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In their downtime, while his party members grow more familiar with one another, he grows more familiar with himself. ", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Wren, formerly a half-orc researcher, has been transmogrified into a feral wolf and set upon adventure by his malicious patron. In their downtime, while his party members grow more familiar with one another, he grows more familiar with himself. ", "writing": "Wren sat at attention as his companions excused themselves to their tents. He hadn't offered to sit watch, but he expected one wouldn't assume the contrary– it was impossible for him to relax, and so the wolf stared ahead into the night, pointed ears facing the darkness to capture anything that crept in its embrace.\nAbruptly, musk and arousal perfumed the air, and he bit back a whine that dripped with frustration. Well, he thought, they got right to it. What were the odds that he'd managed to surround himself with two pairs of men who liked to smoke chode? \nApparently higher than he'd given credit.\nIt didn't take long before grunts and sighs were punctuating the silence of the night and drifting to his pointed canine ears, which flattened. He supposed it was worth something both groups were attempting to be quiet, but with ears like his and no sound but the crackling campfire … Lustful whispers were like confident statements, plain as day.\nThe minutes crawled like ants, slowly and steadily, each indistinguishable from the last, and Wren realized with a start that his mouth was dry and his sheath was flushed with warmth. Arousal, sex, the varied (sweaty) aromas of his male companions; these were delightful scents.\nThe thought struck him that this was likely the closest he'd ever get to having sex again. Eavesdropping– however unintentionally– on the slick sounds of wettened flesh and, oh, now he was horny and miserable.\nHe swallowed hard as his folded-back ears flushed with warmth. And then he noticed another smell, new and familiar at once: he glanced down between the barrel of his chest, past night-spattered gray and black fur, and beheld the half-emerged shaft of his cock, that with it brought the heady smell of his own arousal. \nWren hadn’t taken much time to inspect his intimates since he’d been transformed–there hadn’t been much interest, and there’d been no such opportunity. Given the hands-off nature of answering nature’s call–no pants to unzip, no hands to unzip any such pants with–he had done his best to ignore it when it wasn’t pertinent. But now the deep-veined, thickly, sweetly red organ was making itself known, all but pulsing with the throbbing of his heart, and refusing to wilt under his intense glare.\nHis . . . equipment was fundamentally different. He couldn’t yet tell if it was larger in general, but he could see that his shaft’s thickest point was indeed further around in circumference. As a half-orc, he’d been circumcised rather neatly, and now there was no proper analogue that would match that: he’d made no habit of inspecting hounds and jackals in his mother’s clan, but sometimes an eyeful of dog cock was inevitable–the point being that, so far as he could discern, a sheath and cock was the same for one as it was for all–no cultural reasons to mess with that.\nHe was surprised that the scent of his own arousal was doing so much to keep him hard. He panted heavily as the heat in his loins burned hotter, and his tongue lolled out of his muzzle, saliva dripping onto himself– his cock bounced eagerly at the sparse sensation. \nIt had been weeks since he’d last gotten his dick wet. It would be weeks more, he reminded himself; until he was returned to his normal self, if that ever happened. Weeks, months, years… He didn’t know that he was whining until it reached his own ears.\nAt least while he was traveling with the Hounds’ investigation squad, he had been able to masturbate. The full length of his spire was now basking in the scant light of the evening with his back to the fire. It was a cruel point of irony to have what had to be at least eleven inches in length now, and to never be able to use it. The epitome of masculinity: the men and women at the bordello would have fought for a night with him!\nAnother bead of saliva fell from his tongue (damnable, floppy thing that it was) and fell perfectly onto his tapered tip. His cock responded with a spurt of clear fluid that shot up and against his muzzle, accompanied by the scent of his virile need. And then he paused as he remembered another thing that the canines his mother’s family raised could do. His tongue, he considered, could definitely reach it. Between the size of his cock and the length of his tongue….\nLust took the reins and Wren curled in on himself, overshooting as he flopped into an awkward recline and smearing his cock against his muzzle as his hind leg shot over his head. The swollen bulb hiding within his sheath ached at the pressure of his nose’s brief prodding, and the sensation of his fur gliding against his cock, however short-lived, sent a shiver along his spine, and his tail thwapped against the ground. Yes. Yes, this would do.