Cyr raised his voice with the others in the chant. The noise was an entity in itself, rolling like thunder over the ritual ground, the words themselves lost but the intonation rising to a feverish roar. At the center, the priests stepped out: looming on their hoof-shaped stilts, shrouded in dark robes, costume tails hanging behind them, faces covered by the flat white mask, a spray of gnarled branches twining up from their heads: dressed in imitation of the Beast God himself.

One of them lead out the bull, tail twitching, to the center of the altar, and the chant died down, rippling to a halt, Cyr one of the last to stop: he was only an acolyte, not high enough rank to even be present for the ritual, but he'd begged and pleaded until...

It was dusk, and the final rays of the sun burned purple-red along the rim of the sky; the first stars making the Heart high above, the upper crescent of the Imperial Orb dotted on the dark horizon. The harvest feast would be tomorrow at midday, but before the feast: the sacrifice.

Cyr's breath billowed in the chill air, the devotees surrounding him seeming like a herd of animals, silent and still in the darkness, all attention turned to the ritual ground. The reason why he'd begged with such determination:

His eyes caught the motion before his mind followed it. The priests had arrayed themselves around the bull, and from the back one of them stepped out of line. Back straightening, body suddenly looming over the rest. He stepped into the circle, hand -- huge, stumpy, clawed -- raising to tear his vestiments, clawing off his human disguise until he was girded only by a ring of rags low on his inhuman hips. He rose and rose until he was standing at full height, towering over the priests, his immense tined horns forming a black tree behind him. His white willow mask was still affixed to the crown of his head, pushed out of the way of his muzzle. The Beast God himself, in flesh. Cyr had stopped breathing, staring unblinking at the God.

The God lived in seclusion, in the forest: only allowing the highest priests to attend him. But on the ritual nights he stepped out into the world, giving his blessing, and Cyr had longed to-- to just see him, with his own eyes.

The God stooped in front of the bull, his animal face not much different: he pressed their foreheads together, muzzles crossing, staring with his brilliant eyes at the bull. Steaming breath wreathed their heads, catching and flowing across the God's horns as it billowed into the night sky.

The God moved swiftly: hands wrapping around the bull's shoulders, as if in an embrace, and it was only with the gush of brilliant blood that Cyr realized he'd slit the bull's throat with his claws. The bull lowed, once, starting to thrash as he died, and a moment later his eyes closed and his body toppled, caught in the God's hands like a babe.

He leaned in, jowls pulling back to show his teeth, sharp and carnivorous, and bit into the bull's shoulder, the wet crunch and tear audible in the perfectly still night. The God pulled back, face and chest sodden with the bull's blood, animal throat jogging as he swallowed the mouthful.

He stood, a roar bursting from his lips, spit and blood spattering before him: this was the crowd's cue, and they started again, a wordless chant that was little more than a prolonged cry: of ecstasy, of triumph, of blessing. Cyr didn't join in: he stared at the God, hands wrapped tight around the thin fence at the edge of the ritual ground, feeling like he would burst apart at the slightest motion.

The God lit the pyre, plunging his arms into the thicket of brambles, coaxing out smoke in sputtering bursts and then finally fire, casting light up across his inhuman, animal body, making his yellow eyes glow with an inner light. He looked up, eyes panning across the roaring crowd -- seeming to fix Cyr with his golden gaze for a terrible, infinite second -- before he turned, fallen on all fours, tearing off into the forest, crashing through underbrush.

Only then did Cyr's trance break, and he stumbled and nearly fell, were it not for the devotee next to him catching him, helping him stumble away. The other devotee said something, and he must have said said something back, but there was no memory of it in his mind when he found himself again: sitting on a low rock bench, the ritual over, the priests beginning the involved task of preparing the bull for the feast. He was flushed and sweaty, his curly hair plastered to his head. Dazed from the gaze of the God; his body singing after coming so close to the divine.

He tottered to his feet, not thinking in words: animal impulses burned through his mind, needing to get away from the crowd, hole up somewhere. Let the profane desires pour through him.

He found himself shambling around the ritual ground, away from the congregation, past the ritual houses, until he was standing before the bath house: empty now, after the high priests had purified themselves to stand next to the god, dressed as his attendants. Technically he wasn't allowed here, but with the priests overseeing the initial roasting there wasn't anyone to see his minor transgression. He pulled open the door to the baths, fog billowing out and --

he was suddenly face-to-face with the Beast God himself: his massive form filling the space beyond the doorway, the tines of his horns still like the branches of a black tree, still wild in the bathhouse's bright light. Cyr stood there for a moment, stock-still, jaw hanging open -- The God was soaked with sweat, the arterial spray from the sacrificial bull a rich red plastered across his chest, and under that his fur was streaked with paint. His fur was black with soot across his forearms, where he'd lit the fire. The brilliant woad and madder symbols across his chest and arms had smeared illegibly, further matting his fur into thick, grimy clumps. The line down the center of his chest had -- or always had been -- blotchy and uneven, thick tufts of fur curled in greasy tangles all the way down to --

The other thing was, the God had stripped the remains of his human disguise, and even with the thick, dangling curls growing between his haunches, there was no hiding the inhuman, animal swell there.

