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Our Father	By : WhiteWinter Category: +A through F > Corruption of Champions Views: 9295 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Corruption of Champions or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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          – Days later –

          The sunset bleeds reddish light from the horizon, and the evening air is cold enough for you to see your hot breath leave your nose. You’re nervously wringing your hands together as you sit on the top step of the farmhouse’s porch, with the front door just behind you. You can hear your family chatting and laughing in the dining room as they enjoy their dinner. Normally you’d be eating with them, but instead you’re here, waiting, still hoping to see Kylie descend from the sky. She should’ve been home an hour ago.

          You decided this morning to invest in some good, actual clothing for your growing family, but most every adult in your family would be turned away at Tel’Adre’s gates, you for your “reputation” and your wives for their known association to you . . . every adult except for Kylie. She volunteered to go, and you didn’t have much choice but to send her. She assured you that she’d be fine, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. No more hand-me-downs, no more makeshift bras, no more jury-rigged raincoats fashioned from old tarps. Your little ones – who aren’t so little anymore – have gone too long without proper clothing, and you were going to put that to an end at last. You should’ve at least gone with Kylie to the edge of the city, but you thought that those wings and talons of hers would keep her safe. Gods, how could you be so stupid? Sending a pregnant girl alone through Mareth? Wings and talons or not, every imp, drider, or minotaur she came across would be eager to assault her. If someone did something to Kylie, to your precious girl . . . you’d make them wish they were dead. You wouldn’t be able to cope with losing any of your children, but Kylie, she’s your first, and there’s something special about that. No, if someone did something to her, then you’d do a lot worse than make that person wish they were dead. You’d make the world burn.

          A vivid memory seeps into your mind . . .

          “Daddy,” Kylie whispered, pushing against your shoulder with a tiny, girlish hand.

          You let out a low groan. It felt like the middle of the night. You were exhausted. You kept your eyes closed, clinging to that tiny ounce of hope that your little girl would just leave and let you sleep.

          “Daddy,” Kylie whispered again with another prod of your shoulder.

          Finally you surrendered. You groaned again and rolled over to face her. You snapped your fingers and lit the candle on your nightstand with a single ember of whitefire, illuminating your tent with a warm, soft light. Kylie stood beside your cot, looking down at you. She must’ve been just over four feet tall then. She held her pink comfort blanket around herself just beneath the roots of her wings, clutched in her hands. You don’t even remember where you found that thing, but it worked wonders for Kylie. There was a time when she couldn’t sleep without it. And this night was in that time.

          Each of Kylie’s cheeks were marked by a line of partially dried tears. She’d been crying. Kylie was always a bit of a crybaby as a child, but no matter how many times she cried, it never got any easier to see.

          You reached for her and gently wiped the tears from her face. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” you asked as you brushed a long lock of her messy hair behind her ear.

          “I had a bad dream,” she said as she instinctively nuzzled her cheek against your hand.

          Kylie always craved your touch, however she could get it, whether it was you hugging her, holding her at your hip, carrying her on your shoulders, kissing her on her cheeks, or even just cupping her face in the palm of your hand. She clung to you in a way she never quite did with her mother. A blessing and a curse. A blessing when she began mimicking your speech patterns and not her mother’s. A curse when you had to awkwardly explain that she would in fact not look like you when she grew up. A blessing when she happily accepted your affection whenever you felt that fatherly urge to damn near hug the life out of her. A curse when she wouldn’t release you from her arms for ten minutes after that hug was over. A blessing when you came home after a long day and had her land atop your shoulders and tell you that she missed you and that she loved you. A curse when you came home after a long day and found her sobbing in heart-breaking misery as she lamented your absence in the arms of a mother who couldn’t soothe her. Those were the times that made you question whether you were truly fit for fatherhood, and whether Kylie was born in misfortune to parents that could never properly care for her.

          “Why didn’t you tell your mother?” you asked.

          Kylie didn’t answer at first. “Because . . .” her voice trailed off into silence. She still had somewhat of a lisp on her S’s, but she was making good progress in correcting that.

          “Because?”

          “Because . . . Mama doesn’t make me feel safe like you do.”

          “Well, that’s what your blanket is for, right?” you asked her softly. “To help you feel safe?”

          “Mhm,” she hummed as she hugged her blanket a bit tighter.

          “So go fly back to the nest, sweetie. Snuggle up with your mother. You won’t have the bad dream again.”

          “Can I sleep with you?”

          You knew she was going to ask that. “No, sweetie,” you told her. “Don’t start that. You’re fine in the nest with your mother. Just go back to sleep and I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

          “Please,” she begged. “Please, Daddy. I’m scared. I don’t want to go back. Please. It’ll just be for tonight. Please, please, please.”

          You could almost never resist Kylie’s begging, and so it’s a damn good thing she rarely did it. It’s just as they said in Ingnam, ‘a daughter makes even the sternest man the softest father.’

