caused ruptures as the udder is beginning to strain too much under the heavy load. Her milk production is amped and pushed to ludicrous extremes and soon enough, I find myself hugging the engorged sphere with my left arm, enforcing closer contact and allowing her skin some relieve as I help to prop it up.

“Stop. Stop. You fucking sick fuck, just kill it already whyareyoufucking…”

I can hear the tears before they pour from the dog’s eyes. Its body is beginning to shake and it sobs, the hands are pulled up to hide its face, trying to avoid watching the Doe’s demise but it is unable to fully deny itself the memory. “The sight is magnificent, isn’t it? You should consider yourself lucky…”

“Enough. Don’t hurt it! Motherfucker.”

Who would have known the background music the young dog would provide? My dick demands attention but my hands are busy… what a shame indeed but with the dribble of pre increasing as it is, I am hardly in a position to need much stimulation. I can feel the udder begin to enter its finale, the skin and connective tissue anchoring it to the underbelly and the crotch are the first to give. Lateral tears begin to appear in the surface, prompting her to finally sing for me. It is a beautiful noise, a shrill, loud bleating, full of realization and defiance. Don’t you worry, you will get to enjoy it all for quite a little bit longer. Skin stretching and the dermal layers peeling back like the skin of a grape, my fingers can feel the softer layers of the udder’s internals becoming exposed just as the dog begins to get back on its feet.

“Stop it. Please… fuck, it’s hurting, you motherfucker…”

The voice is strangely delirious. I watch it walk up to the edge of the pool, dropping down over the edge to approach me, fists raised to the halfway point. Something in the chain of command in the dog’s body, there was an error, leaving it unsure as to its actions. But I do not mind the company! Come on in, there is still room for a little bit more!

“Why don’t you try it for yourself?” I muse as within an instant, my hand teasing the nub lunges out to grasp the dog firmly around its neck. The feeble stem is no match for my sizeable hand and the immediate thrashing about is utterly defeated. Hands brought up to try and pry the vice my fingers have formed open are ignore entirely and I slowly force the dog down to its knees and bring the gasping, gurgling face closer as it spews insults at me, the eyes wide and the snout turning to evade what is to come.

“Can you feel it?” I huff down its ears, pressing the face tightly against the bloated, fleshy sphere. The twitching and kicking only intensifies, now the hands are pushing down to press against the udder in vain attempts to cancel the contact of skin. Boots grinding across the tiles, unable to find proper footing, repulsion and fear every time the bare hands touch the hot flesh and the Doe beginning to panic in full as hands are working the overfilled udder, causing yet more spots to underflow with blood. The dog is in a frenzied panic state, unable to decide between wanting to get away at all costs and touching the bloated flesh of an udder in the midst of ripping open.

Admittedly, I am beginning to have some fun with this!

“Can you feel it? The roughness. The cutitension? Flesh made to balloon. Filled to the utter brim, distended like the belly of a bitch pumped full of a litter? Your hands barely able to make a dent…”

“NAAAAAGH!”

Oh, how lovely it is to watch! If only the scents would not offend my nostrils to such degree. If I had more time to prepare, this one would certainly have received a washing before being allowed to play. But alas…

“It’s almost there. Listen to it. She feels the burn, she knows what is about to come…”

And indeed, the Doe is bleating and screeching at this point. Less so from the swelling and tearing flesh on its backside and much more from having careless hand shoved into the bloated udder. It can tell the dogs hands are unskilled, not suited to work her beautiful milk balloons in a way that is proper. As much as I would enjoy seeing the reaction, leaving it to experience the finale would be a disservice to both the cause and the Doe. The trauma created from it would be wasted, seeing as I cannot allow the young dog to leave these four walls ever again. And so, I loosen my grip and allow the dog to finally slip out of my grasp.

It stumbles backwards, heads over heels, screeching, just like the Doe, a sound of terror and repulsion as it struggles to climb out of the pit and return to the spot against the wall. It cowers and hides behind its own arms, the resolve for escape having disappeared entirely. Trauma and situational awareness battle against one another and, for the time being, it sulks, curls into itself and safe for frantic, infrequent wipes across its own face, there is nothing but sobbing and breathing, broken up by a heavy fit of hiccups.

Time for the finale. My left hand is working the nub as my face makes contact with the bruised and tense surface once again, my lips gracing the udder planting small, loving kisses across the flesh. My flews deliver a hint of taste to my tongue and my predatory instincts flare up as my right hand begins to work my dick with long, gradual strokes. I always found that this method helps a great deal in preventing me from simply losing control, the short, harsh strokes on my dick evoke too much the fantasy of a rutting, which eventually coax me into letting go and succumbing to my instincts; I cannot afford such carelessness with the little Wildfang sobbing against the wall.

And still, I manage to time things to my full satisfaction! As my balls begin to draw tight, the churning becoming intense enough to feel as tough a pair of skilled palms is working my goods and my knot flares to its full size, the skin hardening and tightening harshly enough to be softly audible, the singing of the Doe reaches its apex and the udder bulges one last time before I open my muzzle and sink my teeth into it!

