"You like my scent, don't you?"
He reeked!  I'd caught my first whiff from way across the room.  Everyone else had too, but they were all being polite.  Still, there were glances, and too many steps back.  And the whole party practically parted when he'd made his way over to me.
Ferals like him always smelled strong.  Most tried to hide it, so—fair's fair—the rest of us tried to hide our reactions.  This one, he didn't hide a damn thing, smell or sight.  Back and forth, side to side, all of it swung free between his legs where every soul couldn't help but see.  They still did their damnedest not to stare.
But me?  I stared.  I'd been staring.  I couldn't stop staring.
He'd seen it, seen me, all the way from the door.  Now his snout poked where my neck met jaw.  His nostrils, his fangs.  His tongue!  He was huge everywhere, just as tall on all fours as I was on my two.  
"You want more?"
I think I did.  A lot of me did.  Other, more sensible bits didn't; not here, not in front of so many eyes.  But those bits were so, so small and his were so fuckin' big!
He pushed me, backed me to the hall.  Then down it, step by stumbling step.  Through an unlatched door.  Had he known it'd be open?  Would he've rutted me up it, if it'd been locked?  
His tail slapped it shut.  His tip flicked the latch.  And then we were alone, more or less.  The party kept on partying.  They'd hear us.  They'd have to.  Not that there was anything I could do about it.  Or wanted to.
He was long, down there.  I mean, most ferals have a bit of reach, for mounting and such, y'know?  But this thing pushed out past his belly, and more kept coming.  Also, girth—dear gods, he was thick!  Almost too much to fit both hands around, let alone anything else.
Almost.
His was tapered at the tip.  Big ol' bulbous spearhead that ended in a fat, jutting spout.  And from the sag of those even-more-bulbous balls beneath, he'd pump mammoth loads from it.
"You want it all."
He came on again, nudging and nuzzling and backing me across the room.  My rump hit the arm of a couch.  He took another step, put me up over it.  
I'd been horny before.  Who hasn't?  But this-!  This was seeing him, smelling him, feeling him.  He had my insides hot and tight and trembling.  I was panting.  I was gasping!  It wasn't fear.  …most of it wasn't.  My knees shook, my thighs too—parting farther, farther, inch by wavering inch until I was spread for him.  His meat beat down between, and in that huffing breath I wanted my pants gone so it'd rest raw on my bare breeding hole.
Breeding hole.  Not ass, not rump; it wasn't just the back way to my prostate, to be pounded for pleasure.  No, this was where a cock like his—hell, his alone!—was meant to go.  My hole'd been made for him.  I'd been made for him.  
My hands went to my belt.  Then my button.  Then my zipper.  
His foreclaw hooked the half-open front and tore my jeans wide.  He tugged those tatters down my knees, then ripped my underwear away.  I couldn't even care about them.  His big breeder flopped hide-to-skin across my cock and balls, and the belly of it beat, beat, beat against my hole.  
He reeked!  That sour, salty stench of his sweaty male musk flooded over me.  My eyes met his tip, his spout.  It winked at me and sputtered something cloudy-clear.
Those broad fores pressed to my shoulders and pushed me back along the couch until my tailbone perched atop its arm and his hips braced on mine.  
"You want it raw."  
I didn't, did I?  That was risky, dangerous.  I'd heard all the stories, everyone had.  Don't take a feral bare—no matter the hole, no matter your sex.  Wasn't sure I believed any of that.  I mean, I was definitely male.  How would that even…?  
But part of me did believe.  Fuckin' hell, it wanted that.  
Worse, the rest of me—the sane bits?—also didn't want to see him wrapping that thing up.  Hiding all that dribbling, throbbing glory in some ugly rubber?  No.  Fuck no!  Plus, finding one, getting it on—that'd take time, and not just a short bit for how much of him there was.  This couldn't wait.  I couldn't wait.  
He couldn't, either.  And he didn't.  
His hips rocked back and up, and his breeder slid down my front.  Gods, that cock!  His flare, his spout dragged back over mine—so small by compare.  Then across my sack; then his tip slipped beneath, between my legs.  He'd left a trail, musky-sweet, on me.  I drank it up.  My shaft danced.  He pushed his into me, filled my thigh-gap, kissed my pucker.  My pucker kissed him back.
His head came down on mine; his breath, hot on my face.  Spicy, meaty.  He swallowed, he rumbled.  Was he nervous, too?  No, couldn't be, not a beast like him, not with his spearhead already spreading the crack of my rump.
So I put my hands to his muzzle, his snout, his lips.  Thick fur—not quite shaggy, but more than enough to sink my fingers into.  He was so warm underneath, almost as much as the stuff his spout spread all over my sinkhole.  That drained down my crack, down my dangling tail.  Another gob lurched from his tip.  Then another.  Drip, drip, drip on the wood of the floor.  
"You'll be mine after this."  
He grinned.  Big.  Broad.  Full of fangs. 
I didn't answer, just stared back into those yellow, slitted eyes.  So bright, so narrow, so sharp.  I couldn't hold back my shiver.  I couldn't hold back my moan.
"All.  Mine."
He pushed it in.  
