Lion Head Mesa postscript: it was a terrible animal always feeding itself

emboldened by how vulnerable shivali had been rendered, the coywolf forced her down hard -- his spine hunched over hers. he thought of relmyna, of the bastard litter -- he thought of the strangeness of the whelp's hides, and how they were not like his own. these thoughts drew forth a desolate cry that extinguished in his throat; with a snarl he flung her hard as he could once more, and set himself to laboring over her prone form. while she struggled to speak, he wrestled to come to grips with the fact the whimpering lumps of fur that had nestled at relmyna's teats were not sired by him.

imbued with a newfound fury, it did not take long for his lust to stir to the point where he could force himself inside her; and he did so coarsely, roughly -- the way he handled her reminiscent of a child with a ragged doll, or a puppy with a limp pelt. there was no titillating climax -- no elusive chase; he drove inside of her and worked as quick as his straining haunches could. he speared her, and speared her again, each thrust more careless and callous than the rest until he seized and bucked and spent himself within her. he was a quick fuck; the pent-up desolation, the feeling of isolation, the fury that relmyna had laid with another -- all of these things choked him and he found less enjoyment in brutalizing her than he normally would have.

with a snarl riming his curled gums he held her close, waiting until he was able to free himself from her. he half expected her to lunge at him, to rebuke by force with teeth -- and he kept her close as possible in the event she found her breath again.