Calling the Storm GodCalling the Storm God


This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.


Calling the Storm God

The vixen paused on the edge of the encampment, although it was better decorated than she could have imagined on hearing about the anthro equines that were like her but different, so very different. Tuula pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders but there was not even a breath of wind to stir it up at that time, the sensation of absence pulling at her heartstrings as her darker red hair hung around her shoulders, lightly curled and woefully still.

“The wind…” She breathed, eyes raking over the tents, ornately decorated and glittering as if with semi-precious stones in the bright sunshine, everything ringing of quiet sustainability in the realm of those that did not require modern conveniences. “Oh, why have you forsaken me so? We need your touch again, your caress… There is so much more for you to blow.”

Of course, there was no one there to hear her, much less the wind that she yearned to lean into so, and Tuula hastened along her way, scaling the light slope with light-footedness. Her paws were bare for she did not see the need for shoes where she was going, her skirts flowing around her legs and cloak billowing behind her. Other furs said it was ostentatious to still wear a cape at the climax of summer, the autumn rites lingering amongst tribes and civilisations that diverged from the normal path of life, but she needed it for all that made her heart float and other lusts lift on the wind itself.

She would not have said that the anthro equines were primitive, per se, for their dress was lightly elegant, exposing a lot of skin in a draping loincloth for both, the mares wearing white and the stallions a tan that stood out against their dark black hides. Sun-bleached after the long, hot summer, some had brown patches that were already shedding out in preparation for winter, one coat changing for the next. Those puffs of hair floated away as some heads and ears turned her way, curious as to who was stepping into their midst, gathered out and away from the tents on the grass by a circle of tall, rising stones. Against those stones, the veiled headpieces of the mares were prominent along with the cloaks that the stallions were, each coming with a different nuance as to what their kind loved, although Tuula already knew where they stood in the way of the world.

A simple people they were and were not, both at the same time, but the ornate jewels and engraved clasps holding what counted for clothing in place were not for the poor, a light veil draped over the breasts of the mares too, although they did not leave anything to the imagination, rimmed with intricate beading. Why, amongst them, Tuula felt overdressed, although she knew that she would not have given up her cape for anything, not even those fineries that must float and rise on the breath of the wind so nicely too. But their home was welcoming and they, clearly, were not against strangers as the vixen moved through them, the force of nature to be reckoned with as a demi-goddess of sorts, looking for the chief of the congregation.

Their leader stood on a flat span of rock with a staff hefted high over his head to a cacophony of whinnies and nickers, the crowd stomping their hooves in obvious approval as he called them to order. And yet the very presence of Tuula there seemed set to throw a fox into the chicken house, so to speak, as he paused and shook his head, his dark mane braided and muzzle painted with wavy lines and dots, the meaning of which Tuula could only speculate on.

Yet he spread his arms open for her with a smile and Tuula stepped to the front, heart in her mouth.

“My friends, it appears that there is a visitor in our midst.”

The equines bowed, heads tipping forward respectfully, but she rocked back on her heels, paws clasped to her chest and eyes shining. There was no time for formalities when the sweetness that she craved so was nigh!

“Oh, I mean not to interrupt,” she murmured, eyes downcast, knowing her position there was tentative at best. “But I heard there was a ritual to be performed today, to summon Lord God Guthrie?”

She added an extra title there for she was not sure where he stood in the realm of gods and felt it best to be respectful, quivering in place and hoping against hope that they would not ask her to leave, to allow their ceremony to continue in the peace that they, of course, had become accustomed to. And she felt their eyes on her, every last pair of them, the herd gathered for what was sacred to them and interrupted by a vixen who thought that she knew more and saw more than any of them.

She could only try, yes… Tuula could only try to join in with ankara yabancı escort their ceremony and see Guthrie for herself in all his windswept glory.

