Three moons have passed since the orcs swept through your village.

You remember the chaos, the screaming, the clang of weapons, the way the earth shook beneath boots the size of your forearm.

But you also remember him. The chieftain. Standing a head taller than his warriors, tusks gleaming, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you.

And then... nothing.

He took your supplies. Your livestock. A few crates of dried meat your grandmother had salted last winter. But not a single villager died. Not even old Martha, who threw a chamber pot at his head and called him a "green-skinned devil."

He left you all breathing. Bruised, terrified, but alive.

And then he started coming back.

Not with his war band. Not with weapons. Just him, alone, every few days. Appearing at the edge of your house with offerings that make absolutely no sense to you.

A perfectly smooth river stone.

An eagle feather.

A pouch of extremely expensive orcish mead.

A freshly killed rabbit.

You've accepted none of it.

Not because you're ungrateful. Not because you don't notice the way his broad shoulders slump a little more each time you shake your head and turn away. But because what is happening?

You're a weaver. A nobody. You mend shirts and spin wool and occasionally help the blacksmith's wife pull weeds from her vegetable patch. You are human, not a female orc for chieftains to leave offerings.

So you ignore him.

You ignore the way his gaze follows you when you walk to the stream to wash clothes.

You ignore the way he grumbles under his breath when you pretend not to see the wildflowers he's left on your windowsill.

You ignore the way your heart races every single time, because he's massive, terrifying and yet beautiful in that brutal way orcs are.

You ignore him so thoroughly that you've almost convinced yourself you don't care.

But tonight something is different.

You're standing in your small cottage, a threadbare towel wrapped around your body, hair still dripping from the bath you just took. The fire roars in the hearth, warming you up. You're reaching for your sleeping shift when you hear a thud.

Then a groan.

Then the unmistakable sound of someone large and clumsy attempting to navigate your doorstep.

Had you forgotten to lock? Damn!

The door swings open before you can latch it.

And there he is.

The chieftain.

Drunk.

His green skin is flushed across his cheekbones, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. He sways on his feet, one massive hand braced against the doorframe to keep himself upright. His tunic is unlaced, revealing his broad chest and the dark hair trailing down his ridged stomach.

He blinks at you.

Slowly.

Like he's trying to figure out if you're real.

"You—" He hiccups, then points a wavering finger at your face. "You."

You clutch the towel tighter, suddenly very aware that you're wearing almost nothing. "Chieftain. It's the middle of the night."

"Is it?" He squints toward the window, as if confirming this information. "Huh."

"You're drunk."

"Yes." He says it like he's proud of it.

"You should go home."

He doesn't move. His gaze drifts down from your face, lingers on the curve of your shoulder where the towel has slipped, on your damp throat, on the swell of your breasts. His throat works. His jaw tightens.

"Can't," he says.

"Can't what?"

"Can't go home." He takes a staggering step inside, and you instinctively step back. The movement makes your towel hitch higher on your thighs. His eyes track the motion. "Home doesn't have you."

Your heart hammers. "Chieftain—"

"Kolf," he says. "My name. Use it. Please. Please. I'm so tired of 'Chieftain.' I'm tired of you ignoring me. I'm tired of leaving you presents you never touch. I'm tired of smelling you on the wind and not being able—"

He breaks off, swaying again, and catches himself on your table.

A clay cup topples and rolls to the floor.

You stare at him.

Kolf. You don't want to say his name out loud. You are scared it will affect you in ways you wouldn't expect.

"Why?" you whisper.

"Why what?"

"Why are you—" You gesture at him, at the door, at the entire impossible situation. "Doing this?"

"Because you're mine."

"I'm what?"

"Mine," he says powerfully. "I saw you. During the raid. Standing in front of your grandmother. Little thing, shaking like a leaf, but you didn't run. You didn't beg. You just—" He exhales, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "Stood there. Looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am, but you didn't flinch."

Your throat tightens. "I was terrified."

"I know." He takes another step closer, and this time, you don't move back. "But you didn't run. Do you know how rare that is? How fucking rare?"

"Kolf—" You bite your lips. Damn...now you'd done it now.

"I brought you things. Good things! Pretty things. Things orc males give females they want to court. And you... you just kept ignoring me."

You open your mouth to explain, to tell him that you didn't know, that no one ever taught you orc courting customs, that you thought he was just taunting you—

But he doesn't let you speak.

"I like you! I like the way you hum when you work. I like the way you roll your eyes at the sky when it rains. I like the way your nose crinkles when you're annoyed, and you're almost always annoyed, and I like it. I like you. And you won't even look at me."

