Chapter Twenty-Three
I n a matter of seconds Moss’s world was completely up-ended.
One moment he was basking in the satisfaction of Arran’s climax, and the next he was face-down in the sheepskins mewling like a kitten with the Wulver’s tongue buried deep inside his ass.
And what a tongue. Wider and more dexterous than a human’s, it curled in interesting ways that caught on every nerve ending and kept Moss quivering like a useless mess.
He’d constructed this body to be a blend of his human and dryad forms. There were unique advantages to the human one that he’d grown fond of, like the way it experienced pleasure. Like the way Arran could rattle his very insides with sensations so intense that Moss could no longer persuade his limbs to work together. Moss joyfully submitted to the sublime helplessness of kneeling on the verge of collapse.
His legs could barely support himself, anyway. The Wulver held his ass in the air, spreading his cheeks with clawed fingers that bit harshly into Moss’s bark-skin. Every little jiggle pressed against the point of a nail, delivering tiny spikes of pleasure alongside the sting.
When the Wulver pulled away, Moss was braced for the punishment of a finger—but not quite for two at once. Arran had them covered in his own cum so the first went in fairly effortlessly, but the second dragged against Moss’s inner flesh and made him cry out in pain.
Arran’s other hand gripped Moss’s hair and pulled his face off the bed.
‘Want?’ he growled by Moss’s throat. His voice was barely recognisable, but was tinged by laboured self-restraint.
‘Oh shit, wolfie,’ Moss moaned. ‘I want it so bad. Hurt me however you want.’
The second finger plunged in again, ripping a hoarse whine from Moss’s throat. It was agony and bliss together. There was power in inviting pain. In owning it for himself.
Moss pushed his ass backward, urging the Wulver to go deeper. The two digits scissored inside him, stretching him, opening him for the dick he knew was dripping with need behind him.
Moss felt everything falling away. All the years of grief and suffering. Elsie’s cruel orders and Logan’s boots. They flaked away from his body like petals. Replaced only by this all-consuming experience of being needed by someone, of being used by someone—in the right way. In a way that he could own for himself.
To be smothered willingly instead of being forcibly overwhelmed.
The Wulver’s fingers withdrew, leaving him gaping. Moss curled his fists into the sheepskin, breathing deeply as the heat of the wolfman’s dick met his hole. The claws were back on his hips, holding him steady, guiding his body to receive Arran’s pulsating length inside it. The Wulver’s cock filled him, inch by inch, stretching his innards with its girth.
‘Oh, shit.’ Moss whimpered when he felt his ass smack against the Wulver’s pelvis. Arran’s fat balls grazed his own, feeling hot and sticky as they slapped together.
The Wulver’s arms landed on either side of Moss, caging him in as the wolfman’s body lowered. Silky fur grazed his back, tickled his neck.
A snarl gave him warning, but Arran’s first proper thrust still took Moss’s breath away. His dick drew right to the edge of Moss’s hole, then plunged back in to the hilt. It was so forceful it punched Moss off his knees, driving him dick-first into the sheepskins.
Once the Wulver started, he didn’t stop. Not allowing Moss to get back up, he simply adjusted his position and smacked into him again, adding a layer of friction to Moss’s aching dick as it was ridden into the bed. Moss spluttered, spitting wool from his mouth and striving to gulp down air while Arran picked up the pace.
Arran’s dick thumped brutally against Moss’s swollen prostate, forcing ragged wails from his lungs. Claws snagged on Moss’s wrists, keeping him down. Not that he’d have any hope of lifting the Wulver’s massive weight off his back, anyway. Moss’s dick was puffy and throbbing, both sore from rubbing into the sheepskins and excruciatingly tight from the pressure pounding away inside him.
It was fucking glorious . For the love of all that was green, Moss couldn’t remember having ever felt so good.
He wanted more. Arran would benefit from some encouragement.
Moss forced his senseless moans into words. ‘Is that— all you’ve— got? I said I want you to— own me, wolfie. Make me forget— everything.’
Arran’s snarled response was visceral. ‘ Mine. ’
Moss had no time to think, only to absorb that he was clinging onto the bed like a tree about to be uprooted in a storm. His body flailed under the Wulver, powerless and ruined by the ruthless momentum of his dick. Here his choice of body excelled itself. Moss’s bark-skin took the punishment of Arran’s claws like a champ, while his tender insides soaked up every ferocious point of contact, building Moss’s pleasure to a white-hot peak. He whined into the bed, on the edge of exploding.
Then Arran shifted his weight onto his elbows and slid his left hand under Moss’s jaw, holding his throat firmly. His right arm bent round Moss’s waist and seized hold of his dick, squeezing it brutally at the base.
‘You don’t come,’ Arran snarled in his ear, ‘until I tell you to come.’
‘ Fucking hell! ’ Moss’s shout twisted into a drawn-out squeal. His body convulsed violently, shuddering in the Wulver’s grip. His dick bucked, desperate to come.
Arran smacked into him harder. Took him higher, teetering on the knife’s edge of release with no reprieve in sight. Moss knew he was drooling, mouth slack and eyes rolled back while agonised tears slid down his cheeks.
