Psyche and Scar (Psyche & Sedrick, 4/06)

Psyche shivershivers and arches her head back, revelling in your lick, her body wanting to press close, drawn like steel shavings to a magnet with that gentle, suggestive gesture. She whines, happily.

Sedrick knows you'd be happier to have met the entire extended clan. A dinner the likes of which you'd never seen before. New friends. New love. In spite of secrets. Scar looking even more beautifully savage, powerful, and rattishly nasty in full light. There are looks from a lot of other males. Sleek rats, bulky rats, cunning rats, women with them, all ages old and young, those in heat dressed in the same attire as you and Millie. Every male you make eye contact with seems to have that purposeful, intent look to them as they regard you in kind, just long enough not to be noticed by the powerful rat who's claimed you. The women are nothing but loving and open, many of them in varying states of pregnancy.. far more, as a percentage, than what you'd see in normal society.

Psyche earflicks and settles into her chair, grateful that the table at least hides her bottomless state, even if its the 'norm' in her condition. Obviously, even the guests are permitted to see her state, Scar not requiring her to cover up for them, and that only reinforces her status in her mind. She tries to discern, from where she sits, her ... rank? Her place? And says very little, being extremely shy, unless someone makes an effort specifically to talk to her. But the food, the food is something she never thought could taste so good, and she already -loved- Asian food, regardless of her western white-bread background. She listens, helps out where she can, trying to fit in, but generally feels awkward without any direct guidance or at least teaching. She also keeps close to Millie when Scar isn't around. With him, she knows he's his, her -first- rat, but she hardly knows him. Her heart though, swells almost irrationally though whenever he looks at her whether lustful, thoughtful or kindly.

Scar would wear his tight black shirt and loose pants... all the males wear loose pants.. and now perhaps you know why, where before you thought it was just something of culture. For some reason, the old rat who's mated to Millie can get away with eating naked at the table in front of everyone, careless of his state. You can catch snippets of conversation in the strange rattish tongue, the hissing, the chittering, even Millie doing a good job of conversing with them in their own tongue, which seems to delight them. Most of the rat females are smaller than Millie, and her wide bottom and big hips must be a considerable draw for the males of their species. Already, with being immersed in this culture and language, pieces of meaning start to form around phrases, and you can sometimes barely pick up meaning in someone's inflexion and mannerisms. The old rat appears to be some kind of clan progenitor, people show him respect, and he sits in a position that implies high rank. Men pay him ritual respect, and a few of the younger female rats give him very affectionate hugs, chittering out sounds you learn are various mutations of "daddy" whether "granddaddy" or "great grandaddy". Before sitting, one teenage rattess gives you a warm welcoming hug, her bulging, gravid belly pressing firmly against yours, and you can feel the hot STRONG kick and shift of vibrant life stirring in her glowing figure.

Psyche is flustered at first, but then hugs back, shivering as she realizes there's extra presences in that hug, blushing and looking down, "You got a real fighter or two there ... " her words meant to amuse, but there's a nervous crack to her voice again, blushing, knowing better than to ask who the father is, as she might elsewhere. She glances back often to Scar, and to the old rat, now, whom she wonders if he fathered Scar himself, glancing back and forth for family resemblences. She hopes no one asks her any questions, and yet, part of her wants the icebreaker as well, or at least more signs of what, what her role is, or what she's expected to do. She's demure, something she'd never have been back home, or at college ... College .. learning to debate, to reason, to assert her gender and equality ... and now this, her breasts, her sex aching, her tail stiffly at her back all the time, inhaling their overwhelming scents ...

The teenage rattess just beams at your words, and is probably quite proficiently bilingual. Most of their communications are visual, as well as chemical, toward you. No one wants to single you out, no one wants to make you uncomfortable, it seems, but they all know the emotions that are stirring within you. "You're free to do as you please" keeps running through your head, and you could easily find yourself debating the fact that what you _please_ is to serve under these vibrantly wonderful, uniquely ornate creatures, as Millie does. She sits beside you at the table and every now and then offers translations to what's being said, in between bites of mouth-watering duck layered in sauces that have to be utterly sinful. Very little of the dinner conversation is salacious. Scar sits beside you, wolfing down his food, every now and then giving you a meaningful, loving look with his blood red eyes, which before, seemed emotionless. Now, a barrier has broken, and in their monochrome depths are meaning, intent, more raw and purposeful than in any other creature you've ever known, and moreover, you belong to it. His presence is powerful and warm at the same time, his features cut and ugly, but regal, his body heavily muscled, fur scuffed, and despite spreading for other rats in his absence, while he's here, he draws out your love and admiration by mere effortless presence. Sometimes you can't help but wonder if there's something in their fur similar to a drug, all that musk the oils, the myriad females in heat... and Millie's purring voice in your ear from time to time, explaining things.

Psyche fights against the trance-like pleasure that the whole, unreal experience seems to try to draw over her mind, wanting, despite her fear, her faintly struggling perceptions, to not miss a single moment, a single second of everything going on around her. This is a life, a family life alien to her upbringing, and yet, close, intense, almost drowning all her senses with its richness, its family. She eats more than she realizes, always having been borderline vegetarian (yeah, a jackal-hyena hybrid?! How wrong is that?!), mostly due to Cynthia's influence she supposes, but now, among these omnivores, she feels more and more fullfilled, blushing for not, not giving anything to the meal, its preparation, feeling still a little like a guest, an outsider, despite what's transpired. She looks up at Scar, shivering a little, and at one point leans up to kisslick his ear, gently whispering, "I ... I'm falling in love ... " almost in worried tones, but settles again, and goes back to her meal, smiling.