          “Okay, okay,” you yielded. “But only for tonight, promise?”

          Kylie smiled and nodded. “Promise,” she said.

          Still to this day, Kylie has never lied to you.

          With that, you tugged down the furs of your cot. Kylie folded her wings tightly behind herself and eagerly slipped into your bed, scooting herself against you and resting her head underneath your chin. Her long hair and feathery wings tickled your bare chest, but the feeling was more pleasant than irritating. As Kylie fidgeted around and made herself comfortable, without meaning to, one of the sharp talons of her feet scraped your ankle deep enough to break the flesh. You felt a trickle of blood, but the stinging pain was nothing you couldn’t sleep through, and so you said nothing of it. You didn’t want your sweet girl to blame herself for cutting you. You were certain that she’d start crying if she knew she’d hurt you.

          You pulled the furs back up and wrapped them around the two of you, and Kylie sighed happily in their cozy warmth. You knew she’d be sound asleep before long.

          “Daddy?” Kylie whispered. “Will you sing the Princess Song?”

          “Aren’t you getting a little old for that?” you asked her with a smile.

          “No,” she said flatly, and you chuckled at the bluntness of her answer.

          “Okay,” you said, and you cleared your throat and put your arms around her before you began:

          “Hush, my sweet little princess, don’t you cry,
          Your Daddy the King has got for you a lull-a-by.”

          You sang each line slow and smooth, letting the words flow in a gentle, soothing tune. You had never been much of a singer, but the hoarseness of your tired voice gave your words a raspy sound that worked in your favor, making your song sound softer and more serene.

          “The King’s daughter always has nothing to fear,
          So please, princess, don’t shed a single tear.
          Because everything in this world you see,
          You can say, ‘this all belongs to me.’
          For you, Daddy’ll make this world spin and turn,
          And if it won’t, Daddy’ll make it wither and burn.
          This world’s Daddy’s and that means it’s yours too,
          Because Daddy’s love for you is endless and true.”

          Kylie was asleep by the song’s end, breathing softly and peacefully. You kissed the top of her head. “Sweet dreams, baby,” you whispered.

          . . . Shit. You know she’s better off the way you did it, but a part of you still wishes you’d let Kylie go to bed with you every night. That was your best night of sleep in months, and it’s easy to figure why. Everything that mattered to you in the whole world was right there in your arms, safe and sound.

          “Your stew’s getting cold,” Whitney says as she appears beside you. You didn’t even hear the farmhouse door open.

          You don’t bother turning to her. “Then I’ll eat it cold,” you grumble, keeping your eyes forward.

          She puts a comforting hand to your shoulder. “I’m sure Kylie’s fine, hun. If there’s one thing I know about that girl, it’s that she can take care of herself. Smart girl, that one. Takes after her Pa, doesn’t she?”

          “Yeah,” you nod. “She does.” You tap Whitney’s hand and spare her a quick glance. “Go back inside,” you tell her.

          She smiles to you and pats your shoulder before heading back in.

          You put your face in your hands and sigh. You need to head out. Just start searching for her, anywhere, everywhere. But before you can think over where to start, a fwipping sound prompts you to pull your hands from your face as you look to the sky. The sound shifts into roaring gusts, whipping air across your face as Kylie descends to the earth. She’s working her great, golden wings a bit more intensely than usual, likely on account of the half-dozen linen bags she has tied around each of her limbs, with two also held in each hand. Her sharp talons sink deep into the soft earth as she plants her feet, and when her eyes meet yours, her eyes and lips shine in a sunny smile, like nothing ever happened, like you hadn’t just spent the last two hours worrying whether she was being gang-raped. She’s not wearing her standard makeshift bra and breeches anymore, but instead a pair of clean sweatpants and a thick, cozy-looking long-sleeved sweatshirt, which you can only guess has a cut-off back or zipper for the roots of her wings. It must be a maternity sweatshirt too, because it has no problem making space for the incredibly large swell of her pregnancy, which looks ready to pop any day now.

          Kylie drops the two bags in her hands when you wrap your arms around her and take her into a loving hug. “You had me worried sick, Kylie,” you mutter. You squeeze her tight and bury your face in her hair as you draw a deep breath, taking her oh-so-familiar scent to the bottom of your lungs.

          “It’s okay, Daddy,” Kylie laughs. “I’m fine.”

          You turn your head and take Kylie into a kiss, and the two of you sigh together with your lips joined. But you keep the kiss brief, and you rear back and put a hand to her cheek. “Everything go alright?” you ask her.

          “Yep,” she nods.

          “You got everything on the list?”

          “And then some,” she says as her smile widens.

          “What do you mean?”

          She produces a jingling pouch and puts it in your hands. You weigh it in your palm a bit before opening it and finding what must be a few hundred gems. “This is half of what I gave you to spend,” you tell her as you furrow your brow. “You didn’t use it?”