It is embellishing the finale just a little bit, I realize. But even with the tautest of udders, the most strained of skin and the harshest of pressures, it is simply not possible to make the flesh of the living burst in the way that excites me most. Anything short of pressurizing it with air won’t have the desired effect and thus, my fangs help the matter by piercing the taut hide and bridging the milk cisterns, leaving the dermal layers to unravel in catastrophic ways, rupturing the enormous globe and spilling blood and milk across the pit, just as I feel my back ache and my body lock in a clench, my orgasm hitting me with such intensity, I can feel my taint muscle pull like a slingshot and downright hurt my pucker as my uncomfortable position does not allow it to fully flex.

But it hardly matters to me. For but a moment, my mind is blank, overwhelmed by sensory assaults, a delicious battalion comprised of scent, taste of raw milk and gore and the cacophony of the Doe’s final bleat and the dog behind me whimpering, all wrapped in orgasmic bliss. A rope, thick as a thumb and carrying litres worth of semen is propelled across the width of the pit and hits the tiled corner on the other side. The Doe goes limp almost immediately after, the sharp drop in blood pressure and the shock were enough to stop her heart before the final beat. Panting and heaving, errand ropes of cum propelled from my tip are hitting the floor before they eventually stop, reduced to a soft trickling of protein.

The room remains silent for a bit as I lean against the limp flank, my eyes softly opened and my flews pulled up into a wry grin. Satisfied, spent and with the cold slowly seeping into my buttocks, I finally rise to my full height again, taking time to admire my work. “You were so lovely…”

“You sick fuck…”

Ah yes. I nearly was able to ignore it for a minute. My attention is still on the Doe but the dog appears to demand it instead.

“She was happy to provide.” I explain to the sobbing excuse of a canine and emerge from the pit once again. It is now time to deal with it. “I allowed you to partake in her joy, you should be thanking me for educating you on the matter ~” I can’t help the bout of sarcasm.

“Animals can’t consent, how’s that for education, asshole?”, it answers. Even in its final moments, the answers are blatant stereotypes; my patience for these shenanigans is all but exhausted.

“They can’t.” I agree without skipping a beat, my eyes making contact with the dog’s. “But they scream NO all the same, if prodded right.” My pupils dilute as I speak and I pull my flews up to expose my fangs, leaning forward and raising my shoulders. I give it what it expects; the monster of the woods, with all the cheap theatrics that come with it.

There’s a short pause. I see the face contort, a flew pulled up to release a stunted noise, much akin to a disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck even are you?”

I smile down at it, my lips parting to reveal teeth and as the corners tuck up into a wide grin but it is difficult to hide my disgust. What an unfathomably pointless exchange. My hand reaches behind my back to produce the Glock once again and aim it squarely at the dog. Then, I pull the trigger.

The sharp movement of the sled snapping backwards sees my hand shake. I feel the recoil travel up the forearm muscle to introduce a wiggle in my bicep, moments before it has a chance to flex and harden to compensate. It has been a while since I discharged a firearm and despite my strength, I am once again surprised at the immense force. The bullet makes a clear entry into the dog’s skull, slightly offset from the middle. The head cocks upwards and cracks into the old wall with the sound of a mallet hitting brick, barely audible against even the silenced gun. I flick my ears and squint as its head slumps to the left, a slither of blood dripping from the entry wound. Almost clean, were it not for the mess on the wall behind it; a bright fanning of pink matter and red amidst ragged bits of fur and specks of bone, spread like the wheel of a peacock. The hole the projectile buried into the brick behind is deep enough to render it invisible… almost laughable how little it cared about the cranium in its path. The uncomfortable ringing in my ears remains as I use my booted heel to pull up a chair to sit down.

My ears barely pick up the scraping sounds of the old metal, nor can I make out the crisp sounds of the aging lacquer on the wood seat. Closing my eyes and focusing on the tinnitus in an attempt to force it into oblivion, I make a mental note to procure something smaller for indoor use; Parabellum is simply too loud and woefully overkill at such short distance. A Walterchen would prove much less bothersome, especially when silenced, but my large hands always had trouble wielding something as small as a PPK… blasted design not allowing for removal of the trigger guard.

All the same now. I turn the gun in my hand a couple of times, then put it to rest on a nearby medical cart with the barrel facing the wall. Looking down, my cock has almost fully retracted back into my sheath, a fact that coaxes a low sigh from my lungs. I eye the body in front of me and for a moment I consider making use of it while it is still warm. But the curiosity to discover what exactly I’d be getting when opening this particular package simply isn’t there. Ah well…

I push up from the stool and raise my arms high above my head to stretch them, the old bones and joints creaking and snapping. It is time to clean up.", "writing": "", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "", "pools_count": 0, "title": "The Reason", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "image/png", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" }, { "content_tag_id": "5", "name": "Strong Violence", "description": "Strong violence, blood, serious injury or death", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "1", "type_name": "Picture/Pinup", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "3", "views": "375" }