A Forbidden Workout with Clawd Wolf
Clawd Wolf | Monster High Smut | NSFW 18+
Plot: It's your first week at Monster High and you're anxious about fearleading tryouts, until Clawd checks you out and asks you to meet him in the closet for some forbidden sex.
Warnings: rough sex, p in v, spanking, dirty talk, graphic
The cafeteria smelled like overcooked mystery meat and something faintly metallic, probably from the werewolf students who forgot to wash their hands after gym.
"I don't get what you're so freaked out about," Frankie said through a mouthful of what might've been pizza. "Fearleading's just cheering with more screaming."
You pushed the gelatinous lump on your tray, supposedly meatloaf, with your fork, watching it jiggle. This was your first week at Monster High, and coming from an Egyptian family not that wealthy as Cleo De Nile's, you were anxious about your first impressions on every ghoul kid here. What was occupying your mind at the moment was fearleading tryouts later today, after class.
Across the table, Draculaura twirled a lock of pink-streaked hair around her finger, her fangs flashing as she grinned. "Frankie's right, you know. Last year I accidentally set the megaphone on fire during tryouts and still made junior varsity."
Your stomach twisted harder than the spaghetti monster currently arm-wrestling a goblin two tables over. "Yeah, but what if I trip over my own tail during the death-drop routine?" You played with your gold bracelet, furiously tying your hair into a messy braid over and over again out of nervousness.
Frankie snorted, nearly choking on her soda. "Boo-tiful, we all trip. Last month Rochelle face-planted during the full moon routine and got a standing ovation. Turns out her porcelain cracks glow in the dark." She reached across the table to squeeze your wrist, her stitches pulling taut with the motion. The contact sent a tiny static shock up your arm, weirdly comforting.
Draculaura's grin softened. "And if you do slip during tryouts? Bonus points for dramatic flair. Ghoulia once 'accidentally' decapitated herself during the pyramid formation: totally planned, totally iconic." She winked.
You exhaled, surprised to find your shoulders loosening. "Thanks, you guys," you murmured, twisting the fork between your fingers. "Guess I'm still getting used to..." You gestured vaguely at the intense height of the cafeteria walls, hinting to the school's intimidating challenges you've already faced within your first three days here.
You were about to say something else when a low whistle cut through the cafeteria chatter, the kind that prickled the back of your neck like static before a storm. Across the room, Clawd Wolf leaned against the vending machine, his amber eyes locked on Draculaura while he crushed an empty soda can one-handed. The way his claws dented the metal sent an entirely different kind of shiver down your spine.
Draculaura followed his gaze and smirked, flicking her wrist in a lazy come-hither motion. Clawd prowled over in his fitted black compression shirt, and shorts just above his knees. You couldn't help but stare at his amazing frame, his broad chest, and chiseled abs bearing through his shirt. He leaned over the table before dipping Draculaura into a kiss so deep it made your body tighten. When they broke apart, he licked his lips, murmuring something to his girl. His gaze slid to you, one eyebrow quirking like he'd caught you mid-thought.
Draculaura nipped playfully at Clawd’s bottom lip as she pulled away. "Down, boy," she teased, tapping his nose.
Frankie laughed. "Clawd here’s our resident alpha wolf, and also Drac’s boyfriend, unfortunately." Draculaura rolled her eyes but curled into his side possessively, her fingers tracing Clawd's shirt.
Clawd's grin widened as he caught your face change. "Tryouts, huh? "Bet you scream pretty." The innuendo dripped off his tongue, thick as honey, and Draculaura smacked his chest without looking up from her phone. "Down, boy," she muttered.
Frankie rolled her eyes. "Come on, let's go get changed," pulling your arm up and leading you to the locker rooms.
. . .