          “I didn’t have to,” she says. Her still-widening smile looks ready to reach across each of her cheeks. What’s she so excited about?

          “How’d you manage that?” you ask.

          Kylie looks down at her egg bump and cups it with her hands. “I lied and said the egg was an imp’s. I even cried when I told them! I thought I could trick them, and I did!” She looks back to you now. “Did I do well, Daddy?”

          Kylie lied about being raped and impregnated by an imp, she saved you a fistful of gems, she went beyond what you asked and improvised masterfully . . . and she’s wondering if she did well?

          You grab her hands and give her another quick kiss. “Yes, sweetie,” you answer. “You did very well. In fact, tonight, I’m going to show you just how well you did. How’s that sound?”

          Kylie steps forward and presses her body into yours. “It sounds great,” she whispers as she plants a series of kisses along your neck.

          . . .

          Your children are growing up fast. Your centaur foals and mouselings have all finished breastfeeding, and they’re nearly fully grown, as well. Averie, Alaya, and Natalia are all only a few inches shorter than their birthmother Amily, and you can guess they’ll be a bit taller than her when all’s said and done. Puberty is behind them now, and they’ve each acquired the curved, flared hips and pert, perky breasts of girls in their mid-teens. As for Kian, he’s already taller than Amily, and muscles are rising from his lean, masculine flesh. His jaw is squaring and his shoulders are widening. He’s becoming a man. If they were humans and uncorrupted, you’d peg your mouselings at about sixteen years of age or so. Still not quite “there.” You’ll give them a little more time. Hannah and Cain, both being a bit younger than their mouse siblings, aren’t quite as grown as them, but they’re certainly getting there. You’d guess that they’re around twelve years old or so.

          You’ve decided to take a day off to relax, and you spend the better part of it sitting and watching your teen mouselings from the farmhouse’s porch.

          Kian and Averie are having a fierce jump-rope competition over by the nearest barn, while Sophie acts as a cheerleader for them. Kian and Averie are always burningly eager to prove themselves to you, and that’s led to a ferocious tit-for-tat rivalry between them. Averie seems to be defining herself as a tomboy. She’s the most active and sporty of your mouse-girls and it shows in her slenderness. Ave’s lean and tight from head to toe. She could probably crush a melon between her toned thighs. Ave and Kian both choose button t-shirts and cargo shorts as their standard attire, and Kian keeps his brown hair a bit short and shaggy, while Ave keeps her long hair bound in a tidy pony-tail. They’ve both long been interested in having you train them with a weapon, and they’re definitely old enough now for you to start teaching them. None of your children have shown themselves to possess your natural predilection for magic, and it’s possible none of them ever will. It certainly didn’t run in your old family.

          Alaya is sitting with Kylie on a tall bale of hay, holding a notebook and pencil in her hands, scribbling doodles and drawings as Kylie watches and chats with her. Laya dresses herself just as Kylie does, in roomy sweatshirts and sweatpants. She keeps her hair long and unkempt, rarely brushing it, and she’s mostly curve-less, like her sister Ave, but with none of the tone or fitness or tightness. Laya’s a quiet girl. Shares a lot in common with Kylie. They’re both thoughtful, but the difference is that Laya doesn’t often have the courage to speak her mind. Laya has a shell, and she rarely comes out of it. Though you wish she’d open up more often to you, you’re glad she at least has Kylie. It’s good that they’re close.

          Natalia is sitting just ahead of you, over on the bottom steps of the porch. Amily is helping her pluck her eyebrows, making them sharp, feminine, and arching. Nati was the first of your mouse-girls to show interest in her beauty and femininity, and she definitely spends a lot more time grooming herself than her sisters do. She keeps her long, brown hair smooth and finely brushed at all times, and she always has sultry, black cosmetics to her eyes, courtesy of the eyeliner and mascara Kylie bought her in Tel’Adre. Nati was the first of your mouselings to blossom into the full body of a matured female, and she’s got by far the most weight to her curves. She wears a tiny shirt that bares her midriff and the great cleavage of her hefty breasts, and a tight, sheer pair of yoga pants that leaves little of her heavy, heart-shaped bottom to the imagination. Nati isn’t even fully grown and already she’s a bombshell of a woman – and she knows it. She teases you every chance she gets, whether it be shooting you lustful glares of bedroom eyes or grinding her fat, rounded rump into your crotch. She’s eager for you to finally bed her, but you continue to keep her waiting for now. It’ll happen in good time. There’s a certain age and ripeness you want your daughters to be before you pluck them, and Nati isn’t there yet. But she’s close, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to the day when you fuck her silly and give that fat ass of hers the pounding she so desperately desires.

          But no matter how curvy Natalia is, you don’t play favorites. You’re no more attracted to her than you are to her sisters. You love them all equally, and you’re eager to finally taste each of them, Nati, Ave, and Laya all.