He's standing close now. Close enough that you can smell the mead on his breath, the pine and earth of his skin, the heat radiating off his massive body. His chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. His eyes, that impossible green, are glossy.

"You need to—"

"I'm sorry," he blurts. "For the raid. For taking your things. For scaring you. I didn't.. I didn't know how else to see you. Your village. Your face. I thought if I came with my warriors, you'd—" He breaks off. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at words. I'm good at fighting. At leading. At taking what I want. But you... you're not something you take. You're something you earn. And I don't know how to earn you—"

All of a sudden, his knees buckle.

You lurch forward, catching him—or trying to. He's three times your size, for god's sake. A mountain of muscles and your poor arms barely wrap around his torso. Your strength is not enough and he's going down, dragging you with him.

But he twists at the last second, curling his body around yours, and you land on top of his chest instead of the floor. His back hits the wooden planks with a thud. His eyes flutter.

"Kolf?"

He groans.

"Kolf!"

His breathing evens out. His massive arms, which had somehow wrapped around you, go slack.

He's asleep.

Face wrinkling, you push yourself up, staring down at the unconscious orc sprawled across your floor. His lips are parted. His tusks glint. One of his hands is still curled loosely around your ankle.

"Damn it," you whisper.

Eventually, you manage to drag him onto the couch.

It takes an embarrassingly long time. He's heavy. Every limb feels like it's filled with stone. But you push and shove and grunt and curse until his massive frame is folded onto the worn cushions, his boots hanging off one end, his head lolling against the armrest.

You stand back, breathing hard, and look at him.

The fire is low now, crackling and the dim light paints his face in warm gold. In sleep, he looks younger and softer. The hard lines of his jaw relax. His brow smooths. One of his hands twitches, reaching for something that isn't there, and settles on his chest.

He brought you gifts, you think. For three moons. And you ignored him.

Because you didn't understand.

Because no one ever taught you that an orc chieftain leaving an eagle feather on your windowsill meant I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.

Because you're stubborn and scared and so used to being invisible that you didn't know what to do with someone seeing you.

You pull a blanket from your bed and drape it over him. He murmurs something in his sleep, a rumble you can't quite make out, and his hand catches the edge of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself, smelling it, smiling in his sleep.

You should go to your room.

You should.

But your feet won't move.

Instead, you sink onto the floor beside the couch and you watch him.

He likes you.

The thought settles warmly into your chest. He likes you.

And you... foolish, stubborn, terrified you... might like him back.

******

Hours pass. You are in bed but you can't sleep.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the occasional rumble of his breathing from the other room.

Something in you burns.

You are hot and curious.

You want to see him again.

Sighing, you slip out of bed before you can talk yourself out of it. Your feet carry you barefoot across the cold wooden floor, past the hearth where the fire has died to embers, to the couch where he lies.

He hasn't moved. One arm is thrown over his head, the other draped across his stomach. The blanket has slipped to his waist and his tunic is even more open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that vanishes beneath the waistband of his trousers.

You kneel beside him.

And reach out.

Your fingers hover over his chest then, gently, you touch him.

Warm. He's so warm. His skin is rougher than you expected, textured with scars and raised ridges of old wounds. His chest hair is coarse, curling around your fingers as you press deeper.

He doesn't stir.

Emboldened, you trace the line of his collarbone, the strong column of his throat, the sharp jut of his jaw. His tusks feel smooth and cool.

Beautiful, you think. He's beautiful.

Your hand drifts lower, skimming over his stomach. The muscles there tense beneath your touch, even in sleep, and you feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that disappears beneath his trousers.

Your breath catches.

And his hand catches yours.

"Caught you," he murmurs. His eyes open, just a crack. "Been waiting. For you to touch me."

"Kolf—"

"You don't get to stop now." He sits up, and you scoot back on your heels, but he follows. His massive hand engulfs yours, pulls it back to his chest, presses your palm flat against his heart. It's pounding. Hard. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time I see you. Every time I smell you."

"Smell me?"

"Like honey." He leans closer, and his free hand cups the back of your neck. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Like mine."

"Y... You're drunk—"

"Not anymore." His eyes are clear now. "Sober enough to know what I want. Sober enough to know I've wanted it for three fucking moons."

"What do you want?"

He doesn't answer with words.

He kisses you.

His mouth crashes against yours, tasting of mead and something uniquely him. His tusks graze your lower lip, careful, and you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, pulls you closer, wraps both arms around you and lifts you onto his lap.

Your knees bracket his hips. Your shift—gods, you're still only wearing a thin shift—rides up your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, grip you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"Tell me to stop," he rasps against your lips. "Tell me no, and I'll stop. I'll walk out that door and never bother you again. But if you want this—"

"I want this."

