FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

She awoke to screaming.

At first she was scared that she was dreaming. Then she was scared because she knew it was not. The voices were all too familiar, and adrenaline had cut through the fog of sleep like sunshine. She sat up and looked around in fear, her ears folding back against her head, clutching the ragged blanket to her naked form, its rough material brushing against her fur. She sniffed the air, searching for some sign of what was going on. Someone was in the house, that much was certain. It wasn't long until she realized that someone was fighting his way through the house.

Not long after that, she had the chilling realization that the fight was moving toward her room.

The door was unlocked. There was still time to leave and hope for salvation from the slaughter. And yet, she could not escape. Chains of darkness encircled her heart, keeping her in fear and forcing her to stay put. She instead cowered beneath her blanket, fighting the urge to sob lest she give herself away. And still, the fighting got closer and closer. She could hear the guards locked in combat with the intruder, heard the grunts and yells of battle, the thud of bodies on the floor and walls, the sickening sounds of men dying horrible deaths. Despite how many guards there seemed to be, the intruder was moving steadily toward her room, his own cries mingling with the cocaphony of battle until they were almost drowned out. And all the while, she hid and hoped not to be found.

The battle raged on and on, marching toward her room with all the sure finality of death, men dying or succumbing to their wounds as the intruder made his way through the halls. Much of the expensive pottery and other art pieces suffered, the sounds of their destruction reaching her ears as the fight reached the hallway outside her room. He was still at the far end, yet he was not deterred, not even when the Elite bodyguards ambushed him, their soft footsteps tickling her ears with the promise of swift vengeance. They died swift. Nothing seemed to slow the intruder.

The door to her room burst open. Her master, a man with a large beard and belly, ran inside, looking for her. He looked panicked, a knife in his hand, the blade gleaming with lethal intent in the light of the hallway, its wielder panting hard. He must have come straight here from his room. Why he was there she could not say. It was not her place to question. All she could do was huddle under the blanket and watch him through the holes in it. Not for long though. He finally looked at her meager bed, and she could not help but loose a small whimper. There was madness in his eyes. He grabbed the blanket and ripped it from her grasp, reducing most of it to tatters in the process, then stood over her with the knife, fingering its handle. She shrunk back, pushing herself up against the cold stone wall, whimpering as she met her master's eyes. He gave a sneer and raised the knife overhead, taking a step toward her. She screamed and hid her face, knowing the knife was already coming down, was already heading for her, was already...

A strangled gasp broke her fear and bid her raise her head. She stared in wonder for her master had a loop of sand around his neck, and it was shrinking. He tried to cut it off, but the knife merely passed through the sand, and any amount he removed was quickly replaced by more. He finally dropped the knife and clawed at the loop with his bare hands, desperate to loosen it, to get some relief. She stared in horror and some kind of sick curiosity, watching as his face began to turn colors. Then, with a sudden lurch, he was yanked back toward the door, his neck snapping with a sickening noise, to be engulfed by a mass of sand in the doorway.

Silence. Not a sound, not a breath. Only her own frightened pants and the sound of sand flowing against itself. Then the sand opened up, and out stepped a familiar face.

"...Marcus?"

"Hello, my love." Her lover stood there, shaking the sand from his fur, smiling down at her while his will closed the dune behind him. "Forgive me for not coming sooner. I had to wait until I was ready." He walked over and knelt down, pushing the knife away from them, reaching out to brush her cheek. She pulled back from him, dipping her head. "What's wrong, my love? Are you angry with me?"

"Marcus... you came too late. I am already dead." She did not meet his puzzled face. Her shame was too great.

"Don't be silly, Tamara. You're... you're here, and you're unharmed, right?" He grasped her arm and gestured with the other, the sand opening once more. "Come along. The others are anxious--"

She shoved him hard and pulled her arm away, a storm of fury and grief and shame in her eyes. "There is no such thing as a tame Wulf!" Marcus sat there, stunned at her words. Silence reigned again until she looked away, tears running down her cheeks.

"They broke you?"

