hakirsch
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Wolf Play Pt. 1 - Suck (M/M)
🕑 Added 2018-05-22 11:56:18 +0000 UTC This really isn't titled 'Suck', it's just that the original story was called "Suck" before I sucked-it up into the not-so-sucky "[TRIGGER WARNING]" before it... I'm out of sucking descriptions. Anyway, this is how my upcoming "Wolf Play" e-book starts.P.S: I ditched my reward tiers because, let's face it, I'm not actually rewarding anyone. I struggle to just write consistently and feeling like I have to potentially run around doing special writing for people is exactly why I don't do commissions. But I do really appreciate everyone's support and want to help fund future cover art, editor expenses, etc.
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So, my profile was up on Inside Leathermen for all of ten minutes and I already had so many notifications that the little screen for them on my phone had filled up and I had to scroll through it just to see the clock. Most of them were the typical, "yeah boy I wanna fuck that pussy mouth of yours" and stuff, which honestly were red herrings. I'd already learned that some guys online just like to waggle theirs out over the internet while they sit at home in their cum-stained underwear. The rest were probably straight-acting guys who want to pretend they don't like other men and that they're doing something dirty.
Then I saw this one guy. His name was listed as, "Hawk". That sounded sexy. Not like FuckYoPussyHole69. I swear that was real. If I wanted a pussy, I'd get a sex change.
"Hawk" did not have his face in any of his pictures. Instead, he had a carefully photographed collection of parts of his body, all clad in opulent black leather. That was pretty nice. There wasn't much else to his profile, only a listing of what he would and wouldn't do. He wouldn't poop on me or make me bleed, and he would do just about anything else. Okay. Sure.
I messaged him. "Need a hand?"
He messaged back: "You think I want a handjob from you? Your hand's not in the fucking picture."
I'd already put on my leather pants, in anticipation of going out to a club if I struck out with this newfangled way to get into sexual trouble. The nice thing about leather is that when you start leaking precum out of your stone-hard erection when some leather-daddy tells you something smartass, no one else knows about it. You just get all musky and wet inside and feel embarrassed all by yourself.
Oh, the message. "Well, my mouth is, so I guess you'll be fucking that tonight." As I typed those words, I felt as if I was making a mistake. Too much. Not enough. I clicked ‘send’ anyway.
It took about thirty seconds for the next message. While I waited, I did nothing else. I sat hunched forward, phone cradled in my hands, heart pounding, cock throbbing, staring at the picture of some unfaced person holding the handle of a flogger with a glistening leather glove. Fuck, dear god, holy shit, he'd probably try to use that on me. As long as I could put his dick in my mouth.
And, message: "You tell me your address. I send a courier over to you to give you a hotel key card. You come to the Bell Tower Hotel, which you can't miss because it's fucking fancy as shit. It'll be the penthouse. I'm not fucking around. Go let yourself in and there'll be a little bit of instructions. I'll be there later tonight. You'll get the card at 9:30." It was 8:45.
I figured this guy was one of three things:
-- A psychopath
-- Some kinky fag with a case of obsessive anal compulsive disorder
-- The hottest person I would ever meet.
My cock wanted number three, so I messaged him my apartment address. And I waited.
---
He really sent a courier, a regular bike messenger type. He really sent me a key card, and it was for the Bell Tower hotel. It really was fancy ass, and he really was on the penthouse floor. And the frosting on this sex brownie was that he really wasn't home and there was a lascivious note just as described.
"Put this on. Kneel and wait." Beneath the note was a black neoprene hood. It had a single hole for the mouth and chin, and tiny pencil holes to breathe through at the end of the formed nose.
I kneeled on the floor and stared into dark nothing. The hood smelled like vaguely chemical rubber and the hot, tart smell of sour spit, mixed with a much more aromatic and musky smell that proved I certainly wasn't the first person to wear it. I could feel everything from my hugged face down to my toes, but I could see nothing and smell only some other man's ripened spunk and spit. I was so dumbstruck that I only slightly registered that my ankles were starting to hurt from how I kept my feet, pointed boot toes bent and dug into the fine carpeting.
A long while went by before the door lock whirred and clacked open. I didn't react. I wasn't really a person, just a mouth and a blinded face. I wore a tight black compression spandex tee-shirt, black leather jeans, and rockstar black cowboy boots. I hoped that was good enough.
