Suck (M/M)
What happens when a human blows his first wolf, and Hawk meets his first human?
What the fuck do you think?
Suck by H. A. Kirsch Copyright 2012
Where I grew up, we didn't have those animal people.
Okay, we technically did, but there really just weren't any in my community. It was kind of a small town out in farmland. Small towns in the age of the car and the internet weren't really as small as they used to be, so obviously there were wolves and cougars and shit whenever I went to WalMart.
But they were really like, and you're going to hit me in the face for this, black people. There weren't any black people in my town, either. Not like I'm racist, I just never had any around so whenever I saw one, it was kind of unique.
In neither case did I really think much of it. I wasn't into exotic stuff, I was just into... well, sucking dick. And in a small town, you have to be careful, so I didn't do much of that outside of the loading dock at the area high school on practice nights.
Then it was off to college. I decided, and I mean my parents kind of goaded me, into pre-med. That meant CNYU, and that meant Lainsville, NY.
Here's a secret about Lainsville. It's supposed to be one of those renaissance cities, springing out of nowhere after the fall to become a vibrant cultural and economic center. And it is. It's a nice place. But it's full of fags. Not just any fags, either. The dirty perverted kind who walk their 'pets' on leashes, and I don't mean quad pets.
Fags meant dick, and dick meant something to put in my mouth. So I got one of those smartphone apps where you put a picture of your dick and a profile that says you're a hot stud looking for some daddy to treat you like a dirty boy, and it tells you where people are around you. I turned off the part that told people where I was, so, you know, no one would stalk and rape my ass. I just set my location as Lainsville.
I didn't take a picture of my dick. I smartly took just a picture of my mouth. I always kept some stubble on, because I didn't want to be a twink that looked like he shoots blanks because he's still in middle school. I let my mouth hang open a bit, not a lot. Maybe like I was a bit stoned or something. I made sure my face wasn't in the picture, because I didn't want people to really care about my face, and I made sure my neck and collarbone were in the picture, because that's where you put the pearl necklace. Duh. And I threw a dick pic in with me wearing my cowboy stage gear, because that was leather pants and cowboy boots and gay guys love that shit.
Stage gear meaning... okay, so I played bass in a country rock band for a while. We were halfway between real country and Hank Williams III, so it was kind of punky but not like someone screaming over overdistorted rockabilly. Let me tell you something, country performers wear the gayest shit ever. Leather cowboy hats, shiny-ass shirts, skin-tight leather jeans, expensive cowboy boots... you wear that stuff around a place like Lainsville and you'll accidentally all the dicks. The only way you could be more flamboyant would be to wake up Chaldean.
So, my profile was on for all of ten minutes and I already had so many notifications that the little screen for them on my phone had filled up and I had to scroll through it just to see the clock. Most of them were the typical, "yeah boy I wanna fuck that pussy mouth of yours" and stuff, which honestly were red herrings. I'd already learned that some guys just like to waggle theirs out over the internet while they sit at home in their stained underwear jerkin' it. The rest were probably those straight-acting guys who want to pretend they don't like other men and that they're doing something dirty.
Then I saw this one guy, when I decided to browse through the listing. His name was listed as, "Hawk". That sounded sexy. Not like FuckYoPussyHole69. I swear that was real. If I wanted a pussy, I'd get a sex change.
"Hawk" did not have his face in his picture. Instead, he had a carefully photographed collection of parts of his body, all clad in opulent black leather. That was pretty nice. There wasn't much else to his profile, only a listing of what he would and wouldn't do. He wouldn't poop on me or make me bleed, and he would do just about anything else. Okay. Sure.
I messaged him. "Need a hand?"
He messaged back: "You think I want a handjob from you? Your hand's not in the fucking picture."
I'd already put on my leather pants, in anticipation of going out to a club if I struck out with this newfangled way to get into sexual trouble. The nice thing about leather is that when you start leaking precum out of your stone-hard erection when some leather-daddy tells you something smartass, no one else knows about it. You just get all musky and wet inside and feel embarrassed all by yourself.
Oh, the message. "Well, my mouth is, so I guess you'll be fucking that tonight."
It took about thirty seconds for the next message. While I waited, I did nothing else. I sat hunched forward, phone cradled in my hands, heart pounding, cock throbbing, staring at the picture of some unfaced person holding the handle of a flogger with a glistening leather glove. Fuck, dear god, holy shit, he'd probably try to do _that_ to me. As long as I could put his dick in my mouth. And, message: "Here's the deal. You tell me your address. I send a courier over to you to give you a hotel key card. You come to the Bell Tower Hotel, which you can't miss because it's fucking fancy as shit. It'll be the penthouse. I'm not fucking kidding around. Go let yourself in and there'll be a little bit of instructions. I'll be there later tonight. You'll get the card at 9:30." It was 8:45.
I figured this guy was one of three things:
-- A psychopath -- Some kinky fag with a case of obsessive anal compulsive disorder -- The hottest person I would ever meet.
My cock wanted number three, so I messaged him my apartment address. And I waited.
He really sent a courier, a regular bike messenger type. He really sent me a key card, and it was for the Bell Tower hotel. It really was fancy ass, and he really was on the penthouse floor. And the frosting on this sex brownie was that he really wasn't home and there was a lascivious note.