\nHe tried again; his breath was hot as his muzzle approached his cock, drips of precum falling like rain onto his belly fur, and then he stopped. He swallowed hard before flicking out his tongue–a thrill of sensation shot from the tip of his cock to the base of his spine, like frigid water, and up to his skull and down the length of his tail. \nThis was it: his desperation won, and Wren hungrily lapped his long, flexible tongue against the length of his cock. His tongue’s rough texture tasted his flesh–the salty rim of his sheath, the slightly similar taste of his hot arousal, the bitter splash of precum squirting to the back of his tongue. The sensations assaulted him with crashing waves of pleasure, and even stretching the way he was–impossible for him prior to his transformation–he felt no cry of discomfort from his neck or back.\nWren had given many blowjobs in his time, but blowing himself was a new experience. A lupine tongue and spine offered a new realm of possibilities, and the sensations, the experience of performing and receiving ministration was near enough to bring him to bear on its own. But Wren was a researcher at heart, and he was not eager to let the dam burst at the mere discovery of a new way to satisfy himself. There was more to learn.\nThe dark-furred wolf stopped his hurried licking–his cock rewarded him with an anguished throb and another gout of pre to his muzzle. His rocket glistened in what light reached it, and he watched himself throb as he measured the distance. It would take a bit more craning of his neck… He opened his muzzle and inched closer…\nEcstasy blossomed in his loins as his muzzle closed around his cock. He hadn’t even done anything: just the wet heat and texture of his tongue and the roof of his maw–it was better than anything the whores (or his cousin, that one time) could have done for him. The last sober corner of his mind reasoned that to be his lack of glans–everything was much more sensitive–but also how well he fit into his mouth with no interference of his teeth, tapered tip almost touching his throat. \nHis lips bumped against the now-exposed bulb of his knot; his nose was flush with his furry scrotum, and every breath filled his nostrils with his own scent, but that didn’t hold his attention long. He began to suckle along his cock, muzzle as shut as he could manage, and he truly had found the way; he’d missed, apparently, the feeling of a cock in his mouth. \nIt was an easier rhythm–much less effort to push and pull his tongue inside his muzzle, even if he was breathing his own balls–and far more rewarding. He couldn’t quite thrust his hips curled up the way he was, but the energy built up in his hips anyway, and the leg hooked over his head wound up kicking the air. It was an embarrassing position, but dignity could be damned: this was probably the best blowjob of his life, and he was giving it to himself! Sure it didn’t solve the yearning for a body beneath or on top him–and even still, this body had wants that he wasn’t familiar with, if the thumping of his heel against the back of his skull was even a slight indication– but at least he could masturbate; at least he wouldn’t have to resort to humping upholstery in his father’s house like some common mongrel.\nThe thought momentarily threw off Wren’s rhythm, but luckily, he was too far gone to be stopped. Even with a second or two of pause, the heat in his loins didn’t die, and his cock pulsed against his tongue. He paused, and inhaled sharply, and then began to cum. His cock throbbed again and again as the pressure of his muzzle, the soft, slick heat surrounding it, coaxed his orgasm from him in quick torrents that flooded his gullet. His faculties left him and he lay there stupefied: his cock would pulse, shooting a jet of cum into his mouth; his tongue would bathe his sensitive flesh with white-hot pleasure that made his heart pound in his chest and ears. The wolf had been overcome with pleasure.\nWren didn’t know how much time had passed before he blinked his eyes and could open his muzzle. His cock hadn’t really softened, and he could feel the pool of saliva and cum dripping from his jowls, but he swallowed as he straightened his back. His neck crunched as he grimaced at the flavor of himself–with a glance, he watched his sheath bunch up over his fleshy bulb, though he was still too hard for it to fully hide him away. \nIt was still night-time: the sky was still inky, and the stars and galaxies were bright above him, roads to planes he did not have access to. The fire still burned though it wasn’t as bright, and he realized he had no idea how he was expected to snuff it. \nHe stood, ears alert: his companions had gone silent, but there was no fresh scent to indicate any had left their tents. A minor miracle. His tongue hurriedly lathed his chops to clear any matting; he would crawl back to that shrine in Wolfsmill before he’d look one of his companions in the eye if they’d caught him.\nWren’s heartbeat slowed and he settled once again; he took his seat and his tail curled beside him. The night was still empty–any haunting visage had missed its opportunity to catch him unawares, and the wolf spared a glance down to his privates again. All was quiet on the southern front, his arousal fully hidden in the dark embrace of the shadows and his fur.\nHis ear flicked with satisfaction as he returned to his vigil. He was still unhappy with his new body, but at least he had found a suitable method to satisfy some of his baser needs; he could be satisfied with that. At least until he was normal again. \n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Wren sat at attention as his companions excused themselves to their tents. He hadn't offered to sit watch, but he expected one wouldn't assume the contrary– it was impossible for him to relax, and so the wolf stared ahead into the night, pointed ears facing the darkness to capture anything that crept in its embrace.
