We don't get many opportunities to talk, so when we do, we try to capture every erotic moment. She lives in the shadow of the tower, I am a thousand miles to the West. We both wear separate bands of gold but are bound to each other on a much deeper, guttural level.

I had brought my pack of wolves to devour her. to take her, to take every bit of her, in turn. her body shared by the pack, but her soul remains mine alone.

To watch her, on her hands and knees, to watch as she takes first one hard cock then other, and another until we are all satisfied, until she is overflowing, red, swollen, sore. I watch my pack of wolves paw at her back, watch as red scratches develop on her back. I beam with pride as I see her breasts turn a deep crimson from the pawing, the groping. I watch her skin start to glisten with sweat, I watch rivulets of saliva dribble down the front of her throat.

I listen to the animalistic grunts as each of my pack orgasms and fills her, the next eagerly awaits his turn to slide deep inside and fuck her.  Her own copious orgasm flowing. Her scent filling the room.

I know her secret desires, desires to be unbound by morals, by properness, even by the ring on her finger. She wants to be able to publically announce that she is an owned animal. A "Vache" to be bred and fucked. I imagine she is at her desk as I write this, proper, demure, appropriate. She'll certainly be in her modest skirt, but underneath her heart races to the thought that later this evening, she'll be on her hands and knees, breasts pressed under her, my hands spreading her from behind, my mushroomed head pressing past her sphincter, grunting like the lustful animals that we are