Mr. Wolf (Patreon)

This story is a collaboration with Soren Fitz.

“Evening, Mr. Wolf,” I say, with a little smile, as I open the door and see the imposing mountain of a man outside. He’s dressed in practical work clothes and a hi-viz vest, this time. He keeps jumping between jobs for whatever reason. I’ve never dared to ask him why, and now is certainly not the time.

“Bitch!” he dourly snaps back as he pushes past me into the apartment, carrying a toolbox. The “B” is resonant and explosive, but the rest of the word doesn’t suit his low vocal range, and comes out softer than he undoubtedly would have liked. Something like “Fuck off!” suits his voice more, makes it clear in no uncertain terms that if you continue whatever you’re up to you’ll lose your consciousness. But he’s not really mad. He wouldn’t be here if he was. He’s never asked me to call him something else, so he is accepting my teasing. So far, at least.

“This bitch has meat,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the table next to him. He recklessly drops his toolbox on the floor, but he seems to take only a cursory glance at the charcuterie board.

Yesterday I took the trouble to walk all the way over to the European deli for a more exclusive spread. Boar salami, Pata Negra ham, Finish cured bear meat. The owner talked me into buying a bottle of Sonoma Merlot as well. All that stuff was expensive enough as it was, but compared to what I get out of our arrangement I’ll still come out way ahead.

But, and this is par for the course, he just ignores it all, turning around to stare at me instead, eyes blazing. I’m still standing at the door, which I’ve just barely locked. He moves fast for someone of his size. “I didn’t come here for that kind of meat. I came for your ass. What the fuck are you waiting for?”

There it is. That booming, commanding voice, with more than a hint of violence. He knows what we’re doing, knows how I like him to act once we strip. But damn if I don’t want him to take it easy with me before he brings that attitude of his and flattens me like the meat on that plate.

“Just a little bit of wine and dine,” I suggest. “Just relax. I’ll still be ready for you after.” And it’s out—my brazen effort to make him slow down a little bit and talk for once about whatever the hell this is before pounding me for every pound I spent on us. The problem is that I’m not sure he cares about all of that, or any of it. But I want to make an effort, at least. Before he leaves for another month.

He seems to hesitate for just a moment before his eyes narrow, furiously piercing me. And then he makes a move, sauntering toward me, stripping his vest and shirt off of his solid, thickly muscular form and throwing them on the ground, only breaking eye contact briefly when the shirt comes off. Like a predator sizing up its prey, he stops for a second before gripping my hips tightly with his hands, shoving me up against the door. He leans in, hot breath slipping over my lips, and growls, with increasing volume, “If I drink any of your wine, it’ll be long after I stretch your ass so fucking wide you can keep the bottle in there even after you heal. I fucking told you,” he says, in some kind of aggressive exasperation, “what the moon is doing.”

I bite my lower lip. He had warned about getting more aggressive, something about apogee and perigee, so I’m not unprepared for this mood of his. At least, not mentally. Physically I can just barely handle him. It always feels like I’m the keeper of a big cat sanctuary, petting a tiger that could decide to end me at any moment if it should find the room service not up to standard. Today feels like the day it all might go to hell.

“Sue me if I need a little time to get comfortable with the fact that you’re going to wreck me so hard I need time to heal.” The way he’s talking, it sounds like I’m in for far worse than normal. And although that’s what I want… I want more.

His hands slide to my ass across my sweatpants and grope into it roughly, fingers digging in and kneading like he owns me. “I need to fuck you,” he rumbles. I want more than that, I want to say, but I can’t get the words out. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. The hardest it’s ever been. I need to fucking ruin you.”

I bite my lower lip again, arousal throbbing in my groin, telling me how much I want it, how good I know it’ll feel, at the same time that my brain tries to warn me how much it’s going to hurt—wrong move, brain, I’m horny for that too. I struggle with my heart, instead, the gripping question, ‘Could there be more?’

But I don’t think he’s in the mood to answer that today.

“Alright,” I say, giving in—as if it was up to me at this point—and though his fingers immediately dart to my sweatpants, ready to yank them down, he stops, pulls his hands away, and steps back. “I’ll give you some comfort. You have until you get to the bedroom to get ready,” he says.

I grin, immediately starting to head towards the room, stripping off my shirt as I walk backward, watching him drop his pants, his cock springing up to life, huge and threatening and covered in slick precum. “Aww, does the big bad wolf have a little w—” I can’t finish the sentence. The moment I start talking in that teasing tone, the fucking growl he gives makes the hair stand on my arms, and he’s on me before I realize what was happening, shoving me bodily into the bedroom and spinning me around, yanking my ass up against his crotch and grinding aggressively.

We haven’t even reached the bed, but he grabs the back of my sweatpants and pulls them down, and pulls me towards him. I hear the snaps of threads breaking, probably ruining the elastic waist of yet another pair of sweatpants, and then they just slip right down, and I brace myself for the moment of abrupt, ass-wrecking penetration. His cockhead smashes up against my asshole, thick and hot and wet with what must be his lube-like precum—but he doesn’t burst in.