Scar's ear flicks a little at the lick, and Millie watches this with a smile. She knows it.. she knows exactly how you feel. Scar leans down in reply and rests a soft bite in reply on one of your perked canid ears. His front teeth are surprisingly sharp, sharp enough to pierce flesh easily with their chiseled, blade-like biting surface, and you realize just how physically dangerous these people can be when necessary. His huge, jointed, clawed hand rests on your hip, partially spread across your bare hind end, reminding you of how nude you are down there, lest you were almost getting used to it, and also reminding you of why. He replies with that deep, soul-penetrating baritone rumble that hits your body like warm water poured down the back of your neck, "You're learning what falling in love really is," he says. And he's right. It isn't all the poetry people recite or the bromides people use to describe it.. everything up until now felt like mere puppy-love. Love doesn't exist for it's own sake. It thrives on purpose. It links itself with meaning. It is conditional.. and these conditions are astounding. You know he's going to have you tonight.. even as you can still feel the hot semen from the clan leader's beautifully sinful cuckolding in your tummy.

Psyche shivers as she leans into that bite, her yip a little louder, sharper than might be polite, but she's smiling, panting as she listens, as the whole table listens, wondering if that's Scar's philosophy, or all of theirs. She blushes, not meaning to have called so much attention to herself, but murmurs in general, "I .. I don't know how, why, I came here in the first place, I made, I guess, some mistakes, some wrong turns, but gods, I ... I can't believe, just how much, how badly I want all this, I ... I know I'm not a rat, not born one, anyways, but it just feels so right, so ... so good, so welcome, and ... " She blushes, smiling, whispering, "Its not just, just the sex ... though, gods, I don't think I'd be here without it." Double, triple entendres she knows in that phrase suddenly, and she laughs, embarrassed, wondering if she's talking too much, embarrassing others, and shyly looks around for approval before going back to her food, a surrogate family, a people, a phenomena she's now part of.

Your yip and blush brings about a few delighted chuckles and ahhhs to a few of the rats at the table, but it isn't really out of place. This dinner ritual has a sense of being very informal, but at the same time, important, in a blend only possible among these people who embrace their nature more fully than any other creature. Scar just grins, tightening his claws into the skin of your hip and squeezing your rounded buttock more firmly as you speak out your admission, and he whispers softly to you in a way that's intended for the both of you only. "You cannot help what you were born as, but we don't ask that you do. We only offer you do the most you can, for what you want.." he says, his other hand coming down in an innocent-enough embrace, yet one with highly meaningful, erotic implications, with his palm spread over your freshly-impregnated lower belly, his breath warm in your ear, chest close, oils in his fur as fragrant as the food before you. ".. and you want to mother our race, do you not?" he asks, somewhat rhetorically, ".. to give yourself to the highest natural beauty there is, something so large, so wonderful. We have seen other races. We have seen their weaknesses, their one or two offspring, their long gestation, their crude culture, their stifling customs, trapped in arrangements of tradition and lacking desire. Their weak males, their women secretly longing, nature's pathetic efforts settled for only due to lack of an alternative.. a better alternative."

Psyche gasps very, very softly at that, ears back, fully intending, maybe at some point, challenging some of those assertions, but the indoctrination, the corruption is working still, reinforced by his words, words -he- believes anyway, all of them believe, and, like any good, popular religion, belief, for the sake of familiarity, for camaraderie, can be contagious. She's wet, also, all her triggers enticed, altered to be keyed to these people, these rats, making her horny, and yet, here, there's still control, its just a family reunion, dinner, much like Thanksgiving, only, she suspects these happen here more often than in the world she came from. And there are other clans, and extensions of this family in other houses, having similar dinners tonight as well. She nods though, agreeing, seemingly with everything, whispering, "Yes, I want, want to have your babies, I want to ... to give myself, utterly, to all of you. I ... " she pants a little, licking her nose, listening, thinking fleetingly of her brother, and -his- predilections. For a moment, there's a challenge, a question, a chink in their argument ... but here, there seems to be the aberration of her brother multiplied a hundredfold, intelligently, with generations of experience behind it. She shivers, wanting, though, wanting to release her old life a little more, feeling like a babe again, innocent of their world except for the few quick lessons given generously to her ... to her womb.

By now the dinner is starting to calm down. Most everyone's finished cleaning their plates and a few are starting to rise and collect things. Some conversations linger in that language of theirs that's starting to sound melodious to your ears. To them, his words are a belief based on reality. The reality they've experienced, in every place they've gone, every settlement they've made, every beachhead successfully exploited in the unspoken, undercurrent of biological competition that no one dares elude to... except for them. They know it. They embrace it. Perhaps because they're so well armed for it. As the dinner breaks up, things get exceedingly lazy during the evening. Some members go to rooms lining the hallway, other members of the extended clan leave, perhaps to adjoining apartments, Millie goes to check on her ratpups, and the old rat (who you later learn is called Mr. Sing) follows her to the nursery. Scar stays at the table, cutting off your words with a deep kiss, tongue gliding over yours in a smooth, purposeful stroking caress, while his hands soothingly stroke your lower tummy, stoking the heat that still lingers. Relaxing incense is lit in the living room nearby, where many rats are lazing, some joined into couples. The rats that aren't coupled are off in the streets, making usual rattish trouble. Elderly women start to clean the table. There are chitters, smells of arousal, musks, oils, incense, the soft mrrowl in the other room of Millie being mated from behind, while her ratlings take turns suckling from their feline mother's full, hanging breasts.

Psyche leans into the kiss, her own blunt claws digging into Scar's shirt as she meets it, learning, remembering the other, the first kiss, and this just her third, lingering there as an electric circuit seems to connect, to join them, her ears blushing at the sounds of lovemaking, of quiet conversations elsewhere, other, nonsexual delights and pleasures that are oblivious to the matings, the sounds allowed to carry, to be shared, unshyly, with anyone's ears. She suspects that come midnight everyone's too tired to keep anyone else awake. She doesn't talk, as he doesn't much it seems, or hasn't yet, during their moments of affection ... one rape turned deliberate mating, and now, this. She pants, rolling her face softly into his neck as she whispers, "I know so little, and I'm college educated ... I thought I'd lived most of my life already, and now, now, my first, my first ... litter ... so swiftly ... so suddenly, my head's still spinning." She nestles, listening for a moment, to his heartbeat.

