Fantasies

And the inverse? Even sweeter. Every desperate clench of her cunt as she helplessly responded to his touch would answer here, in his hands, twitching like the pathetic, obedient thing it now was.

No consent. No escape. Just ownership, distilled into a box small enough to fit in his palm.

His thumb brushed the damp seam of the replica’s slit, so warm, so alive, and miles away, her breath hitched.

A grin split his face.

Time to play.

—

She’s getting ready for bed. Wearing just a big t-shirt and panties, freshly showered and sleepy. He knows because he installed cameras and microphones all throughout her apartment months ago. There isn’t a single thing she can do without him knowing.

He sits in front of his computer, multiple camera angles feeding him live video and audio. He opens the box with careful hands, her pretty pussy nestled within the lining. So cute, untouched, unsuspecting.

His fingers trail idly along the smooth, pliant flesh, and he watches as she flinches, eyes wide, glancing down at herself. He smiles.

And so it begins.

He doesn’t waste any time, his fingers moving to spread her pussy lips before he leans down and pulls her clit into his mouth, tongue moving in quick movements as he alternates between sucking and licking. He watches the way her body shuts down, shock and pleasure flooding her system as she collapses onto her bed.

He doesn’t care to give her any time to recover. Instead, he pulls his mouth away to replace his tongue with his fingers, rubbing her spit-slicked skin in tight, cruel circles, taking in the way her breath comes in fast gasps as she tries to press her legs together, confusion, fear, panic written all over her face.

It doesn’t take long before her clit is a trembling, hypersensitive nub between his fingers, swollen and darkened from relentless attention. He runs the pad of his thumb over it in slow, agonizing circles, feeling the way it pulses under his touch, tiny convulsions of pleading nerves that only make him smirk. On the screen, her legs jerk, her hips rising off the bed as her body betrays her, craving more even as her mind doesn’t undestand.

She’s a puppet, and he controls every string. He squeezes the delicate bud between his fingertips, rolling it like a toy, listening to the wet, obscene slickness of her cunt in the box mirroring the mess between her thighs on-screen. He can see the wet patch on her panties, the outline of her pretty pussy clear behind the soaked fabric.

Her clit pulses under his fingers, a trembling, engorged little nub, dark as a bruise, so swollen now that it protrudes obscenely from her slick, puffy folds. He squeezes it, watching the thin skin stretch taut, watching it throb in frantic protest.

He traces the swollen bud with his fingertip, circling slow, barely a touch, just to watch it suffer. It’s obscene how responsive she is, the little nub twitching under his attention, glistening with slick. He presses down harder, rubbing in tight little spirals, the flesh trembling beneath his fingers like a caged animal.

He lets his fingers drag lower, spreading the plush folds wide, so wet, dripping for him, even as her fists clench in the sheets. His other hand strokes her clit lazily, coaxing her higher, watching the way her hips twitch with every circling press.

He scrapes a fingernail slowly along the underside of her clit, savoring the way it quivers. Her folds flutter, her hole clenching around nothing, as if begging for something to fill her.

He indulges her, thrusting two fingers deep into the slick imitation of her pussy, relishing how the tight walls convulse.

He leans in, pressing his tongue flat against the throbbing nub in his hands, lapping at it with slow, wet drags. The way it jerks under the heat of his mouth, god, it’s beautiful. On-screen, her back arches. A broken moan tangles in her throat.

His fingers move, fucking her in deep, lazy pumps, her inner walls clenching around nothing, trying to hold onto something, anything, to anchor against the pleasure.

She rocks into it, chasing his invisible touch, teetering over the edge.

So he pulls away.

Her entire body jerks in protest because she doesn’t get to cum yet.

His fingertips trace the very edges of her clit, never touching where she needs it most, just ghosting over the hypersensitive nerves until her entire body writhes. She claws at the sheets, her thighs twitching open despite herself, her pussy clenching around nothing, her clit begging for friction.

Then, finally, he gives in, but not the way she wants. He presses the flat of his thumb down on the engorged nub, grinding in slow, mind-numbing circles, watching on the screen as her back arches wildly.

He increases the pressure just a fraction, just enough to keep her teetering. Her cunt is dripping, her clit a dark, throbbing bead under his control, her body no longer hers, just a thing, just a wet little hole responding on command.

When her thighs start to shake, when her voice breaks into a sob, he stops, watching the hope fade from her eyes.

He pulls out a fine-tipped vibrator, pressing it directly against the bundle of nerves, dialing it just under the threshold of orgasm.

A keening noise claws up her throat as the pleasure builds and builds, never cresting, never breaking, just holding her there on the edge, her cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for the release she won’t get.

He watches her writhe, soaked in sweat and shame, her body no longer her own.

And through it all, her clit pulses in his grasp, a tiny, twitching heart of suffering and ecstasy.

He can see her chest heaving from her panting breaths, so close to what she wants. And so he stops, pulling the vibrator off, watching her helpless pussy twitch and ache.

She lets out a wail, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as desperation gnaws a deep ache inside of her.

He watches the screen, half-amused, half-annoyed, as her fingers hesitantly drift between her thighs. She wants to cum and she thinks she can do it herself.

A mistake.

The moment her fingertips brush her swollen clit, his grip tightens on the replica in his hands, his thumb pressing down just enough to make her freeze.

No, no, sweet thing. That’s against the rules.

He gives her clit a harsh flick and watches as a scream rips out of her throat. But that isn’t enough to deter her, because moments after, her fingers are back on her clit, rubbing like a filthy, disobedient whore.

He sucks in an annoyed breath and picks up a thin electric rod. Without hesitating, he presses the tip against her clit and shocks her, the zapping sound ripping through the air.

A sharp, stinging jolt shoots through the tiny bundle of nerves in his palm, and oh, the way it jerks. The way she jerks, a strangled cry tearing from her lips as she yanks her hand away, thighs slamming together as if she can protect herself.

But protection isn’t an option anymore. Not from him.

He lets her pant, lets her shake, lets her think it might be over.

And then, with slow, deliberate cruelty, he pinches the clit between two fingers, holding it still before driving the electric rod against it, letting it fire off several zaps in quick succession.

She screams. The clit in his box convulses, the trapped flesh trembling violently.

He smiles.

“You’ll learn,” he murmurs, flicking the little nub again, hard. She yelps, back arching off the bed.

Her fingers stay far away now, knuckles white as she grips the sheets instead, her body trembling under his unseen control.

Good.

He drags his thumb over the sopping slit in the box, gathering slick before lazily circling the clit again, just enough to tease. Just enough to make her squirm on screen.

She bites her lip, thighs pressing together in futile resistance.

He reaches for the tiny silver clamp and arranged it around her flesh, watching it bite down on her swollen clit, the sensitive tissue protesting with every pulse. Tears well up in her eyes on the screen. She shakes her head, whispering no, no, no, but there is no mercy for her.

He twists the clamp tighter around her tortured clit, delighting as the swollen flesh bulges around the metal teeth, darkening to a lurid purple. Her whole pussy quivers in response, her hole weeping, her inner muscles spasming in confused, helpless pleasure.

He grabs the vibrator again, the toy humming to life against the clamped bud, the frequency so precise it makes her flesh flutter, muscles contracting helplessly. Her back arches off the bed, a broken noise wrenching from her throat as pleasure spikes, sharp, unbearable, inescapable. Her fingers scrabble at the sheets, hips bucking in stuttering little jerks as the toy torments the hypersensitive nerve cluster.

Drool slicks her lower lip as she pants, eyes unfocused. He watches with satisfaction as her cunt pulses around nothing, slickness dripping from her in obscene rivulets. The vibrator buzzes harder, and a broken sob tears from her, sounds of desperation spilling out of her mouth.

He adjusts the clamp a fraction tighter, then twists it just to hear her scream. The vibrator rolls slow, merciless circles, pinning her clit ruthlessly. Every nerve in her body is lit up, pleasure crackling through her in waves that crest but never break. She is no longer a woman, just a thing shaking apart between his fingers, reduced to quivering flesh and involuntary spasms.

Every pulse of the vibrator sends shockwaves through her, stomach clenching, toes curling, breath coming in jagged little gasps. But he keeps it steady, never increasing the intensity, never allowing her the relief of building toward release.