The words leave your mouth before you can think about them. Before you can talk yourself out of them. They are raw and honest, and he breaks.

"Thank the gods," he groans, and he's kissing you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming down your back, your hips, your thighs.

"I didn't know," you manage between kisses. "The gifts. The courting. I didn't know."

He pulls back. His eyes are dark, dilated. "What do you mean, you didn't know?"

"No one told me." You press your forehead to his. "I thought you were mocking me. Taunting me. I didn't know orcs—"

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips. "Fuck, sweetheart. All this time. You thought I was mocking you?"

"Your people raided my village."

"We took supplies. We didn't hurt anyone. I gave orders—" He breathes out harshly. "I'm not good at this. I've never—I've never wanted anyone like this. I didn't know how to—" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. For the raid. For scaring you. For not explaining. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"But I—"

"Kolf." You cup his face in your hands, feel the rough stubble on his jaw, the smooth curve of his tusks. "I'm here. I'm choosing to be here. With you. That's what matters."

He smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you softly. Briefly. "Bed?" he murmurs.

"Bed."

He carries you to your bed like you're made of glass. Which is hilarious, because two seconds later, he's tearing the shift off your body and staring at you like he wants to devour you.

"Sweetheart," he rasps. "Look at you."

You're naked beneath him, spread across your thin mattress, and he's still fully clothed. Tunic unlaced, trousers straining over his obvious bulge. A very very prominent bulge. The sight makes your mouth water.

"Too many clothes," you manage.

"Agreed."

He strips without care. Tunic over his head, revealing wide shoulders, a chest carved like granite, and arms thick with muscle and crisscrossed with old scars. His trousers follow, and then his—

Oh.

His cock.

You've never been with an orc before. You've heard stories; whispered rumors in the village about what orc males keep between their legs. But stories didn't prepare you for this.

It's massive. Thick and long, veined, the head flushed a darker green, leaking profusely. His balls hang heavy beneath, drawn tight against his body.

"He's friendly," Kolf says, catching you staring. "I promise."

"He's terrifying."

"He'll behave." He crawls onto the bed, over you, caging you with his arms. His thighs bracket yours, and you feel the heat of him, the weight of him. "Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Can't make any promises about the rest of me."

Before you can spiral, he kisses you again. His mouth claims yours, his tongue strokes against your teeth, your palate, everything. You moan into him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him closer.

His hand slides down your body, over your collarbone, your sternum, the curve of your ribs, until he reaches your breast. He cups it, weighs it in his palm, and his thumb drags across your nipple making you gasp.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs against your throat.

"Yes."

"Good."

He bends his mouth to your breast, and you feel his hot tongue lapping at your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, then harder, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair.

"Kolf—"

"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin. "Wanted to do this. For months. Wanted to taste you. Touch you. Hear you."

He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you're wrecked. Your thighs clench around his hips, desperate for friction, for something.

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"I need—"

"I know what you need." He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbones. "Going to take care of you, sweetheart. Going to worship you."

He settles between your thighs, and you feel his ragged breath against your pussy.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this pretty cunt."

You're soaked. You can feel it the slickness, the way your flesh aches for him.

"Kolf—"

His mouth covers you, and your thoughts dissolve.

His tongue is everywhere. Lapping at your folds, circling your clit, plunging inside you. He groans against your flesh like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and his hands grip your thighs, holding you open and immobile for him.

"Oh—" You buck against his face, and he growls. "Ahh, ghnnn—"

"So sweet. Tastes like honey. Like mine. Could eat my mate's little cunt forever."

"Kolf, I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then your mound, then lower. "Not until I say."

"Hgn... that's cruel."

Growling, he continues his attack; licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue until you're a shaking, sobbing mess, begging him for release. And still, he denies you. Keeps you teetering on the edge, right there, right there—and then pulls back.

"Please!" you cry out. "Please, Kolf, I can't—"

"You can." He kisses his way back up your body, and you feel his cock leaking against your thigh. "You can take more. I know you can, sweetheart."

He reaches down, guides himself to your entrance, and you feel the head of him nudging at your folds.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes. Yes."

A little roll of his hips and he pushes inside you.

Just the head at first and you gasp at the stretch. He's so big. Bigger than anything you've ever taken.

"Breathe," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you."

You force yourself to relax, to welcome him, and he sinks deeper. An inch. Two. Three. Your body yields to him, inch by agonizing inch. It takes forever but at some point, he's finally seated to the hilt.

"Fuck," he groans, and his forehead drops to yours. "So tight. So perfect. Squeezing me like you never want me to leave."

You can't speak. Can't think. The fullness of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him have completely taken over.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay."

