The Hour of the Wolf (M/M)(Pt. 1 of The Wolf Thing)

[In this adventure, we find a human who enjoys the company of wolves. In leather. In public. This is the start of a new series of mine so stay tuned and pledge for more!]

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A usual encounter with the wolf goes like this:

I get dressed the way he tells me to online. “Nice, black leather pants. Black cowboy boots. Gray mesh club shirt, long sleeves. Leather fashion collar. Fingerless gloves. Yellow bandana, around your neck, folded, point down. Get high.” 

I get high. My particular choice is a good, strong edible. I can usually time it so that it’s kicking in just when I’m getting on the train.

I drive to the train station. No problem on the way there, as I’m not high just yet. No problem on the way back, because I just won’t care at that point.

I scan my pass and wait for the eleven fifty-five night train, on its way out to the far exurbs where the manufacturing plants are.

I get on the train, on the last car. There’s no one on it. Most of the regional stations have ticketing at one end of the platform, where the first train car stops, so no one goes farther to the other end than they have to in order to get on. At eleven fifty-five, there is never anyone farther than the first car. 

I sit down and look to the front of the car. ‘No one’ is incorrect; there is actually just one person on the train.

The wolf.

Remember that edible? Now, oh god, here it comes. The ride out to the far reaches of civilization turns into a throbbing undulation of machine on metal, the constant visual throb of track safety lights and the dark shadows of the overhead power trestles. If I wasn’t rapidly coming up on prime medical-grade cannabis, I would be so excited that I’d come in my pants. It has not yet gotten old. 

We stop at the last residential stop before the factory district. The air smells slightly rank with commerce, but the stop is next to a ragged wood forming a green-belt and a housing development, obtrusive darkness against the garish LED public light wash of suburbia and the faint roar of superhighway. 

We both get off of the train. The wolf first through the front doors; myself through the rear doors. 

I immediately walk to the back side of the station building, which faces out towards the wood. I would not stand there alone, because I know the security camera is smashed out, and because looking out into that ink darkness makes my balls draw up inside, and not like I’m about to cum. Knowing that unsafe darkness is there just makes me harder, as my heart pounds from the full wallop of a medicated body-high.

The wolf walks towards the far end of the station building, then comes around towards me. He wears all black leather: black motorcycle harness boots, black leather jeans, a black leather jacket with the collar popped, black gauntlet gloves, and an unyielding scowl across his gray, snarly lupine face. His outfit is completely ridiculous for public wear, perfectly ‘decent’ but so excessively leather-fetish that it is almost cartoonish. It is “BLUF”, breeches and leather uniform fetish. It is leather-daddy. When worn in a random public context, it is slightly goofy like gay male attire often is.

The wolf makes up for it by owning every inch of the black, variously glossy leather. He walks slowly, a self-assured predatory boot-stomp stalk. He takes his time. There will not be another train until twelve thirty, and only in the other direction. 

He comes up to me and doesn’t speak. I assume he can, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs me. He embraces me, gloved hands gripping my upper arms, then sliding around my back. They slide down and grasp at my ass as he grinds against me. His leather gear creaks continuously. Intentionally. Against mine. I can feel how hard he is inside his pants, behind the bulging lump of hidden maleness, as it pushes against my own leathers and my stomach.

The wolf holds onto me like a dog humping something. He isn’t just teasing but frotting me, grunting intermittently after a few moments, clutching me close and staring while he grinds and thrusts. He is very strong. We frot for minutes, tens of minutes. I explore his leathers, feel over them, hug against them, lean my face against his chest. He smells of leather, only leather, despite the fur and his huffing breath. I am all but hypnotized by it. I am so high and so turned on it makes me want to sob and laugh and orgasm.

He is indeed a wolf. That is not a metaphor. That is not a simile. That is not an allegorical reference to macho sexuality. Underneath the leather, and exposed collar-up, he is covered in wolf fur. I have never seen him dressed any other way. His face is beastly, unmistakably lupine but capable of plenty of human expressions. He only ever scowls or snarls at me. Beastly, but attractive. Handsome, but dangerous. 

He turns me around with no warning and crowds me forward until I stumble against a support pillar. It’s plastered with notices, including one that decries, “NO UNAPPROVED POSTING”. Another more official posting explains what to do in an emergency. Locate the red phone beneath the blue light. It is shaped like a triangle for those who are color-blind. Press the button and you will be connected immediately to law enforcement responders who will be dispatched to your location. 

The wolf pulls my hips back forcing me to try and hug the pillar so I don’t fall. He steps back against me and continues grinding, now hot-dogging my leathered ass with his bulge. The slick surfaces slide against each other, creaking when they stop and reverse. It is less directly stimulating than him grinding me face to face, but more conceptually stimulating. Doggy-style. Wolf style. No eye contact. My face is mashed sideways against the public service announcement. 

I ponder what would happen if I followed the instructions on the emergency phone several yards away. “Help, I’m being raped by a wolf! No, I’m not on drugs! He’s one of those army wolves! He stalked me here!”

I am very close to orgasming, and the wolf senses this, stops. He pulls me away from the pillar and grapples around my chest to stand me up. Now, I have to lean back against him, arms splayed for a moment until I feel secure. This would be quite a show if there was anyone to watch. There is not. There never is.

His gloved fingers unzip my fly and pull my cock out. I’m hard and it scrapes against the zipper. I wince. He grabs my mouth and holds my head back so I can’t watch, and can only look up to the shelter roof above. 

Two gloved fingers push into my mouth, giving only the slightest teasing stroke to my lips first. They go right into my throat, while his thumb hooks under my chin and jaw. This is new, but not unexpected. Several weeks earlier, he had brought a dildo and did something similar. I took it badly but came anyway. I decided to practice at home.

I gag and swallow, but don’t retch. The edible helps. So does the practice. Each gagging convulsion makes me jolt with filthy arousal.

The wolf continues to grind against my ass and lower back while he starts to stroke me. I try, very hard, to resist. I can’t call for help. I can’t tell him I love him. I can’t even breathe with his fingers down my throat like that. I can only stand there and let him fondle the inside of my throat while he milks my cock in his firm, leather-gloved hand. 

I want to hear his wolfy grunts intensify and turn ragged as he orgasms inside his pants. I need to hear it, because when he cums, he’ll let me go. I know he will. I’m sure he will. I feel him shudder and hunch against me, and then utter the deep satisfied grunt of hidden climax. I can’t stand it any longer, and I orgasm all over the pillar, convulsing silently as his fingers block off my throat. Gagging makes my orgasm squirt harder. That high-test edible makes it scream harder.

He lets me go and I stagger forward, a wet splat as I step into my own semen puddle. I retch a little throat slime into my mouth but swallow it back. swallow it back. My cock grinds against the pillar and I wince, then convulse one last splurt out onto a lost cat poster. 

I put my cock away and walk back to the boarding zone, as if nothing had happened. I sit on a bench to await the next actual train to stop there. It is a long, silent wait. The wolf does the same, in the second zone. He never speaks.

For the first few minutes, I wonder if I could squeeze my rump and push my slimy cock into my sultry leather pants and blast inside. I could imitate the wolf. I’m not a wolf. The need then passes, then an inbound train passes, an automated express to the city empty at this late hour. 

An hour goes by. A second outbound train passes, and another fifteen minutes pass before another inbound. This one has people on it, second shift workers returning back home. As some get off, the wolf and I get on into separate cars. 

Another hour of the wolf has passed.