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Save Point: Marking Her Territory

Age Of Worn Bronze

This city has a tradition that all whores must wear a small bell on a piercing through their clit, and so Cleo has been chiming gently as she walks for the past decade or so. "For their ready identification as authentic and accredited whores, to better advertise their services and status, and to provide a certain degree of relaxation and enjoyment when they are not in use," is the wording of the legal statement that endorses this, and the little bells come with one hell of a tariff and the associated risk of disease associated with self-perforation under profoundly primitive conditions. The best you can hope for is to get to your wounded parts soaked in a small tumbler of the local alcohol and then drink it complete with swirls of blood, which she's seen any number of young girls do after being grabbed and 'officially accredited' whether they like it or not as an introduction to their new life. She doesn't intervene because at least it's a job, and around here it could easily be far worse.

Her own bell was stolen to cut costs, from the body of a young girl who was raped to death in an alley in the illegal shanty-town outside the city walls. She supposes she should be disturbed by this, but it kind of turns her on when she remembers it, perhaps because it shows she's still alive and available for sex at any moment. Everyone else has tried her and she's still here.

They're not.

She taps the bell a little with a claw and enjoys the slight sensation, in honor of the memory of its original owner, whoever she was. Rest in peace.

Of course it makes it a little difficult to go collect the groceries - you're never really off-shift here, although it's always possible to round up some unexpected custom at quite surprising moments, if you need to. The experienced women put a little stopper up inside the bell and change into different clothes before they go out, though legally they're not supposed to, but Cleo relishes the challenge of complete compliance. One time she climbed three stories, broke into a fortified building, and then outran a city-wide hue and cry with her little bell jangling loudly as she fled. For the next few days, every whore in the city became fair game for a very enjoyable cavity search by cock.

Of course no-one thought of searching inside her cervix. When you can heal from anything and have no fear left, there are some really good hiding places available, and a tiny piece of paper suitable for messenger falcon can be rolled up into an incredibly slender cylinder. Removing it later with very long tweezers was by far the most challenging part.

Yes, she likes this nasty little dirty city, and it's given her a great deal of job satisfaction. But the ten years and a day specified in the latest round of their ongoing series of escalating dares has almost elapsed - here they count from noon to noon, so she'll give up her ass for a night of service yet - and so soon it'll be time to move on and make an end to this enjoyable little rest. She didn't mind losing this one, after she realized that it took her fate out of her own hands for a specified length of time and she could relax without feeling bad about it. Normally she's completely self-motivated and doesn't enjoy the submissive aspect of giving up control, but this particular interlude reminds her of rope shibari, in that it forces her to calm down for a while and contemplate her situation rather than acting on it.

Terrowne has agreed that once she completes her dare, she will be allowed to install the removed bell behind the head of his erect cock, where the skin pinches upward to join the glans. The offer made her giggle uncontrollably in the sweetest possible manner. "It'll be my little souvenir," she'd purred, caressing him and teasing with the point of her claw the thin area where the bell would go. "After you've worn it for a while, I'll be able to stick my little finger through the hole and lead you around by the cock. Not that I can't do that already." Then she'd rewarded him by raising her ass in the air and letting him be her first for the night.

She springs down from the wall, positions herself carefully in the middle of the packed dirt path so the moonlight will catch her figure, and then spreads her legs and the lips of her pussy to piss carefully and openly where anyone passing by can see her. Her best whoring outfit barely covers anything, it's just a small scrap of cloth on a thin chain and a battered, easy-to-unlace flop-out leather bodice, so it doesn't restrict this action in any way. She has the expected baubles and loose bracelets, a possessively tight neck collar set with cheap, blatantly fake and cloudy cabochon stones, but also one very fine and sweeping glove made of a ribbed material, rough as her tongue, designed to provide special stimulation to the head of an eager erection.

Entirely apart from the obviously attractive prurience of watching a beautiful naked lioness finger herself wide and spill hotly in public, she learned long ago that her feline spray contains enough interesting scents and pheromones to allure in anyone with a sense of smell. The very substances which put her slightly in heat at all times are mildly toxic and so get scrubbed out in her urine, giving it a very faint greenish tinge of the much thicker scented oils produced by her anal gland.

She sprays and they pay. Whoever comes by next won't know why they suddenly have to come inside her, but they will. As an added benefit it also drives dogs absolutely crazy, either with love or fear, allowing her to mark her territory. On occasions when she's been harassed by wolves or hunted with hounds, a few quick spurts across trees and doorposts have led them right off her trail and left them milling in confusion. Their handlers also seem to have found themselves inexplicably more peacefully inclined.

Some of her clients are very devoted. She makes a mental note to send her regretful goodbyes, and maybe give them a free farewell fuck. No reason not to be kind.