Just edging. Just an endless, torturous plateau, where she can feel the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside her but never tipping over.

"P-Please—" she whimpers, her voice thin and broken, nails digging into her own thighs as if that could ground her.

He tsks, amused. As if she has any right to beg.

With deliberate cruelty, he turns the vibrator up, just one notch.

The effect is immediate. Her stomach muscles quiver violently, her legs splaying wider in helpless invitation, her mouth dropping open in a soundless scream. The clamp keeps her clit swollen and aching, the vibrator sending sharp, concentrated pulses straight into the overstimulated nerve bundle.

And still, she doesn’t cum.

Because he won’t let her.

Not until he decides she’s suffered enough.

—

The moment finally comes, her body, strained to its absolute limit, teetering on the razor’s edge of orgasm. He can feel it in the way her clit pulses in the box, a desperate, throbbing little heartbeat between his fingers. He has denied her all night, teased her, shocked her, clamped her, ruined her, but now, at last, he will let her break.

He pulls the clamp off cruelly, watching her clit swell as blood comes rushing back, flooding her already raw nerves with new torment. Her clit trembles, swollen so fat it sticks out from between her lips, begging for mercy. He doesn’t give her a chance to recover before he presses the vibrating toy directly onto her swollen clit, cranked to the highest setting.

On screen, her entire body snaps taut, a silent scream stretching her lips wide.

"That’s it," he murmurs, watching her cunt flutter around nothing, soaking the sheets beneath her. "Cum for me."

And she does.

Hard.

Her back arches violently, her thighs locking around the empty air as her orgasm rips through her. The clit in his hands convulses, pussy spilling slick in thick pulses under his touch. He grins, keeping the vibrator pressed firm, not letting up, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from her until it hurts.

She thrashes, her moans turning hoarse, painfully overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop.

He laughs, low and dark.

"You think you're done?" His fingers dig into her folds, spreading them open, exposing her glistening, twitching hole to the unrelenting buzz of the vibrator. "I’m just getting started."

Another orgasm wrenches out of her, messy and uncontrollable, her cunt contracting in helpless spasms as tears streak down her face.

Her legs jerk on the screen, thighs slick with sweat and arousal, heels digging into the mattress as if she could escape the pleasure eating her alive. But she can't. Every pulse of the toy sends electric jolts straight through her clit, her pussy fluttering around empty air, dripping onto the sheets beneath her.

He smirks, circling the vibrating tip harder against the swollen bud, watching the way her stomach muscles clench, another orgasm building whether she wants it or not.

Then, with deliberate cruelty, he pulls out a vibrating dildo and presses it straight into the tight, dripping hole in the box.

Her scream splits the air, her spine bowing off the bed, fingers clawing at nothing as the thick intrusion fills her in the exact spot designed to destroy her. The moment he turns it on, her entire body bucks like a live wire, the deep, rumbling vibrations rocking through her core, pressing mercilessly against the swollen inner wall of her cunt.

The clit vibrator doesn’t stop, buzzing against her abused nub while the deeper toy punishes her g-spot, sending shocks of sensation radiating through her lower belly.

She wails, thighs slamming together in a desperate, futile attempt to stop the pleasure, but it’s impossible, her hips twitch in tiny, involuntary thrusts, her cunt clamping down around the thick vibrator like it’s trying to milk it.

Her clit jumps under the relentless onslaught, pulsing in time with the brutal vibrations, the dark, swollen flesh quivering violently under his treatment. The dildo shifts inside her, the angle just right to send another bone-deep spasm tearing through her, her back arching so sharply it looks like she’ll snap.

He grinds the vibrator deeper, angling it so the thick, ribbed tip digs ruthlessly into the spongy spot inside her, the pressure unbearable. Every thrum of the toy sends gushes of slick spilling from her hole, her pussy clenching in erratic, overstimulated spasms, not an orgasm, not anymore, just her body breaking from the relentless pleasure.

Her clit is engorged, purpling from the abuse, twitching against the buzzing toy like a dying thing, her entire pussy quivering in time with it.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He increases the speed, the dildo drilling into her sensitive walls, the clit toy vibrating so fast it blurs, her entire body convulsing like a puppet yanked on its strings.

Another scream rips out of her, her hips jacking up off the bed, her cunt flooding the sheets as the forced pleasure tears another orgasm out of her, violent and uncontrollable. Her muscles lock, her fists slamming into the mattress as she cums, hard, messy, shameless, her hole pulsing around the vibrator, her clit throbbing in his grip like a second heartbeat.

But it’s not a release.

It’s torture.

Her eyes roll back, her moans turning to sobs as her body betrays her, cumming again, and again, her overstimulated nerves alight with agony and ecstasy.

She is nothing now.

Just a wet, trembling hole, a toy, a broken thing locked inside a box, bleeding pleasure at his command.

And he laughs, pressing down harder, watching her break.

Because she’s not allowed to stop.

A big hand yanking me into the men's room; a strong body manhandling me into the handicapped stall. A hot breath whispering at my ear, "Don't mind if I do, slut." My panicked confused struggling (that only turns him on more from the way he laughs) -- and then having my dress flipped up, my legs kicked apart, and my whole body folding in on itself as a huge cock tears its way into my tight wet cunt. My horrified (surprised, horny, thrilled) face staring back at me in the dingy scratched up mirror while my rapist --- no, my first customer --- groans in piggish satisfaction.

"God, I love freeuse pussy," he praises, bottoming out so hard I go up on my tip toes and wheeze. I scramble at the sink, claw at the mirror, whining at the massive intrusion trying to spear through my guts.

Somewhere dimly I register knocking -- someone rapping on the stall door.

My customer grunts -- "Wait your turn, asshole!" -- then pulls out and fucks back in harder, faster. I squeal, mouth falling open to pant like a bitch in heat as he sets an abusive pace, battering at my cervix.

On the other side of the door someone mutters, and more voices join in. A different person snaps, "There's a line you know."

My current user snarls -- "yeah yeah!" -- and drops his hand to my clit, pinching it between his fingers. My eyes roll back in my head and my legs threaten to give out. He snakes his other hand around to splay on my lower belly -- over my womb -- and I feel my brain start to leak out of my cunt.

"First served," he laughs low and hot, "first comes." His palm rubs my soft belly and then pulls me back into him tighter. "Gonna fuck a baby into you, princess. Say thank you."

In the mirror, I watch my earrings sway and flash back and forth, the words blurring in my vision and in my brain.

Free.

Use.

My orgasm brains me like a blow to the head and I scream, helplessly thrusting my fluttering desperate cunt back onto his cock. I hear laughter -- close and from outside the stall -- and wolf whistles. The world starts to go fuzzy at the edges.

My earrings catch the florescent light, dizzying, as my satisfied customer completes his transaction and zips up. His seed seeps out of me and trickles down my thigh, drips on the floor.

I hear the stall door open, and shift loose-limbed and floaty on my feet.

"Thank... you..." I slur, drooly and breathless, my customer service smile turned as vacant and sultry as my bedroom eyes, peering back at me in the mirror.

Grady huffed as he dropped onto the couch beside you, the whole thing shifting under his weight. A low groan escaped him as he settled, his scruffy cheek brushing the top of your head with an affectionate scratch.

“I'm so not ready for tonight,” he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand like a sulky teenager who hadn’t slept.

You smiled softly. You knew why.

Transforming hurt—plain and simple. Even if he never said it outright, you could see it in his posture, in the way his hands would tremble just before the shift started, in the way he ached after. And afterward? He was a menace. A car-sized wolf with the energy of an untrained golden retriever and the judgment of a wet sock. The last time he’d shifted, he spent hours splashing through the creek like a child, barking at fish and trying to catch them with giant clumsy paws.

“No being mean this time,” he grumbled, dragging his voice like gravel. “S’not funny when you pretend to throw the ball.”

A laugh slipped from you before you could hold it back. He could complain all he wanted, but you knew he secretly loved the way you giggled at him. The way you looked at him like he was something to be adored—even when he was soaking wet, covered in mud, and howling at frogs.

“But it is funny when you get all huffy about it,” you teased, turning your head to nuzzle against his chest. One hand reached up to rake gently through his shaggy hair. “And you’re so big. Like a puppy trying to cannonball in a birdbath.”

