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OP
OP
Zoophilian
The Ridden
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2013
Princess Illyria had always been marked as different, her gaze distant, eyes often staring at something beyond the walls of reality. She was a beauty, yes, with long hair the color of ravens and eyes like ice-crusted lakes, but whispers in court spoke quietly of her troubling moods, her unsettling smiles, and her chilling silences. It was after her twenty-first summer, the age at which her father, King Eldrin, declared she would soon inherit the throne, that Illyria's behavior became even stranger. The castle's expansive stables housed many magnificent beasts, but none so grand as her father's prized stallion, Erevos, whose coat gleamed blacker than night, his mane cascading like silk woven from shadows. Towering nearly as large as a shire stallion, Erevos exuded power and dominance.
Princess Illyria would spend hours watching the horse from her chamber window, observing his proud movements, muscles rippling beneath that midnight coat. Erevos embodied strength, grace, and something darker, primal, that whispered secret longings into the princess's fractured mind. Soon, watching became insufficient, her thoughts spiraling into a dark obsession that consumed her waking and sleeping moments. She wished desperately to replace Erevos's favored mare, Sylvana—a gentle pony-sized creature with silvery-white hair and delicate, intelligent eyes. Every moment Erevos spent near Sylvana gnawed bitterly at Illyria's soul.
Driven by fierce, unrelenting desire, Illyria discreetly hired the kingdom's most skilled taxidermist, demanding absolute secrecy. Under Illyria's intense scrutiny, the taxidermist meticulously would work to render Sylvana into something for Illyria to wear, to become. He separated flesh from bone, curing and stitching the hide with unparalleled precision. Sylvana's preserved skin became a flawless suit, chillingly beautiful yet grotesquely lifelike. Princess Illyria stood trembling beside the grotesque yet fascinating creation laid out before her—the taxidermied remains of Sylvana, meticulously fashioned into a hollow suit. Her heart hammered relentlessly, a rhythm echoing both dread and dark excitement. She reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing against the preserved skin, cool, smooth, and disturbingly supple. The faint scent of cured leather mingled with something deeper and more primal, a lingering aroma of earth, hay, and the subtle musk of the stable.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped carefully into the open back of the suit. The interior harness greeted her bare skin harshly, straps of thick leather padded minimally with velvet, designed more for function than comfort. As her legs slid deeper into the pony-sized limbs, the texture of Sylvana's skin pressed snugly against her flesh, tight and unyielding. Her breathing grew shallow as she worked her fingers into the hollowed-out hooves, feeling the rigid, unnatural enclosure around each digit. Every inch forward increased her sense of helpless confinement.
Inside the taxidermied suit, a harness was carefully stitched, straps of sturdy leather and padded supports designed to hold Illyria securely, ensuring every limb aligned perfectly. Illyria trembled, heart racing as dread and excitement intertwined, stepping hesitantly into the open back. Her bare skin met the cold leather harness, sending a shiver down her spine. The enclosure felt suffocating, claustrophobic, the straps pressing into her flesh tightly yet precisely, locking her limbs rigidly in place. The stitched into flesh harness pressed into her shoulders and hips as she bent awkwardly, aligning herself into the shape dictated by the pony's form ensuring even the most intimate details were aligned. The sensation was claustrophobic, each strap pulling tightly to ensure perfect alignment, Her muscles strained, joints aching from the unnatural position she was forced into, yet still, she pushed deeper, driven by an obsession that overshadowed the creeping horror.
Illyria gasped sharply when the taxidermist began sealing the opening along the spine with thick, reinforced stitching. Each pull of the thread tightened the suit further around her, the sounds of needle and cord a grim, relentless accompaniment to her imprisonment. She felt a surge of panic, realizing escape was now impossible, that her choice was irreversible. The oppressive closeness of the hide pressed upon her chest, constricting every breath, amplifying her terror. Yet without words the taxidermist worked meticulously, finally pulling the pony's head over Illyria's face. Darkness flooded her senses momentarily, replaced quickly by dim slivers of sight through narrow, carefully disguised openings. The smell intensified within the confined space, overwhelming her senses with earthy decay and leather oils, trapping her in a sensory prison as tangible as her physical one.
