The stone path’s cracked and mortar-less seams are overgrown by fading grasses, plants, and the occasional eye-catching color of a flower. Flanked on either side by trees, this path carves through a dense palisade of dark trunks and vermilion overhang. Fahen’s soft clogs cushion his feet as every step traipses over pebbles, clumps of dirt, twigs, or decaying plant matter. Leaves had begun falling, but no significant wind had danced through the branches yet, so the trees are adorned with many of their leaves still. In the spaces between cracked leaves, grass, bereft of sunlight, reaches out between the coverings to beg for a hint of light. The chatter of squirrels in an argument high in the branches chitters in Fahen’s ears as he walks. All-in-all a very normal autumn is upon him.

	His alluring, red eyes focus far in the distance and see the thin vapor of fog weave its way through the mixture of broad-leafed trees. The ground-hugging cloud saunters closer, passing through the crowd of bark politely, and Fahen tightens his ecru cloak in anticipation for the chill. It’s still many yards in the distance and unfortunately for Fahen he’s walking straight into it.

	Inside the blear murkiness Fahen feels the chill sap at his energy, his nose sniffles the cool and stagnant humidity, and the cloak is tugged tauter around his slim musculature. ‘At least it’s not windy,’ he thinks somewhat resigned as his trek continues. His leather rucksack is tight to his back and its wooden contents clatter with the rhythm of his step. Experimental woodwinds, percussive stones, and the stereotypical bard instrument, the lute, occupy the majority of his storage for this short travel between towns. 

	He keeps walking. Filled with a reluctant determination as nothing will be accomplished if he stops. The wind starts to pick up speed as gusts let their presence be unmistakably known to the huddled Fahen. He has to stop himself from thinking another ‘at least it’s not…’ lest he curses himself again and focuses solely on the walk ahead. The fog thickens as the cold becomes more biting. The lone sergolf feels his clothes and fur grow slightly damp from the moisture and sighs. Not far from town so in no danger, just the walk has become less pleasant than he hoped for.

	He had hoped this walk would let him clear his mind of the aching rut he’d found himself in, and while it is crisp like a cold shower, it is far less distracting than Fahen wanted. His body has become inflamed with carnal desires that rippled out like waves from his now-wet vagina, and it was a challenge freeing his mind from thoughts of breeding. Or more specifically, being bred. It had become time to move on anyway: the town was growing bored by his compositions and thus tips sparsened, but he can’t get his mind off some of the men in town. Their rippling muscles, masculine stubble, those bulges his eyes could surreptitiously spy...

	Deeper into the fog Fahen marches and marches. Assuring himself that a warm bed is just around the next bend, and when he turns the corner, then there’s surely a bed behind the next. But he doesn’t know what’s around this bend is a set of eyes. Eyes that lurk, eyes that leer, and eyes that have watched his travel since before the fog billowed in. The eyes of Jasper, skilled and experienced, that regardless of the coincidental cloak of fog, his presence would be just as unnoticed by the prey. The experienced hunter loomed just shy of earshot of this prey, but he had smelled Fahen for miles. The unmistakable, needy aroma of rut had bloomed in this forest even more than the fog had. And by good luck, the werewolf was in heat. 

	The taller man-beast, entirely naked in the chilling breeze, is calm and warm; his body is wrapped in warm muscles, and atop that is thick fur, like an aegis against the freeze. The hunter doesn’t shiver in the darkening afternoon. His breath is lost among the rest of this mist. Specks of frost threaten to cling to his mane of flowing, black hair and the gaps between his muscled abs. But neither of the hints of the cold matter as trained muscles are set off into motion like a thunderclap, and every step lands exactly where it belongs. His thighs and calves have had no warmup for this minuscule sprint, nor do they need one. With precision of an automaton yet the acute intuition of a wild and natural huntsman, he dances from splotches of near-silent, leaf-free grass to now the cracked steps immediately preceding his prey. The smell is so boisterous and uncouth, so much thicker in the air than the mist that the werewolf could’ve been blind and deaf yet still captured his soon-to-be mate.

	Fahen’s ears twitch. They catch the waves of minute sound, of disquiet, as they compress and are sent hurtling towards him from the beast’s hidden dash. Now it is his muscles’ turn. Adrenaline bubbles in his veins and his heart thumps loudly in his neck, his body understands the danger before his brain catches the hint, and the moistness in his thighs dries as his idly aroused thoughts are slaughtered by the need of self-preservation. 

