Psyche, Millie, and the Ancient Rat (Psyche & Sedrick, 4/06)

(In a page-pose to you, Sedrick gives you an affectionate chewing, and goes prowl

You page-pose, "Psyche is be-chewed! :> She lickwashes your eyelids and jaw softly before you head out, still glowing like a new born sun :>" to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick supposes he can summon other facets to give you grooming strokes with pointed, chisele-like rat teeth and shroud you in oily fur.

You page-pose, "Psyche eees!!! She squirmies all over, nestling into her ... cot, litter, bed ... whatever's been arranged for her as she blushes and buries her face. Everything about them turns her on though!" to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick thinks that's perfectly fine. You've actually had him tempted to work up a rat description. The home he imagines for you at this point is probably a bed on the floor, but comfortable, immersed in their ways, picking up pieces of their language, making friends with some wide-hipped, feline mamma-san that made "the switch" a few years before you did.

You page-pose, "Psyche smiles and beams, being transported again, so -freaking- easily suggestible. She nods a little, earblushing, having also pondered the role of halfbreeds ... and figures they're only allowed to mate with rats, not each other, not outsiders. The purebreds (3/4 or more) can mate whomever they can marry, consort with, or catch in the case of outsiders :> She tries not to shape too many preconceptions ... and tries not to think about what her brother or Cynthia may or may not do once she doesn't come back. But there's routes for all kinds of roleplay, even if her interest is primarily sexual :>" to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick hasn't thought much about handling the halfbreeds. If they should retain a lot of appearance features from both parents, or if the big, virile rat seed would dominate and you'd give birth to rat pups that were, for all observational purposes, strong, pure, beautifully nasty ratlings.)

Maybe you'd notice what is in store when you're in a room and see that experienced, luxurious, voluptuous feline woman nursing her own big healthy litter.

The adult form is definitely feline. It looks that way, and she smells equally so, the exotic scent of her species is actually quite commonly known to you.. you've smelled it on your brother from time to time. You'd figure she might be in her... mid-30s.. looking like a housewife of sorts, but one who's found the same world as you have. She's sitting on a chair, nursing one ratling figure. The room is dimly lit, incense is burning slowly, and the decoration is typically rattish. This woman, a beautiful pure-white feline pussycat, who might look more at home in the suburbs with a white picket fence, dropping off the kids at school in a minivan, glances your way with cool, blue eyes, smiling with a serene expression. She's completely nude, and she has the shape of a woman in good shape, but having grown soft around the edges after one successive breeding after another. A soft tummy, large beautiful, almost enviable breasts, and very wide, padded hips.

Psyche is almost too shy to say anything at first, but smiling back. She blushes at the lady's nakedness, and then goes to check herself. She remembers, vaguely, eating, and being brought down here, but little else apart from the mating, and the things she said, she wailed while participating in the rite. She swallows, nervously again, admiring her, and her patience, her ... if anything ... peace. She'd not thought that was even possible here. Ever, but all things need rest, need time to assimilate, adjust, work, play, ... enjoy. She hasn't a name yet to place to anyone here, and as far as she knows no one knows who she is. (Forgetting temporarily, her purse, her ID, credit cards and car, as well as its contents). She reaches down, absently to see of the thong is still there, then, thinking of something else whispers lightly, "Uh ... hello ... is, where is the bathroom?" So many questions, but that seems the most pressing all of assudden.

The feline rises to her feet, padding silently toward a blanketed area and setting the forms cradled in her arms down. They're dozing soundly at this point. In fact, the whole atmosphere is rather subdued and quiet, and you realize that you've slept through most of the day and woken up after sundown. There are dock sounds in the distance, a bell, the occasional sound of a car. The cat walks with a beautiful gait, hips rolling in that enticing feminine manner, and with a sultry grace that only a feline, a very sexually content feline, can master. It's no wonder they love her. You'll notice your clothes are gone. The graceful and silent woman moves over to a very ornate and luxuriously decorated dresser, with dragons on the edges, and withdraws a shirt. she slides the tight t-shirt on over her body and it hugs her waist and breasts in a form-fitting fashion. She slides into slippers as well, but.. oddly.. she remains completely nude from her waist, all the way to her ankles, totally bare. She turns and hands you a slightly looser shirt, and no pants.. and motions toward the door, "Follow me. I'll show you."

Psyche takes the shirt, sniffing lightly, but suspects it to be clean before struggling into it, expecting it to be a bit snug about her breasts, mashing her mane, her headfur up through the neck-hole and reaching back to free a little more so it lays over the hem outside her shirt. Low cut in the back's the only way that semi-hyena mane has ever really been able to breathe. She's quiet throughout, blushing, not used to being so ... demure, but everything about the feline, and of course the sleeping ratlings, makes her walk on eggshells. She does glance at them though, wondering if they're hers, or whether she's just the wetnurse. Her ears flick at the distant sounds, but the overall impression is of quiet, serenity. Questions, her inquisitive mind bubbles, froths with them.

The feline motions to a pair of slippers on the floor next to the entrance of the room, which is nothing but a beaded curtain. She leads you through the rooms adjacent to where you were sleeping, and the way she walks is almost mesmerizing. Perfectly rounded buttocks wobble softly with every footfall she makes, bouncing on the backs of her thighs in subtle ways as she glides through the room in front of you and swishes her thick, luxurious tail in rhythm with her silent steps. There's a living room area, empty, and a long hallway lit with lights coming through red blinds, casting an ethereal glow through the carpeted room. There's a very old male rat meditating amidst the smoke of incense at his feet, cross-legged, nude, and very endowed. It makes you wonder if these males get bigger as they get older, seeing that snake-like penis curled over one calf as he sits cross-legged on a cushion, heedless to any distractions around him. The kitty cat turns in front of an open door, showing you a very obvious bathroom, with plumbing facilities, a four legged bathtub, toilet, bidet, and assorted perfumed oils and accoutrements on the sink countertop.

