HATE YOU (WANT YOU) A LITTLE TOO MUCH
with the changes in your body comes the unwanted desire for the peer you hate the most—whitney. said peer relishes your predicament a little too much
m!whitney x gn wolf tf!reader | mdni, 5.9k wc, non-con (though the reader’s body seeks whitney out, they don’t really consent), heats, masturbation, spanking, smoking + forced smoking, blowjob, unprotected penetration, dirty talk, degradation, public sex, dead dove: do not eat, not beta read
masterlist read on ao3
A pain in his ass, a thorn in his side, and all those other similar phrases—that’s precisely what you used to be to Whitney before you returned with two fluffy ears atop your head, a swishing tail, and a new attitude towards him one day.
He doesn’t give a single fuck about you. He really doesn’t. Or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.
Yeah, so what if you went missing for a while and returned like this? So what if your personality did a 180 for a singular day by longing for him and then went back to hating his guts the next week? It’s none of his goddamn business.
Whitney isn’t a virgin. He doesn’t let sexual fantasies linger in his mind, he goes out and makes them a reality. Rarely does he ever masturbate, it’s completely unnecessary when there’s so many others that can do it for him.
This completely changed as of exactly one month ago. Ever since then, he has seen the same two memories play behind shut eyes.
The first memory takes place in math class.
Others had a pencil in hand to write down the formulas being written on the board, meanwhile you had yours tucked between your legs as you humped it.
Writhing in your seat, everyone could hear the soft panting and small whines that came from your direction. Some turned and stared, others felt their face grow hot, but you obviously didn’t seem to feel an ounce of shame—all your body wanted was relief from the borderline painful arousal (most of your peers thought you were turning towards an exhibitionistic life for no reason).
Whitney noticed you, obviously. With a sneer, he started recording you, thinking a video of this would be worth more than gold. “Since when did you turn into such a slut?”
Too immersed in his passion for teaching, River hadn’t noticed a thing until he looked back and saw all the heads turned your way.
His march towards you was loud.
A strong hand held your arm, lifting it up so you’d stop. You had never behaved badly in his class before, River couldn’t even look you in the eye. “What gives you the impression that this is appropriate behavior?!”
“No…No–” You would’ve never made such a scene if these changes hadn’t happened in your body. Getting off felt like a necessity to keep living. Too bad nobody understood this. “I was so close!”
River was absolutely livid, instead of answering his question you had said something shameful.
“Out! You know where to go!”
Ears pinning back from being yelled at, you were too dazed to gather your things and immediately headed to Leighton’s office with your tail tucked.
Not long after that, Whitney was sent out too for pulling his usual antics and terrorizing the meeker students. He mostly did it to join you and see you be reprimanded, though.
He walked straight into the sight of you pressed down to the desk with your bottoms pulled down to your ankles, a hand slammed down onto your ass and made you cry out.
“You’re here too?” Leighton asked, sparing only a glance at Whitney and gesturing towards the chair. “Take a seat, I’ll deal with you in a second.”
And there, Whitney witnessed your unbridled desire. The person who had once put up multiple fights against him, and who he had failed in selling off to others to repay his debts, was so delirious that they welcomed all the humiliating touches sent their way.
If a stranger were to have lined up behind you right at that moment, would you have begged for it? If you couldn’t think straight like this, then it wouldn’t matter whether you were truly willing or not.
He’s not a dumbass. He could tell your abrupt change in behavior clearly had something to do with the transformation you’d gone through. He was already thinking about how he could use this to his advantage.
Having been on the brink of losing it earlier, all it took was some rutting against the edge of the desk for your body to spasm and your back to arch. One of the picture frames fell to the ground.
Leighton had been temporarily at a loss on what to do with you; not many students came when he punished them with spankings. You looked so pitiful that he didn’t have the heart to go on with his lecture, he ignored his erection and sent you away.
Unlike you, Whitney didn’t get such a severe punishment. He has done a lot worse than you, and yet he only ever gets a slap on the wrist.
