’Tis what girls of rich blood know true,
before they are as old as a ewe,
there shall soon come a groom,
with gold to pay for her womb,
while her breasts are but drops of dew
— limerick about traditional marriage rites, 3rd c. of the 4th era.

Eleven

	My mother first pulled me aside to have the talk the month after I turned eleven. I remember the day clearly, and even then I knew our conversation was my first step down the path towards adulthood.
	It was the first weeks of summer, and I had spent most of the day playing in the woods behind the family estate. The sun was lazily sinking past the misty horizon, and I could smell dinner wafting out from the kitchen as my mother sat me down in the garden outside the house.
	The matronly leopardess held my my hand in hers, her smile warm but apprehensive. “Your father has found you a husband.”
	I looked at her plainly—I understood the words, what they meant, but not what they implied. She was married, my brother was married, and so I knew that one day I would be married. There wasn’t anything noteworthy about that fact alone.
	She was clearly expecting more of a reaction from me. “You know what that means, right?” Strands of black hair fell away from her neatly tied up bun and drifted in the wind.
	I nodded, and recited rote something I read in a book. “You found a family that will pay a dower for me. I’ll have a husband, we’ll live together and start a family.”
	“And you know how families happen, right? How babies happen?” She raised her eyebrows, hoping that I had not forgotten all the things I’d learned from the estate’s stables. I had not.
	“Yah. Sex.” I glanced idly towards the other end of the house, where the horses were. Animals, unlike people, felt no need to keep their affairs hidden; I had seen the horses mate, I had watched foals being born. What I didn’t figure out on my own, the stable master and my older brother filled in. I returned my gaze to her. “But dad said I won’t be able to have kids for another few years.”
	“Well, no, probably not. At least not safely. However, when you get married, there will be certain expectations. Sex will be one of them, with or without the prospect of pregnancy.”
	I tilted my head. “There’s other reasons for people have sex?” I asked, blunt and naive.
	My mother bit her lower lip, her spotted ears lowered, which she usually did when she was thinking. She looked around, picking her words carefully. “Adults enjoy it. It feels good. If your father and I intended to have a child every time we’d have sex, you’d have more siblings than would fit in the house.” She smiled mischievously, hoping to lighten the mood. 
	Instead, I just conjured up the memory of a stallion thrusting into a mare. I knew men’s penises weren’t nearly as large, but it always seemed so…violent. The mental image made something fizzle deep in my stomach, a sensation I had yet to find a word for. My mother interpreted the vacant look on my face as confusion.
	“Mari, do you ever touch yourself—you know, between your legs? It’s okay if you do, there’s nothing wrong with it.”
	I shrugged. “When I’m bathing.”
	She shook her head. “I mean really touch yourself—like rubbing parts of yourself, exploring with your fingers, things like that.” She said, matter-of-factly.
	I blushed enough to feel my cheeks turn hot under my fur. “Sometimes. When I’m in bed. I guess it feels kind of good, but—”
	A voice from the house shouted across to the garden. It was grandad, dinner was ready.
	My mom sighed, perhaps glad that she had been excused from an awkward conversation, if just for the moment. “I’ll tell you what, Mari, I’m going to leave a book on your bed tonight. One of mine, that I had since I was nearly your age.” My ears shot up. Books? I loved books.
	My mother stood up and dusted the dirt off her dress. “I want you to read it, and maybe explore a bit, you know, down there.” She winked with a downward glance and planted a kiss on my forehead before she lifted the hem of her dress off the ground and ran back into the house, with me chasing behind her. 
	I spent dinner hunched over a bowl of rice and lamb stew, mostly silent, my head swimming with thoughts about the marriage. Unlike sex, the simple facts of married life was something I already understood. My father was older than my mother, and my sister-in-law was only a few years older than me, so I assumed my husband would be older than myself. My father was wise, kind, and handsome—my husband would be too, right? 
	“You’re lost in your head more than usual, Mari.”
	It was my grandmother, who had finished dinner and was nursing a cup of herbal tea in her hands.
	“Yah, I…” My voice drifted off and I looked at my mom and dad. Did they tell anyone else? My mother and I exchanged quick glances in that wordless parent-daughter language that we had taught each other over the course of years.
