The sole daughter of her late clan abiding, Taishi Lord’s counsel and cohort, a Tao adherent of not inconsiderate pedigree, Futo of the Mononobe family made a face. Observationally, she rapped her knuckles on her cage’s bars.
This it was. Stout bamboo poles in a lattice, twined together with waxed sinew and tin wire. Yea-tall thing, enough spacious to pace about albeit not to repose. Gaps ample enough to stick a head out and peer down the precipice of the rock shelf and the vertiginous, distant landscape below. Mayhap a shoulder, should she wedge one in sidewise – yet not on her life her chest or her proud hips. Nowise to go in any case except straight up or down the sheer, craggy cliff face of the lofty Youkai Mountain.
Indeed, indeed. It was much, much a cage. And it couldn’t hold her.
To avow so, Futo puffed herself up like a fish and flung a selection of choice taunts at the lone Tengu patrolman left behind to watch her.
The lupine lackey shook his silvern, dog-eared head alongside the pom-poms of his tokin whence he knelt quietly on his overcoat – yet ignored elsewise the likening of his chic ponytail to that of a mangy spaniel’s. He dripped more oil from a bamboo tube onto the waterstone before him and carried on whetting his curved, vicious-looking cavalry sabre. Good job, too. Went to show he cared for his quarries’ comfort, even if said comfort should come in its finality. Scrape-scrape-scrape it went, a clarion call to flee for humans and versant fauna likewise.
Sated – on that front if not others – Futo deflated into silence. Her own impressive hat had been lost someplace in the turbulent circumstance of the previous hour, and her knees were a mite chilly in the upland breeze, but the spry shikaisen kept herself drawn. Smart. An etching-perfect pantomime of a pert, female captive. The sword’s grinding ground away her patience as well, although she knew it for what it was; of this, she was iron-certain. The insides of her confoundedly unremoved clothes piled on the proof. Tension electrified her like one of Tojiko’s bad moods.
Futo bit a lip, which anywise was well-bitten from dealing with the complexities of this world to which she and her Taishi Lord had awoken, and eyed her aloof Tengu warden. Those broad, beige, manlike hands of his. The crook of cerebral focus on his brows. The conspicuous absence of a snout or a nose long beyond the handsome norm. The, withal her insults, dashing ponytail.
The wicked Seiga had had the right, pox on her; these were as well as people. An eccentric, inimical people, never to forget oneself – but all the same a people. They licensed from a learned shikaisen as personable of an approach as dear Tojiko, the mask, Kokoro, or her own – shudder, humanity! – friend, Ichirin. The affright of the inhuman instilled in her by her teachers in her beforetime youth may object still, but, in her second one, reality flexed its elbows.
It was as the wicked Seiga had said. And, what the wicked Seiga had said was, with aplomb, “My lady Mononobe, have you not power? Have you not youth unperishable? Immortality? What stand you, my lady Mononobe, to lose? Go. Mingle! Come and fathom the unfathomable.”
And all of these, Futo had done. From the books in her Lord’s Senkai sanctuary amassed, she had gleaned; in the fires of her fights alongside and against the youkai of Gensokyo, an understanding she had forged. These were not, when the fires smothered, the calamities and boogeymen described to her in hushed tones by afeared help and supplicants. These were alive and logical. Thinking, sapient creatures with simple, if oft inscrutable wants. Ichirin had shown her how simple in more than one and more than three of the human town’s boozing establishments.
To this salient thing – and one another – Futo had attached the cause wherefore she had not sent the Tengu wafting on the wind as a puff of smouldering fur. Why she had brooked for a squad of three to snatch her off of the Sun-blasted, rural road whence she had been enjoying her morning jog and the sight of field hands young and old matching, shirtless, to their muscle-sculpting work – precluding a wildfire.
Simply, there had all but had to be a reason.
Thus as they, who had ferried her away the field hands’ alarmed cries and over the verdant woods of Gensokyo to the captivity she now endured, Futo had itched to learn what it’d be. For there had been misgiving in a spate among the youkai-wolves once the dainty Taoist woman had been ushered without ado inside her cage. A miscommunication to hear them growl it, huddled together in whispered conference.
Why had they done this thing? Were they by law not to harry the humans of the town? Why had an order come, therefore, to abduct one of their number? And how came it, on Lord Tenma’s toes, she had taken it all in such quaint, confident stride?
“Gives my tail the snarls, it does,” she’d heard one confide.
“Hear, hear,” another had concurred.
Confusion had reigned; and, once tails had lowered and ears anew stood agog, two of her three Tengu captors had flown father up the Mountain to consult their officers – leaving Futo in the solitary charge of their blade-loving brother. She had let them to it, tacit, sharing in their confoundment.
And… she had read the stories, besides.
She had read the stories, in truth, with quiet, intense fascination. The tales of Tengu kidnappings and their afterwise occurrences. The piquant accounts of women who had been returned.
The pin-detailed, arousing descriptions of drunken, animalistic sex. Of nightlong orgies and wanton impregnation.
The insides of Futo’s olive thighs tingled at the memory of reading of one Empress Somedono: lusted after by a Boddhist priest whose want had grown so sore, he had turned himself into a Tengu and used of his terrible powers to copulate with a bewitched Somedono in every earthly manner and debased position before her stupefied court. Futo had read and re-read the tale – pink of cheeks and shallow of breath, fingers pumping beneath her fundoshi – featuring herself in poor Somedono’s place: spellbound and made to lustre the Tengu’s prodigious spear, tip to half, between her womanhood’s moist petals in front of her husband and courtiers – before then sinking her hips to his lap and submitting to him her noble womb. She had climaxed – inside the fantasy and without – whimpering, blankets thrown by her kicking legs, knowing she may never un-know what she now knew.
The wicked Seiga had said it true. What had Futo to lose?
Her thoughts looped back to her contemporary bind, where she found one of her palms feeling up a breast through her uniform’s vest. This was the other thing, second to curiosity. Once the day (and, for preference, night) was out, Futo would have her own licentious account to pen. The story of how she, now an initiated daughter of Gensokyo, had been abducted, caged, stripped down to her birthday suit and then forced to mate with the beastlike Tengu to her shame, woe and secret, guilty pleasure.
The story was nicely forging onward; her Tengu warden had her now exclusively to himself and, had she only the say, would’ve been her pick of the pack anywise. Tall, with the flamboyant tail and the cold, predatory eyes, Futo may easily as nothing picture his rugged, savage form in the nude: pinning her hips beneath his own and glaring her down, tyrannising her hopelessly wet womanhood with harsh, repeated, womb-deep thrusts of his inhuman tool. The sword laid across her throat, menacing, should she but think to resist him. Her thighs clenched, twitchy, and her belly fluttered on the inside for the bestial, interspecies, impregnation sex she was prepared to commit with the fiercely handsome, Tengu guard.
Now, if only he’d speed it along somewise.
Scrape-scrape-scrape went his sabre, and not the euphemistic one. And not a glance Futo-wise. He had the cast of a man born to polish his sword, popping right out of his mother with an oilstone and rag in baby hands. Around him, diligence seethed the stiff, Summer air.
There was a touch of uncertainty upon Futo’s mind now. It wasn’t overmuch; on the Mononobe scale, it was the faint darkening of Tojiko’s gaze when root vegetables were mentioned in a humorous context, but there it was. Was he not attracted? From her book experience, Tengu had the same male sensibilities as human men or abouts; neither were the female Tengu, of whom Futo had seen a handful, unconventionally wrought.
