The Nature Boy's Lair

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's expression darkened. "Wrong answer."

Wyatt yanked downward on the fishhook in Greg's nostrils, pulling his head back and down toward his armpit. The motion deepened the arch exponentially. Greg's entire anterior chain was stretched to the breaking point. The Pack could see his abdominal muscles pulled taut and trembling. Greg could feel his rectus abdominis being stretched to its absolute limit, fibers elongating from his sternum all the way down to his pubic bone. His external obliques twisted and pulled, creating a brutal spiral of tension through his entire core. His hip flexors were wrenched backward, forcing his hips to cant upward in a desperate, futile attempt to relieve the pressure. Every muscle on the front of his body was locked in a devastating stretch, each one pulling against the others, creating a feedback loop of agony. And then came the darkness as his face was buried in Wyatt's armpit.

The heat hit him first. It was an overwhelming, suffocating warmth that radiated from Wyatt's skin after nearly thirty minutes of brutal combat. Then came the musk. Dense, heavy, and utterly masculine, the scent of Wyatt's sweat and pheromones filled Greg's nostrils with every desperate attempt to breathe. It was primal and raw, the concentrated essence of dominance, exertion, athleticism, and power was thick enough to taste. The coarse ginger hair of Wyatt's pit scraped against Greg's cheek and lips, damp with perspiration that soaked into his skin. Every breath was a struggle. Greg's lungs burned as he tried to draw air through the suffocating heat and musk. The scent invaded his senses completely, drowning out everything else. He could no longer hear the warehouse, the roaring Pack, or his own thoughts. His vision blurred at the edges as oxygen became scarce. He was trapped. Completely.

Wyatt grinned and used his free hand to glide across Greg's abs with deliberate slowness. His palm was rough and hot against Greg's sweat-slicked skin, dragging over the ridges of his abs with possessive intent. The touch wasn't clinical or accidental. It was intimate. Claiming. His fingers traced the deep grooves between each abdominal muscle, feeling the way they flexed and trembled beneath his hand as Greg struggled for air. His hand moved higher, sliding up Greg's torso until his fingers found Greg's left nipple. He circled it once. Slowly. Teasingly. He then pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. The pressure was firm and deliberate, rolling the sensitive flesh with calculated precision. Greg's body jerked involuntarily against the surfboard hold, his spine arching even further as the sensation shot through him like electricity. But he couldn't move. Couldn't defend himself. Couldn't do anything but endure the violation of Wyatt's touch while his face remained buried in the suffocating musk of the Beta's armpit. Wyatt pinched harder, twisting slightly. His fingers released, only to return moments later, teasing, circling, possessing. He alternated between gentle touches and sharp pinches, each one a reminder of Greg's helplessness.

Source: Thundersarena

Hero sleepers Ashton

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