Scar's heartbeat is very slow, the heart of a creature in excellent shape. The warm, deep thumps felt more than heard, as he holds you to him and lets you drown in his unique dominant scent, the powerful wafting odor of the alpha rat, this ugly creature with fur in all directions, scarred face, one ear half chewn to pieces, his dark red eyes, and the way his tongue slups and snakes over his rat teeth and lips. It's anathema to everything you aspired to when you were a young feminist growing up. "I can tell you everything you need to know. Would you like to know about Mr. Sing? Or that _delightful_ feline woman that's come to like you, and who helps other outsiders who stumble onto us.." he says, as if implying there aren't very many that turn away. In time you'll see them. The occasional other species dotted amid a sea of rats, assimilated, glowing, and happy. Is there a pang of jealousy in hearing Scar compliment Millie as "delightful"? Why shouldn't he... has he himself had his own carnal taste of the feline when Mr. Sing's been gone?

Psyche nestles softly, feeling very close, very frightened, dependant upon the handsome, fierce, rat, her mind opening to him, "I want to know what I need to know first, what you would have me know. But ... Yes, about you, Mr. Sing, about Millie, about the ratlings, about, gods, I've never had babies before, I don't know anything, -anything- about them, about pregnancy, other than what I ... what we're doing." She shivers, moaning softly as she kneads his shirt a little, "Will, do I sleep alone in the nursery from now on? Will there be someone against me, or do I sleep with you, with other females? Can I ask what you do when you're gone, or should I just be happy here, learning how to be a ... a mother for your ratlings?" She shivers, "Gods, gods, everything here turns me on, and my heat was almost over when I came, when ... you found me. I'm still fertile, I can feel it - is it in the food, the scents, my .. my own emotions?" She all but jackalmewls again, murmuring, "Can we go somewhere alone? I'm still very shy, still so ... so dumb about everything."

Scar just listens with a rather stoic expression on his face, a power within him, very evident, but very latent. He slowly rises to his feet, showing off all of his powerful height and build, and it's just outrageously obvious why the other males pay attention to him, and obey him, and secretly PRAY to never catch him pleasuring and fertilizing their women, lest they be driven to lusty jealousies so violent, it could mean the end of their lives. He rumbles, "No one thinks you're dumb... We don't.. tolerate.. dumb," he says matter-of-factly to you as he motions for you to follow him, and he strides through the living room. Young couples are mating on the carpet. The pregnant rat teenager is on her hands and knees, her buttocks jiggling with every pounding rap of the middle-aged rat behind her. You walk past the drawn beaded curtain to the nursery and see Millie mating in the same position, ratlings beneath her nursing, squeaking, chattering incoherently, while she trembles through yet another orgasm, ears bright red, the old rat moving like a machine behind her, with a few vivid seconds of a clear sight of his magnificent, hard rat penis pulling back, making her folds pout outward, the tufts of her untrimmed pussy spreading, releasing that vein=lined tan, dripping flesh. Into the hallway, past an open door where other rats are mating.. the stark, hot, sudden scent of something wild hitting your nose, something sharp and wicked, and the briefest glimpse of a motherly, older rattess on the floor, licking the enormous, swollen, mature nuts of a teenage rat, while he urinates over her belly and stains her fur with that brilliantly unmistakable territorial mark. Scar leads you to his room, opening the door to a room that smells.. god.. it smells like HIM.. ten times over.. his scents infused with everything in it. There's a great round bed, a meditation area, a shrine, a private bathroom...

Psyche pauses, or at least gazes at each vignette, remembering something about an old-world politico/philosopher, descending the rings of hell, but this, despite the lurid scenes, the lurid scents that send thrills through her, doesn't seem hell at all. There's purpose, not punishment, to all of this, though at first she balks at the scene of the elderly rat being 'claimed' by the younger, ears pinning, memories of her brother once 'accidentally' peeing on her thigh when they were twelve. And his stupid, almost knowing grin. Yeah, SHE knew what he meant. She didn't find out the full meaning though, til much more recently. Still, she blushes, trying to imagine her in the rattess's place, and realizes she's stalled in the hallway, following quickly again after Scar to keep up. She closes her eyes though, upon being inundated with what is obviously Scar's 'lair' ... No other term adequately does it justice, and opening her eyes slowly, lets the vision come into focus with what her powerful sense of smell picks up. She tries, almost comically, to churr in her throat, the sound coming off a little more husky than the femme rats around here. "Coming down your alleyways, alone, in heat ... wasn't dumb?" she murmurs, meaning to tease, not challenge, lifting her tail as she pads up to the bed, glancing around behind her, remembering Millie at the sink, just hours ago, lifting for the elder rat, clan patron.

Scar is already pulling off his shirt, and his scent grows even more. He has utterly no shame, and would walk around like the old man in the nude if appropriate. Someday, he knows he will. He steps out of his shoes, and slides out of his simple baggy jeans. This is the first time you've seen him totally nude in good light, first from behind, seeing him slipping out of his clothes, the muscles of his back toned and developed as much as Sedrick's, though with thicker fur, it appears to be more bulk than statuesque shape. His butt is quite beautiful, a strong, square, muscular bubbled package, thighs equally so, and those balls that at once you only felt, swinging between his thighs, fat, pendulous, oblong things that would have appeared grotesque if you were only slightly more ignorant. He turns his head a little to smirk, "It was brave," he says, teasing back. "I say that because, did you really not know what you were doing? Down inside?" he asks, and turns away from his shrine after paying silent respects to a few graven idols, and the beauty of his full rattish package swings into view. Far too big for a sheath, it hangs.. long... thick.. possibly bigger than Mr. Sing's.. and you remember feeling it keenly, now looking at it. It's got veins all over the shaft, standing in stark relief to the otherwise smooth shape of the long stalk, sprouting from a sheath ringed with thin fur along a pouch of oily skin that's no doubt the source of all those pheromones that swim in your mind. That tapered, arrowhead glans a deep, mouth-watering purple, the smell of precum evident. He watches you approach the bed, then look around, as if you're unsure or aprehensive. He's not waiting for you to decide though.. he's cruising across the room toward you..

