Kintla Flatlands old and merry tune

Blood welled along the shallow gashes before the male slid off her, her hind legs striking swiftly the most tender area of a male's anatomy. Quite suddenly the man was reduced to a child, curling on on himself and squinting in pain. The woman felt for a moment a flash of pleasure; which faded when the boy spoke. "you aren't dying, vlákas," She hissed through bared fangs, ignoring the sting of her muzzle. 

And yet the woman gradually deflated as he launched no counterattack, inside dissolving into a puddle of self-pity. Males, for all their bluster, held one weak, tender spot; and yet the boy did not seem to know it. Inexperienced, then, and her victory seemed a little weaker. She did not stir from her stance, stiff still, glaring down at the male in fading anger and something akin to disgust. Shaking the blood from her muzzle, the girl stalked off, a few red drops staining the churned-up snow where she'd been standing a moment ago.