Part 1: The Truth about Cock
Look, I know what I look like.
Big, broad-shouldered wolf. Power forward for the uni’s ice hockey team. Jersey stretched tight across my chest, tail all puffed up with testosterone and rage every time I hit the ice. I lift. I smash. I fuck bitches when I’m told I need to “keep up appearances.”
But that ain’t the truth of me. Not deep down.
Truth is—I fuckin’ love cock. Can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Dreamin’ about it. I could write poetry about dick. I have, actually. Quietly. Sloppily. While knotted full of it.
Fat cocks, long cocks, thick veiny fuckin’ monsters. Smooth ones with wide blunt tips. Spiked bastards with barbs that drag pleasure outta my hole like it owes them rent. Knotted ones, the kind that lock you to your mistake and make you feel every damn twitch of the guy you let inside.
I live for it.
There’s nothin’—nothing—like wakin’ up sore, stinkin’ of someone else’s musk, tail matted, hole puffy, and your own cum smeared across your abs like you jizzed hands-free just from gettin’ worked over by the right kind of dick. That’s my happy place. That’s home.
Sure, I could talk about the pussy I’ve stuffed. And I have. Plenty. My teammates slap my back and say shit like, “you wrecked that cougar, yeah?” I nod, grin, play the part. But it’s all empty. Just noise. Pussy don’t rearrange my fuckin’ guts.
You know what does?
Big bear cock. Heavy, slow, grindy. Makes my guts ripple and clench. Makes me feel like I’m being used, and I fuckin’ love that.
Equine? Fuck yeah. You haven’t lived till your belly’s bulged from a thick-ass draft stud layin’ pipe like he’s fixin’ to claim your intestines. That flared head poppin’ inside you, makin’ you scream like a bitch in heat? Chef’s kiss.
I ain’t proud of it. Well—fuck that, actually. I am. I’m proud as hell. But I ain’t loud about it.
See, I know plenty of poofs who play, but that’s not me. I’m not gay. I just really really love cock up me bum. Pussy’s alright. Warm. Kinda wet. Bit like a cupped paw, if you squint and don’t think too hard.
But it don’t do what I need.
See, I need dick.
Not just suckin’ it. Though fuck, I love that too. I get on my knees and I’m gone—lost in it. Get all stupid and obedient, slack-jawed and pawin’ at my own bulge while someone grabs my ears and shoves that fat fucker down my throat. I drool. I gag. I love it.
But it’s cock up the arse that I crave.
What it does to me once it’s buried in my little fuck hole and I’ve got no take‑backs left.
I think about the stretch more than I think about faces. Not the lad. Not his name. Not his voice. Just that first brutal push at my rim — thick head forcing me open while my body tries to argue and then just… gives the fuck up.
It burns. It stings. It feels like I’m being split and claimed at the same time — and I get hard as fuck from it. That’s how twisted I am. Pain lights the fuse. Pleasure is the explosion.
I love that moment where I’m not open enough yet and he doesn’t care. Where he presses anyway. Where my hole flutters and fails and then suddenly swallows him like it was starving.
And once he’s in — properly in — balls knocking my cheeks, hips glued to my arse, cock rooted deep — I go stupid. Thoughts gone. Pride gone. Just a needy animal wrapped tight round a shaft that owns my guts.
Full. Gods, I live for that full feeling.
Not “oh that’s nice.” Not “I feel him.”
I mean full. Like my insides are packed with meat. Rearranged. Like my organs got shoved aside so a better thing could take their place — a hard, pumping cock using me like a sleeve with teeth.
And when he starts moving? Slow at first. Grinding. Testing. Dragging his length across that swollen nerve inside me —
My button. My curse. My blessing. My filthy little secret switch.
It’s not a cute spot. It’s not delicate. It’s a raw, buzzing nerve bundle that turns me into a shaking mess the second it’s worked right. One proper stroke across it and my legs go watery. Twice and I’m moaning. Three times and my cock’s leaking like it’s crying.
If he pins it — if he locks his hips and just grinds that exact angle — I lose control of my own body. I’ve shot hands‑free before from nothing but that. No touching. Just prostate hammered like a doorbell from hell.