Psyche smiles once, barksqueaking back at you, talking, idle chatter part of her way of coping with nervousness, knowing it'll be silenced before too long anyways. She murmurs in answer as she watches him, eyes glowing, in admiration, growing knowledge, and ... acknowledgement of her ... luck? In being chosen by this one. Virile to a fault, the head of a clan, though not the progenitor, not yet, its as if she were fated for him. Her genes selected to be corrupted by the most capable of such dominance. "I guess, but it, it was ... I was mad, I lost my girlfriend to my brother, and he'd ... come onto me, and I let him m'mate me, and I couldn't, I mean, I wanted to, I had to get away, find, find out if, if there were other males, other things besides ... " She shares, perhaps, more than he cares to know, her place defined differently now, not by her past, but by her merit, her worth, her presence and potential. She shivers as she feels him approach, facing away, not out of shyness, but out of memory of their first time. "I'd brought protection, c'condoms, I thought I'd just go to a bar, meet a n'nice fox, a kitsune wannabe ... and ball him in revenge, of what I was feeling for my brother. My girlfriend."

Scar is amazingly tender in this form, though still having that stoney, firm edge to everything he does, in sharp contrast to the way he was when you first met him. As you're facing away from him, you feel his arms come around your waist, the bare HOT flesh of his erection sliding along the cleft of your ass, pushing your tail aside and walking up the small of your back, leaving streaks of musk and drizzling rat precum into your fur. His hands slide down your abdomen, both palms framing your lower belly, your fertile womb, the cradle of the ratlings you so whorishly spread for, his sharp claws sliding along the fur of your muff, and his scent becomes dominating, mingling with yours in an intense sexual cocktail that permeates like an aromatic drug. He draws his slick wet rat tongue along the side of your neck, listening still, adding a warm, possessive bite with his front teeth, marking the skin with a red streak beneath the fur, and another little nick, their version of a territorial hickey. He replies, "He sired the puppies in you?" he says, indicating by his question that it's a fairly obvious answer, and the conversion of this lesbian is of no surprise to him. Bisexuality is rampant among both sexes of his kind, but strict homosexuality is unheard of. "Is this not the sweetest revenge?" his deep voice hisses and chitters roughly, ".. his offspring within you, will, in time, feel only like weaker corruption," he promises, not as a command.. but as a knowing... "You will never know birth control again.. Now, present yourself to this rat.. present yourself to me as your brother's former lover, now a willing conquest."

Psyche gasps, tensing at the firm, deliberate words, the dominance, and yields again, gasping with the intensity of emotions, contrasts of her past, her present, her nature, or what she -thought- was her nature before. She feels him release her, to present, and this time she shimmies off her skirt, wanting to be fully naked, fully bare for him this time, one paw lightly lifting up to her neck, feeling over the warm traces his nip left, hot and cold waves flowing through her body again as she whispers, "I, I don't know anything about revenge, but this, this is terribly sweet ... " she smiles, earblushing, her paw over her tummy, protective, a little of all that's been wrought within, but knowing its useless to claim those as her own. She crawls up, onto his bed, not shivering, but confident, knowing she wants this, wants -him- inside her, whispering again, like a mantra, "I want -your- babies .. I want -your- seed in me, your young, I want to know what it is to be f'filled, I want to love, to be loved, I want you to never stop teaching me, I want to be a good mother, a g'good ... " she swallows, shivering, adding her own word, her own identity to the mix, to the sensations flowing through her, "A good bitch for you ... I want to forget my brother, I ... want you to conquer my body, my womb, my ... soul ... my p'people!" she cracks her voice, surrendering, if anything, even more, without realizing she was going to do it, her insides quivering as if about to cum already with her urge to prove herself ...

Scar moves as if sweeter words could have never been spoken. His kind will conquer yours.. male dogs will roam uselessly looking for mates, finding only the infertile, the helpless, the women who haven't found rat kind dwindling in number slowly, but assuredly, day by day. Dogs, cats, mice, raccoons, all manners of female kind discovering, more and more every day, the blessed surrender to nature's way, the way of the dominant, most virile.. most beautifully ugly beastly rat-kind. The words make his dick rigid as it'll get in this pre-copulated state, the flared glans looking almost frightening, the glans ridge almost sharply separated from the foreskin at the shaft, like a fleshy barb without a point, and the throat of his dick is extremely visible. You feel his hands on your shoulders, pushing your upper body down onto the bed, leaving your hindquarters lifted high, utterly vulnerable, open, aching, begging for that fat length that saws backward along the sopping heat of your pussy. He snarls in a deep, raspy tone over you, "Raise your womb to me, fully knowing you're giving your brother's young to my children," he hisses, ".. the surrender of your breed to ours over time, will be the most beautiful sight.. you'll well with pride," he promises, and the sensation is overwhelming, the words, which on the surface are threatening, speak to an inner purpose and beauty that just aches to be apart of it, the great conspiracy, the full embrace of biological conquest.. the urge in your mind that hits you with waves of need, begging, tireless, insatiable need.. succumb.

Psyche arches, her back bowed downward then as she slides to her forearms, her angled hips pressing up, back against his flesh, Scar's superior masculinity, a conquest of gender as well as species, though her gender won't die out, won't become thinned to the point of extinction - if anything, it'll be strengthened. Her ears tilt back, "Yes, yes, Scar ... " eager words in her throat as she smiles, panting, eyes half lidded, lifting further, "My womb, my womb is yours, to pleasure, to ... to use, to fill, my ... " she whines, then, feeling a twang, sharp twang of guilt, betrayal, swallowing as she whispers, "My brothers young aren't mine, aren't mine anymore ... " she tenses, "I want to feel, to be there, to see ... " knowing full well she'll never live so long, sensing, something deeply, that this has been going on for thousands of years, the entire east teeming with rats didn't -start- that way, didn't happen overnight. She napeflares, barksqueaking at the hiss, "Oh, ohlove, teach, teach me everything, show me, be with me, Scar, I want, want you, I want -it-, you inside me ... " she rocks back, rubbing, splashing with her puffy folds the juices that drench out from her, slippery hot, gasping, "I've .. ohgods, I've already cum! You're not even inside me y'yet!"