Cyr went pale. The air on his face was chill suddenly, the humid air of the bathhouse ice cold. He wobbled on his feet, stammering -- "O Lord forgive my trespass!" "I did not know"; half-formed apologies fumbling from his mouth. He'd begged his initiate for permission to attend the rite even though he was only an acolyte and _this_ was what he did.

The God quirked his head to the side, his enormous animal eyes focusing on him, and Cyr found himself arrested in his movement, the God's hand wrapped loose around his wrist, the sharp black claws hard and solid. "I don't recognize you," he said, and his voice was... strangely-accented, but not as inhuman as Cyr had supposed. So very different from the inhuman bellows he'd made on stage.

"I'm only an acolyte --" he said, babbling, and went on to explain: not high enough rank, first time seeing the revealed ritual, please forgive his ignorance
, he didn't know -- but the God waved that away.

"No matter," he said. "If you are here, then you are here, and while you are here -- I am in need of servants to attend to my bath." Cyr gaped, looking again at the God's naked body, a dizzy flush staining his cheeks, stiflingly hot creeping down his neck.

"But I'm not -- surely there are others who would be better... trained. In. Ministering your needs." Better steeled against temptation, he was thinking: for how could anyone stand before their God and not fall on their knees, selfish in their worship, craving the God for themselves. The God was all fear and glory, radiant in his power, and... there were many things he wished to attend for the God, but even thinking the _God_ might be willing to allow them was blasphemy.

"Would you leave your God with none to tend his needs?" The God asked, and put that way -- Cyr blanched again, his old words seeming rank heresy. And -- he did, desperately, want to reach out and touch; feel the immortal energy that powered the God. To bask in his glory. "Then attend," the God said, and stepped back, leaving Cyr frozen as he settled into the bath. The water rose, his vast body sending rivulets streaming over the sides. He shifted, and his slightest motion sent waves cracking the sides, pouring down in steaming waves.

His fur billowed in the water, and when he sat up it settled flat on his frame, revealing every detail of his inhuman body. He had the barrel chest of a bull, underbelly hollowed, and as he shifted his muscles rippled, immense slabs shifting across his stomach and chest. His wrists and elbows were huge, heavy animal joints, but his forearms and bicep were almost lean: vaster than any human's musculature, but almost delicate on his frame, with his fur plastered to his hide.

It was impossible to think of him as anything other than divine; the primeval force of nature from the forests and mountains; the wilding world itself given flesh and blood.

Cyr had at least been taught the ritual purification rites. Those were to scour the ritual role from the actor, to make a human impure again so their actions wouldn't sully the ritual itself -- but in the moment he didn't think of that, and so set out the oils and salts and perfumes, the delicately-glazed earthenware vessels that sloshed with heavy liquids. He poured them carefully, letting the oils spread atop the water, drawn into the sodden fringe of the God's fur, the color of his dyes leeching into the water, a murky blue-yellow-brown stain billowing out from his dirty fur, the red-brown of blood spreading out beneath.

Cyr looked again at the God, sprawled back and sunk to midflank. The slow slosh of water lapped up his chest, which stretched and contracted with the God's slow breath. He knelt at the edge of the bath, to the side of the God, and reached out. His hands trembled as he made contact, the God's fur thick and coarse under his fingers and sodden with filth. He worked his fingers through the God's fur like he was cleaning the ritual clothing made in his imitation, washing the soot and dye away.

The God's eyes opened, blinking up at him from the awkward angle, Cyr leaning forward to touch where the water lapped at his side: "Don't be so delicate," he said, and pulled on Cyr's sleeve. "Come in."

The thick steam cut away the rest of the world, isolating them both. Or perhaps the God had spirited him away to a higher plane: either way, it was almost natural to reach back and pull the laces of his tunic, let its heavy cords fall loose down his back, and then let it fall from him. He stripped from his undershirt and trousers, until there was a pile of heavy fabric on the bench and he was standing there in only his loincloth. Even that -- he couldn't imagine taking that off; couldn't imagine doing that and then doing anything other blasphemy, rutting against the God's side, moaning and lost in ecstasy. He was thankful for the heat of the baths; it gave him an excuse for his brilliant flush, pale skin a blotchy red-pink from his navel to the crown of his head.

The water was heavy around him as he stepped in, a pressure swallowing up his legs, clenching around his thickened cock, and he nearly moaned when the God opened his eyes again, yellow-black and burning, staring right at him.