Abruptly, musk and arousal perfumed the air, and he bit back a whine that dripped with frustration. Well, he thought, they got right to it. What were the odds that he'd managed to surround himself with two pairs of men who liked to smoke chode?
Apparently higher than he'd given credit.
It didn't take long before grunts and sighs were punctuating the silence of the night and drifting to his pointed canine ears, which flattened. He supposed it was worth something both groups were attempting to be quiet, but with ears like his and no sound but the crackling campfire …  Lustful whispers were like confident statements, plain as day.
The minutes crawled like ants, slowly and steadily, each indistinguishable from the last, and Wren realized with a start that his mouth was dry and his sheath was flushed with warmth. Arousal, sex, the varied (sweaty) aromas of his male companions; these were delightful scents.
The thought struck him that this was likely the closest he'd ever get to having sex again. Eavesdropping– however unintentionally– on the slick sounds of wettened flesh and, oh, now he was horny and miserable.
He swallowed hard as his folded-back ears flushed with warmth. And then he noticed another smell, new and familiar at once: he glanced down between the barrel of his chest, past night-spattered gray and black fur, and beheld the half-emerged shaft of his cock, that with it brought the heady smell of his own arousal.
Wren hadn’t taken much time to inspect his intimates since he’d been transformed–there hadn’t been much interest, and there’d been no such opportunity. Given the hands-off nature of answering nature’s call–no pants to unzip, no hands to unzip any such pants with–he had done his best to ignore it when it wasn’t pertinent. But now the deep-veined, thickly, sweetly red organ was making itself known, all but pulsing with the throbbing of his heart, and refusing to wilt under his intense glare.
His . . . equipment was fundamentally different. He couldn’t yet tell if it was larger in general, but he could see that his shaft’s thickest point was indeed further around in circumference. As a half-orc, he’d been circumcised rather neatly, and now there was no proper analogue that would match that: he’d made no habit of inspecting hounds and jackals in his mother’s clan, but sometimes an eyeful of dog cock was inevitable–the point being that, so far as he could discern, a sheath and cock was the same for one as it was for all–no cultural reasons to mess with that.
He was surprised that the scent of his own arousal was doing so much to keep him hard. He panted heavily as the heat in his loins burned hotter, and his tongue lolled out of his muzzle, saliva dripping onto himself– his cock bounced eagerly at the sparse sensation.
It had been weeks since he’d last gotten his dick wet. It would be weeks more, he reminded himself; until he was returned to his normal self, if that ever happened. Weeks, months, years… He didn’t know that he was whining until it reached his own ears.
At least while he was traveling with the Hounds’ investigation squad, he had been able to masturbate. The full length of his spire was now basking in the scant light of the evening with his back to the fire. It was a cruel point of irony to have what had to be at least eleven inches in length now, and to never be able to use it. The epitome of masculinity: the men and women at the bordello would have fought for a night with him!
Another bead of saliva fell from his tongue (damnable, floppy thing that it was) and fell perfectly onto his tapered tip. His cock responded with a spurt of clear fluid that shot up and against his muzzle, accompanied by the scent of his virile need. And then he paused as he remembered another thing that the canines his mother’s family raised could do. His tongue, he considered, could definitely reach it. Between the size of his cock and the length of his tongue….
Lust took the reins and Wren curled in on himself, overshooting as he flopped into an awkward recline and smearing his cock against his muzzle as his hind leg shot over his head. The swollen bulb hiding within his sheath ached at the pressure of his nose’s brief prodding, and the sensation of his fur gliding against his cock, however short-lived, sent a shiver along his spine, and his tail thwapped against the ground. Yes. Yes, this would do.
He tried again; his breath was hot as his muzzle approached his cock, drips of precum falling like rain onto his belly fur, and then he stopped. He swallowed hard before flicking out his tongue–a thrill of sensation shot from the tip of his cock to the base of his spine, like frigid water, and up to his skull and down the length of his tail.