Was she undesirable, then, in her revivified body? Inconceivable – unlike her. Comments in wealth from wonderstruck townsfolk had held her to be “a dervish of joy” and “a view to die for;” and, as for the smuttier side of the coin… mornings spent hawking her charms around the footslogging field hands had seen catcalls and beyond cast her wise. More than an inch beyond in some cases, as it were.
This noon was – would be, for Gensokyo daren’t disappoint her – no different. Otherwise, Futo would kick it. It fain could do with a punt anywise.
Thus, tingling in her underwear, Futo punted on the Tengu’s mother wit.
“Ho, youkai!” she hailed her gaoler. “… Said I: HO!”
There was a flick of the steepled, canine ears, though little elsewise indicating she was anything beyond a Futo-shaped pebble in the periphery of his slitted eyes. The cunning sage she was, she waited three more strokes of steel on oily stone ahead she did a volte-face.
“… Heed!” she cried out, sleeves flapping skyward (or anywise the roof of her cage). “Heed, youkai! Yon, yon your brethren swooping come!”
Scrape-scrape-scrape. And not a hint of an inkling of a purchase.
The sage was momentarily dumbfounded. She had reconciled herself to the outlook of having evermore to parley with her fists and knees firstly of everything whilst in Gensokyo and grown knuckles like an ape’s for and from this purpose, but she was also piqued. Not getting caught on her hooks was distasteful, if commendable; failing altogether to acknowledge their bite was out-and-out a crime. Futo poured her gaze at the Tengu in frustration, a spark missing the kindling by a yard. Imagination succoured her in this dire time, supplying what his penance would have been had their positions as jailer and jailed been switched. Slow, ungentle and nightlong, that was what.
Knees quivering in their weakness, she cupped her own breasts and swept her fingers across their stiff nipples over the layers of her clothing, picturing all the time the handsome Tengu spent and sprawled on her bed afterwise just such a night. He mightn’t wash himself of the smell of her arousal for a week. A fortnight for his prick. The sheets would’ve had to be burned.
Her Lord, assuredly, would in His house ill suffer like debauchery, but… Tojiko would have thundered something to be heard were it found out her mother had smuggled a monster into the Senkai for the purposes of lewd, recreational sex. Or elsewise, Futo dared fantasise, she might’ve joined her mother in presenting to the handsome youkai-wolf the best and the worst of humanity. With those great dumbbells and plump mouth of hers, gods of luck leaning his wise.
Ahead of that, regardless, he’d need notice firstly the woman pleading with him under her stuffy dome to gainsay her bluster and challenge her basest mores. Of which, he was doing no more nor less than none.
Scrape-scrape-scrape went her Taoist forbearance. And presently wore through. Futo grabbed at the cage’s bamboo bars and rattled.
“Wood youkai!” she jeered, spittle flying for effect. “Ptui! Curmudgeon! Craven! Of womenfolk afeared, are you? Of ballocks unpossessed! Come you here, that I may to you what-for show!”
And now did his ego budge. Or leastwise what budged was the sabre: flashing out in an upward stroke which sent the grubby oil spraying. The Tengu footman sallied forth, smooth as water, after his beloved weapon: launching with virile speed into such a whirligig of a kata it’d leave the abutting air in ribbons and his ponytail wrapped scarf-like round his neck. Whilst Futo was being mildly impressed by the artistry on display, the sabre drew its ultimate cut and hung there with its hooked, business end levelled at her face and the Tengu’s on the blunter side.
He measured her head to shoulders, remaining measured himself as he spoke. “Why ought I?” he desired to know. “Why ought I, in fact, to heed your words at all? You reek of dust, sweat and rut. More beast than a woman.”
It lay not in its nature since Futo’s tempestuous teens for her heart to thump inside her throat, yet it did so now, the wayward thing. He’d smelt her; all along whilst whetting his weapon razor-thin, her beastly jailor had smelt the thrill gelling beneath her skin or, more to the like, underwear. A smell more pungent, ostensibly, than shorn metal and oil. As good that it was. Never ahead now had she felt so randy for a man wearing his hair in a ponytail.
Still, it did not do yield. Not in combat – nor in the bedroom, such as it was. Thus did Futo stanchion her hips with her arms in the attitude of a wroth housewife. “‘Rut!’ Sweat, I’ll take,” she granted; “but ‘rut!’ Miscreant! A beast you may be; humans, natheless, do not into ‘rut’ go!”
On the Tengu glowered, only rotating his sabre onto its flat. “Smells a fragrant heap like rut to me,” he assured her. Then eased his stance. “Say. I wish you neither harm nor wrong. Why do you not sit tight and wait the sentence from on high? This is a misunderstanding; bet you my best boots on that.”
“It not rut is.”
The youkai-wolf sketched a shrug with his broad shoulders. “Fine. Matters not to me. Sit and stay, lady; my colleagues’ll be along any minute, your fate in their teeth, whatever it—”
“It not rut is,” repeated Futo, steady and scowling.
They held each other’s eyes, two fairies in a pantry after different treats (but still the same pantry).
The one at arms raised them to bear firstly. “I’m no Crow nor pup,” said he, with no small trace of disdain; “I know the smell of a female after a male. You’re it. You’re it all over, woman. Could scent you from the other side of the Mountain. If it isn’t rut then I’m the goddess Yasaka.”
Futo’s fists gripped her uniform’s skirts. “Ascertain, then.”
The Tengu wrinkled his brows above his sword. “… Beg yours?”
“Ascertain,” said Futo once more, fidgety from anticipation of the thing about to pass. “Smell me. Close up, not from the Mountain endlong. Ascertain it not rut is. Herein.”
And, so having advised, the vaunted shikaisen lifted the skirts, slowly, up above her waist.
Ahead of her the Tengu footman, wrongfooted by this lot, performed an apt servant-walked-in-on-his-lady-relieving-herself impersonation as her bare knees, thighs and what was surely an unorthodox set of underwear were introduced to his purview. There was a slack-jawed spell of ethical and dictionary confusion.
Spats. That’d, anywise, been the word Ichirin had used upon gifting to Futo this and a handful more pairs, citing Outside World ingenuity and their usefulness for exercise. They were, true, snug and ready in absorbing perspiration, which she had come to appreciate in her morning jogs; furthermore and more strikingly now, they were snug, black and skin-tight: hugging her thighs, hips and crotch with closeness like a corset’s. She hadn’t to peek to know the outline of her womanhood was lewdly moulded in the glossy fabric, smack between the dimples whence her loins split to become her athletic legs. The tight, triangular gap which’d elsewise have been left betwixt them and the roof of her groin – and which Futo had discovered was ideal for repeatedly sliding long, stiff objects into, for preference by a brawny field hand after some downtime – was generously widened for the Tengu’s gawping study once the bold shikaisen shuffled wider on her feet.
On their front, where her womanhood’s slit was impressed in obscene detail, the spats were stained dark – and not for she’d been running circles around her inhuman quarry.
Whilst Futo thrilled from the indecent exposure – to a beast, a youkai, no less – said beast youkai in turn strove, with overall indifferent success, to pry his eyes away the prize of her visible womanhood. The pride of his species writhed behind them like eels in a basin.