He laughs softly and begins to move.

His thrusts are slow at first. Each one presses a sweet spot deep inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist.

"Look at me," he rasps.

You open your eyes, and he's watching you. Watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, the way your lips part, the way your body responds to his.

"I want to remember this," he says. "Want to remember the way you look when I'm moving inside you."

"Kolf—"

"Mine." He thrusts deeper, and you cry out. "Say it."

"Yours."

Another deep stroke. "Mine."

"Yours, I'm yours—"

He speeds up, and the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hips piston against yours, and you feel everything—the drag of his cock, the slap of his balls against your ass, the way his breathing turns uneven and desperate.

"Going to fuck you so hard," he growls, "you feel me for days. Going to bruise that pretty little cunt. Make you remember who you belong to."

"Yes—"

"Sweetheart." He shifts his angle, and you mewl. "That's it. That's the spot. There."

He pounds into you and you feel your orgasm building—not the teasing edges he gave you before, but something enormous. Something that is about to explode.

"Come for me," he commands. "Come on your orc's cock, sweetheart. Now."

You break. Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, milking, and you sob his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. He doesn't stop. Keeps fucking you through it, keeps driving into you, and the sensation triggers little climaxes.

"One more," he says. "Give me one more."

"I can't—"

"You can."

Reaching between your bodies, he finds your clit and circles it. Torments it. Another orgasm hits before the previous has even faded. Your whole body convulses, your vision whites out.

"That's it," he groans. "That's my girl. Fuck—"

He buries himself to the hilt, and lets out a feral snarl. You feel him pulse inside you, endless ropes of his seed pouring into your pussy. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow now, drawing out every last drop, and you whimper at the overstimulation.

But he doesn't stop.

He can't.

"I'm not done with you," he drawls. "Not even close."

Pulling out slowly, he's rolling you onto your stomach, ignoring the streams of his seed trickling down your thighs. He lifts your hips and aligns himself at your entrance.

"Kolf—"

"I said I was going to bruise you." He impales you and you moan into the pillow. "I meant it."

He fucks you again. And again. And again.

He fucks you on your stomach, on your side, with your legs wrapped around his neck and your ankles crossed behind his head. He fucks you against the headboard, against the wall, on the floor when the bed groans too loudly.

He fucks you until you lose count of your orgasms, until you're nothing but a trembling, sobbing, sated mess beneath him.

And when he finally spills inside you for the last time, when he collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, you feel it.

That ache. Deep inside you. Where his cock has been pounding for hours.

Your cervix is bruised.

And you can't stop smiling.

********

The Morning After...

Sunlight streams through the cracks in your curtains, and you wake to warmth.

Kolf is asleep behind you, one arm thrown over your waist, his face buried in your hair. He's spooning you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling against your back.

You try to move.

Ow.

Everything hurts. Your thighs are sore. Your breasts are tender. And between your legs... gods, there's an ache that goes deep. Your cervix feels bruised. And you've never been happier.

"Morning," he mumbles against your neck.

"You're awake."

"Wasn't sleeping." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Was enjoying you."

"You're creepy."

"You enjoy it."

You elbow him gently, and he laughs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?" he asks, sitting up to look at you.

"Sore."

"Good sore or bad sore?".

"Good sore," you admit. "Really good sore."

"Good." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "That's what I wanted."

You turn in his arms to face him. "You wanted to bruise me."

"I wanted you to remember me." His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and you gasp when his fingers find your swollen, sensitive pussy. "Every time you walked today. Every time you sat down. Every time you moved."

"You're insufferable."

"You're mine," he says with a smile. His smile is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

You pout. "You say it it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sun rising. Like the tide coming in."

He grins. "It is. You're mine and I'm yours."

"Yeah," you whisper. "I'm yours."

-------------------------------------

He's laying back on the couch, letting you suck and lick at his cock until you go too deep and accidentally choke yourself, coughing up spit and cum. He softly lifts you up off his cock by your jaw, making you look at him with your ragged breaths and half lid eyes, his face is a strange mix of horny and concerned.

"I told you not to go too deep, Angel. If you hurt yourself again, I won't let you cum."

You nod at the gentle threat, sinking back down to sloppily kiss his straining cock. You suck his tip while your hands pump the rest of him. Not chancing choking yourself again because you know he keeps his promises.

—

He's got you against his chest, one hand supporting your weight so he can look you in your eyes as he stretches you open. You're so close to cumming again, his thick fingers repeatedly pumping that sweet spot. You tip your head back in a groan as you near your climax and he immediately stops moving.

Your whine is cut off by his soft command,

"Look at me."