	“Arren found a husband for our Mari.” She said with a prideful smile.
	My grandmother laughed and swirled around her cup of tea, the candlelight dancing around the lines in her spotted muzzle. “Young! Found a dower too good to turn down, I imagine?” She said, looking at my father. He shot her a disapproving look, as though such a question was distasteful. My grandmother just scoffed at him.
	“Well, I look forward to the new addition to the house next spring, since I assume that’s where the dower is going. Perhaps another greenhouse is in order? More horses for the tables?” She said smugly, while my father rolled his eyes. “Although I imagine next spring may be optimistic—you’re a long way from sprouting breasts, from what I’ve seen.”
	“Mother!” My mom scolded.
	My grandma raised an eyebrow. “If she’s old enough to be in a marriage contract, she’s old enough to have us discuss such things.” She took a swig of tea. “Money and contracts aside, the law says you can’t get married until your breasts start to bud.”
	I had seen my parents naked before, I knew what breasts looked like, and yet it was the second time that day that I was forced to recon, very directly, with the end of my childhood. I just smiled awkwardly at my grandmother unsure of what to say.
	
	That night I was too distracted to do much beyond stare out of my bedroom window. My dad barging into my room to wax poetic about how proud he was didn’t help. I was eleven, I certainly didn’t feel grown up at the time, and the loving hand he put on my shoulder rested with the weight of an entire family. His words rang hollow: what did it mean to be an adult besides to just be older than I was right now?
	After my nightly calligraphy practice—my dad says everyone, even housewives, should know how to read and write, and do it with skill befitting their social standing—I washed the ink off my hands in a pewter bowl, my eyes unfocused as the water turned gray. I conjured up an image pulled from the pages of my love poem: his hair would be as black as moonless night, his jaw shaped like the grandest fjords, yet his touch as light as spring rains. For the moment, I let myself be comforted by that.
	The book my mother had mentioned was sitting on my pillow after I washed up and crawled into my nightgown. It was small, the kind of book one might slip into a large coat pocket, but beautifully bound in plush leather, with a hardy front cover; it looked as expensive as any of the books my parents kept in their reading room. There was no title on the front, or the spine. I normally wasn’t allowed to read in bed, so I was eager to take my mother’s direction to heart. I pulled open the blinds, letting the dim moonlight fill my room, and lit a small oil lamp I kept on my desk. I crawled under the covers and opened the book, the binding creaking gently.
Love Sonnets of S.K.R — Illustrated Edition

	My heart fell. I already had this collection of poems on my own bookshelf, a gift from my dad when I turned ten. An illustrated edition was rarer and more interesting, undoubtedly, but hardly worth a clandestine nighttime reading. Or so I thought, until I turned the page to the first sonnet. 
	The poem itself was relegated to the upper left of the page, with a the bulk of the space taken up by two whole pages of art, rendered lovingly in fine-tip dip pen. It depicted a leopardess, only slightly older than myself, naked and resting languidly on the edge of a bed, one leg falling down the side to reveal a light bush of hair and a lovingly illustrated vulva. Something in my stomach bloomed warmly. 
	I had already seen everyone in my family naked at some point, either in the bath, or while swimming out in the lake behind the house. I knew what a grown woman looked like, but this was different. The way she was posed, her legs gently spread, exposing herself. Without thinking, I reached a hand down under the covers and pulled up my nightgown to my stomach. My cheeks burned, and I felt something tight in my chest, the way I felt when I watched the horses mate. 
	My hand drifted down between my legs to trace the parts I saw illustrated on the screen. I pressed my paw inexpertly into my labia, at the time surrounded by nothing more than soft kitten-fur. I slipped a finger gently between the lips, tracing upwards to find the nub of flesh that crowned the woman’s labia in the drawing. I felt a little shiver of energy as the pad of my middle finger rubbed my clitoris, a part of me that had remained unexplored until then. My heart fluttered as I pressed my finger into the little nub again, the folds of flesh wakening with a new hunger, demanding more of me as I angled my hips and pressed forward, grinding my sex into the palm of my hand. My free hand shaking, I turned the page. 