He lathered his hands with soap, staring down at the sledgehammer-head muscles of the God's stomach, visible even through the filthy tangle of his hair. He worked his fingers to the roots, flushing and stiffening when the God groaned and settled back; some small portion of his power under Cyr's fingertips. He crouched before the God, washing his stomach, not-thinking of nothing save the inhuman swell of his godhood, hidden but still present just inches from his hands. He went through the motions, like he was washing some high priest's hair: gently loosening the worst of the tangle, pulling twigs from the shaggy mess of his shoulders, crushed leaves all down his back, tufts of loose fur from everywhere, floating in mats on the water's surface. Crusts of dried blood under his long sharp nails -- nearly breathless as he cleaned them, holding the God's right hand in his hands, peeling the bull's black blood away. Working his own nails along the underside, studiously not looking at the God's face.

He soaped and oiled the God's fur, fingers scrubbing down to the root. It felt like a dream: the humid air rich with the scent of perfume, the God's animal musk sharp under the surface. He moved in a daze, meditative: worshiping his God's body as if in a ritual, every action rehearsed.

His motions stuttered when he reached the God's flanks. His upper body was positively glowing: oiled fur rippling in thick waves down his chest, outlining his chiseled muscles; nails gleaming. But below his waist, submerged in the water -- his hand slipped across the God's flank, trembling in the water; afraid to touch his inner thigh.

The God shifted, sitting up, and for the first time Cyr looked up, red-faced as he met the burning gold eyes of the God.

"Why did you stop?" the God asked, voice muffled in the fog.

Cyr swallowed, thinking -- blasphemy, impropriety, the burning desire in him to not see the God as a divine being but simply as a man to seduce.

As if seeing the root of his indecision: "It is the duty of a god to care for their flock," the God said. "And likewise, the duty of an adherent to obey their god." Cyr stammered, beet red -- the God shifted, spreading his legs, leaning in, and the sharp feral hunger from the ritual was back in his voice when he spoke, rumbling in his ear: "I can smell what you desire. You reek of lust." He smiled, an animal baring of teeth. "Do you think so little of me, that I would reject your worship?"

He moved his hand over Cyr's, moving it to the root of his being, curling his fingers around his sheathed cock. So hot under his fingers it seemed like the water ought be boiling around it. His scent was overpowering, rich musk mixing with the perfumes. "Why not serve me in this way, when it is what you so dearly desire?"

Cyr couldn't think -- couldn't move, or breathe. Just focus on the heavy pulsing weight under his fingers, the God's cock sheathed in fur and flesh and slowly, almost gently stiffening, stretching and sliding. He let out a warbling, choked moan: taking the half-step closer he never dared, pressing the hard arch of his cock against the God's flank.

"Come," the God said. "Pray to me."

The bathwater sloshed as he rose, choppy waves spilling over the sides. His cock was coated in fur, the same as the rest of him. His fur grew darker and shaggier between his haunches, like a natural loincloth; nothing visible but the sheer size of it. Fur clinging to his hide, rivulets of water streaming down: the fat length of his cock was clear, so thick it took both of his hands to wrap around, and then just barely. His balls hung like pendulums, each one easily bigger than Cyr's entire head; so massive they grew asymmetrical, lopsided. The leathery hide of his sac was bulging and lumpy, the dark shine of his flesh clear through the stiff, bristly fur there.

Cyr bowed before him, on his knees on the bath ledge, in the crook of the God's thighs, his hands riding up the still-matted fur of his inner flank.

His cock was hidden by heavy, loose flesh, something somewhere between an animal's sheath and a foreskin, drawn forward over the length of his cock, with the flesh gathered together in a pursed ring past the tip. It twitched and shuddered, and a moment later a fat glistening pearl of fluid, like a small glass globe, spilled from inside. Cyr's fingers caught it and it burst, spilling clear precome across his fingers, spilling into the bathwater. It reeked of sex.

Like the rest of him -- the God's cock was neither human nor animal, but something in between; a miracle of form unto itself. Cyr stroked his shaft, working the heavy flesh of his sheath back and forth. The God groaned, cock spitting a sudden bolt of heavy pre, slashing across his face and dribbling into his open mouth, and Cyr whimpered in response, tongue flitting out to catch the potent fluid.

The God groaned, one huge hand rubbing the back of Cyr's head, encouraging, and he touched again, stroking up and down that hairy shaft, staring as the flesh around the tip flexed open and closed, revealing in flashes brilliantly red flesh, fat and erect.  Even stubby and short on the God's massive body, it was more than a handspan long; he could only cup it in his hands, stroking the hairy flesh. His fingers slid down, carding through his fur, to the loose, heavy flesh of his sac. The God's balls hung low, submerged in the water like boulders. His sac was stuffed full, nearly bloated with finger-thick tubes, swollen and twisted in a tangle inside. Shifting, now, under Cyr's hands as he stroked the God's fat, bestial cock from root to crown, other hand tugging on the God's fat, lopsided balls.