Grady let out a dramatic sigh like you were torturing him, but his head tilted into your lap anyway, heavy and warm. He stretched out like a spoiled housecat, completely ignoring his own complaints.

“M’not a puppy,” he muttered.

You smiled and let your fingers slide deeper into his hair, giving a gentle tug near the roots. “You’re my sweet little puppy,” you whispered, all saccharine and smug.

His response was a wordless grunt—playful and gruff. He shifted slightly, angling his face toward your thigh, eyes fluttering shut while your nails scratched his scalp.

“M’not little,” he huffed again. “M’six foot six. And m’strong.”

The pout on his face was so comical, so impossibly cute, that you had to bite your lip. His bottom lip pushed out, scrunching adorably as his cheek mashed against your leg. You could practically hear the exaggerated cartoon sound of mmpfh in your head.

“And I’m not yours,” he added suddenly, with just enough petulance to make it clear he knew exactly how ridiculous he sounded.

You raised a brow, smirking down at him. “Oh? Not mine?” You let the words drip slowly from your tongue. “You sure about that?”

Grady cracked one eye open to glare at you, the expression ruined by the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was trying to keep up the act, but he was failing—badly.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, burying his face further into your thighs with a grumble that was more fond than irritated. “M’just in the mood for attention, is all.”

“I know, baby,” you murmured, softening immediately. Your fingers returned to his hair, slow and comforting, while your other hand rested in his grasp. He took it without asking, calloused fingers fiddling with yours like a nervous habit.

Grady exhaled a low, contented hum as you carded your fingers through his thick hair. You felt the tension melt from his shoulders, his weight growing heavier against your body like he could sink into you entirely.

His thumb brushed lazy circles against your palm, his touch gentle in a way that always surprised you. For someone built like a tank, he handled you like spun sugar.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, voice low and muffled against your lap. “M’so damn clingy lately.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, thumb brushing along the edge of his ear. “It probably doesn’t help that I’m ovulating,” you said, only half joking. “You always get extra cuddly when I’m like this.”

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated against your thighs. His nose dipped lower, brushing against your stomach as he inhaled deeply. The change was subtle but immediate—his body tensed slightly, something more primal flickering behind his eyes when he looked up at you again.

“Damn,” he rasped. “You’re right. I can smell it on you.”

Your breath caught as he shifted, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you even closer. He inhaled again, slower this time, and the look in his eyes went from soft to something darker, heavier.

“S’like a damn magnet,” he growled, voice husky now. “Can’t… help being close. Need to feel you.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly as his hands slid over your curves, broad palms claiming every inch of you like you belonged to him. His lips brushed your jaw, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

“Need to touch you,” he murmured, voice barely more than a growl now. “Need to… have you.”

His fingers traced the edge of your hipbone, rough callouses dragging sparks across your skin.

You swallowed hard, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. “You have to be ready to shift, Grady,” you whispered, even though your body was already arching into his touch. “We can’t be fooling around right now.”

He groaned, a deep, frustrated sound, and dropped his head back into your lap like he was suffering a mortal wound. You ran your fingers through his hair again to soothe him, ignoring the thrum of heat still pulsing between your legs.

“I know,” he mumbled. “I know… It’s just—you smell so damn good. And I can’t…” He groaned again. “It’s hard to focus on anything but you.”

His hands slid up your sides, claiming your waist again, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. Possessive. Hungry. So very wolf of him.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your breathing steady. “One of us has to be responsible,” voice soft but firm as you try to control your breathing. “And right now, it needs to be me.”

You kissed the top of his head, trying not to melt under the weight of his affection. “C’mon. Why don’t we go outside? Get some air before the moon rises.”

He lifted his head slowly, fixing you with a look that was pure sulk. A low rumble escaped him—half groan, half growl.

“Fine,” he said eventually, clearly put out. He untangled himself from you with great reluctance and standing, stretching his arms above his head in a long, full-body sigh. “But I don’t have to be happy about it.”

You snorted and grabbed the nearest blanket and your phone, nudging open the back door. “What are you, five?”

“Six-foot-six!” he called after you with a grumble. “And very emotionally mature.”

You just rolled your eyes, stepping out into the soft twilight, knowing he’d follow you like a very loyal, very grumpy dog.

“’M not five,” Grady grumbles, trailing after you through the back door like an overgrown toddler being dragged to bed. His hands are shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched in exaggerated sulkiness as he kicks a pebble with unnecessary force.

You don’t even try to hide your giggle. The sound bubbles up too easily as he stomps behind you like a very large, very pouty, very muscular little boy trying desperately not to look like one.

Outside, the evening air is soft and thick with the scent of spring—fresh grass, blooming lilacs, and the distant promise of rain. Fireflies have already started blinking lazily near the treeline, and the sky is painted in streaks of gold and lavender.

You unfurl the blanket onto the grass, smoothing it out with practiced motions. “The little pouty lip says otherwise,” you tease over your shoulder.

Grady flops down beside you like a felled oak tree, limbs sprawling everywhere. His face contorts into an even more dramatic pout as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, glaring at the sky like it personally offended him.

“Shut up,” he huffs, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. He knows he looks ridiculous. He just doesn’t care enough to stop.

Despite his theatrics, his eyes track your every move while you adjust the edges of the blanket, the weight of his gaze dragging warm across your skin. There’s something different in the way he’s watching you—less petulance, more hunger. A quiet want simmering behind all that bluster.

Once you're settled, he sighs—loud and dramatic—as he flops fully onto his back, arms stretched wide, legs splayed like he’s trying to cover as much territory as possible. It’s utterly unnecessary and completely endearing.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accuses, his voice heavy with faux betrayal.

“I am, you goose.”

“’M not a goose,” he grumbles, sticking his bottom lip out like a sulking kid. He still hasn’t moved. He’s absolutely committed to the sprawl. “And you’re mean.”

The pout deepens. You can’t decide if he’s more ridiculous or more adorable.

But then his body twitches, barely perceptible but real, and the lightness fades a little.

Your teasing halts as your brow furrows. “You hurting already?”

His smug little act falters, and the air around him shifts—like something heavier just settled on his shoulders. His eyes flick toward you, the mischief gone.

“Yeah,” he admits softly, teeth clenched as he tries to stretch, only to wince. “It… it’s starting.”

He tries to brush it off, tries to flash you that cocky, crooked smile that usually melts your resolve. But it falters too quickly, his body trembling slightly beneath it. There’s tension in the line of his jaw, in the way his fingers curl into the blanket like he’s bracing himself.

“M’fine,” he insists, even as another tremor rolls through him. You see the way his breath stutters, how his shoulders hunch like he’s trying to protect himself from the inevitable.

You shift closer without hesitation, smoothing a hand through his hair and brushing the sweat-damp fringe back from his forehead. “I’m right here,” you whisper, your voice low, steady. Anchoring.

Grady swallows hard, closing his eyes beneath your touch. For a few seconds, you can see the tension ease—just slightly. He leans into you instinctively, as though your presence might hold the pain at bay.

“God, damnit,” he groans, voice rough with strain. “It always hurts. Fucking full moons…”

And then it hits harder—his back arches, body jerking as muscles seize, bones grinding audibly beneath his skin. His fists curl tighter into the blanket, knuckles white, and his teeth bare in a silent snarl.

You hate this part.

The forced shift always drags. Unlike the fluid, almost elegant change he can summon on his own, the full moon rips it from him inch by inch. There’s nothing gentle about it—just raw, brutal transformation.

Grady’s breaths come in quick, sharp bursts now. “Mmmph—fuck—”

You reach for his hand and squeeze, grounding him. He’s shaking, sweat beading at his temples, jaw locked tight as another wave crashes through him. His spine contorts, ribs creaking, the shift clawing through him mercilessly.

His body is growing before your eyes, bones stretching, skin pulling, fur starting to ripple along his arms and neck. He looks at you—eyes wild, pain-slicked and glassy. “M’sorry,” he gasps, voice barely human. “Hurts… so damn much…”

“Don’t apologize,” you say softly, but firmly. Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye. “You don’t have to say sorry. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

His jaw clenches as another sharp spasm rolls through him, and he lets out a guttural sound that makes your heart ache. Still, even through it, he nods—tiny, frantic, like he’s hanging on to your voice like a lifeline.