In the end and none too soon, with a frantic flourish he slammed his sabre down into its sheath and, afterwise a rush of stamping strides which would’ve put to shame an incensed elephant, pitched himself on his knees before the cage’s bars.
“Give it here,” he snapped, all his want and attention pasted to the it in question.
Winningly, Futo stepped forth.
Then and there a pair of strong, masculine hands gripped the smooth hemispheres of her butt, tipping her against the bars, causing her wound-up body to judder with startled excitement. No man had ever handled her like that. Nor beast. No man nor beast, neither, had ever then crammed their face: nose, mouth and chin, up into her sweaty crotch. The daughter of the late Mononobe clan all but cried out her shame… although she of Gensokyo held herself fast in vindication.
Simple wants. Ichirin’s lessons couldn’t have landed truer. And none had been more signal than the one she’d learnt having once overstayed with her friend the closing hours of the latter’s latest drinking haunt. The owner of said place, a man of some girth and even more grit, had come to collect on Ichirin’s tab or, failing to, chaperone them both out to the benighted street, neither of which Futo, who had drunk herself half-deceased on rice wine and shōchū, had been in a condition to oblige.
The barkeep had thus sighted down at the more vertical of the drinkers, lingering on her bare feet, bronzed calves, prudish skirts, the thin undervest she’d skinned down to to cool off and lastly Ichirin’s belligerent yet comely face. He’d gathered his business wits, at about the same speed as he poured a pint.
At glass-rim last, he’d rumbled what follows: “Say. I’ll forgo your and your girl-pal’s tab. Would like that, would you?”
“Will do ssso, will y’?” Ichirin had slurred, cheerfully thumping the table. “Good man, there!”
“And let ‘e two of you to conk out till your feet return,” had been the added perk. “If, sure, you’ll do some’n for me in exchange.”
“Name ‘t, Goodman,” she had prayed him.
And, with a perverse, twain-handed gesture which had roused the expiring Futo ever-so-more awake, he had, indeed, named it.
Alcohol and repressed wants had ruled over what’d suggested itself unpersuasively to be Ichirin’s religious allegiance. And, swaying to and fro, her friend had stood up to surrender her buxom self unto the barkeep’s greedy hands.
Thereupon the fast sobering shikaisen had found about these modern youkai neighbours of hers and her Lord’s something of which she’d never beforehand been apprised. The portly barkeep hadn’t had to do more than fondle Ichirin’s breasts over her undervest or partake greedily of her butt for two minutes for the youkai priestess’s voice to thicken and her undies to turn out steamy and damp once he’d eased them down her thighs. He hadn’t had to hoist one of her long, folk-dancer’s legs up to his waist, rather upsetting Ichirin’s balance, for Futo to smell, even over the wine in her stomach, how wet and eager her old-maidish friend had been.
He’d doffed his trousers, had the corpulent barkeep, freeing his crude cudgel of a penis – then slid it beneath Ichirin’s groin, using of the engorged tip to feel out the curtained entrance of what he’d referred to in urgent whispers as her “pussy.” For his part, there’d be little aught catlike in the firm, implacable push that would see the “pussy” crammed to full, down to his shaggy testicles, of his burly, rigid prick. It had been everything Ichirin could do to gasp and cling to the man’s barrellike gut as he’d guided her womanhood back up his sloped length by her buttocks for a round-trip – and then let it to descend by itself till her crotch had once more slumped vulgarly against his. He’d hefted the she-youkai’s upraised leg next – sucked a wet kiss on her obliging mouth – and begun the deed in earnest.
The extramarital, compensated, standing sex following, witnessed through Futo’s half-lidded eyes, would blow out of the water everything the ageless Taoist had indulged herself before in Gensokyo. The hale, full-bosomed body Ichirin indwelled had surrendered unto the brusque man its closest guarded secrets and received obvious pleasure in reimburse. She’d hiked and tweaked her hips so that his every thrust would see her secret, female turn-ons set off upon his ribald curve; she’d rise on the tiptoes of her one floored foot so he must jog his mighty girth to slide his whole spear inside her warm, slippery sheath. His burdensome sack would smack the underside of her pale butt whensoever he’d topped her up in this manner. They’d groaned down each other’s throats whilst their privates had wrestled each other sloppily for dominance.
She would peak and climax well ahead he might, would the debauched she-youkai: staring upwards, a witless, toothy grimace plastered to the bottom of her face, quaking shoulders to toes and choking back sultry cries whilst her “pussy” had squeezed and squirmed and squirted copiously around the man’s hilted tool down below. And then, afterwise she’d soused his shoes and trousers thoroughly in her come, the only mumbled worry she would nurse would be that the loud squelching of further post-orgasm child-making might wake her nearby – and definitely, yes, indeed fast asleep – friend from her drunken stupor once it’d inevitably resumed.
Still, resume it had; and Futo had shammed two additional hours of alcoholic shikai over which she would lose ever more of very real sleep in the oncoming nights.
Twice and thrice this would repeat. Twice and thrice again would Ichirin settle their tab with her pussy’s lips gobbling down the fat, throbbing length of the barkeep’s prick-shaft – lambasting his endurance whilst he’d sown his human seed deep inside her youkai womb. Twice and thrice more would Futo repair home in hot, slimy unmentionables, on thighs atingle, with a head headful of fluff and an ache to rub out at the nearest opportunity privacy accorded. All for a youkai couldn’t have said “No.”
Seemed they never could, your youkai. Not to the oldest of pastimes.
Anywise could not her Tengu gaoler. His tail thrashed left to right to left, faster the deeper he buried his handsome nose in Futo’s groin. There was no mistaking, nor had she the wish to mistake, the fraught lungfuls of her smell the youkai-wolf imbibed with every one of his hungry breaths. His powerful, sword-loving fingers gripped her butt as though she were the thickly leather-bound handle of one. Troublesomely, she fancied what they might do to her own little sheath provided some scented oil and the invitation.
He smelt her reaction. Must have, for he was peering up at her from above a mouthful of her crotch, dark as a thundercloud in a mood.
“If this isn’t rut…” he muttered.
The words rumbled against her womanhood in a funny yet not laughable way. His lips were, so to speak, smack on hers – kissing her pussy through the moist spats in a kind of physiological paradox. Futo beamed at her jailor the bright, hawkish smile of a noblewoman about to give her valet the best, last day of his career. To explain to a wolf the fine differences between a beast’s rut and a woman’s arousal would’ve been as useless as, oh, tits on a Boddhist; for that cause then she opted to pet his empty head into calm. The strands of his silvern hair proved coarse, doglike beneath her hand – except those about the stiff, canine ear, where they softened into puppy fuzz.
Futo thumbed it with affection whilst she spoke. “Mm. Who think you I to mate with wish?”
The Tengu uttered gruffly into her crotch. “No dimmest,” he said. “There’re no human males abouts.”
The last Boddhists of reservation fled the battlefield of Futo’s mind. “Are not you male?”
“Tengu, lady,” said the Tengu, truthfully; “meanin’, for yours, not human.”
“Yet erect you stand,” Futo wagered.
The Tengu sniffed. Hard. “Stiffer ‘an morning wood, lady.”
She hazarded, “Be it, perchance, rut?”
“Yes. Yours,” he returned the serve. “Spreading on me. Speakin’ whereof – spread these pretty legs. Wider. Yes. There’s a good lady.”