He wrapped his fingers around the tip and pushed back, the heavy sheath flesh bunching and folding over itself in hairy waves as he revealed the God's cock. He slid his thumb up a spar of hard flesh, only seeing it a second later when the loose flesh peeled back: the lips of the God's cock, spread and protruding from his fat, conical cockhead, so flushed they were a bloody-looking purple-red. They parted softly, dribbling out a string of gleaming fluid, slobbery as it spilled over Cyr's fingers.

Cyr smeared his fingers up and down the underside of the God's cock, marvelling at how each slight movement caused the God to shudder and groan, the single rivulet of precome becoming a flood, spitting and spurting with every touch. Hot streams of fluid dripped down his hands and into the bathwater, dissipating in billowing plumes.

His fingers found the ridge of the God's cockhead, two fingers thick, and here the God's sheath was so piled up that the moment Cyr wrapped around his cockhead, the bunched-up folds of hairy skin slipped right back over his fingers, crawling up the backs of Cyr's hands like a hungry mouth until he was wrist-deep inside the God's cock, the tip of his foreskin stretched into a gaping, oozing hole around his hands. Fresh ooze sprayed across his palms, squelching inside his foreskin before drooling out between Cyr's wrists as a single thick line of slime. Cyr groaned, dazed, and leaned in, pressing his lips against the upper line of the God's foreskin, kissing the wet flesh -- tongue pushing inside his stretchy sheath along with his hands.

The taste impossibly potent, the animal lusts of the God concentrated to a single point, like wild ambrosia.  The rank, heady taste burst into his mouth. Cyr moaned again, the noise muffled by the God's cock, and into his open mouth shot a mess of precome, enough slick issue it puffed his cheeks out, fat streamers spilling from his mouth onto his wrists, streaming out from the God's fat sheath into the water in squelches and squirts. He stared up at the God, his eyes blazing gold and locked down at him, his animal muzzle parted, drool spilling down his chest in thick streamers.

Sloppy gurgling and sucking noises came from his hands, fingers clenching and curling around his fat cockhead without thought, working his sloppy liquid pre deep into his bloated foreskin. His fingers were glazed, sloppy; every motion came with a liquid gurgle. He squeezed, slopping stroking the inner flesh of the God's cock, lathering his palms with the God's heavy issue, mouth overflowing with the rank, heavy fluid, rich and impossibly potent as it spilled across his tongue.

He peeled his hands from the God's sheath, emerging shining with fluid; the loose flesh slopped forward, easily slipping over Cyr's mouth now that his hands weren't stretching it taut. He pushed in eagerly, pressing a wet kiss against the God's cockhead, folds of skin piling across his cheeks, burying his nose in folds of musky flesh, the scent pure and sharp, smoky and bloody. Slick pre burst into his open mouth, scorching his tongue like rich wine. It poured straight from the body of the God into him, bubbling in his stomach as he drank and drank, gulping down mouthful after mouthful of divine essence, moaning and crying in ecstasy.

Each pulse of the God's cock flared its crown, battering his lips as he drank the rich slime, face upturned, sunk half-inside the loose folds of the God's sheath. His hands clenched the God's hairy flanks, drifting up through his sodden fur, fingers splayed around the mammoth curve of his balls, twitching and shuddering under his palms.

Cyr sobbed when the God drew back, hairy flesh peeling away from his soaked skin, taffylike ribbons zig-zagging between his glistening face and the God's gaping sheath.

"There is more I would have you do," the God said, and it was with a soaring euphoria in his soul that Cyr realized he was breathless, chest heaving -- _he_ did that; he so pleased the God.

"Anything," he moaned, hands wrapped around the God's cock, bunching his sheath back, stroking him still.

The God twisted around, water churning at his flanks, until he was very nearly sitting in Cyr's lap. The base of his tail twitched once, drawing his shaggy fur in slashing lines across his thigh and ass, before it moved again, more strongly this time -- showing the pucker of his asshole. His dark hide paled, the flesh of his most intimate region a vivid pink, a shockingly bright bullseye. His asshole shone, slick with water. Cyr's fingers reached out, hand moving beyond his control, dragging his fingertips over the puckered hole. The God lowed again, shoulders shaking. His hole twitched, clenching into a tight knot of puckered flesh, and then spreading, parting like a hungry mouth, revealing the pink flesh of his inner ass.