When Whitney left the office, he walked straight into you. For once, he really hadn’t meant to, he didn’t know you were there.
“The fuck are you still doing here?”
“I was waiting for you,” you told him. You had never said such a thing to him, but he didn’t show his shock.
“Ah.” He looked down at the way your thighs shook while pressing against one another.
“You want me to fuck you?” He said it casually like he was throwing a random suggestion out, but the huskiness of his voice sent all your blood to your second brain.
Without waiting for an answer, he cornered you against the wall using force and shoved his hand down to cup your crotch, letting you buck up against his palm.
“No…I don’t.” The rational part of you—somewhere very, very, very far away—recognized that you’d actually rather die than fuck Whitney. You raised your hands with the intention of pushing him away like you usually did, but your body didn’t listen and instead grasped onto his shirt to pull him closer.
You went back on your previous answer. Your next words didn’t reflect your heart’s wishes. “No…Yes…fuck me. Fuck me, Whitney.”
Whitney groped around for another minute before patting the side of your face condescendingly.
“Too bad. My friends are waiting for me. Later, slut.”
After that incident, you missed school for the rest of the week. Whitney, being a complete predictable asshole, spread the video around. Luckily for you, talk died down when another event worthy of gossip came around. Still, whispers remained.
You returned the following Monday, and to Whitney’s surprise, you’d done a complete 180 and reverted back to how you used to be. Well, with the exception of the ears and tail he was planning on pulling.
This is his second memory.
You had never liked Whitney, he knew this because you’d challenged him for years—you always fought back by landing your own punches whenever he laid a hand on you, and you met his insults with that of your own.
He found you eating by yourself in the cafeteria and went over to sit beside you, waving off his friends.
“There’s my slut. We haven’t seen each other in days, did you miss me?” His eyes flicked to your ears. “Let me take you to the piercing shop after school, I’ll buy you some jewelry for your ears.”
“Here to disturb my peace, Whitney?” Your words were clipped, you didn’t bother looking at him. The fluffy appendage behind you swayed stiffly, as if every part of you was displeased by him.
“You know me so well. I thought I knew everything about you too, but after last week—well, now I’m not so sure. Who would’ve thought a prude like you would have the guts to get off in class.”
At that, your eyes widened a little.
“Don’t be shy, it’s not a secret anymore anyway.” He could see the tell tale signs of you getting riled up, his lips tugged into a cocky smirk. “Why are you still acting all tough? Did you get embarrassed after showing your true colors? It must be hard acting innocent when all you want is to be dicked down.”
Whitney has never had a clean mouth—all that spilled from it were either insults, mockery, or filth.
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, but you did.” He continued, reaching to idly smooth the fur on your tail, snickering when you gave his hand a smack. “I’m upset I didn’t record you coming all over Leighton's desk, but I have the video of you in class acting like a whore. Wanna see it? You shouldn’t be left out…everyone else has watched it already.”
He usually didn’t waste this much time talking to people, he’d either be fucking or fighting them by now. He really didn’t know why he was sparing so many words on you.
Your hands trembled from anger, but you kept a steady tone. “Talking to you is useless. Even if I were to explain myself, you wouldn’t listen. You’re shameless but I’m nothing like you, what makes you think I would willingly do such a thing in front of others?”
Key word: willingly.
Oh, you looked infuriatingly beautiful when you were mad at him. Your question went in one ear and out the other, the only thing on his mind was the satisfying imagination of you wailing “you win, have mercy!” while he drilled into you relentlessly until you went limp from exhaustion.
“Let’s fuck now.”
“You—what?”
“Tsk, so you’ve got memory issues now too? That’s what you said last time, that you wanted me to fuck you.”
“No, I didn’t.” You immediately denied it, lips pursing.
Whitney scooted closer until his lips pressed against your ear, it twitched as he mimicked you in a lewd tone: “No…Yes…Fuck me. Fuck me, Whitney. Sound familiar?”
Silence.
And then—
Smack.
