Beautiful Creature

I move to wrap my fingers around his cock but I am frustrated in my intention: just as I make the motion he drops to his knees before me, his eyes on a level with my thick bush of pubic hair. He looks up at me and I see there is fire in the calm ocean of those eyes - just like in my own - like impossible flames burning deep under the placid waters. His gaze snaps back to my cock. He squeezes it. A single, spherical drop of pre-seed forms at the tip. He slips out his tongue and delicately laps up that drop and draws it into his own mouth.

I puzzle over the meaning of this strange action, but now he does something stranger and more unexpected. He closes his mouth completely around the head of my cock.

For a moment I panic, thinking he is going to make a meal out of me. Instinctively I try to pull backwards, but my buttocks are already pressed flat against the cold tiles of the wall. His mouth slides further over my cock, engulfing me, but there is no bite. I breathe out, my heart racing. How could I have thought such a thing of a pure, beautiful creature such as he?

There is no bite but there is... exquisite sensation. There are no words adequate to describe the artful stimulation being performed on my hungry shaft by his soft lips and subtle tongue. My cock has found a warm, pulsing wet heaven so divine that it sends paralysing waves of pleasure singing through my whole body. I gasp and grunt. My creature suckles hard on my shaft, taking it deeply inside his mouth, his eyes gently closed and a frown of concentration on his face. I comb my shaking fingers through his fine sandy hair. Soon, I know, I will be gushing my seed inside his thirsty gullet. I can feel it coming. I welcome it.

But it does not come. My creature pulls away, leaving me with balls full of seed and loins full of rut-lust. I want - I need - release. But I am the stranger here, so I am patient. I follow as he leads.

He pulls something small from his pocket, and rips it open. It is rubbery and elastic. I barely have time to wonder, and now he fits it to the head of my cock and slides it downwards, its slippery membranous strangeness encapsulating my member snugly. This is bizarre to me, but the creature seems to want it there and it causes me no discomfort, so I make no complaint.

He stands, plants a quick, hot, wet kiss on my lips, and then spins around in my arms so that his shoulders are pressed against my chest, my hands touching his belly and groin, my cock pushing hard against his lower back. My mind drifts down to the two pale, round, blonde-speckled swells of flesh that are his buttocks. I know that I am going to rut this strange, beautiful creature. Imminently I will be parting those gorgeous, tender buttocks to force my meat into his willing hole. The thought excites me on levels that go beyond the mere physical desire which typically anticipates a rut. But even the physical lust is deeper and brighter than anything I have ever felt when contemplating the dire black-furred rumps that lie beneath the tails of my own fell kind.

The rut will be soon. But the rut can wait a little longer. We are still dancing, and the dance is all the sweeter for the knowledge of the rut so soon to come.

I run my fingers up and down the firm, perfect line of his cock. He seems to enjoy being touched thus - as I knew he would - and he arches his back against my chest and moans. I touch him again more vigorously, massaging the sweet flesh of his cock, and he whimpers pleasantly. And then he looks down and his whole body suddenly tenses in shock.

At first I cannot ascertain what is wrong, until I myself look down at his groin. There, his beautiful cock stands supported in the grip not of long flexible fingers, but of mean, curving black claws.

Too soon! The magic is failing! I am turning back!

Shame and panic hit my mind like hammers. I pull away from him and turn away so as not to see the horror written across his face. There is black fur growing on my arms now, and I can feel fangs lengthening inside my mouth. I must escape! He cannot see me for what I am!

I fumble for the lock on the door but my claws can't find a purchase. Desperate, I kick the door hard - I see there are claws on my feet now too - and it opens with an unhealthy crunch.

I run: out of the white room, down the passage, into the room with the dance. There is black fur all over my body now, and horns growing from my head. I charge through the dancers, pushing them roughly to one side or the other in my haste to reach the door. There are screams. I ignore them. I dart through the door and jump, up into the air, and find myself flying: my wings are returned. Up I fly, up into the cold rain-dotted night air, to land on the parapet above, back in my own world, back in my own shape, invisible to all.

