FSE

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He promised her it wouldn't hurt:

One hand slowly stroked her shoulder, and finger tips trailed through her fur, moving down her chest to wander across the swell of her breasts, to linger on the bare flesh of nipples standing out amidst short, coarse fur. His hands cupped them, moved them up carefully in a mottion of massaging, before he released them carefully, and trailed them down her sides. His eyes danced as they caressed her nearly-nude form, the coarse black fur, the gold glimmer of her halo markings, the absolute, firey crimson of her eyes, and the flesh of her nipples. And he smiled.

He slowly undid the button of her jeans; he slid the zipper down, and dragged them off her, carefully, especially as they paused ever so slightly from the bulk of her tail sliding through the hole in the rear. He smirked in delight; she had worn nothing underneath, no lace, no frills. She was otherwise pure for him., pure of the bindings of undergarments, and frills. Had come to him only in her pants and her shirt, which was now lost among his clothes on the floor. And this made him smile even more. This tickled him, this thought, that she'd come to him for this. To -him-. He chuckled, and then dragged the binding clothes of denim off her legs.

He looked up at her, he smiled darker. And undid his own belt. The big belt. The belt he'd used for years to teach his children their lessons. The belt he brought punishments down with, when they'd done something wrong. The belt they could hear unbuckling for miles away. He watched her now to see if she'd winced; she had, but now, it was more fear and anticipation of what was to come, that was making her quiver, than it was terror of taking a licking. His pants, her pants, discarded aside. He lifted his hands, and used them to move her, to position that delicious, young, teenage body where it belonged on his bed: crouching, on her hands and knees, the reek of her month blood breifly knocking him back. She was strong. She was strong, and ready for it.

He handed her a pillow. Told her to lay her chest down, and prop her backside up. To hug the pillow, bite it, scream into it if she needed. No need for them to wake up the rest of the house; after all. And then he freed what his wife often called 'The Beast', and it bobbed and swayed lustfully, ready, waiting to ravage. He mounted the bed, grabbed her hips, and gripped tight with claws and finger tips. He teased The Beast with the moisture dripping from her, and then, without mercy, he shoved it in. She made a sound as he met resistance, the first resistance, and then broke it with a soundless, but painful tear.

He had her. He had her violently, he had her forcefully. He had her until she gripped the pillow in her hands, the black of fingertips almost threatening to whiten under their grasp, till she kneaded, and huffed, and then screamed into the pillow, biting down, ripping it violently, and still kept going, even when she changed her mind, began to plead for him to stop. Her pleas fell on unhearing ears, because he had her again, while she begged into the pillow, pleaded, panted, and then screamed again, until she was hoarse. Had her when the struggling began; pushing her down against the bed with his greater strength, had her until she was sobbing. Had her until he'd expressed himself three times, within her, until his knot was so swollen that it seemed they would be tied forever.

And when he was done, when he was satisfied, he let her go, and held her, while she sobbed, and his beast bled it's foam into her in faint dribbles. He pulled himself free before he'd even begun to disgorge; she was so tired, so spent, she barely cried as he tore her a little. And then, he gathered her up in his arms, carried her, the beast wagging greedily from his crotch below her, to her room. He layed her in her bed. He tucked her in, and kissed her forehead good night. As he smelled the fresh scent of sweat and lust on her, he reflected on what he'd done. He smiled to himself.

Tomorrow, he'd call the boys over, his sons. And they'd wait for her to get home. He'd tell her they had a surprise for her in the basement. And once they'd locked the door behind her.. They'd make sure. They'd make sure that her first blood didn't go without fruit. It didn't matter who the victor was, who finally put the cherries on the tree. Because as long as someone did, then she wasn't useless. She was asleep when he pulled away, thinking his thoughts of carnality. She was asleep as he began to hum, while walking away, heading through the door. She was asleep, and therefor didn't hear him as he started closing the door.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Daddy's going to buy you a mocking bird.."