A crisp slap landed on his face, your hand ached upon impact and the sound resounded throughout the room. His cheek turned a darker shade within seconds. With how much force you used, you could’ve left your fingerprints deeply engraved into his skin if it were possible.
You had gone too far—Whitney was pissed. It was one thing for you to get back at him when there was no one else around, but in a cafeteria full of people, his dominance was put at risk. Naturally, he swung at you.
But because you were part wolf now, your senses to danger were keen and your speed had improved. That is to say, you were able to dodge the punches he threw your way, push him, and escape.
Thus, these are the two memories that plague his mind as of late. Two equally captivating sides of you: the first being a mindless you who was a slave to their natural desires, the second being a you know whose anger he lit into flames and was the consequence of his very own existence.
Whitney liked being the one in control of his own thoughts, but you kept on weaseling your way in. You’re not his type personality wise. He’s into people who don’t mind walking around naked, those who’ll drop to their knees for him even in a crowd. You are far from this, which is why his intrigue piqued after that math class event.
He thought of ways to remedy this.
Though Whitney could very well order his friends to go find you and drag him to you, he knew it wouldn’t be very fun. It was only a matter of waiting. Animals go into heat—after some days of thinking, he deduced that was the only possible reason for what had happened in math class.
So then, with such vulnerability in your body, he could finally sell you off—this is good. But as more days passed, he ended up scrapping the idea. The thought of you being passed around by strangers used to excite him, now it just filled him with an indecipherable feeling.
Plus, wouldn’t it be so much more fun to fuck you himself during your heat knowing how much you hate his guts? To hear you whine and beg for him when you usually reserved an ill-tempered tone for him? Afterwards, you’d be distraught that your body welcomed him in such a way.
He was counting down the days on the calendar like someone excited to go out on a long-awaited date.
────────────
You’re very aware of all the changes you’ve gone through, but you aren’t sure how to handle them. It’s very isolating; there’s no one you can turn to for guidance. The smallest and most harmless changes by far are your newfound habits of chasing after butterflies and curling up into a ball to sleep.
Maybe things will become easier to manage in the future when your body grows used to all of this. Or maybe (hopefully) you’ll find a way to revert back to your old self.
For your next heat, you told yourself you’d stay at home to prevent something as embarrassing as what had happened last time—some people still bring it up. It wasn’t your fault, that’s not what you’re like at all.
In fact, the overwhelming heat could only have been described as painful. Your forehead had been one degree away from being worthy of being rushed to the emergency room, and it took an unbelievable amount of strength to not offer yourself to others so they could douse you with alleviation.
You don’t even remember how you started masturbating in class, much less what in the world had possessed you to utter out the words: fuck me, Whitney.
Whitney’s a god-awful person, how many times has he kicked you in the stomach to weaken you and take you somewhere? Too many times to fucking count! Thankfully, you’ve never gotten to the destination of doom, always managing to get out of his grasp with sheer resilience.
He has other ways of tormenting you, though. Like copping a feel of your ass when he passes you in the halls, yanking your tail and asking inappropriate questions about its sensitivity, making his friends bother you in the classes you and he don’t share, and pushing you around.
It’s a shame. Whitney has potential. He’s very intelligent but he uses his brain to bully others instead of striving for greatness. On the very rare occasions he tries, he does well. Once, after getting results back from a difficult exam, you saw a high grade on his paper. He hid it from your view after and told you to mind your own fucking business.
Asshole. All you want is to mind your business! He’s the one always being all up in your personal space!
Unfortunately for you, your heat is here again. And the idea of simply locking yourself in your room to tough it out is much easier said than done.
You locked your door and did just about everything you could to relieve yourself—rutting against your pillow, stroking yourself, using your fingers—but nothing was enough.
You hate it, but ever since these bodily changes, a new feeling aside from disgust and loathing has formed in your stomach towards Whitney: unrestrained desire. It’s inexplicable and you want nothing more than to rip that sensation out of your body with your own two hands.
There’s something missing, something that you can never give to yourself.
