Calling the Storm God

For a storm goddess, even if she was a minor one of sorts, knew well enough when the king of them all was holding back and his smile brought with it a fresh blast of wind, churning and cutting through the equine tribe with a howling wrath that sent them scattering. Lovers and friends clung together for support, heads bowed and some thrown back, manes dragging and whipping, although they were nothing in comparison to the long, flowing mane of Guthrie that was at that very moment streaming behind him. How long it was no one would ever know but the tribe screamed for him, begging him to bless them with his storm, the tornado strength winds pummelling them. The next day, they would all be left sore but it would be for the best, the best for them and their tribe and their land, muscles aching and minds reeling with the passion of the wind that was Guthrie of the storm.

"Harder!"

"Please, oh, please!"

"Unleash your winds!"

"Take me!"

One voice collided with the next, each and every one ringing through with adoration, clamouring for precedence, although they would all have his wind in turn, some loincloths ripping away as he played with them. Of course, Guthrie was more than capable of tearing them all away one by one or all at once but it was a mere quiet and casual demonstration of his power that he did as he pleased, lusting and chuckling, the tremor of his mirth curling through them like a sweet aroma rising from a pot of broth above the fire.

And then the winds truly came; the god had only been toying with them so far as Tuula turned her head one way and then the other, moaning and whimpering for him as her hair flowed and twisted, strands curling sensually into one another. The tugging at her scalp should have been too powerful to be pleasurable and yet, to her, the tease of it all was just the same as a fur running their fingers through it over and over again, playing with the crimson strands as her arousal swelled luxuriously.

"Oh, your wind, oh..."

She couldn't contain herself, a paw briefly flashing between her thighs, although it was already difficult to tell where one orgasm ended and the next begun, Guthrie knowing exactly what to do to make her squeal, moan after moan winding between the howl of his wind. It ripped against her without taking her, each blast carefully calculated, and she pressed her face into the caress of it, however driving and punishing it may have been to anyone other than a true believer. Her cloak twisted and writhed as if it was possessed and it was only Guthrie's divine power that kept it from being torn from her shoulders, lips parted so that she could even feel the force of his wind teasing the inside of her maw. He heightened every sensation as she stood tall, arms open for him, even as the equines squealed and fought to remain upright, regardless of their god's assistance.

There was one, after all, that he had to pay his due attention to as the horses scattered, clinging to the ground, cries rising, although they were all of joy and ecstasy, lust mingled among them too. They worshipped him but their twisting manes and braids would not be the main focus as he roared, bellowing his winds into an uproar, his own mane and tail whipped upright as he called on his power, his wrath pouring down and down and down for those that appreciated.

Like a tunnel of wind concentrated in one location only, his lips funnelled his breath down, winds punishing, driving, enough to end the life of any normal fur. But those who followed him were not just any normal furs but true and devout supporters and they turned and tried to cavort in his punishing blasts, each buffet and gust coming with greater and greater vigour as their coats were caressed, Tuula whining and begging, pawing at the winds as if she could cup them up into her paws and claim them for her own. But the wind itself was fickle and slipped away, tangled in her hair and yanking it over her eyes as she endured the blasts through another tantalising thrum of pleasure that had her head spinning and her body following right along.

Yet the god had not unleashed all that he was as yet, surveying them as he inhaled, sucking in all the air around him at his altitude, his great chest expanding more and more by the moment. Collectively, the equines and Tuula held their breath, silent in the span of shrieking winds, clothes torn about and, slowly, ripping along the weaker seams where, perhaps, they had not been sown in tightly enough to bear the erotic wrath of one who sought to destroy and, of course, bright forth fresh life too.

And, before their very eyes, he grew and grew, those massive hooves growing more and more, rising and rising until he was as tall as a mountain. His shadow was the least of their focus as they praised him, arms flailing in a battering storm, tornado winds whipping and snarling, stealing sound from the air even as they praised him.

"Oh, mighty one!"

"Let loose all you have!"

"Show us your strength!"

"We are not worthy!"

Huge and towering, a figure that even surrounding lands could not fail to notice, he blocked out the clouds, his white coat glowing eerily, power radiating from him as if he was the centre point of the wind itself. He sent it flowing from his lips in a breath of air that was hardly fresh but challenged them to stand up against it, tipping forward and directing it across the equines with exotic accuracy. And they were all forced to turn through it, his breath cutting through and separating them all, making them be in the moment and experience it all as individuals, wherever the light of his stormy passion took them.

And they leaned into it, regardless of the bruising force of the wind, thighs and hips and shoulders marked from tumbling into rocks and even merely the ground, mares and stallions alike crying out for more.

"Yes, oh, our lord!"

"Thank you, dear Guthrie!"

"Bless us with your wind!"

"More -- oh, more! Blow harder, Guthrie, harder!"

Of course, that last cry was Tuula mingling with the equines, her large cape billowing and blowing, although it whipped about at times too quickly for the eye to follow. His breath poured over her and her shoulders shook, trembling as she yearned to bow down to the ground, to allow his wind to push her back and back, to put her into her rightful position before the one true god of the wind. Her tail tried to curl back and forth but even that part of her was entirely prey to his stormy will, twisting and fluttering as the fur was ruffled, flattened -- everything under his will and stormy power.

