Deep-throated moan could be heard over Lord Pack.
The fragile fingers of an ectomorph, hour-glass, short-haired, tall, and Caucasian lady clenched on the bedspread and dragged.
Heavily, the bed creaked under their weight as Lord Mayor couldn't stop pounding into her wet pussy.
His heavy, hostile face thickened with lust and hot libido. He was heavily bearded, with tattoos covering his body.
His dark eyes could make one pee effortlessly, and his shiny, greasily pressed ponytail hair that was supposed to make him cute did otherwise.
The naked lady groaned, bit her lower lip, and then opened her small mouth in pain. "Aye! Oh!
Oh! Ah! Fuck! Shit!" she winced.
His eyes bored into hers.
He was riding her again, and this time the itches in her pussy were greater than in their previous rounds. She wished he had made her wet before penetrating her.
The pain was excruciating but the lady couldn't help to do otherwise. She was his captive and sex slave.
After so long a pound, she raised her slender legs, and parted even wider, to give room for his dick to fit in more.
"Hmmm!"
Lord Mayor let his first moan, pressed on her shoulders, and grinned heavily before squeezing her pink nipples.
Already her moaning had increased more than usual and it was in connection with the speed at which Lord was pounding into her now.
His orgasm was coming through.
The slap-slap sound of his dick slamming against her pussy mixed with her moan.
He clenched his teeth, frowned intensely, and shook repeatedly on her as the string of the guitar.
Feebly his face fell on her sweating shoulders, burnt her neck with his warm breath, before standing up from her nakedness, and stroked his dick gently and gratefully.
He flashed a flirty look at the handful of naked busty slaves that were bound and abandoned at the corner, and he gave a firm nod; very soon his dick would get busy with one of them.
The lady's weakened; sweating face frowned, breathed uneasily before casting her gaze to the wall, with her naked round buttocks flashing at her oppressor.
One of his alphas paced in. "My Lord, you sent for me," he said. The alpha bowed.
"Has Dr. Greenfield signed our terms and conditions?" he asked.
"My Lord, I have bad news..."
He interposed, "What bad news do you have.
Speak!"
"Doctor Greenfield said you should go to hell. He is not going to release any virus to you."
"What!" Lord Mayor snapped. "He said that to me?"
The alpha gave a nod. "Yes, my Lord." Lord shook his head furiously, "I can see. He has got nerves. He wants to stop me from being god.
Return with the rest of the alphas, capture all the humans, anyone who questions your audacity kill the fellow, capture the ladies alive.
They will be my sex slave. I can't wait to wipe off humanity!"
"And so shall it be, my Lord!" The alpha morphed into an all-black wolf and dashed out.
When the Lord Mayor turned around, lo and behold the lady he had just slept with was having a jack knife and charging at him.
"I am going to kill you, Lord or whatever you are called.
Do you think you can be god? If you dare come close, I am going to put an end to your guts!" she threatened and surged backward.
"You fucking human. You dare threaten me." Lord groaned.
Quickly the wolf in him howled and he mutated into an all-grey, chiseled-canine, sharp-clawed, red-eyed wolf. He let loose, pounced on the lady, and munched on her neck and belly.
For a moment her shout couldn't be heard anymore.
Only the sound of the dentition of the Lord's
Wolf cracking her bones could be heard.
Once my alarm clock blared, I sat up and woke from sleep. I yawned and stretched only to realize I was late for school.
My gaze came upon my favorite wolf sketch on the wall. It was an all-brown fur wolf, with chisel, knife-like dentition, and offensive, dare-devil claws. His buccal cavity yawned at me.
I winked at it, before hastening into the bathroom.
If you ask George High School about the only weakling they have they would all point at me.
YES.ME
I am Darius, the only weakling and best artist at George High School who was only good at sketching scary, colorful werewolves on a piece of paper.
My parents regretted registering me in the science class. My father, Doctor Greenfield often nagged whenever he drove me to school.
"You are a great artist. I wonder what you are doing in science, Darius?
At some other time, his nagging went thus,
"Come to think of it why do you love drawing werewolves?"