Cyr found himself gripping the God's ass, fingers curved over the solid muscles, thumbs in the cleft of his ass, sliding up and down over the God's asshole. It spasmed wildly, all but sucking his thumbs in -- his skin was soft and pliant, almost puffy, yielding to the faintest pressure. He pressed his thumb-tip against the God's pucker, his muscled ring trembling, and sunk inside.

The God bellowed, hole pulsing around him, thrusting his ass back against Cyr. "More!" he yelled.

Cyr found himself mumbling, the words of the hymn of praise spilling from his lips as he fingered the God. He wasn't thinking of it consciously; he wasn't thinking consciously at all, actions seeming to bypass his overloaded mind entirely: he groaned as he pushed two fingers into the God's asshole, scissoring them back and forth, his front pressed against the God's thigh, frissons of pleasure rushing up through him from where his cock ground against the God's submerged bulk.

His fingers slid rough inside the God, the bathwater a paltry lube, but the God spread himself so open he had no trouble sinking his fingers all the way in, fingertips sliding up against the inner walls of his ass: the muscles there as rigid and implacable as the rest of him, iron-hard for all that they still convulsed around his intruding fingers.

The God's fingers were wrapped tight around the lip of the bath, claws scoring deep lines. He pushed back, nearly bowling Cyr back; he spread his legs, bracing himself underwater to meet the God's rapacious thrusts. The God clenched, asshole gripping his fingers tight, a snarling roar tearing out from his throat in sharp yips.

"More!" he yelled again, but different: desperate now, needing it. Cyr cast about wildly, grabbing the heavy pot of olive oil from where it was resting beside the bath. It took both hands to lift it, and the God mewled when he withdrew, asshole fluttering open and shut, needing something stuffing it. Cyr pressed the divot of the spout against the God's asshole, flesh dimpling and sinking against the weight. A thick stream of rich golden-green oil spilled out, flooding along the creases of his asshole -- and then the God opened wide, hole gulping down liquid, like Cyr was simply transferring the oil to a larger vessel, gurgling inside him until he overflowed, oil spilling in winding trails down the leathery flesh of his sac, staining him golden.

So lubed, he pressed his fingers again to the God's hole, fingers slipping in -- and now, pushing the crest of his knuckles into the God's hungry hole with almost no resistance, a squirt of oil drooling out over the back of his palm as he settled his hand inside. The God bellowed, sucking him in deeper -- the clenching, squeezing muscle opening into a rippling void. Inner muscles massaged his hand, clenching near his hole and then deeper in, and Cyr was drawn inexorably deeper too, shoving his hand inside, asshole wrapped around his wrist like a jeweled bracelet, heavy and clasped tight.

The God fucked himself back on Cyr's hand. He tossed his head, an animal motion, panting and snorting, bestial noises tearing from his throat. His maw yawned wide, streamers of drool spilling from his lips into the water. The God's asshole gaped, swallowing his bare arm nearly to the elbow, and then clenched down painfully hard. The God was -- so, so hot inside, and slick from the oil, a wet squelch and a spurt of oil oozing out around his arm with each thrust. The fat nut of the God's prostate was swollen against his knuckles, the God angling himself nearly level with the water as he slammed himself back on his hand over and over, huffing and panting.

The God's precome squirted from his fat cock with each thrust back onto Cyr's hand. Each blast fountained out, spraying in a thin sloppy mess everywhere, slapping against the edge of the bath, smearing atop the surface of the choppy water in a glistening layer, coating the both of them in its oily residue. The smell cut through the thick floral perfume: acrid and animal, almost rank in its richness. Cyr found himself pushing forward, meeting the God's thrusts, slamming his arm deep into the God's gaping ass; both of them moaning and grunting at the wet, meaty _thump_; Cyr's fist flattening the God's bloated prostate, milking him of his issue in gushing lines, sheening the water.

The steady slam of the God's thrusts stuttered and stopped, the God nearly pulling off entirely: splayed across the bath ledge, arms slung over the side; the crest of Cyr's hand just barely inside the God's ass, puffy flesh clenching and spasming all around. The God's rasping breath echoed off the wall, punctuated erratically by the sharp chop of the water, the gushing smacks when his precome sprayed across the surface of the water, and Cyr's own ragged breath, voice mumbling -- maybe he had been speaking all along -- prayers and praise to the beast God.

"Serve me well," the God said, arms clenching on the bath's rim, levering himself up -- his asshole sucked on Cyr's fist, drooling out a slimy cord of oil. He gaped even wider, bruised and violently red at the cratered rim. His balls were half-submerged on the seat, emerging like massive mossy boulders, the water lapping at their sides.

His body singing with lust, Cyr took the half-step closer, sinking his fist back into the God's fucked-open ass, and then splayed his other hand over the God's flank, fingers twitching as he scraped them down to the God's stuffed hole. The God let out an animal bellow, deep and resonant. He clenched, twitching and spreading, and Cyr slid his fingers in alongside his other arm, dizzy from the God's hole stretching, the divine muscle slowly easing wider, accepting every supplication Cyr had to offer.

