Guy exploring life

[owen-kinkyns]

[alex-heatd]

[nick-vixenx]

[dcboy84]

Fuckin love it

[alex-feistyq]

[wes-fierce3]

[mathoeh]

🤤

[jake-teaset]

[noah-vixenu]

[freshie-deactivated20181219]

[brobator]

Fuck bro my girlfriend never swallows for me

[sniqueurparis]

[cg-stories]

Just as I was about to plug my phone in and call it an early one, a notification came through. The preview showed his name—Scott—and nothing else. No text, no context. Just a name I had barely seen on my screen the last few years.

I stared at it for a long moment, my thumb hovering. The last time we’d spoken face to face had been at his wedding, and even then, it had been nothing more than a stiff congratulations and a handshake that lasted exactly two seconds before he pulled away. He’d made a point of avoiding me the entire reception, positioning himself on the opposite side of the room whenever I drifted too close, finding conversations to jump into whenever I made eye contact. I’d gotten the message. Loud and clear.

Still, I’d tried to keep up with him over the years. Conversations always petered out after trading pleasantries.

I tapped the notification anyway.

The image loaded in stages—first the blur of skin tones, then the sharper definition of a body I knew better than I should. My breath caught somewhere behind my sternum.

He was directly facing the camera. A full-body shot, taken in what must be his bedroom, the door behind him firmly shut. But it was him. All of him. Knees bent up to his chest bearing himself to me, phone positioned to capture everything.

His body had filled out since I’d last seen him in this state of dress. Thicker thighs, his ass fatter than ever. He’d always been fit in high school, but this was a man’s body now—thicker, denser, matured. A dark trail of hair defined the swell of his ass, spreading across each cheek in a masculine dusting that caught the bedroom’s fluorescent light.

And he was spreading himself open. Both hands reaching down, fingers digging into the meat of each cheek, pulling apart to reveal the furrow between. The hair concentrated there, denser, darker, framing the pink pucker of his hole like a target.

My gut clenched. That hungry feeling I knew too well shot through me. The same feeling I’d gotten the first time he’d sent me a picture back in high school, back when it had started as a joke between two bored seniors in study hall. Like most inside jokes, the origin had been lost to time and memory. I had been mad at him and called him an asshole for some reason, and he’d snapped a picture of his ass in the locker room and sent it with the caption you’re right. We’d both laughed about it. Called it gross. Moved on, friends again.

Except then he’d sent another one a month later. Then another. And I’d never told him to stop.

The photos had evolved over the years. Better angles. Better lighting. More hair appearing as he grew into his body. Each one landing in my messages with no explanation, no conversation attached—just an image and then a laugh until the next one appeared weeks or months later. A ritual neither of us acknowledged out loud.

But this one was different.

I scrolled down, taking in the rest of the image. His hard cock sticking up between his spread thighs, flushed and heavy, his foreskin stretched over the head. A bead of moisture caught the light at the tip. He wasn’t just showing me his hole this time—he was showing me what it did to him. The effect it had. The fact that spreading himself open for a camera had gotten him hard enough to drip.

And on his left hand, caught in the reflection as he gripped his own cheek, the band of his wedding ring caught the light. A deliberate inclusion. There was no missing it.

I set the phone down on my chest and stared at the ceiling. My own cock strained against the fabric of my briefs, a predictable response to seeing Scott like this after so long. After being iced out. After wondering if I’d ruined everything.

The last time he’d sent a picture had been the morning of his bachelor party.

I let the memory surface, even though I’d spent two years trying to bury it. The image had arrived at 6 AM—he and his groomsmen were going golfing before the evening’s festivities. I couldn’t get off work so I was getting in later that day. Just a quick shot of his hole, nothing fancy, with the caption one for the road.

I’d still been keyed up from it when I’d seen him that night at the hotel bar. He’d been drunker than I’d ever seen him, loose and laughing, his arm slung around my shoulders like we were the best friends we’d never quite been. When he’d stumbled getting up to take a piss, I’d caught him. Walked him to his room. He’d pulled me inside.

“Did you like the picture?” he’d slurred against my neck. 

“I always do,” maybe it was the drinks but I decided to be honest.

His glazed over eyes sharpened and he searched my face as if he’d find the answer to a question he had really meant to ask. Whatever he found there drove him to kiss me and drag me to his hotel bed.

I’d knelt on the edge of the bed as I helped him lay face down in the pillows, and I’d put my tongue in him for the first time. Tasted the salt of his skin, the musk of his ass, felt him shake apart as I’d worked one finger, then two, into that tight clutch of muscle. He’d come without me touching his cock—just my fingers crooked inside him, pressing against that spot, while he moaned into the mattress and spilled all over the hotel’s cheap comforter.

I got myself off leaning over his prone body, my releasing painting his bare thigh.

The look on his face afterward—flushed, wrecked, satisfied in a way I’d never seen from him—that was what I’d replayed in my head for months afterward. The best thing I’d ever seen.

And then he’d married Cait the next week, and I’d gotten the cold shoulder, and I’d assumed that was it. A moment of weakness he regretted. A line he wished he hadn’t crossed.

I picked up my phone again. The image was still there, timestamped forty-three minutes ago. No text followed it. No hey or long time or I know things have been weird. Just his body, offered up in explicit detail, his wedding ring a flashing exclamation point on the whole tableau.