Now fully enclosed within the suit, Illyria stood motionless, barely able to breathe, the claustrophobic darkness pressing in from all sides. Her heart pounded painfully against the tightness of the harness, the relentless pressure of the suit both terrifying and thrilling in its perversity. She felt her identity slipping away beneath layers of hide and stitching, fear mingling inexorably with excitement, her body trembling uncontrollably within its suffocating prison. Illyria remained frozen in place, utterly trapped and desperately questioning the depths of the madness that had led her here, consumed by a horrifying realization—this claustrophobic nightmare was exactly what she had wished for. Darkness pressed in, and the suffocating closeness of the suit felt terrifyingly final. She struggled to keep calm, feeling trapped in the grotesque intimacy of Sylvana's preserved form. Her fingers and toes strained inside the rigid hooves, painfully cramped and unable to move freely. With the mare's face sealed over her own, Illyria saw the world dimly through the eye holes, breathing raggedly through concealed nostril openings. Panic surged again, overwhelming yet thrilling in its perversity, her own identity blurred with the animal's.
Hours later at the cusp of the evening light, encased fully within Sylvana's smaller hide, Illyria moved awkwardly toward Erevos beneath the silvery moonlight, each strained step amplifying her dread and exhilaration. The towering stallion approached cautiously, sniffing deeply, confusion and curiosity mingling. Illyria froze, terror gripping her tightly within the restrictive harness, unable to escape the reality of her grotesque imprisonment. Yet when Erevos nuzzled gently, acceptance warming his dark eyes, Illyria's heart surged with twisted relief and desire. Throughout the night, beneath moonlit skies, Erevos accepted her completely, mistaking her small form for Sylvana's, blurring lines between beast and princess. A night filled with raw, unsettling intimacy unfolded, her senses overwhelmed, horror and twisted satisfaction indistinguishable. At dawn, servants found Illyria still trapped within the suit, her body aching and burning from being unnaturally paired with something far larger than herself, her belly swollen painfully inside the confining hide. Mistaking her for Sylvana, they gently led her back to the stables. Overhearing their hushed conversation, her heart plummeted as dread clawed at her chest—they spoke in confusion about the sudden disappearance of the taxidermist, the only person who could free her from her nightmarish prison.
Illyria remained sealed within the suit, tormented by the claustrophobic horror of her situation, her body trapped in perpetual agony. She deeply regretted her obsession, now haunted by fear and revulsion at the thought of facing Erevos again to have his seed spilling inside of her already aching form. A single night playing the mare had been more than enough; the idea of another encounter filled her with unimaginable dread. Yet within the castle, whispers began to spread. Servants, speaking openly and without shame, acknowledged quietly among themselves that they knew precisely who occupied Sylvana's skin. Their words reached Illyria's ears as she stood helpless in the stables, trapped within the suffocating darkness of her chosen fate. They spoke casually of her condition, pity mingling with cruelty, fully aware yet indifferent to her plight.
Illyria, doomed to a life she herself had chosen, felt despair like never before, knowing she would forever live as nothing more than the beast she once envied so terribly, tormented by whispers that cut deeper than any blade ever could. A full week later, Illyria remained trapped, physically weakened and mentally shattered. Each day blurred into the next, marked only by the humiliating whispers of servants who made no secret of her identity. Her swollen body ached continually, her belly unnaturally distended, fueling her dread. Each night, alone in the darkness of the stable, she lay awake in terror, paralyzed by the certainty that Erevos would soon seek her out once more, and that this terrible cycle was her unending future, sealed within her own grotesque creation forever to be The Mare Sylvana.
Princess Illyria would spend hours watching the horse from her chamber window, observing his proud movements, muscles rippling beneath that midnight coat. Erevos embodied strength, grace, and something darker, primal, that whispered secret longings into the princess's fractured mind. Soon, watching became insufficient, her thoughts spiraling into a dark obsession that consumed her waking and sleeping moments. She wished desperately to replace Erevos's favored mare, Sylvana—a gentle pony-sized creature with silvery-white hair and delicate, intelligent eyes. Every moment Erevos spent near Sylvana gnawed bitterly at Illyria's soul.
Driven by fierce, unrelenting desire, Illyria discreetly hired the kingdom's most skilled taxidermist, demanding absolute secrecy. Under Illyria's intense scrutiny, the taxidermist meticulously would work to render Sylvana into something for Illyria to wear, to become. He separated flesh from bone, curing and stitching the hide with unparalleled precision. Sylvana's preserved skin became a flawless suit, chillingly beautiful yet grotesquely lifelike. Princess Illyria stood trembling beside the grotesque yet fascinating creation laid out before her—the taxidermied remains of Sylvana, meticulously fashioned into a hollow suit. Her heart hammered relentlessly, a rhythm echoing both dread and dark excitement. She reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing against the preserved skin, cool, smooth, and disturbingly supple. The faint scent of cured leather mingled with something deeper and more primal, a lingering aroma of earth, hay, and the subtle musk of the stable.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped carefully into the open back of the suit. The interior harness greeted her bare skin harshly, straps of thick leather padded minimally with velvet, designed more for function than comfort. As her legs slid deeper into the pony-sized limbs, the texture of Sylvana's skin pressed snugly against her flesh, tight and unyielding. Her breathing grew shallow as she worked her fingers into the hollowed-out hooves, feeling the rigid, unnatural enclosure around each digit. Every inch forward increased her sense of helpless confinement.
