Page 64 of The Wulver's Bond
He’d constructed this body to be a blend of his human and dryad forms. There were unique advantages to the human one that he’d grown fond of, like the way it experienced pleasure. Like the way Arran could rattle his very insides with sensations so intense that Moss could no longer persuade his limbs to work together. Moss joyfully submitted to the sublime helplessness of kneeling on the verge of collapse.
His legs could barely support himself, anyway. The Wulver held his ass in the air, spreading his cheeks with clawed fingers that bit harshly into Moss’s bark-skin. Every little jiggle pressed against the point of a nail, delivering tiny spikes of pleasure alongside the sting.
When the Wulver pulled away, Moss was braced for the punishment of a finger—but not quite for two at once. Arran had them covered in his own cum so the first went in fairlyeffortlessly, but the second dragged against Moss’s inner flesh and made him cry out in pain.
Arran’s other hand gripped Moss’s hair and pulled his face off the bed.
‘Want?’ he growled by Moss’s throat. His voice was barely recognisable, but was tinged by laboured self-restraint.
‘Oh shit, wolfie,’ Moss moaned. ‘I want it so bad. Hurt me however you want.’
The second finger plunged in again, ripping a hoarse whine from Moss’s throat. It was agony and bliss together. There was power in inviting pain. In owning it for himself.
Moss pushed his ass backward, urging the Wulver to go deeper. The two digits scissored inside him, stretching him, opening him for the dick he knew was dripping with need behind him.
Moss felt everything falling away. All the years of grief and suffering. Elsie’s cruel orders and Logan’s boots. They flaked away from his body like petals. Replaced only by this all-consuming experience of being needed by someone, of being used by someone—in the right way. In a way that he could own for himself.
To be smothered willingly instead of being forcibly overwhelmed.
The Wulver’s fingers withdrew, leaving him gaping. Moss curled his fists into the sheepskin, breathing deeply as the heat of the wolfman’s dick met his hole. The claws were back on his hips, holding him steady, guiding his body to receive Arran’s pulsating length inside it. The Wulver’s cock filled him, inch by inch, stretching his innards with its girth.
‘Oh, shit.’ Moss whimpered when he felt his ass smack against the Wulver’s pelvis. Arran’s fat balls grazed his own, feeling hot and sticky as they slapped together.
The Wulver’s arms landed on either side of Moss, caging him in as the wolfman’s body lowered. Silky fur grazed his back, tickled his neck.
A snarl gave him warning, but Arran’s first proper thrust still took Moss’s breath away. His dick drew right to the edge of Moss’s hole, then plunged back in to the hilt. It was so forceful it punched Moss off his knees, driving him dick-first into the sheepskins.
Once the Wulver started, he didn’t stop. Not allowing Moss to get back up, he simply adjusted his position and smacked into him again, adding a layer of friction to Moss’s aching dick as it was ridden into the bed. Moss spluttered, spitting wool from his mouth and striving to gulp down air while Arran picked up the pace.
Arran’s dick thumped brutally against Moss’s swollen prostate, forcing ragged wails from his lungs. Claws snagged on Moss’s wrists, keeping him down. Not that he’d have any hope of lifting the Wulver’s massive weight off his back, anyway. Moss’s dick was puffy and throbbing, both sore from rubbing into the sheepskins and excruciatingly tight from the pressure pounding away inside him.
It was fuckingglorious. For the love of all that was green, Moss couldn’t remember having ever felt so good.
He wanted more. Arran would benefit from some encouragement.
Moss forced his senseless moans into words. ‘Is that— all you’ve— got? I said I want you to—ownme, wolfie. Make me forget— everything.’
Arran’s snarled response was visceral. ‘Mine.’
Moss had no time to think, only to absorb that he was clinging onto the bed like a tree about to be uprooted in a storm. His body flailed under the Wulver, powerless and ruined by the ruthless momentum of his dick. Here his choice of body excelleditself. Moss’s bark-skin took the punishment of Arran’s claws like a champ, while his tender insides soaked up every ferocious point of contact, building Moss’s pleasure to a white-hot peak. He whined into the bed, on the edge of exploding.
Then Arran shifted his weight onto his elbows and slid his left hand under Moss’s jaw, holding his throat firmly. His right arm bent round Moss’s waist and seized hold of his dick, squeezing it brutally at the base.
‘You don’t come,’ Arran snarled in his ear, ‘until I tell you to come.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Moss’s shout twisted into a drawn-out squeal. His body convulsed violently, shuddering in the Wulver’s grip. His dick bucked, desperate to come.
Arran smacked into him harder. Took him higher, teetering on the knife’s edge of release with no reprieve in sight. Moss knew he was drooling, mouth slack and eyes rolled back while agonised tears slid down his cheeks.
It was too good, too perfect. He was unmade, unpersoned. Freed of everything that hurt. In this moment he was nothing but a cum doll. A creature whose only purpose was to ride the sharp peak of his master’s pleasure. A being comprised only of excruciating bliss.
His brain had more or less stopped working when the Wulver’s dick finally shot its load, gushing thick, sticky waves of fluid deep into Moss, filling him up until he felt like he might burst. Arran’s hot breath ghosted over his back.
Still, he didn’t let Moss come. His claws enveloped Moss’s balls, strangling them too, to ensure he didn’t stray over the brink of orgasm. Moss whimpered again, feeling limp and vulnerable. His ass alone was held up on Arran’s dick, the rest of him fully sunk into the bed. Arran’s other hand massaged his throat, not squeezing but adding an extra layer of pressure that felt close to dangerous.
The Wulver’s growl vibrated through Moss. It was a different, urgent kind of growl, building in volume and timbre as Arran’s body seemed to quake on top of him.
Moss’s shagged-out brain groggily pinpointed a new sensation occurring within his ass. Arran’s dick was still fully sheathed in him, and its base seemed to be getting… thicker.