It wasn't a jerk or hump or thrust; it was one long, slow, steady press of his spear that pried my ass wider than I'd ever been and packed every inch full of him.  My legs bent, my arms.  I dug claws into the sofa, toes into their shoes.  He kept going, kept putting in more.  Fuck.  Fuck!  Might've been screaming, but my muzzle was buried in his chest.  He had all his weight on me, on my face, on everything of mine.  I could barely breathe through all that fur.
It wasn't really because of the fur.  
His musk!  Every inch of him stank of sex.  And not just normal sex, on a bed or any other sofa—this was sweaty snarling sex, two beasts mad with rut, one about to fuck the other's brains out and a litter in.  
Was I beast, same as him?  Felt true.  Felt right.  
And he knew.  Couldn't not.  
"I'm going to make you a mother."
The first hump came slow, soft.  Then he pulled back, almost off of me.  The next came firmer, deeper.  He rocked away again, but his balls lingered on my tail.  The next, faster.  I still shook inside after he pulled back.  Next, harder.  His sack slapped the armrest, and those tremors went up my spine.  Deeper!
"You want that?  My seed?  My spawn?
His tongue dragged up my muzzle, all the way to the top of my head.  
"Hrrf—won't have to wait much longer."  
He didn't say more.  He didn't have to.  His tip flared tight in my bowels; his base drummed on my prostate.  He pumped in, out, in, out.  Couldn't not know what was coming.
This is how ferals are made.  
He shoved it in, stuffed it, held it longer.  It trembled.  He hissed, he snarled, he dragged it half out and shoved it back in.  His breeder's belly beat fast inside me, much faster than his blood.  Something splashed inside me, hot, wet.  He slammed it in, drove his fat flare far as he'd fit.  Then his whole length pumped, pumped, pumped!  It wasn't even wet—just a swelling, hot mass inside me growing from his spout, spreading out.
He was roaring; felt it though his chest, his breeder.  I roared right back and spat ropes into his bellyfur.  
He didn't stop.  He didn't!  It just kept coming and coming, stuffing every inch of me and more.  How'd he have so much?  My belly ached, my hole, my legs.  And still more pumps, more heat, more him, more, more.  It gushed out of me, spattered on the floor, made a fuckin' mess.  
I don't remember his last shot.  I don't remember when his roaring stopped.  I do remember that big beating rod resting inside me, all warm and thick and seeping.  
He'd done it.  Couldn't pretend he hadn't.  With that much?  Only question was how many of his whelps I'd be carrying.  Still didn't know how, but I could feel it taking.
His breathing came softer now, but that was all I could hear.  Nothing—not a single sound—seeped in through the door.  There'd been a party.  Was it over?  No.  Things'd just been starting, and what we'd done hadn't gone that long.  Had it?  No, no.
Everyone out there was listening.
But it was fuzzy, trying to think about that, trying to be worried or scared or ashamed.  He purred, low.  It rumbled so soft all around me, and so firm inside.  This was good.  This was safe.  He was good and safe.  I could hide under his fur forever.
That wasn't true.  Not quite.  Not yet.  
He gave a grunt, pushed up, pulled back.  My hole hung on, but bit by bit by little bit he dragged his breeder out.  It popped free, and a whole lot more something hit the floor.  I think my pants were down there.  Sure weren't hanging from my ankles anymore.
He sniffed at it, at me, my hole; huffed, trilled, snorted.  Then:
"I'll take you home."
I think I nodded, tried to mumble 'yeah'.
That big, fuzzy body came around to my side, dipped down, and I rolled off the couch onto his shoulders and hips.  It wasn't so warm, not until I'd settled on and wriggled in.  Then, all that heat held under his fluff-!  I purred, a cub again—even more than I'd ever been.
He rose, turned about, took steps.  Stopped.  The latch clicked, just in front of us.  Its door moaned open.  He padded through to the hall, and kept on down to its end.    
They had to be watching.  They had to be whispering.  I couldn't hear them.  I couldn't care.  His heart thumped loud, proud in my ear.  I pressed myself deeper until we were outside.  
It was still chilly.  I think.  Hard to be sure, with how warm he was.  Made everything else feel like winter.  I didn't hate that, though.  
He hit the street and turned left.  My place was somewhere right.  I hadn't told him where.  I hadn't told him my name.  "We going to yours?"  
"We are."
I wanted to see where he lived.  I wanted to ask him his name.  "I think I need new pants."
"You do."
He sauntered along beneath me, father of my kids, and I didn't even know what to call him.  But it didn't feel the right time to ask.  Not yet.  What time was it?  Sun seemed dim, but his fur was too lovely to lift my head and check.  "Gonna get hungry.  Didn't eat much before you… yeah."
"I cook."
"Oh?"  That made a silly picture in my head: him, reared up over a stove, toiling with his fores.  Guess his kind didn't all just order out, or hunt, or whatever.  Well, if he was gonna make me dinner, I couldn't complain.  "Got some good family recipes?"
He nodded.  He purred.
"Can't wait to try 'em all."  I'd be eating for two.  Three?   
He purred louder.  
Made me want to drift off in his fluff.  "Y'know what we should do after?"
His shoulders shifted, his head tilted.
I wiggled up him, stroked his neck, put lips to his ear.  "You get back in me, and we make sure."