	‘I must be getting old,’ Jasper chimes to the audience of himself within the auditorium of his head as the chase sets off, and all his former attempts at silence are cast aside in a blazing dash. The first loud sound of his feet slapping into the stone like bellowing timpani belies Jasper’s distance; to Fahen’s panicked brain and ears muffled by the rush of wind past them, it nearly sounds like something is leaping after him. The distance covered by his pursuer’s stride sounds gargantuan, and Fahen’s own pace feels far too tiny. His backpack clatters its contents as he sprints, and its noise cuts through the wind to remind him: dropping it may be a good idea.

	Too late. The thick muscles of the werewolf’s arm flex as he hoists his catch by the rucksack like plucking a fish from the lake by the bobber. Fahen grunts as his stomach roughly kisses a broad shoulder, and Jasper heads diagonally off the path their short chase had encompassed into the dark woods. ‘Why didn’t I call for help?’ The first words of the panic-stricken sergolf’s mind formulates until he realizes: he still can.

	“Help! Stop, help me!” His cutely masculine voice trembles. He prays the folks at the warm bed just around the bend hear his pleads. Hopes that some other traveler’s ears catch this cry. Hopes that somehow he touches the heart of this brute and is let go. Hope is all he can cling to. The large hand pinning him to the shoulder reminds him that hope only goes so far.

	With the man’s rear end so close to Jasper’s face the air around is slick with the rut stench. Its fumes are far thicker than the mist ever gets in this forest. It’s a flavorful, blissful aroma that fills his nostrils and stains them with the sergolf’s deep arousal; he can nearly taste the man’s slavering slit on his lips. But soon, soon… The desperation is a commonality between the men, whether Fahen can sense the shared need Jasper is filled with or not.

	The trot deeper into the woods, one Jasper knows well, is punctuated by the struggling sergolf’s clothes being ripped off his lithe frame. “Aah, stop! What are you doing?” He demands in a flurry of fear, but Jasper pays no heed to his catch’s protests, merely responding by tearing free the man’s pants, and letting them fall like a leaf to the ground, joining its brother: the shirt, and its friend: the backpack. The last of which clatters noisily as it collides against the trunk of a solid oak. Fahen’s body is now naked, with the cloak surrendered to the ground as well. Perhaps some other creature of the forest will lay claim to it. Where the pair are headed to the clothes are not part of the dress code. Through this entire walk, Fahen has been pounding fists, rolling his abs and hips, kicking and squealing in any attempt to get free, but the blows are most glancing due to the awkward position, and thus do nothing to loosen the grip. “Why? Stop, please!” He pleads again.

	“Quiet,” Jasper states in a booming, masculine voice that feels as though it shakes leaves from the trees and the frost from the sergolf’s body. The voice is warm, far warmer than he could’ve ever imagined. Its firm and manly vibrations almost elicit a whimper and want to obey from the traveler. Fahen’s place upon the shoulder, and involuntary pause from the command sends his mind tumbling around. The ideas of ‘should I be quiet?’, ‘what is he going to do with me?’, and ‘I need help!’ are joined with the realization: ‘He smells good…’

	His struggles slow. He’s resting on the shoulder, shifts to get in a more comfortable spot, and is now sedate and clear-headed enough to examine his situation. The body holding him is muscled, slick with beautiful, black fur, with plumes of fluffy hair on his head and, with a peek, underarm. He is far taller than Fahen and a fall from off Jasper’s shoulder wouldn’t be too bad, but it sure would hurt.

	Jasper approaches the soft, orange glow of his cavern and climbs up the gentle slope to the precipice. His nose is filled with even more of the other man’s scent, particularly since his slit has begun to slaver once more. “We’re here,” He tells, a fair point less commanding but no less mannish. Fahen twists to peer inside, and his eyes welcome the dim glow. The first unnatural light since leaving the village this morning.

	“Ah, what are you going to do with me?” The sergolf bard asks honestly yet with no expectation of an answer. Inside the cavern is surprisingly well-furnished: tables, chairs, over the glowing fire is a cooking pot, there’s an honest bed, curtains, even a sculpture and painting. All in all, it’s even nicer than the last inn he stayed at.