Psyche watches all with amazement, bewilderment. She's seen places -like- this in movies, but not exactly like, and it makes her skin crawl a little. At the sight of the ancient male, she pauses, wondering if he's related to the one that took her, or even if she's in the a house even associated with that one. No names, not a single name, just a place, and a warmth and peace that seems almost as corruptive as the sexual exploits of the prior night. She pads into the bathroom, ear-blushing as she realizes her hips are emulating the other female's, sympathetic mimicry something Cynthia used to accuse her of all the time. She swallows, thanking the feline, glancing back the way they'd come, toward where the rat sits, then goes into the bathroom. Before using it, tending to herself, she undresses again, and sees first, if there's anything like privacy, if she can close the door, if the feline will let her, half suspecting the cat to try to stay in with her if she does."

The cat woman does enter with you a little, standing near the sink right near the doorjamb, seeming content to finally start to talk while letting you do your business, whatever it is. She does seem to be observing with a slightly critical eye, as if assessing your condition, nutrition, health, looking for trembling, or anything else in your body, appearance, or movement that might connote a problem. She's emitting a soft and oddly soothing purr, a kind of natural aural therapy. She smiles pleasantly, "You can call me Millie," she offers through the thrumming purr from her throat, offering that way of relating first off, as the only tenuous grasp you may have with the way you used to relate to others "on the outside", knowing their names first.

Psyche only trembles when terrified, excited, or when something sexual sends shivers down her spine. The place seems quite warm, and despite its oddity and the fact her fate's been turned on its ever-loving ear, she's far from panic. She resigns herself to the feline's presence, and after using the facilities, inspects herself thoroughly, expecting to find herself covered with traces of the rats, though the scent doesn't seem so cloying, and looking up, she murmurs, "Uh, my name's Psyche ... " She swallows, not deigning to add a family name after that, thinking it somehow inappropriate. She relaxes a little, blushing though, "Did, did they clean me afterwards? How long have I been asleep?" She remembers a meal, but there might have been more than one. She touches herself, not fondling, but checking for bruises mostly, for the lingering signs of her heat, externally, as well as internally, closing her eyes. This is -not- supposed to turn into a masturbation session.

Millie turns to the mirror to check out her face, smiling as you give your name. She doesn't say anything. She thinks it's probably a nickname, and that your real name is something else, but it's connected to the old world and you have ever right to leave it behind if you wish. She glances at you as you ask, and then smiles, "Of course," is all she says, still purring in a subtle drone. "As far as I know, you went to sleep right after they brought you here, and we'd given you as much duck as you could eat. You've been out for over twelve hours," she comments. You are a little sore. Pleasantly so. A little bruising, a little tenderness in your clitoris, labia, and your lower belly where you can keenly remember the rhythmic thumps of that big rat's powerful nuts. There's the lingering scent of the feline's estrus in the air, but you can sense residual fertility in the air around yourself, the warmth in your belly feeling like a low, silent hum.. the feeling of life taking shape? Hard to say. But it's not long after the feline answers your question that there are soft footfalls in the hallway coming toward the bathroom..."

Psyche eardips a little, wagging her tail as she settles back up, at least not having, not needing a shower right away. She swallows a little, tilting her head toward the footfalls, then back to Millie, "What, what should I do? I ... what am I -allowed- to do?" She swallows, guessing that they should leave the bathroom before someone else needs it, "Who, what was the name of the ... the rat that brought me?" She swallows, "Is he, is he still here?" She glides toward the open doorway, peeking out, then back, wondering if talking's even allowed, but guesses it must be. "Those ... those ratlings you were nursing ... " she trails off, not quite framing the question, just kind of feeling giddy, floating again, like the ground's been pulled from beneath her hindpaws, but in a thrilling, roller coaster -fun- sort of way

Millie primps herself a little more, not seeming to be in any hurry to depart the room despite the approaching person. She answers your questions patiently and with an odd clarity and precision that can only come from a person who's entirely content.. entirely fine with the reality of her situation, and who makes absolutely no effort to evade it in all it's depraved beauty. "You're free to do whatever you please," she answers. Seriously? ".. and oooo, that big rat is Scar. At least that's what we call him. He's working right now, but he'll be back later.. he's got a room here," she says, and then turns her head with a sweet smile as you mention her children. "Aren't they beautiful?" she says, and then the person approaching from the hallway arrives. It's the old man who was meditating, aroused from his altered consciousness state by the wafting scents of the familiar feline he's apparently VERY familiar with. God, he looks old enough to be her grandfather.. but a very well aged grandfather, his scruffy fur holding a bit of nobility to them, eyes weathered around the sockets just a little, but enhanced with a confident wisdom. His body is still wonderful, decently toned, skin just getting a little loose around some areas, and maybe just a _slight_ belly.. but it's that huge thing.. that half-erect rat penis, ten inches long already, and not even fully erect, balls as fat as Scar's.. it looks out of place on the old man. Something happens. Millie purrrs seductively, and the old rat moves to kiss her neck from behind. Without pants, it becomes a matter of utilitarian ease for the feline to lift her hindquarters and offer that fluffy, sweet, dripping feline pussy to him without even a WORD! Right over the sink, as if it's his very right.

