The Beast begins to approach from the other end of the corridor, seeming to materialise from the black depths of the shadows that form there, where the torchlight doesn't reach. Meri sees him slowly emerge from the darkness and stride forward, sees the great horns that sprout out from his head and then the tops of his wings, and then his huge face.
It's, aptly, a bestial one -- hugely maned and lion-like, with big red eyes, dark whiskers, teeth bared with his mouth open. He's scenting the air, she realises, panting slightly as he approaches, standing straight-backed on two feet, his wings folded behind his shoulders and so, so broad.
His fur is thick and darkly yellow, his mane a richer gold and brown, and as he comes closer she looks from his white, white teeth, glistening with saliva, his red tongue twitching on the floor of his mouth, rough with texture down to his broad chest, his muscular shoulders, his belly. The Beast's thighs are so heavy with muscle that she can see him move and flex under his fur, see his thick calves.
His thick, thick calves. Powerful.
His cock is beginning to stand erect, its sheath sliding back and bearing its actual prick, huge and thick and brightly, shiny pink. That's how it works, with the Beast -- sometimes a cock and other times a cunt, but usually one or the other, although she supposes pronouns don't matter much, in the scheme of things.
She can see the spines on the Beast's cock as he moves closer, see his cock bobbing as he moves, sees liquid pearl at the cock's tapered dead and shimmer as it slides down the shaft of it.
The Beast stands over her, his mouth smiling as he keeps inhaling, nostrils flaring as he breathes in lungfuls of air -- can he smell her, scent her? Scent her cock, which is so hard she can barely stand it, pre leaking out of the head of her prick and landing wet on the surface of her belly.
She'd been half hard as the priestesses had tied her in place on the plinth, her arms behind her back, her head back on a pillow on the stone. Her thighs are spread wide, and each of her ankles as been tied to her thighs, the soles of her feet touching against the cold stone surface of the altar she's laid back on.
"Do you have a name?" the Beast asks in a soft and rumbling voice, a deep purr that comes from well within its barrel chest, and Meri remembers what the priestesses told her, remembers their overlapping voices, their laughter, the way they'd nudged one another as they'd tied her with ropes and pinned her down to the altar.
Not to stop her from getting away, from fleeing -- to stop the Beast from taking her, if he decided he liked her too much to leave her here.
"Yes," Meri says. "But you can't have it."
The Beast's laugh is rich as honey, feels as if it's got the same thick, oozing quality as his paw-like hands settle on her thighs and stroke against the flesh -- she can feel the rough skin on his pad-like palms, feel his single-knuckled fingers and the ghost of their clawed tips. The claws are retracted, but she can still feel them, feel their edges, and she can see how black they are as she cranes her neck to look, the claws so much darker in colour than the claws she's seen on housecats.
"And if I convince you to give it to me, girl?" the Beast asks, and his rough pad-palms are a distantly warm texture on her skin as he slides them from her thighs up over her hips, her waist, up to her chest, where she's got the barest swell of small tits, so flat when she's on her back that they barely seem noticeable at all, and yet the Beast, it seems to her, is noticing them.
He's smiling, his teeth showing as he keeps breathing in deeply, and he ghosts one of the tips of his claws over her nipple, making her gasp in a sharp, high breath -- she tries to flinch, but her body doesn't move, pinned as she is with the bands around her upper arms, her ankles, keeping her down against the altar.
"They used to belt the girls around their bellies, over their chests," the Beast says, stepping closer. She can feel the golden fur on his thighs against her own, feel it tickling against her skin, and then the Beast's huge cock drops down on top of her own and a shudder runs through her -- it's so much bigger than hers, three or four times as thick around, and about as many times as long, so long that the tip of it rests on the soft flesh a few inches above her navel. "Do you know why they stopped doing that, girl?"
Meri moans as the Beast thrusts forward, and she feels the rough wetness of his cock against hers, and she tries to squirm, tries to move even though she can't, even though the whole point of it is that she can't. His heavy balls, wrapped in a sac of some of the softest fur she's ever felt, tickles against her own clean-shaven balls, and she wonders if that was why the priestesses had insisted on it, or if it was just the pleasure of spreading her out and teasing her as they slid the razor over the sensitive skin, blew over it with their pretty, gold-painted mouths, tickled her hole before they massaged lube around and inside it.
The Beast tugs back, and she jumps as his cock slides down her shaft, the head resting on top of her bollocks before he drops the head of his cock down to her hole instead, and she heaves in a gasp at the feel of it, at the slight pressure at the oil-slick pucker of her cunt, remembering how the priestesses' fingers had felt as they'd delved into her and spread her open, prepared her -- the tips of their fingers, too, shining from being dipped in gold.
"You weren't taught to answer a question posed you?" the Beast asks, disapproving, and his eyes seem to darken, his lip curling back from his sharp, sharp teeth, his whiskers shifting.
"Because -- Because they'd... snap?" Meri proffers him, and she's aware of the way her chest is rising and falling -- if she had bigger tits, they'd bounce, in a position like this one, would move and wobble.
"They often didn't," the Beast says, and laughs, and she feels her blood run a bit cold at the thought, at the thought of those girls' bellies bulging with the Beast's come inside them, bloated and growing with more of it, at their tits growing and frothing with fresh milk, and the belts holding them back. "Yes, you're envisaging it rightly," the Beast tells her warmly, stroking back and forth over her thighs, his touch very gentle, so gentle that it makes her shiver, makes tingles run up her spine. "They'd cut those girls free and they'd have marks from leather straps or ropes over their bellies, buckled imprints interrupting the rhythm of their pretty little stretch marks."
"And their tits, too?" she asks, and the Beast nods his huge, maned head, and she looks at the curling locks that make up his mane, feeling her hands twitch behind her back as she thinks about touching it, putting her fingers through it, combing it out with her fingertips.
"Their tits, too," the Beast confirms, sounding smug and pleased with himself. "I'm not to untie you girls -- can't be trusted to do such things, and as such, it is against my own contractual bindings -- but I could move their bindings on their bodies, to better suit a given aesthetic. I had become rather good at estimating how their tits would grow, to balance the banding rope just over their nipples, so that once they were finished, mmm, expanding, the marks across them would be a perfect bisection."