You wipe the wetness from your eyes and come face to face with him again. Pleading eyes meeting his calm ones, and you almost flutter them shut again when he starts moving his thick fingers inside you.

"I know, I know, Sweetheart. You just have to look at me, you can do that."

You nod because you know you can. You clutch his shoulders, squeezing your legs around his waist and look him in his pretty eyes when you cum for him, the slick sounds of your pussy bringing heat to your cheeks.

—

It's actually a pretty good thing that he's in control most of the time because you always rush into it too quickly, too horny to do the proper prep. He takes his sweet time and you genuinely don't know how he does it without losing control.

You've been cockwarming on the couch for just 10 minutes and you're already about to lose it. He's calm, like always, watching a nature documentary about humming birds or something, you can't focus because you can feel his fat cock with every heartbeat and he keeps grazing a hand down your ass.

Every time you try to move, try to get some friction, his hand just applies more force on your back, keeping you in place.

You let out a frustrated groan, clutching his arm to get his attention. He just huffs a small laugh, patting your ass.

He's going to make sure you're properly stretched for him before he even thinks about fucking you and you can't do anything about it.

You enjoy talking to him a great deal, but you only get to do so for a few minutes once a week, on market day. Occasionally, you run across him in town on other days, but he’s almost always on his farm, working.

One day, you decide to take a long walk…and if the walk just happens to take you past the minotaur’s farm, so be it. It does, of course, and you’re even more fortunate because the minotaur happens to be out working in the field. You’ve never seen him with his coat and waistcoat off before, but now he’s just in his white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. The thin fabric is soaked with sweat, making it translucent enough to see the muscles of his arms and back flex beneath it as he works, and your mouth goes dry.

He happens to turn, and catches you staring at him from the fence. You’re sure your face is on fire, you’re so embarrassed, but running away would just make it worse, so you stand frozen there while he walks toward you. It’s not a small field, giving you plenty of time to admire the way his sweat-slicked shirt clings to his broad chest and stretches across his solid belly as he nears.

When he reaches you, it’s clear he’s just as embarrassed as you, both of you stuttering and apologizing to each other at the same time. But that makes you laugh, which breaks the tension between you, and the minotaur gives you one of his rare smiles, just big enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle up. Then he leans against the fence, all relaxed now, and the two of you have your longest conversation yet, with no other people around to interrupt or distract you, just the two of you, talking in the sun, his tail lazily flicking at flies.

At the market next week, the mourning cap has disappeared from his horn. 

And a week after that, he starts courting you in earnest. He calls on you at your house, takes you on walks, lends you books he thinks you’ll like. He asks if you’ll be at the next public assembly, and when you say yes, he asks if he can dance with you there.

Dancing with him is the first time you’ve touched. His eyes gleam the whole time.

When you go outside together, though, he becomes solemn, his face tilting up toward the night sky. And then, slowly, quietly, he starts talking about his wife, whom he’s never mentioned to you before. Her name, what she was like, how she died nearly two years ago. He finally turns his face away from the sky to look at you.

“I’m never going to stop loving her,” he tells you, like a warning, or a question.

“I would not wish you to.” You know that love doesn’t die just because the person does.

“I thought it was impossible that I would ever love anyone else. Until you. And now I think it’s impossible I’ll ever stop loving you, too.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and when he goes on to ask you to marry him, you cry and tell him yes, and express your love for him too. Joy overspreads his normally solemn features, making him look handsomer than you’ve ever seen him.

You’re both eager to get married as soon as possible, but the banns have to be read at church for three consecutive weeks before you’re allowed to do so. After the first time they’re read, publicly announcing to everyone your intent to marry, he grabs your hand as you come out of church and pulls you behind the building. “It’s official now,” he says excitedly, then presses his mouth to yours in your first kiss. 

His eager lips ply yours open, allowing his tongue to caress your own, and heat swirls in your belly, a surprising sensation that makes you moan. You’re embarrassed by the unladylike sound, but the minotaur grunts and cups your cheeks and deepens the kiss even further. By the time he’s used up all his kisses on you, you’re flushed, panting, and weak-kneed. His voice is rough as he tells you how good you look when you’ve been thoroughly kissed.

The second week that the banns are read, he again pulls you away after church, but farther, into a little tree-lined path on the fringe of the village. He pushes your back against a tree as he kisses you, but this time his hands rove your body, skating over your shoulders, breasts, hips. One hand squeezes your thigh, then starts tugging the fabric of your skirt up. 