	This was even more explicit; a man and a woman laying in bed, him on his knees, her on her back, her leg hoisted over his shoulder, turgid penis buried halfway inside her. Just like the horses I thought to myself, although I had never seen two people do such a thing.
	The folds of my vulva had gotten moist, like sweat but stickier. I gently pressed a finger downwards, feeling awkwardly around until the finger slipped inside. I put both hands between my legs, one pushing the finger in to the knuckle, the other pressing desperately against the hardening nub of my clitoris. I imagined the man in the picture was holding me down to the bed, his strong arms pulling my legs apart, rubbing that newly magical spot between my legs with his penis. He thrust into me like the stallions I had seen; deep and sudden, yet still gentle. I pushed my hips into my hands, that hunger deep in my body begging for more, egging me on. I fell back into the bed, my overeager and shaking hands working as hard as I could make them. My breath was ragged, heart pumping like I had ran across the woods. That hunger peaked, building into a pressure like a full bladder, then in one burst, released. My head spun, legs shaking, and despite my desire to remain covert, I let out a little moan. Fizzles of pleasure, powerful and sharp, danced across my body. I couldn’t help but giggle as the spot between my legs throbbed happily. 
	I didn’t know the word orgasm yet, but I didn’t need to. What my mother had said in the garden now made perfect sense. That lingering doubt I had felt throughout the day disappeared in seconds, and I drifted off to sleep imagining the man from the book, perhaps not unlike my husband, as his hands explored and pleasured my body.

Twelve

	There are years of one’s life that seem to pass in a moment, like a lazy summer weekend, and there are months of one’s life that contain entire years. The winter after I turned twelve was one of the latter. 
	That one night of self-discovery months ago was followed by countless more, the nights growing long as the ink on the page bled into countless pubescent fantasies and sweat-soaked moments of desire. That book was one of many, I learned: my mother had a whole collection that she kept in a drawer by her bed, some were more pornographic, others more anatomical. My father, who watched my awakening from a distance, commented on the importance of both. A good lover, he said, like a good painter, must understand both the art and the science of their craft. I blushed whenever he told me such things, his flirtatious smile sending blood to my cheeks.
	One morning in the late weeks of winter, I drifted a hand down between to my chest a felt a hard mass of flesh under my nipples; they were small, but newly tender in a way I had never noticed. My mother and I agreed; the legal condition for marriage had been met, and while my father took a horse and rode into town, I stood naked in front of the mirror, taking myself in as my future husband would. I didn’t look like the girls in the art that I spent so much time pleasuring myself to—my chest was still flat, save for the slightest swelling behind my nipples. All those months of idle imagining suddenly felt very real; I stopped seeing myself and started seeing just the shapes in the mirror, the imperfections, the misplaced hairs and whiskers, the narrow child-like hips. Who would desire me in such a state? Recalling my older brother’s own gawky and awkward puberty froze my heart further.
	There was a knock at my bedroom door. I pulled a robe over myself and answered, but my mother was wise enough to piece together what I was doing, although I doubt the look on my face helped.
	“You look beautiful, kiddo” She said with as warm a smile as you could muster. “Why so nervous?”
	I stared blankly into the mirror, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything, I guess.” I felt my ears pin themselves down to my head.
	She sighed deeply and rested her muzzle atop my head. “I was terrified too, when I married your father.” She ran a finger gently above my ear, brushing my hair away from my face. “I spent a whole hour braiding my hair on my wedding day I was so anxious. At your age, it’s easy to forget that the people who love you see you as a whole person. Love doesn’t bend to flaws and imperfections.” She kissed my forehead, and for a moment I felt the knot in my stomach loosen. “You should get dressed! He’ll be here soon.”
	I whipped around, my eyes as wide as dinner plates. “What? He? Here? Now?” 
	“Relax. The wedding won’t be for another week. This is just an opportunity to get to know each other, that’s all.”
	That didn’t make me feel better.

	The sun shone stubbornly through the rainclouds, throwing slivers of light across the the gardens behind my parent’s house. In a poetic turn, I was sitting on the same bench I was last year when I had “the talk” with my mom. The air was cold and humid, and I found myself nervously running my fingers across the rainwater that had pooled on the wooden table. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear his footsteps behind me.
