Her: Come on, people change. It's kinda one of the most basic tenets of our whole deal!
Me: I totally respect that and I sincerely apologize for the disappointed noises I made when the sun came up and your werewolf form reverted to human. It just caught me off guard.
really wish I was being bent over in the woods with a thick cock railing me until I'm coming on a fat knot as I'm filled with thick werewolf cum rinse and repeat until morning
Hello, I hope you’re doing well ! I really enjoy reading your stories, I really like how detailed they are ! I do not know if requests are open or not, so I would like to apologise in advance if I missed it out (you can choose to ignore this post if needed!), but if it’s open, is it okay to ask for a "inexperienced shy/kind reader with a elegant yet charming werewolf” trope, please ? Thank you so much in advance and keep up the good work! <333
My First Was a Werewolf (werewolf x shy!fem!reader!2nd!POV)
Trigger Warnings: NSFT, MDNI, shy virgin reader, gentle dom energy, body worship, virginity loss, size difference, oral sex (male and female receiving), fingering, P in V, bodily fluids, mild scent kink, praise kink, mention of knotting anatomy (no actual knotting), brief anxiety/tears from inexperience, the point of this is to be super soft with aftercare.
Summary: you are a shy virgin human woman who spends her first night with her elegant werewolf boyfriend.
────── ˖⁺.꒷꒦♡꒷꒦˖⁺. ──────
The sheets beneath you are soft—ridiculously soft, the kind of expensive linen he probably didn't even think twice about buying. You're hyperaware of everything: the weight of the blanket pooled at your waist, the faint musk of him clinging to the pillows, the way your hands are trembling slightly where you've pressed them flat against your thighs.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"You're doing that thing again." His voice comes from beside you. "The one where you're trying to disappear into the mattress."
You force your fingers to uncurl. "I'm not."
"Liar." There's no sting in it. Just amusement.
He shifts onto his side, propping his head on one hand, and the lamplight catches the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples. He's still wearing his undershirt—he'd taken off the button-down earlier, rolled the sleeves up those furry forearms you try not to stare at—and the fabric pulls across his shoulders in a way that makes your mouth dry.
"Look at me," he says.
You do. His eyes are amber tonight, more gold than brown, the pupils blown wide even in the warm light. You've learned that means he's already feeling it—the pull, the hunger—but his breathing stays even, his hand resting loose on the mattress between you.
"There she is." He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. Elegant. Charming. "Can I touch you?"
You nod, then remember he likes words. "Yes. Please."
His palm finds your cheek first, fingers curving around to cradle the back of your neck. The calluses on his fingertips scrape gentle against your jaw. He leans in slowly and when his mouth meets yours, it's just a press. Soft. A question.
You kiss him back. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and you feel the muscle there shift as he angles his head, deepening the kiss. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you open for him, and the sound he makes—low, pleased, rumbling up from his chest—goes straight between your legs.
"There," he murmurs against your mouth. "That's good. You're already wet, aren't you, darling? I can smell it."
Your face burns. You tuck it against his neck, hiding, and he laughs quietly, one hand coming down to rest on your hip.
"No, don't hide. That's not an accusation. It's..." He pauses. His thumb strokes a circle over your hipbone. "It's the highest compliment. Knowing I affect you like that. That you want me."
"I do want you," you whisper into his throat. His pulse jumps under your lips. "I'm just—"
"Nervous." He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. "I know. We don't have to do anything tonight. Or we can do some things. Or we can do everything and you can tell me to stop at any point, and I will. No questions. No disappointment."
"You'd really stop?"
"I would tear off my own cock before I hurt you."
You choke on a laugh and he grins—sharp canines glinting—before ducking down to kiss the corner of your mouth.
"I mean it," he says. "But I don't think you're going to ask me to stop. I think you're going to let me take care of you. And you're going to tell me what feels good, and what doesn't, and I'm going to listen. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Good girl."
Those two words do something to you. He sees it—of course he sees it—and his smile turns knowing.
"Ah," he says. "There's something to explore another time. For now..." He hooks a finger under the hem of your sleep shirt. "Can this come off?"
