Whitebark Stream put your ring back on honey-tits, you haven't had enough porridge this morning (mtr.)

The torture of that first strain of his hips have her lashes fluttering closed as her eyes — melted argent points of deep lust — tumble in her skull, had her straining and brimming; and all that she could really do, when he began a steady, easy rhythm was to writhe against and round him. Regardless, his hips snapped into her with a renewed, feverish strength despite all languidty considered, driving each stroke deep with a pronounced, underlying sharpness. To her credit, the wintry she-wolf made an attempt to poked her bum up (albeit quivering-weak the whole while) to keep herself as flush to the sotaherra's cradle of hips as she could, tried to savor more of him as he did with her.

As she let herself be taken further into his embrace, murmuring incoherent, and a part of her wanted him to use every inch of himself against her for his own gain; but he held her like the queen she never deserved to be. Already, her breath began to turn uneven, staggering from her in little moans and whimpers; any words unable to not slur from between her scarred lips. Eyes became glassy, and soon she was bearing more of their weight into her pale forelegs; an arch became evident in her svelte spine, and she only pressed her hips further back against him.