          Though you can’t see them, you know Hannah and Cain are somewhere out by the lake with their mother Kelly, galloping about, getting fresh air and enjoying themselves. You’re not worried for their safety. They know to sprint back at the first sign of trouble, and Gods can they gallop fast.

          Your eyes drift to the cornfield closest to the farmhouse, where you can see Whitney leisurely twisting and yanking ears of corn off of tall stalks, putting them in a wide, woven basket and working at a steady, sweat-less pace. If you hadn’t just eaten lunch two hours ago you might be fantasizing of Whitney’s cornbread, but, no, you’re fantasizing of Whitney herself. It’s been days since you relocated to this farm, but you still haven’t gotten the chance to breed your dog-woman wife. It’s not from lacking the lust – you’ve been overflowing with it lately – but you’ve got seven wives here and there’s only so much time in the day. Besides, it’s fun to make them desperate for you.

          But Whitney’s time has come. It’s no mystery that the better one of your wives serves you then the more interested you are in giving them affection, and Whitney has certainly served you well. She’s gracious, she’s obedient, she’s kind, and she’s considerate. Her life revolves around your family, her family, just as it should. She’s a good wife.

          Today’s the day, and it’s going to happen again and again.

          “Whitney!” you shout. Your voice booms and shatters the peace and tranquility of the farm. Each member of your family drops what they’re doing and looks to you with both obedience and curiosity, and Whitney swiftly drops her basket of corn and hurries over to you. Dutifully, Amily leaves her spot on the porch’s steps to go pick up where Whitney left off with the corn, and Natalia watches enviously from over her shoulder as Whitney quickly ascends past her and comes to stand before you.

          “Inside,” you say to her, and Whitney is right on your heels as you walk through the farmhouse’s door, through the front room, down the hall, and into the master bedroom. You shut the door behind her and flip the lock, and you could swear you heard Whitney make a little gasp at the sound of it. With the door locked, you turn to face her and find her waiting for your next words with what appears to be a unique blend of joy of serving and fear of failing. It’s the first time she’ll be using this bedroom since she gave it to you. She looks terribly nervous, and you can’t really blame her. At long last she has the full, undivided attention of her husband, the man she worships. You imagine she must feel like a devout follower coming face-to-face with her god. How long has it been since you last fucked her? Weeks? Months?

          “You’ve been good lately,” you tell her as you pace a circle around her. Her eyes follow you, but she doesn’t turn her head when you’re behind her. She knows better than to do that. She’s the servant, you’re the King. She’s yours to inspect, not the other way around.

          “I’ve—” she pauses to let herself swallow a mouthful of saliva, a product of her anxiety. “—I’ve tried to be as good as I can be,” she says softly. “I . . . I want to be a good doggie, because—”

          “—because good doggies get treats,” you finish for her, smiling. You’re surprised she remembers that. That was one of the first things you told her when you turned her. “And you have been good,” you assure her. “You’ve been a good farmer and an even better cook. That cornbread of yours,” you pause and let out a sharp, trailing whistle. “Good stuff.”

          “My Ma taught me,” Whitney says quietly, almost in a whisper.

          “Then you’re doing her justice,” you tell her.

          After a few rotations around her, you let yourself come to a standstill just behind Whitney, towering over her. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?” you ask her. You put your hand through her hair and scratch your finger just beneath one of her two floppy ears. Her tail begins wagging furiously, thwip-thwip-thwipping across your pants, and her tail’s battering of your crotch tops off the last of the rushing blood needed to give you a painfully hard erection. Even having all of her clothes on, there’s something about a woman utterly devoting herself to you that’s much more arousing than simple nudity.

          “Gods, yes,” she sighs, though you’re not sure if that response is more the answer to your question or more the reaction to your scratching of her favorite spot.

          “Aren’t you glad to have this family? To have such a fucking rich and fulfilling existence? Tell me, Whitney. Tell me how glad you are.”

          “I’m so glad you’re in my life,” she says, and you know she means it. You can hear it in her voice. Whitney worships you perhaps more than any of your other wives. You did a good job with her, and you did it without a drop of Bimbo Liqueur or succubus milk. You corrupted and broke her all through the will, grit, and determination of your mind. She’s really one of your greatest creations, right next to your children.

          “In your life?” you parrot her with a tone of annoyance, and you let your scratching finger fall still.

          “Are my life,” she immediately corrects herself, still looking forward and not turning to you. “You and the kids are my life.”

          “Better,” you nod approvingly. You resume your gentle scratching, and her tail quickly follows suit with its joyful wagging. Like a snake, you slither your other hand down the cut of Whitney’s blouse and glomp it hungrily over one of her pert, furry tits, and she gasps at the intense touch. “Does it bother you, though, knowing that the kids aren’t yours?” you ask as you move your tit-groping hand to her other breast.