	“Mari?” His voice was soft and airy.
	I turned around so fast I gave myself whiplash. “Yes.” I squeaked, looking up at him.
	The young leopard was the same age as my brother, making him twenty-three at the time. He was exceptionally tall, wispy, and thin, his traditional robe-like coat hugging his figure in an almost feminine way. His tail swayed behind him, and he looked down at me with an anxious smile.
	For what felt like an eternity both of us just stood and stared at each other in silence, my eyes wide, and he just gazed down at me, his soft smile doing little to hide the nervousness in his eyes. Like a hare under the gaze of a coyote, we both stood stock-still, waiting for the other to move first.
	I pulled my lips into an awkward, toothy smile and motioned for him to sit down. He sat beside me after returning my gesture with an equally awkward bow.
	“It’s Arren, right?” I squeaked. He nodded.
	“No one told ether of us what to do in a situation like this, did they?” He said.
	I shook my head. “All my romance novels are about warriors and mages and traveling poets. I should have picked something more pedestrian.”
	He raised an eyebrow. “Your father said you can read and write. Do you read poetry, by any chance?”
	My ears perked up and I leaned over the bench. “Yah! I Got shelves of it!”
	He clapped his hands together, the tension leaving his body. “Thank the gods, we have something in common. Any favorite periods? Poets?”
	I thought for a second, unsure if I should try to impress him, or just be honest. I remembered something my mother told me weeks ago, about how relationships are built from honesty, not perfection. 
	“Most of my poetry books I got from my parents’ shelves. Romanticism, plays and sonnets from the early third era. The classics.”
	He raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. “Looks and intellect. I got lucky.” He said with a thin and playful smile.
	I was about to say something else to try and impress him, but the offhand compliment felt like someone pulling a rug out from under my feet. My tongue tripped over my lips and the words collided in my head. No one had ever complimented me like that. We both broke into nervous laughter. 
	I leaned forward and jabbed his shoulder with an outstretched index finger. 
	“Ow! Hey!”
	“Well, I think you’re pretty good looking too.” I said, flirting in the only awkward, childish way I knew how. 
	He dramatically cleared his throat and recited a poem I had first read years ago:
	Young girl, your frame does show resplendent youth,
	Although our eyes may cross, you shan’t not see,
	the true great depth of mine lusting bright gaze,
	your delicate hands hold my soul, uncouth. 

	My heart fluttered and I hid my awkward smile behind my hand. “Hey, no fair! Reciting poetry always gives me performance anxiety!”
	He shook his head. “You? I doubt it.” He rested his muzzle on his hand, looking at me as his bangs drifted in the gentle winter breeze. “With a voice like yours, I just know there’s a songbird in you.”
	I made a show of rolling my eyes and looking nervous. I picked a line from the collection of illustrated poems I had been enjoying during the late nights. The accompanying art was one of my favorites: a young girl sitting in a man’s lap, his arms holding her tight as he pressed his lips to her breast.
	Young love, although your chest may grow with time,
	Your loving hips with unkind years shall swell,
	My love, unflinching, shall not break nor bend,
	Not even as my funeral bells do chime.

	“Well, that one is quite fitting.” He said.
	“You think so?” I said, coyly. 
	He reached across the table to one of the snowberry bushes that bordered the garden. He plucked one of the small pink flowers and placed it gently between my index and middle fingers. My hand curled around the stem, the delicate petals grazing my palm. I don’t know what compelled me to do so, but I reached forward and pulled him into a hug, my cheeks hot as I felt tears well up in my eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. His cologne reminded me of the scent of mossy firewood. 
	No words passed between us for hours, as we both decided, with merely a glance, that none were needed.

Twenty-Four

	It rained the whole morning of the wedding. The court astrologer in town told us to plan for an afternoon wedding, and she wasn’t kidding—about a half hour before lunch the skies ceased their tumult, and the downpour turned to a gentle mist that spread across Mari’s garden.