Psyche watches the whole thing, watches him, at first worried that he'll notice her, and then, when he pads right by and enters Millie, she feels like a fly on the wall, wondering with an embarrassed lick-slup of her nose if she really should go, or whether she's supposed to watch. 'Free do whatever you please?' ... She can't help watching, seeing both her pleasure, and the old rat's affection, even as they start to mate, the feline obviously enraptured by his presence. A thought occurs, that she's in some kind of whorehouse, that this is part of some kind of slavery, but that doesn't seem to fit the feline's demeanor, nor her words. She watches, getting wet herself, her tail twitch-twitching a moment or two, and though she starts to breath faster, she starts to move toward the doorway, not wanting to be discovered watching the whole thing from beginning to end like some wallflower at a dance, or some ... some pervert. She swallows a little, noting their affection, even as it accompanies the words of the elderly rattess whispered to her earlier, that this, this is fate, this is survival of the fittest, this is overwhelming ... breeding ... She should go check on the babies, even if they're not hers, but she waits, watches a little longer, eyes on those testicles as he mounts the white feline.

If they have any discomfort with your presence, you certainly can't tell. If this was a whorehouse, there'd be a lot more business, and it'd be a lot less silent than this. The wicked miss-match of this woman's beautiful, motherly body, and the old rat's aged, yet still virile form, is somehow beautiful.. in a strangely contrasting manner. She offers it without a word. He takes her up on it with only a sweet, animalistic chitter from his whiskered muzzle. That dick is so long.. the glans slipping against her nice, soft petals, swollen and easily spread through years of childrearing, and he glides into her sopping wet pussy as one who's done it many times before and relishes every mating. His narrow, strong hips and tightening buttocks herald his contact with her warm body, her buttocks so wide, cushioned against his pelvis, his body so firm and fur so smelly and oily. almost intoxicating. She lets out a low mrrrowowwlllll, and you can see her vividly pleasured look in the mirror, eyes closed, with her rat mate moving his penis in and out very slowly. It's not the rapid pace you had last night, but a languid, savoring rhythm, every vivid detail there, in front of your eyes. The slow withdraw, the wet sounds of feline pussy being taken, willingly, but thick, rat dick, dripping with her fluids, glistening red-pink, before it smoothly slides back in.. it's GOT to be reaching he womb with as much that sinks right in, effortlessly.. and those balls sway, after all the decades he's been alive, still full of healthy sperm, still potent.. good god. It's so clear to you... how could this feline woman stay in a contemporary life once exposed to this. How could she stay in a home with a single husband, with a small, weak little penis, capable of only a few drops at a time from inferior cat testicles.. There's no way you can blame this woman!

Psyche watches mesmerized, thoughts racing through her mind, ears lowering, her eyes half lidded, half loving, half frightened that she's seeing herself, in a decade or more, seeing herself beneath that aged rat, only ... she wonders if monogamy is the case here. Are those -her- ratlings downstairs?! Are they his?! Or someone else's? She quivers, teeth bared as she pants, thoughtlessly cheek-rubbing the doorframe softly, her own sex seeming to tauten, grasp sympathetically, and wonders, wonders if Millie had had children before this life, felines, and wonders at the circumstances, her story, that brought her here ... and into a relationship with -this- rat in particular. She pants, closing her eyes, and stifles a soft whine of sympathy, watching well into their mating before she can bear to tear herself away, picking her way back through the house to the room she awoke in, checking in on the youngsters, swallowing again, more than a little interested to look at one up close, her mane flaring wildly.

None of your questions can be answered without asking, of course, so they remain mysteries. If the orgy of last night, and the various swapping that took place is any indication, monogamy may not be strictly enforced. It might just be the law of "favorites" taking shape here... By the time you're able to tear yourself away, the old rat is chittering against her neck, biting her with his chiseled front teeth, increasing his pace and beating her thick, warm thighs with his beautiful testicles. She's gripping the sink, groaning, eyes half lidding, guttural mrrowling sounds of utter bliss no feline can give her. Leaving the pheromones that pour through the air, stifling in the bathroom, walking down the hallway, past the incense, past the meditation cushion, past the other doorways, through the living room, you come to the nursery where you're sleeping. The ratlings here are curled in on themselves, dozing, nude, atop a huge corner cushion draped with blankets. There are boys and girls, and even the ratling boys are impressive for their age. Some of them are pure rats in appearance, hooked muzzles and all. Some others have flecks of white fur mingled with their usual dirty brown and grays.. white fuzz on tails that should be naked.. a distinctly rattish face, with the occassional one that has ears that are just slightly more pointed than normal.

Psyche shivers, "Overwhelmed ... " she murmurs, the ratling children, on the whole, favoring, she guesses, the father a lot more than the mother. Some of the answers though, are given, staring her in the face as she pets them, gingerly, trembling just a touch before she pulls her paw away, holding it until she calms down, her tail, she realizes, has been stiffly bent to one side for some time now, as if secretly hoping she were next. She closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths, and goes back to petting them again, just a little longer before tucking them carefully back in. Her heart hurts, she realizes, but not in a bad way, but in a bittersweet pain that seems to mingle and accompany all the arousing sensations coming from the whole ordeal. How can she be this 'on' all the time? How can Millie? She listens in the quiet, contemplating. They're not on all the time, not constantly, but when the interest takes them, when the need takes them. She watches over the other woman's young, counting ...

