**The Den’s Darkest Secret**

People talking about a lady wear wolf and she comes out every now and then to find men to put in her den and they say the men never come back and I always thought I'm not scared of wear wolf And the story says she is a very beautiful woman at first and to have sex and I thought that was Stange

The door swung open slow, deliberate—like the way her tongue traced the rim of a whiskey glass before she tipped her head back to swallow. I didn’t expect the air to smell like cedar and sweat, the kind that lingers after a hard fuck in your favorite chair. But then I saw her. Dark hair fell around her shoulders in damp waves, her skin still slick from whatever she'd been doing. The scent of her perfume—something animal and expensive—cut through the haze of sex. Lips parted, a wicked grin slipping in as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. That I wasn’t *scared* of a werewolf, but I’d swallow anything she asked of me. She sauntered forward, palms gliding over her curves, the low slung belt of her dress barely holding together. “You always thought you weren’t scared?” The growl in her voice didn’t match the question. I swallowed. “I always knew I’d want you anyway.” That’s when the fangs came out. Not full, not yet, but sharp enough to drag a moan from my throat when she dragged them over her bottom lip. “Brave *or* stupid,” she purred, leaning in until her breath warmed my ear. “I’ll let you decide in the den.” The first snap of her jaw was the last warning I needed.

The belt fell open without a sound, just a flick of her wrist, the fabric pooling at her feet. Her hips rolled forward, the dress slipping down with it, leaving her bare except for the scent of leather and the way her claws dug into the soft curve of my thigh, pricked just enough to make me flinch—not from pain, but from the heat it sent straight up my spine. “Knees,” she demanded, voice rough with the same hunger she was clawing into me. I sank. Her fingers bit into my cock, not gentle, not teasing—just a vice of heat and wet, pulling until I was right there, aching. “You’re *sure* you’re not scared?” she whispered, fangs scraping my neck this time. The threat wasn’t the bite, it was the way her free hand toyed with the knife at her belt. “Because I don’t take *beggers*.” I didn’t beg. I just reached for her neck and let the den’s shadows consume us whole.

Her laughter was dark, throaty, as I pulled her against me—not toward the den, but into the hallway first. A wrong move, maybe, but I needed her skin against mine before those claws really started working. The knife in her hand twitched, caught mid-reach for my throat. Instead, she used it to slice through the fabric of my shirt, the blade cold where her fingers were anything but. She didn’t cut me. Not at first. Just peeled the layers away, until nothing stood between us but the way her fingers curled into a fist around the back of my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone hard enough to draw blood. I didn’t protest. Didn’t *breathe*, really—only trembled when the metal of the knife’s hilt pressed against the base of my spine. “You’re fast for a man who wasn’t supposed to be,” she murmured, lips brushing the fresh wetness. Her claws traced the ridges of my stomach, not deep, but with the precision of someone who knew exactly how far to push. The belt around her waist was still open, and her dress hung off one shoulder, the weight of her bra straining against the clasp. “I don’t play with men who play games,” she said, and then her knee was between my thighs, the blade gone, only her sharp nails digging into the meat of my shoulder. It wasn’t a question this time. The bite came sudden, teeth breaking skin—not to kill, but to mark. To *unmake*. I growled against her ear, fingers tightening until I could feel the pulse of her neck beneath them, her breath hitching as the back of her head met the wall. The sound she made was all fangs and need, and when she finally released my throat, it was only to press her own against my chest, claws scoring the air this time. “Good boy,” she breathed. I knew what came next. The den’s shadows were closing in—her teeth were already slick with my blood.

Her teeth left twin marks, warm and glistening against my skin, even as the blood welled between them. The den called, but not yet—I could tell by the way she hesitated, lips skimming the bruised flesh of my throat like she was memorizing the taste. “You’re *fast*,” she murmured, breath hot against my jaw, before her tongue darted out just once, rough but not probing, like she was savoring the memory rather than finishing the mark. “But are you enough?” I didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when her nails raked down my back, the sensation sharp enough to pull a sharp intake of air from my lungs. The sound she made in response was a wet, choking growl, her scent deepening into something richer, darker. Without looking, I knew her eyes had shifted—just a flicker of the irises turning gold, the way her pupils swallowed the black. “You want to see?” she asked, but it wasn’t a choice. Her claws dug in, dragging me off my feet before I could even blink. The den’s door was already ajar when she crashed through it, the weight of my body not slowing her in the least. She tossed me onto a fur rug, already shredding what little remained of my clothes, her own dress ripped free in one motion. A perfect specimen, the bra finally giving way as it slid down her arms, the leather straps gone silent against the padded floor beneath me.