Inside the taxidermied suit, a harness was carefully stitched, straps of sturdy leather and padded supports designed to hold Illyria securely, ensuring every limb aligned perfectly. Illyria trembled, heart racing as dread and excitement intertwined, stepping hesitantly into the open back. Her bare skin met the cold leather harness, sending a shiver down her spine. The enclosure felt suffocating, claustrophobic, the straps pressing into her flesh tightly yet precisely, locking her limbs rigidly in place. The stitched into flesh harness pressed into her shoulders and hips as she bent awkwardly, aligning herself into the shape dictated by the pony's form ensuring even the most intimate details were aligned. The sensation was claustrophobic, each strap pulling tightly to ensure perfect alignment, Her muscles strained, joints aching from the unnatural position she was forced into, yet still, she pushed deeper, driven by an obsession that overshadowed the creeping horror.
Illyria gasped sharply when the taxidermist began sealing the opening along the spine with thick, reinforced stitching. Each pull of the thread tightened the suit further around her, the sounds of needle and cord a grim, relentless accompaniment to her imprisonment. She felt a surge of panic, realizing escape was now impossible, that her choice was irreversible. The oppressive closeness of the hide pressed upon her chest, constricting every breath, amplifying her terror. Yet without words the taxidermist worked meticulously, finally pulling the pony's head over Illyria's face. Darkness flooded her senses momentarily, replaced quickly by dim slivers of sight through narrow, carefully disguised openings. The smell intensified within the confined space, overwhelming her senses with earthy decay and leather oils, trapping her in a sensory prison as tangible as her physical one.
Now fully enclosed within the suit, Illyria stood motionless, barely able to breathe, the claustrophobic darkness pressing in from all sides. Her heart pounded painfully against the tightness of the harness, the relentless pressure of the suit both terrifying and thrilling in its perversity. She felt her identity slipping away beneath layers of hide and stitching, fear mingling inexorably with excitement, her body trembling uncontrollably within its suffocating prison. Illyria remained frozen in place, utterly trapped and desperately questioning the depths of the madness that had led her here, consumed by a horrifying realization—this claustrophobic nightmare was exactly what she had wished for. Darkness pressed in, and the suffocating closeness of the suit felt terrifyingly final. She struggled to keep calm, feeling trapped in the grotesque intimacy of Sylvana's preserved form. Her fingers and toes strained inside the rigid hooves, painfully cramped and unable to move freely. With the mare's face sealed over her own, Illyria saw the world dimly through the eye holes, breathing raggedly through concealed nostril openings. Panic surged again, overwhelming yet thrilling in its perversity, her own identity blurred with the animal's.
Hours later at the cusp of the evening light, encased fully within Sylvana's smaller hide, Illyria moved awkwardly toward Erevos beneath the silvery moonlight, each strained step amplifying her dread and exhilaration. The towering stallion approached cautiously, sniffing deeply, confusion and curiosity mingling. Illyria froze, terror gripping her tightly within the restrictive harness, unable to escape the reality of her grotesque imprisonment. Yet when Erevos nuzzled gently, acceptance warming his dark eyes, Illyria's heart surged with twisted relief and desire. Throughout the night, beneath moonlit skies, Erevos accepted her completely, mistaking her small form for Sylvana's, blurring lines between beast and princess. A night filled with raw, unsettling intimacy unfolded, her senses overwhelmed, horror and twisted satisfaction indistinguishable. At dawn, servants found Illyria still trapped within the suit, her body aching and burning from being unnaturally paired with something far larger than herself, her belly swollen painfully inside the confining hide. Mistaking her for Sylvana, they gently led her back to the stables. Overhearing their hushed conversation, her heart plummeted as dread clawed at her chest—they spoke in confusion about the sudden disappearance of the taxidermist, the only person who could free her from her nightmarish prison.