I don’t look pretty when it happens either. I drool. I swear. I beg. I say filthy things I’d never say standing up with my jersey on and my teammates watching.
Because that’s the other part no one talks about — the headspace.
Getting fucked like that — properly mounted, properly used — it strips you down to your bones. There is nothing like being under another male. Big. Heavy. Muscled. Sweaty. A fuckin’ beast with his hips pressin’ into mine and his cock buried to the root. His breath foggin’ my neck, his claws grippin’ my waist. He owns me in that moment. Total control. I’m nothing but a tight little arse spread open and hungry for what he’s givin’.
And gods, do I love it.
The weight. The scent. The testosterone in the air — thick enough to choke on. The slick sound of wet fur grindin’ against mine. I don’t need romance. I need rut.
I need to feel like I’m nothin’ but a hole to fill.
It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s raw, masculine, sweaty dominance — and it makes my brain go quiet in the best way.
I don’t have to lead. Don’t have to perform. Don’t have to be the tough hockey bastard for five minutes.
I just have to take it.
Take the cock.
Take the thrusts.
Take the ownership.
And yeah — I get off on that. Hard. The surrender. The use. The fact there’s a bloke’s penis buried in my rectum and I opened up and let it happen because I needed it more than dignity.
But here’s the filthy truth — the part that really ruins me:
When my arse starts milking him back.
When my hole locks down and starts sucking at his cock without me even trying — greedy muscle clamping and dragging like it wants every drop he’s got — and I feel him lose rhythm because of me?
That’s my power. That’s my filthy little crown.
Big studs, alpha types, muscle monsters — they all break the same when a tight arse works them just right. Their breath goes ragged. Their thrusts get sloppy. They start swearing. Begging. Grunting like animals.
I’ve dragged loads out of lads who swore they’d last longer.
With nothing but my arse.
And then — the breeding.
Fuck. Yeah. That.
When he commits. When he stops holding back and just dumps himself into me. Knot locking. Barbs scraping. Cock buried so deep there’s no space left for air.
You feel the pulses. Each one a hot internal throb. Thick seed pumped straight into my guts like I’m built to carry it — even though I’m not. Even though it’s wasted. Even though those pups will never be anything but heat and mess inside a jockhole with no womb at the end of the tunnel.
That’s what makes it dirtier. That’s what makes it hotter.
It’s pointless. Filthy. Wrong‑target breeding into a body that can only take, never give back.
My stomach tightens when it happens. Abs go firm and rounded. I’ve looked down before and seen the slight swell and nearly shot again from that alone — knowing I’m stuffed with another male’s load like a used toy.
When he pulls out, I can’t even close properly. Hole all puffy and overworked. Cum just… leaks. Slow and thick. Down my lips. Onto my thighs. Into my briefs.
I walk different after. Slower. Careful. Every step squeezes more out. Every movement reminds me what I let happen.
What I begged to happen.
And yeah — that walk home? That’s part of it too. Shame and pride wrestling in my chest while my arse drips and my guts feel heavy and used.
Because the truth is simple:
I’m not just horny.
I’m depraved for it.
I want cock in my guts.
Deep. Violent. Breath‑stealing.
The kind of fuck that leaves me leaking for hours and face‑down in my sheets, sniffing the stink and wishing the stud was still inside me.
No one can ever know, of course.
Not the team. Not the coaches. Not the lads I share the rink with every fuckin’ week.
So I keep it quiet. Down-low. Discreet.
I don’t fuck on campus. Ever. I use apps with no photos. I pick up scents in real life, let my instincts lead me. Sometimes I head to the park late at night, sit on a bench with my hoodie pulled up and my tail curled tight, pretendin’ I’m just out for a walk, and wait for a whiff of crotch stink that makes my fuckin’ mouth water.
Tonight though?
Tonight I was buzzin’. Couldn’t sit still. Had a practice scrimmage with the lads and every time one of ‘em bumped into me, all sweaty and shouty and stinked up with testosterone, my hole twitched. I had to shower in a fuckin’ stall, tugging one out like a teenager, chewin’ my lip just so I wouldn’t moan.
Soon as I got home, I dropped my gear, shut the blinds, shoved a towel under the door just in case, and collapsed face-first into my mattress. I was still fuckin’ sweaty. Still reekin’ of the locker room, my pits rank, my crotch musky, my boxers damp with pre from earlier.