As all your skin turns hot, you try to turn back to the orphanage multiple times, but your legs have other plans and lead you directly to the park—which is strange since he’s usually not here. Maybe a keen sense of smell isn’t something to be grateful for, at least not right now.
“Whitney!”
Back against a tree, a cloud of smoke rises to reveal a knowing grin on his stupid (handsome) face.
“I knew you’d come.” Is what he says, but when you walk closer, he pushes you so hard you fall back against the grass.
From this angle, you can very clearly see the prominent tent his pants have formed. You get back up, wishing your actual thoughts would make their way out your mouth.
“Whitney, can you—”
“No.” He immediately rasps out, looking amused as ever.
He presses his entire palm against your face to push you away once more when he sees you inch closer, and, barely containing a snicker, repeats: “No.”
“But Whitney!”
“But nothing.”
Your expression resembles that of a person who was denied the request of getting a picture with their favorite celebrity. Actually, no, that’s too mild a scenario—more like, if someone was holding a bottle of water over your head even though you were on death’s door from dehydration.
Inside, though, you feel insanely lucky, and somewhat skeptical. Has Whitney finally come to his senses and realized that you want absolutely nothing to do with him?
“Don’t look at me like, I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine.” He explains, a playful glint in his eyes. “Every time I approach you for a nice chat, you tell me to leave.”
Since when have you ever listened when I’ve told you to go away? Is what you want to ask, but all that comes out is: “I need help…”
“Clearly,” he says it like an insult. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
You curse your body, how dare it betray you in such a way? Push after push, bruise after bruise, it forgot all about Whitney’s cruelty in favor of being tormented by lust and chasing after him.
You stay rooted right where you are, tail moving tensely behind you—swish, swish, swish—out of hostility.
He looks off to the side, as if deep in thought (you know he’s not). The smile on his face grows bigger. “Say please. I’ve opened the door for you so many times and you’ve never had the manners to say thank you. So, make up for it and have some manners now. Say please.”
Of course you have never thanked him for opening the door for you! It was always just a ploy for him to smack your ass or dunk your head down.
Your mouth opens then closes. Moving your body to your own accord is like trying to move a mountain with a stick—difficult, tiring, and futile.
“…Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, fuck…me.” That small pause comes from you trying to reign your words in.
“Fine, you want me to fuck you that bad? Get on your knees and suck me off first. And I don’t wanna hear you bitching about this later either.”
To your dismay, you obey at once without even glancing around to see if people are around. Whitney likes staying in the most isolated corner of the park when he comes to find some peace, but that doesn't mean there aren’t passersby on occasion.
A belt buckle clinks, a zipper goes down.
Your mouth drools when he takes his cock out, opening up at once to take the head in like it’s a treat. The taste isn’t disagreeable, but it isn’t necessarily enjoyable either, this is a person you hate, after all.
You want to bite down and make him tremble with nothing but anguish, but alas, you take him in deeper until coarse blonde hair tickles the tip of your nose.
“That’s it…fuck…” His head tips back and his throat bobs. “See how much better things are when you shut the fuck up for a change? Sluts like you should have their mouths stuffed all day.”
His right hand rolls the tip of your left ear between his fingers before descending down to the base—it makes your scalp tingle. There are too many sensations in your body, too many haunting ones.
Whitney moves that same hand to the back of your head, fucking your mouth at his own pace with no regard to the soreness of your jaw or gag reflex.
With his other hand, he’s still holding a cigarette, welcoming smoke into his lungs every time he stops talking.
“I’m doing you a favor. So after this, you owe me.” He never once slows down his movements. “What should I ask for? For you to be my free-use toy? There’s also all the debts I still have to settle…I made one of my neighbors mad, I bet…oh fuck…I bet he’d forgive me if I bring you to him for a night.”
Your face burns with both anger and incredulity at the nonsense he’s spewing. Actually, it’s not even nonsense—you know he’s a shit enough person to do all that and worse.