Something within Futo, for certain the self-same part which’d complied at the first overtone of command and let him to further separate her thighs, rode roughshod over the wroth she should’ve felt at a youkai lording over her his unmerited position. It kept her still, athrill and pliant, even when his hands were shifted from her rear to her front, a calloused thumb on either side of her tender, female area.
And even stiller, once he pressed them into and stretched her pussy’s lips apart through the spats.
The woman at Futo’s core struggled with an incensed ghost’s worth of emotions. Her precious womanhood, noble to its womb, which had given birth to Tojiko and four other, treasured children besides, her very-much-late husband’s favoured plaything, was now, but for a thin veneer of cloth, opened wide before a creature of such crude and earthly nature she could’ve used it well for kindling. The spats stuck to her exposed, inner walls, soaking up, as it were, the flip side of her contention. The wolf Tengu beast-handling her body feasted his animal eyes on the stain on her underwear growing darker and darker yet… ahead, mayhap perforce, doing to it what dogs did to their messes.
So, Futo let go, insofar as she’d had any choice in the matter, of a long, throaty moan once his wet tongue was pushed flat against then dragged up her outspread pussy walls and over the erect nub of her clitoris. Going weak as a willow leaf, knees buckling beneath her hips, she’d scantly secured a one-handed grip on the cage’s bars ahead the Tengu’s tongue was lapping her womanhood a second, third and fourth time, now with hefty a serving of wiggling itself and the spats’ fabric inside. She felt a floozy and not a causeless one; still, she found herself undulating her waist when the Tengu pursed his mouth around and sucked on her clitoris. Shamed, in disobedience of her earlier candour, Futo swallowed the vowelly earnest sounds squeezing up her throat.
Her Umako husband, earth rest him, a man of men though he’d been, had never done her in this wise. This beast, with his gay ponytail, did. More yet he would; for, within her understandable diversion, he was pinching and twisting the spats at their moistest spot.
The sheer, black cloth ripped, leaving in its middle a perfectly pussy-sized hole.
Cool, mountainside air stroked the bared petals of Futo’s womanhood and then, as they were brazenly spread again, their drenched insides – briefly. And then, she may but bemoan moaning lustily once the Tengu’s harsh tongue was reapplied in the raw to her sensitive areas. These were honest moans, which were, therefore, loud moans, which meant, in turn, there was nowise any room left in her situation for chicanery.
Swooning, the effete shikaisen hunched against the cage’s bamboo bars, only by her starched backbone staying her hips athwart of thrusting into the mounting, gruelling pleasure. The Tengu afforded her no mercy; his deft tongue twirled inside of her pussy, now cleaning out her walls, now hot and flush against her entrance as once more he sucked off her clitoris. On the inside of her muzzy, swollen head, she could hear the frenzied beat of her heart and the rushing blood; without was only the tawdry, slurping noise of her pussy being, in the straightest sense of the euphemism, eaten out at length by a ravenous youkai-wolf.
The fizz in the aforesaid head did at last subside, albeit not by her design, when the handsome Tengu slid his nimble tongue out of her throbbing passage to lick his lips showily clean of her arousal and then smile at her a smile which issued not a trifle smug. The flurried Futo hated and loved the bent it lent to his sharp, threatening features. They were down to the tiniest angle those which she’d fantasised about fearing whilst he put a half-youkai baby in her belly.
“Smells like rut, tastes like rut…” he mocked. His judicious gaze flickered to the tear in her spats whilst Futo fought her scuttled wits for a retort – and the slobbering, dissatisfied pussy ensconced within. “… Looks a drat lot like it, too. Horny like a Crow Tengu’s in season, it is,” opined the lowly youkai-wolf, with an appropriately upward cant of his taunting face. “Small wonder you couldn’t’ve stayed put. And yet you vowed, lady, you didn’t want to fuck. Shoddy way to get fucked, in my humble.”
Somewise, and Futo pulled together her scattered faculties and herself to a less indecorous stance into the bargain. The insistent, needy tingle deep inside her enthused womanhood nonetheless swelled to hip-juddering proportions once her gaoler restrained again her plush, unresisting butt. His rough fingers dug in deep, covetously, as if he were featuring jockeying it, together with Futo, astride his nude lap.
“… When said I,” the stubborn shikaisen collected her breath and said, “I did not to… to fuck want?” The word tasted exciting, of debauchment, and thus she mouthed it twice and thrice again, thrilling inside, ahead she went on, “Merely I protested… I not ‘in rut’ was. It a distinction of import is, mmm, to we womenfolk. Think your Crows differently?”
The wolf Tengu looked at her a peeved underofficer’s look. “Search me what the Crows think,” he growled. “Thing I do know for a surety, lady, is what we do to ones what swoop on down to bother us with the smell of rut all over ‘em.”
“Could perchance it be,” wondered Futo, “that you them fuck?”
He nosed in her damp, grey pubes ahead he confessed, “Iffen they ask…”
“And iffen they ask not?”
“In those, lady,” he kissed her mons and sneered, “we let ‘em to leave and fly back up the mountain to beg their stodgy husbands on knuckles and knees. They are back before long, those who do, as one woman. Then is asking not so scary.”
With dogmatic discipline, Futo braced her faltering hips as the wolf Tengu closed his mouth once more around the hot, dripping mess which was her womanhood. With the self-same, the noble shikaisen reined in her fleeing voice, even whilst his churning tongue was pushed, as far as it went, up inside her squirming, gushing pussy. Her belly fluttered in the aftershocks of his lips smooching and nibbling her engorged, inner labia. Her back was bowed taut.
“… Then prrray,” she managed to say – and to shock herself for having managed to say it, “pray, mmm, o’ terrible Tengu. Might you me asss well, as one of your Crows fff—uck?”
Thereupon the not-as-such-terrible, fanciable-really, only-a-whit-fierce-looking Tengu withdrew his face, tongue lolling, trailing strings of her arousal, from Futo’s inflamed crotch. The rise in his lower robes told volumes or, more to the thrust, inches of his gameness toward a promiscuous, human-youkai fling; albeit its owner, so to say, did not rise to it. Not from the off.
On he turned his spit-slathered chin up at her, a riling, fanged grin affixed. “Talk circles around your words you may, lady,” he said; “but, in the end at least you know what you want. One thing to the good. Me, however; see, I aren’t decided if I want to fuck you. Now, now,” he overtook her seething objections; “listen here and take heed, lady. You’ve got a killer ass on you, no mistake, great ass, handfuls of it, legs for hours, too. But a nice ass and a ripe cunt do not a woman make. Show me your tits. No. Togs off, actually – all of them. These here can stay on—” and here the avid Tengu snapped the torn spats against her thigh, “—the rest, however, I want on the ground in a pile. Now. Get in your birthday suit.”
And she understood this, did the hot-and-bothered Futo, that no power in Gensokyo nor her Lord’s Senkai may forestall her proving to the youkai-wolf her fully bloomed femininity. This femininity emerged forthwith, consequent of Futo grasping and tugging her ensemble, in its interjoined, flowing entirety, up and over her hatless head. The pink, button-stiff peaks of her modest breasts hardened into sensitive, little pearls as the upland air wreathed her denuded figure. The complex clothing bunched gracelessly at her feet to be in a hasty moment joined by her ribbons and skirt.