"Put this on. Kneel and wait." Beneath the note was a black neoprene hood. It had a single hole for the mouth and chin, and tiny pencil holes to breathe through at the end of the formed nose.
I kneeled on the floor and stared into dark nothing. The hood smelled like vaguely chemical rubber and that hot, tart smell of sour spit, mixed with a much more aromatic and musky smell that proved I certainly wasn't the first person to wear it. It was intensely hot. I could feel everything from my hugged face down to my toes, but I could see nothing and smell only some other man's ripened sperm and a third's spit. I was so dumbstruck that I only slightly registered that my ankles were starting to hurt from how I kept my feet.
A long while went by, and then the door lock whirred and clacked open. I didn't even react. I wasn't really a person, just a mouth and an anonymous blind face. Someone came in, and they were wearing boots, a rich hollow clunk against the thin red carpet. Leather, as it squeaked.
No introduction, just a rustling sound, a grunt, and then something mashed against my lips. Wet, male, profoundly musky, uncut. I had barely moved my lips apart when it stuffed right in and a hand grabbed onto my head. A solid minute of mouth-fucking that ended with a hot plop as he yanked backwards just when I was getting into the rhythm of sucking just at the end of his thrusts so he pulled out against the hot slap of my cheeks.
"Over here," he said, and he had an astonishing inner city brogue. I could only imagine what he looked like; probably a mobster. A mobster in all leather. He smacked my head in the direction he wanted me to go, so I went. A chair. In front of it. He sat down with a protracted creak and then started touching my face. "You know what? This was a real good idea." His fingers dipped into my mouth and I suckled on the leather. He took them out and stroked up my cheek, and I still felt it as a strange tingle muted by the neoprene. "Go on. You can find it. Your mouth's a fucking dick magnet, isn't it?"
I put my hands on his thighs and stroked the leather, but mostly just held on. Then, without touching him, I went for his cock again. Of course I found it. I suckled the cum slobber off the tip and then started to work. He stopped playing around with my hooded head and just sat there, grunting every now and then, almost chuckling a few times. I intentionally let the big, musky shaft slop out of my mouth so I could wetly slurp back over it. I intentionally made squelching noises as I lipped and bobbed.
Then I started to go deep. His cock curved downwards a little so there was none of that square peg, round hole nonsense. It just went right down my throat. I didn't really have time to gag, until I tried to swallow. Then I had to do it over and over to keep from gagging. I pulled back off and huffed a little air, grunting just as I bobbed back down so that the sound would get cut off as his cock strangled me.
It never occurred to do anything to his balls. I could have, but that deep-throating was serious business. I clung onto his leathers as he grabbed at my head and started enforcing the steady, nearly suffocating rhythm. I drooled so much that when I finally jerked back and gasped for air, I could hear the wet splat of some spit landing on something.
"Why don't you take that fuckin' hood off?" He said, and let go of my head.
I reached back, unzipped, and pulled. Holy shit, a wolf! I actually fell backwards onto my ass and almost came in my pants as the leather wrestled around over my slimy hardon.
He wore tall black engineer boots, shiny like the ones motorcycle cops wore. Tight black leather pants whose button fly hole made like a cockring around his dick and balls. Fancy black belt with a rectangular chrome buckle that had a wolf head inlaid with some fancy black stone shit. Black leather motorcycle jacket, zipped up just under his pecs. No shirt on underneath, so that ruff of fur where neck meets pecs could puff out. Tight leather riding gauntlets from his fingers up his arms. And, nothing on his head save for a few gold earrings. Just a black lupine face with a rotten feral grimace up one side, and an up-curved toothy smirk up the other. And his tongue was black, just like his leathery uncut tool. It was huge, almost a foot long, and slick with my spit.
"You got some kind of fuckin' problem?"
Of course I should have known! His balls were velvet-furred but I just hadn't touched. His voice had that slobbery rend to it from having to waggle a tongue around in that un-cheeked muzzle. I didn't even know _how_ they talked, much less so intelligibly. "What? I don't, it's just a... it's a surprise," I said. "Your picture."
"I want freaky leather-slut guys, not people who want a pretty face. You're not done sucking my dick."
When he reached for me, I got right up. "Uhh. I'm not really sure about this."
Smirk went to angry, brows furrowed, nose pointed, ears down. I'd seen dogs do that before. Right before they tried to bite me. "What a load of bullshit. You were giving me the best fucking blowjob I've ever had. Now I know why there are fucking whorehouses full of you skinbags. You don't swallow or some shit?"
I couldn't get over his face. His wolf face, talking to me, not just over There at the store buying Wolf Things and talking to Wolf Friends. "I just, I'm not used to... I mean, I just moved here, I'm from a small town..."
He lunged forward and grabbed me. "If you're gonna be a fucking pansy-ass dick about sucking a wolf's cock, well, you know what? Out."
It's not like he threw me out of the hotel suite into the hallway, hard enough that I slammed into the wall and fell over. It's that I didn't know what was going on and he was strong, and when he shoved me out the door and let go, I tripped over my own cowboy boots and fell into the wall like a dumbass.
He slammed the door behind me, and that was that. He didn't even get to cum. Poor wolf, I guess.