The only thing you can do to keep yourself sane is think about how you’ll get back at him in the future. If it had to be at the cost of being no better than Whitney, then so be it. Nobody's a saint, you don’t intend to be one to people who don’t deserve it. Wouldn’t his control shatter if he was the one being dragged to a stranger for a change? What if you recorded it and spread it throughout town like he did with the video of you in class?
Or maybe, is there a way for you to fuck him in a way he’d hate? In a way where he’d be the one crying instead of grunting, groaning, and cursing?
It’s almost as if he has an inkling of the hate-filled thoughts buzzing in your mind, because he pushes his hips flush against your face and stays there, relishing the way your body tenses and your gagging.
Whitney then abruptly pulls out.
You gasp violently for breath, you’ll never take air for granted ever again. The numbness that had spread throughout the back and roof of your mouth starts dissipating. A dentist would know of your deeds.
Tapping his dick against the side of your face, he smears the mixture of your drool and his precum on your cheek.
“Weren’t you the one who punched me in the face and gave me a nosebleed last year? Now look at you, you came crawling to me for sex.”
Sheer humiliation relays to the rational cells in your brain and then floods throughout your veins, your stomach churns and your heart hammers.
Your eyes sharpen and fix on him, but there’s nothing you can do to hide the desire that lies beneath them.
“Dogs aren’t supposed to look at their masters like that.” He glances down at your bare neck, a crude grin forming on his face. “Maybe what you need is a collar and a chain, I’ll buy a set for you next time, no need to thank me.”
You can’t say a single thing back. You know the instant you open your mouth, the words you want to say won’t come out, instead, you’ll be begging for him.
And even if you manage to regain your right mental state, would you be able to walk away with how much your body is burning for him? It would still be a very difficult task.
He cups your chin and presses his cigarette up to your lips. “Smoke. There’s also that saying that dogs copy their masters, right? Do it.”
It’s a shitty attempt, you probably didn’t do it right, but the smell and feel of it sticks to you.
Your body wants to reject the nicotine; you cough until salty tears prick at the corner of your eyes and then pant for breath for the second time, wincing at the ache in your throat. He lets the cigarette fall to the floor, stepping and twisting his shoe on it.
Whitney’s mouth starts moving again as he reaches for his phone, and you think: holy shit, is he ever going to shut up? If you’re going to do something to me, just get it over with!
He’s the one who gets irritated when others talk too much, he’s clearly a hypocrite!
“I need to get your consent on video to show you in case you ever hold this against my back. C’mon, say it one more time. Say you want, no, need me to fuck you.”
You grit your teeth, your molars grind together. A bitter taste is in your mouth, both literally and figuratively.
“…Whitney.”
“Yeah? Go on.”
Your mouth opens. You quickly bite down on your lip so hard it breaks through the skin and draws blood. No matter how hard you try, it still manages to come out:
Fuck you. “Fuck me.”
“That’s not what I asked for.”
“I need…” you to go to hell, “…you to fuck me.”
“Hurry and strip, I’m running out of patience with you. Unless you want me to rip off all your clothes myself?”
What a dilemma—both are truly unfavorable.
Thankfully, the park has been emptier than usual all day due to events being held on the other side of town. This being said, it did little to ease your worries.
He watches you take off each and every article of clothing with great delight. Today’s a special day for him, he can finally make you listen to his each and every command and there’s not a single thing you can do about it until your body and mind recuperate. When you undoubtedly try to get revenge, he’ll at least have a head start.
Whitney doesn’t care about your preferences for locations—he’d fuck you in the streets, on a desk, against an alley wall, in the pool, on the beach, and the list goes on and on. Day or night, it’s all the same to him.
So, he nudges you onto your hands and knees on the grass before getting behind you.
You’re running out of strength. With all the determination you can muster, you only manage to try to crawl away. The brute behind you doesn’t let you, leaving marks on his hips as he pulls you back.
Your body’s been naturally secreting lubrication this entire time thanks to these changes. Too little of something is bad, as is too much excess, there needs to be a balance.
