Hound. 5

It swept through the streets of Xion, traveling along carriageways and taverns, invading the minds of countless nobles and peasants alike. The attempt on the Princes life, or at least the rumor of it- started by unintended spectators who saw your bloodied state- it was like a virus gone unchecked and allowed to fester. It was at first only a rumor, and that was all that was needed- for like with all rumors, it spread and changed, growing and distorting with each whispered telling. It was only compounded by the isolation of the prince upon your sequestering of him to his room- you not leaving his side for the merest of moments. Not hide or hair of him seen in public made only for more false claims that the prince was not in fact wounded but truly dead.

The prince, despite his mostly vestigial nature when it came to courtroom politicking, was a proud symbol of solidarity between the people of Xion and the royal family. His frequent and mostly daily appearances among the common folk of Xion had fostered a sense of unity and trust within the kingdom that other nations lacked- their rulers both distant and menacing, impersonal and cold. Where complaints made to the royal senate by the peasant masses were mostly ignored in favor of the more astute members of the nobility, the Prince was in contrast far more approachable and held the ear of his mother and father, the lowborn citizenry relied on him to make themselves heard above the voices of the aristocrats, and sometimes, his mother and father even listened.

The rumor of his death was more than enough to drive the desperate and destitute to the brink of rioting, only the firm commanding presence of the mariner Knights- deployed in full force- within the city was enough to quell any uprisings. A statement was penned and released by the Princess herself regarding the events, the well-being of the prince was hastily confirmed and in the interest of the princes continued safety, he would be sequestered to the confines of the castle until the matter of potentially more assassins was resolved.

You of course were questioned at great length about the incident, your wounds treated in a prompt manner, and in comparison to your past injuries the bolts were almost trivial- even the poison their heads were coated with meant nothing to you. It was with no small amount of pride that the royal family noted your dedication to the safety of the prince, your wounds reading as testament to your servitude, and your vigilance commended in turn. Despite such praise coming from the king himself and even the queen, as well as much of the royal nobility, it was the Princess herself who held onto doubt despite your apparent competence, so much so, that she bid you to meet her in her quarters.

You were uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving Tyrians side, despite of the heavy presence of the House guard. It took the assurances of the Princess to even make you consider leaving him for a single moment. You begrudgingly do so, claws clicking against cold stone steps as you make your way down to the Princess’s quarters that sat directly adjacent to the barracks of the mariner Knights stationed within the castle keep. On either side of the relatively unadorned entrance hung the banners of the Mariner knights and the royal coat of arms, such ostentation deftly displaying the rank and position that pertained to Myria.

You knock on the door and are answered with a bid for entrance. Stepping inside, the door shuts behind you and you are in the presence of a Spartan room with stonewalls and floor, an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling with several shelves along the wall and a simple bed in the corner. There is also the princess, shrugging off her armor- the same set that you encountered her first with, the same set that bore the patches that covered your claw marks.

“Hellhound,” She grunts in regard to you, her breastplate coming away with a slip of its leather catch, beneath it she shrugs off a chainmail undershirt. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” There is no prominent anger in her voice but there is a certain tension that puts you on edge. She mirrors her mother more than her father- a barley restrained storm always in her eyes, just waiting for the correct moment to be released. It wasn’t because of Nepotism that she was the Captain of the Mariner Knights, it was a title that she earned through grit and skill.

“What do you need of me.” You’ve found in your dealings with the Princess that the best course of action was to be curt and blunt. She clearly did not like you, in fact you are almost certain that she hates you, your presence offends her on the simple basis that you are a Hellion creature. The fact that you had bested her so easily- while wounded- is another fact that can only serve to grate on her nerves and sully her pride as a Knight.

She strips off her silken undershirt, damp with sweat. She doesn’t care about her nudity before you as she sheds her leggings next, transferring her armor to a straw mannequin. Her body is like yours in a way- toned and corded with subtle muscle underneath a bed of lighter pink scars in contrast to her darker tanned skin. She is unlike the Princess’s that you’ve come to know from your homeland, they were meek and feeble things, cloistered away and frail from generations of inbreeding among royal families whose bloodline was a pale shadow of what it once was in times long past. With Myria, there is a sense of power just behind her eyes that did not just merely speak of royal blood but almost shouted it.

“I’d have your opinion on Griffons.”

You raise an eyebrow. This was certainly unlike her to ask about. “What would you like to know of them?”