I huffed my jock. Hard.
The one I wore for the last away game. It hadn’t been washed. Purposely. The band still held my scent—faintly pissy, with that stale crotch-sweat that made my dick throb. I buried my nose in it and rutted into the mattress for a while, whimperin’ like a damn mutt.
But it wasn’t enough. It never is.
When I need cock, I need cock.
So I messaged one of my favourites. Big guy. Doberman. Works nights at a petrol station out on Highway 14. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t kiss. Just drops trou, lubes me up, and fucks like I owe him rent.
He told me to come after midnight. Back car park. Quiet spot behind the dumpster.
I got hard just readin’ it.
By the time I got there, I was squirming.
Had my hoodie on, gym shorts pulled over my jockstrap, no underwear. Tail tucked. Hard as a fuckin’ rock. I parked three blocks away and walked the rest just to calm down, but it didn’t help. I was already dripping. Every step rubbed that jock the wrong way and had me twitchin’ like I was about to nut just from the friction.
It was dark as hell. The back lot behind the petrol station was barely lit — one busted floodlight flickerin’ above the bins, and a single car pulled up near the edge. His. Black SUV. Windows tinted.
I didn’t knock. Just opened the back door and slid in.
He didn’t say shit. Just grunted, gave me that look.
I didn’t wait for permission.
Dropped to my knees in the footwell and reached for his fuckin’ belt with shaky paws. He still had his nametag on. “Craig.” Big letters. Big doberman. Smelled like grease, smoke, and musk.
I tugged down his jeans, then his boxers. He wasn’t hard yet — but it didn’t fuckin’ matter. My muzzle knew the routine. I buried my nose in his crotch and took a long drag in.
“Ohhh fuck,” I whispered, more to myself than him. “Missed this cock…”
Didn’t even wait for it to swell. Just mouthed at the sheath, tongued up under the balls, tasted the fuckin’ sweat there and groaned. That kind of low, needy sound you make when you’re starvin’ and the food finally hits the table.
He shifted in his seat and spread his legs. That was all the approval I needed.
I wrapped my lips around his tip as it pushed free and just sucked. No rhythm. No show. Just full-on slop. Tongue draggin’ over the head, lappin’ pre the second it welled up. My tail wagged. Couldn’t help it.
He grew in my muzzle. Thick. Veiny. Fuckin’ heavy. Every throb had my hole clenchin’ around nothin’. I moaned and pawed at my jock like a bitch in heat, humpin’ the air, gaggin’ around him once he got long enough to hit my throat.
He grabbed my ears. Pulled me down.
Fuck yes.
Nose in his crotch, balls on my chin, cock shoved past my tongue so far I was seein’ stars. I choked. Spasmed. Loved it.
“Fuckin’ mutt,” he growled, breathy. “Sloppy little hole, ain’t you?”
I nodded the best I could. My eyes watered. My cock throbbed.
He started thrustin’.
Not fast. Just deep. Purposeful. Like he knew every inch of my fuckin’ throat and wanted to own it again. I grunted into his belly, paw still down my shorts, tugging at my soaked jock while spit streamed down my chin and stained his jeans.
“Take it,” he grunted. “Show me what that mouth’s for.”
I did.
I fucking did.
Gargled on his cock like it was my job. Let him use me. Let him hold me down and fuck my face like it was my hole.
And when he came?
Holy fuck.
Didn’t warn me. Didn’t twitch. Just shoved in, knotted the base of my muzzle, and blasted the back of my throat with a growl that rattled the windows. Hot, thick cum filled me up. I swallowed once. Twice. Gave up on the third. It spilled past my lips, down my chin, soaked my chest.
He finally let go. I slumped back, gasping, tongue out, eyes dazed.
My throat ached.
My hole was begging.
I licked my lips and looked up at him.
He stared down. Smirked.
“Turn around.”
My whole fuckin’ body jolted.
I scrambled onto the back seat, panting, fumbling with my shorts and jockstrap. Yanked ‘em down, threw my hoodie over the back of the seat for cover, and presented. Tail flagged. Hole twitching. Spit still dripping down my throat.