Whitney sheaths inside you so easily that even he’s surprised. A shockwave of high magnitude hits your body, wrecking you entirely and breaking all the defenses you tried so hard to build.
You’re dripping so much that his cock keeps slipping out. Your legs tremble in such a way that one would think the weather of snow and ice is here.
“It won’t fucking stay inside,” it was beginning to piss him off. “Get on top of me.”
“What?” You ask in a daze, looking back over your shoulder.
Whitney likes being the one with someone underneath him, always has, always will. But not only does he want his dick to stop slipping out, but the idea of you fucking yourself dumb is a gratifying one—won’t you look back at this with shame?
“Don’t ‘what’ me, are your new ears already failing you?” He roughly pulls your ear again, watching you squirm and whine in pain. “You heard me.”
“Okay, okay…” No, no, no. This isn’t right. You turn around to straddle him, holding the base of his dick and sliding down onto him. Your toes curl and you immediately begin bouncing on it, hands burrowing under his shirt and pressing against his stomach for leverage.
Your soft ears flop this way and that, sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making make their way past your throat. This is wrong. His dick is making you feel good, and you feel the last remnants of your rationality finally begin to recede and submit to bestial desire. There’s nothing in your mind other than wanting more and more and more.
“Ahh…”
Your eyes flutter shut, shades of red—the color of passion—circle inside you to deliver bursts of gratification and implant the foundation for an addiction to this dopamine-inducing action. Smoking a small bit of nicotine didn’t make you an addict, but just one minute of Whitney’s cock in you and you’ve already become dependent.
“Feels good? I knew you’d like it, slut.” That demeaning word is accompanied with a strong slap to your backside.
“Mhm.”
“Better than that hand of yours?”
“Uh huh!”
You break into a sweat, the bottom of your thighs stick to the upper parts of his every time you take him to the base. Your knees and calves hurt from scraping against the grass but it’s a minuscule feeling in comparison to everything else.
You shouldn’t have used that final bit of strength to try and crawl away, if you hadn’t, maybe you’d be able to deliver a slap onto his face, a punch to his stomach, or choke him for a couple seconds.
Whitney sees it clearly—sees the fire in your eyes extinguish, leaving only a haze that lets him know you’re putty in his hands for the time being.
“I’m being nice, you know.” He has the audacity to claim such a thing. “Coulda brought my friends to have a go at you. I even let you smoke from my cigarette, not just anyone can do that.”
If he expects a thank you, he’s not getting one. Not just because you’re genuinely not grateful, but because you can’t register his words as well anymore.
Playing with you is so much fun. He wouldn’t mind putting up with your difficult temperament and hatred of him if it means he gets to be the one to break you once a month. He’s prone to boredom and you’re here to serve as his entertainment from now on whether you like it or not.
Suddenly, you come to a stop like you’re a car braking. You slump down against him, lazily rolling your hips. You need help; your body needs relief.
“Tired. ‘m tired…” You murmur.
“You’re kidding. You always have so much energy, how are you…” Whitney exhales sharply through his nose, so you can chase butterflies for hours on end but get tired of riding him after only a few minutes? What a joke!
“Help…ahh…help me.”
And he does start helping, just not in a very nice way, he doesn’t like being told what to do. His hands slide down to your ass and he hammers into you from beneath so hard that each thrust makes your head spin. He’s not as heavy-handed as Leighton, but each occasional slap is still painful.
“Yeah? Finally admitting to needing my help? Shoulda known you wouldn’t be able to do it right. Am I the first person to fuck you? No—it doesn’t matter if I’m not. It doesn’t matter if I’m the second, third, or fourth. I’m the best, aren’t I? The best you’ve ever and will ever have.”
Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t quite understand him anymore, if you did, you’d be sent six feet under and your cause of death would be rage.
“Whitney…” A tone as soft as the flutter of leaves in autumn—a tone he has never heard from you before, a tone that would usually be reserved for lovers alone, a tone that makes him feel deeply uncomfortable for some reason.