Illyria remained sealed within the suit, tormented by the claustrophobic horror of her situation, her body trapped in perpetual agony. She deeply regretted her obsession, now haunted by fear and revulsion at the thought of facing Erevos again to have his seed spilling inside of her already aching form. A single night playing the mare had been more than enough; the idea of another encounter filled her with unimaginable dread. Yet within the castle, whispers began to spread. Servants, speaking openly and without shame, acknowledged quietly among themselves that they knew precisely who occupied Sylvana's skin. Their words reached Illyria's ears as she stood helpless in the stables, trapped within the suffocating darkness of her chosen fate. They spoke casually of her condition, pity mingling with cruelty, fully aware yet indifferent to her plight.
Illyria, doomed to a life she herself had chosen, felt despair like never before, knowing she would forever live as nothing more than the beast she once envied so terribly, tormented by whispers that cut deeper than any blade ever could. A full week later, Illyria remained trapped, physically weakened and mentally shattered. Each day blurred into the next, marked only by the humiliating whispers of servants who made no secret of her identity. Her swollen body ached continually, her belly unnaturally distended, fueling her dread. Each night, alone in the darkness of the stable, she lay awake in terror, paralyzed by the certainty that Erevos would soon seek her out once more, and that this terrible cycle was her unending future, sealed within her own grotesque creation forever to be The Mare Sylvana.
He couldn't feel the cold anymore. The wind nipped around the edges of his dress, sure—but it felt good. Like fingers slipping under the hem, reminding him how exposed he really was. The short black thing clung to him like a second skin, thin straps biting into his bare shoulders. No bra. No panties. Just smooth skin beneath, and the soft kiss of thigh-high stockings held up by trembling garters. He'd added a choker, too—black ribbon with a tiny silver charm at the center. It felt right. He didn't know what he'd expected when he stepped out like this—maybe a few laughs. A dare answered. A way to feel seen for once.
But they'd loved him. The compliments had started before he'd even finished his first drink. "Damn, girl." "You're so fucking cute." "Those legs, holy shit." Some of them grabbed, hands brushing his waist, his ass. He didn't flinch. He smiled. Flirted. Leaned into it. For once, the attention felt right—earned. The heels were a bitch, though. He wasn't used to walking in them, let alone dancing, and after two hours of dodging drunken limbs and grinding hips, he needed a break. A breath. The music thundered behind him as he slipped up the stairs, laughing to himself, head light with booze and buzz and heat between his thighs.
He reached for a door, thinking it was the bathroom. It wasn't. The door creaked open on a warm draft and the quiet hush of carpet. The noise from downstairs dulled instantly, replaced by the soft wheeze of something breathing. Heavy. Rhythmic. He blinked into the dark. The room was small, cluttered with spare furniture and the smell of old beer and unwashed sheets. And lying across the bed like a king on his throne, sprawled in the mess of a half-folded comforter, was a dog. Big. The malemute lifted its head lazily, tongue lolling from its muzzle. Its eyes caught the hallway light—gold and ancient. It looked more wolf than pet. Heavy fur matted around the chest and haunches, body thick, powerful. Its ears perked at him.
He took a step back—then another forward, laughing nervously. "You're not gonna bite me, are you?" The dog rose slowly to its feet and padded forward, heavy paws silent on the carpet. It sniffed the air. Then him. Then lower. He shifted to the side, drunk balance failing him for a moment. The heel of one boot caught the carpet. He tripped and stumbled forward ending up down. Hands and knees on the floor, dress riding up to his lower back, bare ass exposed between the garter straps. "Fuck—" he started, scrambling to push himself up, but the malemute was already there. Its nose pressed against his thigh, then higher. Warm breath. Then a tongue.
It was long. Wet. Too intentional. He gasped. The dog licked again, slower this time. A broad, greedy swipe across his slit. Then another. Higher. Deeper. "Oh God—hey, no—stop—" But he didn't move. Not really. His arms trembled. His knees stayed spread. Each lick sent a shiver up his spine, each one pulling a little more air from his lungs. It didn't feel like a pet sniffing curiously. It felt like… worship. Another lick. Hotter. The tongue worked lower now, under his balls, curling wetly up between his cheeks, dragging over his rim. He moaned loud thankful for the loud music that thumped around him.
He blushed his cheeks almost burning in shame, heart pounding. "No—no, that's—" He crawled forward, away from the dog, trying to break the moment—but it followed. Unhurried. Purposeful. Still licking, catching the tip of his cock as it began to hang, shamefully stiff. He scrambled up onto the bed, half-panicked, half aching with something he couldn't name. Flopped back on the mattress, breathing hard. "I'm done, okay?" he whispered. "Just—go find your owner." But the dog didn't stop.