“How well do they fight?” She folds her chainmail apparel, setting on a dresser next to various tools. From that same dresser she pulls out a pressed and clean robe in the light blue and darker cobalt of the Xion royal family, she puts it on without ceremony.

“I’ve seen them rip apart entire  warcamps single-handedly. On more than one occasion I myself have had to fight them.”

“And?”

You grimace. “It nearly killed me. “

Myria nods, her thoughts her own. “Do the ever band together?” She asks. “Griffons, do they ever form groups or flocks? Whatever it may be called?”

You shake your head. “In the wild lands I’ve never seen such behavior. The civilized ones maybe, but they’ve always been territorial in the extreme from where I hail.”

“What about their behavior. Are they trustworthy? Or are they duplicitous.”

“Loyal to a fault, like most monster kin they choose a single mate and never leave.”

“And you hellions are so different?”

Again you shrug. “Hellhounds are not like most.”

She nods again, staring at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser. “Thank you, that will be all.” She dismisses you with a curt wave. You curtsy and take your leave.

It will only occur to you later, when it is far too late, the ramification of your actions just now.
…

The dear sweet prince still had yet to recover. He is young and innocent, and helplessly naïve in the ways of the world. Always willing to see the good in others, the concept of killing is anathema to him, even the most depraved of criminals is still redeemable in his eyes. It is so sickly sweet that it almost brings you to your knees.  The events that had taken place just outside the walls of Xion haunted him in his dreams, connecting all too much to your first encounter with the dear Prince and how you savaged the fiends of the Hellion village, for that account you  did not let him see- pressing his head firmly between your breasts as you clutched him tight, protecting him with tooth and nail.

For this recent transgression, he was able to bear full witness to your unbridled fury as you bid him away upon his horse.

You suppose your shouting, did not do him much good either…

He has been quiet, staring at the floor, hands clasped before him, not wanting to go outside all that much. You tend to him of course, dressing and undressing him, folding his clothes and taking out his laundry, watching over him while he sleeps and eats and trains with scholars and bladesmen. Even though time passes and affections are lavished upon him, his mood does not improve, he is stuck in that past moment where you tore apart the Arachne harlots. You are starting to worry. You don't know what to do. Indecision on your part only serves to anger yo, and it only is a matter of time before you find yourself doing an action that is in no small way beyond the point of rashness.

You don’t know all that much about humans, you don’t know much about royalty or nobility. You certainly don’t know as much as you want to about human emotions and feelings. What you do know a lot about though, is the human body, and how it ticks.  You know all about its pleasures and pains on a seemingly instinctual level. It would make sense that you do, after all, you are a Hellion creature, born from the lords of the darkest abyss formed by the rampant thoughts and malignancies of the human condition. Their dark hidden desires are what make your soul of fiery sin. In short, you know how to make a human drown in pleasure, or succumb to pain.  As you step into the young princes room, you take a steadying breath, and hope for the former.

Your hands are clasped in front of you as you enter, the door closing shut behind you, the young prince doesn’t even stir under his sheets, curled up with the covers pulled over his head and the curtains drawn shut.  The smallish, circular chamber is dark and shrouded, save only for your golden red eyes providing the low soft glow of radiance.  You mutter to yourself as you go to the side of his bed, and lean over, the boy under the covers shifts, turns over, and pulls them tight around his body.  You can smell the old fear and uncertainty.

Huffing to yourself you grab the sheets and pull them back, despite the clutching hands of young Tyrian, squirming an whining in protest, you easily overpower him in this.  He’s been crying again, eyes slightly red, he rubs at his cheeks. You can understand that the situation must be hard for him,  he is but a young and sheltered boy who saw you rip the guts of an arachne out through their back in a matter of seconds. He is afraid of you and afraid of the world; such is why you wish to make something else for him to focus his attentions on. So it is without preamble, that you stoically undo the clasp to your blouse top, and undo the buttons. A quick tug on your bra, sees your heavy breasts spilling forwards- full, round, soft and warm.

The change in his demeanor is almost instantaneous, going from a sniffling little boy to a very alert and alarmed little boy. You hush him, a finger over his lips before he can begin. You climb into bed, stripping off the rest of your noble clothes and at last sliding into what you were born into. Again he tries to say something, and again you promptly shush him. You will have none of his excuses or demands. This is for his own good.