It was a testament to their tribe that they would allow her in to see the wind god with them, their ritual sacred, although she would not have been surprised either if her reputation preceded her. They sat her down cross-legged as the chief prepared, meditating before the staff, although she grew restless in the lack of wind, itching to be a part of it and yet destined, merely, to watch and wait in the wings. They did, however, gift her with a long, flowing cape reminiscent of the ones that the stallions wore, although it dwarfed her and was beaded with turquoise, the blue setting off the russet hue of her fox fur nicely. It was a gift that she would treasure forever and she pulled it close around her body, tucking her original one away safely, as she thanked them profusely.

Yet it was time for the chief to talk, a whisper that became a shout, shifting so subtly that it took attentive ears to notice it in the first place.

“Wind… Wind, come to us, blow for us, hear us, silence us, embrace us…”

And then his voice rose, winding and changing as he sang the song of the ages, calling down a spirit who, truly, was greater than all of them. The vixen stood out amongst the sleek, hard, dark bodies but she was one and the same of them, swaying and putting her paw on the shoulder of the mare beside her, eyes half-lidded as she lost herself in the rite and the ceremony. Her loins seemed to tingle but it was hard to consider what was imagined and what was real sometimes, breath coming in short, sharp pants, barely able to add her humming voice to the undertone of the throng, the only form of power that she could lend them for such a stringently poignant ritual.

The chief’s head tipped up and he raised his fist powerfully high, mane woefully quiet and tame. But that was not to be for much longer.

“Oh, lord of the wind and the sky and the storms, come down to us! Unleash your wrath amongst these unworthy ones, bring your wind back to our land, send us the storms! Our ground is dry and lacking your fertile spray, the summer long and forlorn. Bring us the wind and bring us the storm, bring back our storm land to us!”

Of course, a storm was needed to bring in fresh weather at any due pace and Tuula now understood the barrenness of the land that she had traversed in getting there herself, ears slipping back. She’d been so caught up in what she’d wanted that she’d forgotten that the wind-loving horse tribe wanted something for themselves too — the bare art of living! Surely though they could have found what they needed or traded for it but rivers drying up was not something any town or cluster of furs wanted to have to deal with and she moaned with them, raising her voice to the heavens and the slowly darkening sky.

“Yes!” They cried. “Bring us the storm god!”

“Blow for us!”

“Ply us with your might!”

“Send the rains!”

“Blow, blow, blow!”

They took up the chant, repeating to blow, for the winds to blow, over and over again, words blurring into one another with so many voices all coming together. The wind picked up and Tuula howled, throwing her voice into it with all the passion she had in her soul, the breeze combing through her fur, playing with her ears — the kiss of an old lover that she had not yet forsaken (and never would) coming for her once more. How anyone could live without the wind was beyond her and she felt that she had finally come together with those that felt the same, everyone leaping to paws (in her case) and hooves to welcome the god Guthrie as his storm clouds swirled across the sky, cutting off the sun.

They would have held their breath if it would have been appropriate to do so but they needed to cry out for him, the churning mass of dark grey clouds threatening the rain that they had yearned for in the beginning. And, oh, how they needed it, Tuula stretching her fingertips up and up and up as if she could snatch them down for herself, however much the equine tribe needed it. But they all had a common goal as the wind whipped and swept their capes and veils around and around, toying with them with the might of a beast that was yet to reveal himself in the very eye of the storm that they had lusted for itself. The equine manes tossed and writhed as if controlled by an otherworldly force, though one would not have stooped so low as to compare their magnificence to mere flags. No, they embodied the power of the wind itself, calling down their god, the one who made all of it possible for them.

And then he came, a stunning, white anthro horse galloping down from the heavens, leaping from the underside of the storm clouds as if he was a part of them himself — perhaps lightning? But it was not for her to decide just what the nature of him was as she bahçelievler escort gasped in wonder, shrinking back and cowed by his presence even as her ultimate wish and lust rose up wantonly, pussy moist and tight, wanting his passion. Oh, she could never have denied how the wind aroused her so but it was something special indeed to stretch out her arms to the pleasure of a wind god, Guthrie’s loincloth blowing in his own wind, although he did not uncouthly reveal himself, as would be the way for a lesser god, one could be sure. He had his pride and he would play it out through the storm, hooves slamming through the air with a driving, pounding beat that sent shockwaves of air blasting through — not quite wind but something altogether more powerful that came very close to sweeping even the wind-toughened equines and Tuula too off their feet.

