The Great Bull, Alone

It was a hell of a night. Dinner was eaten, booze was imbibed, milk was spilled, cum was swallowed, bodies were intertwined and pulled together and wrapped around each other, and through it all there was laughter, and moaning, and sounds of joy.

When the moon rose and the night-lamps were lit the lovers, all five of them, found themselves plunging into a deep, well-earned sleep. Their bed was only just big enough to hold them, and after much twisting and turning and shuffling they reached an accord.

The night was still.

The great bull stirred.

Were he not trapped under several hundred pounds of bovine, he would have maybe risen from bed to look out the window, to look at the night sky and the stars. But the weight of his lovers held him fast, so he was content to lie awake, bathing in the light of the moon.

His hand rested on the head of the cow called Buttercup. She'd fallen asleep using his thigh as a pillow, the fingers of one hand splayed in his fur. The great bull ran his hand through his sleeping lover's hair, careful not to wake her. Buttercup looked utterly at peace; all of his lovers did.

Buttercup's companions were similarly draped across the bull's body. Tats was curled up next to him, resting her head against his shoulder. Her long, black hair spilled across his upper torso. Daisy, the largest of the four, was pressed tight against him, Buttercup between herself and the bull. Her right arm was curled up against the left side of his neck; she had at one point been stroking his cheek with the back of her hand, but in sleep it had drifted down to rest against his lower jaw. Daisy's enormous bosom mashed against his body. Lennox, the leader of the four, was snuggled against Tats, lazily wrapping one arm around her. They were all of course nude, totally exposed, fur alight with the glow of the moon.

If his head were clearer, if he'd made himself live more fully in the past, the bull would have been tempted to flee the fortress now, to leave these bandits behind and fade from their lives like a bad dream.

An uncomfortable thought emerged in his mind: what if he didn't want to leave? He'd claimed multiple times now that he would probably re-visit his new allies at the conclusion of his quest, but what if he didn't just want to visit?

Was he growing soft?

Where once the bull would have been delighted to bust heads in a roaring battle-frenzy, punctuating his victory with a bed frame-shattering dalliance with a local tavern wench, he now thought of the future. Where would his work take him? What would he do without it?

He was still young. He lived in a world where death was a foreign concept, where one stopped aging and life lasted forever. It was okay to spend a long time alone, to rove out and conquer and come back rich.

And yet... suddenly that sounded... tedious.

The great bull sighed and cocked his head toward the window. He watched the clouds pass over the moon. The night breeze was cool, but welcome; he closed his eyes and invited it to wash over him.

He was going to leave in the morning. His adventure was about to resume. Who knew what the future held?

Then: a voice.

"Grimm?"