You lift your arms, and he pulls the fabric over your head, slow and careful so it doesn't catch on your hair. Then he just looks at you. His gaze travels down your throat, across your collarbones, to your breasts, and his breath leaves him in a long, controlled exhale.
"You're beautiful," he rasps. "Can I put my mouth on you?"
"Yes."
He starts at your neck. His lips find the place where your pulse beats, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss there, tongue flicking out to taste. You shiver. Your hands find his thick, coarse hair and he groans approval against your skin.
"Your heartbeat," he says between kisses, working down toward your shoulder. "It's so fast. Like a little bird. I can hear the blood moving under your skin." He scrapes his teeth lightly over your collarbone. "Smell the salt on you. The honey-sweet underneath."
"That's... that's lotion," you manage, and he laughs, the vibration buzzing through your chest.
"It's you. The lotion's just dressing." His mouth finds the swell of your breast, and he pauses there, looking up at you through his lashes. "I'm going to suck on your nipple now. It might feel strange at first. But then the nerves will wake up, and it'll start to feel good. You tell me if it's too much."
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
He lowers his head. His lips close around your right nipple, and the heat of his mouth, warmer than human, makes you gasp. His tongue circles the peak once, twice, and then he sucks, gently, and something jolts through you. A line of sensation from your breast straight down to your pussy.
"Oh," you breathe.
He hums around you, and the vibration makes your back arch. His free hand comes up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in lazy strokes. He switches sides, giving the left one the same attention, and by the time he pulls back, both peaks are stiff and glistening, and you're squirming against the mattress.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "So responsive. Your hips are moving. Do you know you're doing that?"
You didn't. Now you can't stop noticing it; the small, involuntary roll of your pelvis, seeking friction you don't have.
"That's your body asking for more," he explains, sliding his hand down your stomach, fingers splaying over the waistband of your underwear. "It's not greedy. It's not desperate. It's just... ready. Can I touch you here, darling?"
"Yes. Please, yes."
He doesn't pull your underwear off yet. Instead, he presses the flat of his palm against you, over the cotton, and the pressure makes your thighs clench. He tsks softly.
"Open for me. Let me feel you."
You force your knees apart, and his hand settles more firmly, his middle finger finding the seam of your body through the fabric. He presses, and you feel the wet heat of yourself soaking through, and his eyes go half-lidded.
"Soaked," he says. "Fuck. That's all for me?"
"Only you," you whisper. "Never—no one else."
Something flickers across his face. Possessiveness. He leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, and his hand slides under the elastic of your underwear. His fingers are calloused. You feel every ridge of them as they slip through your folds, parting you, finding the slick heat waiting there. You gasp into his mouth.
"That's your pussy," he moans. "And this—" His fingertip circles your entrance, gathering wetness. "—this is you opening up for me. Your body knows what to do. Even if your brain is nervous, your cunt is ready."
You whimper out loud. It feels so good!
He eases one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, and pauses. "How does that feel?"
"Strange." Your voice is thready. "Full. Not bad. Just... new."
"New," he repeats. "I like that. I get to be your first for this. For all of this." He pushes deeper, and your inner muscles clench around him. "That's it. You're squeezing me. That's good, darling. That means you're sensitive."
His finger moves, not thrusting, just pressing, exploring. He curls it slightly, and something inside you lights up.
"There!" Your hips jerk. "That—"
"Hmmm... yes.... That's your G-spot," he drawls, and does it again. "Feels like you need to pee at first, doesn't it? But it's not that. It's pleasure. A different kind. Give it a second."
He's right. The strange pressure melts into warmth; warmth that radiates outward, and you moan, your hand flying down to grip his wrist.
"More," you whine, surprising yourself. "Can you—"
"Another finger? I can. But I need you to breathe for me. Slow, deep breaths, darling. It'll stretch more."
He waits until your breathing steadies, then adds his second finger, sliding it alongside the first. The stretch burns a little—just a twinge—and he watches your face carefully, ready to stop.
"Okay," you say. "Keep going."