This litter appears fresh, perhaps only a month old. There doesn't seem to be any mingling with another litter, and if she has other ratlings, they may be out and about, doing whoever knows what. Their fur is soft, those that have some of their mother's traits are a little bit softer, but overall, if you saw them on the street, you would think of them as rats and nothing else. Overwhelmed is a good way to put it.. dominant genes.. the perfect naturally evolved force for reproductive success. Eight ratlings in all... And Millie seems to take to this life with enthusiasm, loving these rats more than she ever loved her old life.. the husband she had.. the kittens.. through it all you can hear the noise coming from the other side of the house. The groans of her delicious multiple-orgasms, a pause, the noises of mating shifting, a little louder as they seem to have left the bathroom and sound like they're in the hallway now. He's speaking to her in another language as they mate, breathing hard, she's replying with a few good words in their exotic tongue, heated, begging phrases, harshly whispered in tones that flash you back to last night.

Psyche backs away to her own mattress, her nape, her mane now fully erect as she settles, bottomless, back onto her mattress, her paw between her thighs as she strains for those words, for the sounds her sensitive half jackal heritage has given her, panting a little harder as she remembers, "Beg, beg for him, it makes him ... him cum harder, it makes him cum more, excites him to hear you beg for his beautiful *pant* ratlings, his ... his babies, his seed ... " Not exactly verbatim, of course, tinged by her own feelings since that night, but she's, if anything, egging the feline on, cheering silently as she swallows, finding her fingers already at her labia, spreading, dipping one middle finger into her sopping folds as she groans, growling ... "Beg him, praise him, worship ... ohgods, ohyess ... " she spasms, bringing herself to climax in sympathy, feeling the rush of warmth flare up and down her neck as she strains in beautiful anguish, being quiet for the ratling's sake, with, with Millie in spirit.

The atmosphere alone is going to become an aphrodisiac in time, conditioned response, the smells of food cooking in adjacent houses, the smells of rat oils and other pheromones in the air, the look of this place, the decor, the social mores that are far removed from everything you're used to. Their noises are noises of climax across the house, the hissing of that old rat just excites your climax even more, and you know what he's doing... breeding her again.. so SOON. It lasts for long moments, helping to intensify your fantasies.. You ARE free to go, to do as you please. Why would they give you this level of freedom and why would they dangle the option in front of you like this... unless they were fully aware of the temptation to stay, the overwhelming urge to become a ratling factory. Thoughts are cut off when you realize you're still masturbating, and the couple has long since stopped, and they're.. here. Millie's not giggling, or making fun. She probably understands. She looks sated.. content.. He almost does. His dick is half flaccid, and still very very wet.. Millie just smiles warmly as she looks in, "I'm going to cook dinner," she says in a sweet voice, "You have about an hour and a half before Scar comes home." What did she mean by telling you that? That you have time for ... something? For.. that old rat remains, not leaving when Millie goes to the kitchen.

Psyche blushes, almost tumbling out of her almost pornographic pose where she was masturbating, her fingers falling to brace against the mattress as she sits there, mortified. To be caught in such a sexual act, mere feet away from her babies?! She's almost to ashamed, to frightened, shocked, to register her mood, and his, but the words reach her as she swallows and tries, nervously, to stretch the fabric of her tee-shirt to hide the glisteny dew of her ripe puppy-folds. She looks to him, then to Millie's retreating tail, the scent of their lovemaking adding to her own arousal in the 'nursery' as she swallows, shyly dipping her ears back, then lifting them forward, looking him up and down a little, "H'hello. I ... I'm Psyche ... " Gods, -she's- the only one around here that sounds like a whore, and a green one at that. She looks down her front, and realizes how strained the tee-shirt is, releasing it back to hug her upper body, its lower hem much higher than her hips, her sex than she'd like around the strange rat, but she whispers, murmuring, "I saw, I saw, it ... you, she ... " she whispers, blushing, "Is she y'your ... your female, your regular partner?" Gods, she sounds so awkward, so -whitebread-, lame, innocent ...

The old rat is looking at you with that cool, experienced expression on his face amid the stammering words you're offering. The questions, he might understand some of them.. maybe he's too old to have grasped your language fully.. maybe he's just picking up bits and pieces? It's hard to say, but there is recognition in his face as he walks toward you with a calm gait.. that... that thing.. swinging.. balls bobbing off of his thighs with every calm step and the smell.. the smell of sex.. rat semen, a little feline heat, the oils in his fur, the pheromones in his body, as vibrant and strong as any teenager would be expected to be, but aged.. well aged, thickening in intensity and flavor with his seasoned status. Scar will be here after a while... does he expect you? Is this.. cheating? How can you judge? In all probability, sexual promiscuity behind a mate's back is probably common, expected among women, taking pride in their primary mates spreading their seed to the mate's of other women when their men aren't around. The biological diversity set up by breaking such rules only strengthens the species. His voice is deep, gruff, scratchy.. yet soothingly sexy. He leans down on the bedding with you, his smell overwhelming, drugging your mind, as he chitters harshly in a whisper, "She is.." he answers, and he leans forward, his sharp rattish incisors so close to your cheek, his musk so virulent, his penis so... oh god.. no longer half-flaccid.. fully rigid.. ready to go so soon. "I want to give you my offspring," he chitters into your ear, forwardly."

Psyche tenses a little, panting, looking aside at the ratlings briefly, her blushed ears remaining down when she tilts her head to his, inches from his face, those beady eyes captivating her as she whispers, nuzzling alongside his face as she reaches out a paw, lightly flexing it, placing it gently along the tip, sliding, feather-light down its shaft to those heavy balls, "I ... I want them, I want to have them ... " she answers softly, surprisingly not fooling herself at the words, an admission that carves through her, even as she very, very definitely wants Scar's young, wants the ones he planted in her last night, she knows, she knows he did, and yet, she's whining softly, licking at his cheek fur, his neck, warmer and warmer by the moment, and affectionate. She knows he's been around, survived this long, has passed his genes on many, many times, and that, that surprisingly makes her all the warmer as she whispers, "I want, want you in me, want them, want your young ... " Her heart hammering now, dizzy with the freedom, the pleasure that comes with admitting to it, inhaling the incense again, inhaling his oils, his musks ... "W'will you?"

