(as told to) William J. Lambert III
I shall die for this telling.
Why I tell the tale, a tale all its own. For telling some other time. When I have the time. If I have the time. There being so little time. There having been so many lies, so many betrayals, so much backstabbing (literally and figuratively), and so many breaches of faith. To be so many and so much more.
In the interim, be content with this. Which after all is the beginning. If not the middle. If not the end.
Starting that night of my contemplating sex with Rhinn.
His contemplating sex with me. His fingers blatantly shifting his long and ropy length of cock as it sensuously expanded his left pant leg.
Interrupted. By Gyle. Looking good. Looking really good. Looking exceptionally good.
"Conrad, can I see you for a moment?"
He knew he could. I knew he could. Rhinn knew he could.
At least three hours to moonrise.
I followed Gyle. Into the twilight forest. Familiar terrain. Ours since the beginning. Old-growth. Ancient growth. Forest primeval.
Spanish moss like cobwebs. Shadows like varying shades of night. Touch of ferns like gentle caresses.
My hard cock going harder. Becoming a third leg. Three, rather than four, rather than two, requiring exceptional coordination.
A break in the trees. A space within the forest. Leaf-clutter a cushion beneath our feet. A burbling brook.
Gyle turned. He began to strip. Revealing hairless musculature even more superb than I remembered from college. He graduated in Business to enter business. I was still in school. School less fun without him. Sex certainly less adventuresome.
"I’ve missed you," I said.
At least two-hours forty-five minutes until moonrise.
His a natural radiance. From within. Exuded through his pores. Liquid. Gloss. Shimmering highlights for his deep-cut pectoral cleavage which grooved the center of his chest. His pecs high plateaus. Nipples taut-centered. Washboarded abdominals. Enormous boner and balls. Tree-trunk thighs. Triangular calves. Large feet and hands. Firm forearms. Boulder-like biceps and triceps. Bronze-sculptured ass.
"Easier to fuck with both of us naked," he said.
I stripped. Not embarrassed by my physique which was less God-like than his. Few physiques are like his. He knew it. I knew it. We both knew mine held its own with the majority. A body much-desired. Some even preferring its leaner musculature; its smaller penis.
He fucks me hard, fast. His cock deep. My pleasure intense. My orgasm and his are monumental.
His cum, condom-contained, boiling. Scalding. Lusciously hot.
"Now, you fuck me," he said. Gone to all fours. His ass presented in stick-your-dick-in-deep invitation. Seldom offered. Only presented because of the likelihood it would never be offered - to anyone - again. And I’m flattered. Having thought him beyond me once I’d heard the rumors about Vendell’s health.
I gave him the cock he wanted. Deep up his muscled butt. Battering-ram intensity against his prostate and into the funky depths beyond. My body hunched. Making us one. Connected. One. Brothers. One. Lovers. One. The same but...
Dominant fucked by submissive. He knew that. I knew that. It didn’t matter. Knowing made the pleasure more intense.
One-hour thirty minutes until moonrise.
"Make it last," he commanded.
I tried to comply. But, the pleasure was hard to control.
"I’ll need savor this memory for a long ... long ... time," he said, growled, moaned, groaned. Bucked his ass, making me concentrate to continue my ride.
The ecstasy is all consuming. The realization that I’m actually fucking Gyle - is awesome.
My body was a seemingly insufficient vessel for the atomic-bomb explosion gone off inside it. My sounds were animalistic, guttural, wild, primitive.
Leaving me drained, exhausted. Elated.
"I needed that," he said. And dressed.
I watched him. My cock - forever after? - soft.
Some people, like me, were exhausted by sex.
Other people, like Gyle, were invigorated by it.
He kissed me. He’d bitten one corner of his mouth. His full lips made sexily fuller by the swelling. Tasting of blood. Erotic. Exotic. Causing my spent cock to stir once again.
He petted my resurrecting dick. Fondled my cum-depleted balls. His mind was elsewhere. I knew that. He knew that.
"Find Rhinn," he said. "There’s still time for you two to get in some heavy fucking."
Now less than an hour until moonrise.
And, though he left me with a boner, I had neither energy nor inclination to fuck my hand or mouth, nor Rhinn’s mouth or ass.
No time left for sex. Gyle and Vendell naked, but not to fuck and suck.
Vendell’s green eyes glittered with anger and disappointment.
He looked anything but sick. His physique was bulky and powerful. Muscle on muscle. Mounds of sinew and taut flesh. Bulges. High hills, deep valleys. Deeply cut. Molded. A Michelangelo statue come to life. Exquisite. Hard. Perfection.
Gyle’s blue eyes sparked with determination and resolve.
Vendell had the more impressive physique and had the additional advantage of having been there before. Of having won before. Of knowing what to expect. Practice makes perfect!
Should I have rooted for Gyle? In retrospect, no. But at the time, I wanted him to triumph. We had a history. We had been close. We were more than brothers; our father had always been so ... distant.
Few preliminaries, the battle began.
Vendell looked anything but ill for the first hour. His seemingly physical well-being emphasized by flattering sweat.
Gyle was the one breathing hard. And trying not to. Swallowing. Swallowing. His Adam’s apple bobbing, bobbing the entire length of his sexy, sinew-striated throat.
Vendell looked anything but ill during the second hour. Twice he was on the verge of successfully pinning Gyle for a win. Vendell was actually smiling. Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt.
Gyle was almost pinned a third time. But had a miraculous recovery. Superb, but energy-consuming.
Vendell looked anything but ill into the middle of the third hour. And then...
His exquisite body became uncoordinated, unwieldy.
Not pleasant. The wondrous gone horrid.
His death throes were short-lived. Anticlimactic after what had come before.
The resulting metamorphosis was immediate. Dead man to dead wolf.
We howled in spontaneous, reflexive unison. Long and loud.
We ceased howling, embarrassed and concerned, also in unison. Nervously, we scanned the surroundings. The location was ours, isolated and guarded, but...
Millennia of our extensive time and effort expended in perpetuating the man-to-wolf-to-man myth. All possibly compromised in that instant if the final man-to-wolf (or wolf-to-man-to-wolf) were to be witnessed by a human.
Death was not usually the end result of such challenges, most of us were caught by surprise. Few of us saw much of our original forms, in this day and age. Control over such reversion was bred into us. Long-gone, those days, when our control was imperfect, when spontaneous transformations scared humans. Today, we blend in. Few humans suspect our presence. We have successfully adapted for so long that even legends have successfully shifted to protect us. Man into wolf into man the universal and false assumption. So little concern for any wolf skeleton in the forest. Where are any bones of a man or woman?
"Pauline?" Gyle spoke and extended his hand toward Vendell’s wife, Gyle’s mother, my mother, and our mother.
Pauline came to him. She was his by right of challenge-made and won. No matter how he won, no one was ready to challenge him then. Few of us, if any, would be physically able to succeed, even with him exhausted.
Rhinn took my hand.
Male with male, female with female, only the one male-with-female breeding pair, breached the circle and bled into the surroundings. All, except Gyle and his mate, were destined for sterile unions. It was the right of the only Alpha male and female to procreate with our brothers and sisters, to extend our line, to assure our survival, until the day when we are completely assimilated within the human population. Or ... per the prevailing rumor, when we are - finally - strong enough to take control.
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