He pushes deeper and your slick makes the glide easy. His palm presses against your clit with each movement, and your hips start moving in rhythm, chasing the friction.
"Look at you," he says, wonder in his voice. "Taking my fingers so well. Your cunt is so tight. It's going to be a challenge when I put my cock inside you."
Your whole body clenches at that. "Will it fit?"
He laughs. "It will. I'll make it fit. I'll stretch you so good you won't even feel the burn. I'll use my mouth first, get you wetter than you already are. And you'll tell me when you're ready, and I'll push in just an inch, and you'll squeeze me so tight I might lose my mind." He curls his fingers again, and you see stars. "But not yet. First, I want to taste you."
He pulls his fingers out, and you feel empty, bereft. He brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, and the sight of it—his tongue between his fingers, his eyes on you—makes your thighs tremble.
"Delicious," he grins. "Like honey and salt and something that's just you. I'm going to put my mouth on your pretty cunt now. You can put your hands in my hair. You can pull. You can moan as loud as you want. The neighbours are wolves, they won't care."
Before you can respond, he's sliding down the bed, pushing your thighs apart, settling his shoulders between them. He pulls your underwear down your legs and tosses them somewhere behind him.
Then he just looks at you. Your pussy, spread open for him, glistening in the lamplight.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect. Look at these swollen lips. Your clit's peeking out. Hi there, little one."
You'd be mortified if you weren't so turned on. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, working closer, his breath hot against your folds.
"I'm going to start with my tongue," he says. "Flat, broad strokes. Then I'll focus on your cute little clit. If it gets too sensitive, tap my head. Don't be shy. I need you to tell me."
"I'll tell you."
He lowers his mouth.
The first wide lick, from your entrance to your clit makes your back bow off the bed. His tongue is hot, rough in the best way, and he groans against you like he's the one being pleasured. He does it again, slower, and you feel yourself drip onto his chin.
"That's it," he murmurs against your flesh. "Give me more. You taste so good."
His mouth closes around your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight. He sucks gently, then harder, and the sensation builds. Your breathing goes ragged, each exhale a whimper. He slips one finger back inside you while his tongue works your clit, and the combination makes you sob.
The coil of pleasure winds tighter. Tighter.
"I'm—something's—"
"That's an orgasm coming," he groans, not stopping. "Let it happen. Don't fight it. Just feel."
He sucks again, and the coil snaps.
It's not like you expected.
There's no fireworks, no screaming release. It's quieter. Like a deep clench that radiates from your core through your whole body, your thighs shaking, your hands pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. You make a sound like a wounded animal, and he moans against you, drinking down everything you give him.
When it passes, you're limp. Breathless. Tears prick at your eyes from the wonderful, overwhelming muchness of it all. He crawls back up your body, kissing a trail along your stomach, between your breasts, up your throat. When he reaches your mouth, you taste yourself on his lips.
"Good?" he asks.
"So good." You smile. "I didn't know—I didn't think—"
"That it would feel like that?" He brushes the tears from your cheeks. "Most people don't, their first time. Especially with someone who pays attention."
He's hard. You feel it pressing against your thigh through his boxer briefs—the thick, heavy girth of him, and your eyes go wide.
"Can I see?" you ask.
He pulls back, hooks his thumbs in his waistband, and pushes his underwear down. His cock springs free, and you understand suddenly why he was so careful with his fingers.
His dick is gigantic. Thick, bulky. Longer than you expected, veined, the head flushed dark and leaking. His balls are heavy beneath, drawn up tight against his body. There's dark hair at the base and the scent of him—musky, male, wolf—hits you like a wave.
"You're scared," he mumbles.
"A little."
"Good. Fear and arousal live close together. The trick is not letting one drown the other." He wraps his hand around himself, stroking once, twice, spreading the beads of moisture at the tip. "I'm not going to put this inside you until you're ready. And even then, only as much as you can take. We might not get all of me tonight. That's fine. That's more than fine."
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a small bottle. Lube. You blink at it.
"For you," he says. "You're wet, but I want you soaked. Less friction. More pleasure."