He lay dazed, hips twitching, heart pounding. The party below might as well have been a thousand miles away. The noise was gone. His name—if anyone had even remembered it—was forgotten. All that existed now was fur and heat and the unbearable scent of dog. The malemute climbed over him. Massive paws braced beside his chest. Its breath huffed against his skin. The thick belly fur brushed his ribs, damp with old sweat and something else, something rank and sour and male. And swinging beneath it—thick, red, alien—was its cock. He stared, curious, afraid, watching it idly swing over his face before it rubbed his cheek wetly as the dog adjusted its stance, strands of clear fluid streaking across his skin. His lips twitched. His stomach turned.
That's its cock, he thought, stunned. It's hard for me. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—and the dog thrust. The tip pressed against his lips. Slipped inside. Oh fuck— His jaw dropped in reflex, and that fleshy, tapered spear slid across his tongue. The taste hit him like a slap. Hot. Metallic. Salt-slick. Nothing like what he imagined a man would taste like—if he'd ever imagined that at all. This was brutal. Raw. Earthy and sour and alive in a way that made his stomach clench and his cock throb. It tasted like sweat and animal and sex. Like something that had never been washed. Like power.
He gagged. Spit dribbled out the corners of his mouth, and still the dog pushed deeper. His nose mashed into its belly fur, wet and filthy. Its scent clung to his face. He tried to turn his head—but the malemute shifted weight again, heavier this time, settling on top of him. The next thrust drove deep enough to make him cough around it. And then it started humping. Short. Sharp. Urgent. Its cock jabbed the back of his throat with every motion, pre flooding his mouth, slick and stringy, coating his tongue. The taste didn't fade—it intensified. Bitter now. Musky in a way that went past unpleasant, right into addictive. He hated it.
He moaned out, muffle, in protest, but still, a moan. He wrapped his lips tighter around it. Some part of him—detached, horrified—watched himself do it. You're sucking a dog's cock. You're tasting it. You're letting it use you. The dog's pace quickened, grinding the fat base of its cock across his lips. The knot was swelling. He felt it. Thicker. Hotter. Stretching his mouth too far. His jaw ached. His throat burned. But he didn't stop. He swallowed. And the dog growled—low and satisfied. Then pulled back with a wet pop. He gasped, coughing, spit and pre clinging in strands from his chin to the throbbing tip. His face was soaked. His throat burned. His mouth still hung open, empty.
He hated how badly he wanted it back. The dog circled. He barely had time to breathe before the weight shifted again. The malemute climbed fully onto him—massive, unrelenting, its paws gripping his hips now instead of his chest. The shift in pressure made his breath catch. The dog wasn't just on him now. It was ready. He felt the tip first. That wet, tapering point—already slick with spit and pre—probed at his entrance. He flinched, hips rising involuntarily as it kissed against his hole. Then the dog stabbed. Not slow. Not patient. A violent jerk of the hips—just the tip breaching him with shocking speed. He gasped, high and raw.
"F-Fuck—stop—!" Another thrust. Deeper. The length tore into him by force alone, inch after inch driving forward in short, brutal punches. His virgin ring stretched around the slick shaft, burning as it tried to accommodate something that was never meant to fit. The dog panted, tongue lolling, weight grinding into him as it thrust again. And again. He screamed into the sheets. Tears welled in his eyes. It didn't stop.
The tapered shaft was thickening now, pressure building at the base—that fucking knot. He felt it slap against him with each thrust, bumping, testing. "Please," he sobbed. "Please it's too big!" The dog didn't care. It pulled back. Snapped its hips forward again—harder this time. The knot caught. The impact drove the air from his lungs. His body seized. The head of the dog's cock was already buried fully, and now that obscene bulge was trying to follow. It was like being punched from the inside. Again. And again.
Stabbing thrusts, fast and shallow, battering against his entrance with no rhythm, no hesitation. Just need. The pain was white-hot. Stretching him wider than he thought possible. Skin pulled taut. Nerves screaming. And still the dog licked him. Sloppy, wet kisses across his cheek, his open mouth. Saliva drooled into his throat as he gasped for air. His hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, at the dog's back, trying to do something. Then it happened. With a guttural growl, the malemute lunged forward—and the knot slammed inside.
He howled. Every muscle seized. His back arched, mouth wide in a silent, broken scream. The knot locked in deep, stretching him impossibly full. He felt the snap of it settling behind his rim, the awful, twitching heat of it swelling further once lodged. And then the dog went still. Panting. Drooling. Emptying inside him. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could barely think. The heat of it filled him in pulses—thick, endless. His body stretched around that knot like a sealed plug, not a drop escaping.