The God's asshole slurped across his forearms, dragging the hairs on the backs of his arms one way and then the other: the band of muscle growing bloated and flushed, almost bruised from the harsh labor. The God's heartbeat thundered through him, the union of their body the most intimate kind; sharing sweat and spit and issue, hand reaching deep, deep into the God's body, surrounded on all sides by his presence, impossible to ignore: snorting, lowing, clenching; blessing Cyr with the inchoate lust of the animal. His skin ground against the beast's fur, wet and clinging. The shaggy fur between his haunches slapped against Cyr's thighs, winding around him as the beast bore down on his fists, only to pull away in thick tendrils.

The God climaxed with a roar that echoed off the walls, asshole clenching tight, oil slopping down Cyr's elbows, squirting out between his embedded forearms. His cock erupted, the _smack_ of each gush spraying over the lip of the bath nearly as loud as his roar, a heavy wet sound. The choppy water sloshed past Cyr and then back again, stilling in the same motion as the God; water dhifting slow, and the God frozen in place, unmoving -- on the surface, at least. Internally the God's body was aflame, heart pounding, muscles sucking eagerly around Cyr's fists, muscle spasms clenching and pulsing around his embedded arms as the God spent himself. The water grew cloudy, thick ribbons of his rank, animal issue floating atop the surface, clinging in wet streamers to Cyr's submerged thighs.

One with the God, Cyr arched forward, his aching cock rutting up the sloppy crack of the God's ass, settling against his oozing pucker. He followed, cock sliding in against his elbows, underside dragging against the puffy, swollen flesh of the God's ass. He hilted inside the God in a single wet thrust, hips jammed against his elbows, and came instantly, a cry of praise ripped from his throat as an animal yowl.

They moved together for a long moment, the God's harsh breathing rocking Cyr, slumped across his back, arms still buried deep in his ass. Cyr staggered back, tottering back until his heels hit the far bench, and he collapsed back, staring at the God's spread ass, drooling oil, the single strand of his orgasm winding through the deeply-creased folds of his worked-over ass. The water was growing tepid, fat discs of oil sliding across the surface, coarse hair caked in the corners, murky with dirt and issue. Reeking of lust.

The God straightened slow, the column of his back rising, looking for all the world -- or just Cyr, here, now -- like a feral animal, wild. His joints cracked as he twisted, slowly turning around, and his stomach was sodden with his issue, thick cloudy white gel splattered all up his stomach and chest, still sluggishly spurting from his bloated sheath. The water crested around him as he strode forward, surrounding Cyr, hands and flanks pressed against his weary skin. His eyes, enormous and animal, grew until they eclipsed all else; the God pressed his forehead against Cyr's, the same motion he'd made with the sacrificial bull.

"You've done well," he said, tongue slapping out to lick a frothing stripe up Cyr's chin. "Come the feast, you will have a place at my side." His breath was hot and rich billowing up the sides of Cyr's face.

"O Lord," Cyr cried, pressing himself against his God's divine body. "I am not worthy of this blessing!"

The God's eyes burned, pouring light into Cyr, luminous and wild, set into his animal face. "And afterwards, you will yield your body to me in supplication, again and again, for as long as I wish," lips pulling back in an animal grin at Cyr's ragged moan.

The water level sunk when the God stepped out, hooves clattering on the tiles. He was nearly as filthy as he had been when he'd entered: woad replaced with the tacky glue of his issue, a mess of oil and precome staining his fur. Cyr was in no position to notice; mind swirling around with the steam, only vaguely coming back to himself minutes later, the tepid water chill, his skin reeking of the God's issue, his loose fur plastered in mats against his skin.

He pulled himself from the bath, legs wobbling, mind still thinking below the level of consciousness, flooded with animal impulses. Stuck dumb and mute, perhaps, by his approach to divinity.

---

The feast -- and the night before -- was a blur. Surely he slept; surely he woke. He passed through time in a daze, thinking only of his God. Even when the sun was hot and bright above, and everyone gathered again for the feast -- he spoke to someone, certainly, and they spoke back. It all sounded like the lowing of animals: words, certainly, and comprehensible, certainly, as much as a cat's purr and hiss were comprehensible. His mind hung upon the knowledge of what would come next: the God taking him. In private, in front of all the priests and acolytes; it didn't matter. The God's hands, tongue, cock, touching him again. The wait was a torture all of its own. But of course the God had planned his time; Cyr wouldn't blaspheme by being too _impatient_.