“Oh, great lord!”

The chief bowed respectfully, followed suit by the rest of the herd, as the god descended, wind picking up more and more, threatening to rip his words from his mouth before he was willing to set them free.

“Oh, great lord! Thank you for gracing us with your presence! Your wind feeds us, brings us joy, brings us life — oh, the winds you send us! The caress of the breeze is nothing compared to your rising might in the full force of the storm!”

He praised the anthro openly and all knew that his words would be heard even if the equine god was at a distance, smiling faintly, genially, as he approached his subjects. Words flowed and flowed from the chief’s lips and were joined by more and more words of praise, cries for the wind of the god, what made his ghostly white mane lift from the back of his neck, along with his tail, and stream behind him. His hair flowed, demonstrating his power, light and yet driving, the scale of him forcing their eyes to readjust their expectations, however lewdly desperate they were to run their fingers and bodies through that flowing, sweeping hair. Despite that, the wind that fuelled him on did not make a noise, only playing with and whipping his hair about, combing through it as if giant fingers were twisting and turning the hairs all about for their manner of strange pleasure.

“Blow for us!”

“Bring us the wind of fertility!”

“Thank you, oh, thank you, my lord!”

“Oh, your holiness!”

“You are the greatest of us all!”

“Unleash your wind!”

That last one was Tuula, the vixen tipping up onto her toes as she strained to be heard, jumping and flailing amongst the horses, simply unable to contain herself. And just how could she possibly be expected to, anyway, with the wind god himself approaching, standing before them as, finally, his massive hooves touched down. Even his hooves were taller than her — easily so — pale white-cream and ringed in growth lines, his breath wafting down on them even from such a height as his hugely broad chest rose and fell, bare of any covering. He looked down on them from on high, his breath floating out their hair from their bodies, fur ruffled — even the shorter, equine coats that were slightly thickening up in preparation for the colder seasons.

Veils and loincloths whipped around where they were not tucked around more intimate areas and Tuula openly spread her arms wide for him, relishing how his wind caressed her, swirling around her as if she was caught up in a wind tunnel that yanked and pulled at her cloak and clothes, teasing and tugging at them as if he was about to use his power to rip them from her form at any moment. The mere thought made her moan and more tightening in the pit of her stomach, something tingling deep between her thighs, although she could not even find it in herself to spread them apart when it felt so good to keep them pressed together, teasing on that tantalising trickle of moisture that could also be found there. An equine tail swept over the back of her legs and she whimpered, wanting to lean into even that teasing touch, breath caught in her throat. So warm…

His eyes fell on Tuula, the red amongst the black, and she whimpered for his attention, his blue eyes turned on her with power that she could never have before dreamed that she would be fortunate enough to witness in the flesh. His breath washed over her, sweeping her ears sensually back down to her skull, and she whimpered through an orgasm that rang subtly under the radar, pussy wet and her tail fluffed up, the hairs tugged and lightly pulled as his winds toyed with her, teasing her with such lightness that it only made her want all that he could do more and more.

She should not have been so forward and yet it was all she could do not to fling herself bodily at a hoof, begging him to take her with his winds, the storm raging around, passion rising and rising. The vixen quivered in place, eyes shining, and the god stared down at her, curious as to what the small one wanted from him, cloak rippling and undulating balgat escort lightly as he fixed his attention, for but a moment, on her.

“Lord Guthrie of the wind and the storms!” She cried, paws raised in adulation as her fur ruffled and flattened, caught under his power. “Please — unleash your full might on me, your lowly servant! Blow for me, show me your power! Show us all your wind, the holy strength of your storm!”