It soon becomes apparent that something is going on. Based on a number of subtle cues that are nudging themselves into the back of her mind, a small crowd seems to be gathering just a short distance out of view. She takes a couple of steps forward, just to see what is going on, and is most surprised to find herself surrounded on both sides by nearly the entire male werewolf population of the area, and some of the more affectionate bitches too.

"You really didn't think we'd just let you go without throwing you a going-away party, did you?" says Terrowne, who has gone to the Dragon and looks splendiferous in the moonlight shadows. "Why, everyone here will miss you a great deal. So I bought along your favorite ropes and we're going to make a real celebration out of you winning your bet."

The werewolves smile with much showing of teeth, and she almost draws flame when they press close to her from every side, and touch every bit of her exposed skin, and then pick her up and carry her down the road with absolutely everyone who can reach copping a slow, languorous feel. The ones who can't pause to sniff fetishistically at the damp patch, maws open wide and ears tilted sidewards to work the scent around the inside of their senses. It seems the smell of her was the cue for them all to gather and surprise her, and it makes her smile joyfully.

A remarkably short while later, she finds herself tied up in suspension at a convenient height just above the floor in a cool, slightly musty cellar owned by one of the werewolves. The ropes are soft and comfortable, dyed a gentle and sensual shade of red, and she's facing forward and down with her wrists tied together behind her back and her calves fastened up against her thighs to hold her knees wide apart. Her breasts dangle downward, there is absolutely no margin for escape and she loves every minute of it. Terrowne slips a light leather muzzle over her jaw that denies her the full range of motion required to bite, and caresses the bared underside of her throat.

Under her fully exposed crotch they set a tall wooden milking stool, and then atop that a small tin bucket with a folded outer lip and noisily clanging handle, and a small reinforcing ring around the middle. It seems likely that they're going to collect her drippings and she will be expected to drink them or maybe have them poured over her head.

She gets no warning save a little preliminary fingerwork when the first werewolf sniffs her, then slides his beautifully massive cock all the way in. The next few hours slide by in a pleasant haze as, completely unable to escape or resist, she has no choice but to let them all take turns, trying to cum as much as possible. Terrowne soothes her hunger by allowing her to suck on his erection just as long and as deep as she likes, but is gracious enough to withdraw whenever he gets too close and allow her to eat out each of the werewolf females who have been hot-blooded enough to accompany their mates to the party. There's a cake, but the only bits of it she gets are when the werewolfesses let her lick some off their fingers.

To make what would otherwise be a somewhat monotonous view more interesting, Terrowne-as-Dragon manipulates the color of his normally matte black scales to mimic the glossy ink-like depths of outer space, complete with stars and the swirls of galaxies and a wash of dust clouds. She assumes that all of these are real somewhere, something the Dragon saw as it drifted across the void, and so she suspends all conscious thought likewise and allows herself to be immersed in the view as she enjoys the soothing repetitiveness of sucking cock. The werewolves are enjoying the light show as well, jerking off as they watch so they'll be ready again when it's their turn.

When they're all finally done, he comes in her mouth and floods her tongue. Sweet brackish cum dribbles down her chin and some spurts across the bridge of her muzzle. Behind her, the satisfied female werewolves use their fingers to spread and work her pussy lips, trying to squeeze out all the thick amber-colored werewolf cum they can, until she's reduced to a dribble.

"It's time to celebrate ten years of being a cat-bell slut," whispers Terrowne lovingly in her gently twitching ear. He has a long slender length of red leather wrapped round his hand, which he adjusts carefully as he moves around behind her and out of sight. "Everyone count it with me."

The sudden crack as the tip of it snaps neatly between the outer lips of her vulva makes her well-used asshole clench, and suddenly she's back and entirely focused on the present moment. Just the first strike alone is so agonizingly arousing that she can't imagine a second. The bell jangles with startling loudness as her flesh flinches from the impact.

"One.... two... three..."

By the time it gets to ten she's whimpering and coming uncontrollably, squirting new juices into the bucket involuntarily. Green oil dribbles slowly out from underneath her tail as her anal gland empties, and her entire cunt is glowing red as the blood wells up under the skin. The werewolves are incredibly excited by the reeking spray, and some of them have already manged to get hard again, despite all the action they've just had.

Cleo hangs her head and just moans. Then Terrowne holds the rough edge of the heavy tin bucket to her lips and lifts it upward. Desperately looking for some other sensation, her tongue quests out the slow thick flow as it begins to spill into her mouth.

