01-23-2016, 01:47 AM
He turned and he ran.
His pulse pumped loud against his eardrums, filling his head with a kind of unbearable pressure.
The hum of a machine. The release of trapped steam.
A sustained drone, drowning out the pound of his hooves on flattened earth, and the heave of his breath as he nearly choked on his want for air. But bliss warmed him around the edges. A heady kind of euphoria, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It cradled him in close comfort as he felt triumph bulge against the surface of his powers for the first time–blood dried on the keratin of his curved headgear, but the tokens of brain matter and fleshy bits had long been jarred off.
Such a shame.
He stopped, gasping for air and letting the foam of sweat dry on his neck and chest.
But he could not sleep. Not kept awake by the uncertainty in his dreams, but this time by the manic throb in his muscles. Exhaustion found him early, but unable to surrender to sleep he was sent limping through the trees as silvery moonlight relinquished to red sun, searching. Coiling and uncoiling his mind around the memory of her dull eyes and the wicked crack as he ran through her skull.
Like an eggshell.
Then came the hard and unfamiliar respite of her black and white hips–he hated her least of all, but found a place for anger between their flesh all the same. It was sweeter for it; it was roiling and primal, and when he disengaged from her, he hadn’t felt the desire to invade her mind. Her body had been enough, his own in that moment just as the black mare wasting away into the roots had been.
It was what he needed. Stranger flesh to take control of and purge his lust, and then leave behind.
Pollock is weary when he wades through the underbrush and loose leaves, finally pressing into the open of the Meadow. He limps heavily, the dull ache in his left front leg and right thigh slowing him to a creep. “Fff-,” the stallion stops, shifting his weight back to his right, moaning low from his throat. The afterglow is dulled, from the sex and violence both, though they continue to rattle in his head as he leans away from his cursed muscles and lets his eyelids droop finally, shielding against the unkind, afternoon sun.
Finally. Bloodshed.
Finally. Mastery.
Finally, rest.
His pulse pumped loud against his eardrums, filling his head with a kind of unbearable pressure.
The hum of a machine. The release of trapped steam.
A sustained drone, drowning out the pound of his hooves on flattened earth, and the heave of his breath as he nearly choked on his want for air. But bliss warmed him around the edges. A heady kind of euphoria, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It cradled him in close comfort as he felt triumph bulge against the surface of his powers for the first time–blood dried on the keratin of his curved headgear, but the tokens of brain matter and fleshy bits had long been jarred off.
Such a shame.
He stopped, gasping for air and letting the foam of sweat dry on his neck and chest.
But he could not sleep. Not kept awake by the uncertainty in his dreams, but this time by the manic throb in his muscles. Exhaustion found him early, but unable to surrender to sleep he was sent limping through the trees as silvery moonlight relinquished to red sun, searching. Coiling and uncoiling his mind around the memory of her dull eyes and the wicked crack as he ran through her skull.
Like an eggshell.
Then came the hard and unfamiliar respite of her black and white hips–he hated her least of all, but found a place for anger between their flesh all the same. It was sweeter for it; it was roiling and primal, and when he disengaged from her, he hadn’t felt the desire to invade her mind. Her body had been enough, his own in that moment just as the black mare wasting away into the roots had been.
It was what he needed. Stranger flesh to take control of and purge his lust, and then leave behind.
Pollock is weary when he wades through the underbrush and loose leaves, finally pressing into the open of the Meadow. He limps heavily, the dull ache in his left front leg and right thigh slowing him to a creep. “Fff-,” the stallion stops, shifting his weight back to his right, moaning low from his throat. The afterglow is dulled, from the sex and violence both, though they continue to rattle in his head as he leans away from his cursed muscles and lets his eyelids droop finally, shielding against the unkind, afternoon sun.
Finally. Bloodshed.
Finally. Mastery.
Finally, rest.
@[Kirin] if it catches your fancy. If not that's fine.
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)