"Oh, harder, oh, god of the wind, this is not all you have for meeee!"

Tuula shrieked and howled, striving to make herself heard against all odds, the towering mountain of an equine looming and clouding out the sky, his storm clouds writhing and scurrying behind, although her attention was not on those. A mare leaned against her and Tuula supported the equine the best she could, her mane and Tuula's hair whipping together, intertwining and then separating again a moment later. Together, they were stronger, muzzles close together, eyes wild, vision filled with streaming, winding hair, passion in the stance of their bodies as, still, they craved even more.

The equine god rumbled. Guthrie was not done with them yet.

Raising his arms, he whinnied, sharp and shrill, and the wind no longer came from his mouth, tornados whipping into life between them all, a twisting, writhing tunnel of air that picked up debris to give them colour and form where the shape of the wind could not be seen with the naked eye. Although they towered over the herd and Tuula, the tornados were small enough that they could dance between them, however clumsy they all were in the face of a stormy, twisting force of air that could never possibly be tamed. And it most certainly was not for any of them to tame it either as their cloaks whirled and they spun and spun and spun, demented tops controlled by the hand of a god, clothing finally tearing and ripping, splitting in all cases. Even Tuula's skirts ripped up the sides, although she was rooted enough that she could prevent more damage from being taken, howling and screeching for him, letting loose every cry that she had ever wanted to for the wind god himself.

The winds were more than she had ever experienced, quite literally taking her breath away, the equines relishing in the blessing of their god and neighing for more. No one could have honestly said whether they were heard or not, tails tearing as even the sensitive docks of their tails were yanked and pulled. Yet there was nothing that they could do about that as the tornados seethed between them, striking and separating, bringing those together that the god deemed fitting and tearing apart clothing, battered and tattered shreds of cloth hanging from limbs that would be aching for days upon days.

Tuula screamed at the centre of it, eyes alight, passion on fire. Her pussy was soaked and yet no one bore witness to it, any aroma swept away on Guthrie's storm. It was more than a tornado -- it was the wind of a god! It could have destroyed her, more than would be possible in the natural world, but she lifted her arms for it, letting her clothes whip around her, barely covered as she howled and cried out, begging him for more, always more. For there would never be anyone more devoted to the passion and lust of the wind than Tuula, her religion and her sense of divinity, letting him take her as he willed, the equines converging around her.

And it was there that they held one another up and supported each other, all so that they could bear the blasts of wind more passionately than ever, crying out and swaying, whimpering and pleading.

"More, my lord..."

"We can take more!"

"Breathe your blessing!"

"Yes, bless us!"

Guthrie clapped his paws, the resounding thunderclap seeming to crack through the very fabric and essence of the land, all those little tornados coming together as they neighed and howled and stomped and whinnied, voices rising to the pleasure of a single gargantuan twister. It was as high as the mountainous Guthrie and the winds ripping, furious, screaming for their flesh and blood. Trees ripped from the ground, snarled up in its wrath, but Guthrie's blessing spared their tents and their homes, taking only what he needed to fertilise their world, bring in the storms and bring fresh their world anew all over again.

"Yes!"

"The blessing!"

Their arms flung up, praising the twister, and if they had been any other furs, they would have been destroyed by it, their manes pulled so hard that it was a wonder that they did not rip entirely out at the roots. Every fur there was prey to the might of a god who only chose to spare them and offer solace, his kindness paramount to his subjects and followers. The twister roared, blocking out the world, and they moaned and praised it, Tuula racing for it as she was tossed up and played with the wind, regardless of how it reached a fervour that could harm even her. Her power could only protect her so much, however, as even shrubs were torn from their low-lying positions, feeding the wrath of the twister that roared for fresh sustenance.

And yet there was not a soul there that was afraid of him as they cried out praise, thanking him for all he did, the sky crackling with a storm that threatened rain, bringing in fresh weather. Guthrie once again unleashed his breath on them, a punishing, driving outpouring of ecstasy that had them all writhing and contorting, even the stallions experiencing pleasure that was more obvious in the absence and reduction of their loincloths, tails whipping around in a painful strike that could not be helped over rampant shafts.

"Yes... Yes... Your wind, your power... So much... All so much... Oh, Guthrie..."

Standing there with her arms wide, she sent her praise up and up and up to the lord of the wind, the all-powerful Guthrie, whimpering and praising him for all he did. He would be the one that she remembered forever, posed for him, an equine stallion god that blocked out the sky, one who could well have destroyed her and yet spared her and his equine herd, the tribe nickering and praising, all voices blending into one undercurrent to wind-lust and pummelling, battering passion.

They knew they were there for him and him alone, his grace spent and rising, thunder cracking to split the sky to their rear. And Tuula clasped her hands over her chest, head tipped back into the sweetly beating caress, the one that she longed for so much, his command all that she ever had needed.

The wind god would see them to rights in the ecstasy of his storm.