I check myself over. Dark, hulking, hairy and hideous. Exactly how I ever was. Or, almost. There, still wrapped around the brutal black shaft of my still-erect cock, is the mysterious, colourful rubber coat the beautiful creature placed there. It seems inappropriate on my wild and ugly body, so I rip it off with a single claw and let it fall into the night.

I watch the thing flutter hither and thither like a dying butterfly as it descends, until it lands sadly on the wet stones of the streets below. And then, almost as soon as it touches the ground, a figure stoops to pick it up and examine it. It is him! My beautiful creature, wearing nothing but hurriedly-applied trousers, standing in the rain looking upwards with a look of confusion upon his face. He cannot see me, of course, for I do not wish him to, but I see him. I feel immense guilt, for exposing one such as he to the grim world of one such as I. And I feel immense sorrow, that I could not have held onto my fairer form for just a little longer to complete our rut. Soon I find it hurts too much to look upon him, and so I retreat back to my lair amongst the chimneys.

It is the next evening. After a long day of much quiet despair, I find myself once again on the roof's edge, my tail wrapped around the ironwork, leaning out to overlook the balcony below. My beautiful creature is about to appear there and eat from his box and drink from his flask, as he does every day. I cannot be with him, but I need to see him nevertheless. I wait for him.

He is late. Still I wait for him.

He is not coming. Perhaps I have terrified him too completely for him to be alone in the night ever again?

There is a creak of metal behind me. I turn, and there he is! He steps onto the roof from the outer stair, wrapped up in a thick jacket and gloves. His eyes swing from shadow to shadow, and his breath condenses in clouds in front of him.

He is looking for me. But why? Perhaps he did not clearly see what I was? Or he did see, and now wishes to eradicate me from existence? Whatever his motivation, he searches in vain. I will not let myself be seen. The shame of being seen in this form by those eyes is unthinkable. I hunker down low amongst the aerials and make myself a mere patch of deeper darkness in the dark night.

He searches for a long time. I watch him sadly. At last, when he has searched everywhere and not found me, he slumps his shoulders in defeat and heads back towards the metal stair. But he does not reach it. As he steps onto the parapet the weak brickwork crumbles slightly under his modest weight, and he is pitching dreadfully, inevitably over the edge, his arms flapping wildly in the air as he tumbles hopelessly...

Suddenly, without thinking, I am in motion. A mere second later and I am holding him, flapping my wings to keep us in the air, pulling him up, over, and laying him down safely on the rooftop. There he lies, staring up at me in shock, and there I crouch over him, unsure what my next move should be. He has seen me now. I cannot be unseen. His ocean blue eyes stare fixedly into my flame red ones. He reaches out a hand to touch me, cautiously, combing his fingers slightly through my matted black fur as though to convince himself that I am real and not a nightmare of his imagination.

He looks at me. All of me. He looks at my graceless, bestial form and my terrible leathery wings. He looks at the serpentine whip of my tail and the awful clawed paws which can only slash and never caress. He looks at the ugly horns on my head and the deadly fangs which fill my mouth. He looks at every eldritch square inch of my shameful body.

And then he leans towards me and presses his lips sweetly against my maw.

It is only a momentary touch, but it leaves me confused. Is he really such a selfless creature of the light that he would touch lips with a monster of the darkness out of sheer good manners? Or pity, perhaps? But as I look again into the blue sky of his eyes I know the true answer, as impossible as it seems.

He thinks I am beautiful.

As I struggle with the sheer audacity of this realisation, he touches mouths with me once again. This time it is a slow, intimate touching, a rolling of his sweet lips against my hairy maw. I feel my cock twitch into life beneath me. What does he intend? Surely he cannot still hold a desire to be rutted by one such as I? But no. He climbs to his feet, and holds out a hand in invitation, a smile upon his face. Now is not the time for rutting. Now is the time for dancing.

We dance on the moonlit rooftop. He holds my forepaws in his gloved hands, and we take slow steps in time to the silent music of the stars. We stare into one another's eyes in fascination. After the first dance, he steps aside to remove his jacket and his gloves, his scarf and his boots. Then his socks and his trousers, his jumper and his shirt. Finally his underpants slide off his legs and he stands naked in the cold night air, the moonlight shining softly on his smooth buttocks and slender thighs. There is something striking about him here in my domain that was not present down among the lights and glitter of his world. He is a creature of the light, and like all lights he shines most brightly in the darkness.