This was it: his desperation won, and Wren hungrily lapped his long, flexible tongue against the length of his cock. His tongue’s rough texture tasted his flesh–the salty rim of his sheath, the slightly similar taste of his hot arousal, the bitter splash of precum squirting to the back of his tongue. The sensations assaulted him with crashing waves of pleasure, and even stretching the way he was–impossible for him prior to his transformation–he felt no cry of discomfort from his neck or back.
Wren had given many blowjobs in his time, but blowing himself was a new experience. A lupine tongue and spine offered a new realm of possibilities, and the sensations, the experience of performing and receiving ministration was near enough to bring him to bear on its own. But Wren was a researcher at heart, and he was not eager to let the dam burst at the mere discovery of a new way to satisfy himself. There was more to learn.
The dark-furred wolf stopped his hurried licking–his cock rewarded him with an anguished throb and another gout of pre to his muzzle. His rocket glistened in what light reached it, and he watched himself throb as he measured the distance. It would take a bit more craning of his neck… He opened his muzzle and inched closer…
Ecstasy blossomed in his loins as his muzzle closed around his cock. He hadn’t even done anything: just the wet heat and texture of his tongue and the roof of his maw–it was better than anything the whores (or his cousin, that one time) could have done for him. The last sober corner of his mind reasoned that to be his lack of glans–everything was much more sensitive–but also how well he fit into his mouth with no interference of his teeth, tapered tip almost touching his throat.
His lips bumped against the now-exposed bulb of his knot; his nose was flush with his furry scrotum, and every breath filled his nostrils with his own scent, but that didn’t hold his attention long. He began to suckle along his cock, muzzle as shut as he could manage, and he truly had found the way; he’d missed, apparently, the feeling of a cock in his mouth.  
It was an easier rhythm–much less effort to push and pull his tongue inside his muzzle, even if he was breathing his own balls–and far more rewarding. He couldn’t quite thrust his hips curled up the way he was, but the energy built up in his hips anyway, and the leg hooked over his head wound up kicking the air. It was an embarrassing position, but dignity could be damned: this was probably the best blowjob of his life, and he was giving it to himself! Sure it didn’t solve the yearning for a body beneath or on top him–and even still, this body had wants that he wasn’t familiar with, if the thumping of his heel against the back of his skull was even a slight indication– but at least he could masturbate; at least he wouldn’t have to resort to humping upholstery in his father’s house like some common mongrel.
The thought momentarily threw off Wren’s rhythm, but luckily, he was too far gone to be stopped. Even with a second or two of pause, the heat in his loins didn’t die, and his cock pulsed against his tongue. He paused, and inhaled sharply, and then began to cum. His cock throbbed again and again as the pressure of his muzzle, the soft, slick heat surrounding it, coaxed his orgasm from him in quick torrents that flooded his gullet. His faculties left him and he lay there stupefied: his cock would pulse, shooting a jet of cum into his mouth; his tongue would bathe his sensitive flesh with white-hot pleasure that made his heart pound in his chest and ears. The wolf had been overcome with pleasure.
Wren didn’t know how much time had passed before he blinked his eyes and could open his muzzle. His cock hadn’t really softened, and he could feel the pool of saliva and cum dripping from his jowls, but he swallowed as he straightened his back. His neck crunched as he grimaced at the flavor of himself–with a glance, he watched his sheath bunch up over his fleshy bulb, though he was still too hard for it to fully hide him away.
It was still night-time: the sky was still inky, and the stars and galaxies were bright above him, roads to planes he did not have access to. The fire still burned though it wasn’t as bright, and he realized he had no idea how he was expected to snuff it.
He stood, ears alert: his companions had gone silent, but there was no fresh scent to indicate any had left their tents. A minor miracle. His tongue hurriedly lathed his chops to clear any matting; he would crawl back to that shrine in Wolfsmill before he’d look one of his companions in the eye if they’d caught him.
Wren’s heartbeat slowed and he settled once again; he took his seat and his tail curled beside him. The night was still empty–any haunting visage had missed its opportunity to catch him unawares, and the wolf spared a glance down to his privates again. All was quiet on the southern front, his arousal fully hidden in the dark embrace of the shadows and his fur.
His ear flicked with satisfaction as he returned to his vigil. He was still unhappy with his new body, but at least he had found a suitable method to satisfy some of his baser needs; he could be satisfied with that. At least until he was normal again.
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