Chapter 3: The Shower Aftermath
"Shower with me," I whispered into her ear.
She recoiled, a genuine hiss ripping from her throat before it melted into laughter. “Hydrophobic fur, you oaf,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll groom myself.”
“You’re joking,” I chuckled, reaching for a towel.
In response, she extended her arm and drew her rough tongue from wrist to elbow in one long, deliberate stroke. She then rubbed the dampened fur across her cheek and forehead, her green eyes slitting at me with triumphant amusement. The gesture was so inherently animal it stole my breath.
“Point taken,” I conceded, heading for the bathroom. “Don’t wear out your tongue.”
The hot water was a blissful counterpoint to the constant, low-grade fever of her presence. I let it pummel my shoulders, listening. The only sound from the bedroom was the faint, rhythmic scrape of her tongue against fur, a private, meticulous ritual.
I emerged, steam billowing around me, a towel around my waist. The scene she’d arranged was deliberate, a staged provocation.
She was on the bed, her face buried in a pillow, her spine a deep, graceful curve. Her hips were raised, offering herself with a blunt vulnerability that was both invitation and challenge. One arm was pinned beneath her, her fingers working in a frantic, slick circle between her legs.
A low, pathetic whimper escaped the pillow. “About time.”
“Impatient,” I murmured, dropping the towel. The sight of her, the smell of her heat mixed with the clean, musky scent of her grooming, was a physical pull.
“You took forever.” Her words were muffled, but the arch of her back deepened. “It came back. The empty feeling. It’s worse now.”
I understood. My earlier release had soothed the edge, but her biology was a demanding cycle. It wanted a permanent fix. I knelt behind her, my hands sliding over the swell of her ass, feeling the fine tremors in her muscles. She was dripping, a slow, steady seepage that coated her inner thighs and the sheets below.
“I can fix that,” I said, my voice rough.
I didn’t enter her slowly. I guided myself to her soaked entrance and pressed forward in one continuous, demanding push. The resistance was negligible, her body still stretched and slick from our morning, but the sheer, encompassing tightness was a shock every time.
She screamed into the pillow, her body locking, then convulsing around me in an instant, violent climax. Her claws tore the pillowcase beneath her. “Don’t stop!” she begged, her voice raw. “Please, don’t you dare stop.”
I didn’t. I set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, the wet, slapping sounds filling the room, punctuated by her choked cries. Each thrust drove deeper, rearranging her, mixing fresh release with what was already there. The fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows over our joined forms.
“Is this what you need?” I grunted, one hand fisting in the fur at the nape of her neck, not hurting, just holding. “To be filled until you can’t think?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, her tail lashing my flank. “It’s the only thing that makes it quiet. Make it quiet, Ron.”
A deeper pulse began within me, the unmistakable precursor. She felt it, her inner muscles clenching in a desperate, milking rhythm. “Yes, there,” she chanted, “right there, do it, mark me again, I want to feel it for days—”
Her plea was a raw, open thing, but the signal her body read was premature. As incredible as Greer's slick, grasping sex felt, I'd had two huge ejaculations in the last 12 hours. I wasn't in any rush to come this time.
I ignored the building pressure in my spine and focused on the brutal mechanics of giving her what she truly needed. I pounded her pussy, the blunt head of my cock crashing into her cervix on every thrust.
The impact was a dull, deep shock I felt through my entire pelvis. Greer screamed and yowled, writhing and shuddering as one orgasm rolled into the next. Her claws scrabbled uselessly against the mahogany headboard, finding no purchase, her cries dissolving into wordless, hiccupping sobs of overstimulated pleasure.
I pushed her shoulders down into the bed with my weight, pinning her in place, tilting my hips on every thrust to force that last thick inch into her. “Is it quiet now?” I growled into the fur of her shoulder, my rhythm unrelenting.
“It’s—it’s just the sound of you,” she gasped, her voice broken. “Just that. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
Her body was a storm of conflicting signals, seizing in peaks of sensation yet pushing back against me, demanding more. The bedframe protested with a sharp, rhythmic creak against the wall, a counterpoint to the wet, rhythmic slap of our joining.