And worst of all, His own cock twitched. Rubbed raw between their bellies, pinned and untouched—and then it spasmed. A shock of pleasure ripped through him, unwanted and unstoppable. He cried out, tears spilling, and came hard against the dog's fur. Sticky, shameful release, smeared across his stomach. The dog licked him again. Slower now. Over his mouth. Into it. Tongue dragging across his tongue. He didn't resist. Because there was nothing left to resist.
They lay there for what felt like hours. Maybe minutes. Time had blurred. The knot pulsed inside him still—huge and unforgiving, anchoring the dog's cock deep in his guts. Every twitch sent aftershocks through his trembling thighs. He couldn't move. Couldn't close his legs. Could barely feel them at all. The dog panted against his cheek, warm breath fogging his vision. It licked him lazily. Long, wet strokes from chin to forehead. Saliva pooled in the hollows of his collarbone, dripped into the hollow of his throat. He just stared past it. Stunned. Slack-jawed. Ruined.
Then, slowly, the dog moved. It shifted its weight—one paw off his chest, then the other. Its hind legs adjusted, its hips twisting. He felt it immediately. The knot tugged. "Ah—fuck—fuck, wait—" he whimpered, breath catching. The dog turned in place with slow, practiced grace—still locked inside him. Now facing away, tail curling over his belly, cock still buried in his ass. It stood there like that, panting, as though it had just done what it was born to do. He could feel everything. The bulge. The stretch. The slick twitch of the shaft shifting inside him as the knot began to soften. Each throb echoed through his body like a second heartbeat.
Then—with a sudden, wet pop—it came free. He gasped, full-body flinch as the knot slid out in one slick, agonizing drag. His hole spasmed uselessly, twitching open, spilling thick warmth down the backs of his thighs. It ran in slow, obscene streams. He didn't close his legs. He couldn't. The malemute hopped down from the bed, shook itself once, and padded calmly to the corner, curling up like nothing had happened. He lay there a moment longer. Shaking. Covered in spit. Seed. His own cum dried across his stomach. His makeup smeared. His hair clinging to damp cheeks. His mouth open, tongue still catching little strands of drool he hadn't managed to swallow.
Then, slowly, he sat up. His legs almost didn't hold him. His dress slipped back down, sticking to his skin. No underwear to catch the seed so generously donated. Just him. Open. Empty. Leaking. He walked to the door. He didn't bother fixing his lipstick. Didn't wipe the saliva from his cheeks. Didn't pull the hem of the dress down any farther than it already hung. Left in a daze almost as he stepped back into the hallway—and the music hit him like a wave. Bright. Loud. Alive. The same world. But he wasn't.He took a step forward, knees weak, one hand braced on the wall.
A voice from the stairs. "Hey." He looked up. One of the guys from earlier. Tall. Broad. The one who'd grabbed his ass on the dance floor. The guy looked him up and down—eyes lingering on the ruined face, the trembling thighs, the slow drip sliding down the inside of his leg. Then he smiled. "Well damn," the guy said, voice low and amused. "Didn't know you were that kind of slut." He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Because the guy was already stepping closer.
But they'd loved him. The compliments had started before he'd even finished his first drink. "Damn, girl." "You're so fucking cute." "Those legs, holy shit." Some of them grabbed, hands brushing his waist, his ass. He didn't flinch. He smiled. Flirted. Leaned into it. For once, the attention felt right—earned. The heels were a bitch, though. He wasn't used to walking in them, let alone dancing, and after two hours of dodging drunken limbs and grinding hips, he needed a break. A breath. The music thundered behind him as he slipped up the stairs, laughing to himself, head light with booze and buzz and heat between his thighs.
He reached for a door, thinking it was the bathroom. It wasn't. The door creaked open on a warm draft and the quiet hush of carpet. The noise from downstairs dulled instantly, replaced by the soft wheeze of something breathing. Heavy. Rhythmic. He blinked into the dark. The room was small, cluttered with spare furniture and the smell of old beer and unwashed sheets. And lying across the bed like a king on his throne, sprawled in the mess of a half-folded comforter, was a dog. Big. The malemute lifted its head lazily, tongue lolling from its muzzle. Its eyes caught the hallway light—gold and ancient. It looked more wolf than pet. Heavy fur matted around the chest and haunches, body thick, powerful. Its ears perked at him.