The old rat already seems to know the answer the minute he finishes asking it, and the nuzzling of your jaws to the side of his face is met in kind with a warm rattish kiss to your lips, teeth scraping your whiskers. His cock jumps as you touch it.. and god, it's so HARD.. how can old men stay this hard.. fuck.. his balls smooth beneath his thin layer of fur over them, and Jesus, they feel like they're five pounds apiece, heavy fat cuts of rat-breeding meat. He aims to diversify what's already growing in you, mating you behind Scar's back, mating you while his real mate is in the kitchen, cooking meats for dinner. Your words are like a drug to him, and he leans over you, crawling on his hands and knees, his body strangely enticing, his looks alluring.. Before last night you could have seen him on the street and winced and said "God, he's ugly!", but now.. those blood red eyes, those gnashy teeth, those whiskers, those claws.. strangely attractive, hot, something you want to mate with over any other species you've ever seen. He leans you back for face-to-face mating, and you can feel for the first time ever, how utterly pleasurable mating is when you go into it boldly and nakedly intent on making children.. his children, purposeful and beautifully raw in intent.. looking up at his aged face, your belly melts with the ache of wanting his beautiful genes to rape and overwhelm your canine eggs with his offspring.

Psyche makes soft, panting sounds, canid mewls of delight, pleasure, eyes closing, opening again on each of his features, recognizing strength behind the ravages of his age, imagining, strangely, from the templates of the rats last night, the babies dozing on the cushion not ten feet away, what he must have been like in his prime, her eyes glowing, taking, drinking him in as she lays on her back, and for a brief second almost wishes she were a ratling ... but even that thought seems disingenuous. Millie doesn't wish -she- were a rat, and she revels, has always reveled in how her body could make male's heads turn, even the ones not of her species. She whispers again, "Mate with me ... let me bear your babies, please ... " she doesn't know his name. She'll learn it from him, or Millie, or one of the others in time, but she's his, for now, spreading her thighs, nestling her loins up under his heavy, pillowy balls to feel their caress, smearing his scent across her lower abdomen, her tummy as she reaches to stroke his shaft again, watching its shape, looking up at his face again, sincerity cracking her voice as she whines, "Use, use me ... I want you to, love me, let me honor you with my w'womb ... my sex, my c'cunt ... "

The old rat rolls his hips with the dexterity of a young man. He's warm, overwhelming, powerful despite his age, and the scents are rubbing off on you as well, with his crotch smearing across your lower belly, marking you in his own way, his cock throbbing, dribbling warm precum as copious as some other species' ejaculate. His big nuts weigh heavily on your throbbing, soaking pussy, and he doesn't let them rest there long. His look is purposeful, his arms holding him up, his nose inches from yours, his tongue licking your panting jaws for a brief moment as you can feel the fat throat of his dick sawing back along your folds, between your willingly spread thighs. "You're a beautiful testament to your kind.... a thoroughly delightful asset to us," he says with a calm chitter, and the words sink in like they belong.. previously unspoken, now nakedly displayed, and mingled with the sensation of that pointed rat crown spearing through your lips with the same ease as they penetrated his feline mate just moments earlier. It's a relentless slide, inch after inch, not even pausing as that glans budges your heat-softened cervix, and you can feel it spread and sink in even easier than last night, the tip wedging it just enough and the sheer WEIGHT of his balls draped over your upturned ass adding to the tremendously FULL sensation throbbing in your belly. His eyes are closed and his lip pulled back in a rattish sneer, hissing, "This womb is ours," he rasps softly, "Your surrender is delicious, canine woman," he murmurs into your jaws, panting with you.

Psyche whines again, lapping, twisting her muzzle from side to side of that sleek snout, kissing, lapping with her dark soft tongue in sensual lust, love even, even if his words don't seem to love her back, but there's praise, and concern that she be this way, that she feels good, even as her spasming ripples almost answer too fast, feeling how deep he sinks into her, cumming with tenuous grasps around his sleek, oh-so long rat shaft when she feels him hilting, feels those massive testicles touching her, covering her ass again, her whip tail hugging up along the cleavage of their backside as she reaches to enfold her arms around his back, her paws in his scruff, drinking his words with an insatiability, a need she can't imagine ever quenching at all, even if for a second. Last night disproves that, but for now, she leans back at his hissing, spasming hard, letting him feel how much she wants him in her, ripple after orgasmic ripple pulling, caressing, petting his maleness, her knees softly cradling his ancient hips gingerly, fur and oils, tension and softness all combined, all juxtaposed perfectly as she laps back at him, not deserving her name, that she gave him, but 'canine woman', his words heavenly, her kisses returning to his mouth, his incisors with eager laps, "Yours, yours, all for you, all of you ... " she whispers, "I want them, I want, so ... so bad, feel me, please ... oh, ohgods, my heart, my love ... " she whispers.