"Chug, chug, chug..." the werewolves chant impatiently, shaking their fists in the air in time with their shouts. The bucket is surprisingly full, smelling richly of cinnamon-scented werewolf semen, cat-cunt reek and a hint of metallic tin. The taste is almost overwhelming and incredibly thick, she can barely swallow and almost doesn't want to, wants to keep the taste in her mouth and work it all around and experience it completely.

When she finally manages to choke down the last few drops, running her rough lioness tongue around the inside of the bucket to make sure she got it all, the werewolves chanting rises to an all-out cheer. The females seem especially turned on and are openly leering, rubbing their haunches backwards against those males who have managed to get it up again.

She licks her lips and just tries to take in all the sensations. What a night!

The party is only just getting started, however. Terrowne lets her enjoy the aftermath for a while, and she almost falls asleep as the werewolfesses get up to all sorts of lewdness, downing drinks as their mates hold them up from behind with their thighs spread wide and share them around. Once she's recovered he unties her, freeing the knots and wiping down the sweat from her body.

As always, she marvels at his ropework, which is perfectly minimalistic and inescapable in a way that only a higher order knowledge of topology could permit. When she tries to do the same she has to go for a sort of artistic overkill, and sometimes he slithers out of it anyway just to show that he can. She suspects that he cheats by dislocating his thumbs and shoulders, but she's never quite caught him out at it. So....

"No slithering out," she orders as she ties him up in her turn, belly feeling quite full and a distinct sensation of aroused hotness under her neck collar from having swallowed her own scent-marker spray. She's still sweating passionately and it distracts her from the tying. She laves the end of his cock with her tongue to provide a distraction of her own. "Remember, you promised."

Once he's on his back in the most exposed position she can manage, despite which he still looks damnably confident and comfortable, she stands insolently in front of him, then reaches down with her extended foreclaw in a fuck-you gesture and hooks the brass ring to which the bell is attached. A little pressure and it pops open, freeing her to slide it from her flesh with a shiver. She waves it in front of his face. "I got this from a dead whore, it's spent a decade on a live one, and now it's going on you," she purrs ferociously, which only makes him harder. "You're my bitch now and I will use you every night as I see fit."

Because she'd never be able to penetrate his scales otherwise, it's a given that he will let her do as she will without changing or turning Dragon. The female werewolves have gotten quite overly enthused with this new game and are helping out by spanking him with the red leather strap and violating him with their fingers. The most enthusiastic of all grinds her big moist pussy in his face, teabag style, and seems inordinately proud of the fact that his view is confined solely to her loose werewolf asshole.

He can feel Cleo's fingers around his cock, clenching him as hard as possible, trying to force as much blood as possible up into the head to make it as engorged and sensitive as she can possibly manage. Then she grinds the flat open end of the ring up against the narrow bridge of tissue just behind the glans, deliberately working it as deep as possible and making it hurt as much as she can. "This doesn't have a point," she purrs, "it's flat at the end. Which means I'm just going to have to push as hard as I can until it pops through the skin, to work it into position, then push it harder until it pops out again on the other side. You're going to bleed."

She doesn't even hesitate, just shoves it in there. He muffles a scream in the proudly smiling werewolfesses big ass, because the blunt end is painful but the feeling of it moving about under the skin is far worse and then the amount of outward stretching before the skin bursts open with a sudden and distinctly audible pop is positively horrifying. Cleo has done everything she could to give him the most memorable and painful piercing experience she could manage.

He feels a thin rivulet of blood trickle down the back of his agonizingly erect cock, and then she grabs the bell and yanks on it to make it ring. Before he even knows what's happening, he's come all over her hands and the bell keeps ringing every time his cock jerks.

"Good bitch," Cleo purrs, licking her hands clean as she gently and persistently milks him to help him get used to having the bell in, the way it moves inside his skin as her hand runs up and down his cock. He knows that it'll heal quickly, and the Dragon often manifests itself with a heavy gold ring through the exact same place, but the experience is extraordinary. This must be how Cleo feels when she sells herself for the pleasure of others, humiliated yet excited.

The heavy, dominant werewolfess gets up off his face, only to return with a small tumbler that he recognizes all too well from Cleo's descriptions. He yelps from the burning and cold of the raw alcohol inside the wound as she dips the head of his newly flaccid cock into it, uses him to give the drink a quick stir, then holds it to his mouth. "Enjoy your free first drink," Cleo informs him with a smirk, whereupon the werewolfess simply tips the entire thing into his mouth in one go, sending swirled traces of his own blood and semen burning down his throat.

For the sake of fairness, he gets to stay tied up just as long as she was and is now just as available. Only a few of the male werewolves are interested, but the females are fiendishly inventive and the males seem to have no particular inhibitions regarding sharing them as they enjoy him. Everyone wants to jangle the bell and make some noise, and it ends up being one hell of a party.