Scar teaches you slowly, every lesson sinking into the very core of your soul and giving you a shining, up until now unrealized purpose, a pride, a glowing warmth of fulfillment in something utterly non-canine, but something so completely right. If the pangs of slight guilt, of betrayal are there, they'll melt away in time, he knows. As he angles his hip and slowly spears that magnificently long rat penis into your throbbing, begging, juicy bitch cunt, wetly slicing through inch by inch, his huge hands still holding your shoulders down, with his hot breath in your ear, in this most lewd and animalistic of positions. Your womb is offered, and he takes it, your hindquarters lifted, and he takes them, his glans spearing through your cervix again with a slow press, dilating it with an insistent ease, and feeling soft, quivering muscle close behind the flare. Mr. Sing's blocker sperm are useless, as deep as Scar is at this exquisite angle.. the huge rat surpasses Sing in physical prowess.. oh you lucky rat-queen. And he whispers it all to you amid the slowest, most agonizingly savoring mating, rat dick sawing back, slowly sinking in again, balls pleasantly nestling to your lower belly and thighs, so comforting, so there, undeniably superior.. will you ever be able to let a dog fuck you again? He whispers it all, every lesson, every sweet reality.. your guilt will fade, you'll become like Millie, pushing away alley cats that come onto her, and guiltlessly fucking scruffy, wild street rats in front of their jealous eyes. You'll venture out and bring other women in, regardless of their marital status, the only criteria being their stark, aching fertility. The big picture may be far off, but your role in the local picture will be vivid, stark, and deliciously personal. You know all this, while the hissing whispers ring through your mind, and the slow mating continues..

Psyche begins to cum, to ripple, gasping, "Ohhh .... " like pleasant sighs of pleasure, answering him, learning, drinking it all across her senses, her memories, her mind, arching back into him, taking it all without initating quite the wild, jackhammering of last night. While she can, she wants him, tilting her head shyly, even coyly to the side, whispering, "Scar, my beautiful rat, my king, my master, my babies sire ... " quieting down again to drink in more of the whispers, each climax answering the tip of his penis breaching her womb, the slippery heat reverberating slowly as she grips and pulls at the bedding, wanting him, wanting him with all she is, "My gods, my gods, what am I without you, without your kind?" She whines, his mate, one of many, mate to all rats within him, all rats of her betters, but accepted among them, knowing her place, she pleads, offering him litters with her words, wanting to have big litters, even though her canal's never even squeezed forth a single puppy of her species own design, her cunt's original purpose, superceded, made better, her soft whines, her words indicating each of her orgasms, then, as she tenses, she ovulates, and he feels it, though she doesn't understand its significance ...

Scar is keeping the pace purposefully slow, savoring, able to keep going like a machine, with his pelvis only making the mildest clap against your buttocks, making them ripple, while his balls give just the softest thump against your womb, enough to make it burn with every slight impact against your tummy, and it's that dick, that magnificent, slow-gliding penis.. that ugly, nasty RAT penis, sliding with purposeful slowness, to force you to feel every inch of it slithering out above your clitoris, puffing out your folds that try to cling to it through each of your convulsive, orgasmic seizures, his glans spearing into your womb now, and while he's unable to distinguish Sing's blocker sperm with the quivering soft uterine wall and the eggs left in place, he knows the feeling of a woman ovulating.. ovulating like they never can for their own kind, gushing fresh ova, producing them prodigiously in turn thanks to the wafting pheromones that fuel the drugging rush of hormones that flood your mind and make your body burn. He rrrrs, sliding his palms out from your arms, grasping your hands from behind, threading his fingers in between yours and letting you feel the raw, biological, and utterly beautiful passion and love he has for your words, his hissing voice rough as sandpaper in your ears, yet as penetrating and sickeningly arousing as his body, "My rat queen," he shudders, feeling that rush of ovulation, so welcoming, so begging, his voice seeming breathy and almost weak for a moment.. "... that's it.. you're ovulating.. feel how your body wants it.. don't deny your role, your pride, you will have my litters, many of them, your sons will fertilize the daughters of your kind, and your daughters will swell with sons of their own.."

Psyche earpins, flaring her eyes, her nostrils grasping at the particulates, the pheromones, the sweat and oils, and scent of utter must, her own heat seeming to well up again, to crest somehow as she clenches his paws, holding tight, letting him brace upon her, pinning her paws to the bed, feeling his loins, the arch of his chest rubbing firmly over her back as she finally figures out, connects the dots of what -that- particular sensation -is-, what it -means- what's going on inside her while she couples with you. She groans a little, giving a submissive whine, squeezing and rolling her muscles sensuously along that incredible weapon, the beat of his heavy, firm, pillowy balls against her tummy redoubling her pleasure, tripling it, the words, the revelation, the urgent instruction taken to heart as she bares her teeth. The bitch grunts softly, bearing down, letting that pleasure repeat, forcing it, moaning, "Nooohhyesss!!" She whines, "Scar, scar, that ... those are my, my eggs?!" she shivers hard, milking rhythmically, "I -WANT- your babies!!" crying softly, sobbing, "Ohgods, it feels, feels so good, oh make me, keep making me, I'll do anything, any ... ohgods, I -do-, I want it, I ... ofuck, ohfuck, I never knew!" She smiles, in heaven, ears by his whiskers, tickled by them, "Ohgods, ohyes, oh mate, Scar, for you, your litter, I love, I love it, love you!!"