“Y’here,” he pants, words slurred. “I’m… I’m fine…”

But he’s not.

You can see it in every flicker of movement—the way his muscles writhe under his skin, the helpless arch of his spine, the low, pained sounds ripping free despite his efforts to bite them back.

A deep, guttural cry tears from his throat as another surge overtakes him.

You don’t flinch. Don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, fingers threading into his thickening fur, palm braced against his changing chest. You murmur to him between the sharp sounds of cracking bone and strangled groans—soft nonsense words, soothing nothings, promises that he’s not alone.

And even as the final wave starts to crest—his limbs lengthening, spine stretching into something no longer quite human—his eyes remain locked on yours.

The same eyes. Even through the pain. Even through the change.

And you stay.

You always stay.

The transformation is frenzied now—his body twisting, writhing, contorting in ways that make your chest ache just to watch. Bones shift with wet, sickening cracks; skin ripples and splits beneath the strain, shredding the last threads of his clothes. You can’t look away, even as you flinch with each spasm, each guttural sound that tears from his throat.

Grady’s voice is nearly gone, swallowed by gasps and groans. But through it all, his hand shoots out blindly, shaking, reaching. Searching for you.

“Don’t… don’t leave…” he chokes out, voice barely human, barely audible. His fingers clamp around yours in a crushing grip, trembling violently.

“I’m here,” you whisper, holding his hand tight, anchoring him as best you can. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens almost painfully, and then you feel it—that final pulse of heat and magic as the last of his human frame dissolves. Muscles surge. Limbs expand. The shape of him grows impossibly large as the wolf takes over.

It’s done in seconds—but it feels like forever.

And then he’s there.

Massive. Towering. All pitch-black fur and broad shoulders, hulking muscle wrapped in velvet shadows. A wolf, but so much more than that. Primal. Fierce. Raw.

His chest heaves with labored breaths as he looms over you, his fur slick with sweat and half-shifted heat. Eyes gleam in the dusk light—green, unmistakably Grady. Still him, somewhere in there.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the rustle of grass beneath his heavy paws and the sharp rhythm of his breathing.

Then you rise slowly, reaching up with both hands, careful and deliberate. Your fingers brush along his broad snout, smoothing down the wild fur. “There you are, my love,” you murmur, voice barely more than a breath. “The hard part’s over.”

Grady lets out a low whuff, the sound deep and soft. He leans into your touch immediately, eyes slipping closed as you pet him. His whole massive frame relaxes into the contact, brushing up against you with the same needy affection he’d shown earlier—but everything about him now feels bigger, heavier, more intense.

He presses his head against your hip with a sigh that’s almost content, nearly human in its weight.

And then you feel it.

The shift in energy. Subtle at first. The way his nose twitches. The stiffening of his shoulders. The slow inhale he takes at your side, drawing in your scent deep into his lungs.

His brain clicks over. You feel the moment it happens.

The wolf is fully in control now.

Grady lifts his head and stares at you—no longer soft or playful. His eyes are sharp, present, but darker, more calculating. His body presses against you again, only this time with purpose.

His snout nuzzles at your stomach, then your hip, then higher, across your chest. Slow, deliberate drags of his nose over your body as he breathes you in.

He’s scent-marking you.

“Grady…” you say softly, your voice cautious but not frightened. “You okay?”

There’s no answer. Just a low, vibrating grunt and the sensation of his nose nudging firmly under the hem of your dress. It flutters upward from the force of it, cool air brushing your thighs as he shuffles closer, his face buried against you.

Your breath catches—half-laugh, half-shiver. “Baby, what is up with you?” you giggle, the sound breathless as his whiskers tickle your skin and hot breath bathes your inner thighs.

Grady doesn’t respond. He grumbles low in his chest, face disappearing beneath your dress as he pushes further. You stagger slightly, trying to brace yourself, but he’s insistent—nose and mouth brushing against your skin, warm and wet and deliberate.

He’s not being playful.

He’s claiming you.

A startled squeak escapes you as he suddenly surges forward, and you lose your balance, toppling backward onto your ass with a thud. Your dress rides up, bunched around your waist, and his enormous body follows you down, pressing close—covering you like a storm cloud.

“Grady!”

But he’s already there—head buried between your thighs, breath scorching, nose rooting deeper. You squirm as his snout presses intimately against the softest part of you, heat blooming wild and sharp under your skin.

He grunts again, almost frustrated, and the low growl that follows sends a tremor through you.

Your underwear is no barrier.

He licks up the fabric—once, slowly—then again, more firmly. The sound that rumbles in his chest is sharp, impatient, primal.

You let out a soft, startled sound—and that’s all it takes.

A sudden rip, the fabric tearing like wet paper in his teeth. You gasp, air rushing out of your lungs as the cool night kisses bare skin, and then his tongue is on you. Directly.

Rough. Hot. Insistent.

You cry out, hips jerking, and he growls—a deep, satisfied sound—as if that’s what he wanted. His tongue laps at you eagerly, hungry and unrelenting, burying his face in you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

And maybe it is.

There’s nothing human in the way he moves now—no teasing, no hesitation. Just possession. Devotion. Instinct layered over devotion like wildfire.

He’s not letting up. He’s not giving space.

He’s claiming you. As his mate. As his.

You can barely breathe. Can barely think. His massive body is pressed over yours, his head buried between your thighs, his entire attention locked on tasting you, marking you, making sure every inch of you belongs to him.

And gods, part of you loves it.

The wildness. The need. The way even in this untamed form, it’s still Grady—still your mate—pouring every ounce of instinct into loving you the only way his wolf knows how.

You’re pinned.

Not by force, not really—but by the sheer weight of him. The heat radiating from his enormous body has your skin slick with sweat, your breath catching in short, needy gasps as his tongue drags another hot, slow stroke over your now-bare cunt.

Your thighs twitch against his broad shoulders. Useless. He’s nestled there like he was made for it, devouring you with single-minded hunger, his thick tongue lapping deep, slow, and filthy.

“Oh—fuck—Grady…”

Your voice is wrecked already, barely a whisper, but he grumbles in response, and the sound vibrates against your clit.

He likes that.

He does it again.

A rumbling growl rolls up from his chest as he presses his mouth flush against you, tongue flicking relentlessly over your soaked flesh like he can’t get enough—like he needs more. Needs you to drip, to soak, to be drenched in the scent of his name and the taste of his tongue.

Your hands bury in his thick fur, pulling, anchoring, begging, even though you’re not sure for what. More? Relief? Mercy?

He’s not giving you any of that.

He snuffles deeper between your thighs, rutting his nose shamelessly against your slick folds, inhaling like he’s trying to drown in you. His tongue flattens and slides up in a broad, possessive sweep, catching on your clit again—harder this time, with an eager little grunt that tells you exactly how feral he’s gone.

The wet sounds between your legs are obscene—slick and hungry and loud. You’re soaking, trembling, your hips jerking with every pass of his tongue, but it’s not enough. He’s not letting you fall. Not yet. He’s teasing the edge with maddening precision.

He’s playing with you like prey.

“Grady, baby—please—I can’t…”

You whimper, writhing, trying to close your legs—trying to open them. You don’t even know what your body wants anymore. You just know it’s too much. Too sharp. Too deep.

And still not enough.

He snarls against your core like he doesn’t like the whimper, doesn’t like the distance in your voice, and then he drags his tongue low, flattening it and shoving inside you.

Your whole body jerks.

“Gods— Grady!”

His tongue thrusts, long and thick and forceful, moving in slow, filthy strokes that make your vision white out. It’s not even about making you come—it’s about owning you. Filling you. Marking you from the inside out.

You claw at the blanket, dress bunched around your waist, thighs spread wide around the massive breadth of his shoulders. You’re completely exposed, entirely at his mercy—and he’s reveling in it.

He growls again, low and possessive, nosing up to your clit and flicking it ruthlessly while his tongue fucks into you deep and messy. His panting breath washes over your soaked skin, his tail thumping behind him in mindless rhythm.

And gods—you’re close.

So close it hurts.