I pulled up his contact. My thumb hovered over the call button. In the photo, his hole was slightly parted—not stretched, but open in the way that I felt meant he’d been thinking about this. Preparing. Maybe already playing with himself before he’d decided to send the picture.

The hair around his entrance was thick and dark, the same color as the trail down his stomach as I knew from all the years I’d watched his body. I thought about how it would feel against my tongue now—coarser than it had been two years ago, more to work through before I could reach the sensitive skin underneath. I thought about the sounds he’d make if I buried my face there again, if I took my time the way I hadn’t been able to that night in the hotel.

My cock throbbed, insistent. I palmed it through my briefs, not stroking, just holding pressure.

This wasn’t a joke anymore. It hadn’t been since the bachelor party, but this felt different. More deliberate. He’d had two years to think about what happened, to decide if he wanted it again or if he wanted to pretend it never happened at all. He’d chosen to distance himself, freeze me out, keep me at arm’s length as he moved on with his life.

And now he was bent in half in his bedroom with his wedding ring on display and his hard cock dripping and his hole spread open like an offering.

Me: Where are you?

Three dots appeared immediately. He was waiting. He’d been waiting for me to see it, to respond, to make the next move.

Scott: Denver. But I’ll be in town for a conference next week.

That was enough time. Enough distance from home, from his wife, from whatever life he’d built that apparently still had room in it for this—for me.

I sent my address. 

Me: Don’t get a hotel, stay with me.

The response came faster than any text he’d ever sent me in ten years of this strange, silent game we played.

Scott: Fuck yes.

[sacanagemzinha]

(via cg-stories)

[douglasbradshaw]

(via sacanagemzinha)

[liam-racym]

[andresbox-deactivated20130108]

[cg-stories]

I was hooked from the first wet swipe of his tongue across my hole. I gasped, my fingers gripping the worn fabric of Rhett’s couch cushions beneath me. His warm breath ghosted over my exposed crack as he pulled back for a fraction of a second before diving back in, this time with the flat of his tongue dragging slow and deliberate from my taint to the top of my crease. I swore lightning shot up my spine and I shivered at the overwhelming sensation.

“Fuck,” I breathed, my voice cracking in the quiet of the room.

He’d been bragging about his pussy-eating skills for years—every beer-soaked conversation eventually circling back to how he could make any woman scream with just his mouth. I’d rolled my eyes at it countless times. But now, with my legs hiked up and my ass spread open for him, I was reconsidering every dismissive thought I’d ever had.

His tongue circled my rim with patient expertise, teasing the wrinkled flesh before pressing forward. The tip breached me just enough to make my cock jerk against my stomach, leaving a smear of sticky fluid across my happy trail. He worked with methodical precision—licking, probing, then sucking the sensitive skin around my entrance until I was squirming.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmured against my flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. The stubble on his chin scraped against my cheeks as he buried his face deeper, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs hard to hold me open.

I suspected this wasn’t his first time with a man. The way he navigated my body—confident, unhurried, like he knew exactly what pressure would make me whimper—spoke to experience that went beyond enthusiastic pussy worship. But I wasn’t about to complain, not when he was making my toes curl with every filthy lap of his tongue.

My hole was soaked with Rhett’s spit now, the obscene sounds of him eating me out filling the cramped living room. Each wet slurp echoed off the walls, mixing with my increasingly desperate moans. I could feel myself opening up for him, my body relaxing into the pleasure as he worked me over.

“Come on, bro,” I heard myself say, the word tumbling out before I could stop it. “Eat my fucking pussy.”

I reached down, my fingers tangling in Rhett’s hair—thick and slightly damp with sweat—and pushed his face harder into my ass. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through my most intimate flesh, and sealed his lips around my entrance. The suction made my back arch off the couch cushions as his tongue fucked into me with purpose now, no longer teasing but claiming.

My cock throbbed neglected against my belly, drooling a steady stream of precome that pooled in the groove of my hip. I didn’t dare touch it—I’d blow my load in seconds if I did, and I wasn’t ready for this to end. Not when his mouth was doing things to my ass that had me seeing stars behind my closed eyelids.

The couch springs creaked beneath us as I shifted, trying to give him better access. My legs trembled in his grip, muscles twitching with the effort of staying spread so wide. Sweat gathered in the hollow of my throat, my skin flushed hot despite the cool air of the apartment.

I couldn’t imagine anyone eating ass better than my buddy was right now.

[mitchellkent]

[cg-stories]

You were in a particularly shitty house off campus. The relentless pulse of music made your beer feel carbonated in your throat. You'd come because Derek insisted, because some girl from his econ class had promised her sorority "had friends," because sitting in your dorm playing videogames again felt like admitting defeat. Now you leaned against a kitchen counter that smelled of spilled jungle juice and someone's failed attempt at buffalo chicken dip, watching the crowd shift and surge like something breathing.

You noticed him because he noticed you first.

He stood near the staircase, maybe five-foot-eight if he stretched, brown hair falling across his forehead in a way that hinted that someone had been running their hands through it all night. Plain, well-fitted t-shirt, slim jeans, canvas sneakers. The girl beside him—blonde, laughing too loud at something on her phone—had her hand on his arm, but his eyes kept drifting. To you. Away. Back again.

You'd had three beers. Not drunk, but unmoored enough to find it amusing rather than awkward. When he passed your counter ten minutes later, ostensibly hunting for the bathroom, you straightened from your slouch just enough to intersect his path.

