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The air is hazy with thick, acrid smoke. The perfume curling up from the incense burning in the censures does little to cover the stink of burning flesh and hair, the musk of shaggy, feral bodies, the sharp tang of blood. It stings his eyes and throat, but the discomfort is barely noticeable over the ecstasy thrumming in his veins and electricity tingling his skin.

He's the last of his brothers to be anointed, but last is not least. Going last is a sign of his devotion, of his love and loyalty to his Lord and Savior. Taking the last lamb in hand, he drags her to the foot of the white marble staircase leading up to His holy throne. She twists in his grasp, screams and cries and begs, but his grip is like iron clamped around her wrist, cold and unyielding. The lamb balks as they near the base of His altar, where one of his brothers waits patiently, and Attila wraps an arm around her waist to lift her and carry her the rest of the way. He holds her tight to his hefty body and winds his free hand in her hair to yank her head back, exposing her soft, tender throat.

One of his brother's long, black, wickedly sharp claws pierces through the soft flesh and splits her throat open. Her scream cuts off with a soft gurgling as her lifesblood - holy and crimson - pours out and into the waiting bowl held by clawed hands. Thick and red, it sloshes almost lewdly against the gleaming gilded sides of the shallow bowl, threatening to flow over the sides. Brother Greywolf pulls it away before it's overrun and holds it out to Attila with a soft, eerily human smile on his muzzle. Attila lets the lamb drop and takes the bowl gracefully, his soft, blunt, human hands cradling the metal lovingly as he begins to ascend the stairs. Behind him he can hear the wet sounds of rending flesh and the sharp snapping of bones as the rest of his brothers descend upon the fallen lamb, letting nothing go to waste.

The steps are cold and smooth beneath his bare feet. The climb is short but he takes it slowly, keeping his eyes lowered respectfully and taking great care not to spill a single drop of blood. As he reaches the tenth and final stair, he slowly sinks to his knees before the throne. The dark wood, polished to a dull gleam and carved intricately into snarling, writhing beasts, is stark against the white stone of the dais. A figure sits upon it, one he does not dare to look up at, his human eyes too sinful to look upon His holy visage, and so he keeps his gaze downcast. Two huge, wolfish paws rest upon the marble below the hem of a pure white robe, brownish gray fur covering them and long black claws curling elegantly from each toe. A hand that is equal parts man and wolf, hand and paw, a perfect mixture of mortal and divine, extends into his vision and a growling voice rolls from above.

"My son," it rumbles as that hand touches Attila's face, stroking the backs of the knuckles against his cheek before cradling it so tenderly he wants to weep. "First into the fray and last to kneel before Me, most devoted of My pack. My beloved Attila. Are you ready to join your brothers in holy communion with Me?"

The tears fall now and he can bring no words to his lips, and as such he can respond with only a solemn nod of his head. Clawed fingers curl under his bearded chin and tip his face up to meet His gaze. He is almost too beautiful to look at, a Wolf in the shape of a man, covered in shaggy gray-brown fur with a dark mask on the top half of his face that surrounds piercing yellow eyes and a pale, almost creamy underbelly. His Lord and Savior gently takes the gilded bowl from his frail, shaking hands and lifts it to His muzzle, His long tongue lapping crudely at the crimson within. The tears in Attila's eyes make the torches burning behind Him blur into a gleaming halo and it becomes too much to bear; he squeezes his eyes shut.

"In flesh, we are bound," He begins, one claw carefully carving a marking into Attila's forehead; despite the pain, he doesn't flinch.

"In our hunger, we are divine."

A small sliver of meat is pressed to his lips, warm and bloody and raw, and he takes it gratefully, letting it rest on his tongue and savoring the sweetness. Electricity starts to crackle across his skin, making it prickle and every hair stand on end, and a restless, anxious energy starts to build in his belly.

"In blood, we are united," He continues, lifting the bowl and letting it pour over His disciple.

Blood splashes against Attila's forehead, then cascades down over his face, his throat, his chest, washing over him in a warm, sticky wave. It coats his skin, runs into his hair, and trickles down between his thighs where a tingling is starting to stir. His chest heaves, each breath wet and metallic, heavy with the stink of blood.

"In the name of God, Wolf, I command thee rise!" his Lord and Savior bellows, His voice like a crack of thunder.