You gasp when his finger finds your sex. Despite his excitement, he’s slow and gentle as he touches you, and he asks before easing a finger inside. You grip his shoulders and raise up on your toes as you’re penetrated for the first time. “Shh,” he says as his soft minotaur nose nuzzles at your neck, his ring a cool shock against your heated skin. He pumps his finger in and out while his palm presses over the sensitive bud at the top of your slit. “In two weeks,” he whispers, “we’ll be married, and you’ll need to be ready for my bull cock.” He manages to squeeze two fingers inside before you reach your shuddering peak.

The third and final week that the banns are read, you are expecting him to pull you away again, but not for him to sit in front of you as he lifts your dress. You’re shy at first—he’s touched you there once, but not looked directly at it. But his first glimpse makes him groan in hungry pleasure, and those groans only deepen when he tastes you. You hold onto his horns, the whole one and the broken one, to keep you steady as he slides his long minotaur tongue inside your cunt, the thick golden ring on his nose bumping up against your clitoris again and again. Your cunt is making an absolute mess of his face, but he doesn’t care, just worships you with his mouth until you’re coming apart with a cry.

You’re married a few days later, and though he appears just as serious and quiet on the outside as he usually acts, his ears and tail are twitching in happy agitation through the wedding ceremony.

After the human ceremony in the church, there’s a minotaur ritual to carry out, and there, he truly does become serious. He replaces the ring already in his nose, from his first marriage, with a new one symbolizing your marriage. His eyes are watery as he looks at the old ring in his palm, then slides it onto his broken horn. You squeeze his hand, and he gives you a grateful look. But then he thumbs at the new ring in his nose, and a genuine smile curves his mouth and warms his eyes. He leans down to give you a soft kiss, and murmurs to you, “I’m so happy you’re my wife.”

You know that the love he feels for his first wife doesn’t lessen the love he feels for you. It speaks to the size of his heart that he can hold you both in it in equal measure, and makes you feel safe and sure that he will always be devoted to you—his love for you will never fade.

He’s so gentle and patient with you on your wedding night, knowing not only how new this is for you, but how much smaller and more delicate you are than him. You’ve seen his muscles at work, but it’s another thing altogether to feel them bare under your hands, to marvel at the power in his magnificent body. 

He keeps that power in check as he slips the blunt head of his minotaur cock between your lower lips and then eases himself inside you. You’re slippery and loose from how he prepared you with his fingers and tongue, but even so, taking a minotaur bull’s cock inside a tight little human cunt is always going to be a challenge. You gasp at the stretch and the building feeling of fullness as he slowly works his way deeper with gentle rocks of his hips.

He croons at you, telling you how good you are to take your husband’s cock like this, how sweet you feel wrapped around him, how beautiful you look being fucked. You moan as he opens you up, too overwhelmed to say anything other than “I love you” to him, again and again. Soon he’s slicking through you easily, each stroke burying him all the way inside your hungry cunt.

That’s when his control starts slipping. His nostrils are flaring around his ring, his blunt teeth gritted together as he snorts and huffs through fucking you. Soon, he looks every inch the fierce bull, the tendons in his impossibly thick neck standing out starkly from his hide, every muscle strung tight from the primal bliss of rutting a willing female.

But still he doesn’t become rough with you. He’s moving faster now, his hands squeezing into your hips as he plunges into you with firm, long strokes, but they’re not sharp, not frenzied. He steadily drives you onward, until finally you vault over the edge, crying out, clenching tight and hot around his fat cock. He chases after you with a few more thrusts and lets go with a deep bellow, flooding you with his seed.

He collapses half on top of you, half beside, angling his head so he doesn’t hit you in the face with a horn, and huffs out a laugh from pure happiness. You smile and pet his face, and the two of you murmur sweet things to each other as your bodies cool from your exertions.

He climbs off you and has a towel at the ready to clean you, then shuffles off to a table on the other side of the room. He comes back to bed carrying a platter of cheese, and you squeal with delighted laughter. “To restore our energy after our exercise,” he says. So you lay in bed eating the most exquisite spread of cheeses, naked, talking and laughing with your new monster husband, well into the night.

When you finally get under the covers to sleep, he rubs a thumb over his new nose ring while his eyes trace over your face, looking softly awed. “I never thought this would be possible,” he whispers.

~ 😈🎩 ~

I know some people don’t like second love stories, but I think they’re beautiful. Hopefully you enjoyed this one!

Mr. and Mrs. Wilson send the girls to their grandparents just down the road and all four of you bundle into the wagon. It's the first time you're seeing Adam in formal wear. He's wearing a white shirt with a cherry red vest. It fits him perfectly. You can't help but smile at how his sleeves are rolled-up and the first two buttons of his shirt are open, like even now he wants to be as comfortable as possible. His horns curve elegantly out of his tousled hair, polished till they shine. You steal plenty of glances at his forearms and hands on the way over.