The first brush of her tongue was light—almost a taunt—on the inside of my wrist, where the pulse still hammered. Then she swallowed the sound of my sharp inhale with a bite, fangs scoring a path up my forearm before her mouth seared the curve of my shoulder. “Faster,” she said, licking a stripe across my chest that went nowhere near my cock, her hands already slick with blood and saliva as they dragged my hips off the rug. I didn’t need to be told twice. Her name was a growl as I surged forward, but she was there—teeth at my jaw, her thighs parting just enough to cradle my face between them. “Not yet,” she hissed, pushing me back down before the weight of her finally settled between my legs. The heat of her lips lingered when she finally moved lower, tracing the ridges of my abs like she was committing them to memory. By the time her breath skimmed my cock, the air was already thick with the scent of us—copper, musk, something darker, like storm clouds and the promise of rain. Her claws bit into the flesh of my thighs, not deep enough to draw blood, just enough to make me shudder. “Still too slow,” she murmured against the tip, her tongue flicking out in a rough, hungry sweep that had nothing to do with mercy. “I didn’t say *wait*.” Then her teeth closed, and those hips rolled forward at last. “I said *in me*.” The tip of her fang found the sensitive underside of my crown before she pushed past it, her grip on my thighs bruising as she took me slow. Too slow. I wanted her to *move*, to drag me by the nails that were already leaving marks, to— “But you’re *fast* enough for this,” she panted, and then she was coming down on me, the first, desperate thrust slamming me into the rug, into her, claws scoring the backs of my thighs this time, the bite at my neck searing deeper.

The rug bunched beneath my fingers as she took me, her throat working in slow waves around the head of my cock—not letting go, not taking more. Just *holding* me, her own breaths hitching like she was trying not to laugh at how I trembled against her, how my body ached for it, her. “You’re the only one who gets this much,” she admitted, and then her hips stuttered, a single deep drag that made my toes curl—not from pain, but the way her tongue scraped along my shaft, slow and deliberate, like she was *tasting* every inch of me before she gave up the illusion of control. Her claws notched into my spine, digging just deep enough that the sharpness of it turned my pleasure into something primal, something *hers*. “Say it,” she demanded, her voice rough with amusement, the barest hint of a growl threading through it. “You’re mine.” I didn’t fight her. Couldn’t. The words clawed their way up my throat, raw with need: *“Fucking yours.”* That was all it took. Her teeth tore free at last, but only because her mouth was too full—because she swallowed me down, her throat tight and hot and *hungry*. And when she pulled back, her own lips were slick, her teeth glinting in the dim light, her claws already finding fresh flesh, dragging me into her. “Again,” she said, and this time, there was no slow. No teasing. Just the heavy, bruising weight of her as she crushed me into the fur, her thighs locking around my waist, her claws driving me deeper with every rough, desperate thrust. The den’s door had kicked shut hours ago.

The den’s thick air was a stifling blanket as she dragged herself down my length, her walls flexing in a slow, deliberate grip that milked me with every inch. “Mmm—*good*,” she murmured, the vibration of her voice making my thighs twitch. Her teeth never left my neck, biting down just hard enough to steal another gasp from me, the pull of her mouth turning into something rougher, a warning. But she wasn’t warning away. Her fingers curved into the hollow of my back, pressing just below my shoulder blades with enough force to bruise, and then she was *rocking* against me, her breath hot and uneven against my skin. The claws at my spine weren’t drawing blood this time—they were *anchoring*, pinning me in place while she took what she wanted, her own hunger making her movements less graceful, less controlled. “You’re *dripping* for me,” she growled, her tongue flicking along the skin just over my collarbone, the sting of her bite sharpening as she ground her hips down. “Every drop, every shiver—mine.” I arched against her, the friction of her teeth against my neck sending a fresh wave of pleasure through me, my breath hitching. She didn’t care. Her free hand slid down my shoulder and wrapped around my throat, not to strangle, but to *keep* me. “Stay still,” she commanded, her voice rough, her grip firm. “Unless you want me to make you.” Then her mouth opened wider, her tongue darting out to trace the line of my bite, and her teeth found my skin again—not my neck, but the sensitive curve of my hip, just where the flesh met the claw marks. “Fuck,” I hissed. She smiled. *“Exactly.”*