It feels better to not have to be confined by things like clothing. But at the same time you have to wear it now, the personal maids and servants of the Queen had seen to that, taking to you with scissors and creams and giggles and measurements. Their experienced ministrations have turned your formerly rugged appearance of untamable savagery into a refined rouge that captivated the eye. The great tuft of fur that once covered your breasts was trimmed back, as were the other patches of fur that hid your nudity. Now without clothing, you are by all accounts, naked to the world. This is something that Tyrian had noticed all to well, and you put that to advantage now. You curl your arms around him and pull the covers back up over both of you, the warmth of your body suffusing him entirely and completely. You don’t let him speak, each time he opens his mouth you quickly shush him, pulling him closer so that his head was nestled between your breasts and his face flushed red.

You can feel his heartbeat through your stomach and into your soul, seeming to meld with your own beating furnace, almost merging into one singular resonance. His breathing doesn’t seem to slow as yours does, he keeps his hands folded over his front, and in curiosity you let your arms shift downwards, brushing away his hands- and your eyebrows raise when you feel the unmistakable hardness of a young boys member. Tyrian is still for a moment as your hand lingers, then, slightly, he tries to move his hips away, tries to shift the position of his maleness before you arrest this motion and wrap your hand around his member fully, a small pitched gasp is elicited from the young prince. The unfamiliar sensations brought by an unfamiliar hand causing him to squirm.

Pulling the young prince up and rolling onto your back, you pull Tyrian atop of you on his back, and with soft slow movements you work your hand up and down his length. You can barley fit four fingers around his boyhood, but he is young and has much growing to do, he will surely fill out more, as he grows older. You can feel the blood rushing into his cock, swelling slightly beneath your ministrations you pick up the pace of your strokes, a light trail of clear fluids begins to leak from the tip soaking into your palm and causing your movements to elicit soft wet slapping sounds with every stroke. You begin to hum lowly to yourself, breathing in the scent of an aroused male and listening to soft ragged breaths that begin to overtake Your prince, how he grips at your arm, the slick sweat beading off his form, and of course, the heavy, heady scent of precum that spills from the tip of his cock with every exaggerated, slow stroke you tease him with.

You cant help but to smile when he thrusts his hips against your strokes, soft but high moans trembling from his lips as the sensations of pleasure begin to overwhelm him. You keep tapering off your strokes,  feeling the pulsations of his shaft increase only for you to stop outright, holding him at the very edge of bliss time and again until you know him to be at the true peak of pleasure. Then, and only then, to you close your hand around his penis, and stroke long and slowly.

He turns his head and buries his face into your breast, a long, lustful moan shuddering softly as his hips buck upwards into your clenched hand. Thick, pearly white gobs of cum burst from his cock, splattering across his chest in four violent eruptions. He whines again as you continue to stroke his pulsating cock through the extent of his orgasm, making sure to milk out every last drop of seed from his sensitive member, reaching down further you make sure to gently squeeze his balls, eliciting a fresh dribble of cum to leak from his cockhead and over your hand, its warmth and consistency are just right, perfect even.

You can’t help but to manage a wane smile at the sight of the prince panting- eyes half lidded and boycock shrinking, now freshly expelled of any semen. You quickly and efficiently clean your fingers of his seed, his delicious and pure flavor savored in your mouth as well as his musk. It is enough to make your womanhood ache in painful need and your legs shift as a damning heat is ignited just below your belly, causing your slit to grow sodden with prepared excitement. You instead just hug your dear prince in closer, whispering into his ear various sweet and calming things, your warmth taking root inside him.
…

The morning comes all to quickly. And with it the realization and ramifications of yesterdays actions.  As you open your eyes, and feel the warmth of the body pressed against you, memory starts to reaffirm its hold over you much like the sun filtering through the curtains.  You look down in groggy confusion, and it takes but a second to realize that it is the prince that you have your arms wrapped around- his body as naked as yours. This isn’t so much as a cause for alarm as the smell- the sickly sweet  musk of a boys cum overshadows that.

The events of the past then play themselves out in your mind as you begin to imagine the wrathful eyes of the Queen. Something like panic begins to beat in your stomach, gnawing at the inside of your gut like some reeving parasite.  You untangle yourself from the prince, softly breathing against your breasts as he sleeps. You pull the covers over him, taking a moment to forget your concern, you watch him for a minute, peaceful and serene. It makes you wonder…

You part the curtains to the bathroom, the Oakwood floors creak softly as you draw up a warm bath, the remnants from yesterdays activity still freshly scented. You let the water fill the basin and as you do you close your eyes, try and focus on your breathing, and steady your mind. You begin to think, you begin to wonder.