And then later, after school when I must have appeared at dinner with a swollen cheek and a bruised face and black eyes, he would ask.
"What happened to your face? Were you bullied?"
The former question had mysterious answers; ones I couldn't fathom. You might ask me to sketch a cup; I might flop, but a scary, bogey werewolf? Damn! It is a done deal. I wondered where my likeness for werewolves.
Mom had urged me to stop seeing werewolf movies in the bid to kill my talent for sketching same.
As for being bullied, I always lied to Dad.
"I had a rough play after school and I bruised my face, Dad."
That had always been my saving lie. Naturally, I was a weakling. I often flinched at the slightest thudding sound, and those pig-face boys used it to their advantage to dehumanize me. They hated me for being a good werewolf artist.
Even the other day after Mathematics class, they accused me of using my talent of drawing to snatch away their girlfriends and they beat the Darius out of me.
Four times a week, I often returned home with swollen cheeks, black eyes, or a bruised face. I could barely mold a fist perfectly and I was prey to even the weakest of girls.
"Listen up, Darius," Dad told me once the tyres on the car came to a screeching halt, "No rough play today. Be a good boy, Darius," he advised me, gave me a knuckle and I dashed out to face my troubles and bullies.
I stood and waved at the only proud father I had.
He was the only person I was proud of in this life. He had a beautiful career and always kept our heads up.
Dad was a zoologist and often than not, after work, he returned home with laboratory samples of different species of animals, to continue with his experiment in the mini laboratory at home.
Mom was a caregiver, perfectly good at wiping the wrinkled asses of the aged, just to bring the money home.
I was raised by adorable beautiful parents who gave me everything except protection and boldness.
Every morning whenever I came to school, whenever I saw their deal-with-him faces, and threatening dark eyes, I wondered the day! Would become formidable and protect myself.
I was fed up with life; fed up being bullied by even the fattest fragile kid at George High School.
What sort of fucking life is this?
Immediately I waved at dad and swirled around to walk on, when one of them appeared in my path.
He was Kane, a red-haired Mexican brute who gave me the first punch on my first day at George High. I would never forget that punch. To date, I still see the three stars that appeared in my eyes when he gave me that punch.
He was a ruthless bully and I often saw him in my dreams
bullying me too.
"Bring your ass over here, dog!" he commanded pocketed his hand, and held a scowled face, to hasten my weakling self to him.
I trembled, shivered like an albino mouse, and drifted my vegetable self to him.
Suddenly my lips trembled annoyingly, with endless jittering of my teeth.
"Heh, the bitch is around. Welcome to hell werewolf artist," another brute, a Spanish motherfucker joined the show and hit my head.
He was Cole. A boy who forced me to my knees with mere barking and I kissed his feet, and later wiped his sneakers with my shirt.
That was the embarrassment of my life.
Kane dragged my weakling self to somewhere between his legs and sneered at me.
"What do you have in the bag?" Cole queried and dragged my bag off my already sweating shoulders.
I was scared to mumble a word. My lips shivered like the strings on a guitar.
I remained humble and stared like a baby while they fumbled into my bag.
"Oh as usual, the dog has sketched new assholes."
He was flipping through the collection of colorful werewolves I had sketched.
As though he knew, once he got to the page of the most beautiful werewolf I had sketched and admired so much, he tore off the page
"What! No!" I yelled for the first time in my miserable life.
It took me forty-eight hours to sketch that particular werewolf. Ordinarily, I spent five hours sketching a werewolf. That werewolf had all-brown thick fur, with a slight touch of grey fur on the head and belly.
That was the only werewolf that caught my fancy, and I looked forward to putting it in a large frame and hanging it on my wall.
I was lost in the thought of my adorable werewolf sketch when they pounced on me as innumerable bees and beat me to a pulp.
I was left on the ground writhing in pain and weeping like a newborn baby.
Then suddenly a kid, who was all tears too, appeared at my side. Obviously, he seemed to have been weeping for me when they pounded me.
He gave me his hands to lift me to my feet...