The command strikes Attila as if it were an actual blow. He doubles over instantly, electricity racing across his skin and the faint smolder in his belly blazing into an inferno that spreads all the way into his finger- and toe-tips. Shivering, shaking, liquid fire pouring through his veins, he cries out in exquisite anguish. His skin tingles, then itches uncontrollably as fur starts to sprout on his body, thick and shaggy and dark, first on his face and hands but spreading rapidly toward his center. His thin, fragile human nails crack and split, falling away as long black claws grow to take their place. The liquid fire sinks deeper, down into his bones, which burn and groan as they begin to lengthen and change shape. Thick muscle swells beneath his pelt to support his bigger frame, though he doesn't lose his middle-aged paunch; he's built like a tank as a man, and it carries over into the Wolf. The bones of his face creak and crunch as they shift and stretch outward, his teeth itching devilishly as they lengthen to fill his new wolfish maw.

The pain reaches unbearable heights and Attila throws his head back to cry out, his human voice replaced by a melancholic wolf's howl. Around him, more voices join in, creating a divine choir singing out in both pain and triumph, welcoming their brother into holy communion. Just as suddenly as it began, the pain fades away, leaving Attila panting in crackling ecstasy, his clawed hands gripping the marble beneath him. Gone is the weak, naked flesh of man, and in its stead is a form much like his Lord's, a divine union of man and Wolf, covered in thick, dark grey fur. Claws curl under his chin and tip his face upward, his eyes landing on the beatific smile of his Lord, which fills his chest with warmth like the sun.

He doesn't have long to bask in it, though, as He leans down to press His muzzle to Attila's, filling him with a different kind of warmth. The tingles between his legs grow into a low smoldering flame and he feels his cock just begin to poke out of his sheath, the warm air of the altar room feeling almost cold against the scalding heat of his tip. His Savior kisses him, slow and tender, almost chaste, and it makes Attila whine like a bitch in heat. A soft chuckle sounds in His throat and He slips His tongue into Attila's muzzle, stealing between sharp teeth and running slowly along the ridges of the roof of his mouth. That fire flares in his belly and his cock slips further from its sheath, bobbing gently beneath his hefty belly.

His Lord breaks away and Attila feels His absence instantly, sharp and sudden like a knife to the gut. His hands go to the sash around His waist and start to untie it.

"Wouldst thou receive the most holy Communion, My son?" He asks, letting the sash drop and His robe fall away.

Attila wants to look away, feeling that his eyes are still far too sinful to look upon His bare form, but he can't bring himself to do it. He is so beautiful, eartip to clawtip, that dark greyish-brown fur spreading down His neck and across His back while His chest and belly is that same soft creamy color as his throat. Strong muscles flex beneath the pelt on His arms and chest and shoulders, but His belly is slightly soft above thick, strong thighs. Attila only barely notices these; his gaze is focused on the spire of flesh jutting from His crotch, thick and glistening red, the knot that's starting to swell at the base a deeper purplish color. A low whine escapes his throat as he wriggles forward on his belly, his tongue rapidly flicking out to submissively lick the end of his snout over and over.

His Lord and Master watches him squirm with a small smile, then sinks back down onto His throne, His thighs spread invitingly. Attila waits patiently, obediently, his chin pressed to the cold marble as he nearly vibrates out of his skin in anticipation. His Lord crooks a finger at him commandingly and he crawls up into His lap, face-to-face with His cock and hands on His thighs to support himself. His hot breath washes over even hotter red flesh, making His cock twitch eagerly. Attila's eyes flick up to meet his Savior's gaze, and the beatific expression is gone, replaced by feral, holy hunger.

"Open thy mouth," He commands, "that Mine hymns shall grace your lips. And open thy heart, that thee might receive thine brother's grace as well."

Claws click gently against the marble behind him, and Attila casts a glance backward. Brother Falk is ascending the stairs behind him, and excitement cascades down his spine, making his hackles raise. Falk is wearing his Wolf's skin, just like his Lord, just like his brothers, his sleek fur a soft brown that's less grey than his Lord's and not as dark as Attila's near black pelt. He's all lean, lanky limbs with a long, slim muzzle and dark amber eyes, and Attila can see the erection swaying between his legs as well, not as big and impressive as his Lord's nor as garishly red, but it makes Attila's tail lift all the same. Falk gives their Lord and Savior a reverent bow, then flashes Attila a grin and grips his tail, pulling it high and to the side as his other hand grips his thick ass cheek and tugs it the opposite way, exposing his most sensitive of places. Sparks race up and down Attila's spine and he turns his attention back to his Lord, who is achingly hard and leaking, waiting for him to begin.