But finally, finally, the time came. He had eaten, nearly close enough to touch the God, priests surrounding him. Perhaps it was clear to everyone that the God had touched him; how the God had touched him. But finally the feast was ended, and the God retired, and had taken Cyr with him, lead him into the forest like one leads a child. They passed under a bough and it was like stepping into another world: the clearing and the feast visible for a moment through the leaves, and then it faded away as if a dream, leaving them in silence, save for the wind and their footsteps.

The God lead him deeper into the forest, down animal paths and across creeks, until they came to something like a campsite, at the base of a rocky cliff. A thin trickle of water wept between the cracks, forming a natural spring, and the ground was covered thick in greenery: flowering moss in the shade that turned into clover further from the cliffside. The God's house, or one house of many.

The God turned to him, so tall looking down at Cyr. "Have you thought of this?"

"I have not been able to think of anything but," Cyr said, honestly.

The God stooped down, until he was almost on all fours, muzzle staring down, nose snuffling. "And what have you thought?"

"I--" Cyr started, stammering, cutting himself off. To give a list of his fantasies to the God, as if asserting his will against the God's? To coax their acts into a performance? "I would not -- I would not presume to be so selfish. To... be arrogant." His face was heated again, blush staining across his cheeks and neck.

In response the God laughed, an inhuman baying. "You wish to give yourself to me. To serve me with your body. You have dreamed of this." He shifted closer, sitting, and pulling Cyr close so that the God's immense legs bracketing him, nearly sitting in the God's lap. "Why would I be so cruel to deny you the blessing, when you wish so dearly to perform it?"

And -- in the God's lap, his titanic balls spread across the ground, his cock just beginning to stiffen -- Cyr found his gaze pulled to his length, the span of his cock short and stubby on his massive body but nevertheless animal in size, vaster than any human's. It was half-hard, arching up through the thick fur, thick rolls of fur piled around the stout shaft and forming rolls near the tip. A wet bead of precome slowly formed at the tip, like dew, and Cyr found himself swallowing thickly, craving the divine taste of the God's fluids.

As if the God could read his mind, he pulled Cyr forward, massive hand spanning his back: "Drink," he commanded, and Cyr could do naught but obey. He lapped at the God's cock, moaning at the taste: rich and heady, musk and salt, pooling thick in his mouth as his tongue darted inside the hot confines of the God's sheath. He slumped forward, bowing before the God as he nursed at his cock, both hands wrapping around the fat shaft and stroking, tugging the folds of skin back until the tip peeked through: cockhead pointed, the lips around his slit gigantic and engorged, jutting out, purple-red and glistening. He pressed his lips against the tip, the next gush of pre erupting unconstrained by the God's heavy foreskin, splashing the back of his throat and drooling forward, spilling in a gush from his mouth despite his swallows.

The God's hands were busy as Cyr nursed on his cock. Claws dragged across his skin, and it was only in the aftermath that he realized the God was cutting his clothes off him, letting the tunic and robes fall from his skin as shreds of fabric, no more. That the God was baring his body to the forest, one piece at a time. The sharp edge of his claws gave hardly any resistance, a slight tugging perhaps before the scraps slid off his skin in piles, leaving him naked, bowed before the God. He had one hand splayed across the muscled arch of the God's hips, another tugging back his thick foreskin, his face pressed tight against his divine cock. Cyr lapped deeper into his sheath, dragging thick dollops of precome into his mouth, spilling like ambrosia endlessly into his mouth as the God stripped him to his skin.

The God's rough hands dragged over his skin, pink skin so delicate compared to the God's thick hide, rough and hairy as he leaned over Cyr's kneeling form, hands reaching down to press between his cheeks, one gnarled fingertip pressed against the tight pucker of his ass. "I'll take anything you wish to give," the God said, finger pushing against his ass, and Cyr shuddered.

"This is your first," the God said, claws drifting smooth and slick over Cyr's ass. "You remember what you did with me?" And how could Cyr forget, even for once instant? The God's ass spread open, thick oil pouring into him, liquid and heavy, slick when Cyr pressed his fist inside. Even one of the God's thick fingers was as large as a human cock; the thought sent a thrill through him.

The God laid Cyr back, one hand still cupped around his ass, and he reached to the jugs beside them, held a vial of something thick and viscous, cool and shockingly slippery when he anointed a finger in it and brought it to Cyr's ass. There was a pressure, slow but insistent, as the God pushed one clawed finger up inside him, Cyr gasping and shuddering at the sensation. A stretch inside him, a thick intrusion. The God shifted, hands splaying across his ass as he probed inside, the slick fluid growing heated. Cyr pressed against the God's chest, legs in the air, gasping and shuddering as the God slowly opened him, two fingers and then three sliding inside him, the stretch always just on the side of too much.