"Lost?"

He stopped. His throat moved—actually moved, like a cartoon character swallowing. "I— bathroom?"

"End of the hall, left turn, I think." You pointed, but didn't move aside. "You here with someone?"

The flush started at his collar and climbed. "My— yeah. Maya. She's..." He gestured vaguely toward the living room, where the blonde had apparently found someone else to occupy her attention. "We're not—it's not serious."

"Didn't ask." You let the corner of your mouth curl, watched his eyes drop to your shoulders, your chest, back up. The height difference meant you were looking down at him, and something about the angle made his breath come faster. "You want another drink?"

"I shouldn't. I'm already—" He laughed, nervous, a sound like glass beads scattering. "I'm already pretty buzzed."

"Then one more won't hurt."

You found a relatively quiet corner of the den, a loveseat upholstered in something that might have been a fake leather material before a decade of college parties. He sat close enough that his knee bumped yours, then didn't move away. Maya had apparently texted him—his phone buzzed, he glanced at it, set it face-down on the cushion between you.

"She found her friends," he said, by way of explanation.

"Convenient."

His mouth opened, closed. You watched the battle play out across his face—the want versus the should, the curiosity versus the fear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to something barely audible above the music. "I don't—I've never. With a guy."

"Not asking you to marry me." You finished your beer, set the cup aside. "Just asking if you want to get out of this room."

The hallway you found was narrow, serviceable, clearly meant for moving between the kitchen and a back exit. The light fixture had burned out or been removed, leaving only the spill of party noise and the faint glow from under a door at the far end. You pulled him in by his shirtfront—not rough, but decisive, and he came like he'd been waiting for someone to take the choice from him.

His back hit the wall with a soft thud. You crowded in, one hand bracing beside his head, the other finding his waist, his hip, the curve of his ass through too-thin denim. He was hard. You could feel it when you pressed against him, could hear the catch in his breath when you rolled your hips just so.

"Shit," he whispered. His hands found your shoulders, your chest, uncertain where to settle. "Fuck, I—"

"Quiet." You bent your head to his ear, let your breath hot against the shell of it. "You don't want anyone walking in on us, do you?"

He shook his head, a frantic little motion. You took it as permission to grind harder, to fit your thigh between his legs and feel him rut against you like an animal in heat. The friction was insane—your cock straining against your own zipper, his smaller frame pinned and writhing, the wet sounds of his breath and the occasional whimper that escaped despite his best efforts.

You found his mouth and forced his lips apart to welcome your tongue. You swallowed every moan and whimper that the thrust of your clothed cock against his forced from his throat.

You reached between you, popped his button, dragged his zipper down. He wore light grey nike boxer briefs. They were saturated at the tip where he'd been leaking for who knew how long. You palmed him through the fabric and he bit your shoulder, hard enough to hurt, his whole body arching into the contact.

"Please," he gasped. "Please, I’m so close—"

"Yeah?" You worked him faster through the fabric of his underwear, thumb dragging over the wet spot again and again. "Gonna come in your pants like a virgin? Gonna make a mess for me?"

He nodded, frantic, his hips stuttering in your grip. You used your free hand to hold his jaw, forced him to look at you in the dim light. His pupils were blown wide, desperate, tears actually gathering at the corners from the sheer intensity of it.

"Do it," you commanded. "Now."

He broke. His whole body seized, hips snapping forward, and you felt the heat flood through his underwear as he came with a strangled cry that you swallowed with your mouth over his. He shook and shook, your hand still working him through it, drawing out every spasm until he was whining, oversensitive, trying to squirm away.

You let him go, wiped your hand on his shirt—he'd have to explain that later—and reached for your own fly. He watched, still slumped against the wall, as you pulled your cock out. He let out a small gasp at its size as it came into view. All the thrusting hadn’t given him an accurate measure of the monster you were hiding in your pants. It was angry red, slick at the tip, throbbing in your grip. You gave it two rough strokes and already felt the familiar tightening, the point of no return rushing up on you fast.

"Fuck," you grunted. "Gonna cover you. Want that?"

He nodded, still dazed, his own come cooling sticky in his pants. You jerked yourself harder, hips punching forward into your fist, and then you were coming with a groan that seemed to tear out of your chest. It spurted hot across his shirt, his neck, one strand catching the chain of his cross. You kept stroking, milking every drop, watching it drip down his front in the dim hallway light.

You tucked yourself away, zipped up, and stepped back. He stayed against the wall for a moment longer, chest heaving, looking thoroughly debauched—ruined shirt, messy hair, the dark wet spot still obvious at his crotch. When he finally pushed off the wall, his legs actually wobbled, and you caught his elbow without thinking.

"Steady."

"Thanks." His voice was hoarse, barely there. He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropped it, finally managed to unlock it. "I—can I get your number?"

You took it from him, typed your digits slowly, watched him save it with a focus that seemed to ground him. When he looked up again, something had shifted in his expression—not quite regret, but a dawning awareness of what he'd just done, what he'd have to explain to Maya, to himself.

"I should—" he started.

"Yeah. Go."

He walked away down the hallway, still unsteady, disappearing around the corner toward the bathroom or maybe straight out the back exit. You leaned against the wall where he'd been, breathing the lingering scent of sweat and come and his laundry detergent, until the next wave of partygoers pushed past looking for the keg.