We dance again, the beautiful naked creature and I, to a quicker beat, my claws clattering and his bare feet sliding across the slates and flags, feeling the hectic baseline of the city below us. But as that dance ends, I notice he is shivering with the cold. I draw him closer, wrapping my wings around his slender form, drawing his vulnerable body in to the fur-lined warmth of my own.

We dance one final dance. A slow, wonderful step and sway, with my wings around his back and his arms circling me tightly. We dance to no music but the beat of our hearts and the slow, warm rhythm of his breath which I feel tickling the fur on my shoulder. At the end of the dance we are still, our mouths touching again, our bodies pressed one against the other, our cocks twitching into erectness.

There is to be no more dancing. The time for dancing is passed. Now is the time for rutting.

He drops to his knees in my embrace and reaches out to touch my cock. I stand motionless in an accommodating posture as his delicate fingers trace the shapes of the mean bumps and ridges which run the length of my long, thick black member. The feel of his fingers is ever so gentle at first, like the wings of a moth brushing against me in flight. His eyes gaze at my cock in fascination and - understandably - more than a little trepidation. I worry that his nerve is failing him, but then a devilish smile spills across his face and his fingers tighten around me. No moth-wing fingertip fluttering now, his grip is as sure and firm as the stranglehold of a serpent. His other hand joins his first and together they vigorously pump my sizeable shaft up and down in a two-handed embrace. My fur puffs out in tingling pleasure and I let out a rasping whimper. I ooze for him. He notices, and pauses just long enough to lift a gobbet of ooze onto a fingertip, the touch of his digit against my tender tip like a spark of new life, making my cock twitch and ooze some more. He gazes at his messy fingertip for a moment, then it and gobbet together disappear between his delicate lips, tasting my seed with a thoughtful expression as though he were sampling the nectar of heaven. A moment of stillness and silence passes. Then he drops his head to engulf my tip in his mouth in one fluid motion.

I do not panic this time. I exult. The feel of his lips and tongue around my most sensitive place is almost disabling in the intensity of pleasure. I stretch my wings out, raise my head to the night sky and let out a howl of joy that comes out as more of a broken whine.

My whole cock is much too big to fit inside his mouth, but he works the base of my shaft with one hand while his tongue works magic around the tender ridges of my tip. His other hand cups and strokes my furry balls, which tingle in anticipation. I find myself pulsing my hind quarters back and forth in rhythm with his attentions, ready and willing to spill my seed inside his suckling lips.

It doesn't happen. Just like the night before, he pulls away from me well before I reach that climax. He has other plans for me, and this time we will have no interruption. Once again he reaches for his jacket and pulls from a pocket another one of the strange rubbery things. He looks at my monstrous cock again for a few more seconds. Now he puts the rubbery thing away again. Whatever it was, he has apparently decided it isn't needed.

My creature gets to his feet, takes my paw in his hand, and leads me over to a low metal railing running along one edge of the building. There he leans forwards, his hands planted firmly against the steel, his pale bottom jutting out towards me, the soft curves of his buttocks catching the moonlight enchantingly. He looks back into my eyes and smiles. Reaching behind him, he slaps his own right buttock three times in invitation. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I accept that invitation, nuzzling my snout firmly in-between his proffered buttocks to nudge against the vulnerable pink hole which hides within. I inhale deeply. The smell sends another primal shiver of urgent excitement running through my veins, urging me to get rutting. Ignoring that urge for a moment, I thrust my tongue deep inside his rump. As I enter him I hear him gasp and feel him quiver, his passage tightening instinctively around me. I taste the taste of him, a dark, mouldering tang not at all disagreeable to the tongue. I lap in and out of him a few times, flickeringly fast. This is a tight hole to rut. I'm thankful my copious oozing has left my shaft slick with slippery seed.

I withdraw. Now the rut can begin.

I mount him. My forepaws are placed on the rail next to his hands, my hind paws rooted close behind his feet. My wings droop down either side of me to form a dark, private canopy around us. The tip of my cock nudges against his balls.