	Despite the slow march of winter, the resplendence of the family garden hadn’t changed. Wintertime berries and delicate little flowers surrounded by great swells of bright green shrubs lined the covered walkway that extended from the back of the house to the grand stone pavilion where I currently found myself. Families in this part of the country have always preferred quiet weddings—and I silently thanked the gods this was no exception. Aside from Mari’s parents, my own, and a priestess from a local temple, only a half-dozen other people were in attendance.
	I sat on my knees on a sheepskin carpet, my fur drenched with nervous sweat despite the weather. Mari sat across from me, wearing a simple yet beautiful wedding gown, her face forced into a nervous smile. I was worried about her more than anything; she was so young, and even if we weren’t technically married yet, I still somehow felt responsible for her—part husband, part parent. My father told me that it wasn’t uncommon for a man to find himself doing both for the first few years of a marriage. 
	I was so nervous that I didn’t even notice the ceremony had started. The priestess lit a censer of dried juniper berries and started to chant. Mari’s gaze kept on darting between the stone floor of the pavilion and me, her face excited but tense, her long spotted tail whipping around behind her. I could only smile back, biting my lower lip. The ceremony itself would only be a few minutes, right? I felt like I was going to jump out of my fur.
	“Arren, can you extend your hand?” The priestess said. I was so lost in thought that almost didn’t hear her, and she opened her mouth to repeat herself just as I awkwardly thrust my hand out. Mari soon did the same, weaving her fingers between mine. I closed my hand around hers, and she squeezed, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. 
	The priestess reached a hand into the smoldering censer and pulled out a handful of ash, then spoke upwards, to the sky.
	“May the great gods of the skies, and the gods of these families, grant to them wealth, peace and good fortune.” She said before theatrically opening her hand above us, letting the fine ash be carried by the wind, just as one’s life is carried on the backs of the gods. 
	I’m not sure which one of us moved forward first, but the priestess’s voice was still echoing across the pavilion as the two of us embraced, my hands pulling her nubile body into my chest, her lips meeting mine. People cheered around us, but my only thought was for the taste of the young girl’s tongue on my own. 

	My legs ached as I collapsed on top of Mari’s bed. Her bedroom was befitting a young woman of her social standing, as indicated by the ornate desk and fine heartwood bookshelf that rested opposite the large bed—which I assumed was a recent upgrade for my own sake. 
	The five minute ceremony in the pavilion was followed by nearly four hours of dancing and socializing, and I thanked the gods that Mari and I had finally been left on our own. She crawled up on the bed next to me, sitting cross-legged with her hands in her lap, her tail flicking about. Even under the dim lamplight of her room, she was as cute as a button.
	“You look like you want to say something, love.” I said, lifting up my robes to rub my thighs. 
	She bit her lip, looking like a feral barncat ready to pounce. “Do you want to cuddle?” She said sheepishly, her little spotted ears lowering slightly. 
	I couldn’t help but smile. “Of course, come here.” I said, opening my arms.
	She leapt into my embrace, knocking me back onto a pile of pillows. The sheets smelled like her—a sweet, light scent that made my heart throb. I wrapped my arms around her midsection and pulled her close as she buried her muzzle into my chest. I kissed the top of her head, and for a few minutes neither of us said anything. I was more than happy to let us sit in silence, particularly with the feeling of my young wife—that word kept on repeating in my head, wife—resting atop me. I let my hand trace down her side, feeling the subtle curves of her pubescent figure and taking in the sweet, flowery scent of whatever she had washed her fur with.
	“Arren?” She said, her voice nearly a whisper.
	“Hmm?” I said, matching her tone.
	“Do you want to, you know,” she paused. I knew what she was going to say, but I waited for her to say it. “Make love?” She squeaked.
	I let my fingers run through her long black hair. “Only if you want to, kiddo.”
	She lifted herself up and sat atop me, wedding robes hiking up to her thighs as she straddled my stomach. She leaned forward and rested her hands on my chest. Blood immediately rushed to my cheeks, and a few other places.
	“Of course I do. I just…don’t know where to start.” She said.
	“Here, we’ll figure it out together.” I said playfully as I tried to lift myself up slightly, my wife still pinning me in place with her legs.
