From The Strigoi Chronicles…
“Father? Are you all right?” The boy sounded concerned, his eyes at half mast, staring down that prominent nose into my own tortured orbs. The wolf was still at bay, chained for now.
I’m not, but thank you for asking. Not many do.
Dearest Fane traced a visual path from my puckered lips to the two fingers pinching at the base of a cock that had gone a dangerous shade of purplish puce. Valiantly plugging a hole in a dike threatening to rupture at any second wasn’t winning either of us any game points.
I stood but kept my fingers positioned for maximum benefit. He was already in a world of hurt, of the good sort. I planned to take that to the next level … and hopefully surprise him.
“Have you ever topped, son?”
“T-t-topped?” It came out more like ‘toppeth’ over swollen lips, delightfully endearing.
Careful Dreu, you’re starting to sound like a drag queen.
Before I could explain, the synapses fired and an expression of pure fascination, mixed with a subtext of horror, set his mouth into an ‘O’ of disbelief.
“I didn’t think so.” Fane’s face went pinkish olive and when I whispered, “Would you like to?” it positively flamed beet red.
Bucking against the restraints, he mewled, “Nu, nu, nu,” but his cock put the lie to that sentiment. Sometimes, on occasion, no means yes.
My world, my rules.
We were sliding into the endgame effortlessly.
I’d reached an interesting conundrum. Young master Fane was tall enough, especially being stretched to the point where the soles of his boots barely scraped the stone floor, that I ended up discussing matters of erotic interest with his well-endowed man boobs—not really an issue if all I wanted was access to nipples buried in a downy coat of plush fur.
To reach his lips would require a stool. Sometimes being short was a disadvantage, especially in the modern world where genetics, mixed with nutrition, had set the Slavic race onto a path favoring the over-sized.
Releasing him was an option, but it also upped the odds the wolf would come out to play. Even at my most perverse, that kind of topping wasn’t on my bucket list of things to do before I died. And the problem with immortality was that once the psyche got scarred, it lasted a long time and cost a fortune in therapy.
The corner I’d gotten myself backed into wasn’t cooling my ardor … and it should have. In fact, my own appendage seemed so smitten with Fane’s assets that the two were doing a tango to music only our libidos could hear.
That I was missing some very important clues should have said something about my state of mind and body. To wit: that the dark chest hair had morphed into a plush blanket of fur, that his canines had ripped and savaged and torn through thick lips hemorrhaging silver-tinged ruby goodness, that the odor of arousal had gone way past musky testosterone into a carnal assault of lust even I, on my absolute baddest days, had never experienced.
He, I … we both reeked of frankincense, an almost perfect match chemically to human sexual secretions. Pheromones. The air was thick, like our senses had drowned in a vat of fragrant jelly, leaving limbs heavy, cocks distended and aching.
Which was fine. Personally I liked to engage every sense. The kicker was … neither of us was human.
Or did Mommy Dearest have some ’splaining to do?
Bottom line: what the fuck was going on?
Being an ascetic, monastic, inward-focused being sometimes led me down the path of overanalyzing a situation. It was all part of that ‘pleasure’s transitory’ vibe I’d built up over the centuries. That taught me patience and the ability to extend whatever sensation I was either enjoying or inflicting into arenas where endurance was its own reward.
My prey often didn’t have the same vision. Apparently Fane’s appreciation of the fine points of denial had worn thin enough that he’d started seriously leaking, the pre-cum drizzling over those two fingers safeguarding the dike and making the whole effort too slippery to sustain much longer.
We were at break point, advantage Fane.