Then, all at once, the fight bled out of her. She went limp underneath me, her muscles turned liquid. Only a deep, rhythmic purr echoed from deep in her chest, vibrating through my own body where we were joined.
Only a deep, rhythmic purr echoed from deep in her chest, vibrating through my own body where we were joined. I slowed my thrusts, savoring the feel of her internal flutter as her climax finally ebbed, then carefully rolled us onto our sides. I was spooned up behind her, my cock still fully sheathed inside of her, an intimate anchor in her warmth.
I grabbed her hip possessively and started stroking into her again, slowly and deeply. This new angle was less about conquest and more about possession, a deep, grinding connection that made her gasp.
She looked over her shoulder at me. Her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure, her mouth hanging open as she panted. Her fur was matted with sweat, her expression utterly stripped of her earlier playful defiance.
I leaned over and kissed her gently right as I pushed my full length inside of her. Her body shuddered, a fresh, soft whine escaping her throat into my mouth. The kiss tasted of salt and something uniquely her.
“I’m going to keep going, just like this, until I fill you again,” I promised against her lips, my voice low and certain. It wasn’t a threat, but a vow.
She pulled my arm from her hip, pressing it to her chest, holding on to it tightly. Her fingers interlaced with mine, clamping down as if I were the only solid thing in the room. Her purr intensified, rattling through both of us.
“You say that like it’s a chore,” she murmured, her words slurred with exhaustion and simmering need. She pushed her hips back against me, taking me even deeper on the next languid stroke.
“It’s a privilege.” I nuzzled the sensitive base of her ear, feeling her tremble. My pace was relentless in its slowness, each measured thrust a deliberate claim. “Feeling you come apart. Knowing I’m the only thing that fits you like this.”
She didn’t answer with words. Her tail, which had been still, coiled around my thigh, the tip flicking against my skin. Her other hand came up to cup the back of my neck, holding me close. The storm outside the windows finally broke, rain sheeting down the glass in a sudden, violent downpour.
We moved together like that for a long time, a slow, wet rhythm in counterpoint to the rain. The fire popped and hissed. Her heat was a furnace around me, and the familiar, deep-rooted pressure began to build again, a slow coiling in my sac and along my spine.
This time, I didn’t fight it. I let the tension gather, my thrusts becoming slightly more urgent, a fraction less controlled. She felt the change immediately, her purr stuttering into a sharp, breathy moan.
“There?” she whispered, squeezing my hand so hard it would have broken another man’s fingers. “Is that it?”
“Getting there,” I grunted, my forehead against her shoulder blade. The sensation of her inner walls desperately kneading me, trying to pull the release free, was almost too much. “Just let go, Greer. Come with me.”
Her third climax of this encounter took her softly, a rising wave that made her shudder and clamp down in a series of slow, intense pulses. She cried out, a broken sound lost in the noise of the storm. That was the final trigger.
The release was different this time—not a violent eruption, but a deep, profound emptying. It was a hot, sustained flood that had her gasping, her body arching as it was filled anew. I held her through all of it, my own groan muffled in her fur, my hips working slowly to pump every last pulse into her depths.
It went on and on, a seemingly endless seepage that made her stomach swell slightly under our clasped hands. She was making a continuous, low sound, part sob, part purr, completely overwhelmed. When it finally subsided, we were both utterly spent, welded together by sweat and spend and something terrifyingly close to peace.
The only sounds were the rain and our ragged breathing. I was still inside her, still semi-hard, already feeling the impossible weight of my body beginning its preparations for the next round her heat would inevitably demand. Her grip on my hand had loosened, but she didn’t let go.
“Four more days,” she finally said, her voice hoarse and wondering. She shifted slightly, and a fresh, warm trickle escaped down her thigh. “I’m never going to be empty again, am I?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I whispered, kissing her shoulder. The taste of her fur was on my tongue. Outside, the neon skyline was a blurred painting of color through the rain.