          “No, no,” she assures you. “It doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t even think of it like that. The kids are mine. They’re not my blood, but . . . they mean everything to me. Like you said, they . . . they enrich me. I wake up in the morning, and . . . and I’m happy I get to take care of them. Kylie, she’s the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, and Kian, he’s always wanting to help out around the farm, and that boy Cain is fearless, and—”

          —Whitney stops when you move your hand from her ear to her mouth in a gesture that clearly calls for her silence. Then, a moment later, you move the same hand to her chin and gently tilt her head upwards, as far as it’ll go, making her eyes meet yours. “Do you want one?” you ask.

          “Do I . . . want one?”

          “Do you want a child?”

          “If—if you want,” she stammers quietly. Her eyes are wide and engrossed, awestruck by your powerful gaze, and normally you’d find satisfaction in this reaction, but in your raging lust, you only find frustration.

          You shake your head and tighten your grip on her chin. “That’s not what I asked you,” you tell her tersely. “Answer what I asked.”

          “Yes,” she whispers, her brown eyes darting over yours.

          “What? I can’t hear you.”

          “Yes!” she cries out. “Yes, Gods, please, yes!”

          In one quick, sudden motion, you back away, put your hands on Whitney’s shoulders, and spin her to face you. When her eyes lock again to yours, you say, “Now, I’m going to ask you one last question, and there’s only one correct answer. Understand?”

          Whitney nods.

          “Do you want me to give you a child . . . or do you want to give me a child?”

          “You,” she says instantly, without any need to think it over. “I want to give it to you.”

          Your lips curl into a grin. You never doubted her.

          You grab Whitney and heave her effortlessly onto the bed, the force of it making her bounce a few times on the thick mattress, and in an instant you’re laying over her, propping yourself up with your arms, casting her in your shadow. She immediately grabs the waistband of her skirt to tug it down, but you’re already lashing out for it with your mind, yanking it out of her hands and down and off of her legs, and then you’re doing the same with her frilly panties. Then Whitney crosses her arms across herself to pull off her blouse, but again you do it yourself, grabbing her blouse with unseen hands and angrily yanking it up her body and off of her head. You’re the one in charge of her nudity, not her, and whether it’s by her consent or not, you’ll denude her whenever you desire, at the very fucking moment you desire it.

          You strip yourself nearly instantaneously, and you lean down and take her into a growling kiss. Though it’s a bit awkward considering her muzzle, Whitney happily returns your affection, draping her arms around your neck as she kisses you back, opening her mouth for you and twirling her long tongue against yours in a dance of equal parts gentle love and burning passion. You ease a bit of your weight down on her, pressing your chest into Whitney’s plush, perky breasts, and her hardened nipples poke into you like iron nubs. Her legs spread open as you kiss her deeper, offering herself to you, and the head of your long cock is hovering just inches from her waiting pussy. You could penetrate her right now if you so desired, but you aren’t quite feeling up for this lovey-dovey missionary style. Though it doesn’t have much reasoning or explanation – there rarely is for these things – there’s an intense anger boiling inside you, and it’s making you want to take Whitney violently. You know she won’t mind, and you wouldn’t much care if she did.

          You rise off of Whitney and flip her onto her stomach, and she astutely gets onto her hands and knees just as she knows you want her to. If you’re going to put puppies in her belly, then it’s only fitting you do it like this. You grab her furry hips and scoot closer to her, till your long, turgid cock rests atop the crack of her tight ass. Then you shift your hands, wrapping one around the base of her tail and bringing the other down hard onto her rump. Her lean butt doesn’t give much of a wiggle from your spank, but you give her another swat, and then another and another, until you’ve spanked her at least a dozen times and you know damn well that the flesh under her dusky-brown fur is burning red from your abusive love. Whitney whines here and there, but she gives no objection to the rough foreplay, and the taut muscles of her ass don’t clench once from any of the spanks. Either the pain is buried under her lust or she’s doing a good job of dutifully ignoring it.

          You grab your stiff cock, which is now incredibly hot to the touch, and you maneuver it under Whitney’s raised ass, ushering it towards your pooch’s pussy. Her inflamed labia is almost completely hidden under her fur, but you don’t need to see it to feel it. It’s an absolute furnace, pouring humid heat over the tip of your sensitive manhood. Whitney’s entire body shudders when you prod your cock against her pussy, wetting your cockhead with her bubbling fem-fluid, but when you see and feel how eager your bitch is for you, you decide that Whitney needs to earn your presence inside her. You pull your hips back, removing your pecker from her, and Whitney looks over her shoulder to you, shooting you a needy, begging gaze.

          “Why don’t you use that muzzle of yours first?” you ask her, but she knows it’s far more of an order than a question.