“Please—please, I’m—Grady, I’m—”

Your body goes rigid as that knot of pressure coils tight, snapping all at once with a cry you don’t even recognize as your own.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through your limbs, your back arching off the blanket, thighs locking around his ears. You’re gasping, moaning, sobbing his name in broken pieces as your cunt spasms around nothing, desperate for more, desperate for him to never stop.

And he doesn’t.

He licks you through it, moaning into your soaked cunt like he’s drunk on you, like he can’t bear to stop. He slurps every drop of your release, tongue greedy, nose buried in your folds like he’s scenting his favorite meal—and you're giving it all to him.

You’re shaking, legs trembling, brain gone hazy as he finally draws back—just enough to breathe, just enough to look at you.

And those eyes…

Still green. Still his. But burning.

Feral.

Possessive.

Unrelenting.

He growls again, this time louder as his massive paw lands beside your head, his chest pressing up and over you. You see his hindquarters shift, his whole body angling around you, and then—

You feel it.

His cock.

Hot. Heavy. Throbbing.

Thick enough to make your breath catch, even before it presses against the mess he just made of you.

Still panting, still dazed, you blink up at him. “Grady…?”

He snarls softly—low and pleading. Not angry. Not rough. Just desperate.

He needs in. Now.

Needs to be inside you.

Needs to breed.

His cock drags against your soaked entrance—hot and slick and huge. You're already trembling from the orgasm he licked out of you, your cunt still fluttering, still leaking. And now this. Him.

His tip catches against your folds, and your breath stutters.

He’s… massive. Thick in a way that makes your mouth fall open, makes your body go still with anticipation and a sliver of fear. You can feel the blunt head of it nudging, already slick with precum, already throbbing.

“Grady…” you whisper, eyes wide, thighs still trembling. “You’re so—baby, I don’t know if—”

You don’t get the words out. He growls—low, guttural, needy—and shoves forward.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough.

Enough that your walls stretch wide, sucking in the thick, blunt head of his cock with a slick pop that makes your whole body jerk. You cry out, head thrown back against the grass as your cunt clamps down instinctively.

“F-fuck—Grady, slow down—”

He doesn’t understand “slow.” Not now. Not like this. Not when you’re slick and shaking and open beneath him, your scent flooding his nose, your heat wrapped around the very tip of him.

He draws back only to thrust deeper, forcing more of his thick cock inside, splitting you open with an almost brutal stretch. You claw at his fur, gasping, legs kicking around his waist.

“Too much—Grady—fuck—I can’t—”

He huffs hard against your throat, panting, his tongue dragging hot and messy along your skin as his hips roll again—grinding deeper, deeper, pushing more of that impossible length into you with every rutting thrust.

Your body’s struggling to take him. It’s too much—he’s too thick, too hard, the shape of him pressing against spots inside you that have never been touched this way before. Your cunt spasms around him, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him.

And he’s panting against your cheek now, nose nuzzling, whining like he can’t stand the gap between you.

“Need it,” you whimper, voice broken and hoarse. “Fuck, Grady—need you—fill me up—please, baby—”

That’s all he needed.

He snaps his hips forward, burying the rest of his cock inside you in one brutal, devastating thrust.

You scream.

It’s not pain—it’s too hot, too much, too good—your cunt stretched around him, stuffed full of thick, pulsing wolf cock. Your body clenches hard around the base, locking down like it’s trying to hold him in place.

And Grady loses it.

He starts thrusting—pistoning into you—hard, fast, relentless. You’re so wet now, slick pouring down your thighs, soaking his fur, making obscene wet noises every time his cock slams into your drenched pussy.

There’s no rhythm, no finesse. Just frenzied need. His hips snap forward over and over again, each thrust slamming into your cervix, making stars burst behind your eyes.

You’re crying out with every thrust now—loud, helpless, wrecked. You don’t care who hears. You don’t care about anything except the way he’s fucking you.

His teeth graze your throat. He noses at your jaw. He’s whining, panting, desperate—and you feel the moment he starts to swell.

The knot.

“Grady—Grady no—I can’t—”

You’re already too full. There’s no room. You’re stretched to your limit and then some—and still his cock pulses, flaring inside you, swelling at the base with every frantic thrust.

“Too much—too big—fuck—”

But he’s not listening. He can’t. His body’s doing what it was made to do—what every instinct in his feral mind is screaming for:

Breed.

He thrusts a few more times, sharp and fast, grinding his thick cock deeper into your cunt—and then with a sudden, feral growl, he locks into place.

You feel the knot snap into you, stretching you even wider, locking the two of you together with a wet, aching pop that makes your whole body seize.

You cry out—half sob, half moan—as he grinds against you, cock pulsing violently inside your womb.

And then he comes.

It’s relentless.

Hot jets of cum flood your pussy, thick and heavy, flooding your insides with warmth. There’s so much—more than your body can handle—more than should even fit. You can feel it pouring into you in thick pulses, and the knot keeps every drop inside.

You’re shaking, legs locked around his waist, your belly already aching with fullness. Your walls flutter around him, clenching and sucking, and it won’t stop—he keeps cumming, keeps growling into your neck, keeps huffing with those deep, desperate noises like he needs to get every last drop inside you.

“Oh gods,” you gasp, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Grady—fuck—there’s so much—so much—”

You can feel it now—his cum bloating your belly slightly, your womb full and aching, and your cunt still fluttering around him, teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

And he hasn’t even moved.

You shudder violently when he finally nudges his hips, testing the tie—and it sends another orgasm crashing through you.

You choke on a sob, your pussy milking his cock as another wave rolls through you—harder than the first.

You’re shaking uncontrollably now, nails digging into his fur, legs twitching around him.

“Grady—please—too much—I can’t—can’t breathe—”

He doesn’t pull out.

He can’t.

He’s knotted inside you, body locked to yours, cock still twitching, still leaking inside your swollen cunt.

And worst of all?

You feel it starting again.

His hips twitch. His growl deepens.

He’s not finished.

He’s going to breed you again.

You’re still twitching beneath him, cunt pulsing weakly around his knot, body wrecked and boneless. But he hasn’t moved—not really.

Grady’s still in you.

Still locked inside you.

And you can feel him getting hard again.

Your heart stutters. “No—baby, please—you just—”

You squirm, but the knot keeps you stretched, locked wide around the thickest part of him, your walls gripping tight with nowhere to run. There’s so much cum inside you—hot and heavy and endless—and it’s not stopping. Not when he’s still so deep, still so full, and already swelling again.

His cock twitches inside you, knot throbbing as it swells a little more. A broken moan slips past your lips, your fingers digging into his thick ruff, clinging as your body trembles beneath the sheer pressure.

“Grady,” you whimper. “I can’t—baby, I can’t—”

He growls again, lower now, darker, and it vibrates right through your chest. His teeth graze your neck, not biting—not yet—but the meaning is clear.

Mine.

Your body jerks with a soft cry as his hips start to move again—not thrusting, not yet—but slow, deep grinds, dragging his thick cock against your sensitive, cum-slick walls. The knot tugs with every movement, sending a bolt of pressure through your lower belly.

And gods—you feel it.

Your stomach is tight. Swollen. Stuffed full with his seed, and it’s not enough for him. He wants more.

Wants to breed you until it takes.

He snuffles at your throat, nipping and licking as his hips grind again and you feel his cock throb, leaking fresh, hot spurts inside your womb. The pressure in your belly builds higher, the stretch at your entrance obscene.

And then he thrusts.

It’s shallow, only a few inches—he can’t pull out—but even that tiny movement punches the air from your lungs.

You sob, back arching as your clit grinds against the base of his knot. The friction makes your whole body spasm, sparks of white-hot sensation ripping down your spine.

Another orgasm hits without warning, crashing through your nerves like lightning. You scream his name, legs jerking, toes curling, cunt fluttering helplessly around the locked, massive cock still fucking deep inside you.

Grady groans, nose buried against your throat as he starts thrusting again—short, fast, brutal little pumps, knot tugging, pushing, dragging.

Claiming.

You can hear the slick noises now—wet and obscene, the sound of your body being used, of cum squelching from around the base of his knot every time he ruts into your swollen cunt.

You’re crying—actually crying—tears streaking hot down your cheeks, not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from overload. Your brain’s gone static, pleasure boiling over into something raw and animal.