“Whitney, Whitney, Whitney!” He mocks you to avoid the discomfort and bursts into laughter, yanking at your tail to see you squirm.
No matter how long he bullies himself into you, you just can’t seem to finish. Your body’s kept on the constant verge of falling apart. It feels downright torturous—your heart’s beating so fast it’s a wonder it hasn’t grown wings and flown away.
Whitney doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he’s never felt this good inside of anyone else before. Or maybe it’s simply because of all the tension that has built up over the years. The once again fleeting thought that he doesn’t want anyone else having a go at you crosses his mind.
He fucked your mouth already and now he’s deep inside you, what else is there left for him to take from you? A kiss, obviously. He has kissed you before, but you always pushed him away soon after. Now, you can’t retaliate.
Hand raising, he roughly takes your jaw and seizes your lips.
Cigarettes taste just a bit better this time—you don’t even need to smoke it, all you need is his tongue in your mouth. It’s vicious, like he’s attacking you instead of actually kissing you. In the end, you just feel invaded through and through.
“How does it feel?” He’s disappointed that his words can’t get to you—what’s the point in talking if he can’t get you mad? Regardless, he continues. “This is the same mouth you use to tell me off and now you’ve just shared spit with me.”
His voice is getting hoarser and his hips start focusing more on speed than on strength. From on top of him, you feel like you’re on a bumpy rollercoaster that doesn’t let the fluttery feeling in your stomach from a high drop relent. Each thrust earns him a hiccuped ah or muffled mngh from you.
Though Whitney’s more composed (perhaps from a lot of sex experience), his mind is also slipping—he’s been presented with the perfect opportunity to take the most explicit video of you yet for blackmail, but he forgets.
“Inside,” you murmur with a broken voice, like you’re hanging on by a thread and only need one tug to fall.
“I am inside you, dumbass.” His eyes roll, not from pleasure.
You shake your head against the crook of his neck, sharp canines brushing over his skin as you repeat it again: “…Inside.”
The gears switch in his head. He flips you over and uses a hand to pin your wrists above your head. Your hands clench and unclench, just like another body part of yours. Whitney grunts at the feeling, dick twitching inside you.
You’re caught between trying to curl yourself away from him and curling into him. In the end, your back arches off the grass and you turn your head to the side, eyes shutting tight.
His body feels warm but his temperature hasn’t actually risen up by much—it’s just that all his cells are buzzing like crazy. “You want me to come inside you? All you want is to be filled up like a slut?”
“Yes…” No—you’d think if you were lucid. “Come inside me.” Don’t come inside.
“That’s all you’re good for anyway,” his breath hitches, “take it, then.”
Whitney empties himself inside you, keeping you restrained as you spasm beneath him. Your ears are perked the entire time but you can’t hear the pitiful sounds leaving you over his groans. You’re clamping down on him so hard it hurts him, he doesn’t dare pull out.
The worst part is that despite finishing, you don’t feel the tides of desire slow to a stop. A heat doesn’t die out after going at it one time, no, it continues to demand more. Your body still burns, the feeling’s so overwhelming you quiver and try to back away from him. It’s contradictory, you try shying away but the word “more” falls off your lips and would make even the best of people tempted.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks, grinning as he pushes you back down. If he only gets to have you like this once a month, he has to make the most of it. “We’ve only just begun.”
By the time he’s done with you, the sun has gone down and the moon has taken the stage. You tremble all over, too weak to stand up by yourself, and you’re not sure how many loads you’ve taken. The sound of pictures being taken once in a while from far away didn’t register either.
As Whitney helps you up, fluids dribble down your legs. Silence follows, you feel yourself be lifted into his arms and motion follows. It feels like hours pass, but eventually, you hear the sound of keys and the creaking of a door.
Your back is pressed against a familiar feeling mattress, a blanket drapes over your body.
Your ear doesn’t have the energy to twitch when he whispers against it. “Don’t forget: I own you now. Are you in there? Remember it.”
When you manage to open your eyes, you’re in your room and Whitney is nowhere to be found.