The old rat's hips are rolling steadily, sawing his magnificent rat penis back and forth within the hot, convulsing confines of your steaming pussy, feeling you cumming so soon, and using his hips to impact your thighs, your ass, your hips, with every grinding impalement that adds a nice CLAP to your body, and jolts your womb. Already infused with fertilized rat zygotes clinging to your uterine wall, the hormones of estrus still racing through your form, the insistent jab of that spearing crown sending jostling ripples through your orgasming belly, adding the familiar burn to your ovaries as before, the ache to ovulate felt stewing in your belly. He chitters, groaning softly, "You deserve it.. you'll be a radiant mother," he encourages with harsh whispers as he feels your smooth tongue kissing his jaws and teeth, ".. my love.." he says, like a sledgehammer hitting your heart, looking into your eyes with that steady, driven, solid-red alien gaze, ".. my love, as long as you are out of Scar's reach," he says to your eyes, before kissing you back with his tongue, tasting your canine saliva, picking up the pace easily. GOD, this old man can MOVE.. if male rats stay so fertile and virile well into advanced age... fuck.. this species glides through biological conquest so easily. His balls are thumping, fat, powerful breeders, meeting your ass like another pair of thighs, slapping loudly now, meeting his tender growls and chittering snaps of his teeth, hissing..

Psyche earfolds, heart seeming to seize up, then hammering as she noses and gasps, panting into his throat fur, scenting herself of his fur, inhaling his scent greedily as she begins to release, her belly flinching, vestigial teats aching now, pressing firmly into the rippling of his belly as he mates with her, her mind losing its associations with anything but the animalistic pleasure, ritual, the chittering song his words become as she hazes out of sentient thought, coming back, "Deserve ... " she whines, hoping for that as she feels his words shake her to the core, a promise, a threat, a reminder that she belongs to Scar, to whoever else can cuckold her in this house. She consumes his kisses gently, panting for breath between them as she tightens her walls, reeling, careening through the sensations as before, as all the other times before, only this time, actively, wantonly, from start to finish, trying to ovulate, feeling his fucking turn to those vibratory stimuli that seem to quake, teasing her nerve bundles, her clit, her cervix and ovaries, ovulating in that familiar ejaculate as before, ovarian follicles bursting as she whimpers, pledging, "For you, ohgods, ohgods, I want you, want you, oh precious, ohrat, heavenly rat!"

The rat's chin lifts as you nose at it and huff, smelling him, smelling you, smelling those aged pheromones that roll from his fur and drip down onto your body, now even greater in intensity as his scent peaks in the midst of mating, vigorous exertion, like sweat forming beneath his fur. His back is well muscled, warm in your arms, and his tight, surprisingly fit ass bobs and tenses every time, that naked rat tail lancing from side to side in the air over his head, whipping into your vision every now and then. He feels that profuse ovulation, probably inducing the same thing in Millie many times over, never getting tired of it, never ceasing to crave it, feeling his penis sink into that soft-walled uterus over and over, dislodging and eliminating any of Scar's fertilized eggs that have rooted too close to the mouth of your cervix, feeling the convulsive, long, slow stream of warmth that shudders from your fallopian tubes and clogs them with yet more vulnerably open, waiting, begging repositories for his children. You can feel his nuts stirring as they occasionally hold fast to your hindquarters, amid the smells of Millie's sweet cooking, the grunts of her mate breeding you behind your love's back. He scrapes his teeth against your neck, hissing, biting, "*hissss*Nnnnnnnns my sweet rat mother.." he snarls softly against your lips, eyes narrowed, fixed on your gaze.. amazingly tender, loving... a pure love that's unapologetic, rooted in purpose, unconditional, like nothing you've ever felt.. utterly uncompromising.. ".. welcome my ratsss into your womb," he hisses loudly, close to a churning release..

Psyche says, softly, stating, "In me, ohgods, they're welcome, they're always welcome from now on, ohgods, ohyesss." She shudders, crying out softly, sweetly, unable to close her eyes as they lock on his, producing, knowing she's producing ova quickly, -efficiently-, her pantpant-pause, pantpantpant-pause exquisite in tickling his chest with her breasts, still trapped by that tee-shirt, nipples atop her primary breasts, her secondary breasts all peaked as she feels him working himself up, driving himself as much as her, not so much taking his time now as getting the deed done, but it doesn't matter. There'll be other times for slow, sultry matings, if such a thing exists here, words whispered, promises given with more ease than her growing desperation for him now. "Cum, cumming for you, oh, ohgods, oh father of my babiessss!" she whines, milking now, lurch after lurch drawing the length of that shaft, from sheath-base to her cervix where he stabs easily past, into her swampy, inner depths, her tail gyrating, bouncing against the under surfaces of those footballs of rat-seed, her mind a slush of greed and pleasure, of receptivity and suggestibility as she listens to his sounds, knowing one day, her young will make those self same sounds ... because of this, because of him!

The elder rat seems delighted in your replies, even if they stir the children sleeping in the corner, and even if his mate can hear them as she prepares their dinner. Yes, there will be time for sultry matings, slow, groaning, fertile lovemaking with him, with Millie by your side, under the nose of Scar's occasional negligence, the sweetness of cheating betrayal he'll never have proof of happening, his new mate spreading willingly for this intruder's seed. How many nights will Scar be out doing things rat gangsters do.. working on things, perhaps fucking other women, and you'll be invited beside the purring Millie, sharing this beautiful old rat, her rat, belonging as much to him in your heart as you do to Scar, and feeling amazingly guiltless over the knowledge that you're doing what's best for your rat offspring, the new focus of your life's purpose. The old rat locks onto your eyes with a great intensity as he feels your climax, never letting his vision off of you.. it's an intense form of wordless communication, the pleasure, the purpose of mating, the unspoken knowing, his mouth breathing against your open jaws as he hisses softly and you feel his cock hold fast inside you suddenly. That lancing, fleshy spear JUMPS, hardening even further, if that was possible, those huge, football sized nuts tensing against your ass, stirring closer to the base of his crotch, his low, groaning sigh soft, slight, an expulsion of sweet breath against your tongue as his eyes continue to pierce your vision, barely-open amid the long, GRINDING press of his pelvis, and the first creamy, hot, sudden expulsion of a long, overwhelming stream of scalding hot rat sperm.

