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“You do know prank calling is a crime?” Wolf growled out through grit teeth, demonstrating his growing impatience with a cigarette sitting comfortably on his lower lip, “Yeah I know that, you fuckin’ smartarse,” the crude British voice responded just as sourly, “trust me, I fuckin’ wish I didn’ haf’ta call you, ya furry twat,” Bigby’s tired eyes rolled at the extensive vulgar language, he was undoubtedly getting frustrated with Georgie’s nagging. It was difficult formulating a response; the fable was understandably reluctant to help the cunning pimp; Bigby managed a tut, followed by a sigh and finally grumbled out, “where?”
“Alrigh’ thank you,” Georgie began, an emphasis on the gratitude yet a great smugness lurking in his words, “At my club, and be quick, wouldja?” Bigby opened his mouth to respond, choking on his words when the phone hung up. A moment of reflection instigated a few doubts in the wolf’s mind, yet he was the sheriff and there were already too many reasons for people to hate him. It was that final thought of craving to be a redeemed member of their secluded society that had Bigby stubbing out his cigarette and leaving to meet the pimp of the puddin’ n’ pie.
--
Planning had taken a terrible amount of effort; Georgie hated effort. He preferred his work easy and he was practically biologically designed to make it so. Some people were excellent at working; Georgie was not one of those people. It was his mouth that got him to where he was- in more ways than one. ‘Expert manipulator’ was what the pimp considered as his primary talent, and no one was immune to his charm.
That was what he thought until he had finally interacted with the famous sheriff of fabletown: the beast was a whirlwind of chaos, he was violent, blunt and those judgemental, hazel eyes could see through Georgie without an ounce of effort. The interaction had lingered in the club owner’s mind for quite a while, he associated hatred with Wolf, yet also felt some form of dysfunctional curiosity toward him too. So, after so many years of letting other people work for him, Georgie had finally decided to go all in with his twisted concept of revenge.
This whole fiasco had resulted in the pimp hunting down a highly confidential witch who had agreed to make a personal request. She was considered the best, and Georgie needed quality; in his eyes it was money well spent. He had to commend the witch for completing such an alarming potion, it was undoubtedly the weirdest and most suspicious request of all. Georgie was practically salivating at how close he had gotten to completing what he’d worked so hard for. The final step of his malicious plan was a simple phone call.
--
The ‘Puddin’ n’ pie’. What a wretched establishment. Bigby could never look at those words and not think about the mundies’ nursery rhyme. The sheriff easily understood why the degenerate made the girls cry. Neon lights complemented by such a haze of purple had lured Wolf into finally walking through the doors. Of course, the inside was no different. The heat was different, however, and the scent that lingered in the air caused Bigby to wince the minute it met his nose. “Georgie?” he barked out into the baron club.
The silence unnerved him. ‘Leave’ his mind echoed the word like a mantra. “Georgie, get the fuck out here or I’m leaving,” At least Bigby could say he tried, that Georgie was a chaotic individual, that it was only natural to leave. If he were honest, he’d love to leave, the club felt eerie, there was something lurking and waiting and Bigby couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Calm down you twat, ‘m coming,” Georgie had yelled, entering the club through the backroom door. Bigby struggled to prevent his impatient growl, watching the chaotic individual meandre over to him, “Tell me what’s wrong.” A dead stare studied the Brit, noting down the conniving eyes and the smug lips. This was no emergency. “It’s proper weird, some sorta death threat,” Georgie began, “Death threat?” Bigby echoed, his brows furrowing when Georgie stopped. The pimp sighed, loud and dramatic, “look, I get ‘em a fuck ton, but this one’s off. Just ‘ave a look wouldja?” Dread settled in the back of Bigby’s mind, the same mantra begging him to leave unwavering in persistence. Yet there was an obscure sense of curiosity; furthermore, Wolf had never realised the club owner got death threats.
