Page 26 of Feral Keep

The first press sends a jolt through me that is nothing like the muted, stalling signals of the first two days. This is a bolt. A full-body current that starts at the tail tip, arcs through my clit, slams into the vibrating knot, and ricochets through my walls into my spine. My hips buck. My breath locks in my throat.

He grinds up into me. The slow rotation, his cock shifting inside me from the new angle, the girth dragging against swollen tissue, the tip curling against the front wall. The spot. The one that’s been building and stalling for days. In this position, settled in his lap, gravity pressing me down onto him, there’s nowhere to go. His cock fills me completely, the prehensile flex working the front wall while the girth holds me stretched open around him.

The tail tip circles my clit. Slow. The nerve-dense white tissue carrying its own heat, the warmth concentrated on the nerve endings that light up on contact. The vibration from the knot humming through the sealed connection, through my walls, meeting the pressure of the tail at the one point where inside and outside connect.

My body builds.

This time it’s a fire finding fuel. Catching. Spreading. My nerves light up—clit, walls, spine—the signal climbing faster than it’s ever climbed because there is something inside me now that wasn’t there before. Resources my body rebuilt from the cum and the food and the five days of being kept alive on purpose.

I clench around the knot. Hard. The contraction pulls his cock deeper—the tip pressing, the vibration translating into a pulse that makes my vision narrow. In his lap, the contraction has nowhere to go but into him. The knot presses back, harder, the vibration intensifying.

Everything in me that learned to be quiet in the camps says endure. Go quiet. Go somewhere else.

I can’t go somewhere else. My body won’t let me. The sensation is too big, too wired into every nerve I own. His massive thighs under mine. His chest a wall behind me, and the smell coming off him thickens with the effort, dense and warm, filling every breath I drag in through my nose until there’s nothing else to breathe. His cock buried to the hilt, the knot spreading me at the base while the tip curls and presses and the tail circles and circles and⁠—

The build climbs.

My hands grip his thighs. My spine arches, pressing my shoulders back into his chest. My teeth clench. Something is building in my throat, a sound, and it’s trapped behind my jaw because the camp taught me that sounds draw attention, sounds are dangerous, sounds invite⁠—

The tail tip presses. One direct, focused press on the swollen ache of my clit.

I come.

The orgasm rips through me with a force that terrifies. My walls clench around the knot so hard my abs lock. My spine curves off his chest. My fingers dig into his thighs—crimson skin under my nails, the muscle beneath hard as wood. The contraction is total—every muscle below my navel firing at once, pulling his cock deeper, clamping down on the knot.

A sound tears out of me, not a scream, not pain, something between: a raw, broken, full-throated sound I don’t recognize as mine. It fills the warren. Bounces off the stone. Fills my skull. Sweat breaks along my hairline, sharp against the deeper smell of him that’s soaked into my own skin over five days, until I can’t tell anymore where his scent ends and mine starts.

The camp never produced a sound like this. Not from me. Not from anyone.

The orgasm doesn’t stop. The vibrating knot drives it forward—the hum buzzing through the locked seal into my clenching walls, the vibration sustaining the contraction past the point where a contraction should end. The tail tip circles. The tip of his cock flexes against the front wall. My walls clench again.

Again.

“Good.” His voice in my ear. Low, guttural. The word landing in my body while the orgasm is still rolling through me, while my walls are still gripping, while the sound is still in my throat. “More. Give.”

At my hip, his hand presses me down harder onto him, grinding my body against the knot, the vibration screaming through the seal into my clenching walls. The tail tip presses harder. The orgasm that was ending catches the new wave and builds again.

I come a second time before the first one finishes.

The scream I make is not bitten off. Not controlled. A full sound, guttural, ripped from a place in my chest that hasn’t made noise since the camps taught me silence. My back arches off his chest so hard his arm catches me across the ribs—holds me, locks me against him while the contraction doubles and my walls milk the knot and the sound keeps going.

My body. My body is doing this.

This isn’t my mind. My mind is gone, the four years of learned silence burned through by the force of the contraction. My body works on a level I didn’t know existed. Clenching. Pulling. Making sounds. Arched in the lap of a nine-foot feral male. His knot vibrates through me. His tail works my clit. His hand holds me down onto his cock. His voice says good like a prayer and a command at the same time.

The second orgasm peaks. Holds. Breaks.

I collapse against his chest. Shaking.

This is the shaking of a body that just found out it can feel something besides pain. It lives in the muscles that are still twitching. In the walls still fluttering around the knot. In the clit still pulsing under the tail tip he hasn’t moved.

It isn’t only my body that’s shaking. Something else moves under my ribs, has nothing to do with the muscles below my navel—laughing and crying trying to use the same door at once, shoving to get out first. I don’t let either one all the way out. That might be asking for more than my body’s earned.

He makes a sound. Low, rolling, a rumble that starts in his chest and passes through my spine where I’m pressed against him. The sound a predator makes when the prey stops running.

Except I’m not dead. My body just did a thing the camp never let it do. I’m sitting in a monster’s lap, impaled on his cock, and I can’t stop shaking.

“Good,” he says again. Quieter. His mouth finds my temple. “Mate good.”