          She obediently spins around and brings her head to your cock, but you think she senses how submissive you’re wanting her to be, because instead of immediately taking your member into her mouth as she so often has before, Whitney instead brings out her tongue and licks at your two balls, gently lapping at each of them in slow, sensual licks. Her dog-tongue is flat and a bit rough, but it’s long and wet and feels delightful sliding over each of your nuts. She starts licking them firm enough to lift and drop them, hugging them and raising them in warm, wet flesh before letting them gently drop and bounce and sway. It’s just seconds until she’s polished your balls to the point that they’re each shining and dripping with doggie-drool.

          Whitney peers up at you, and when she sees the lust burning behind your gaze, she knows to move on to the main course. She raises her head a bit, leveling herself with your cock, and she sinks her mouth down the entirety of your length, enveloping you from crown to base in an almost startling warmth and wetness. You sigh uncontrollably, and already your prick is beginning to twitch in pleasure. She hasn’t always been skilled at it, but Whitney’s always been the wife who gives the best head. The length of her muzzle is a perfect fit for your prick, and Whitney’s able to rest every inch of your long dong against her similarly long tongue. As good as it may feel, Whitney knows better than to let your member just rest still in her mouth, so she quickly sets on thrusting her muzzle off and onto you, tightly sucking your prick all the way, and she takes care to always keep your cockhead suckled in her mouth. She takes one of her hands and cradles your wet balls as she works, tenderly rolling them in her slender, furry fingers, and she pulls a sudden groan from you when she bravely gives them just the faintest, gentlest squeeze. Again Whitney peers up at you, reading your reaction to see if she displeased you, but she finds no anger in your gaze, and she returns her eyes to your crotch. Then, in a cock-sucking technique you’ve only ever seen Whitney use, she masterfully raises her flexible tongue at wherever the head of your cock is currently resting, shifting in a wave of motion that keeps a constant, careful pressure applied to your sensitive crown. Working you like this, she sucks you off for only so long before you’re quickly at your end.

          Thankfully, you have no qualms over saving your orgasm for Whitney’s pussy to breed her. Though it used to require either a great deal of pleasure or a great deal of willpower to go two rounds back-to-back, that’s not the case anymore. It’s an effortless endeavor now, thanks to Kylie’s Lethicite. With that in mind, you don’t bother warning Whitney of your impending orgasm, and when that familiar burning bliss wracks your core, her eyes snap up to yours in shock when she feels and tastes your seed spurt out and cover her tongue in a thick, salty layer of white. There’s a flash of sadness in her somber eyes, but it disappears as she remembers her place. She probably thinks you played some cruel game on her, misleading her to think you’d breed her only to later bust your nut in her mouth, but thankfully for her, you’ll show her otherwise in just a moment. Disappointed or not, Whitney dutifully swallows your load, noisily gulping down every last drop of white, and when the last of it is gone, she twirls her tongue around your dick while keeping you sheathed in her muzzle, licking you clean of your cum. The tornado of pleasure battering your post-nut pecker makes your knees weak and very nearly buckles them.

          After Whitney takes her mouth from your cock and gives your crown one last lick, you grab her muzzle and make her face you. “Spin back around,” you command her, and at those words, the sadness in her eyes vanishes.

          She happily does as you say and spins to present her ass and pussy to you, and you don’t bother with any final foreplay before lining up your cock with her cunt and easing your hips forward.

          Her soaking pussy gives you no resistance as you push in balls-deep, sheathing nearly every inch of your manhood inside her heat, where your twitching cock is lovingly welcomed and hugged by her warm walls. Her snug cunny squeezes you from every direction, and you stop and sigh again as you let your manhood rest and stay sheathed in the hilt in her sodden depths. She’s by no means the best pussy you can have – that distinction definitely belongs to sweet Kylie – but Whitney is more than hot and snug enough for your tastes, and you’re wise enough to know that it’s not the pussy that matters so much as the girl or woman it’s attached to. They need to know what it means to have you inside them, to know whose pleasure is their priority, and Whitney certainly does. She clenches her moist tunnel around you, applying a bit more pressure to your throbbing cock to please you as best she can, but even so, you still don’t start thrusting.

          Whitney starts to turn to look over her shoulder at you, no doubt to beg you to start fucking her, but you quickly put your hand to the back of her head turn her forward again, forcefully keeping her from facing you.

          “Eyes forward,” you snarl at her. “I’m the sire, you’re the bitch, remember?”

          “Yes,” she whimpers, but it’s not a whimper of sorrow.

          With your dominance asserted, you grab her slender hips and slowly draw your cock back, until only your crown remains snuggled inside her, and you pause for a short moment before you . . . rock into her, crashing your crotch into her ass, violently spearing your cock back into her. Whitney lets out a breathy yelp at the sudden pleasure, but you give her no mercy, and you set out on a fast, ferocious pace, rutting your doggy bitch nice and rough. You shift your hands to her shoulders and pull her towards you in time with each thrust, maximizing the sheer force of the fucking.

          You lean down and put your mouth just beside her ear. “How many men have you ever been with?” you ask her in a whisper, still maintaining a steady rhythm to your thrusting.

