Against the Grain

These lips are a foreign thing,
for now.

My hackles raise.

The urgency behind them, no less than any other.

Low growls emit from my throat.

The hands of her grasp for my shaft.
With beautiful eyes that don't belong, she gazes back at me;
A silent question.

With hackles still raised, my hips thrust in reply and the resounding gags grate on my keen ears,
though my member does throb.

The evil that is my conscience is perched upon her head, glaringly,
as she moves closer to the base,
hiding my conflicting desire in her throat.

Her eyes open wide when the snarl on my lips emits,
and all else is released.

I feel as if my fur has been rubbed the wrong way,
though I have done no wrong.
Why?