Scar's slow mating has a purpose, a very strict purpose.. you won't realize it until later, but all this grinding, this slow, unhurried, languishing pace causes his sperm to rise in his testicles, making the long journey, pooling in those tubes just behind his strong prostate, that will grease their path and send them propelling forward to make fresh life.. and as the pleasure lingers, their numbers increase, their excited state grows in feverishness, and his harsh voice grows even more raspy, more alien to your ears, but only enhancing his seductive beauty. The tightness of your tubes, the burning quivers of your ovaries, the painless cramps that ripple through your belly, the sensation of ejaculation without a source inside your womb, and his voice heralding more, "Your body has made a choice.. my love," he rasps in your ear, whispering hoarsely, ".. profess the reality of what it wants.. what you want.. your sweet spawning roe is begging, so healthy and a testament to you, my love.. do they ache to be fertilized by a dog?" he asks, and his pace picks up just a little bit, a hair, the bedsprings starting to creak, the jolting of your womb with every slicing penetration of that flared, rat crown just stirrs up the insides, fresh ova mingling with fertlized ones clinging to your walls, and you realize that you could easily end up with a dozen beautiful rats, squirming and writhing and growing strong and healthy, as healthy as the vibrant life in the teenager who hugged you. Rats will admire you, and you'll drink up their envy, and their admiration, the desire of male rats, the comradery of female rats, and the communal childrearing that will teach you much, with Millie's loving help. The big rat is trembling now, his sweat felt dripping on your body, sizzling into your fur, his breath huffing hot, his balls stirring and his penis starting to twitch a little bit... you feel he's close.. he's been close.. he's holding off to let you stew in your need, to let your body exude fertility nearly to the point of exhaustion..

Psyche draws her breaths raggedly, listening, her mind drinking his words, her paradigm utterly changed, utterly shaped by her mate, a god of fertility mounted within her, shaming all those made up by primitive cultures. She yelps softly, feeling that nestling spear rock and re-emerge within her womb again and again, flinching, ejaculating eggs now, dozens, the species difference necessitating such tactics to make sure she takes, that she bears litters, hormones from the previous matings already affecting her biology. Flashes from her anthropology classes, jungle covered temples, sandstone rats everywhere, the Kharma Sutra written by them, and despite genocide committed against them on nearly every continent, they teem, they return, they form from the ghettos and excel in all fields as newcomers ... business, education, organized crime. She moans, lifting her head, her mane soft, rumpled, pressing up where its matted fur smears into her lover's throat, straining for his words as she milks and releases, gasping for her male, her stud, her -god-, who knows how she feels, who sees right through her, takes care of her, with such, such a sweet, welcome price, clinging to him as she whispers, "No, no dogs, no puppies ... r'ratlings, my ratlings ... " she pants, hissing, hoarse, "My love's ratlings ... " she twitches, not knowing his tricks, his methods, but loving every aching motion, every touch of his lovemaking, "I'm, I'm your breeder, I'm a rat, rat queen, a bitchwomb of your love, your lust, S'scar, I want, want this for me, I .. I follow my body's needs, your words are the same, your words, ohgods, Scar ... " she spasms rapidly, clenching her paws, fingers laced still, again, letting him feel her delight, her eagerness once more at its most intense. There ... there, again ....

Scar gives you the images that the males of your kind fear the most, the dominating, the corrupting.. yet it feels anything like corrupting. The idea of these ova, these fresh eggs, ejaculated into your womb for one purpose, the thought of them being fertilized by dog swimmers seems almost revolting by now, his hypnotic rhythm affecting your body so completely, now... You'll be a queen to his clan. With the practice of genocide given way to kindness.. more understanding... tolerance.. the cold, cruel, and beautiful biology of his rat-kind stands poised to take advantage in this slow, rolling conquest of the women of other races. As you arch your back powerfully, you can see his face over yours, his nose lifting from your sweaty, risen mane, and his own scruff is flared brilliantly, his backfur standing on end, making him appear bigger, even bigger and more scruffy, powerful, and grotesquely adorable than he was in the alley, due to the powerful mating within the sanctuary of his room. His hands squeeze your palms even tighter, and his eyes see yours, his nose bumping your forehead, his eyes squinting as his cock swings and his pace never yields. With all your words, the virile sperm welling up within him can't hold back any longer, and he feels the stirring, the beginning of a huge, potent release. You can feel it too, the way he trembles, his fur flaring, his cock elongating further, twitching balls tightening and stirring behind you.. ".. rrrrrr! *hisssss* c-cry for it... raise your womb higher, offer them to me.. herald the beautiful demise of your race with such sweet praise.. I love you so, mother of my ratssss.."

Psyche arches, not surprised, only pleasured, only eager now, not even flinching as she arches her cunt tightly against his sheath, angling her womb as best she can, though by now its almost for ritual only, she's so fertile, he's so strong, powerful, she's -so- receptive to you. She huffs hard, whining, crying, "YES, ohyess!, love, breed me, fertilize -all- of them, get me, get me, keep me, ohgods, I WANT you!!" she sobs softly, shoulders nestling against his chest, even as she holds taut, upper breasts in the bedding now, pressed into the flat, horizontal surface more intensely than the mound of laundry of the previous night, sharing with him her need, feeding his, a raucous, lascivious gaping hole in her soul waiting to be repaired, to be replaced by her mate, feeling his balls so close, so tight as she milks hard, milks in slow, -firm- ripples that squeeze shy of his cocktip, that glans well out of reach, only bumping softly against the wet wealth of her womb where it throbs and poises. "Together," she whispers, blushing, "Yours, take them, take them all, as long as I can, can give them *sob* to you, take them, fill me with ... with life, with ratlings, my purpose, my love!" jackal-hyena lost, feeling his wonderful urethral spasms, talking to her, answering the rapacious hunger her heat has been stoked to by his masterful design.

Scar hears your cries, begging, needful cries to be fertilized by his powerful rat balls, which are grinding now, his pelvis ceasing it's bucking, and only holding, pressing tightly, and his paws squeeze yours with an affirming grip. His voice is trembling in your ear, breath low and soft, his warm, rat-stinking fur billowing against your ears, your cheeks, while his teeth hiss against your ears. All other sex you've had feels almost meaningless, like children playing and dabbling in things they barely understand. Now, you understand... your hips so wide and healthy, nature blessing you with such endowments that men claw each other to get to.. those hips, born for the purpose of accepting not he who is "owed" your love, but accepting he who earns it by being the most powerful, healthy, virile male you can hope to encounter, letting him press and throb in between those wide hips, hips that will bear his offspring.. proudly.. a covenant fulfilled when you feel his breath release in a low, chittering hisssss and the first bucking JERK of his dick is felt pulsing in your belly like an animal trying to fight it's way upward, the glans of his pointy rat penis expanding wide, the flare as thick as a small plate inside your womb, the tip squeezed against the top wall of your uterus amid the tight curve caused by his rigid orgasm, and then it gushes. Sing's blocker sperm is hopelessly overwhelmed. The stream continues, the warmth of your eggs met with an even deeper, more fulfilling heat that splatters into your belly and continues to pump in long, lingering sprays. "Yesssss," he hisses hotly, ".. h-hold your hips high for it... be honored.." he whispers lustily in your ear, amid the sensation of another long stream you can actually hear hitting the inside of your womb.