The locker room smelled like artificial cotton candy and stale sweat, the scent clinging to your nostrils as you peeled off your school uniform. The fearleading outfit was folded neatly in your locker, black fabric with pink piping that shimmered under the fluorescent lights. You tugged the crop top over your head, the V-line dipping dangerously low, the embroidered "MH" glittering against your skin like a dare. The fabric hugged your ribs a little too tightly, and you sucked in a breath, wondering if you'd be able to breathe during the death-drop routine, let alone scream.
The skirt was worse. It barely grazed the tops of your thighs when you pulled it on, the hemline riding up with every shift of your hips. You twisted in front of the locker mirror, catching a glimpse of the black lace from your panties peeking out from beneath the fabric. Heat prickled up your neck. There was no way this was regulation.
Frankie whistled from across the room, tossing a pair of tiny black shorts your way. "Trust me, you'll want these," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. You pulled them on, but they did nothing to hide the way the skirt flared when you spun, the fabric catching air like it had a mind of its own.
The mirror reflected a version of yourself you barely recognized, sleek ponytail bouncing with every nervous step, perfume clinging to your pulse points like a secret. The other girls were stretching in practiced, effortless motions, their limbs elongating like shadows at dusk. Your fingers twitched at your sides, suddenly too aware of your own sharp angles. But then you caught your reflection twisting sideways, like the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, and something hot and unfamiliar coiled low in your stomach. Maybe you weren't built like Draculaura or Frankie, but the way the fabric clung to your curves made your breath hitch, giving you a boost of confidence. It was time for tryouts.
…
Coach Bloodgood's whistle split the air, sharp as a knife. "Pyramid formation, ladies!" she barked, clapping her hands together. The girls scrambled into position, their practiced movements like clockwork.
The gym doors creaked open an hour later, the sound slicing through the routine. Two figures slunk into the bleachers, Clawd and Deuce, sweaty from their basketball practice. You couldn’t help but catch Clawd’s shiny muscles and chiseled frame peaking from his sports tank. His amber eyes locked onto you immediately, his smirk lazy and knowing. Deuce nudged him with an elbow, muttering something that made Clawd's grin widen.
Your stomach lurched, your palms suddenly slick against the smooth surface of the gym. The pyramid wobbled, and Coach Bloodgood's whistle screeched again. "Focus, ladies!" she snapped. But your thoughts were already spiraling, tangled in the way Clawd's claws drummed against his knee, the rhythm syncopated with your racing pulse.
The whistle shrieked again—your cue. The trio of ghouls beside you twirled their pom-poms in synchronized menace, their fangs flashing under the gym lights as they hissed a rehearsed battle cry. You mimicked their stance, but your grip faltered mid-spin, sending your glittering black pom-poms flying like startled bats. They arced over the polished floor, landing with a pathetic plop right at Clawd’s feet.
Fuck.
The gym’s chatter dipped into the background as you sprinted toward the bleachers, your too-short skirt riding up with every stride. Clawd leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching your approach. He scooped up the pom-poms with one hand. “These yours?” he purred, gaze dragging down your body like a physical touch, lingering on the way your crop top strained with every panting breath.
“Yeah, thanks.” Your fingers brushed against Clawd's as you grabbed the pom-poms—his skin was unexpectedly warm, calloused in places where fur gave way to human-like texture. A tiny shock ran through your arm when his thumb deliberately grazed your wrist, lingering just a second too long.
"Careful," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the squeak of sneakers and Coach Bloodgood's barked orders. "Wouldn't want you tripping again." His eyes darted up and down your frame, particularly eyeing your thighs and how your skirt was now practically covering nothing. The gasp stuck in your throat like a caught breath: sharp, sudden, then swallowed down as you ran back to practice.
…
The fearleading uniform clung to your damp skin, the fabric practically glued to your ribs after the grueling tryouts. You tugged at the hem of the skirt, but it stubbornly refused to cover more than the bare minimum, the lace trim of your underwear still peeking out with every step. Whatever. Changing now would mean another ten minutes trapped in the locker room’s stifling humidity, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your coffin-bed.