	“I intend to...”—he states as a giant hand cushions against the smaller man’s back, and sets him down with a gentleness that belies the capture—”breed you.” The first vision of the enormous werewolf fills the sergolf with a mote of mixed terror and relief. Standing, back to the warm, stone wall, Jasper’s silhouette is buffeted by strong muscles; abs, biceps, triceps, his legs all stand out to hold the sergolf’s vision. The words and the flooding of his mind with images of that, a mixture of hope and fear, excite Fahen; this could be just what he’s been wanting!

	But no, he tries to think more clearly, this isn’t okay! No matter if the werewolf has strong muscles, that deeply warm and alluring aroma, his commanding yet not harsh personality—

	“You could have killed me…” Fahen says, more to confirm to himself the werewolf’s non-violent intentions than to have a discussion.

	“That’s not what I want.” Jasper approaches, trapping the prey between the smooth stone wall and himself. He rests a hand upon the wall just adjacent to Fahen’s head. Its proximity keeps his arm always in the sergolf’s view. “I want this.” His other large hand gently strokes two fingers against Fahen’s drooling vagina; an act which makes the sergolf realize just how wet he’d become for the first time. His little, adorable gasps make Jasper smile in Fahen’s presence for the first time, and the werewolf’s teeth glimmer with saliva. He’s still a predator and Fahen: still the prey. The danger of this situation feels to be fading but the meek prey reminds himself of that fact.

	“I could smell your need all the way from here.” Jasper’s fingers slip into the other man’s drooling slit, wet with the copious lust built up from intense need built over weeks of unmet desire, but now soon that need was to be fulfilled. Even though he whimpers and his rational mind calls for this to halt, those thoughts are slipping away as lust and calm overtakes him.

	“Aah, no, stop it,” Fahen’s weak voice, only half-believing himself if he truly wants the werewolf to cease, mumbles out his throat. His hands then clasp around the werewolf’s wide wrist from which his probing digits extend. Their eyes stare into each other’s. The dim-but-lively red of Fahen’s contrasts with the seductive, nearly glowing green of Jasper’s irises, and the werewolf ceases his movement for a moment, fingers still buried in the tight, wet hole. It isn’t until the sergolf’s eyes beg for more that Jasper continues to gently stretch him, and smother lubrication across every beautiful fold inside; his fingertips tease the entrance to Fahen’s cervix but dare not yet tread inside.

	“Do you want more?” Jasper asks as he slowly tilts down his nuzzle to guide Fahen’s view downward. Down to the bulging, drooling, knotted cock that throbs. Its immense heat and musk pouring off it like the remnants of a geyser’s jet. Its veined, red surface glimmers from the fire’s light lapping across. The shaft is easily lubricated enough to slip into Fahen without stop. The size though...

	The stifled answer, murmured through the hesitation to accept this situation, comes as a flushed, “...Yes.” It isn’t until the shaft is threatening to slip in does Fahen realize just how huge it is; the somewhat-blunt tip of Jasper’s erect cock smears against the drenched opening before stretching those tight muscles wide and making his insertion.

	“Aah, it’s big,” Fahen clenches his hand into a fist while the girth of his mate’s cock makes itself known. It slides into him carefully and slowly, spreading wide the petite slit. Their height isn’t the only sizing difference between them: Fahen’s vagina simply isn’t adjusted to taking something so huge! The penetration is uncomfortable; muscles are pulled wide, forcing them to accommodate this deep thrust. But Jasper merely slips in halfway before his motion reverses. The copious lubricating precum assists in both the penetration and pulling out, and the discomfort slowly fades as Fahen’s vagina grows more used to this girth. The resistance in both mind and body simmers down as the pace of the werewolf increases.

	Jasper’s hips gently roll to press his enormous cock deeper into the undersized pussy; he feels it spread for him and gradually the tightness subsides from its original constricting to merely pleasurably cramped. An inch in, then two, then three, but as though purposefully teasing, he slides back out, leaving Fahen’s adjusted vagina hungry for more. Every thrust towards the deepest parts is accompanied by a shared groan: one of pure pleasure, and from the other, slicked with a waning discomfort. “Aah, nh… Deeper, please,” Fahen moans, still abased but, despite himself, manages to beg his wants earnestly. 