"...yes. I'm... I'm so sorry, Marcus. I should have been stronger, I should have... I don't know... I don't know... oh, God help me..." She collapsed against the wall in a sobbing heap, her wails echoing softly in the room. "I am nothing... I am nothing..."

Hands gripped her cheeks. They guided her face up to meet his, using a slow and gentle strength, compassion filling his eyes.

"You're breathing and your heart still beats. Jesus worked with less, my love." He smiled, though he was fighting back tears himself, rubbing her cheek with a thumb. She closed her eyes and nuzzled his hand, grateful for his touch. "You will live again, Tamara. I give you my word, and my heart. Come... we have much to do."

* * *

The sun set upon the desert, turning the sky into a brilliant display of warm colors, and giving the sands an orangish tone. The breeze played over the dunes, shifting small streams of sand over them and whipping the edges of her dress about her ankles. Tamara stood there watching it, admiring God's artistry, and enjoying the cool of the evening just before the frigid night. It was all so beautiful. How she wished she had not kept her head down all those years. How many sunsets like this had she missed? Perhaps it was better not to know.

Marcus walked up beside her, his feet making no sound upon the sand, yet she always knew it was him. The rest of him made enough noise for her to here, and he had never startled her on accident. As for on purpose...

"How are you doing, my love?"

"I am doing well, my lover." She pressed up against him, nuzzling underneath his chin, breathing in his scent. He'd been to the baths again. The scent of oils and spices filled her nostrils, and she made a low sound of pleasure. "I see you're wearing my favorite tonight. Wind on the Dunes."

"I still think the name is ridiculous. I've smelled that wind. Unless you're near a bath house, it smells nothing like this." She laughed and playfully batted at his bare chest, grinning up at him.

"And yet, you wear it anyway. For me?" She smiled up at him, yearning to hear the answer.

"For you," he said, smiling back. She knew that, of course, but some things just had to be said. "But you surely didn't invite me out here to talk over my choice in bath oils?"

"Not at all." She took the blanket off of the basket she had carried out to this private spot, shook the folds out of it, and laid it upon the sand. Before Marcus could inquire further, Tamara kneeled and stretched out upon the blanket, rolling over and giving him a look that made his heart beat faster. "Not at all, my Lover."

Marcus knelt at the edge of the blanket, looking down upon his wife, the fading light giving her face even more seductive charm. He gulped and crawled toward her, but stopped. "Tamara... are you sure this is what you want? After all we've been through..." She quieted his protests with a toe dragged across his chest, her eyes inviting him further in.

"Marcus, this is the last step. As a slave, I was never raped, nor was I part of anyone's harem. But... I had no choice, no say in what would become of me." She dragged that toe over his chest again, pausing to circle over his heart. "It is time for me to choose. To decide to submit, not be forced into it. And I choose you... my Husband." Marcus needed no further encouragement, crawling up and over her, nuzzling into her chin.

"And I choose you... my Wife."

As he licked and nipped at her neck, Marcus recalled the past few years. No one had believed his goal was attainable. The phrase she'd uttered to him that day, the battle cry of their people, was in their very blood. To be "tame" amongst their people wasn't just blasphemy, it was madness. How she had survived, he did not know. Most simply gave up eating after being broken. Tamara had somehow managed to keep going, and for that he was grateful. It had been a long, hard road to bring her back, to restore her heart to her, and if God had not intervened, he doubted she would have ever been herself again.

But there was time for all of that later. As he slipped her dress off, Marcus brought his mind to the present, his only regret being that they did not have more light. Even so, she was truly captivating, radiant from the inside of her soul to the tips of her fur. And she was all his. What a glorious God to provide him with such a wife! And as Marcus lay upon her to offer his strength, Tamara cried out and clutched at him, opening up her body, her mind and her heart to him. As they made love upon the cooling sands, she felt the last remnants of the chains upon her heart shatter into countless pieces, then fade as if blown away by the wind. It would prove to be the first of many nights spent in his arms, knowing she had nothing to fear from her Lover.

And as long as she lived, even unto eternity, she was never tame again.