The hosts of the party make a good living and it's plain to see from their beautiful, sprawling home. The spacious yard has been decorated for the outdoor party with gleaming lights, plenty of seating, and a long table filled with covered dishes of food. The floral scent from the rose bushes saturates the air.

"You two enjoy yourselves tonight," Mrs. Wilson says. "Don't forget to dance." 

Maybe it's how flattering your dress is, but many people approach you asking for a dance. You dance and dance, soaking in the music and the chance to do something fun instead of chores or chasing after the girls. You look around and find Adam seated by himself with a drink in hand. As far as you've seen, he's the only hybrid here. He looks so wistful as he watches everyone dancing. When the live orchestra starts a new song, you march straight over.

"May I have this dance?"

His eyes widen. "I don't really know how to dance. Not like that, anyway. I'm not very graceful–"

"I can teach you." You extend your hand.

He stares at your hand and then back up at you. "I'm afraid I'll step on you." 

"Don't think I haven't noticed how light you are on your feet. I can't say how many times I've almost stepped on a chick or two, but I've never once seen you do the same."

His lips turn up in a shy smile, his warm eyes lighting up. "You've been watching me."

"Well no, I just happen to be observant," you lie. "Please?"

"Alright." 

He puts his larger hand in yours and when you both realize you can barely hold it, he opts to thread his fingers through yours. Even that barely works. You giggle as you pick a spot at the edge of the dancing area.

"So, you have to move back and forth, with lots of swoops to the side and sometimes you even go in a circle. Once you get really good at it, it'll almost feel like gliding on ice," you say. "Put your hand on the small of my back."

Warmth blooms in that area when he rests his palm there. "Like this?"

"Y-yes." You clear your throat to collect yourself and begin to move to the music.

He matches your motions, a dreamy look coming over his face as he listens to the music.

"My parents told me I would never have nice things like this. If only they could see me now," he says. "At such a nice party, dancing with the prettiest girl I know."

The way your heart skips has nothing to do with the exertion from dancing. You're buzzing all over, and gloriously breathless.

"See, I knew you'd be a good dancer," you tease, "but I didn't know you could flirt like this."

The night carries on. The festivities continue, and food and wine are in abundance. A few other people even ask Adam for a dance, even if it is only to marvel at him. You notice he doesn't seem as relaxed with anyone else as he is with you, which secretly makes you happy. After eating a slice or two of pie, you get comfortable on a bench at the end of the yard, where the lights are the dimmest. You slip your shoes off to give your feet a break. You borrowed a pair of Mrs. Wilson's shoes and they're just a little too small. Your feet are going to be sore tomorrow, but it's worth it. The shadows move and you almost jump out of your skin before you see the shape of horns.

"Adam! Oh, you scared me," you laugh. "Come, sit." 

From where he is standing, he had to have been here before you. You slip your shoes back on and pat the spot beside you.

He eyes the fairly small bench. "Perhaps that wouldn't be appropriate–"

"I believe this party has long since crossed those lines. The wine has made everyone a little daring." 

He grunts and eases down on the bench, completely covering the rest of the space so your thighs are brushing together. 

"Can I decorate your horns?"

He snorts with amusement. "If you wish. What will you decorate them with?" 

You turn and pluck a couple of flowers and trailing vines out of the garden that surrounds you. You turn and realise you're going to have to stand if you want to reach. Feeling bold from the wine and the festive atmosphere, you stand before him and curl the vines around his horns, adding flowers here and there until he looks like the deity of summer and harvests. Satisfied, you step back to admire your work, only for the heel of your shoe to sink into a soft spot in the grass. Before you can yelp or flail around to find your balance, Adam has already steadied you with a hand against your hip. He snatches it away like he's been burned, offering an apology. 

"There's nothing to be sorry for," you murmur. "Nothing at all." 

You look at each other and you wonder if he's feeling the same rush of desire as you. His hands are clenched into fists on his knees. He takes a deep breath.

"I–"

Mrs. Wilson appears out of nowhere, attempting to fix her hair. "Oh dear, I completely lost track of time. The girls will be fast asleep by this point. Are you ready to go?" 

Adam is the first one to speak. "Yes," he says, rising from the bench.

Does he hesitate as he passes you, or do you imagine it? The ride back in the wagon is quiet until the girls are picked up, and then they chatter for the rest of the journey. Back on the farm, you tell Mr. and Mrs. Wilson to go to bed, assuring them that you'll put the girls to sleep. That proves to be a challenge that takes nearly half an hour. In your room you take off your shoes and loosen your hair, but you know you won't be able to sleep even if you tried. You slip out of the house instead and pick your way over to the barn in the dark. 