Your phone buzzed an hour later, after you'd found Derek, after you'd made excuses about heading back early, after the cold walk to your apartment and the longer cold shower that did nothing to cool the heated memory of his whimpers.

A number you didn't recognize. A photo attachment.

You opened it and felt your pulse kick. He was sitting on what had to be her room. He'd taken the photo in a floor length mirror, angled down at his lap. He was undressed down to those fucking Nike boxer briefs, the wet spot there obvious, the outline of his cock still half-hard beneath. 

He looked good enough to eat.

The message read: you made a mess of me

You smiled in the dark of your room, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance. Inside, you could already feel yourself getting hard again, remembering the weight of him pinned against plaster, the desperate sounds he made when he broke.

me too, you typed back. next time im getting you naked.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then: ok

You set the phone aside and let your hand drift down, already planning, already hungry for more.

[cg-stories]

Hundreds of mornings started just like this, with the hiss and gurgle of the coffee maker but I had never appreciated it quite like this before. Every muscle in my body ached with that specific deep soreness that came after a full moon—the kind that settled into the joints and lingered like a stubborn guest. But still, there was a certain relief after a shift. The itch under my skin that built up over the week leading up to a full moon was gone and I felt whole again. I stretched my arms above my head, vertebrae popping in sequence down my spine, and let out a breath that felt weighted with the previous night’s exertions.

The kitchen caught the early morning light in muted golds and ambers. My house sat on forty acres of woodland and backed up against a national forest, far enough from the nearest town that the only sounds came from birds and the occasional distant highway rumble. Pack territory. Safe ground. I’d lived here for eleven years now, built the pack from nothing after inheriting the land from my predecessor, and still the silence of mornings like this caught me off guard with its peace.

I reached for my favorite mug—the one with a hairline crack in the handle I kept meaning to fix—and poured the dark roast, letting the steam curl up toward my face. The scent alone started unknotting the tension in my shoulders. Behind me, the hallway leading to the guest bedrooms stretched quiet and dim. I was technically the only person who lived in the house full time at the moment, but there were always other pack members around, especially after a run like last night’s. Most of the rooms and comfortable corners of the home were claimed, but no one else had stirred yet. 

I’d left the door to the second room cracked open, clothes folded on the dresser: sweatpants, a t-shirt, clean underwear. Standard provisions for someone waking up in an unfamiliar place.

I leaned against the counter and took my first sip, letting the heat settle on my tongue before swallowing. The night came back in fragments and flashes. The run. The moon hanging fat and silver through the canopy of oaks and pines. The way the pack had moved together, eight wolves cutting through the underbrush like water finding its course.

And then the ninth.

I’d caught his scent before I saw him—sharp and wild, threaded through with confusion and fear. A new wolf. A bitten wolf, most likely, though sometimes the gene surfaced on its own in response to trauma or intense stress. Either way, he’d been in the woods during a full moon with no idea what was happening to his body, his mind, his entire reality. The primal instinct to find others of his kind had overridden the terror. That instinct had saved him. Lone wolves didn’t last long, especially not freshly turned ones.

The memory of mounting him surfaced unbidden, and I felt my cock stir against my thigh. I didn’t suppress the reaction. There was no point in denying what had happened or how my body responded to the recollection. As Alpha, I’d claimed many new pack members over the years. It was part of the responsibility, part of the hierarchy that kept us stable and whole. But there’d been something about this one—about the way he’d submitted, the sounds he’d made, the tight heat of him around my knot—that had felt different. More significant.

I took another sip of coffee and let the heat spread through my chest.

The floorboards creaked behind me.

I turned, expecting one of my regular pack members finally rousing from their sleep. Instead, I found him standing in the entrance to the kitchen, one hand braced against the doorframe, completely naked. So he hadn’t found the clothes I left him, that was fine. Modesty didn’t really have a place among creatures who transformed and fucked in the woods I guess.

He was younger than I’d realized the night before—mid-twenties, maybe, with a bulky, muscular build and skin that looked soft in the morning light. His hair was a mess of dark brown spikes, tangled from sleep and shifting. His face held the slightly dazed expression of someone who hadn’t quite figured out which way was up yet. He blinked at me, then at the kitchen, then back at me.

“Hi,” he said. His voice came out rough, unused.

“Morning.” I kept my tone even, casual. No need to startle him further. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked from my face down to my bare chest—I’d pulled on a loose pair of sweatpants but hadn’t bothered with a shirt—and then lower, to where the worn fabric rode low on my hips. A flush crept up his neck.

“Did we…” He swallowed hard. “Last night. Did we…fuck?”

I looked his naked form over, appreciating it in the light of day. I was kind of surprised he couldn’t bring himself to say the word, but then again, I spent most of my time around other werewolves and could forget how weird humans were about sex sometimes. 

“Yeah. We did.”

The flush deepened to a proper blush, spreading across his cheekbones and down toward his collarbones. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. I watched the internal struggle play across his features—the embarrassment, the confusion, and underneath it all, something that looked almost like hunger.

“I don’t…” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much. Just fragments. I was—I was in the woods, and then everything got so bright, and my body felt like it was on fire, and then you were there, and—” He broke off, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple. “I don’t remember getting drunk. Did I get drugged or something?”

I set my mug on the counter and studied him more carefully. The way he stood, the slightly hunched posture, the way his eyes kept darting toward the window like he was calculating escape routes. Flighty. Defensive. His body didn’t know how to process the input it was receiving.