A thought touched to the anywise long-departed modesty, Futo palmed and perked up both of her firm, youthful “tits” for the wolf Tengu’s approbation, thumbs and fingers crimping her raised areolae as though squeezing them for milk. To no avail – on either end. The beast which’d learnt the taste of her pussy ahead he did her name had now the gall to seem discontent with the contents of her clothes.
“… It youth is,” spoke Futo, against the tide of scathing disappointment from the crouching mammary philistine, “mine, pristine, forever preserved.”
The Tengu raised her a rakish yet doubtful brow. “Talk like that these days, young ladies do?”
“This the shape is,” argued Futo, omitting the barb, “wherein I to my first child his birth gave.”
The brow was joined by its salt-and-pepper twin. “A mother? You? Over mine…”
A shaggy, musclebound arm unfolded into the cage, wound around her naked waist and crushed her against the bamboo bars.
Slaver glistened on the youkai-wolf’s bared tongue and then, subsequently, along Futo’s tan skin as he dragged it up the gentle valley of her navel. She strove not to, failed then resigned herself to tremble in anxious excitement from the foreign – and tantalising – stimulation. Another first; another piece of her libido her Umako had never stoked. The cruel Tengu poured oil on the fire in her loins, travelling wetly up her nude front, the few visible ribs, licking the warmed-over sweat from the underside of her left breast, ultimately to rise round-backed from his knees and close his doubting lips around the prominent, pore-pitted teat.
There was a squeak and a vising of enervated fingers on the Tengu’s canine ears as the dogged villain began to lap, suckle and nip her milk-less breast for its non-existent yield. The hand bridling the small of her back slipped inside her spats to grasp there altogether too much of her butt for ambivalence. He did, truly, crave her behind; and he craved her tender, young tits, too, whatever woolly lies he’d pulled over his own eyes. Not even dear Tojiko had taken her teat with so hungry, sloppy an ardour. The mother of five she was, Futo breathed keenly through clenched teeth, crossing over from pain to sharp, shoulder-drawing pleasure with dangerous fluidity. Her thighs squeezed together, their insides turning slick within ecstatic heartbeats.
Should he but dare suggest afterwise all this he’d not fuck her, she vowed, she’d have him out of his handsome hide. Not ahead, however, she’d have him out of his trousers.
And once, with a sharp pull and a sharper smack, the teat and the lips had come apart – the former half its size again and throbbing, the latter supping up churned drool – she considered, did Futo, whether trousers may be burned off of a man short of defacing most his useful bits.
The long tongue which’d given a trouncing to her pussy flicked out, on to lick the clinging spit from her tortured breast and enlarged areola; eventually, succeeding tellingly many corrective kisses on the nipple and incendiary, upwise looks, with body language screaming “I am big; I am dominant” in fluent masculine, the youkai-wolf stood tall to tower before the caged, randy Futo. His sabre jutted out below his belt, smack beside the real one.
“Could feed a pup or two, I’ll grant,” said his filthy mouth, which he wiped on the reverse of a wrist. “High time somebody put a couple in you, by my reckonin’. Coming in, on that note, so no fast ones, lady. The sword’s in the main for show; claws an’ fangs are our ancestral weapons. Careful you don’t get ideas, now.”
Advising against which, the Tengu picked at and unwound the wire keeping the cage’s bamboo door shut. In a flash of fencing fingers, the was through; in but additional two, the cage was full to its capacity of a dainty Taoist woman and a strapping, bulky Tengu after her fertility. On her unwitting cue, because naught may by now halt her wandering eyes, the youkai-wolf lampooned her earlier brazenness and ripped the top half of his clothing up over his head and ponytail.
Then and there, womanly ethics took their overdue leave of absence. Sinew, scars and muscle and tangled, grey hair over all; he was everything which Futo had fancied whilst stirring her pussy in her bed to Somedono’s sinful tale. The consummate barbarian to her model noblewoman. Umako rolled in his grave.
And then the savage Tengu loosed his sword-belt, and gravity conspired, and the trousers slithered together with his undergarments to his feet, and her heart pounded in Futo’s throat.
For the youkai-wolf’s unleashed, bolt-upright manhood was not whatsoever the expected, tame, human thing. Its broad, evil head and the meaty shaft were uniform of texture and colour: lurid red from tip to base, without a skin sheath in evidence but for the very root, wherefrom his hairy ballocks dangled in defiance of her erstwhile insults. Musk: thick, dull and pungent, beset her nostrils even as she marvelled at the otherworldly member, worming into her head; and Futo felt her aroused womanhood squeeze in sudden, rampant desire. Her belly went faint with frightened, horny submission no sooner than the thought had occurred it’d be moments ahead the grotesque cock would be stroking her tight, human pussy all along.
Not a whit, not a ghost of a scruple roused anyplace. Futo watched the approaching Tengu’s penis bob, her noble womanhood aching, twitchy from anticipation. Longing to be taken as the Boddhists took their chigo acolytes.
What was taken first was a turn once the Tengu, in his heady buff, had gestured for a leg to be raised for his pleasure. Never a woman for half-measures, Futo craned one of hers, up and up and up, even unto a gymnastic, vertical split. Her wilding gaoler stepped beneath the upthrust leg, shoring up the calf and the boot atop his shoulder whereas hugging the ticklish inside of her thigh to his furry abdomen. The head of his outrageous, faux-canine prick had prodded her exposed crotch yet skidded off-mark – up her mons and the front of her ruined spats – as though to menace her firstly with a visual cue of how deeply inside her it’d reach.
… Without tangible toehold. Futo gawked at where her pussy’s petals were spooning the side of his raw shaft, more aroused by the sight on its own than she’d been envisaging Somedono’s in a slipperier circumstance. Occasionally, the Tengu’s cock would twinge, pulsing with blood-heat against her bare entrance. No. There was no space anymore for fear amid the fluff between the prided shikaisen’s pink ears. Sex upmost in her mind, her pussy primed thrice over, she waited with bated breath on the blasphemous inevitable.
That’d all but lose her the peculiar sensation of the youkai-wolf’s pulling off her shoe and licking around her divested ankle. “… Swear to lady Kanako, you taste something mouth-watering, lady,” she heard him wonder, bemused. “Would wolf you right down – if it’n’t meant I couldn’t fuck you. Always the damnedest things with you humans.”
“And you, youkai,” spoke Futo, never for a beat of her dissolute heart disregarding the enlarged object of her desire, “I should have mighty upwise the chin clonked – but for then you mayen’t aught ever afterwise fuck.”
He laughed down the threat, trusting it a jape. “Scary, scary. Had best we remain civil if so. Hadn’t we?”
Advancing to her the aforesaid, her barbaric, buck-naked gaoler wound back his waist that his bestial cockhead aligned with the tear in her spats and its unearthed treasure. It was done with a fair overt degree of insinuation; and, stealing a wobbly hand to her crotch and stretching her pussy’s lips wide as they would, Futo insinuated her connivance.
“Anyplace,” she said outward, a needy, puffing request, “elsewise than herein, youkai.”
The treacherously fetching Tengu caught hold of his agitated cock to guide its tip between Futo’s straining fingers. She felt his raw, heated touch as a kick of excitement to her womanly core.
“Herein, lady,” he jeered, “wasn’t civil right from the start.”
And then, despoiling her forevermore, he drove his hips upwards and forwards, claiming her womanhood for himself.