Cyr was aching, cock dribbling across his belly, beads of precome slipping out as the God twisted his fingers inside. Cyr clenched, fingers wrapped around the God's shoulders, lost under the thick fur. The God's length drooled against his ass, adding his own fluids to the mess the God was feeding into his hole, his thick fingers swiping across the glossy smears of precome and sliding them down to his core, to the tight hole now spread, sucking and hungry, as the God slid his fingers inside.

For an instant Cyr wondered -- would the God continue, until their positions from earlier were reversed; Cyr spread around one of the God's immense fists, pleading for more, more? Would the God guide his cock in, fingers and shaft sliding inside him in one motion, until he was hilted in Cyr's depths, still stroking himself off? His vision went hazy, wobbling at the edges, and he tilted his head back, gasping and shaking as his cock erupted, completely untouched, spurting a few messy lines of fluid over the God' pelt.

It was the God's voice that brought him back, the low rumble, humor tinging his words. "It would seem you're prepared enough now," he said, and Cyr flushed, ashamed in the wake of his orgasm.

The God tipped his head up, burning yellow eyes meeting Cyr's and he brought their faces together, tongue lapping across Cyr's cheek until their lips met, animal muzzle opening, tongue lolling from his mouth in a kiss, animal slobber sheening Cyr's face as the God deepened the kiss, tongue slipping over Cyr's lips and teeth, wet and soft on the sensitive flesh of his mouth. Cyr moaned, shuddering again, gasping as the kiss went on, longer and longer until he was whimpering, sucking on the God's thick tongue, unfurled in his mouth, drinking down cords of slobber, the God's spit nearly as flavorful as his precome, animal and rich.

When they drew apart Cyr was even more flushed, chest heaving and sheened with sweat, eyes fluttering open slowly. His legs wobbled as he guided himself closer, body aflame with new lust. The lips of the God's cock slid against his thigh, sticking from his foreskin like a skewer. They slid up the back of his thigh as Cyr moved, until they pressed against his prepared hole, and Cyr kept staring, dazed, at the God's eyes as he sunk himself down. The God's cock was immensely thick, still aching as it slid inside him, even with his body spread and opened. It was a firebrand, each twitch sending a plume of heat blossoming inside, as rigid as a bar of iron as he sunk down, the wet fur of his sheath piling over itself as more of the bare shaft slid inside him.

The God groaned, baying, and jolted up, sheathing most of his cock into Cyr in a single plunge, cock jabbing against his inner flesh. Cyr was encircled, held close to the God's chest, body held still as the God pulled back and thrust forward, driving his cock to the hilt in Cyr's ass, again and again. They moved as one body, the God tipping forward until Cyr was on his back in the clover and moss, legs spread to give the God better access as he thrust, harder and harder, lowing and panting.

Cyr wheezed, the massive bulk of the God above him, horns blotting out the sky. His cock throbbed, nearly painful earthed inside him, each tremor through the fat length splattering his insides with divine essence, again and again until it began to leak out, erupting in spurts as the God fucked him, pinning him to the ground, bracing his body to take each thrust. The God's breath steamed even in the overheated air, tongue lolling out, drool splattering like hot rain across his chest and hair, baying like a feral animal as he hilted himself deep inside Cyr, wet fur grinding against his skin, a gush of pre spurting from his overfilled ass each time he hilted.

Cyr groaned with him, his cries hardly more human, groaning and sobbing with each thrust inside him, divine power pinning him down, soaking into him. He came again, untouched, entire body trembling and shaking as he shot off, sharp lines lancing across his sweaty chest and smearing into the God's fur.

The God made a few more thrusts, fat cock grinding through Cyr's clenching hole, before he roared, head tipped back, hips grinding the final inch of his cock as he came. His ejaculation was a heat inside, pulsing double-time above his racing heart, the meat of his cock throbbing and flaring as he shot again and again, divine issue like liquid fire spilling inside him, gurgling into his guts and drooling past his churning shaft, spilling into the greenery beneath them. He thrust, pace growning ragged as he snorted and bellowed, the heavy spurts coming further apart until they finally stopped, a final gush blooming in Cyr's guts and near-instantly drooling out, his ass flooded by the God's copious issue. He sunk to the side, curling around Cyr, his matted, animal-smelling fur surrounding him on every side, still-hard cock plugging his spread-open ass, breath billowing over his sweaty shoulders.

Cyr lay there, embraced by his God, body aching and singing, well-used but leaving so satisfying an ache. He stretched, minutely, taking the whole length of the God's cock inside him again as he sprawled on the ground, dazed.

After a while, basking in the heat and the silence: "Should I... go?" Cyr said, still concerned about... impropriety.

The God leaned towards him, grinning, teeth bared. "It would be better if you stayed. After all, it does not take much to rouse my lusts. And you have shown yourself so eager to serve them."

"Yes," Cyr moaned, just yes.