It seems Georgie solidified the fable’s decision for him, settling on the latter when Georgie had turned and stressfully waved him to follow him to the bar. Said bar seemed to have a curious bottle, it was shaped like expensive perfume if Bigby had to guess from his distance. He was a great deal more interested now. So he followed, his trepidation evident in the hesitation beforehand.
“Some cock had slipped a note in m’ backroom; no one ever goes in my backroom wiv’out me knowing,” Georgie had a seemingly shaken voice, it was subtle, hidden beneath his smug attitude. Wolf’s hesitation was dwindling. “Go on,” the sheriff had muttered, making his way to the bar, finally close enough to confirm the bottle was perfume. “So, well, the note says,” the pimp started, and then seemed to change his mind “hurry up and jus’ come look,” He snapped, shooting Bigby an impatient stare.
When the sheriff had made it, standing beside the hunched over Brit, he focused his attention on the note. It appeared to be scrawled in a deep, black ink, perhaps written by a marker pen. He let the English writing translate in his mind, quickly reading it through.
Test it. We know you want to.
The first thing Bigby picked up on was the ‘we’, and then it was him interpreting what the second sentence might mean, “Why perfume?” he hummed out, busy mentally sifting through ideas. Georgie’s hand closed around the glass bottle, raising it and pinching the cylinder lid to take it off. “It’s not poison, so I don’ fuckin’ know,” the pimp spat out, flinching at the glare Bigby shot him, “How’d you figure that out,” Wolf inquired, watching with disbelief at the club owner. “I tested it,” Georgie responded as though entirely confident in his choice. A cloud of doubt came over Bigby’s mind, his hand reaching for the small bottle which georgie handed over without argument.
--
This was it. Exactly what Georgie had waited for. He had performed the most talented act he could have managed, he had the sheriff entirely fooled over a false case. Over some scrawled words and a perfume bottle. The wolf had brought the tip up to his nose, deeply inhaling to attempt to get a smell of the contents. He seemed to ease when his results clearly came up with nothing suspect. Georgie narrowed his eyes as Bigby spoke, “You tested it?” The pimp had rolled his eyes, scoffing at the hesitation of his unlikely prey. “Yeah, and?” he retorted, his brows raised in a confident manner; Bigby had eased his suspicions once again after assuming Georgie was telling the truth.
“How ‘bout you give it a go if you don’t believe me,” the club owner feigned ignorance at the subtle hints of the sheriff’s calmer state, he was leaning into his role of ‘oblivious twat’ so well. It worked. Bigby had sprayed the concoction of terror. The musk and haze of the potion leaking out, its invasive contents spreading like wildfire through the wolf’s sense of smell. He had inhaled it, he was Georgie’s for the taking. All he had to do was wait and enjoy.
The pimp took a step back, watching as Bigby coughed out, igniting a loop of his body’s desperate attempt at curing what was infecting him. The coughs went from yells and pitiful growls as his hands took a terribly strong hold of the bar’s table, hooking under the lip and crushing the structure with his animalistic strength. Georgie took a step back. Wolf’s knees buckled and sent him staggering to the ground, his throat panting in musky air as his fangs began to extend; it was only his canines that stood out as sharp however, and for some worrying reason, his stubble was receding, his face become soft and clear in an instant. Furthermore, the wolf’s features seemed to melt into a deliciously more dainty structure, his eyes swimming in that hypnotic yellow.
Georgie scoffed, a deep grin settling on his face, “Fuckin’ death threat with perfume; you thick twat,” his grin never ceased, watching with joy as the sheriff squirmed on his club floor, his sharp claws extending out yet his hands losing their calloused touch. It was as though Bigby was transforming into a wolf, yet losing all semblance of strength and power. His years of suffering were erased as his body grew more and more of what Georgie would assume as feminine. Except those feminine touches seemed to be complemented by that of Bigby’s undeniable masculine features. It was hypnotic to watch, it was what Georgie was craving.