Why? He could wrench open my sphincter and break it in half with one thrust. But instead, he’s hesitating, breathing heavily behind me, pushing his thick head just hard enough to give me a gentle stretch, not hard enough to sink in.

“Fuck,” he curses. “I could… shove every inch in you right now. Pound you the hardest I ever have.” He pushes a little harder, and I feel myself start to stretch more. Precum pulses against my hole, sliding in warmly and helping lube me up. “Make you take it ‘til you fucking cry.” But he relaxes his pushing, and my hole settles down. It was starting to burn a bit. His cock is so damn big. “But it’s gonna hurt.”

“I know that,” I groan. And I want it.

“You sounded like,” he begins, clearly struggling with his words, “you didn’t want it yet. If you’re not ready…”

I strain my neck to look back and up at him. Even though we can’t make exact eye contact I can see his hunger. I can see how he’s holding himself back. I know that if I somehow was able to stop him, make him drink wine with me, he won’t be happy. I want to know he cares, that I’m more than just a convenient hole, a mutual arrangement that we carry out without feeling. But maybe this is his way of showing me that. Maybe it’s the best way he can right now.

Maybe some other time.

“I’m ready,” I say. And then the curse I shout sounds so loud I must have rocked the house, as, in a motion that would stun anyone else for its surprising speed, his massive dick penetrates me to his balls. He’s speared me open as deep as he can go, as deep as I’ve ever gone, and the change of sensation inside me, the sudden fullness and sense of intrusion, the burn of a brutal stretch, and the overwhelming pleasure make me loll forward, caught from falling only by his hands on my hips and his bludgeon of a cock shoved at least ten inches up my ass.

But he knows I can take it.

And he knows I’m no match for his size and strength—though I may not be as small anymore, in very large part because of the cum he pumps into me month by month. He hugs me and straightens me out, lifting me, carrying me in front of him, his dick and my body bouncing as he steps toward the bed, every stomp reverberating through me. I moan almost pathetically, my sounds rising and falling with the bounces.

He practically dives onto the bed, with me underneath him, and the impact pushes him even deeper, making me gasp and strain out a strangled moan. And then he’s pulling back, pushing in, harder each time, and I know that if I don’t get myself in position right now he’ll crush me against the bed. He might do it anyway. I slowly, carefully move myself up into bridge position as he pounds away, building up a steady rhythm that’s growing harder and harder as he tries to hold back for me.

And then I’m on my knees, on my elbows, not exactly at risk of collapsing to the bed, but he has the stamina to keep at it for a long time, and he’s only fucking me harder, and I know he’s not going to stop. His hands grip my waists, his hips start making audible smacks upon hitting my muscular ass, and I brace myself for the long haul…

A long haul of brutal thrusts in a steady rhythm that some would call uninspired—if they weren’t experiencing the biggest cock they’d ever seen hammering straight into their poor, forcibly rearranged guts with every rhythmic thrust. But they wouldn’t notice him changing because, if they weren’t experiencing it, they wouldn’t have the attention span to notice how, every minute or so, he would change things up, making his thrusts longer on the upstroke and harder on the downstroke, or would start jackhammering into my gut so hard, so long, that I could barely talk.

When he promised to wreck me, he wasn’t lying—except maybe by omission. Sure, I’m wracked with pleasure all from my gut to my ass, precum trickling from my cock again and again while it bursts out of his in volume that far surpasses anything I could ever make. But everything fucking aches—my sphincter is sore, the muscle fibers torn from the thorough fucking; my guts are sore, rearranged, and then beaten up from the inside by his bludgeon of a dick until I’m sure that I’m a mess of internal bruises; and my usually tight stomach, rippling around as a pregnant dog as his cock head makes its way around my intestines, feels like it must be black and blue from getting punched from the inside.

The minutes of pleasure and soreness, bliss and ache, blend together, one after the other, disappearing and reappearing as I moan until I’m hoarse and slightly delirious of all the fluids I’ve lost in sweat and precum. It’s not fifteen minutes we spend like this, not thirty, I swear it must be an hour of wordless grunting and desperate, pathetic moaning, of jackhammered thrust or long, battering blows, of bruises spreading across my body and precum filling my inner works, but it comes suddenly. I feel him hug me, letting his full weight drape across me, and as he murmurs, “Gonna breed you, bitch,” I feel the base of his cock start to inflate in me, and I let out a loud whine of pleasure and pain as his knot expands to stretch out my poor, already ruined sphincter.

I feel the first shot of cum blast into me, so hard and thick and deep that it surprises me with its power, but I’m almost immediately distracted from my surprise by the overwhelming pressure of his knot. My gasps and moans get louder and louder until they turn into a veritable howl, even as he keeps filling me up with cum in such volume I can feel it rushing through me, greedily soaked up by my parched body.