Your belly is round and tight now, heavy with the weight of what he’s filled you with, and still he doesn’t stop.

He growls against your jaw, panting, drooling, tongue dragging up your cheek as he presses his full weight into you, cock flexing again—and again.

You sob. “Grady—fuck—you’re gonna break me—can’t—can’t take any more—”

But your cunt tells a different story.

You’re still fluttering, still clenching, still milking him.

And he knows it.

He snarls—mine—and bites.

Not enough to draw blood. Not yet.

But the pressure of his teeth at your shoulder makes your pussy spasm around his cock, and he feels it—his rhythm falters, a sharp whine tearing from his throat as he loses control again.

He pounds into you—knot stretching, twisting, tugging your walls—and then he freezes, cock driving deep, locked in place as another wave of hot, sticky cum explodes into your womb.

You scream—back arching, vision white—as the next orgasm tears through you. It's messy, wild, unstoppable. You’re not even really present anymore, just floating in this thick, saturated haze of heat and pressure and pleasure that’s long since passed the point of bearable.

Your belly swells again—tight, impossibly so—sloshy and full and bred.

He’s breathing hard above you, body locked to yours, knot pulsing, twitching, anchoring him deep where you need him most.

And he still hasn’t moved.

You whimper—wrecked and wet and ruined. “Grady… please… it’s too much…”

But he doesn’t understand words.

Not now.

Not when your body’s still twitching around him. Not when you smell like him. Not when your swollen cunt is still leaking with need, still drooling around the knot he won’t—can’t—pull out.

He nuzzles your cheek gently, a small whine escaping his throat, and you know what it means.

He’s going to go again.

Limbs slack, muscles twitching, thighs still splayed open beneath the weight of his massive body. Your belly is tight, bloated with his cum, heat pulsing low and deep where he’s still locked inside you. His knot keeps you stretched wide, stuffed full, your pussy fluttering around him in slow, helpless contractions.

And Grady?

Grady’s not done.

You feel it in the twitch of his hips. The way his cock pulses again, buried to the hilt, still leaking more into a space that can’t possibly take it. You’re drenched. Your thighs are soaked. His cum leaks around the seal of your cunt in thick, warm trickles, and he just… keeps swelling.

His tongue drags along your throat, slow and messy. He noses at your jaw, huffing warm breath across your cheek, and lets out a low, chest-deep growl.

You’re not sure if he’s trying to soothe you or warn you.

“Grady—” your voice is shredded, barely more than a breath, “—you already filled me, baby… you already bred me—there’s no more room…”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, and those green eyes—still his, still present—burn with something ancient and inevitable. As if that word—enough—doesn’t exist anymore.

You’re his mate. You’re in heat. And you’re still clenching around him.

So he keeps going.

He grinds into you, slow and firm, dragging the full swell of his knot against your aching walls. It punches another breathless sound from your chest, the stretch igniting nerves you didn’t even know were left.

His tongue lolls over your throat, then up your cheek again. Gentle now. Reverent. But it’s paired with the steady rut of his hips as he moves inside you—barely an inch, but enough.

Enough to make you jolt. Enough to make your overstimulated body jerk against him, your cunt sucking and milking him out of pure, desperate reflex.

“Grady—fuck, please—I can’t—can’t come again—”

But you’re lying.

Your body betrays you.

Your pussy clenches again—tight, frantic, still fluttering around the knot that should’ve ruined you already.

And he feels it.

His growl spikes into something sharp and guttural—and then his teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder.

Not a nibble.

A claim.

The bite is deep, burning-hot and possessive, his jaw locking down just hard enough to make your back arch and your voice break into a strangled scream.

It sends you over the edge again.

Your orgasm rips through you with brutal force—sobbing, shaking, your legs kicking weakly beneath him as you gush around his cock, the heat in your womb tightening until you swear your belly’s going to burst.

He holds the bite, low growls vibrating into your skin, not letting up even as you fall apart beneath him—completely wrecked, completely bred, and still… still he’s grinding into you, shoving his cock deeper inside the mess he’s made of your body.

You don’t even recognize the noises coming out of your throat anymore—just broken, wet gasps, somewhere between sobbing and begging and moaning his name like a prayer. Your hands flutter uselessly at his back, nails scratching weakly at thick fur, but you don’t really want him to stop.

You can’t imagine being empty.

Ever again.

And gods—he knows it.

He noses at your neck, licking at the wound he made, all while his cock pulses again. You feel the fresh swell inside you, the way his balls draw up tight against you, and then—

Another flood.

Thick. Hot. Endless.

His whole body trembles as he empties inside you again, a low howl vibrating in his throat as he knots tighter, deeper, his cock pulsing with wave after wave of cum until you’re crying out, belly stretched taut and heavy between you.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s filled you.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come.

And still, he’s not soft.

Still, he’s not moving.

You whimper softly, thighs twitching, muscles useless beneath the press of him.

“Baby…” you rasp, tears slipping hot and helpless down your cheeks. “You’re gonna break me…”

Grady lets out a low, soft huff. His hips roll gently, keeping the pressure steady, the lock unbroken. You can feel the subtle pump of his cock still twitching inside you—leaking, marking, branding.

You’re not just his now.

You’re bred.

Filled to overflowing. Belly bulging. Pussy stretched wide around his knot, drooling with cum. Claimed so thoroughly your body is still spasming in aftershocks.

The knot pulses once more inside you—heavy and firm and unyielding—and then, finally, finally, you feel it start to shrink.

A slow, dragging shift. A deep pull deep inside you as the swollen base begins to soften, releasing that unbearable tension, that relentless pressure that had locked you open and stretched around him.

You sob at the sensation—not relief, not yet—just raw. Your body can’t decide what it feels. There’s too much. You’re too full. Your belly aches. Your thighs are slick and twitching, your cunt still fluttering in aftershocks as the knot deflates inch by inch.

And as it does—

It starts to leak.

At first, just a trickle. Warm and thick, seeping around the seal of your abused cunt.

But the moment his knot slips free—

It gushes.

A rush of heat pours from your pussy in a heavy wave, spilling between your thighs. You cry out at the sensation—body clenching instinctively around the sudden emptiness as your abused walls contract, twitching with each pulse.

Grady lets out a low whine, his tongue dragging over your cheek as he nudges you gently, trying to comfort even as the mess he left behind keeps spilling out of you.

It won’t stop.

Another gush follows, thicker this time—warm and slick. It coats your thighs, spills into the grass beneath you, your swollen pussy twitching and oozing, fluttering helplessly around the nothing he left behind.

You reach down instinctively, hand brushing between your legs—and shudder at the wet squelch, the feel of your fingertips gliding over slick folds drenched with him.

"Fuck…" your voice is ruined, barely a breath. “Grady… so much…”

He noses at your cheek, gentle now. Panting softly, whining when you whimper—like he knows what he’s done to you, and now he just wants to keep you warm, keep you safe, even as your body keeps leaking him out in slow, sticky waves.

You try to sit up, only to immediately collapse with a wet squelch as another gush forces itself out—your cunt clenching, dripping, unable to hold the load he left behind.

You feel raw. Ruined.

Ruined in the best, filthiest way.

Your belly is still round and soft, still heavy with what hasn’t yet spilled out. Still wide open from the stretch of his knot.

Grady noses at your hip, then licks between your thighs, slow and unhurried. Cleaning you. Scenting you. Whining softly when your body jerks from overstimulation.

"Too much," you whimper, breath hitching as his tongue drags through the slick mess he left. "You're making me—fuck, I’m still coming—"

Your hips twitch again—another gush forcing its way out at the pressure of his tongue.

He growls softly, satisfied. Tail thumping.

You’re not sure if he’s proud of himself or just overwhelmed by the scent, but you know—without a shadow of a doubt—he’d do it all over again.

And maybe you’d let him.

Because right now, lying in the mess of what he’s done to you—soaked and open and claimed—you’ve never felt more his.

And he’s still hovering close.

Still licking.

Still watching your hole flutter and leak.

Still hard.

You lie there in the grass, splayed out on the soaked, ruined blanket, your limbs heavy and shaking, belly soft and swollen with what hasn’t yet spilled out. Your cunt’s still twitching—used, emptied, but not at rest. Every breath draws another sluggish trickle between your thighs.