Her thighs clenched like a vise, pulling me flush against her as her teeth sank deeper into the curve of my hip—this time with no hesitation, her jaw working against me, the pleasure twisting into something darker, something she *wanted* me to feel. My fingers tangled in the thick fur around her head, not to push her away, not to pull her closer, but because I couldn’t resist the need to ground myself, to make sure she knew I was right there with her when she decided to break me. “You like that?” she asked, her voice a wet, rough snarl, her claws dragging down my back in slow, deliberate stripes that left nothing to interpretation. Her nails weren’t just scoring my skin—they were *writing*, marking me, her claim pressed into every inch of me, sharp and unmissable. I couldn’t answer, my breath coming in ragged bursts as her teeth released just enough to flick her tongue against the sting of her bite, the vibration sending fresh shivers down my spine. She chuckled, the sound low and guttural, her claws finding the hollows of my ribs, digging in. “Wrong answer.” Her teeth didn’t linger—they *moved*, up again, sharper this time as she took the whole length of my hip into her mouth, my cock swelling against her entrance, the pressure of her teeth a counterpoint to the tight drag of her cunt. I came with a choked cry, my release spilling into her, my body trembling as I tried to absorb the twin sensations of her claws and her teeth, the way she *had* me, not just in her grip but in the ruin of her control. Her mouth didn’t soften. Her grip didn’t falter. She swallowed me down, her throat working around the last of my cock, and then she was pulling back, her lips slick with my cum, her claws still dragging fire along my skin. *“Now you understand,”* she purred, and her teeth were in my neck again, but this time, she wasn’t teasing. This time, she was *claiming*.

As she kept moving up and down my cock and she started changing back and I noticed my was growing hair every where and I yell know don't do this to me

Her pace never wavered—warm, wet, relentless. The shift was subtle at first: a tugging sensation as her skin retracted, her edges smoothing into something less alien. Another pull of her cunt, and I felt the faintest brush of fur between my fingers, thick and unfamiliar, spiking into the bruises her claws had left behind. I jerked, a broken sound clawing up my throat, fingers digging deeper into her shoulders. “*No—don’t—*” She ignored me, her jaw loosening just enough to speak. “Too late.” Her voice was still growling, but now layered with something slicker, more *human*, the wrongness of it making my cock harder, thicker, the coarse hair already spreading along my ribs like tiny needles. The sting of her claws was still there, but now they scraped against my own skin—*my* fur, *my* new weight. Her claws flexed against my back, sharp points splitting my tendons wider than before, the pain mixing with the pleasure of her squeezing tighter around my shaft. I whined, my voice cracking, my hips jutting up without my control. “*I told you.*” She bit my shoulder—harder now—and the taste of blood filled the air, her nose pressing into the wound as she hummed against my skin, her tongue flicking away the evidence of my weakness. The growl in her chest was stronger, deeper, her purr changing into a throaty, wet *laugh* as she licked up the side of my neck. My cock pulsed, her teeth leaving fresh marks every time she pulled back, her grip shifting to let her claws in deep again. The change wasn’t fast. But I felt it. The heat gathering in my stomach, the hunger in my teeth, the desperate need clawing at my throat. Her hips stuttered, her rhythm breaking as she realized her mistake too late. My teeth locked onto the skin of her throat, my claws shredding her back like the first time—*mine*—her cunt still milking me, drawing out another shuddering release before I pushed her away, growling, my cock dripping with her blood and my own. “*Now you’re not the only one who understands.*”

And my cock still in her wet juice and my body was all most completely turn and she said filling me up and you will get to see your pups later this year