Someone came in, and they were wearing boots, a rich hollow clunk against the thin red carpet. Leather, which squeaked. No introduction, just a rustling sound, a grunt, and then something mashed against my lips. Wet, male, profoundly musky, uncut cock. I had barely moved my lips apart when it stuffed right in and a hand grabbed onto my head. The unseen man gave me a solid minute of mouth-fucking that ended with a hot plop as he yanked backwards just when I was getting into the rhythm.
"Over here," he said, and he had an astonishing sloppy and dark Brooklyn accent. I could only imagine what he looked like; probably a mobster. A mobster in all leather, from the sound of it, and the smell of it. He smacked my head in the direction he wanted me to go, so I went. A chair, by feel. He sat down with a protracted creak and then started touching my face. "You know what? This was a real good idea." His fingers dipped into my mouth and I suckled on the leather. He took them out and stroked up my cheek, which I could still feel despite the neoprene. “Go on. You can find it. Your mouth's a fucking dick magnet, isn't it?"
I put my hands on his thighs and stroked the leather, but mostly just held on. Then, without touching him, I went for his cock again. I found it by smell, suckled the cum slobber off the tip and then started to really work. He stopped playing around with my hooded head and just sat there, grunting every now and then, almost chuckling a few times. I intentionally let the big, musky shaft slop out of my mouth so I could wetly slurp back over it. I intentionally made squelching noises as I lipped and bobbed.
Then I started to go deep. His cock curved downwards a little so there was none of that square peg, round hole crap. It just went right down my throat. I didn't really have time to gag, until I tried to swallow. Then I had to do it over and over to keep from gagging. I pulled back off and huffed a little air, grunting just as I bobbed back down so that the sound would get cut off as his cock strangled me.
It never occurred to do anything to his balls. I could have, but that deep-throating was serious business. I clung onto his leathers as he grabbed at my head and started enforcing the steady, nearly suffocating rhythm. I drooled so much that when I finally jerked back and gasped for air, I could hear the wet splat of some spit landing on something.
"Why don't you take that fuckin' hood off?" He said, and let go of my head.
I reached back, unzipped, and pulled.
Holy shit, a wolf!
Let’s pause here a bit. I’m human. Lainsville is full of animal-people. Everywhere is full of animal people, at least everyone anyone wants to live. On the other hand, I came from a rural town and we definitely did not have any animal-people. Hybrids. Whatever. That does not explain my reaction. What does explain my reaction is that I can’t stand, hate, am terrified by, am always on the watch for wolves.
He wore tall black engineer boots, shiny like the ones motorcycle cops wore. Tight black leather pants whose button fly hole made like a cockring around his ample and very black uncut dick and balls. Fancy black belt with a rectangular chrome buckle that had a wolf head inlaid with some fancy black stone. Black leather motorcycle jacket, zipped up just under his pecs. No shirt on underneath, so that ruff of fur where neck meets pecs could puff out. Tight leather riding gauntlets from his fingers up halfway up his forearms. Nothing on his head save for a few gold earrings. Just a black lupine face with a rotten feral grimace up one side, and an up-curved toothy smirk up the other. And his tongue was black, just like his leathery uncut tool. It was huge, almost a foot long, and slick with my spit.
"You got some kind of fuckin' problem?"
"What? I don't, it's just a... " I stammered. "Your picture. You’re a wolf.“
"I want freaky leather-slut guys, not people who want a pretty face. I want them to want me because of what I’m wearing, at least from that profile. You're not done sucking my dick."
When he reached for me, I got right up. "Uhh. I'm not really sure about this."
His brows furrowed, nose pointed, ears down. I'd seen dogs do that before. Right before they tried to bite me. "What a load of bullshit. You were giving me the best fucking blowjob I've ever had. Now I know why there are fucking whorehouses full of you skinbags. So what’s the fucking problem?“
He was a fucking wolf, talking to me, not just Over There at the store buying Wolf Things and talking to Wolf Friends. He was a wolf, right there in front of me, dressed like a leather god, and he’d just had his cock in my mouth. "I just, I'm not used to... I mean, I just moved here, I'm from a small town..." I did not try to sound that stupid; it was just the fucking truth, but it didn’t come out that way.
He lunged forward and grabbed me. "If you're gonna be a fucking pansy-ass dick about sucking a wolf's cock, well, you know what? Out."
It's not that he threw me out of the hotel suite into the hallway, hard enough that I slammed into the wall and fell over. It's that when he shoved me out the door and let go, I tripped over my own cowboy boots and fell into the wall like a dumbass.
He slammed the door behind me, and that was that. He didn't even get to cum. Poor wolf, I guess.