Slowly, reverently, he leans in and begins to lap at the pointed tip of His cock, licking up the precum beading there before working his tongue down underside of the shaft, cleaning away the dribbles that had trickled along the bottom. As he works his way lower and lower, savoring every inch of His cock, Attila feels hot breath against his hole, followed by an even hotter and velvet-soft tongue tentatively licking him. He lets out a quiet, gravelly growl of pleasure, his tongue never ceasing its worship of His shaft, and Falk doubles his efforts. Attila can't keep from arching his spine and thrusting back against Falk's clever tongue, his own tongue reverently working against His swollen, throbbing knot before making his way back to the tip.

The taste of salt is stronger now as his tongue curls round and round the hot flesh, lapping eagerly like a dog with a bone. Behind him, Falk is doing the same to his hole, licking him firmly and slowly working him loose, his hot breath washing over the spit-slicked flesh and making shivers run up Attila's spine. Eventually, Falk pulls away and Attila feels strong hands grip his hips, claws scratching gently at his skin even through his thick fur. Something even hotter than Falk's tongue brushes against his hole, and a little growl of pleasure escapes him. He glances over his shoulder at his brother. Falk's eyes are heavy-lidded and darkened with lust, his tongue already drooping as he grinds against Attila's entrance. The hefty werewolf curls his tail up and out of the way as much as possible with a small whimper, pressing back against him eagerly and invitingly.

Falk bends over him and nips at the scruff of his neck, starting to thrust against him in earnest. Attila whines, spreading his back paws as Falk's cock grinds over his hole, the tip occasionally catching and pressing teasingly before slipping away. His grip tightens on his brother's hips with a quiet snarl of frustration as he thrusts more aggressively, fruitless for a moment more, then he catches just right and sinks halfway in with one thrust. The air is knocked out of Attila's lungs with a soft gasp and sparks flash across his vision at the sudden entry, sharp pain mixing with pleasure, but Falk doesn't give him any time to catch his breath. He's already pulling back and thrusting back in, falling into a tantalizingly slow rhythm where he sinks a little deeper with each stroke, making Attila's head swim with pleasure as the pain of entry fades away, drowned under the waves washing over him.

His Lord's hands find his face and turn him back to His cock, which had been momentarily forgotten in the mounting. Attila's tongue is already lolling out of his mouth, and he puts it back to work on His holy rod. Those divine hands slide from his jowls to the top of his head, claws raking through the fur and grazing against his scalp lovingly before gripping his head and guiding His cock between his lips. A wolf's muzzle is not made for cocksucking, but it doesn't keep Attila from doing his best, carefully bobbing along His length and working his tongue against Him as he does so. His Lord and Master sighs contentedly and leans back against His throne, playing idly with His worshiper's ear before settling His hand on the top of his head commandingly and pushing him down.

Attila lets his jaws open as wide as they can go and sinks down and down and down, twisting his head to get a better angle and let His cock sink as deeply as it can go, His knot nudging against his lips as the tip tickles the back of his throat. Claws tighten on his scruff and hold him in place as He starts to thrust into his mouth, slow and steady, keeping Attila's muzzle filled with His holy presence. Behind him, Falk is matching His pace, fucking Attila with mellow, easy strokes. Attila grumbles quietly and rocks his hips back to meet Falk's thrusts, a small, desperate whine escaping his throat.

Falk doesn't need words to know what Attila is begging for. Gripping his hips tighter, Falk leans over and doubles his efforts, fucking him harder, faster, deeper than before. A soft moan slides out of Attila's muzzle, muffled slightly by the divine rod filling it. His Lord growls and thrusts harder as well, both hands now on the top of his head, scratching at his scalp, tugging roughly on his scruff, his ears. He works his tongue against His cock eagerly, obediently, doing all that he can to pleasure Him as much as possible. It is both a joy and a gift for Attila to look up at Him and see His face in holy ecstasy, to know that he is the one giving Him such a blessing.