And Grady is watching.

His massive body is curled protectively around you now, no longer grinding, no longer rutting—just present. There’s a quiet, animal weight in the way he stays pressed to your side, the bulk of him warm and solid and humming with something softer than before.

He noses your neck again. Licks your jaw in a slow, deliberate drag. And this time, there's no growl.

Just breath. Just presence.

His tongue moves down, gentle now, nudging at the curve of your shoulder where his teeth left bruises. He licks at it slowly, almost guiltily, as if he knows. As if some part of him is already returning—recognizing the ache, the overwhelm, the ruin he left behind.

You’re too spent to do anything but whimper.

“Grady…” Your voice is raw silk, rasping on the air. You shift slightly, and another gush of thick heat spills from your aching pussy—down your thighs, onto the grass, seeping from your stretched, open core.

He watches it.

Then noses at the mess. Carefully. Reverently.

His tongue laps through it—not with hunger, but with focus. Tending. His broad, warm strokes drag through the slick between your thighs, cleaning you the way animals do—slow, purposeful, present. You twitch with each pass, sensitive and overstimulated, but you don’t stop him.

You need him.

Even now. Especially now.

His tongue dips lower, and when your hips jerk from the contact, he pauses. Whines softly, a small sound in the back of his throat. You realize he’s checking on you, waiting. Asking permission.

He’s starting to come back.

You thread your fingers through the thick ruff of fur at his neck, a loose, shaking motion, and give the gentlest tug.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, voice soft and frayed. “You can… keep going.”

So he does.

Slow strokes between your thighs. Over the slick swell of your pussy, down to the drenched skin of your inner thighs. Not arousing, not demanding—just gentle. Just his. He hums a little in his chest with each swipe, something content and tender, like his instincts have shifted into protectiveness now that the drive to mate is done.

He noses at your stomach, pressing his face into the soft, round curve. Breathing you in. You’re still so full—so claimed—and he curls tighter around you, one heavy paw braced at your hip like he’s guarding you from the world.

You lie there, cradled in the warmth of him, heart still fluttering as his licks slow.

Minutes pass.

The heat in your limbs gives way to a sleepy, molten exhaustion. Your skin smells like him. Your body feels like his. And slowly… slowly… you feel his body begin to change.

There’s a ripple under your palm.

A slow shift. The lines of his form begin to melt, bones softening, limbs shortening, fur dissolving in quiet pulses. The wolf fades away.

And then… Grady is there.

Still huge. Still warm. But human again, lying naked beside you in the wreckage of everything he did.

His chest is heaving with post-shift exhaustion, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his green eyes—soft now, glassy and so aware—blink down at you in disbelief.

“Oh… fuck,” he whispers.

He reaches for you instantly, cupping your cheek with shaking fingers. “Shit—baby—I didn’t—are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

You stare up at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted.

“No,” you breathe. “You… wrecked me.”

And then you smile. Just a little. Just enough.

Grady lets out a strangled, breathless laugh—half shame, half awe—and leans his forehead against yours. His hand drifts down, over your flushed, sticky belly, then between your legs—freezing when he feels the mess still leaking from you.

His eyes go wide.

“I…” His throat bobs. “I bred you so fucking hard, didn’t I?”

You giggle, barely able to move, weak with it. “You did.”

He stares at the mess between your legs, jaw slack, like he’s trying to process the fact that all of that came from him. Then he lets out another stunned laugh—ragged and boyish and completely Grady.

“Well, shit.”

His thumb strokes your hip, still reverent. Still careful. Then, with a crooked grin and a look of ridiculous pride in his eyes, he leans in to kiss your forehead.

“I think I just gave you enough to start a litter.”

Grady doesn’t stop touching you.

Even once he’s shifted back—once the fur’s gone and the claws are hands again—he’s still hovering. Stroking your face with the back of his fingers. Brushing sweat-damp hair from your temples. Palming your soft belly like he can’t quite believe it’s real.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “Gods… you’re still leaking.”

Your thighs twitch. Another soft, hot trickle slips out of you, pooling between your legs. You whimper from the oversensitivity, hips flinching weakly, but Grady hushes you right away—hand on your thigh, lips pressed to your temple.

“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna take care of it. Gonna take care of you.”

He sounds dazed. Like he’s still trying to climb out of instinct, but can’t stop clinging to the scent of you, the sight of you stretched out, messy, marked. Claimed in every way.

You reach for him sluggishly, fingers brushing his chest. “S’too much to walk,” you murmur, already anticipating the soreness, the slippery ache between your legs.

Grady doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice dropping low and reverent.

His arms slide under your thighs and shoulders, careful and strong, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing. You gasp softly, head resting against his bare chest, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your thighs part reflexively as another lewd squelch sounds from your still-leaking pussy, but he only tightens his grip.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re still so full of me.”

His voice is wrecked with it—shaky and proud. The scent’s driving him crazy all over again, but he bites it back. Holds it down.

You feel the rumble of it in his chest as he starts walking—slow and careful—toward the creek just beyond the trees.

The moon hangs low, casting silver over the grass. The blanket behind you is ruined, soaked through with sweat and cum and dirt and you. And still, Grady carries you like you’re made of starlight and glass.

“I didn’t think it’d be like that,” he murmurs as he walks. His nose brushes your hair, lips ghosting your temple. “Didn’t think I could stay like that. Not and still… still know you. Still love you.”

You blink up at him, heavy-lidded and aching, heart fluttering under your ribs.

“You did,” you whisper. “You never stopped.”

He lets out a breath that sounds a little like a laugh and a little like a sob.

The creek glimmers just ahead, quiet and soft with slow-moving water. He steps into it barefoot, careful not to jostle you, and the cool stream rushes around his legs, up to his calves, then his thighs.

You sigh when he lowers you into the water.

It’s cold—but clean. And gentle. And it feels so good against your raw, sticky skin.

Grady kneels behind you, guiding your back against his chest, pulling you into his lap as the water laps around your hips.

“Sorry I was so…” His voice falters. “So much.”

You reach down, guiding his hand to rest between your thighs. Let him feel the ache, the slickness, the open, overstretched softness he left behind.

“You were perfect.”

Grady goes still behind you.

Then he exhales shakily, and starts to move—cupping water, rinsing your inner thighs, your swollen folds, every sticky inch of skin. He’s quiet about it. Focused. Gentle. Like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.

When he’s done, he pulls you closer, both of you half-submerged in the creek now, his chin resting on your shoulder, your legs draped over his.

And for a long, soft stretch of time… you just float there.

Held. Clean. Still full, still sore, still his.

Finally, he lets out a low, cheeky little sigh.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice a little more himself now, “next full moon, I vote we put down a tarp first.”

You laugh weakly. “You ruined the blanket.”

“And probably the grass. And maybe your ability to walk.”

You groan, head tipping back against his shoulder. “Definitely that.”

Grady kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth—warm and smiling, finally himself again, but softer somehow.

More yours than he was before.

But this week? He was different. Quieter. Snappier. Like he was holding something back. His muscles were more tense, his jaw tight. He wouldn’t stay in the same room with you for long. Every time you moved past him, you could feel his eyes on you—and not in the usual “roommate checking out your ass” kind of way. It was deeper. Hungrier.

Then, on Tuesday night, he finally said it.

You were sitting at the counter, scrolling your phone, halfway through a tub of ice cream, when he walked in shirtless and flushed, sweat gleaming across his chest. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered, but his skin still shimmered with heat. He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and then just stood there—shoulders rising and falling too fast.

“…I’m going into rut,” he muttered, like it hurt to say the words. “This week. Maybe tonight.”

You blinked, barely looking up. “Okay?”

He tensed. You could feel it even from across the room.

“I just thought you should know.”

You snorted. “You say that like I’m supposed to lock my door or something.”

A long silence.

He closed the fridge, didn’t move. “Might be smart.”

That made you look at him. Really look. His eyes were dark, hooded, and very, very pointedly not on your face. There was something barely contained in his posture—like if he moved the wrong way, he’d snap.

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“I’ll stay in my room.” His voice was rough. “Just don’t… don’t walk around in those little shorts. Or your towel. Or anything that smells like you.”