Psyche whines as it begins, trying not to, trying to hear, shivering, "Ohlove, ohyes, Thank, thankyou, ohgods, ohyess!" Her milking becomes frantic for a little bit, lost within that rush through her ratling canal, her cunt, her sex fluttering in feverish jerks then relaxing only when you relax, starting up again when the next load is chambered, fired through that heavenly maleness, her soft whimpers turning to gentle licks, feeling his whiskers, patient, loving each hiss, each chittering churr, knowing only this, only this, can sate the fires that will burn in her forever now, her biology utterly conquered, unlocked by a species not her own, unfair, wicked, evil advantage, that makes everything all right, GIVES you that RIGHT. She moans, softly, feeling inside, "Never, never let me go, never, let me s'stop this, love, ohgods, it .. yes, breed, keeping breeding me, I need it, I ... I'm honored, I can't believe I deserve this, so ... so wonderful, thankyou ... thankyou!" She nestles, her uterus lurching as she tenses and releases again, letting him fill her, letting him take back what he can from the eager old rat. Mr. Sing may get her again, and again, but the lion's share will always belong to her mate, her Scar ...

Scar's orgasm is more powerful than you remember in the alley, the slow-build up ensuring that, as each stream lasts for several lingering hard seconds, feeling like a male urinating inside you for brief moments, only to know that it's thick streams of semen that are pouring in and flooding fresh life into those willing ova, pumping ratlings in between those widespread hips. His lip is lifted into a rattish snarl as you lick at his muzzle, tenderly stroking his lips and teeth with your tongue, and only when he's able to regain his senses does he return the affection, panting hotly, stirrring, releasing one of your hands and repositioning his elbow beside you to give that arm a rest. His muscles are bulging as if he's finished a strenuous gym workout, and his licks get slower, longer, more loving and affectionate. He opens his eyes slowly, giving your cheek a warm nip, his rattail lashing behind him and the position just holds like this for a long time. ".. you're one of us... tommorow you will learn so much more.." he promises, his penis still rigid, still throbbing, though the familiar sensation of the congealed dollops are starting to pepper your belly with the sensation of a slow, molten ooze.

Psyche aches, but with a beauty that shines through her, a patience and peace that radiates from her fur, from the warmth, from the calming pantings she can hear now as she listens to him, trusting him, trembling as he promises more enlightenment, her hips staying pressed against him, letting both gravity and biology work on her, pleasuring, feeling endorphins flood her, satisfaction again ... reward, reward somehow -after- such pleasure, patiently nestled beneath him, crouching one forepaw out forward, scooping beneath a pillow to draw it toward her, beneath her ear. She won't roll to her side until he lets her, murmuring, "What, what's happening .. now, I f'felt that before ... " shivering as she clenches around the gummy presence, actually feeling it's thickness inside her, holding her cervix slightly dilated, though clogged.

Scar is still trembling every so often, as if the shuddering aftershocks of his orgasm lingers still. It could be a product of all the meditating that they do, that their pleasure is enhanced tenfold, and his release is more copious than anything you've ever felt. He's depositing the blockers in the shallow portions of your womb, and as his cock shrinks just slightly, into your cervix, leaving it sealed. If a dog managed to rape you in this state, his semen wouldn't get past the powerful matrix of destructive rat sperm waiting for them when they tried desperately to penetrate. He releases you other hand, now, holding himself up with his elbows, letting his weight bear down slowly, until your belly eases down onto the bed in a very cozy position beneath his powerful weight. "Sperm competition is serious among us.. those will ensure no one can easily pollute your womb should you be taken against your will," he says. With no word of the rampant cheating that takes place among his kind, he doesn't mention the dozens of women he's fertilized when their mates were away, his longer, more sturdy penis depositing millions of sperm behind the protective barrier. It'd be best not to mention Sing.. something Millie said about the female's understood secret.. no proof, upmost care.. male rats can be passionate creatures to all extremes.

Psyche closes her eyes, whispering, "Heavenly ... everything, everything is heavenly ... everything works so well ... " she trembles, a streak of fear, of anger, hatred coursing through her at the mere suggestion of someone else 'polluting' her womb, until she realizes that he's not referring just to non-rats, but to other rats as well. She settles softly, beneath him, stretched out and warmed by those nuts now, his loins, his soft tummy fur and ratly weight. She hugs the pillow beneath her chin with both arms, panting like the dog she is, dog in heat, but ... won't be, can't be for long. Still, its like she has the full phase before her still, instead of the last day, or it feels like it. She had checked the calendar even before leaving home, to make sure, possibly hoping ... for ... something. She doesn't believe in telepathy, but if there were evidence of it, if she were told its been happening to her, through Mr. Sing's eye-locking gaze, through her being lured here and into this life, she'd be hard pressed to NOT believe it. She's quiet, she'll never tell of her other lovers, instead trusting her Scar to counter their influence over her, or if not, deserving the mixed litters she'll have ... Its -their- way, as well as hers, not just the females, but silent, peaceable warfare between the males inside their prospective mates." to Sedrick.

Scar slowly rolls to his side, taking you with him in the deep curl of his body pressed to yours, spooning up against you, with that obscenely long rat penis still lodged at the gate to your womb, pulsing gently. He rumbles and chitters, am arm coming around you, a clawed hand cupping one of your breasts, his chin dipping down to trap your head against his throat. "Tomorrow, Mr. Sing is to visit Asia for the weekend," he informs you with a deep, steady rumbling. "He has business to conduct," he states. You may wonder why he's telling you this, until you realize.. while Sing is head of the clan, and will still do so while he's temporarily away, Scar will be the large presence of the moment. Not just to you, but to all. Even to.. Millie.