	Part of his mind still begs him to leave, to not enjoy this, but the other part is flooded with arousal. His mind is a swirling stew of conflicting thoughts: but the ones demanding him to stay and savor this pleasure outnumber those that don’t. Fahen is inclined to listen to the crowd. In fact, his hips begin to move with his mate’s; slowly rolling forward as Jasper’s do to force the hard prick to plunge deeper and deeper inside. Every time it slides out Fahen feels an immense emptiness and the need to be filled again. His body shudders as every time Jasper's cock moves he’s smothered with a pleasure he’d never felt before; no previous partner he’d bedded could compare to this.

	Belying his fears of before, Fahen wraps his hands around Jasper’s waist as the thrusting not only continues but accelerates. His eyes focus upon the werewolf looking down at him, and they meet. Filled with the a shared need but also a trust now, just as Jasper’s hips slide closer to touching. The two are parted by only the bulbous knot. An enlarged, seemingly insurmountable challenge that kisses against the puffy, smooth entrance.

	After a few more moments locked together pass, Jasper slides free. His thumping, throbbing, bulging shaft pulses with its own buildup of salacious need. The engorged pulsating prick drips with their shared juices while he takes it in hand and gently slaps the wet, hard surface against Fahen’s drooling vagina, smearing more fluids across his groin. 

	Gently, Jasper leads Fahen off the wall and into bed. Jasper’s strong back presses into the cushiony surface as he sinks into its embrace slightly. The werewolf’s erect cock points up to the cave’s partially smoothed ceiling. “Come, get on top,” Jasper says with a hungry smile, supporting himself on one arm before resting back down, and setting the back of his head in his hands like a pillow. Intentional or not, his musky, hairy armpits are shown off for Fahen to gush over, and for the intoxicating, masculine aroma to flood his mind with all sorts of perverse thoughts. 

	The sergolf obliges and takes his position on the bed with his body set against the warmth of his partner. He’s gentle and cautious with how he supports himself atop Jasper, careful so as to not cause discomfort. He slides his wet pussy against Jasper’s huge cock, slobbering his juices across the already moist shaft, and does so teasingly before accepting the cock back inside him. Like returning a sword to its sheathe, having Jasper inside feels just right. As it returns a surprised moan slips from his lips; he had not realized just how much he missed the older man’s cock in the mere seconds he was without it. “Aaah…” they moan in a duet, with Fahen’s tremolo of pleasure a far higher pitch than Jasper’s. The soft hands of the penetrated sergolf rest into Jasper’s pecs. His slowly elevates his hips to begin riding, and slowly cycles between lifting and dropping down. Every sensitive tissue within his birth canal is greeted with the pure carnal bliss of simply riding such a delectable cock. He rejoices in the strokes, and starts rolling and twisting his hips to massage the invading shaft with fervor. The pace increases and slows, a pleasing rhythm that Fahen could imagine on the woodwinds were he not so lust-crazed and obeying his rut. 

	He longingly stares into Jasper’s eyes, still not knowing the werewolf’s name but needing him, needing more of this, and in this moment he realizes the man’s knot has only ever kissed the outside of his pussy. Fahen knows what he needs, and knows Jasper shares it.. “Aaagh, eeh…” He grunts; the wet slit drools with lubricant but that doesn’t help the tightness of his vagina. It merely isn’t spread enough yet to accept the sliding in of Jasper’s knot painlessly. The knot is a thumping bulge of muscle that stretches Fahen’s already gaped cunt wide open, and sends shivers of honest pain coursing up his body. What was just discomfort has transformed to a pain, a rough pain where he’s pulled apart the furthest. But in there is also where the pleasure is greatest. The sensitive nerves of his birth canal are pulled wide and flooded with the most sensation as they’re forced to engulf this gigantic knot; “G-go slower now, please, aah-” he murmurs a plea but is cut off by a sudden explosion of pleasure shivering through his body. That spot, that spot! Fahen ceaselessly lets his hips grind the most bulbous spot of Jasper’s cock into it, that delicious spot of pure pleasure, and every time he does so he’s gifted with an entire body covered in bliss.