	I reached behind her head to undo the little leather tie holding together the elaborate bun in her hear. Her inky-black hair fell down her shoulders, reaching her elbows, leaving just her bangs covering her face. She looked down at me, smiling furiously.
	I reached for the finely carved deer antler pins that held her robes in place, pulling them out from the loops. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” I said quietly.
	“Yah.”
	Once I undid the last pin, she took hold of the robes and unraveled them in one swift motion, a move that I suspected she rehearsed by herself. She threw the fine white silk over her chair with a theatrical flourish. She then returned her attention to me, completely naked.
	The first time I met her, I worried that she would be somehow too young, too childlike for me to find attractive. This was anything but the case.
	She was far from an adult, that was certain, but she was undeniably beautiful. Like so many young women her age, she was built a newborn fawn—long gangly legs set atop a small figure. Her chest was almost entirely flat, save for her nipples, which were just beginning to develop, the areola swollen and puffy. Her hips were narrow, and I found myself running my hands up her thighs, despite a belief that I was somehow obligated to restrain myself. The fur between her legs was thin and soft, with no wiry adult pubic fur. It was just thin enough to glance at her labia. My erection surged under my robes.
	She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips as she fumbled with the ties on my own robes. Without hesitation, she pushed her tongue into my mouth, feeling around and opening her muzzle just enough for me to let my tongue in. I wondered where a girl her age learned that. I tried to untangle myself from my robes, but with Mari pinned on top of me I only got as far as my chest. She started to grind into my hips, and I couldn’t help but return the motion, pressing down gently on the small of her back. She moaned softly into my mouth, and soon after broke the kiss. Her breath was ragged, and her hands were shaking.
	“You look nervous.” I said, most of my mind occupied with the matter of self-restraint.
	“Yah.” She said, her voice higher than usual. “First-time jitters, I guess.”
	I leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “You should enjoy this. Here.”
	I took her under her shoulders and lifted her up, putting her down on the bed next to me. I quickly extracted myself from my green-and-black silk robes, throwing them on the chair beside hers. She gasped audibly, her hands reaching to explore my bare chest. She ran her hands through the soft fur under my arms as I crawled atop her. Determined to take my time, I leaned down and took her nipple—what little of it there was—into my muzzle. She mewed and wrapped her hands around my head, pushing me down into her chest. I felt the hard nub of flesh just under her nipple, which I assumed to be the bud of her developing breast, as I had never been with a girl as young as her. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen, to a woman a few years older than myself. I considered myself to be woefully inexperienced, but I was determined to do my best for Mari. 
	She squirmed under me, huffing and gasping as I ran my tongue over her nipple before switching over to the other breast. However, after a few seconds my patience ran short and I decided to move on, planting soft kisses down her stomach before I reached her soft white pubic fur. I looked up at her, waiting to see her reaction—or if she even knew what I was planning to do. I knew from my older sister that girls were expected to be at least somewhat sexually knowledgeable by the time of their wedding night, but I was never bold enough to ask for specifics.
	Mari was biting her lower lip and looking down at me expectantly. “Go on.” She whispered, angling her hips up slightly. 
	I lowered myself, muzzle filled with the gentle scent of her arousal. She may have been young, but she was beginning to smell like a woman, and the scent made me feel like my heart was about to stop.
	I nuzzled between her legs, encouraging her to spread them. I kissed her labia, the tip of my tongue dragging up her lips until I found the small nub of her clitoris. She inhaled sharply, pushing her groin into my muzzle. I started gently, running my lips over the hard little button, tongue occasionally glancing over it. She thrust her hips into me, demanding more as the gentle teases of my tongue became fervent licks. 
	I removed my hand from her hips and explored the wet fur between her legs until I found her entrance, then slipped my index finger in as far as it would go, testing how ready she was. She mewled happily, and the finger slid in without resistance. I was relieved, but unsurprised to discover her hymen was already broken.
	I pushed in a second finger, my muzzle still buried firmly between her legs as she melted under my tongue-lashing. I twisted my fingers around, feeling to make sure she was ready to take me. I didn’t consider myself particularly well-endowed, but she was small, and I worried. 
	I lifted my mouth away from her sex. “Ready for me, sweet pea?”
	“Yah.” She said, smiling. Her eyes were wide and twinkling with desire.