The locker room door groaned shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the corridor walls. You barely registered Draculaura's giggle or the slick sound of lips parting, Clawd had her pinned against the lockers, one hand tangled in her pink-streaked hair while the other gripped her thigh. His amber eyes flicked over her shoulder, locking onto you mid-step. The smirk that curled his lips wasn't for Draculaura. It was for you, slow and knowing, as he deliberately dragged his tongue along her bottom lip before pulling away. "Later, babe," he murmured, as Draculaura sauntered off, oblivious.
Your breath hitched as you fumbled with your locker combination, fingers slipping twice before the door finally swung open.
"You're staring," Clawd's voice rumbled directly behind your ear, closer than you'd anticipated. His breath ghosted over the nape of your neck, raising every hair along your spine. You spun around to find him crowding your space, his broad shoulders blocking out the hallway’s lights. The scent of pine and mahogany clung to his sports jacket as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Five minutes," he whispered, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your skirt. "Janitor's closet. Don't make me wait."
Your throat tightened as you watched him stride down the hall, his gait lazy like a predator confident of its prey. The hinges of the closet door groaned faintly in the distance—a sound you'd never noticed before but now seemed deafening. Your fingers trembled against your locker door, the metal cold under your fingertips as you shoved textbooks blindly into your bag. What the hell were you supposed to do? Show up? Pretend it never happened? Your pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, as if trying to escape the decision altogether.
Draculaura would tear your throat out with her manicured nails if she found out. She’d been so sweet with you these past couple of days, so caring. But then Clawd’s smirk flashed behind your eyelids, the way his claws had flexed against Draculaura’s thigh, possessive yet restless, like he was already bored. She treated him like an accessory. You would treat him like he deserved, and be the girl he wanted, the girl he needs.
Your feet moved without permission. The janitor’s closet door loomed at the end of the hallway, slightly ajar. Your fingertips grazed the doorframe. Inside, the darkness pulsed with heat, the air thick with the musk of cleaning supplies and something richer, animalistic.
Clawd’s silhouette filled the space, his outline sharp where the sliver of light cut across his chest. You could see him a bit clearly now. Soft, yet intimidating brown eyes, his chiseled abs, muscular arms poking through his weak sports jersey. His toned legs and shiny calves, and the way his groin was visible through the hem of his shorts.
He didn’t speak. Just hooked a finger into the waistband of your skirt and yanked you inside. The door clicked shut behind you, plunging the world into black, but then slowly into a dim lit closet, a result of the hallway lights peeking from the under the door. His breath hit your collarbone first, hot and uneven. “Knew you’d come,” he murmured, lips skating up your neck. “Knew you wanted to.”
“Clawd I…” Your back hit the shelves, rattling bottles of bleach and ammonia, but Clawd didn’t flinch. His hands were already under your crop top, palms rough against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You gasped, arching into the touch, and his laugh was a low growl against your throat. “Louder,” he ordered, biting down just hard enough to sting. “Let me hear you.”
Your moan punched out of you, raw and unfiltered. Clawd’s grin was pure wolf—sharp, satisfied—as he sealed his mouth over yours, swallowing your whimpers.
The shelves dug into your spine, but the pain dissolved under the electric drag of his claws down your stomach, hooking the waistband of your shorts. The fabric tore with a sound that sent heat pooling between your thighs. Clawd inhaled sharply at the scent, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of amber remained. "Fuck," he growled, palming you through damp lace. "You’re soaked already."
His fingers pushed aside the soaked fabric with a practiced ease that made your breath hitch. Clawd chuckled darkly, pressing you harder into the shelves as he worked you with slow, deliberate strokes. "Thought you'd be louder," he taunted, his breath hot against your ear. "Drac always screams."