Psyche would jump at that first sensation if she weren't held there, so close, eyes half lidding, unable to even roll back in blissful pleasure as she groans with him, in soft, willful collusion, creation, beautiful beyond the heavens themselves, her breath skipping in a hiss, the jackal-yena's inner world finding meaning, purpose in the rat's orgasm, feeling how -smooth- that explosion is as it begins to paint her womb, her heat meeting his with impossible lushness, giving to him, what he's already taken, convinced her to give, asked her to give freely. She has no concept of free will anymore, its meaningless as this, this is her breath, her heartbeat, her blood, straining under each vicious assault, each powerful spasmodic ripple -climbing-, crawling along her inner sex-flesh with the messages he's sending her, her eggs, her womb, her breath coming through her nostrils as she watches his, knowing, knowing what he's doing, unable to look away as tears well up and blur her vision. Gasps flutter, her womb lurches gently, her cervix conforming to that rigid spear to keep it there while he unleashes in her, virulent, powerful, exotically corruptive sperm, wrigglers she's come to imagine, to see in her minds eye as she accepts them, begging not with words anymore, but with each tacitly approving shift of her thighs, her muscles ...

The old man's large rat body can feel the acceptance in the way you hold your thighs, the way they squeeze his hips and the way those muscles suckle and pull on his spasming erection, feeling that first stream last for several long, lingering moments, flushing over fertilized ova, finding unfertilized ones, swamping them, those healthy swimmers moving quickly, past the blocker-sperm left by Scar, already too old to put up much of a defense against this old rat's healthy, competitive sperm. The look in his red eyes bears back the message you're giving him, acknowledging it, embracing it, wordlessly affirming to you his own pleasure, his own purpose, the deep, face to face mating being much more powerful than Scar's animalistic mounting. Guilty? Not in the least, not while his eyes are gazing into yours, communicating wordlessly - You'll bear them.. they'll be healthy, beautiful, just like this hissing, hook-nosed, vile looking gorgeous rat-beast above you, his cock twitching and jolting your entire lower belly, shaking loose more fertile ova like apple from a shaken tree, a second long, agonizingly beautiful stream forming in your belly, spilling that hot semen that has no where else to go in this position. Your hips are up, you're on your back, that sperm just drains right where it belongs, pooling at your fallopian tubes, invading, held in place, not a single drop escaping. Millie would love to be here, to help milk her male's huge balls to ensure good fertilization, but she knows better. There'll be time for her to love you both. For now, this union is pure and honorable, beautiful, shared only by you two, not Millie, not Scar, not Cynth-whateverhernamewas.

Psyche would, if she could think in such terms, could talk with her present state of mind, vow, promise to be a good mother, to be a better -mate-, to help him fertilize as many young in her as his heart desires, but its there, she knows he can read her devotion in her soft, sweet eyes, that yearning fullfilled, that sating beginning as she milks the second deluge, that second wonderful tidal wave of ratly spunk right into her core, toward the headwaters of her fertility. She had wondered at the angle, the face to face mating, but she knows, its his trademark, and those that follow suit, a great many probably even related to this one as she quivers her thighs tighter, her digitigrade hindpaws finding his hips above that naked tail, feeling the flex-ripple-shiver-flex of his rhythm as she feels them, feels them, a flash of foreshadowing, the rippling of muscles that will caress and squeeze each of her ratlings out months ... weeks? ... hence? She gasps for air, smiling toothily at him in secret, loving bliss, sharing the moment with all she is, an animal, a factory, an appreciated female who chooses her fate for their sake, her young's sake, as much as hers now ...

The hot rat definitely has a rhythm. You can feel his ass tensing beneath your toes, his tail curled into a tight shape over his back, pumping in a slow, powerful vibrating quiver with every rush of hot seed you can feel pouring from his huge balls. He just holds himself there, looking utterly regal, and guiltless in invading Scar's new mate, knowing he'd be upset if he knew this old man were draining his balls into the still-fertile mother of his ratlings, and yet knowing he'll never need to know, never have proof, never have to catch glimpse of this perfect, secretive, yet biologically necessary strengthening of the diverse ratlings within your belly. He shudders finally, his cock still pumping, but the streams getting weaker, thicker, those familiar congealed globs starting to leak out. His eyes are still on yours, noses touching, tongue licking your lips, nuts slowly stirring back to their sagging position, still immense and almost as huge as each of your buttocks. His pelvis grinds, and he deposits the thick hot congealed blobs of blocker sperm in place, protecting his fertilized work from competition, from competition from Scar, when he'll no doubt mate with you tonight."

Psyche will one day learn the purpose of those strange, wonderful aftershocks, the dolloping, purpose built post-orgasmic interlocking-sperm gel being left in the wake of his, of all rats', primary releases, but for now it only tickles her, consumes her, even as part of her lust is finally buried in the glow, that gratification, different endorphins now relaxing her, letting him loosen and fill her canal as he retreats, grasping paws still holding tight, but relaxing as she pets him, nosing back, feeling his breath in her mouth, her tongue touching, kisslicking back, answering his shudders with a few aftershocks of her own, muscles designed to hold a knot, to keep a dog inside her for a half hour finding futility in keeping him in place, her moan softer now, pleasant, steam of pheremones everywhere as her heat is 'reset' in some respects. She slowly begins to hear again, to hear him, his breath, his sounds of pleasure as she closes her muzzle to swallow, eyes crossing, then looking back with folded ears.