He took a step back—then another forward, laughing nervously. "You're not gonna bite me, are you?" The dog rose slowly to its feet and padded forward, heavy paws silent on the carpet. It sniffed the air. Then him. Then lower. He shifted to the side, drunk balance failing him for a moment. The heel of one boot caught the carpet. He tripped and stumbled forward ending up down. Hands and knees on the floor, dress riding up to his lower back, bare ass exposed between the garter straps. "Fuck—" he started, scrambling to push himself up, but the malemute was already there. Its nose pressed against his thigh, then higher. Warm breath. Then a tongue.
It was long. Wet. Too intentional. He gasped. The dog licked again, slower this time. A broad, greedy swipe across his slit. Then another. Higher. Deeper. "Oh God—hey, no—stop—" But he didn't move. Not really. His arms trembled. His knees stayed spread. Each lick sent a shiver up his spine, each one pulling a little more air from his lungs. It didn't feel like a pet sniffing curiously. It felt like… worship. Another lick. Hotter. The tongue worked lower now, under his balls, curling wetly up between his cheeks, dragging over his rim. He moaned loud thankful for the loud music that thumped around him.
He blushed his cheeks almost burning in shame, heart pounding. "No—no, that's—" He crawled forward, away from the dog, trying to break the moment—but it followed. Unhurried. Purposeful. Still licking, catching the tip of his cock as it began to hang, shamefully stiff. He scrambled up onto the bed, half-panicked, half aching with something he couldn't name. Flopped back on the mattress, breathing hard. "I'm done, okay?" he whispered. "Just—go find your owner." But the dog didn't stop.
He lay dazed, hips twitching, heart pounding. The party below might as well have been a thousand miles away. The noise was gone. His name—if anyone had even remembered it—was forgotten. All that existed now was fur and heat and the unbearable scent of dog. The malemute climbed over him. Massive paws braced beside his chest. Its breath huffed against his skin. The thick belly fur brushed his ribs, damp with old sweat and something else, something rank and sour and male. And swinging beneath it—thick, red, alien—was its cock. He stared, curious, afraid, watching it idly swing over his face before it rubbed his cheek wetly as the dog adjusted its stance, strands of clear fluid streaking across his skin. His lips twitched. His stomach turned.
That's its cock, he thought, stunned. It's hard for me. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—and the dog thrust. The tip pressed against his lips. Slipped inside. Oh fuck— His jaw dropped in reflex, and that fleshy, tapered spear slid across his tongue. The taste hit him like a slap. Hot. Metallic. Salt-slick. Nothing like what he imagined a man would taste like—if he'd ever imagined that at all. This was brutal. Raw. Earthy and sour and alive in a way that made his stomach clench and his cock throb. It tasted like sweat and animal and sex. Like something that had never been washed. Like power.
He gagged. Spit dribbled out the corners of his mouth, and still the dog pushed deeper. His nose mashed into its belly fur, wet and filthy. Its scent clung to his face. He tried to turn his head—but the malemute shifted weight again, heavier this time, settling on top of him. The next thrust drove deep enough to make him cough around it. And then it started humping. Short. Sharp. Urgent. Its cock jabbed the back of his throat with every motion, pre flooding his mouth, slick and stringy, coating his tongue. The taste didn't fade—it intensified. Bitter now. Musky in a way that went past unpleasant, right into addictive. He hated it.
He moaned out, muffle, in protest, but still, a moan. He wrapped his lips tighter around it. Some part of him—detached, horrified—watched himself do it. You're sucking a dog's cock. You're tasting it. You're letting it use you. The dog's pace quickened, grinding the fat base of its cock across his lips. The knot was swelling. He felt it. Thicker. Hotter. Stretching his mouth too far. His jaw ached. His throat burned. But he didn't stop. He swallowed. And the dog growled—low and satisfied. Then pulled back with a wet pop. He gasped, coughing, spit and pre clinging in strands from his chin to the throbbing tip. His face was soaked. His throat burned. His mouth still hung open, empty.
He hated how badly he wanted it back. The dog circled. He barely had time to breathe before the weight shifted again. The malemute climbed fully onto him—massive, unrelenting, its paws gripping his hips now instead of his chest. The shift in pressure made his breath catch. The dog wasn't just on him now. It was ready. He felt the tip first. That wet, tapering point—already slick with spit and pre—probed at his entrance. He flinched, hips rising involuntarily as it kissed against his hole. Then the dog stabbed. Not slow. Not patient. A violent jerk of the hips—just the tip breaching him with shocking speed. He gasped, high and raw.
"F-Fuck—stop—!" Another thrust. Deeper. The length tore into him by force alone, inch after inch driving forward in short, brutal punches. His virgin ring stretched around the slick shaft, burning as it tried to accommodate something that was never meant to fit. The dog panted, tongue lolling, weight grinding into him as it thrust again. And again. He screamed into the sheets. Tears welled in his eyes. It didn't stop.