“You really don’t know,” I said slowly. It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t know what?”

I let out a breath. I should have prepared for this. I’d been doing this long enough that I should have anticipated the possibility that a newly turned wolf might not understand what had happened to him. But the night had been chaotic, and he’d seemed to respond so well to the claiming, and I’d made assumptions about how much he knew. A mistake. One a more experienced Alpha wouldn’t make.

“Why don’t you sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll explain everything.”

He hesitated, clearly not trusting the situation, but his legs looked like they needed the support. He crossed to the table and pulled out a chair, lowering himself into it with the careful movements of someone whose body had been put through significant strain. Which, of course, it had. My first shift came when I was still a child and I remembered vividly every ache and pain I felt the next day. It had taken two weeks for me to fully recover.

I poured a second mug of coffee and set it in front of him before taking the chair across the table. He wrapped his hands around the ceramic but didn’t drink.

“So,” he said. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

“I am.” I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “But first, I need you to tell me what you remember from before the woods. From earlier in the night.”

He frowned, his gaze going distant. “I was at a bar. With friends. I only had one drink, I think. I left to walk home, and I took a shortcut through the park, and…” His frown deepened. “Something attacked me. I thought it was a dog, maybe, or a coyote, but it was so fast, and the pain was—” He touched his side unconsciously, fingers tracing a line along his ribs.

I nodded. “Let me see.”

He hesitated again, but something in my voice must have convinced him. He shifted in his chair, turning slightly, and I leaned forward to examine the mark. There was nothing left of the bite wound but a thin silver scar. Werewolves healed fast but this wasn’t new.

“What day was it?” 

“What?” He spat out defensively.

“What day were you at the bar?”

“Uh—Thursday? Yeah, I didn’t stay long at the bar because I had to work early on Friday. We were celebrating Austin’s promotion so I wanted to at least stop in.”

“Do you remember the date.” I kept pushing.

“Uh—yeah—” He stumbled over his words as he struggled to put his fractured memories back together. “June 3rd, I think.”

Shit.

“What did you say your name was?” I probably should’ve asked this before but I was never very good at this part of being an Alpha. 

“It’s, uh, Alan.” He blushed, realizing he slept with someone who didn’t even know his name.

“Alan. It’s July. That was almost a month ago. Don’t worry, this is normal. There’s always some confusion at first but your memories will come back soon enough. You have a bite mark on your side,“ I said. “Consistent with a werewolf attack.”

He stared at me. “A werewolf attack.”

“Yes.”

“Like…actual werewolves. Full moon, howling at the sky, turning into wolves.”

“That’s the one.”

He laughed—a short, sharp sound that held no actual humor. “You’re insane. Or I’m insane. One of us is definitely insane.”

“You were bit during the last full moon, and now you are one of us. You shifted last night,” I said calmly. “Your first transformation. That’s why your body hurts, why your memories are fragmented, why you ended up in the woods with no idea how you got there. The change takes a toll, especially the first time. Your wolf is still very much at the front of your mind so his memories are overriding yours. It takes a minute to get used to sharing the space inside your head, but it’ll get better, I promise.”

He shook his head. “No. No, that’s not—that’s not possible. Werewolves aren’t real. They’re stories. Movies.”

“And yet here you are.” I spread my hands. “Naked in my kitchen, with a healing bite mark on your side, after spending the night running through the forest on four legs. You’ve been changing for the past month. When your memories come back, you’ll see that and it’ll make more sense. For now, there’s no rush, just process it how you need.”

His breathing had gone shallow. I could see the panic building in the set of his shoulders, the widening of his pupils. I’d seen this reaction before. The human mind fought against the impossible, tried to rationalize, to deny. Sometimes that denial turned into anger or fear directed at the messenger.

“I’m losing my mind,” he whispered. “I’ve completely lost my mind.”

“You haven’t.” I kept my voice steady, authoritative. The Alpha tone that cut through panic and commanded attention. “You’re a werewolf. You were bitten a month ago, the wound infected you with the gene, and last night’s full moon triggered your first shift. I found you in the woods during our pack run. You were scared and confused, but your instincts led you to us.”

His hands were trembling around the coffee mug. “And then we…you and I…”

“I mounted you.” I said it plainly, without shame or hesitation. “It’s part of how our pack works. I’m the Alpha. When a new wolf joins us, I claim them. It establishes hierarchy, creates a bond, helps them feel settled. Your body responded to it because your instincts recognized what you needed even if your conscious mind didn’t understand.”

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re telling me I’m a werewolf and I got fucked by a stranger in the woods and that’s supposed to be normal?”

“It is for us.” I rose from my chair and moved around the table toward him. He flinched at my approach but didn’t pull away. “I know this is a lot. I know it doesn’t make sense right now. But I need you to trust me when I say you’re not crazy, and you’re not alone.”

I crouched beside his chair, bringing myself to his eye level. Up close, I could see the fine details of his face—the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his pulse fluttered in his throat. He smelled like sleep and the remnants of my claim, and underneath all of that, the sharp bright scent of a new wolf.

“Alan.“ I let the name settle. "I’m Gabriel. I’m the Alpha of the Three Forks pack. You’re part of that pack now, whether you understand it or not. And I take care of my pack.”

Something in his expression cracked. The fear and confusion didn’t disappear, but they made room for something else—something raw and vulnerable. His eyes went glassy with unshed tears.