He pours some onto his fingers, warming it between them, then reaches down to spread it over your swollen pussy. The sight is so sexy and the cool oil makes you gasp, but he rubs it in, circling your entrance, your clit, until it's warm, slippery and delightful.
"Now," he says, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock rests against your stomach, a huge pole pulsing on your skin. "I'm going to push in now. One inch. You tell me when to stop."
You nod, breath held.
He reaches down, guides the head of his cock to your entrance, and presses. The stretch is immediate. Even with the lube, even with your slick —this is different. He's thicker than your fist, and the pressure makes you gasp.
"Breathe," he reminds you. "Slow."
You exhale. He pushes another fraction, and the head pops past your opening, and you feel so full you can't think.
"Stop," you whimper. "Just—stay there. Let me adjust."
He stills immediately. His jaw is tight, his hands shaking where they grip your hips, but he doesn't move. Doesn't push. Just waits.
You focus on breathing. The fullness doesn't hurt. It's just a lot. Your body pulses around him, trying to decide if this is an intrusion or an invitation.
"It's good," you say finally. "You can—a little more."
He slides in another inch, and the burn returns, sharp this time, a sting that makes your eyes water. He sees it, stops again.
"Hush, darling." He kisses you softly. "That's your hymen. It might be already stretched from my fingers, but sometimes there's a little left. Just breathe through it. The sting will fade."
It does. After a few heartbeats, the sharpness softens into that same full ache, and you nod.
"More."
He pushes deeper. Three inches. Four. You feel him nudging against something inside you, some new depth, and you moan.
"There," he says, voice strained. "That's your cervix. I'm not going past it—that would hurt. This is as deep as I go tonight."
You look down. There's still a few inches of him visible, and you can't imagine taking more. But this... this feels good. Full and stretching and his.
"Okay," you whisper. "Move."
He pulls back slowly, then pushes in again, and the drag of him against your walls makes you see sparks. He sets a shallow rhythm, each thrust pressing against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
"Your pussy is squeezing me," he gasped. "Every time I pull back, you try to keep me inside. Like you don't want to let go."
You can feel it. Your body clenching around him, desperate to hold on. The wet sounds of him moving in and out fill the room, obscene and perfect. He reaches down and finds your clit with his hairy thumb, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure doubles. Triples. You're babbling—nonsense words, his name, please, don't stop.
"I won't," he promises. "I'm going to make you come again. And then I'm going to pull out and come on you. Because I'm not ready to come inside you yet—that's a conversation for another time. But I need you to feel how much I want you."
His thumb presses harder, and the second orgasm builds faster than the first. When it hits, you cry out, your whole body arching off the bed, your walls clenching around him so hard he groans through his teeth.
"That's it," he says. "That's it, darling. Squeeze me. Fuck."
He pulls out and the emptiness makes you whimper. He kneels over you, stroking himself with a fist. His fingers wrap fully around his shaft, squeezing the knot forming at the base. You lick your lips at the sight. His breathing goes harsh and uneven, his body freezes.
"Where?" he asks. "Tits? Stomach?"
"Stomach," you manage.
He groans, and then he's coming; hot stripes landing across your belly, your hips, some of it splashing up toward your breasts. His whole body shakes with it, his head thrown back, the cords in his neck standing out. So sexy..
When he's finished, he collapses beside you, chest heaving. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand, starts cleaning you up with gentle swipes.
"That was—" You can't finish the sentence.
"Yeah," he agrees with a smirk. "It was."
He tosses the tissues, pulls you against his chest, and the steady thump of his heart under your ear is the most comforting sound you've ever heard.
"You did so well," he murmurs into your hair. "You were brave. Let me show you things, and you trusted me, and I'm going to spend the rest of the night holding you."
You burrow closer. "Will it always be like this?"
"No," he says honestly. "Sometimes it'll be faster. Sometimes it'll be rougher. Sometimes one of us will be tired and it'll be quick and sweet. But the first time—your first time—should always be like this. Gentle. Patient. Full of yes."