Claws tighten on Attila's scruff and hold him in place as his Lord thrusts roughly once, twice, thrice before shuddering with a deep, guttural growl. The first shot of divine seed hits the back of his throat, making him gag, then strong hands pull him up and off of His shaft to let the rest of His release paint his face. Attila lets his eyes shut and his tongue loll out of his mouth, eagerly swallowing down every drop that strikes his tongue. Slowly, His hands release him and gently scratch his ears and ruff.

"My boy, My good, beautiful boy," his Lord croons softly, "eternally devoted in thy worship of Me. Never hast thou disappointed Me."

Attila can't help but wag and whine at His praise, his eyes opening to take in His face. He beams down at him, bliss in His eyes and a soft, content smile on His muzzle. Attila nuzzles into His hands with another soft whine, then returns his tongue to His cock, cleaning it reverently. His Master leans back against His throne with a soft sigh, fingers scratching His disciple's ears lovingly.

Falk, all the while, has steadily been rutting into him, gripping his thighs ferally, his chin laid against his back. Drool has soaked through the thick fur at the nape of his neck, wetting it down to the skin. Attila throws his head back, eyes half drifting shut as his jaws part slightly in a heavy pant. Now that his attention is off of his Lord's cock, the pleasure radiating from his hole comes into focus, white-hot and rolling up his spine in delicious waves, growing stronger the faster Falk thrusts. A little gravelly howl tumbles out of Attila's lips, which Falk responds to with a hungry, aggressive snarl.

His teeth start to nip at Attila's scruff, lightly at first, then more and more ferocious as his thrusts grow harder, more uneven. Eventually, he clamps onto the back of his comrade's neck and holds tight, rutting into him mindlessly. Huffs and whines fill Attila's ears, both from himself and the Wolf fucking him senselessly, and his claws scratch at the marble as he holds on for dear life, rocking back against Falk desperately, begging, aching for his knot. He can feel it nudging his hole, teasing him with the promise of an achingly delicious stretch, but he knows that he won't get it, not here, not now.

One of Falk's hands falls away from his hip, and Attila feels those teeth bite into his scruff even harder than before with a loud snarl. Falk thrusts hard once, twice, and then he's spilling inside Attila with hot, heavy pulses. The metallic smell of blood suddenly pricks the air as a sharp flash of pain flares at the back of Attila's neck. When Falk eventually returns to himself, he tenderly laps at the wound his teeth left behind, just small pinpricks of blood in the thick fur. Sweetly, he nuzzles at Attila's cheek with a soft whine, rocking into him slowly as his cock throbs its last bit of cum into him. Falk gives his brother's muzzle a lick, then he slowly pulls out, drawing a quiet, disappointed whine out of Attila's throat.

His Lord's ears don't fail to notice his pathetic protest and He chuckles, fingers curling under his chin again to get his attention. "Art thou not yet sated, My son?"

Attila feels his face flare hotly - he knows his cheeks would be bright pink were he still wearing his man's skin - and his ears fold back against his scalp as his eyes avoid his Lord's gaze. The divine figure doesn't need to see the drooling cock throbbing desperately under Attila's belly to know the answer to His question, and He crooks a finger beckoningly.

"Come hither, My son," He commands, His voice a low rasp, His cock still jutting up from His crotch, standing as hard and as proud as it had been the moment Attila touched his lips to it.

Obediently, Attila crawls forward, and His hands guide him up into His lap. The seat of the throne is just wide enough to accommodate the two of them, Attila's thick thighs pressed much closer than he ever thought they would be to his Lord and Savior's. He's afraid to touch Him, to sully His beauty and divinity with his mortal filth, but His hands are running lustily over Attila's body, pinching his nipples, groping his thick chest and hips and ass. One hand grips his tail and yanks it roughly to the side as two fingers slide beneath it, pressing teasingly against his slick, loosened entrance.

"Wouldst thou receive My most holy gift?" He asks quietly, His voice hoarse in a startlingly earthly way as he gazes at Attila from beneath heavy lids.

It takes Attila a moment to find his voice, but eventually he does, nodding eagerly as he croaks out a thin, desperate "yes". Those fingers press against him harder, making him whimper and whine, then pull away. The grip on his tail never falters, though, and He uses it to readjust him until hot flesh nudges against his slick, slightly sore entrance. His divine rod is still hot and hard, ready to drive home inside of him. Excitement and anxiety flutter in Attila's belly. He doesn't deserve this gift, this attention, but here He is, giving it to him anyway, ready and eager to anoint him for a third time.