“…So I should just stop existing?”

His jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something else—maybe beg. Maybe warn you harder. But instead he just growled under his breath and stalked off, leaving a trail of heat and tension in his wake.

You should’ve taken the hint.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The air in the apartment felt thick, humid, like the walls were sweating. You kicked off your blanket and rolled over, but then you heard it.

A creak. A low groan. The rhythmic thud of a mattress rocking too hard. A muffled curse.

You slipped out of bed, heart thudding, and cracked your door open. The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow under his door—and the sounds. Wet, fast, desperate. His breath coming in ragged gasps. The broken snarl of his voice.

“Fuck… fuck, just need something tight…”

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

He let out a whine, low and rough, followed by the unmistakable slap slap slap of skin against something soft. You didn’t need to guess what. The whole apartment reeked of sweat, heat, sex. And underneath it all, faint but familiar, you could smell yourself—your shampoo, your laundry, your skin.

You knew you should walk away. Go back to bed. But you didn’t.

The next night, it was worse. Louder. Wetter. Like he wasn’t even trying to hold back anymore. You pressed your pillow over your head, but it didn’t help. You could hear everything. Every needy growl, every slap of flesh, every low, hungry moan. You were flushed and squirming under the sheets before you even realized your hand had slid between your legs.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just curiosity. Shared space, thin walls. Nothing more.

But when he cornered you in the hallway the next night—bare-chested, sweat dripping from his neck, pupils blown wide—you knew something had shifted.

His breathing was shallow. His body radiated heat. And his voice, when he spoke, was barely human.

“I can’t—can’t do this anymore,” he rasped, stepping closer. “You smell too good. I need you. Please.”

Your mouth went dry. Your heart kicked hard in your chest. He was huge, trembling with restraint, and every cell in your body lit up with want.

You could’ve said no.

But you didn’t.

You grabbed his shirt, yanked him closer, and whispered, “Then take me.”

He didn’t kiss you at first.

He slammed you against the wall.

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t trust himself—like if he touched you any rougher, he’d break you. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged and burning as it ghosted across your lips.

“I’ve been fighting it,” he choked. “Three fucking days. Every time you walk past me, every time you laugh, every time you wear that goddamn skirt—”

You tugged his head down, dragging your mouth to his. “Then stop fighting.”

That was all it took.

He crashed into you, mouth hot and greedy, devouring you like he was starving. His tongue pushed past your lips with a low growl, and you moaned into him, fingers fisting in his hair. He kissed like he fucked—rough, consuming, no room to breathe. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, voice low and dark.

You obeyed.

He carried you to his room in a blur—slammed the door, shoved aside everything in his path, and threw you down on his bed like a prize. The sheets were soaked with his scent, still warm from earlier. The air was thick, humid, dizzying.

You barely had time to think before he was on top of you again—hands tearing at your clothes, mouth everywhere at once. He pressed his nose to your throat and groaned, breathing you in like oxygen.

“Smell even better up close,” he rasped. “So fucking sweet… drives me insane.”

His teeth grazed your neck, not quite biting—but close. Teasing. A warning.

Your shirt was gone, then your underwear, ripped down your legs with a snarl. He was frantic, panting, barely holding himself back. His eyes burned gold in the low light, his pupils wide and wild.

“You sure?” he growled, even as his hands slid between your thighs.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He didn’t waste another second.

He leaned down and dragged his tongue through your folds, groaning at the taste like it was the first real relief he’d had in days. You cried out, hips jerking, and he pinned you down harder, his grip bruising. His mouth was everywhere—tongue plunging deep, nose grinding against your clit, licking and sucking like a man possessed.

Your thighs shook around his head. “Shit—wait, I—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he went harder.

You came hard and fast, gasping his name, hips bucking against his mouth as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He groaned into your cunt, licking you through it, drinking down everything you gave him.

When he pulled back, his mouth was wet, chin slick, eyes glassy with lust. He looked feral.

“Fuck, I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Need to feel you. Gonna fill you up, knot you so deep—”

He stripped what was left of his clothes in seconds, and your breath caught at the sight of him. He was huge—thick, flushed, already leaking—and at the base of his cock, you could see the swell of his knot, already beginning to form.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “That’s not gonna fit.”

“It will,” he said darkly, crawling over you. “It has to.”

He lined himself up, ran the head of his cock through your soaked folds, and moaned low in his throat. “So wet already… your body knows. It wants this.”

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t.

“Hurry.”

He pushed in slow—just the tip—and your breath caught at the stretch. He was thick, and every inch felt like too much and not enough all at once. You dug your nails into his arms, moaning as he inched deeper, watching your face the whole time.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take me. Let me fuck you through it.”

You whimpered as he bottomed out, his hips finally flush with yours, the base of his knot grinding against your entrance. The feeling of him inside you—hot, heavy, overwhelming—made your whole body tremble.

And then he moved.

Slow at first. Deep. Grinding his hips into yours with slow, brutal thrusts that made your breath hitch every time he hit that sweet, aching spot inside you.

“So tight,” he growled, voice slurred with heat. “So warm around me—fuck, you’re perfect.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He picked up the pace, hips snapping faster, the slap of skin on skin getting louder, filthier. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding filled the room, slick and obscene, and you couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t think.

Your legs shook. Your body burned. You were stretched and stuffed and ruined and it still wasn’t enough.

You needed more.

He was pounding into you now—fast, hard, deep—his growls vibrating against your throat as your hips rocked up to meet every thrust.

“Fuck, fuck—you feel so good,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “So wet… you’re sucking me in.”

Your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, clinging to him like a lifeline. You could feel every inch of him—his thick cock sliding deep inside you, the swollen base of his knot grinding harder and harder against your entrance with every stroke.

You cried out, nails raking down his back. “You’re—ah!—gonna knot me—!”

“Yeah,” he snarled. “You ready for it, sweetheart? Gonna let me lock you up? Fill you till you’re dripping?”

You couldn’t even speak. Just nodded frantically, choking on your moans, your body trembling from the stretch and the heat and the pressure building, building—

Then his hips slammed forward—brutal and deep—and the thick ridge of his knot pressed hard against your cunt, stretching you impossibly wide.

You moaned.

It burned, that raw, overwhelming pressure of him trying to push deeper, your pussy clenching tight around his cock as your body fought it—and then gave in.

With a slick, wet pop, his knot slid inside.

“Shit—!” he growled, voice cracking as his hips stuttered. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—!”

Your body arched. You were full—so full you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The knot locked you together, pulsing deep inside, sealing him in as your cunt fluttered helplessly around him. You came again, hard, clenching tight around the thickness as you cried out, legs trembling.

He held still, buried to the hilt, his arms locked around you like a cage. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the rush of heat as he spilled inside—hot and thick and so much, your belly aching from it.

“Mine,” he growled, panting against your neck. “All fucking mine now.”

You whimpered, voice gone, throat raw from moaning. Every little twitch of your hips made the knot drag against your walls, sent a fresh wave of overstimulation crashing through your core.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit in lazy, tight circles.

“Still shaking?” he murmured. “Still hungry for more?”

You gasped, squirming. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sticky-sweet. “You’re taking it so well. You were made to be knotted, weren’t you? Fucking bred for it.”

Your cunt clenched around him hard, and he grinned, feral.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “There it is.”

You buried your face in his neck, body twitching as another orgasm rolled over you—smaller this time, but no less intense. Just the stretch, the fullness, the locked sensation of being tied to him had your nerves singing, pleasure raw and messy in your belly.

You could feel his cum leaking out, hot and thick, dripping down your ass even with the knot sealing most of it inside.

“Fuck…” you slurred. “I feel like I’m gonna burst.”

He chuckled darkly, brushing sweat-matted hair from your face. “You’re doing perfect. You’re not going anywhere now.”

You whimpered, hips twitching helplessly.

He rocked into you again—slow this time, shallow little pulses of his hips that made you whine, your body too sensitive to handle it.

And he was still hard.

Still inside.

Still not done.

“I’ll give you a break,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “But just know… we’re not finished. My rut’s just getting started.”

You shivered beneath him, overwhelmed, overstretched, and somehow still wanting.

Still his.

Still full.

And knotted tight.