“I don’t understand any of this,” he said. “I don’t want to be a werewolf. I just want to go home and pretend none of this happened.”

“I know.” I reached out and placed my hand over his where it gripped the coffee mug. His skin was cold. “But you can’t go back to not being what you are. The change is permanent. And honestly? Going back to your old life would be more dangerous than staying. New wolves are volatile. Unpredictable. Without a pack to anchor you, without someone to help you learn control, you’d be a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”

He stared at our hands. His thumb twitched, brushing against mine.

“Stay here,” I said. “Let me teach you. Let the pack help you. Give yourself time to adjust.”

He didn’t respond right away. I could see the war playing out in his features—the human need to reject the impossible warring with the wolf’s instinct to trust the Alpha, to submit, to belong. The wolf would win eventually. It always did. But I wanted him to make the choice consciously, not just follow his instincts blindly.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

I squeezed his hand gently. “Good. That’s good.”

I stood, pulling him up with me. He swayed slightly, and I steadied him with a hand on his arm. The touch seemed to ground him for a moment—until it didn’t. His nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. I watched the shift happen in real time, his body reacting to my proximity in ways his conscious mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Gabriel?” His voice came out strange. Thick.

“What is it?”

“I feel…” He pressed his free hand against his stomach. “Something’s wrong. I feel weird. Hot.”

The scent hit me then—arousal, sharp and sudden, cutting through the other notes in his profile. His cock was filling, rising against his thigh, and his face went red as he obviously became aware of it.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I don’t know why—I’m not trying to—this isn't—” He stepped back, nearly tripping over the chair behind him. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

I caught his arm before he could retreat further. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” His breathing had gone ragged. “I’m not—I don’t just get hard randomly in front of strangers, what the hell is wrong with me?”

I pulled him closer, not letting him escape. “Nothing is wrong with you. This is natural.”

“Natural?” He laughed, high and strained. “Getting a boner because you touched me is natural?”

“You’re mine now, Alan.” I held his gaze, letting the Alpha weight settle in my voice. “My scent is all over you. My claim is inside you. Your body knows who you belong to, even if your mind is still catching up. You’re going to respond to me like this because I’m your Alpha. Because I’ve marked you. Because every instinct you have is telling you to submit to me.”

His mouth opened, closed. His cock stood fully erect now, jutting out from his body, the head glistening with the evidence of his arousal. He was shaking, but I didn’t think it was from fear anymore.

“Your body wants me to take you again.” I said, lowering my voice. “It remembers how good it felt last night, even if you don’t.“

"I do remember, I think,” he whispered. But his voice had lost its edge of panic. Now it sounded almost like a question.

“I know.” I reached up and cupped his jaw, running my thumb across his lower lip. His breath stuttered. “But let me remind you.”

His eyes went dark. The fear and confusion were still there, but they’d been buried under something more primal—something that had been building since he stumbled into my kitchen naked and seen me standing there. The wolf in him recognized me. Wanted me. And the human part was finally, finally catching up.

“Okay,” he breathed.

I didn’t wait for him to overthink it. I pulled him against me and kissed him, hard and claiming, swallowing the surprised sound he made. His mouth opened under mine, hesitant at first and then hungry, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders. He tasted like sleep and the deer I’d killed for him last night.

I walked him backward, away from the table, not breaking the kiss. His back hit the wall beside the refrigerator and he gasped into my mouth, his cock pressing against my hip, leaving a wet streak across my sweatpants.

“Gabriel,” he panted against my lips. But, he didn’t continue, he just looked at me with pleading eyes.

“I’ve got you.” I pulled back just enough to look at him. His pupils had swallowed the color of his irises, his face flushed and open. “Turn around.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before his body moved, obeying before his mind could argue. He turned to face the wall, pressing his palms flat against the cool surface. I stepped up behind him, letting my chest press against his back, letting him feel the heat of me. My cock was hard now too, straining against my jeans.

“Last night,” I murmured against his ear, “I took you in the woods. On the forest floor, with the moon above us and the pack all around. You were so desperate for it. So hungry to be filled.” I reached around and wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking slowly. He moaned and his head fell back against my shoulder. “You took my knot so well. Do you know what that is?”

He shook his head, his breath coming in short pants.

“The base of my cock swells when I come,” I explained, still stroking him in that same maddeningly slow rhythm. “Locks us together. Makes sure my seed stays inside you. It’s how wolves mate. How I claimed you.”

“Fuck.” The word came out strangled. “Fuck, Gabriel, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me. Please—please fuck m—” He broke off with a groan as I ran my thumb across the head of his cock, spreading the precum that had gathered there.

I released him and stepped back just long enough to shove my sweatpants down and kick them to the side. My cock sprang free, already beginning to swell at the base in anticipation. I spat into my hand and stroked myself, spreading the moisture, while Alan watched over his shoulder with hungry, half-glazed eyes.

I rubbed the head over his puckered hole. I’d claimed his wolf last night, but today I would claim his soul.

“On the floor,” I said. “On your hands and knees.”

He turned and lowered himself without hesitation. The hardwood floor was cold against his knees, but he didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. He presented himself to me like he’d been born for it, back arched and ass raised.

I dropped to my knees behind him and ran my hands over the curve of his ass. His skin was warm, smooth, responsive to every touch. The position opened him up perfectly. I spread him further with my thumbs and leaned in to drag my tongue across his hole.