The scent of my blood was thick between us, mingling with her musk, with the iron tang of her release—the last pulse of her cunt before it belonged to something else. Something *me*. My bones ached, my limbs heavy with the same fur she’d forced onto me, the familiar weight of claws pressing against my own skin. She gasped as I tore free from her, the last of her wet heat clinging like a promise, and then I was *breathing*, my chest heaving with the wrongness of it—four nostrils flaring, my tongue rough and split, tasting *her* on my teeth. My cock, still thick and slick in her, throbbed, the blood and cum dripping down my shaft, staining my new-furred thighs. “*Pups?*” My voice was barely my own—lower, guttural, the sound of a predator still reeling from the kill. She shuddered, her back raw where I’d split it open as she changed, her own claws flexing uselessly against my ribs. The scent of her fear was sharper than the blood, but it did nothing. Nothing but make me harder, harder, until I felt the full *shift* in my cock, longer, wider, the wet drag of her still-milking cunt—*my* cunt—tightening around it like it was *mine*. “*Later.*” She pushed me off, her own voice strained, her body trembling as she tried to pull back, but it was too late. I could see it—the same way her teeth had written on me, mine were already *writing* on her, marking the inside of her thighs, her belly, claiming her all over again. “*Mine.*”

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, the air still thick with the scent of our mutual transformations. The fur still prickled across my skin, but beneath it, the heat of hers had soaked into me—her fear, her excitement, her surrender. A wet cough escaped her as she leaned back against the bedframe, her claws flexing against my chest before finally retracting, the pain lancing fresh where they dug. My hands, no longer human, found her wrists with a sure grip—*hers*, now *mine*—and pushed them further into the sheets. “You *begged* for it,” I reminded her, my voice a gravelly threat against her throat. My teeth twitched, the memory of her skin too raw, too *tender*—but my mouth was slick with saliva now, the need to bite her again overriding every other instinct. She whimpered, thighs parting despite herself, her cunt already damp with fresh arousal, the fur between my fingers stiffening into submission. My claws traced slow, deliberate patterns up her spine, the sound of skin tearing mingling with her soft moans, the pulse of her heart beneath her skin a frantic rhythm. *“Wait—”* I didn’t. My hips rolled forward, my cock—*her* cock, longer now—already throbbing with the full weight of what it meant. Her nails clawed uselessly at my arms as I buried myself inside her again, the stretch of her cunt around my shaft a hot, wet *denial* that didn’t taste like victory, but something hungrier. Something *better*.

My jaw flexes around the sharp edge of my own incisors as I drag her scent across my tongue—familiar, *mine*. The weight of her body beneath me shifts, full and deep, the softness of her curves now stretched thin with time, her belly heavy with the next litter but still taut with the memory of my cock inside her. The sheet beneath us is damp with sweat, but the air is thick with the musk of her heat, of *ours*, of the endless shifting between us. She’s still mine, isn’t she? The way she pants now is the same way she whimpered when I first pinned her down, but softer—worn in. Her claws drag along my ribs, not in defiance, but in rhythm, the same way they’d grip my thighs when I was inside her, when we were *both* inside each other. “*You’re mine now.*” My voice is thick as I roll her onto her back, my weight forcing her into the mattress. The fur on her chest flattens beneath mine, her breath hitching when I nudge her open with the heat of my tongue, her scent already rising, the same way it always did before I took her—*my* scent. She’s already wet, but not enough. My teeth graze her inner thigh, the sound of her whimper a growl against my lips. My hands—*my* hands—shift, claws replacing fingers as I spread her wider, the wet drag of her cunt already tightening against the thick press of my shaft. “*Please.*” The word is barely a breath, and I don’t need to hear more. The taste of her, the weight of her submission, the endlessness of *this*—it’s all I’ve ever wanted. My hips drive forward, my cock already stretching her, already claiming her again, the slick heat of her cunt a *home* that always welcomes me back. Her claws dig into the mattress as I push deeper, the sound of her surrender loud against the silence. I feel her pulse, the rhythm of it matching the beat of my own blood, of the pups moving inside her. *My* pups. *Our* pups. The endless cycle of bite and submission, of power and surrender—it’s all still *mine*.