Psyche whispers softly, "Ohh?" she nestles back, blushing, murmuring, "I ... feel guilty, almost for tiring you out then ... are you up to it?" She growlpurrs, feeling so ... so -comfy- with his body wrapped around hers, still inside. She nestles, hugging his arm as her nipples all stiffen, crinkling a little from the tease of his claw tips. She breathes softly, easily, then, in the haze, her body exhausted, but her mind, strangely alert ... wired, receptive and curious still. "There ... are still strong ties to Asia? I thought, that, that ended decades ago ... " she murmurs, a little slow on a number of issues, least of all, Sing -is- decades older than she. She doesn't even really know his age, and assumes that the 'hard life' of these folks probably leads to a shorter lifespan.

Scar mmmms and noses your cheek, chittering scruffily, "Tiring me out for what? Up for what?" he asks you, as if you know something and you expect him to know. Of course he knows.. but he wants to be clear that you do as well. His cock twitches inside you, flexed, perhaps on purpose, stirred by those strong muscles. "There are business ties.. other clans," he indicates, and you can remember a little bit of suspicion about unspoken histories, about the ancient paintings of sentient pandas and red raccoon like men, races that don't exist any more, thought to have been wiped out through many of the mideval, undocumented wars that raged through their lands eons ago.. it's probable they succumbed to a sweeter fate than that. "Mr. Sing is a very wealthy importer."

Psyche shivers as she grins, laughing a little, even as her heartbeat tamps softly around that ratty penis, nursing his twitchy cock in answer. She earfolds a little, nosing back, over her shoulder to lick blindly at him, "You're going to ... to take, to mate all of the females that remain here, while their males are on their business trip, right?" She closes her eyes, panting, her murmur soft, sexy as she splays her fingers in the dark out before her face, her paws happily flexing, "At least, at least *pant* the ones that are still fertile ... " She shivers, eardipping at Mr. Sing's profession, licking her nose a little. Is he testing her, trusting her with his profession, or just sharing it with her. She can't imagine anyone spying, or betraying her mate after what she's been through. Males probably just 'dissappear', females, maybe too, depending on how much resistance they put up. She doesn't know about all the payoffs, how corrupt the law enforcement around here is though. Ties with other clans ..?"

Scar mmmms and listens to you decipher his intentions, letting a big evil grin spread over his strangely attractive rattish muzzle. He rises up suddenly, and takes your thigh in his hand. He swings it up into the air and sits up, rolling you onto your back, suddenly. Still impaled on half of that throbbing ratflesh, he leans forward, until his big, scarred, deviously rattish and handsome face is looming in your vision, and you can feel him sinking the remainder of that piercing rat penis in to accent his words.. "You want to see me hunch over that sweet, beautiful, fertile new feline friend you've made.." he says with a hissing passion as his crown meets your cervix again, and that potent, heavy scrotum spreads over your splayed bottom, letting his beautiful dick bake inside your sopping pussy. "She is a luscious mother... she's been eyeing me whenever Scar isn't looking... the old man has had her to himself long enough.."

Psyche shivers, gasping as you invert her hindpaw, bending her knee to help as you loom, grinning back, shivering, "I, I think you will, and I think she's in heat ..." She growlpurrs, pressing both forepaws up against his stomach, "Ohgods, oh ratty ... " she tenses, arching her hips a little as her cervix is skewered, his tip nesting there. "Yes ... yes, I don't know why, but my greed for your ratlings extends beyond me ... Oh love, I don't ... I don't understand all these feelings, they're too new, but, gods I feel them." She shivers a little, whispering, "And I ... I shouldn't be in heat, my ... my calendar, I know what my calendar read, I shouldn't ... " she kneads her paws, feeling over his waist, lifting both her thighs to hug his midriff. "I'm -not- complaining, not at all!!"

Scar looks deviously delighted in your words, and he brings his arms up high, elbows resting beside your head as you feel that hard belly beneath scruffy, oily fur, and further back the scruff of his back is still raised from the mating, giving him an even greater ratty appearance before you, resting there, hilted to the balls inside his luscious, species-betraying queen. He rolls his hips slowly, teasing your clitoris with his pelvic bone, and letting you feel the powerful muscles that shift beneath your fingers, like a steely core beneath pliable skin and slick, musky fur. His eyes are looking at yours, those deep, red orbs intoxicating and mesmerizing, his muzzle in low, whiskers brushing yours, breath shared. "Will you help me?" he asks, grinding slow, in what could be the beginnings of yet another mating. God, does he ever run out!? "Will you help me take her, with as much as I can? Help me take her in Sing's room, polluting his bed with my presence, while his mate begs for my healthy rats and forsakes him in his absence.." he hisses with his words, dick lurching fresh inside your belly.

Psyche smiles, panting, licking up at his chin, murmuring, "Yes, yes, love, of course I will ... You, you'll have to tell me, show me, how to make you cum more, how to ... to make her beg easier, but I think she'll do that, do that better than I can even now." She nestles against you, tensing, hugging herself to him with soft gasps, "Any, any others, any others I might, might help with, my tongue, my paws, my heat ... displays, coaxing, making them agree, collude, conspire with you." She laps softly, "Healthy rats, healthy rats for all your females, all your females, even if they belong to others .. "

Scar curls a powerful arm beneath you, lifting you partway off the mattress and delighting in the filthy, lurid details in your words.. Affirming that you do belong here, belong to him, the powerful alpha rat, starting to roll his hips, sawing that fat, ready-anew shaft back with a slick noise, slowly building. He'll mate you again, slow, moaning, whispering filthy things that sound sweeter than the sweetest things you've heard on the outside. In the middle of the night, he'll wake you to mate again. In the morning, you'll mate anew, while he's whispering to you about how to service him, how to properly ensure he'll breed those other females fully, how you'll assist in his slow and steady rise to power within the clan.