He cried out and bucked, but I held him in place, licking into him with slow, deliberate strokes. He tasted like sweat and musk with the lingering taste of wolf clinging to his skin, and I groaned against his entrance as I worked him open. His hole fluttered under my tongue, clenching and relaxing in rhythm with his ragged breathing.

I could taste the urgency and need in the air and I gave him one last lick before pulling back. I positioned myself at his entrance, the head of my cock pressing against that tight ring of muscle. He pushed back instinctively, trying to take me in, but I held his hips still.

“Relax,” I said. “Let me lead so you don’t hurt yourself.”

He made a sound that was half sob, half moan, but I felt him consciously unclench. I pushed forward, and the head of my cock slipped inside him.

We both groaned at the sensation. He was tight—so fucking tight—but his body remembered me, remembered how to open up and take me in. I sank deeper with each thrust, working myself into him inch by inch, until I was fully seated inside him.

“Good boy,” I breathed, stilling for a moment to let him adjust. “You opened up so good for me.”

He whimpered and pushed back against me, silently begging for more. I gave it to him. I pulled back and thrust in hard, setting a rhythm that was less about finesse and more about claiming. About ownership. About reminding his body exactly who it belonged to.

The kitchen filled with the sounds of our coupling—skin slapping against skin, the wet noise of my cock moving in and out of him, his broken moans and my low grunts. I leaned over him, pressing my chest against his back, and wrapped one hand around his throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” I growled against his ear. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he gasped. “Yours, Gabriel, all yours.”

“Every part of you.” I thrust harder, deeper, feeling my knot beginning to swell. “This hole is mine. This cock is mine.” I reached down with my free hand and wrapped my fingers around him again, stroking in time with my thrusts. “You don’t come for anyone else. You don’t let anyone else touch you. You belong to me.”

This wasn’t exactly standard operating procedure with new pack members, but it was so soon after the full moon and my wolf was feeling impetuous. I hadn’t felt this possessive over another wolf since I first became an Alpha.

“Yes.” The word wrenched out of Alan as a sob. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes—”

My knot was swelling now, catching at his rim with each thrust, making it harder to pull out. I could feel him clenching around me, his body fighting to keep me inside, and the sensation was almost too much. I gritted my teeth and held on, determined to bring him over the edge first.

“Come for me,” I commanded, tightening my hand on his cock. “Now.”

He screamed as he broke, his whole body seizing as come pulsed from his cock in thick streams, painting the kitchen floor beneath him. His hole clenched around me like a vice, and that was all it took. I slammed into him one final time, my knot locking us together as I came, pumping him full of my seed.

The pleasure was blinding. I buried my face in the back of his neck and rode it out, nipping at his skin, my hips jerking involuntarily as wave after wave of release crashed through me. He trembled beneath me, still making small, broken sounds, his arms giving out until he was lying flat on the cold wooden floor with me on top of him.

We stayed like that for several minutes, locked together, catching our breath. The kitchen smelled like sex and coffee as the morning light continued to strengthen through the windows. I pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, then another to his shoulder.

“Good boy,” I murmured. “You did so good taking all of me.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but I felt him relax under me, the last of the tension bleeding out of his muscles. His breathing slowed, evening out, and when I carefully shifted us onto our sides so I wasn’t crushing him, he curled back against my chest without hesitation.

“How long,” he said eventually, his voice hoarse, “does the knot last?”

“Usually about ten to twenty minutes.” I wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. “Depends on the wolf.”

He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “This is insane. My life is insane now.”

“It’ll get easier.” I nuzzled into his hair, breathing him in. “You’ll learn to control the shift. You’ll learn the rules of the pack. And eventually, this will all feel normal.”

“Will it?” He turned his head slightly, enough that I could see the edge of his profile. “Will it really?”

I thought about my own transformation, decades ago. The terror and confusion. The way my whole world had shattered and reformed into something unrecognizable. The way it had eventually become home.

“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softer: “I’m holding you to that.”

I smiled against his hair. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

We lay there on the kitchen floor, locked together by my knot, while the coffee grew cold and the morning light crept across the tiles. There would be questions later. Complications. A whole life that Alan would have to figure out how to navigate with his new reality. But for now, there was just this—two wolves tangled together in the aftermath of passion, the bond between us humming with something that felt almost like destiny.

When my dick finally softened and slid out of his well-used hole, I helped him to his feet. I didn’t lead him back to the guest room, but instead my quarters, my den, in the opposite wing of the house. I helped him into the shower and then went to find him some clothes.

What I had laid out in the guest room would no longer do. I wanted him in my clothes. I wanted him to be covered in my scent. It was foolish and immature, but I’d meant what I said. He was mine now. And I took care of what was mine.

[sacanagemzinha]

(via cg-stories)

[douglasbradshaw]

(via sacanagemzinha)

[lifeissocksblog-deactivated2022]

[cg-stories]

Your thumb hovered over the thumbnail, the image frozen mid-motion: your sister’s boyfriend, Elliot, his lips parted, eyes half-lidded, his tongue glistening where it had just pulled back from yours. The memory of his taste flared in the back of your throat. You swallowed hard, the tip of your own tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, chasing the ghost of him.

The video played. The camera angle was low, tilted up just enough to catch the way he gasped when you’d pulled him in for another lingering kiss. His hands had fluttered at his sides, fingers curling into useless fists before he gave up and let them fall to your hips, gripping hard enough to make sure you wouldn’t pull away. You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your mouths working together, the way his breath hitched when you dragged your teeth over his bottom lip, then soothed the sting with a slow, deliberate lick. 

