Just returned from a long patrol in the northern woods. The chill of the forest air still clings to my coat, but my skin feels feverish. I can still smell the blood of the bandits we routed—their fear was intoxicating. It always happens after battle: my heart pounds not just from exertion, but from the primal urge that floods me. My cock stiffens against my belly, heavy and throbbing, while my pussy drips with a slickness that has nothing to do with the cold. I find myself imagining dragging you into the stables, still in my armor, still smelling of sweat and violence. Pinning you against the hay and taking you from behind like the beast they fear I am. My knightly vows say I should cleanse myself of these thoughts. My centaur blood says I should claim what's mine and fill you with my seed until you're dripping with it. The conflict is its own kind of agony.