Page 4 of To Run with the Wild Hunt

I had no compunction about pleasing myself. With both hands gripping my head, I started fucking my face, forcing my jaw open wider to accommodate my thick length. My cock slipped past the hot ring of my throat, almost making me gag, but the raw satisfaction of having wet heat wrapped around my aching shaft drove me as relentlessly as a coachman's whip drives a horse. I swallowed, desperate low sounds of pleasure escaping my throat as I fucked myself deeper.

Oh, fuck, it felt so good, a pleasure I hadn't indulged in for centuries, and there was no hope of stopping. Sarcaryn's curse had me by the throat, and I couldn't bring myself to care, not with the raw sexual need flooding my veins. I ended up on my knees on the floor, bracing myself with my silver hand as I fucked my own throat like that of a whore, holding my head to my groin with the other. My balls throbbed, feeling heavy and full as they pulled up tight to my body.

Deeper and deeper, sucking in breaths only when I grew too light-headed to do otherwise, until I could feel my cock thrusting in my body, shoved through the magic that bound my self together to stretch my throat. I couldn't get the sight of Lexi's bare body out of my thoughts, possessed by a need to have her that I couldn't begin to fight. I wanted her the way animals want their mates, with a screaming desire to take. Wanted those red lips around my cock as she sucked me—wanted those creamy thighs spread for me as I took, and took, and took—

My whole body tensed as the pleasure spiked, and I thrust hard into my throat, three sharp strokes that left my back arched in ecstasy. I came hard, hot seed shooting out of me like lightning from a black storm, my body possessed by pleasure. My cock throbbed, each clench of my orgasm cutting through me in a white-bright line of glory, leaving bliss like an afterimage seared into my soul.

My vision sparked from the lack of air, but with a hard jerk I shoved myself deeper into my throat, the raw satisfaction of being buried to the hilt such a lure that I almost passed out before I wrenched my head off of my cock. I sucked in heavy gasps of air, panting hard on all fours, crouched there on the floor like a rutting animal.

Shame rippled through me, such an uncomfortable feeling that I shuddered, closing my eyes so I didn't have to look at my softening cock anymore. What in the wilds was I doing? She was just a woman—a mortal woman. How could I be so… so possessed? So overcome?

The worst of it was that I knew this was only the beginning. The beast that had awakened inside me at the touch of her skin and the sight of her flesh was only satiated, not satisfied. I would rouse for her, again and again, and crash against that same reckless demand.

I was going to have to learn to leash it, or find myself mastered by it—and by her.

Grimly, I returned my head to my body, sealing the wound with the scrolling lines of woad that marked any healing I did. I wiped my mouth on the back of my arm, the taste of my pleasure lingering. Even that thought made my cock stir, despite having come not minutes before.

Motherless whore, I thought again, directing my ire towards the White Stag instead of the woman he'd put in my path. It wasn't her fault that she was everything I desired physically, nor that she'd been drawn into Sarcaryn's war. If the Stag thought even the most beautiful of mortals or the wildest of passions would lure me to his side, though, he was sorely mistaken.

The fae could perish, for all I cared. I would hunt the mortals, change with them and allow their dreaming to change me. I would step back into the wilds of Faery to fill my lungs with untamed power, and carry it among them again. I wasn't a god of the fae, like Sarcaryn and his ilk. I was a thing made from the fear and memories of the mortal world, and I had no interest in being anything else.

Good Dog

Keilain Ueteroxe

She ran.

You should never run.

We followed, because hounds cannot help but give chase when prey flees before us. The Master kept us at an easy lope, letting her hold the distance between us. We could have caught her sooner, but we all remembered our first Hunt, and our eagerness was bound up with those memories.

The power of it. The choice. We were hunters, predators; we'd chosen our teeth. She was a doe, food for the red-eyed beasts who followed, waiting for the chase to truly begin.

Moonlight washed the fields of Eire silver. It glinted off her dark hair. It glinted off the stream and the wet stones. It glinted off of iron, not so far away.

The Master's hunting-horn cried out, his power resonating through my bones. She ran, and we followed. We ran her down, because a sighthound is the Hunt made flesh, the act of running our blood and breath.

Deer are swift. Hounds are swifter still. But still the prey reached her humanity before we reached her, and when my teeth sank into her flesh it was the searing pain of iron that drove me back as much as the red knowledge blooming on my tongue.

Hounds are not civilized creatures, and the hounds of the Wild Hunt even less so. We had all once been people, but we'd all surrendered ourselves to the Hunt. We ran on four legs. We ate our prey raw. Most of us had forgotten everything else, even our names. Those few of us who remembered our intelligent natures rarely indulged in the things we'd once cherished.

What hound needs hands, after all? Or words, or the conversation of peers? My life was running, and fucking, and taking food from the hand of my Master. But I'd once been fae, a prince of a Court whose name I'd long since forgotten. Faery remembered me, even if I didn't remember her. My nature was not yet so changed that I was nothing but the Master's hound.

And the woman whose blood was on my tongue, who stood with her life running out of her like a river from a cataract, was my soulmate.

The Master caught her as she fell. Took her, putting her across his saddle as if she truly was a deer, his power sealing her wounds. He was claiming her, taking her—

"Master?" I asked in a whine, my tail tucked between my legs and my head held low. I wasn't supposed to talk, was only a hound, his hound, bad dog bad dog bad dog—

"Silence," he said, his will lashing across me, shoving against my fae nature.

It should have forced my mind away—taken away all the things that made me a man as much as a hound, letting me go back to what the Hunt had made me. But she was there, on his saddle, her hair hanging down and her body bloodied, and I couldn't forget her. Even the Master's power couldn't take her away from me.

I crept closer, still whining, lifting my nose to lick at the fingers of her dangling hand. Wake up, I wanted to say, but I knew better than to speak in the presence of the Master again, not while we were hunting. I didn't think he would hurt her to punish me, but he might not let me be near her, not if she made me into something I wasn't supposed to be. If I was good—

The snort of a deer caught the attention of my instincts, my focus shifting from my unconscious soulmate to the white beast who stood on the hill beyond us. My spine prickled as my ruff stood, the sight of the stag-god Sarcaryn claiming every scrap of my attention.

I was made for running. I was made for hunting. The Master's voice and will joined ours in the howl of a pack who has at last caught sight of its prey, and before any of us could think, we leapt from the shadow of humanity into the relentless hunger of the Wild Hunt.

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