Futo was, for all her graces, no maiden. Not in her beforetime life; nor had she endured long as one in her reawakened youth. The first bright field hand to puzzle out peeling down her spats whilst they’d had their recreation in the roadside brush had gotten her second maidenhead – and a goodly deal of his seed whereunto the Taoist precepts decreed it goeth. But he had been a human, even if he might’ve flunked a written test.
The savage cock now passing inch by bare inch into her slippery, lustful pussy – was not. Grievously, the difference was lost on her impassioned body; and Futo, whimpering, may perforce only grit her teeth and hammer out a grimace like Ichirin’s in her orgasm whilst the youkai-wolf’s girth plumped out and moulded her womanhood around itself. Her loosened, well-slick petals accepted him even so, bit behind bit, irrespective of her walls wringing hard around his intruding length as he ground against her G-spot.
There was a harsh grunt and a less-than-decorous moan once the Tengu’s beastly prick bottomed out the highborn shikaisen’s pussy. The last daughter of her clan of legend shuddered – from the airborne foot to the roots of her waist-long hair – wildly in the throes of her fulfilled fantasy. This was, for want of an apt sugar-coat, it. Sex with a monster. A youkai. The much-writ-about taboo. Immorality manifest. Somedono’s bid for infamy.
Only… she was viler even than the storied empress, was the trembly, nigh-climaxing daughter of the Mononobe. A barbarous Tengu’s bare, engorged organ was sheathed up to the ballocks inside her glad, pregnable womanhood, and not anywise for Futo had been put under some evil spell. No. She’d put him under hers instead. The mundane, fragrant spell of her flowered femininity.
This was not adultery – magical or elsewise. Not just.
It was, simple and impure, bestiality. Futo’s womb ached to bear its forbidden fruit.
The depths and lips of her decadent pussy relinquished his cock, for this cause, with sticky, mourning reluctance upon the backstroke: leaving the youkai-wolf’s raw, bloodred shaft coated top to bottom in her liquid vice. Futo half-watched the bulge in her flat, ladylike belly even out in his retreating wake – and then rise once more, like a loaf of fresh bread, whilst he spurred their divorced groins toward a messy, lovesome reunion.
The remainder half of her attention was spearpoint-focused on not coming from his fell cock crowding and riding along her pussy’s secret weaknesses. She spilled those secrets anywise, clutching the nearby bamboo bar for balance: over the Tengu’s unkempt crotch whilst his skinless glans shone up to the entrance of her womb – and into the silk of her spats whensoever he scooped them out of her deluged reaches. The firm numb of her clitoris, beloved before, stood now, hard-up and desolate, not an inch whence the monstrous, scarlet cock plied her pussy’s soft petals – and little different itself in hue. An errant brush of it, felt Futo, might well spell her strength’s doom.
Already her throat disclosed at volume her elated depravity. A near-orgasm – of the suffocating, hip-thrusting variety – roiled in her loins like an autumn flood pummelling a dam. The abominable, youkai prick availed itself over and over again of her womanhood’s dirtiest penchants as though purpose-shaped for such corruption. Futo’s belly quivered, bowstring-tense from the mons to her bellybutton, hungry for more, more, ever more of her inhuman defiler.
A heartbeat’s worth of misplaced romanticism caused the shikaisen being ravished to seek out the face of him who was pleasing her so. With a fright not quite outweighed by his cockhead making snug with her unprotected baby-making place, Futo found the youkai-wolf and his teeth preoccupied nibbling on the lean rear of her calf. He caught the gusted mystification in her moaning, the keen-eared monster; thus, having embraced the upraised leg to his chest and inserted himself whole into her enfeebled pussy, he ran his tongue, doglike, along the bitemarks on her skin – up the ankle – round the heel – and even unto the ball of her sweaty foot. Never once in this course had he taken his slitted eyes off of hers or looked, as a matter of fact, aught less than ready to lick the perspiration out of every nook and cranny of her body.
“… Told you, lady,” said he, a youkai-wolf at the tether-end of his civility, “taste something scrumptious, you do.”
“Annnd my sex?” questioned Futo through her delirious, libertine grin. “How fffind… you my sex?”
The hard, outstanding prick buried up to her hopeful womb pulsed its own ruling ahead did its owner, “Tastiest I’ve had,” he said. “Snuggest my dick’s been inside, too. On my life – and my dick’s been places. Crows in rut bearen’t comparison. Haaah. I’ll keep myself up on night watch just calling back to this, lady. Cert’nly rub a few out, iffen there’s peace and quiet.” Incited by the conceit in her smile, he went on, “On the other… may just be I ought to old-fashionably nobble you up the Mountain. Could plough you like a field every day thereby. Can’t possibly need a lot of feeding, can you, little thing?”
“Innnconceivable,” resisted Futo, grappling the filthy piece of herself crying yes to a concubine’s life; “I to mine own grave incumbencies have; to my Lord, hnnn, attend must. To young cadetsss speechify.”
“That might a problem prove,” aped the Tengu, “with my pups growin’ in your belly, lady.”
“Shall we,” dared Futo, “about that see?”
He rattled off a laugh. “Whether you’ll be back? You will, lady. Wager you on it. This lewd mug of yours don’t lie. You’ll well become my bedwarmer – soon or late.”
Futo schooled her mug the best she under the circumstances may. “… Nay thaaat,” she chided, gently rocking her trapped hips. “Your wife! Offf your children mother! I shall she become – should but you consennnt.”
The Tengu seemed surprised firstly ahead he did grudgingly provoked. “Fine!” he spat; “right lovely, but I’ll marry you once we’ve had our sixth – not before! Get me, you minx? Now down! On all-fours,” he instructed, flustered, shrugging off her leg and kicking their disrobed, mingled clothing her wise. “A fine bitch like you is to be done proper-like.”
And Futo – who hadn’t formerly been maligned a “bitch” but for once by a combative Ichirin and staked her pride thusly on the “fine” – fought for uprightness of both stripes whilst the amazing, youkai cock vacated her tight-fitting pussy. A bounteous haul of milky, sexual fluids: some his, a profusion of them hers, exuded from her passage in the wake of his cockhead. Most steeped her ravaged spats – albeit not without a deviant trickle making it past a faltering knee.
Never. Never was the day’s word. Never prior had the daughter of the Mononobe gotten wetter than this from simple sex; never heretofore had Futo, the Taoist, gone on her feet and hands for any lowborn scoundrel. The odd field hand agreed to quenching her desire – and, too, his own in compensation – between her thighs behind some trees and the backs of his employers likewise wasn’t to be measured against sticking out her bare derriere for a randy youkai-wolf better fit to be her bedroom rug. The former was perverse. The latter was the domain of empresses.
Not ever in any fable had the difference between empress and monster been more pronounced than when the Tengu crawled his bulk over the fair shikaisen’s presented back. The weight, musty heat and preponderance of his burly, warrior’s body once he leant on her, his dribbling cock wedged in between the hemispheres of her butt, nigh-on made immaterial the hard, stony ground beneath her elbows and knees. Truly was he her husband’s match: big, pompous, beastlike… yet weaned of his vainglory: nowise above making young like animals beneath a naked sky. Futo stretched her arms out forward, spine arched like a cat’s, winching up her rear and inviting him to take her to wife.