The anthro considered the request as the equines leapt, nickering and clamouring to join in with her desperate plea. They wanted it too, of course, but it was considered uncouth to demand it of the god, Guthrie’s kindness not something to be trifled with. He was kind and genial, yes, but his power was such that it could bring destruction along with it as easily as he brought life, his power all that fed them, gave them sustenance and drove them on through generation after generation.

And yet they craved him too, manes and tails flowing and streaming, beaten by his power.

“Yes, yes — blow! Bring the wind! More wind!”

“Storm for us, wreck the land to bring it forth anew!”

“Let the wind be free!”

“Hold nothing back!”

“Give us your wind, your power!”

Of course, the god himself would be able to ensure that nothing was irreparably damaged and that no harm came to the participants of the ceremony but it was his due right to bequeath unto them what they so desperately craved. Smiling, he lifted his muzzle high and neighed out his acquiescence to their pleas, even his neigh resounding through the air with a blast of wind that would have knocked them over if not for the magic of him rooting them in place. The horses squealed and clung to one another if they were not of the braver ilk, leaping and dancing in the pummelling wind. It rose more and more and they flung their paws out to it, languishing in even the simple sensation of how it twisted between their fingers, an intimate caress.

He would not hold back when they yearned for it so, crying out for more, his ultimate display of power, and the equine held his paws out before his body, standing so tall that they were entirely cast into his shadow by the mere presence of him. But the best was yet to come as he bellowed out his passion, his wrath and his power, lips parting and the winds driving, howling and writhing, clawing at cloaks and loincloths as if it was a wild animal, caught and clamouring to get out of its cage. Their manes and tails — even Tuula’s fur — were not to be forgotten either as they rippled and split, seeming to tear apart in opposite directions only to come together once more as one entire being. But Guthrie was not a god to be chained and he stomped, sending a resounding wave of force through the earth, a miniature earthquake, toppling the equines like dominos while Tuula’s status as a demi-goddess at least allowed her to remain upright.

It was her that Guthrie would focus on, teasing and whirling, the winds circling her. If she concentrated hard, moaning softly, his wind tickling her lips, the moisture that was found there, she could feel his wind snaking up between her thighs, finding its way under her skirt, teasing her sex. He knew she was aroused for him, wanton for him, and took full advantage of it, funnelling his wind down unto her with the force of a true god. The blast took even her by surprise as she howled, letting him whip her hair about, climaxing again as he caressed her with shocking gentleness, tugging and toying with her undergarments, skirts fluttering and writhing as if there was a tangible force between them that she could actually touch and take between her paws.

Tuula’s head rolled, turning around his leg, his glowing, white coat the centre point on which she focused, cape billowing sensually. The folds swept around her, a light caress that was ripped away as soon as it was born, one sensation curling softly into the next as the rising howl of the wind throbbed against her eardrums. And yet it was all she wanted as she threw her head back and added her voice to it too, ears fluttering, swept one way and the other as if her expression was always changing, although she was entirely at the will of the wind and a subject of it.

“Oh… More, oh, more! Blow for me!”

She encouraged him on, fanning out her fingers, twisting and turning as she cavorted, playing in his winds with the sheer joy of a child, although she was nothing of the sort. A fully-grown vixen, she had a lust to be fulfilled and Guthrie himself amused himself, toying with her and tossing her with his wind, the fox tumbling and spinning around his hooves, the massive legs and fetlocks of him thicker than even the largest tree trunks she had seen. The colossal scale of him was something that would become more and more exaggerated as she retold the story of the wind god to other lovers of the winds, his servants, but his stance may as well have made him a part of the land itself, a solid force in the face of the ripping, screaming winds he produced. He could have torn hair from its roots and yet it was his power too that protected him, drama thrumming through in the sweep of the dark clouds driving his wind down and down and down.

“Please…” She panted, eyes wild. “This is not all you have… Blow harder! Please, blow for me! Show me your strength, the true essence of you!”

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