You bit your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat, but Clawd's free hand gripped your chin, forcing your gaze up. "None of that," he growled, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until it parted. "I want the whole fucking school to hear you." His fingers curled inside you just then, the sudden stretch stealing your breath—and your restraint. Your cry echoed off the metal shelves, mingling with the clatter of falling cleaning supplies as your knees gave out. Clawd caught you effortlessly, but then shoved your shoulders down with such raw force you were forced on your knees in the closet.
The cold floor bit into your skin as you looked up at him, his amber eyes gleaming in the dim light. You knew what he wanted. Your fingers trembled as they hooked into the waistband of his shorts, the fabric damp with sweat and straining against the obscene outline beneath. The zipper hissed open like a surrender, and his cock sprang free before you could even tug his underwear down, thick and already leaking against his abdomen. Your eyes widened at the massive length, and the impressive girth. Long and hard, it was too good to be true. The musky scent of him flooded your senses, primal and intoxicating.
"You gonna stare all night?" Clawd growled. His smirk faltered when your tongue flicked out, tracing the swollen vein from base to tip in one slow, teasing stroke. A choked noise escaped him—half growl, half groan—as you took him into your mouth, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the salt of his pre-cum sharp against your lips. His hips jerked involuntarily, forcing himself deeper until your throat convulsed around him. "Fuck," he hissed, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair. "Knew that mouth was good for something."
His grip tightened, guiding your rhythm with brutal efficiency, the slap of skin against your lips obscenely loud in the cramped space. Every drag of your tongue along his underside drew another ragged curse from him, his claws pricking your scalp in warning when you hollowed your cheeks. "Yeah, just like that," he panted, his voice thick with arousal. "Take it deeper—don't fucking choke like Draculaura." His hips snapped forward on the last word, shoving himself down your throat until tears pricked your eyes, your gag reflex flaring as he held you there, pulsing against the back of your tongue.
You pulled back with a wet gasp, saliva stringing from your lips to his cock, glistening under the sliver of light. Clawd chuckled darkly, thumbing the mess along your lower lip. "Fuck, you're dripping," he growled, dragging his fingers down your chest to circle a nipple through the crop top. "Bet you came just from tasting me."
Before you could answer, his mouth crashed into yours, swallowing your moan as his tongue mapped yours with possessive strokes, bringing you up from your knees. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, then spun you around with a sharp twist. The shelves rattled as he shoved you forward, your cheek pressed against cold metal, his knee forcing your legs apart.
"Clawd—!" Your protest dissolved into a whimper as his claws hooked into the remnants of your panties, tearing them down in one swift motion. The fabric fluttered to the floor, useless as the air hit your exposed skin.
He let out a quiet whistle checking out your wet folds, his palm cracking against your bare ass with a sharp, stinging slap that sent vibrations straight to your core. The sound echoed off the shelves, mingling with your gasp. "Next time, make sure I can see this ass underneath that slutty skirt." His fingers dug into the welt blooming across your flesh, kneading the heat deeper until your thighs trembled.
Clawd leaned in, his teeth scraping your shoulder as his cock dragged through your slick folds, the blunt head catching at your entrance. "Time to see if you can really handle it," he taunted, voice rough with restraint—then slammed into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke. Your scream tore through the closet, raw and unfiltered, as your back arched against the shelves. He didn’t give you a second to adjust, his hips already pistoning into you with a feral rhythm, each snap of his pelvis wrenching another cry from your throat.
The stretch burns—oh gods, it burns—but the pain melts into something molten as Clawd bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock splitting you open so wide you swear you can feel the shape of him imprinted inside you. Your fingers scrabble against the shelves, knocking over a bottle of something that clatters to the floor as he drags back, the ridges of him catching on your rim, then slams in again with a snarl. Clawd rips off his tank behind you effortlessly, revealing his hot muscular chest and abs, his muscular arms spanking your ass left and right.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grits out, his claws digging into your hips, your skirt lifting up with his intense motion. "Scream louder. Let 'em hear who owns this ass."