“One I’ll give to you, lady,” crowed the Tengu his amusement as he repositioned behind her. “You make me hope to the goddesses you can make it to the sixth. These hips look anyhow they ought to take it…”
Futo shivered, the thrill of danger once more spicing up her passion. “I—” she murmured, “I with my Umako husband five had—”
“Tails up to the cur,” snapped the youkai-wolf, stirring his cockhead around her loosened entrance; “but we’ll drat well one-up him, you and I. Won’t we, lady? Tell me you don’t want to.”
“I dooo,” she whined in reply, “I d—dhooo…!”
The whine climbed the register unto a strangled crescendo the further and further his long shaft plunged between her moist pussy lips. The edacious Tengu completed their wedding vows with a kiss of his faux-glans on the mouth of her womb – the length, girth and bent of his heinous tool reconquering the Mononobe heritage in a single, unchecked thrust. Such was Futo’s defeat that its tremors spilled lengthwise the bow of her back, a frisson of coy obedience, whilst her womanhood constricted the cock end to end in its quavering grip. She’d all but missed for the ecstasy throbbing in her ears the garish clap of her butt being struck upon by his loins. The Tengu growled, and this she felt through their married genitals; and it was the guttural, lupine growl and that of her husband’s moments ahead he had put Tojiko in her belly rolled somewise into one.
Futo sought out then bit down on a ruck in the bunched clothing ministering to them as improvised bedding. It tasted of dog, man and infidelity.
And then his lips were on her nape; and thence they came away dowered with a lock of her long hair; and hirsute arms alit palm-down on either side of her even whilst the penis harassing her womanhood embarked on its first feigned rout of many. Futo clamped her teeth on the cloth; and none too soon the Tengu reversed his stroke, slamming his firm, red cock down to the ballocks inside her palpitating pussy.
The crumb of the divine, the virtuous shikaisen she was, still the last daughter of renowned Mononobe floundered in the youkai’s mating hold, not unlike a once-overconfident whore. Futo’s horizon-broad world shrivelled down to the fluttering of her crammed belly and the euphoria thumping in her head – ahead it swelled again to comprise her wilding gaoler readying the next foray into her womanly centre. His raw stiffness rode hard this time against her G-spot, throwing into further disarray the moaning mess Taishi Lord’s companion and second had become. Her cheeks burned of shame whilst her pussy burned inside with fervent desire.
There would be no retracting this.
The thought was Tojiko’s thunderstroke through her sex-overcast mind. A welt across the butt of her conscience. Yet it was so; and so it was that Futo would return today to her Lord’s side with her womb glutted on a youkai’s seed. She’d bed down tonight and for life in the knowledge of the Tengu’s carnal prowess; she would deliver unto her Lord’s supplicants on the morrow a warning against Gensokyo and its bestiary – having previously engaged in wild, child-making sex with just such a beast herself. She would see her late husband’s face in that of her undead daughter’s – and evermore labour not to let slip that an unshorn youkai had pleased her mother with his tongue whilst her awesome father never had.
The wicked Seiga would’ve hooked her line, sinker, rod and fisher… but for not even Seiga could in her wickedness have foreseen the “lady Mononobe” would attempt copulation with one of those “unfathomable” youkai. For herself, Futo may have laughed audaciously – if not for said youkai’s rutting insertions tearing at her discipline and driving the breath from her chest. His bestial penis claimed again and again her indiscriminate womanhood, from its soft petals to its pregnable depths, touching off every last orgasmic spark Umako’s never could, causing her bum to jiggle and ache from the savage buffeting of his hips. Futo mewled, saliva steeping the cloth in her mouth, eyes going skywise as the youkai-wolf’s cock pounded her pussy into fulsome, slopping surrender.
There would be no retracting this… and neither would she even had it been elsewise. The thousand-year shikai sleep may have annulled her age – yet hadn’t amended the weakness she’d carried in life betwixt her legs. The weakness her Umako husband, Taishi Lord and else men of the court had viciously exploited.
That simple, youkai-like want of mouth-opening pleasure.
Futo’s remained tight-shut on the Tengu’s disrobed uniform even now, whilst the lips of her rapt pussy were spread wide to capacity around the bottom of his thick shaft. So, too, was his voice married now to hers as their bodies were: ursine rasps drowning out her nasal moans, clocked twain to the breeding beat of his hips on her stuck-out rear. No words were had since none were writ which may belie their shared thirst to keep the animalistic screw going. Futo choked the elephantine orgasm back, even drawing to do so on her Taoshi arts, desperate to carry on peaking and peaking and peaking like she hadn’t hitherto with any human male. Slowly, surely, she was failing.
The intemperate Tengu failed first.
There was a sputter, a barked oath, a long burst of thrusts which ousted from her mouth all semblance of control; and thereupon the youkai-wolf’s cock was sheathed to the hilt in Futo’s humbled womanhood as her hairy gaoler, mounting her on all-fours, moored his rocking loins to her rear as though his own occult life dangled in the balance. The promised insemination commenced ahead she may but scream out her close climax; come jetted up the length of the Tengu’s fully sunken, pulsing cock with such intensity she may well feel it throughout her overfilled pussy. Sperm sprayed her rejuvenated womb: hot, virile, animal sperm seeking debased purchase where five blue-blooded, beautiful human children had been borne. It should have by its wantonness alone thrown Futo over the apogee.
It was not alone.
Somewise, although the youkai-wolf was but now seeding her womanhood, already something grew beneath her bellybutton. A bulb within, where the Tengu’s pumping girth crowded her pussy’s passage; on it grew and grew, right there against her G-spot: softly to begin then pushing oppressively into the place where she liked her men to touch her most.
And in the storm between her ears the thought arose: Tojiko shall my neck have that I to a youkai remarried…
Orgasm battered her ghostly daughter out of her mind, fits of it erupting from her compressed G-spot and impregnated belly to shunt up and down her tremulous, arch-backed body. Out of usance, the sheer force of compulsion, Futo cried out an ancient name and thereafter collapsed, nose-first, among the Tengu’s odorous raiment. Squirt drizzled from her cock-plugged pussy – nowise so copious as Ichirin’s had been, yet sprinkling her partner’s clothes the same in their likewise, interspecies taboo. She wanted to kick out – or to curl up, foetal – and ride out the stunning waves of the climax whilst thinking of handsome men in the buff… but the ruthless youkai-wolf held her hips flush, prisoner to his. The blackguard.
So, she thought of him the whole time, writhing in her bliss – all the while her womb filled up with his inhuman seed. The teeny, conscientious piece of her soul yet coherent begged forgiveness of the field hands each morn looking out for her on the road. This naughty shikaisen, they must henceforth share with a much mightier prick…
“Oh, Tenma. Are you for real knotting this sorry girl?”
A voice spake from without the bamboo cage: female, sardonic and, somewise, subtly corvine.
A great shadow folded. Shoes ground on the rock. Futo strained to look, her ongoing orgasm and impregnation rendering the task a backwise crawl uphill. She about half-turned her head, far enough to see.
A figure hued in blue stood together with them on the rock shelf: black-haired and blacker-winged, a peculiar, tri-pronged club propped on her bare shoulder. On the elsewise gleamed a gemmed, heavy pauldron, fashioned of old gold. Tengu – yet of tother, corvid kind.
The one backwise of Futo unbent to attention – only to crumple as his prick continued to ejaculate.
He mumbled, “Me—Megumu…”
To which the Crow without rattled her outlandish club. “That is Madam to you firstly, outrider Yuuichi,” she warned. “Madam Megumu, please; and my question, outrider Yuuichi, stands. Well?”