	I crawled up her body, and kissed her again, her tongue eagerly pressing into my muzzle. I lined up my hips, my erection resting on her pubic mound.
	“You ever tasted yourself like that?” I said, breaking the kiss.
	She nodded coyly. “Seems like you enjoy the taste too.”
	“Such an adventurous little sprite, you are.” I said. “You want me like this, or would you like to be on top?”
	She hesitated for a second. “I wanna be in your lap.”
	I pulled away from her and sat up in bed, guiding her by her narrow hips as she sat atop me. I planted a playful kiss on top of her head—the only part of her my muzzle could reach as she settled down—and she wasted no time taking my penis in her hand and experimentally lining it up.
	“Only ever used my fingers before.” She said.
	“Here.” I reached down and pushed the tip of my penis down until I felt it line up with her entrance.
	“Try to go slow, okay?” I said as I put my hands back on her rump to steady her as she hovered above me.
	She did not go slow. She took hold of my forearms—her hands only large enough to wrap halfway around them—and pushed herself down as far as she could go. She let out the loudest moan of the night and buried her muzzle into my chest. My head spun as I felt her envelop me; she was wonderfully warm, wet, and as expected for her size, tight.
	“Eh—Mari, you okay?” I said through clenched teeth.
	“Very okay.” She said, her voice shaking. 
	She gripped my arms and started to grind into me properly. I ventured a hand down to where we were joined, and pressed my thumb into her clitoris. She mewled needly and wrapped her hands around my midsection, pressing herself into me as she slowly gyrated her hips. I let her do most of the thrusting, my energy focused on beating back my orgasm as my preteen wife gyrated atop me.
	The minutes melted away into countless mews and moans and thrusts, the night slowly slipping away into a warm river of mutual pleasure. I never tired of the feeling of her atop me, her diminutive figure brimming with the raw and unfocused urges of puberty.
	“Arren…” She whispered.
	“Yah?” I said breathily as I traced my free hand up and down her back.
	“Close.” She whimpered.
	“Me too.”
	I felt the claws of her hands prick my arms. “You don’t have to pull out, I’m too young to have kids.”
	“I know.” Her words made my head spin. 
	Her thrusts become more ragged, more urgent. She pushed desperately into my thumb as I pressed into her clitoris.
	“You—you first.” She said, her voice barely a whisper.
	That wouldn’t be a problem. I took hold of her hips and lifted her up until just the tip was still inside, then pushed her down to the hilt. She sighed happily, and I thrust again, then again, then I pushed forward as much as our bodies would allow, holding her tight against me as my orgasm washed over me, pleasure rattling my whole body in pulses as I felt myself come inside her. Mari’s hands darted between her legs, her fingers rubbing urgently as she finished herself. 
	She came with a loud, guttural moan, her whole body shuddering as she collapsed on top of me, eyes wide and mouth agape.
	I squeezed her tight to me, the muscles of her back flexing with the pulses of her orgasm. “It’s okay. You’re such a good girl.” I whispered.
	She said nothing for a few minutes, her breaths heavy as she swam in the afterglow. I was still inside her, limp and achingly sensitive. 
	After a few minuets she crawled forward, my penis slipping out of her. I felt the warm and sticky result of our union drip onto my stomach as she gently kissed me.
	“I love you.” She said as she collapsed next to me, curling up into a sleepy little ball of a kitten. 
	I traced a hand down the subtle curves of her rump, feeling where my semen was dripping out of her young body. “I love you too.” I said as I wrapped an arm around her. 
	Within a minute she had drifted off to sleep on top of me, and I was loathe to wake her. Instead I just turned my head to the window to watch the clouds lazily drift across the sky as I listened to her gentle breathing. I ran a paw down her back, her soft fur turning sticky once I reached her rear. I was so thankful for the youth of hers that was now mine to savor, although no less excited for what the future would bring us.
	My wife rumbled and stretched out her legs. “Arren?”
	“What?”
	“We can do this more than once a night, right?” She said, the shyness completely gone from her voice.
	“Yes.”
	“Do you want to?”
	I said nothing, and instead answered by way of letting my fingers slip between her thighs.