Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

the man closes the distance between them with long strides that make him appear otherworldly.  he is fixed on her and as he moves closer she can see the gears turning in his head.  some just get a look about them.

her anxiety increases before he speaks in a tongue she does not recognize (but does not inherently dislike) before following up in the language of the common — i will not hurt you.

she breathes out through her nostrils, the fog that escapes telling him that she has shifted from discomfort into contentment... or at least as content as she could be given her current predicament.

so if he wasn't going to hurt her, what was the intent of that determination?  he continues loping towards her and he does not stop so she freezes, tensing but she does not snap or fight in fear as he noses her throat because he could kill her with ease —

— and perhaps she wishes he would! as she remembers the euphoria brought forth from tearing open her legs, but instead the only way her body chooses to betray her is in the raising of her hackles.

as he is underneath her (what a funny sight, with how small she is), she cocks her head slowly, another soft whine resting deep in her throat.