Stavanger Bay Well it's too late

Kjalarr was obedient — a rare form for him — but importantly he was still as he allowed her to nose through the tendrils of fur at his scruff and neck, followed by touches that were feather light, yet he was receptive to them all, a low noise resembling a purr of pleasure rumbling in his chest. She didn't tease him, at least Kjalarr assumed, not with the actual intention of teasing him but each touch left him wanting, left him aching to succumb to the primal instinct as archaic as time itself: to further his genetic line, despite that he was not yet old enough to actually produce offspring. Yet, he was maturing and the fact that he was drawn in by her scent, stimulated by her heat cycle, by her tantalizing touches proved as such.

Freyja took a step back from him and slowly, Kjalarr's salmon pink tongue snaked over his lips, over his muzzle as he contemplated her question, despite that it required no true thought. He wondered, idly in the part of his brain that wasn't clouded by instinct and the desire to take,if this was a test. What did he want? Was it her specifically? Or to sate the lingering fire in his loins? Both, perhaps. Kjalarr suspected that she knew very well what he wanted. His response could be simple, or it could be complicated. “I want what my instincts are telling me I want,” He responded slowly, carefully. He didn't know her, not anything about her — not even her name. Perhaps, he did not want to know her. Would the illusion of Freyja be shattered if he did? He did not know and wasn't so sure he was willing to find out.

“What do you want?” He returned the question to her.