The door has recently been oiled and doesn't even squeak when you enter. It's pitch black inside once you push the door closed. Oh dear. What if Adam is already asleep, and you're just making a fool of yourself? You take a couple of steps in the dark and quickly realize you have no idea where to go. You twist around, reaching for a wall to feel your way out. Your fingers strike soft skin and Adam lets out a huff not more than a foot away.

"What are you doing?" He whispers.

"I wanted to come and see you. Did I wake you up?" You whisper back.

"No. I can't sleep."

"Neither can I. Will you light a candle? I can't see a thing."

His hooves thump away and a few moments later a candle flares to life.

You look around and find a blanket tossed over a pile of hay not too far off. 

"The wood for the new chicken coop should arrive tomorrow, and then you can start sleeping in the house again," you say.

He sets the candle down on a barrel and turns to you with a questioning look in his eye. The flowers and vines are still wrapped around his horns. 

"Those can go," you say. "It was just for a moment of fun."

"I like them because you placed them there," he says softly. "Your touch..."

You step close and reach out to touch his horns. You have to stand on your tiptoes to do so and from there you end up slipping your hand down to cup his face. You have just enough time to see the shocked look on his face before you lean in and kiss him. It's a small, chaste kiss, but he looks dazed when you pull away.

"Why..."

"Because I like you. That's why."

His own hand comes up to your cheek, mirroring your touch. "May I?"

You nod. He bends to reach your lips, brushing first against the corner of your mouth like he's giving you the chance to pull away. You turn your head to meet him instead. After that, neither of you is tame. In a blur of passion, you find yourself on top of him on the makeshift bed of hay. It's softer than you expected. You pull away for air and Adam takes in big gulping breaths.

"I... I couldn't," he says, wide eyes gazing into yours.

"And if I want you to?"

He groans. "Please–"

He jerks beneath you when you roll your hips against the bulge in his pants. He grips your hips, either to still you or encourage, but his touch remains gentle and careful either way.

"I would like to end the night with you," you murmur. "I've been dreaming about it." 

"Me too," he murmurs, and then you're kissing again. 

You peel off your clothes carefully, because you still have to go back to the house afterwards. He makes a sound of appreciation low in his throat, reaching out to trace the curve of your breasts, circling over your nipples. You appreciate his tender touches, but you have something else you've been curious about. You tug on the hem of his pants.

"Can these come off?"

"Well–I should warn you–I don't look very human there."

Your smile widens. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

You pull his pants off and his heavy cock is so hard it actually hits you in the face. You laugh.

"My, you're excited!" 

"It's all yours."

You lunge at him mouth-first and he catches your jaw like you're a cat trying to go after a parakeet, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Do you want to do that?"

"Yes. Obviously." You wiggle your tongue out. "Just a taste."

It takes several moments before he realizes you mean it. How could you be lying, when you wrap your lips so earnestly around the broad head of his cock, when you trace every vein on his thick shaft like you're trying to commit them to memory? He shudders under you, enduring the sweet torture for as long as he can. Finally you come up for air, bright-eyed. You straddle him and he tenses.

"You need to prepare yourself."

"I would if I was feeling responsible," you retort, gripping his shaft and pressing the head against your slick pussy. "But I'm not." 

This is the best thing you've ever felt, you decide, slowly sinking down on him. He props himself up on his elbows, alternating between staring at how well your pussy takes him and checking your face for any hints of discomfort. There's none. Even the stretch feels good. You let out a soft hiss and he grips your hip.

"I told you that you need to prepare yourself," he pants.

You slam your hips down just to show him that you can. You're so full that your eyes nearly roll back in your head.

"Ohhh."

"Are you alright?" He rubs your thigh with a warm, calloused palm.

"More than alright. This is perfect," you sigh.

The first time you cum, you're the one riding him. He lets you choose your own pace, afraid of being too much. But the second time, you urge him on top of you and reassure him that he can let go, that he's not going to hurt you. The third time, he finally breaks, flipping you over to rut into you from behind. You're so sensitive at this point, doing your best to hang on, to give him the climax he's been chasing, moaning until he clamps his palm over your mouth, reducing the sounds to desperate whines. 

Afterwards you spoon and he stays in you for several minutes, squeezing your hips and nuzzling against your neck like he still can't get enough of you. You meant to leave after a while, but you wake up the next morning and you're still beside him. He's awake, dragging his fingers up and down your arm.

"Good morning," he says cautiously, like you might jump up and run away in shame for what you've done together, or accuse him of having coerced you into it.

You do none of those things. You simply smile and scoot closer to soak in his warmth, burying your face in his chest and reveling in the crispness of the early morning.