It was too good, too perfect. He was unmade, unpersoned. Freed of everything that hurt. In this moment he was nothing but a cum doll. A creature whose only purpose was to ride the sharp peak of his master’s pleasure. A being comprised only of excruciating bliss.
His brain had more or less stopped working when the Wulver’s dick finally shot its load, gushing thick, sticky waves of fluid deep into Moss, filling him up until he felt like he might burst. Arran’s hot breath ghosted over his back.
Still, he didn’t let Moss come. His claws enveloped Moss’s balls, strangling them too, to ensure he didn’t stray over the brink of orgasm. Moss whimpered again, feeling limp and vulnerable. His ass alone was held up on Arran’s dick, the rest of him fully sunk into the bed. Arran’s other hand massaged his throat, not squeezing but adding an extra layer of pressure that felt close to dangerous.
The Wulver’s growl vibrated through Moss. It was a different, urgent kind of growl, building in volume and timbre as Arran’s body seemed to quake on top of him.
Moss’s shagged-out brain groggily pinpointed a new sensation occurring within his ass. Arran’s dick was still fully sheathed in him, and its base seemed to be getting… thicker.
‘Oh,’ Moss rasped, understanding and reeling with desire. ‘Yes, wolfie. Knot me. Fuck.’
The throbbing bulge of the Wulver’s knot stretched Moss so wide he found himself wheezing against the strain. It was heavy, a weighty lump that dragged all his attention to the sensation. He felt stuffed utterly, impossibly full, and weirdly secure in that.
He wasn’t going anywhere, Moss realised, until this knot disappeared. He was locked against the Wulver for however long that might take.
‘Mine,’ Arran croaked again, and holy shit if that didn’t fill Moss with a whole new kind of giddiness to contend with.
The Wulver’s fur was wet and sticky where they connected, and with a little more concentration Moss felt the wolfman’s fat dick still slowly convulsing inside him. Each pulse travelled from his veiny knot up the shaft to his still-hard cockhead, which then expanded and released another viscous spurt of cum inside him.
Moss was so full of fluid that it made his belly feel swollen, and he swore some of it must be forcing a path around Arran’s knot because he also felt a constant trickle dripping from his hole, coating his balls and his thighs and the sheepskin under him.
His dick spasmed in the Wulver’s hand, frantic with need. Moss wiggled futilely, seeking sympathetic friction. Arran gave a husky laugh that rippled his fur over Moss’s back and jostled the knot inside him.
The contrast of soft and rough sliding against Moss’s flesh incited another moan from him. ‘Please,’ he begged, pawing at Arran’s hold on his dick.
‘Mine,’ Arran growled for a third time. ‘Say it.’
‘Yours,’ Moss replied instantly, out of breath. ‘Yours, yours, yours.’
With each word Arran rocked his hips, making shallow thrusts with his knot that had Moss keening after each one. It was harsh and loving. Arran removed his grip from Moss’s dick and said, in a voice rough with affection, ‘Come for me, Moss.’
The sudden release of his dick made Moss go light-headed as it bloated, sending excruciating shocks of bliss through his veins. His dick spilled its juices like a sputtering fountain, discharging wave after wave of pent-up ecstasy over the bed.
Arran’s jaws closed over the join of his throat and shoulder. Fangs pierced him, made Moss shriek and expel yet another round of cum. Arran’s arms encircled him, the growl in his chest filling Moss as well. The Wulver’s body went still, and they were simply locked together by knot and teeth as Arran’s jaws didn’t seem able to let go.
Moss’s body gradually stopped trembling as the aftershocks died away. Arran’s breath burned into his bark. Their lungs expanded and collapsed in time with each other.
Arran’s great weight loosened over Moss. Hugging him tightly, Arran rolled on his side, pulling Moss with him. It allowed Moss’s limbs to relax, and the bulk of Arran’s knot began to feel almost comfortable.
After a few more minutes of quietly existing together, Arran unfastened his jaws and licked at the sap oozing from Moss’s broken flesh.
‘Are you all right?’ Arran growled softly.
‘Better than ever, wolfie,’ Moss murmured, snuggling into him. He squirmed on Arran’s knot, provoking a groan from the wolfman.
Arran rutted into him again. ‘Do you never stop?’
‘Not likely.’ Moss sniggered and grew a patch of vines from his skin—he sent them twisting over Arran’s body, clasping him from every angle. He would have slyly wrapped one round the base of Arran’s dick if he could, but there wasn’t the slightest gap between the meeting of their bodies. ‘You signed up for an eternity of this, wolfie.’
Arran continued to lap at the wound he’d inflicted, while his hands stroked gently over Moss’s body. ‘I welcome it.’
Moss felt cherished.
‘I want to lay my roots here,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s grow this place together.’
Arran nuzzled his neck. ‘Yes.’
Moss unwound, stretching his spirit beyond his physical form.
Already, the ravine beyond the cave was a part of Moss, and he a part of it. The dune willows swayed to his underground song. It was a tune they recognised. A melody of survival, of sturdy roots holding strong against an inhospitable climate, of tough stems enduring unforgiving winds. They would not be blown down.
Moss curled deeper into Arran’s warm embrace.
They would not be blown down.