	His back arches from the overstimulation of every pleasure-sensing nerve in his body, and this shifting of his position permits the intruding cock far more contact against this most supersensitive region. The knot’s bulbous shape and tyrannical size spreads Fahen painfully, but the protests of those nerves are fading too as they grow accustomed to this aching bulk. His body, slick with sweat from exertion, slowly rises and falls as much it can whilst tied to Jasper by the knot. He circles his hips, rolls and grinds the tip that’s shoved into his cervix and kisses the back of his womb. One hand returns from the werewolf’s pec to rub the bulge formed in his stomach from the sputtering point of Jasper’s penis. He knows the cock can’t leave him now, not until it’s been drained of all his potent, virile, pent-up jizz, and nothing will have Fahen release it before then. His body needs it, he needs it. The separation of his physical and mental needs is no more; Fahen is one with his desires and ignores them no longer. Every moment this gargantuan cock is driven inside him, stroking and caressing and stretching every aspect of his innermost self, Fahen loses more control as he nears the climax. It’s one to be shared.

	Jasper knows this well; he can feel the immense need building within his heavy balls, the frustration of his genitals as Fahen goes so slow, dragging out the pleasure! As drawn-out as their sex has been, it’s soon to close in a violent explosion of rapturous sensuality. Arms wrap around Fahen, pinning him in a tight embrace against Jasper’s body; the black fur of his partner’s thick, muscled, strong arms brush against him, and the comfortable firmness of the hug fills him with a sense of care and benevolence. There is such comfort that he has no intention of moving. 

	Just as the building up of pressure and pleasure in the root of his cock boils up to the knot, Jasper shifts Fahen’s position just enough to ram his head deep into the center of all the werewolf’s musk: his hairy, fluffy armpit. The fluffy fur and long hairs tickle at his snout as Fahen can’t resist the warm sweat and aromatic, masculine musk exuding off the dense armpit hair of the werewolf. Greedily, he sucks the smell into his sinuses, and can feel the musk erode at his senses until all that’s left is the pleasure, the warmth, and the way this masculinity makes him wet. 

	His lover thrusts into him one final time, and lets out a deep howl of pleasure and conquest. The flood of thick, gooey cum gushes from his urethra, races up into the ravenous and eager womb. Spurt after spurt of virile semen races into the sergolf’s vagina with glee, until it overflows and jizz jets find their way through the incredible tightness of the seal of the knot. 

	Meanwhile Fahen is trapped in the pleasured throes of orgasm; his interior walls shudder and shiver as they roll across the shaft, its tip, and its knot. As cum floods his pussy, his entire body spasms as his orgasm is shared with Jasper. Toes curl, his hands clench into balls, and, of course, he smothers himself in more armpit and the natural musk, the pure musk of his mate. Every muscle in his wet pussy tenses to ensure every last sperm is released from Jasper.

	Knot still lodged deep within, the two pant and sweat and gasp as they slowly recover from so much powerful, passionate sex; their heartbeats pound through their veins, Jasper’s cock pounds inside Fahen’s flooded pussy, and though expended for now, Fahen’s mind lingers on doing this again, and again, and again. He manages, but struggles, to pull himself out of the musky, odorous armpit with face dripping with sweat and eyes bleary with the delicious aroma. He looks up at the werewolf with an unabashed smile, a tired grin with fiery—but sleepy—eyes. “I think I’m going to enjoy this. We’re going to enjoy this,” he tells with a slight flirtatious jab as he plants gentle pecks on his partner’s chest. The tight grip of a hug relaxes to just one of Jasper’s arms holding him close; the werewolf dances his fingers through Fahen’s hair slowly, around the antlers, petting with the flat of his squishy palm as they lay there for minutes in silent appreciation before either realizes they’ve fallen asleep.

	Morning has come and gone and evening threatens its spot in the sky, but the cave is dark. The campfire burnt out hours ago; even the embers have flicked away and died. The first awake, always the early riser, is Fahen. His groin thumps, slightly sore from the events of the last night, only to see that the werewolf’s huge cock is still burrowed inside him. His movements are slow and courteous, not afraid in the slightest of Jasper, but still hoping not to wake him; but that hope is dashed once the werewolf stretches out, and drowsily opens his bleary, though piercing, eyes. The shimmering green glows in the darkness to announce his escape from slumber as much the thumping of his cock does. “Oh, are you wanting some more?” He asks, unsure exactly what response he’ll get now that Fahen has recovered from his lust-drunkenness.

	“Yes please,” Fahen’s melodious voice replies.