Why did you act in such a way. You thought that you were beyond such things.

A cairn flashes in your minds eye.

You don’t linger on the answer.

You busy yourself with adding the various oils and soaps, and then you fetch the prince from bed.
…

The prince seemed to recover, or at least he was his usual self- the cloud that hung over him dissipating. In the days to came he quickly returned to his normal quite but cheerful demeanor, while you yourself try to act like nothing transpired, you try to play your usual role as ever-present guardian and caretaker and not remember how closely you hugged him as you gently brought him to climax and whispered encouragement in his ear.

The Prince is not so ambiguous, the pleasure still fresh on his boyish mind. He would throw glances back up at you every so often, and you find his gaze to hold something more than the usual close respect and wonder that it usually possesses. Something perverse is there, not exactly carnal, but surely indecent.

You find breakfast this morning to be particularly enlightening to his new behaviors. The Prince was looking at you, from the corner of his gaze whenever he thought you to not be aware. In one such instance he drops his knife, the silverware clattering to the ground, he mutters an apology. You go to pick it up, and you can feel his gaze latching onto your butt almost at once, the skirt length of your new dress- your last one being ripped to shreds- giving him able view of your far upper thigh, and even a glimpse of your undergarments as you bend down. You aren’t certain on how you should feel about this, on how you should react.

Part of you is pleased, almost smug or confident in the affirmation of your sexuality, you feel like a female for what felt like the first time. You are suddenly conscious of your appearance in a way that you haven’t been before; the way your hips sway and how your breasts bounce, the subtle jiggle of your ass and how your clothes hug your curves. You are a Hellion hound- and you are also a monster- although born from the dark beyond the abyss, you are still a monster, and monsters exist to pair off with and be bred by menfolk. Though you are a Hellion, and the life of a Hellion is a lonely one ruled by violence and domination, you are still no exception.

Breakfast is done, and the menial servants clear the table before Tyrain. You gently remind him that it is almost time for his morning practices. As usual, you escort him through the vaulted hallways of the inner castle hold, your destination the much-famed library that lies near the heart of the grand Castle of Xion. Its endless shelves filled with the combined knowledge of over three-hundred civilizations and countless species. It would be his endeavor to learn as much as he can of them all, and you were to assist him in this despite your egregious lack of knowledge concerning anything of the sort. The most you know of other species and kingdoms is if they hunt you or not, and how best to avoid or kill them.

Tyrian trails slightly behind you as you make your way through the hallways, they are mostly deserted save for the occasional House Guard or slave. Through it all you can feel Tyrain looking at you, the corset you are made to wear pulls your dress snugly around your waist and often times it will pull your skirt up if you are not careful, and Tyrian is short enough to make full use of such a wardrobe malfunction, nervously examining your butt on display for his viewing pleasure.

You find yourself blushing and pulling at your bangs, your body heating up at this voyeuristic tendency that is growing in your dear little Tyrian. You do want to reach back and pull your dress down so that it covers you, but doing so would almost certainly tell Tyrian that you were on to his peeping. How he would handle that, you don’t know. His looking is innocent enough, it isn’t hurting anyone and he is a growing boy that lives a secluded and sheltered life. He should be allowed to revel in this one illicit freedom he has found before him so readily available. Part of you wants to hike up your tail so that it raises your skirt entirely, you want to let him look as long as he likes and see as much as he desires before you pin him to the floor and ride him until his balls are dry and that slowly growing ache in your womb is sated before it can take root. YOu want to know what his face looks like- eyes screwed shut in pleasure- as you look down at him from above, pinning him to the floor as you raise and lower his hips- teasing the orgasms out of him with excruciating slowness before finally  letting loose,  and pounding down against him as you reach your own final, howling climax with a womb full of what is your true desire.

You shut your eyes and count to twenty, muttering softly passed clenched fangs.  You can’t arrive at the Library soon enough, and you push open the ancient double doors. You see to it that Tyrian finds the servant tutor and stand off and away so they might proceed without you interfering. With the attention of of you now, you  can subtly finger yourself, trying to make no noise, trying to releave that building pressure.

Damnit, your Womb aches- why does it ache? Why?