But the cum does its work, and I can feel the warmth and strength of it spreading through my body even as it physically fills me. I can feel my entire body tensing up, his hormones slipping through the lining of my guts, into my bloodstream, wreaking delicious havoc on my body. I can’t feel the pain of his knot anymore; my sphincter’s getting stronger, healing, clenching tighter around his knot and making me gasp in pleasure. And his cum fills me with energy—I just know that if he hadn’t already made my heart race and my skin sweat from the thorough fucking, his cum alone would have done it instead.

He’s still cumming, the swelling of energy in my body translating to the swelling of my body with his cum. It’s so damn much that I can feel it pressing against my walls, trying to find a place to fill, and the only thing it can do is make me stretch. The bulge in my gut grows, spreading from the tip of his cock across my tense, hormone-suffused abs, but tight as they are, they can’t prevent me stretching with his seed, until I have a little roid muscle gut, pleasure and hormones raging within it even after he finishes dumping the majority of his enormous load inside of me.

“Hnnnng,” he groans, gently tugging the knot in my ass, sending pleasure mixed pain up my spine. Neither of us is going separate ways anytime soon. His cock is still pulsing, I can feel it, probably losing smaller loads of cum with every throb, but with the sheer amount already inside me I wouldn’t be able to tell. “Fuck.” Despite having done this now for several months I can still barely believe that I’m knotted, that I’m stuck to his dick, at his mercy—trying to pull out prematurely, after all, would be much more unpleasant than anything he could have done to me while fucking the life out of me thrust by thrust. But I can’t help but find this biological bondage hot as all hell, and I’m not embarrassed to admit that, the first time he let it slip that he was a werewolf, it didn’t take more than a day thinking about that wolf dick before I begged him to fuck me.

He gently rolls us over so we’re lying on our sides, the bigger man spooning me, wrapping an arm around my side, and rubbing my distended cum gut. “That was… a lot,” I say, and I’m surprised by just how damn hoarse my voice is. He already came a lot, normally, enough for me to feel the weight of it inside of me, but he must have been saving this load up for days, more than a week, even.

“Maybe,” he rumbles, so slowly that I wonder if he’s about to fall asleep. He’s done it before, fall asleep with his knot stuck inside me—not that he would have had a much easier time pulling it out if he were awake. It’s a little frustrating, as hot as it is, because while I’m stuck on his knot, the hormones, stem cells, whatever it is he pumps into me ends up coursing through my veins, and, all of a sudden, all I want to do is work—go on a run, lift some weights, punch something. And when I finally do get off his knot… well, the gains are insane.

I’m not quite ready to lose him to sleep. “That’s so sweet—” I start, in that teasing tone I used on him earlier, but he stops me right away.

“You’re hoarse,” he says and starts to shimmy us off of the bed, carefully putting his feet on the ground, his cock still buried deep inside my guts. And then he heaves me up, off of the bed, into his arms, my back hugged to his heavy chest, and he walks with me, his footfalls making me rise up and down. I’m already hard from the hormone infusion, but the tug in my ass each step makes my tick tingle. He gets to the table with the charcuterie board and sits down surprisingly gently, gesturing toward the wine glasses.

“Right,” I say, sheepishly, and I reach for the wine bottle with alertness that still surprises me. After an hour of getting fucked like that, my limbs should be wobbling. But my body’s working overtime with his cum inside me, and when I hit the gym later today, it’ll pack on muscle effortlessly for as long as I keep lifting.

I pour out the Merlot into one of the glasses, but when I get ready to pour it into the next, his hand stops me. I frown, but he can’t see that, so I just cork the wine and take my drink, and when I take the first sip, the relief it gives me when it pours down my throat is amazing. “Shit,” I hiss, and I keep swallowing it down, much faster than one should usually drink wine, but I need the moisture.

When I’m finished, I set it down, and to my surprise, he picks it up and, presumably, brings it to his lips to taste what I’ve left behind.

“Good wine,” he says, in a rumble, but his hands slide down my naked body to my two muscular cheeks—soon to be even better—and grope them slowly, steadily. “Better ass.”

Well, it’s better than nothing.

“Still dry?” he asks.

I try speaking. “Hopefully not. Yeah, I’m good.”

Then he rises abruptly from the chair and starts taking me back to the bedroom. “Wait, you’re—not going to—I mean, the charcuterie—wine and dine me?”

“Bitch,” he whispers into my ear, chuckling low. “I’m tired as fuck.” He sits down gently on the bed and lays back, pulling my body down with him, and then he turns us on our sides again so we can spoon. And then, as quickly as he lies down, I hear his breathing slow and feel his arm around my side go slack.

The first time he fell asleep inside me, I spent that knotted hour restless and eager and frustrated, and I’ve only gotten a little better at dealing with the weight since then. It feels like every drop of energy he expended fucking me has flooded into me for me to use—and more. I discovered, after the second moon cycle, that with enough protein bars, I can lift for twenty-four hours straight before I crash even harder than he does.

Today feels like progress. And although it’s dangerous to think this way, I’m starting to feel like the gains I’m making with this big bad wolf are more important than the gains I’m going to make in the gym tonight.

I just hope he feels the same way.