The tapered shaft was thickening now, pressure building at the base—that fucking knot. He felt it slap against him with each thrust, bumping, testing. "Please," he sobbed. "Please it's too big!" The dog didn't care. It pulled back. Snapped its hips forward again—harder this time. The knot caught. The impact drove the air from his lungs. His body seized. The head of the dog's cock was already buried fully, and now that obscene bulge was trying to follow. It was like being punched from the inside. Again. And again.
Stabbing thrusts, fast and shallow, battering against his entrance with no rhythm, no hesitation. Just need. The pain was white-hot. Stretching him wider than he thought possible. Skin pulled taut. Nerves screaming. And still the dog licked him. Sloppy, wet kisses across his cheek, his open mouth. Saliva drooled into his throat as he gasped for air. His hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, at the dog's back, trying to do something. Then it happened. With a guttural growl, the malemute lunged forward—and the knot slammed inside.
He howled. Every muscle seized. His back arched, mouth wide in a silent, broken scream. The knot locked in deep, stretching him impossibly full. He felt the snap of it settling behind his rim, the awful, twitching heat of it swelling further once lodged. And then the dog went still. Panting. Drooling. Emptying inside him. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could barely think. The heat of it filled him in pulses—thick, endless. His body stretched around that knot like a sealed plug, not a drop escaping.
And worst of all, His own cock twitched. Rubbed raw between their bellies, pinned and untouched—and then it spasmed. A shock of pleasure ripped through him, unwanted and unstoppable. He cried out, tears spilling, and came hard against the dog's fur. Sticky, shameful release, smeared across his stomach. The dog licked him again. Slower now. Over his mouth. Into it. Tongue dragging across his tongue. He didn't resist. Because there was nothing left to resist.
They lay there for what felt like hours. Maybe minutes. Time had blurred. The knot pulsed inside him still—huge and unforgiving, anchoring the dog's cock deep in his guts. Every twitch sent aftershocks through his trembling thighs. He couldn't move. Couldn't close his legs. Could barely feel them at all. The dog panted against his cheek, warm breath fogging his vision. It licked him lazily. Long, wet strokes from chin to forehead. Saliva pooled in the hollows of his collarbone, dripped into the hollow of his throat. He just stared past it. Stunned. Slack-jawed. Ruined.
Then, slowly, the dog moved. It shifted its weight—one paw off his chest, then the other. Its hind legs adjusted, its hips twisting. He felt it immediately. The knot tugged. "Ah—fuck—fuck, wait—" he whimpered, breath catching. The dog turned in place with slow, practiced grace—still locked inside him. Now facing away, tail curling over his belly, cock still buried in his ass. It stood there like that, panting, as though it had just done what it was born to do. He could feel everything. The bulge. The stretch. The slick twitch of the shaft shifting inside him as the knot began to soften. Each throb echoed through his body like a second heartbeat.
Then—with a sudden, wet pop—it came free. He gasped, full-body flinch as the knot slid out in one slick, agonizing drag. His hole spasmed uselessly, twitching open, spilling thick warmth down the backs of his thighs. It ran in slow, obscene streams. He didn't close his legs. He couldn't. The malemute hopped down from the bed, shook itself once, and padded calmly to the corner, curling up like nothing had happened. He lay there a moment longer. Shaking. Covered in spit. Seed. His own cum dried across his stomach. His makeup smeared. His hair clinging to damp cheeks. His mouth open, tongue still catching little strands of drool he hadn't managed to swallow.
Then, slowly, he sat up. His legs almost didn't hold him. His dress slipped back down, sticking to his skin. No underwear to catch the seed so generously donated. Just him. Open. Empty. Leaking. He walked to the door. He didn't bother fixing his lipstick. Didn't wipe the saliva from his cheeks. Didn't pull the hem of the dress down any farther than it already hung. Left in a daze almost as he stepped back into the hallway—and the music hit him like a wave. Bright. Loud. Alive. The same world. But he wasn't.He took a step forward, knees weak, one hand braced on the wall.
A voice from the stairs. "Hey." He looked up. One of the guys from earlier. Tall. Broad. The one who'd grabbed his ass on the dance floor. The guy looked him up and down—eyes lingering on the ruined face, the trembling thighs, the slow drip sliding down the inside of his leg. Then he smiled. "Well damn," the guy said, voice low and amused. "Didn't know you were that kind of slut." He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Because the guy was already stepping closer.
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