The wolf Tengu clutched Futo’s spats-clad hips as though they were the last vestment of his decency. His distended cock throbbed. “… The truth, Madam Megumu,” he obeyed, “is I am.”
Megumu the Crow crooned. “Imagine that. I hadn’t you pegged for a palace torturer. Neither were these your orders… were they, outrider Yuuichi, who is knotting our Lord Tenma’s, exalted-be-He, to-be-guest?”
The wolf Yuuichi blanched. “Gue—Guest, Madam? Lord Tenma’s? We weren’t—!”
“Apprised amply of the parameters,” filled in the Crow, taking a measure of mercy. “Miscommunication down the strata, I am told by your officer. You were to enjoin a ranking member of the Human Settlement’s incumbent external trade family to our Lord Tenma’s retreat for talks of—” her birdlike eyes here flickered to and from Futo, “—delicate business concerning the A-place. I have been given to understand somewhere between the ranks that clipped to ‘grab anybody wot looks lettered and let the brass sort it out.’ Hmm?”
“That… was the order. Yes,” confirmed he whose name Futo would ill soon forget. “Anybody comes across as important. These were the words.”
“Well, this is no Hieda we have here,” said the Megumu Crow, “whom I should know well by word and picture. I bothered myself to fly on down and apologise formally if need be and some dumb wolf knotted her out of habit, but… well, since this is just some girl, knot away. It’s your sky-burial. Just dust her off and put her away someplace afterwards. Outrider Yuuichi.”
And then she beat her grand wings and in a trice was gone.
The wolf Tengu Yuuichi called deflated in the blast wave of her absence. “… I had that woman’s tits wrapped around my dick whole night long last she was in rut,” he said, rueful. “Now she’ll reckon I’m some human-fucker.”
Moments leached into moments and the youkai-wolf’s potency at last was drained fully into Futo’s womb. On this fortuity his prick-shaft shrank down to its erstwhile, natural size, ready for removal. The Tengu slid the thing out of the shikaisen’s sensitive pussy with slowness bordering all but on the compassionate. Her puffy, inner petals yielded his broad cockhead with a suckling, farewell buss.
The tottering stack of knees, thighs and butt that was Futo’s hind tipped onto its side, the finishing tingles of her climax perverting the pain of striking her pelvis on the hard ground. The groggy, noble daughter of the Mononobe rolled onto her back, legs fanned out, to survey the aftermath of the best sex she’d had since her reawakening and mayhap flowering overall. Her meagre bust heaved its poor imitation of Tojiko’s on a gusty day, but that was not important.
Not a milky drop, not a trickle of a leak tainted the vulgar treasure enshrined in her torn spats. Her ruffled labia gaped, dog-tired, well-used and glad of this use, yet marked not by one runaway smear of the youkai’s copious come. Unbeknownst to his heathen self, outrider Yuuichi had held to the letter to Taoshi precepts and planted his seed to the last whence it wouldn’t seep and waste.
… Anywise not until Futo involved the wicked Seiga and the latter’s preventative arts.
Clarity of conscience thusly satisfied, Futo up at the would-be father of her children peered and experienced, what the crooked hermit would facetiously term, “that pang of guilt… -y pleasure.” He’d risen, erect, above and below, undiminished by the earmarks by his winged better’s snubbing. And now speared her ogling gaze on a fanged sneer.
“Say here, lady,” said he, arms-akimbo on his furry flanks. “Heard the Crow, diddee? Well, I’ll repatriate you to your village, like is fair, no lies, but… for the meanwhile, there is this guardhouse down a ways the mountain—”
“Wherein you the Crows fuck?” guessed Futo.
“… Yes. Yes, feathers all over the place afterwards. Could wash our togs and catch us some recess as I sound dismissed anyhow. What make you of that? Could spin the rumour mill for years were I to turn you loose naked.”
“Entail it, perchance, like Crows fucking whilst we upon yon togs to dry wait?”
A grin like a boy’s on his first horse dawned on the Tengu’s angular face. “Right. How are you minded to heights, lady?”
Futo surged to her feet. It should’ve been difficult to look nonchalant in one boot and her stage of dishabille, but Futo was Futo.
“I am of the flight capable,” she declared.
The horse bucked. Outrider Yuuichi, a dauntless wolf Tengu hitherto, recoiled as if kicked. He fumbled for the sabre that wasn’t there.
And then, seizing on his foible, eased until slouched.
“… What,” he asked, resigned, “pray tell, have I gotten myself into? This time?”
Futo wagged at him a frisky finger. “Sex!” she promised. “Sex in heaping lots. But, I shan’t your children bear. It a trade is. This body of mine artificial is,” she explained upon a tilt of his dog-eared head; “of ware and sorcery wrought. Sterile it is; arid as Tottori’s sands,” she lied. “It canst nay thy seed upon take.”
The Tengu swallowed it down. “What… What are you, lady?”
And at this question Futo stepped forth intrepidly as she had when first offering to him the scents of her femininity. The strapping youkai-wolf questioned her on with his bushy brows.
“A lettered woman,” decided Futo, already new words itching her pen-hand.
The books and wicked Seiga had inveigled her in this. They would winkle her out. Surely.
But not ahead Somedono’s gift was honoured.
“A lettered woman,” declaimed Futo, all smiles and erudite desire, “to be by a fearsome Tengu wolfed down yearning.”
>knotted donger I'm not usually one to remark on odd things in porn, but that made me squint. Alien fish vagoo was close enough to a certain edge for me.
>everything else Going to be real honest, I didn't feel the same kind of vibe from previous stuff as this. I found myself skimming more than reading because there were bits that felt like padding. Maybe it's partly because I don't give a toss about Futo, or the Taoists generally, but I wasn't much feeling it this time. Maybe it's me? Dunno.
Still like your prose. I wish wordplay like yours was a bit more common here.
>>41158 >I'm not usually one to remark on odd things in porn, but that made me squint. Alien fish vagoo was close enough to a certain edge for me. The theme was depravation/self-corruption from the very beginning, so light bestiality seemed the natural end of the slope. I understand it’s not everybody’s cup of… cuppable thing, but if it is wrong then in this particular case I do not wish to be right.
>Going to be real honest, I didn't feel the same kind of vibe from previous stuff as this. I found myself skimming more than reading because there were bits that felt like padding. Some were, admittedly. Ichirin’s scene, for example, was a recycled scene from an earlier WIP of this work that I threw back in because why not. I am, however, of the idea that selective reading is natural and expected of written pornography, since your, ahem, interest in the contents of the text will inevitably be more selective than an absolute, 100% match for whatever the writer’s personal fancy was. It’s an unfortunate and inherent part of the genre, but perfectly understandable.
For instance, I got a hefty kick out of writing Futo having her reliquary licked, but somebody who’s not personally into the idea will have little to no reason to read on once they’ve figured out what the paragraph entails. If titillation is the main goal, which it is here, there is simply no universal zone to strike. The D likes what it likes; what it doesn’t, there’s no point powering through.
At least such is my experience with written pornography, and why I endeavour to keep distinct paragraphs more or less “thematic” within themselves.
Alternatively, I’m making excuses and just didn’t put enough effort into some parts, counting instead on the fetish by itself to carry you through. The guess is anyone’s.