One hand on his tail, the other on his hip, He guides Attila downward. There's no pain, no resistance; He slides in gracefully, His passage eased by the seed Falk left behind. Sparks dance behind Attila's closed eyelids and his head spins, pleasure radiating up his spine as He sinks deeper and deeper into his body. He's so stretched and full, his breath coming in short, shallow puffs as he slowly takes all of His grace within him. His own cock throbs in desperation to the beat of his heart, dripping its own holy oil.

A low, pleased growl rumbles in His chest as Attila sits fully against His lap, His knot pressing against Attila's twitching entrance. He can barely breathe, his hands gripping his own thighs for support, not daring to touch Him. But his Lord touches him instead, tongue and teeth finding his nipples as His hand leaves his hip to circle his cock. The velvet-soft pad of His thumb strokes tenderly, teasingly over the head of Attila's cock, making him shiver and whine. It's almost unbearable, being touched, nipped, licked by so holy and divine a being while being utterly filled by Him, and he starts to shift his hips to ease the tension.

His Lord and Savior growls again, this time hungrier, more aggressive, and yanks Attila's tail to urge him upward. Obediently, he rises, whimpering as His shaft starts to slide out of him. His thighs are quivering when he reaches his apex, and when he sinks back down, a high, thin whimper escapes him. The hand on his tail stays tight and pulls him back up as soon as his entrance kisses the top of His knot, then back down, guiding him into a steady rhythm. Head falling back, Attila rides his Master with abandon, lost in the pleasure pouring into his burning loins.

His Lord's hand stays on his tail for a short time, holding him steady and guiding him in the rhythm He craves, then slips away. Both of His hands now instead grip Attila's ass, squeezing the thick cheeks with an appreciative growl, then slide even further forward to grab his ample hips. Below him, He is starting to pant as low, hungry growls pour out of His throat like a steady roll of thunder. Claws dig into Attila's hips as his Lord thrusts up into him, those strong hands pulling him down roughly against His lap. Attila's own claws dig into the arms of the throne, marring the wood, but he doesn't notice or care about anything other than the sweet, hot lust and pleasure filling him, about pleasing his Lord and Savior, of giving Him his all.

He starts to lean forward, tongue lolling stupidly out of his mouth, drool dripping from one corner of his lips, but He stops him with a vicious snarl, His sharp teeth closing around Attila's tender throat. His Lord and Master has lost Himself in lust, teeth pricking Attila's throat, claws raking at his back and pulling him down harder against His lap each time he bottoms out. His knot presses more and more insistently against Attila's hole, stretching it a little more and a little more each time. Attila grinds himself down more and more, harder and harder, his breath turning coarse and ragged as His jaws tighten on his neck. Stars start to dance in his vision, and then it all goes white as His knot finally shoves inside. The throbbing pressure on his prostate sends him over the edge into blind ecstasy.

Below him, his Master's snarls reach a fever pitch, His hands scrabbling desperately at Attila's shaggy back. His teeth clamp roughly down on Attila's throat, closing off his air fully for a moment, then a gravelly, muffled howl reaches his ears as He thrusts hard once, twice, thrice again before spilling inside His disciple. Attila is reeling from it all, the pain and pleasure, the hot pulses of cum lancing deep into his guts, the lack of oxygen turning the edges of his vision black. He sucks in a rattling breath that's released in a wheeze as He releases him from His vice grip and tenderly, apologetically laps at the bloody pricks in his throat. Attila groans softly and grinds against Him slowly, gradually coming down from his high. His cock grinds stickily through the mess he made of His fur as His knot pleasantly tugs at his entrance and works against his almost oversensitive prostate, making him shudder and shake with each movement.

Tenderly, his Lord and Savior takes his chin in His hand and presses a soft, sweet kiss to his lips, then strokes His hands across his cheeks and breathlessly croons, "Oh, Attila, My most beloved, most faithful, most devoted, how I love thee."

Attila wags feebly and opens his eyes to meet His warm, golden gaze, the radiance of His love washing over him. It fills his chest with a soft warmth that swells to the point that he can barely breathe, and he looks away, unable to keep His gaze any longer. Those strong but tender hands pull him close, and he nuzzles into His chest, held in His strong, loving embrace as the world fades away and the only thing left is the steady beating of His Lord and Savior's heart.