The old rat pants with you, his cock retreating just enough to ease from your cervix and leave it clogged with semen. He chitters, a sweet, almost harmonizing tune as you lick his lips, and he kisses back in that most animalistic manner, his musk intense, dripping on you, his fur slick and oily in your palms and fingers, his balls draped loosely over your ass. As he lowers his head to give you a soft bite on your neck, you become aware of Millie standing at the door of the room, smiling, having watched for.. who knows how long.. watching with.. what's that look in her eyes..? It looks like.. Pride? In seeing her mate fertilize another woman, cuckolding her mate while he's out.. it's something she knows she's done to the old man she's with many times.. hardly a pregnancy goes by where she doesn't go prowling for other men while the old man is asleep, or away. And the look she gives you communicates this to you. A sweet, female secret. "Dinner's ready... Scar and the rest will be home soon, she softly says in her typical, non-intrusive, purring voice.

Psyche trembles only slightly, but with the vague aftershocks of orgasm, not on being walked in on, or watched. She closes her eyes as she kisses him, learning by osmosis almost how things work, inference, deeply implied, by her present lover's behavior, and the feline behind her. She pants a little, trying to remember how to talk as she hugs him to her, covered in his scent, his warmth, his effort ... which she feels was as much for her benefit as his. She earblushes at that, letting him withdraw at his pace, biting her in a gentle show of claim, who's bitch she is ... her words softly promising, "Yours .. " meaning her, meaning the lives he just pulled a cowbird to create as she nestles warmly against him. "I ... I should, I should bathe ... " she whispers, guessing the announcement is as much a warning as a declaration. She's in no hurry though, relaxing long enough for the old rat's semen curds to congeal at her cervix.

The rat stirs, finishing your declaration with another warm kiss to your lips, brushing his front teeth against your nose, "..whenever I desire," he says, and it isn't a platitude, a senseless cute bromide. The look in his eyes tells you he means it. As much as you can give yourself to Scar, and others, he'll always be welcome. He starts to pull back, slowly, the cost of two powerful, fertilizing orgasms might just barely be starting to take their toll on the handsome, aged rat stud. Millie walks in and curls her arms around her mate, helping him sit up a little and giving his whiskers a soft lick. "Go shower, Psyche," she encourages. There's an oddly loving communication between the cat and the rat. She doesn't make any motions to move him, but he moves on his own accord, knowing what he wants, and she complies without word or hesitation, when he lays on his side and bends his knee, spreading one thigh up into the air, Millie laying before him and starting to glide her smooth, wet tongue over the huge orbs of his balls. Such large, powerful things must ache after such beautiful, copious ejaculations. His expression is pleasured. Her grooming is diligent, loving, stimulating the sperm that's left in them, stroking her tongue through the musk-soaked thin layer of fur, and the musky flesh beneath, stirring his sperm and soothing his groin muscles.

Psyche watches, and envies, as she, in later days, believes she was supposed to have, her stiffness from her own mating only giving her a quiver or two before, with a slight headbob, a soft growl to the 'poor old rat', she cups her pubis gently and staggers through the house toward the shower, stepping into it shirt and all, needing to get his must out of everything, at least to levels that Scar won't be enraged by. She suspects also, Scar knows, and tolerates it, as long as he isn't witnessing it firstpaw. But then again, there's still so much she -doesn't- know about everything. She washes, first warm, then cooler water as she lets the pressure relax muscles, and tries to rinse her sex. She knows he went deep, but there's startlingly little cum trickling out of her snatch after several long minutes and she starts to panic a little, swallowing. Had it only felt like pints?! No, there's weight there, at the pit of her tummy. Its a thick gel, promising not to dissolve for hours, well after dinner.


(OOCly slups you warmly and is going to have to call a good stopping point to this one. He's kinda getting a monitor headache and has a few errands to perform away from the computer. But goddamned.. he applauds you.

You page-pose, "Psyche smiles and kisslicks right back, thanking you :> She logged, and will compile as another chapter in the file she's making :> I just hope I don't burn you out all at once :>" to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick mms and squeezes. Likewise, but don't worry about it. He finds that if he starts to burn out, a few days or weeks away from things usually regenerates his urges. This is definitely outstanding, and he's having a great time.

You page-pose, "Psyche is incredibly turned on, flatted, and anxious to keep you happy and intertwined with her characters :> *she noses and purrthrumpurrs softly, meshing feline frame against yours happily*" to Sedrick

You page-pose, "Psyche is -flattered-, and thinks you're about the best writer, and most perceptive as far as her personal foibles and desires, as anyone she has ever played with. :>" to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick grins. You're a feline now? He squeezes tightly and mmms, "I am pleased. I love these characters. There will be good RP to be had that may be less sexual at times.. chats with Millie, other things. Well, thank you. As long as you drop little hints here and there, he can usually pick up the cues. Just, if you have any fantasies you'd like to drop on him OOCly, too, never hesitate.

You page-pose, "Psyche smiles and noddlenods, reluctantly letting you go before you get a migraine :> "My core personae have been feline, my spirit guides have been canine ... its weird, but true. Jesilys is her primary feline character here, who'll need some tuning if brought into this RP. She also tends to play a fennec, named Moar, quite a bit, who's a fantasy (non-magical, herself) driven character, who I'd love to bring into this, but am uncertain yet just how - she's more anachronistic, and I tend to use a rather thick, gutteral cockney accent with her." to Sedrick

In a page-pose to you, Sedrick already knows about Moar, yes. He mmms and nods, don't forget.. you can introduce NPCs at your own pleasure and whim. He gives you another deep, passionate kiss, and then dashes. Thank you again.)