Elsa’s heartbeat drubbed in her ears as she flew through the forest, unwilling to let the groping branches slow her down. Her long hair streamed behind her, tickling her hide like a gentle whip. Somewhere behind her thundered much bigger hooves than her own: the Chancellor’s warhorse, built for the battlefield but trained for the woods, for the hunt.
Her flanks steamed with exertion in the cool morning as she found the deer path. Her kind rarely mingled with their ancient ancestors, but right now the deer-centaur was grateful for the velvety ears flapping at the sides of her head and the graceful, swift animal body below her torso. Bare breasts bounced against her ribs, a painful reminder of why the Chancellor was bearing down on her now.
Elsa leaped over a fallen log and skidded to a stop. She stared into the liquid eyes of the warhorse, stamping and tossing his head, and when she dared move her gaze upwards, it was to take in the hard lines of the Chancellor’s face.
He might have called her his little forest child before he threw the noose around her torso, but she did not register it. Her head roared with the possible scenarios playing out right in front of her. The Chancellor dismounted, pulling hand over hand on the rope even as Elsa dug her hooves in, and then they were so close she could smell the beer on his breath. He reached up one gloved hand and caressed her ear with deceptive softness.
“Come closer, my sweet,” he said, and reaching for her wrist, he guided her hand to his fine tunic, the belt of which had come unknotted in the wild chase.
Elsa whimpered, but did not try to extricate herself from his grasp. He must have dabbed on the musk of some great horned beast, because she was finding that her resistance was lessening and her heat was rising. She flailed, but her heart was not in it.
And when he pulled her down to nibble at the sensitive places behind her ears, she melted into him, her delicate legs collapsing beneath her. He sank down into the loam beside her and pulled his tunic over his head so they were both bared to one another. Trembling, she took him in: the powerful leader of the civilized tribes, scars lashing his chest like thick ropes, his bearing regal but not haughty.
Without standing, he came around behind her and gently opened her lower lips, teasing them with his erection. She mewled and raised her hindquarters so he could slip inside, which he did with a satisfied noise. He was larger than the the other deer-centaurs, but Elsa had taken men before, and he was a most exquisite specimen. He filled her, with his presence and with longing, and she pressed her furred bottom back when he came forward until it was too much, and she climaxed in a rush of wild huffing breath.
She bent, exhausted but not without thrills dancing through her, and let him finish. He clasped her on the edges of her back legs to hold himself fully in her. Man and forest girl lay locked together, for the first time since the Hind Hunt had begun at the start of the Chancellor’s reign.
Elsa shivered and bit her lip, praying for the next year to come quickly.