          “I . . . I don’t know,” she murmurs, having a hard time finding the breath to speak between her gasps of pleasure. “Three, I think.”

          “Do you wish I was your – first?” you ask, punctuating the last word with an especially forceful thrust. “The one who – plucked you? The one that made you a – woman?”

          “Yes,” she whines, still not daring to face you.

          You grin and rear back again. You grab Whitney’s tail by the root and squeeze it tight, and her pussy responds in kind by squeezing you right back. You grab a fistful of her brown hair and pull it hard, whipping her head and forcing her to arch her back. You keep her held like this and use her hair as a leash as you quicken your pace. You’re ruthless and violet with her, uncaring of however uncomfortable she might be while you clap your thighs into her ass and pound her pussy for all she’s worth, and it’s all for the best, anyways, as you can hear her panting like a bitch in heat. She wants exactly what you do. She wants you to dominate her.

          Whitney lowers one of her hands to circle her finger around her needy clit, and though you’re squeezing her tail for your sake, for the echoed clenching of her cunt around your cock, it also has the added effect of working your lover towards her climax. It feels just a bit hotter and wetter inside Whitney now, and the pleasure is too much to endure any longer. You don’t stop thrusting when your burning orgasm floods your core and flushes through your limbs, maintaining a rapid, ass-pounding cadence and giving your bitch all the cock she can take. Whitney climbs her own high just as you do, and you and her join together in throaty, orgasmic moans as your prick begins to twitch and jump, spurting thick ropes of spunk one after the other. You seed your bitch well, pouring your essence into her and slathering her tunnel with white. Your cum flows deep and fills Whitney full, till her womb is swimming with your seed.

          After you’ve thrusted out the last of your load and you and Whitney descend from your highs, the two of you collapse in bed together. Whitney puts her arms around you and hugs you tight, sighing. It’s been a long time since she’s had the opportunity to cuddle her beloved husband. Knowing that she’s been a good doggy for you, you wrap your arms around her and cuddle her back. She deserves it.

          “Maybe next time,” Whitney begins softly, “Do you think . . . we could include Kylie?”

          “And why’s that?” you laugh.

          “I just . . . I bet she’s a good lover. Selfless.”

          “Sophie told you, then?”

          “Hm? No,” Whitney shakes her head, looking confused.

          “Oh. I figured she blabbed about our first night here.”

          Whitney looks up at the ceiling, thinking something over, before looking back to you and shaking her head again. “Come to think of it,” she says, “She hardly ever talks about that sort of thing anymore.”

          “Really? Huh.” Maybe Sophie took that talking-to you gave her to heart?

          You lay with Whitney in the peace and quiet for some time, letting your devoted doggie wife enjoy some private pillow time with you . . . until a girl’s scream from outside the farmhouse pierces the silence.

          You and Whitney are out of bed in a blink, throwing on your clothes and dashing to the door. The two of you storm into the hall just in time to see a convoy burst through the farmhouse door. Amily and Sophie are holding a wailing Kylie up by her arms and hurrying her into the front room, with Alaya following close behind. Kylie’s in labor.

          Whitney darts down the hall after them, but before you can follow suit, you hear a pounding on the cellar door just beside you.

          “Is that Kylie?” Rebecc shouts through the door.

          “Yeah,” you holler back.

          “I can help.”

          “Help how?”

          “I was a midwife in Owca.”

          You look to the floor and give a quick groan as conflicting thoughts spin in a flurry in your mind, but when you hear Kylie let out another cry of agony, your decision is made for you. You flip the deadbolt lock and fling the door open. Rebecc’s white hair is very long and still growing, and she’s fresh, clean-clothed and well-bathed, courtesy of the farmhouse’s plumbing and the clothes and metal tub you graciously allocated her in the cellar – but you don’t waste more than a second taking in the sight of the sheep-girl or the growing pregnant swell in her belly, as there’s another expectant mother who is much more in need of your attention than her.

          You and Rebecc hurry into the front room together, where the others have spread out over a bedroll a familiar blanket, thick and pink and soft, to catch and soak up whatever birthing fluids Kylie happens to expel. They gently lay Kylie atop the blanket, but she has a hard time folding her twitching wings, so Alaya opts to sit behind Kylie and help keep her torso propped up. Amily and Sophie tug down Kylie’s sweatpants and panties – which are both wet from the breaking of her water – and Kylie spreads her legs amazingly wide as the motherly instincts of childbirth begin flooding her mind.

          Kylie’s eyes are closed and her face is twisted in agony, and when a particularly strong contraction hits her, her wings give an intense flap around Alaya behind her, and the gust of air knocks over and shatters a lamp in the far corner of the room. You nod to Whitney to silently command her to take care of the shards before someone hurts themselves, and she hurriedly sets off on doing just that. Rebecc kneels next to Amily beside Kylie and firmly grabs Amily’s shoulder. “Get a pail with water, a washcloth, and a hair tie,” Rebecc orders her, and Amily nods before dashing off to the kitchen. Rebecc then takes Amily’s place beside Kylie and gently grabs your girl’s hand. “Purse your lips, darling,” Rebecc tells her. “Quick, steady breaths. Make a rhythm. You’re in control. Don’t be afraid, Kylie. Be calm and be confident. The pain won’t be as bad.”