And you do. You scream until your throat burns, until the sound shreds into a broken moan as he fucks into you with relentless, punishing strokes, each thrust jolting you forward into the shelves. The metal digs into your ribs, the rhythm of your bodies slapping together obscenely loud—skin on skin, the wet slap of his balls against your clit, the creak of the shelves groaning under the force. Clawd growls something filthy against your shoulder blade, his teeth sinking in just enough to brand you, his breath hot and ragged as he hooks an arm around your waist and yanks you back onto him harder, deeper.
The angle shifts—sharp, perfect—and suddenly he’s hitting a spot inside you that whites out your vision, your knees buckling as pleasure crackles up your spine like lightning. You choke on his name, nails raking down the shelves as your orgasm coils tight, tighter—until Clawd’s hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back. "Look at me when you come," he snarls, and the command alone sends you spiraling, your back arching as you shatter around him, your scream muffled only by his mouth crashing into yours.
The aftershocks ripple through you like aftershocks, your thighs trembling as Clawd fucks you through the convulsions, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. His growls vibrate against your spine, his grip on your hips tightening as he chases his own release. "Gonna fill you up," he rasps, the words rough with promise, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside you. "Gonna mark you so deep even Drac can smell it on you tomorrow."
I scream as his hips stutter, a deep groan tearing from his throat as he came, hot and thick, pulsing inside you in waves that matched the frantic hammering of your own heartbeat. You gasped at the sheer heat of it, the fullness, your walls clenching around him instinctively as he ground his hips against your ass, milking every last drop.
“Attagirl.”
Clawd's breath was ragged against your neck, his teeth still latched onto your skin—not biting down, just holding, like a wolf with its prize. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark and the wet sound of his softening cock slipping out of you.
You barely had time to catch your breath before Clawd spun you around, his grip bruising as he pinned you back against the shelves. His lips crashed into yours again, tasting of copper and sweat and something primal, his tongue claiming your mouth with the same ruthless possession as his cock had claimed your body.
The scent of sex and ammonia clung to your skin as Clawd finally stepped back, adjusting himself with a lazy smirk, putting his tank back on seamlessly, while you struggled to straighten your ruined uniform. His claws grazed your hipbone as he tugged your skirt down—a mockery of modesty—before flicking the strap of your torn bra with a chuckle. "Keep the shorts off next time," he murmured, nipping your earlobe as the closet door groaned open a sliver, hallway light slicing across his smug expression.
Footsteps echoed outside, sharp, staccato clicks of designer heels, and your stomach dropped. Draculaura's giggle floated through the gap in the door, followed by the distinct squeak of her signature pink boots pausing right outside. Clawd's grip on your waist tightened, his other hand clapping over your mouth to stifle your panicked gasp as her shadow darkened the threshold. "Clawd? Coach needs you for…”
The knob twisted, the door jerking against Clawd's shoulder.
The door rattled again, Draculaura's sigh audible through the wood. "Ugh, whatever. Probably off finding a basketball somewhere." Her footsteps faded, and Clawd's laugh was a hot puff against your temple, dark, amused, utterly unrepentant. "That was close," he murmured, licking the sweat from your collarbone. "Can’t have her finding out you’re my dirty little secret now huh?"
Your knees nearly buckled as Clawd released you, his fingers trailing down your trembling thighs before stepping back. You watched numbly as he adjusted himself, every movement languid and self-assured, like he hadn’t just wrecked you against a shelf of industrial cleaners so hard your hole was still sore.
He pulled you into one last soft kiss, before staring deep in your eyes and caressing your chin. “Until next time babygirl.”
The closet door clicked shut behind Clawd, leaving you slumped against the ammonia-scented shelves, your thighs still trembling with the aftershocks. Your reflection in a fallen mop bucket showed the wreckage: hair wild, lipstick smeared, the unmistakable purple bloom of Clawd’s teeth along your collarbone. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, tasting salt and him, the sweet and salty milk of the werewolf who was now going to fuck you senseless every week.