This is a good place for a rut. Leaning together over this railing, we can both look down over the side of the building to where the other beautiful creatures mill and aimlessly dance in the street far below, unaware of what is happening above their heads. I fondly nuzzle my creature's silky golden hair with my snout as he gazes down to that distant street. He turns his head to gaze up at me with those eyes like summer skies, and I stretch out my tongue to flicker across his cheek and lips. His lips caress my tongue briefly, fondly, tenderly in return. He reaches back a hand to grasp my cock, and guides it gently up to point between his buttocks, its tip nestling against the lubricated button of his anus. He breathes deep breaths as he prepares himself mentally for the rutting to come. A few seconds later and his breathing is steady, and I feel his sphincter relax against the slight pressure of my cock. He is ready.

I push gently, and his buttocks part for me like reeds as my cock slides smoothly inside him.

He groans and grasps the railing tightly. I am about half-way inside him. The feel of him squeezed around the flesh of my cock is irresistible, and the black lust pumping through my body makes me yearn for more. I am incapable of pausing now. I dig my claws into the stone and push forwards more firmly, easing the thicker base of my shaft through his tight sphincter inch by inch. I stop only when I can go no further, when I have fully penetrated his tight rear up to the hilt, the fur of my groin pressed against the soft pads of his buttocks.

He emits a cry not unlike that of a startled seabird. Now I do pause, my concern that I might have hurt my creature overpowering the hammering urge to rut. I nuzzle my maw questioningly against his cheek. He breathes deeply, and slides a hand across the railing to rest reassuringly atop my paw. He is fine. He can handle me. I let the worry ease from my mind and allow the rutting urge to flood it completely.

The undignified gull-shriek escapes again from his lips upon my second thrust into his rear, and again on my third. By the fourth, the fifth, the sixth his yelps have softened into mere gasps, and by the time I lose count he has mellowed further into grunts and groans much more agreeable on the ears. In fact, his early vocalisations are the only thing in the least disagreeable about the rut to any part of me. My nostrils are pleased by the sweaty, perfumed odour of him, mingling pleasantly with the rising stench of sex. My eyes are pleased by the sandy streams of his hair rippling in the winds, by the pulsing back-and-forth sway of his delicate shoulders in harmony with the humping of my hind quarters.

My hind quarters themselves are pleased by the easy but full-blooded rutting rhythm they've settled into, my tail swishing happily as I push my groin again and again against the twin cushions of his well-rounded buttocks. My testes are well pleased that a rut is underway, and busily prepare the coming deluge as they swing back and forth, their furry dangling sack slapping into his own petite testicles at the crux of every in-stroke. But my phallus is most pleased of all. My phallus is positively ecstatic with the feeling of the tight, well-formed hole it is occupying. Its tightness squeezes exquisitely against my every little bump and ridge, so that every hump into or out of that lightly-lubricated space brings an intense liquid ripple of pleasure along with it. And my hips are generous in their humping, burying my cock up to the hilt on every in-thrust and maintaining a tempo just barely slow enough to be sustainable for a good, long rut.

As I hump him, I lean over to whisper to him, the fur of my snout tickling against his ear. I do not care that he cannot understand me; the common language of the rut is communication enough. But I speak anyway. I tell him that his skin is as pure and bright as moonlight filtered through raindrops. I tell him that the curve of his back beneath me is as graceful and beautiful as the curve of the heavens above us. I tell him that the tight embrace of his rump around me is the most exquisite feeling I have ever felt since the tight embrace of the womb, or will ever feel until the tight embrace of death. I tell him that I love him. I tell him these things because they are true.

I rut faster and harder now. The pleasure is unendurable, but I do not mean to endure. I grip my foreclaws hard into the cold railing, I dig my hind claws firmly into the cold flagged floor, and I rut the warm, beautiful creature beneath me with every iota of my being. My phallus flows in and out of him like the piston of some mad machine. He groans and shudders and sways, tickling against my fur as he moves. I am the one letting out uncouth seabird shrieks now, I realise. The pleasure is overwhelming, demanding me to go further, faster, harder. I desperately need to feel that release. It is not long now. A few more wondrous thrusts into his embracing depths... A few more... More... It's coming... coming...