          Never quite knowing what to do at times like this, you simply watch carefully from a few feet away, facing Kylie’s open legs, standing at the ready to do whatever could possibly be needed of you. Kylie’s vagina is already dilating and stretching far wider than you’ve ever seen before, looking nothing like that slit of hers you’re accustomed to, and though you don’t see the top of the egg yet, you know that’ll change soon.

          On your left you can see Natalia, Averie, and Kian all hovering by the doorway from the hall, curious to witness childbirth for the first time, but not curious enough to watch from up-close or to watch from any angle where they’ll see between Kylie’s legs.

          Amily arrives with what was asked of her, and Rebecc works quick from there. First she grabs Kylie’s long, platinum-blonde hair and ropes it all into one thick tail by her side, binding it with the hair tie and keeping it well out of the way. Next she dips the washcloth in the pail and wipes up the sweat forming on Kylie’s brow. “When it feels like you should push, do it,” Rebecc tells her. “Your body will tell you what to do, Kylie. You just have to listen to it.”

          “You can do it, baby,” Sophie coos to her daughter, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

          Kylie tenses as another contraction comes. “Okay, darling,” Rebecc says, “Now, chin down, lean forward, and push!”

          Kylie does as she says and bears down, jamming her eyes shut even tighter and letting out a roaring groan as she pushes as hard as she possibly can. You see the top rim of the egg peeking through Kylie’s gaping cunt now, webbed with a sheen of the lubricant of its mother, but the egg is a color far different than the one Kylie came from. Unlike the white egg that hatched her, this egg is darkly purple and speckled with black. A product of your and Kylie’s corruption, maybe? As long as the girl inside is healthy, you could care less about its corrupted blood. When the contractions subside, Rebecc wipes away more sweat from Kylie’s face, and Kylie resumes her shallow breathing as the cycle begins anew.

          They make good time. Kylie pushes the egg further down her birth canal with every set of contractions, and eventually the obscenely large egg is more pushed out than not. Sophie holds out her hands and hovers them between Kylie’s spread legs, and a moment later, a final gush of clear fluids heralds the end of the ordeal, and the large egg slips from its mother with a soft pop, landing safely in its grandmother’s careful hands.

          The egg is about the size of a small watermelon, a bit bigger than the one that brought Kylie, and you honestly don’t have the slightest idea how your girl managed to push something that large out of a hole that little. Like every other harpy birth, there’s not too much of a mess, no afterbirth and no blood. The blanket didn’t end up catching much, just Kylie’s amniotic “water” and her other natural lubricants. If it weren’t for the egg, you couldn’t even tell Kylie just gave birth, as her belly has deflated to its original firm flatness and her vagina has returned to its usual tight slit, both good as new.

          Sophie dries and wipes the egg clean with the long-feathers of her forearm, unfazed by its strange color, and gently pushes it into Kylie’s arms. “Hold it against you, baby,” Sophie tells her. “Keep it warm, but don’t smother it. It has to breathe.”

          You can’t help but cock an eyebrow hearing Sophie give advice on anything, but if there’s one thing she knows, it’s this.

          Sophie, Rebecc, and Amily all watch dopily as Kylie cradles the newest arrival to the family, and even Kian, Ave, and Nati smile warmly, but Alaya’s reaction is a bit more fearful and tempered, still a bit shook up by her beloved sister’s ear-piercing suffering.

          “Look, Daddy,” Kylie says, a bit breathlessly. “I did it.”

          “Yes you did, sweetie,” you nod and smile. Rebecc knowingly leaves Kylie’s side to make room for you, and you kneel beside Kylie and put your hand over hers on the egg. “You know what this means, don’t you?” you ask her. “This egg is your life now. Just like how you kids are my world, now this egg is yours. You’re a mother now, and this egg’s wellbeing is your responsibility. It’s not yours alone, but it is yours. You understand?”

          “I know, Daddy,” she assures you, her chest still heaving from the exertion of childbirth. “I won’t mess up. Promise.”

          You’re not worried.

          It’s a bizarre thought, knowing that the daughter that’ll hatch from this egg will have a father who’s also her grandfather, but again, the shame that thought gives you is nothing compared to the joy and the thrill. The people of Tel’Adre, and the people of your old life, of Ingnam, they’d all call it disgusting. They’d call you a freakish monster, a twisted beast. They can’t look outside that little box that is their reality, they can’t see past their false chart of what is “right” and what is “wrong” . . . but you can, and your family is better for it.
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Our Father