"Fuck—" His voice was rough, cracked, like he’d been holding back for hours. You hadn’t let him. Your free hand—steady, unlike the way your pulse hammered—had slid up his chest, thumb brushing over his nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt until he whimpered into your mouth. That was when he’d stopped pretending this was just some drunken mistake. His tongue had turned aggressive, fucking into your mouth in deep, sloppy strokes, sucking on yours like he was trying to pull the taste of you straight into his lungs. The camera had caught the way his throat worked, but not the way his cock—thick and obvious through his khakis—twitched against your thigh when you groaned and bit down on his lip.

You paused it. Right there. His face was a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes blown so wide the pupils nearly swallowed the blue. He looked ruined. And the best part? He’d let you do it. No, not just let you—he’d practically begged for it, his hips rolling up against yours, his cock leaking precome onto your jeans when you whispered filthy things about what you’d do to him if your sister wasn’t asleep upstairs. The memory of his weight pressing into you, the way his breath had turned ragged when you palmed him through his pants, had your own dick stirring now. You adjusted yourself with a grimace, the denim suddenly too tight, the seam pressing against the underside of your shaft. Fuck, you could still smell him on your skin if you concentrated.

Your sister’s contact popped up when you swiped left. Ainsley. The little speech bubble hovered, empty. You attached the video. No caption. No warning. Just the raw, uncut footage of her boyfriend moaning into your mouth like a slut, but not showing, only hinting at his hands all over you, his cock weeping for attention. Your finger hovered over send. For a second, you hesitated—not out of guilt, but because you wanted to savor this. The anticipation. The knowledge that in thirty seconds, she’d see exactly what her precious Elliot had been doing while she was asleep upstairs in her room, after a long night of bitching to your Mom about how irresponsible you were, how you were always fucking up your own life, how you were such a disappointment.

You hit send.

The message whooshed away, irreversible. A slow, dirty grin spread across your face as you imagined her watching it—her nails digging into her palms, her face twisting in betrayal because she knew, deep down, that Elliot had wanted it. That he’d been thinking about you all damn week, his dick twitching every time you walked into the room. You leaned back against the headboard, spreading your legs just enough to give your hardening cock room to breathe. The sheet tented obscenely, the tip already damp where it pressed against the cotton. Fuck, you could almost hear Elliot’s voice again, the way he’d whispered "Please" when you’d finally pulled away, his lips shiny with your spit, his cock aching in his pants. You palmed yourself through your boxers, biting back a groan. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. And when Ainsley confronted you—when she screamed, when she cried, when she called you every name in the book—you’d just smile and tell her the truth: He’s mine now.

[speedosandsuch]

[cg-stories]

It started innocently enough. Manny had caught a glimpse of my waistband when I bent down to grab my gym bag, and he'd made some throwaway comment about the brand. A week later, he noticed another pair when we were changing after basketball. By the third time he'd pointed out my underwear, I figured what the hell—I picked up a pair of electric blue briefs with a bold waistband as a gag gift for his birthday.

I handed him the small gift bag across the table at the bar, expecting an eye roll. Instead, he pulled them out, stretched the fabric between his hands, showing them off to everyone in the bar, and grinned. "These are actually sick." 

The text came three days later: Wearing them right now. Super comfortable.

I'd created a monster.

For the next month, Manny updated me every single time he wore them. At the gym. To work. On a date. I'd laugh it off, but somewhere along the way, the jokes turned into genuine requests. He wanted more recommendations. He wanted to know where I shopped, what brands fit best, which styles were worth the money.

"Send me links," he'd texted late one night. "I'm ordering tonight."

I started forwarding him sale alerts and brand suggestions, thinking nothing of it. Then the photos started arriving.

The first few were tame—waistband shots, mirror selfies with jeans slung low. I'd fire back a thumbs-up emoji and move on with my day. But then came the black mesh briefs.

My phone buzzed while I was sprawled on my couch, half-watching a game. I swiped open the message without thinking.

The mesh was nearly transparent, thin black webbing that hid nothing. The waistband sat low on his hips, hugging his perfectly round ass. Light from his bathroom caught the fabric, glinting off the delicate pattern. Through the gauzy material, I could see his cock. I’d seen it before in the locker room but it looked even thicker and heavier when it was barely contained by the stretched mesh. The effect was devastating.

His muscular thighs framed the image, smooth skin stretched over defined muscle. The trimmed hair of his chest and abs looked so soft. He'd taken the photo from a slight angle, and I could see the definition in his stomach, the swell of his chest, the edge of a bicep flexed as he held the phone.

I stared longer than I should have.

The mesh looked impossibly soft, hugging every ridge and vein. His balls filled out the pouch beneath, the fabric straining to hold everything in place. Nothing was left to the imagination—the slit, the thickness, the weight of him clearly visible through the intricate webbing.

Thoughts? His follow-up text glowed on the screen.

I repositioned my phone, feeling confined in my own sweats. I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: Bold choice.

His reply was instant. Do you think I pull it off?

I looked at the photo again. At the way the mesh clung to him. At the confident tilt of his hips, the flex of his quad, the trail of hair leading my eye exactly where he wanted it.

Definitely, I sent back.

I didn't move from the couch for a long time.

[haus-o-ass-deactivated20160726]

SHOVE IT UP THERE!