He lubed up. No fingers. No prep. Just one big paw spreading my cheeks and that blunt fuckin’ dobie tip prodding right up against my rim.
I braced.
I lived for this part.
The first push was a tease.
Just the tip — thick, blunt, pressed firm against my spit-slicked hole. He didn’t force it. Not yet. Just held it there while I twitched under him, tail flagged, knees on the seat, paws clenched into fists. Every breath made me shiver. I was already openin’ for him. Already leaking pre like a broken faucet.
He spat. Let it drip. Right onto my hole. Hot. Wet. Fuckin’ perfect.
“God, you’re ready for it,” he muttered, one paw spread on my lower back. “You been waitin’ all day for cock, haven’t you?”
I nodded. Couldn’t even speak. Just bit my hoodie sleeve and moaned as he leaned in.
That pressure — fuck.
It built slow, and then all at once.
His cock forced me open in one smooth shove, dragging my rim wide and punching a gasp right outta my chest. I nearly howled. The stretch was filthy — felt like I was being split in two. Like my guts were makin’ room. Like he was shovin’ the week’s worth of denial right into me.
“Oh f-fuck me,” I grunted, forehead pressed to the seat. “Don’t stop. Please—fuckin’ fill me.”
He slammed in the rest of the way.
I screamed. Bit the sleeve. Saw stars.
Balls slapped my taint. Whole length buried. My hole stretched taut around the base, barely able to take the girth. My back arched, and my cock twitched untouched, drippin’ onto the upholstery like a goddamn leaking faucet.
He gave me no time.
Started thrustin’. Hard. Brutal. Like his cock was a battering ram and my guts were the fuckin’ gates of hell.
Every stroke slammed against my prostate. Every drag out made me clench and whimper. My hole felt like it was suckin’ him back in. I couldn’t help it. My whole body was greedy. Desperate. Built for this.
He growled. Deep. Feral. Slapped my arse once, hard enough to make me yelp.
“You were made for this fuckin’ cock,” he grunted. “Tight little hole beggin’ for it. You got any idea how many boys’d kill for this arse?”
“Just fuckin’ breed me already,” I spat, pantin’ like a dog in heat. “Don’t hold back. I want it all. Wanna leak for fuckin’ days.”
He slammed me into the door.
The whole SUV rocked with every rut. The windows steamed. The smell — gods, the smell. Sweat, cum, lube, and wolf arse. It filled the cabin like a gas leak. Heavy. Rank. Perfect.
I couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All I knew was that cock. That weight. That heat. That steady grind of knot against my rim, beggin’ to pop in.
And when it did—when he forced it past my ring with a brutal shove and locked himself inside me—I came.
No paws. No strokes. Just a raw, full-body clench and a howl muffled into my sleeve. My cock shot a fat rope across the seat, then another, and another, paintin’ the inside of the fuckin’ car like I’d just busted after a week of edge.
I collapsed. Shakin’. Cum drippin’ from my tip.
But he wasn’t done.
He held me there. Knot buried. Hips tight to my cheeks. Cock pulsing.
“Take it,” he growled. “Take my fuckin’ load, you filthy wolf bitch.”
And I did.
I felt it. Every pulse. Every pump. Every rope of cum floodin’ deep inside. My hole stretched around that knot, quivering with each throb, my guts churnin’ with heat as he bred me like the needy mutt I was.
I moaned. Loud. Didn’t care. Might’ve begged for more. Might’ve drooled all over the seat. Who fuckin’ knows?
Time blurred. Everything went soft and bright and messy. My legs shook. My arse twitched. His cock stayed hard.
We sat there. Tied. Breathing hard.
Sticky silence.
Then:
“You walkin’ home like that?”
I snorted. “Fuckin’ right I am.”
He chuckled, low and satisfied. Gave my hips a squeeze. “Good lad.”
I didn’t answer. Just lay there for a moment. Full. Stuffed. Leakin’. Cum sloshin’ in my belly like it was home, until I had regained the feeling in my legs. I stepped out of his car leaking dog jizz from my freshly fucked hole as I leaned against the car I just got railed in.
I didn’t need love. Didn’t need cuddles. Just cock.
Knotted. Bred. Used.
That’s the truth about me.
And I’ll be back next week.