The growls and yells that mingled with violence developed into whines and whimpers, caked in desperation, weakness, and most excitingly, fear. Bigby’s shirt seemed to melt around his form, his trousers undeniably becoming a touch larger over his legs, it was exactly what Georgie had anticipated. It was at this point that the fable began to curl in on himself, shivering as the potion took its hold over him entirely. Soon he’d be easy to move, but Georgie was still understandably wary at this point, he wanted to be sure that Bigby had become weak enough to handle.
“HANS,” the pimp had snapped, his eyes not diverting from watching the writhing sheriff on his floor. Said sheriff appeared to wrap his hands around himself, tearing at the shirt he wore as his ears extended out. His body, however, remained exactly how Georgie had predicted, the fluffy ears were just an added bonus to the club owner. Georgie’s brows lifted in surprise when he watched the shirt be ripped off only to be followed by a wolf’s tail sprouting from below. Bigby’s back was tan and, after the alterations, smooth; the tail leading from soft fur trailing up his spine down to the long fur of the tail itself.
Hans had entered through the backroom, a wholesome look on his face to completely contrast the devious intentions his boss had planned. Georgie pointed to Wolf, a smug smirk painting his face, “Take the big bad wolf into the backroom, wouldja?” Hans did what he was told, nearing Bigby and crouching down. “He migh’ give ya a little bite, but it’s nuffin you can’t ‘andle,”
--
Georgie’s voice rang like white noise in Bigby’s mind, the cruelty in his words spurring the wolf into a manic rage despite his external fragility. He had never experienced a change like this before: the mingling of fear and his raw, primal instinct. Trying to growl was impossible, it was as though he was only allowed to whine, or whimper, nothing to express his desperation for violence. The club owner infuriated him, he could sense the foul pleasure he got from Bigby’s demise. All of his senses were riddled with an unnerving desire completely foreign to the wolf, and it exceeded in ferocity when Hans had wrapped his arms around him.
“Not like that you prick, over your shoulder, he ain’tch’your fuckin’ bride,” It seemed Georgie was truly living out his fantasy, watching with twisted glee as Hans took a strong grip of Bigby’s wrist and hauled him up and over his shoulder. “Stay still,” Bigby heard the pimp bark out, finding nothing but distress as he squirmed uselessly; he couldn’t decipher whether that command was for him or Hans. Georgie’s approach registered as though an influx of sensations, all of them being too intense to comprehend. A tattooed hand had sifted through brown, mussed locks, a harsh grip taking hold and igniting a wildfire of nerves from the sheriff’s scalp.
Bigby could only manage a distressed whine, his face entirely flushed when his head was forced up; it was uncomfortable considering he was held over Hans’ shoulder and practically upside down. Yet his head was yanked up, his neck being pulled upwards as his hands pawed at Hans’ back in an attempt to support himself. “The big,” Georgie began, “bad,” he continued with a smug voice, “wolf,” he grinned, pearly teeth bared to challenge those of Bigby’s. “Sheriff of Fabletown,” the grin never ceased, and Wolf wanted to rip the cocky club owner’s throat out.
“Well tha’s what you were,” he put emphasis on the ‘were’, his husky voice assaulting Bigby’s ears, “what are you now?” he inquired, it didn’t seem rhetorical yet Bigby was still suffering the effects of the concoction. He couldn’t possibly manage an answer, let alone want to. Georgie didn’t seem to elaborate, at least not at that moment, and so he whistled, Hans turning around to look at him.
Bigby couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse that he couldn’t see the wretched fable anymore, his words didn’t seem to register in Bigby’s mind, too busy solving the hurricane of information flooding into it. Whatever he told Hans to do resulted in Bigby being carried into the backroom, his head tipping upwards to note that Georgie was not following him in; he appeared to be pouring a glass of whiskey with a cigarette hanging from his lip. Bigby, however, was being taken away, his head hanging back down as he finally gave up writhing to escape. Why was he so weak? He couldn’t figure it out.
--
Georgie felt like the cat who got the cream, he looked like it too: he couldn’t stop his malicious grin even as he lit his cigarette, hanging it loosely in his forefinger and middle finger to drink. Seeing the sheriff entirely at his will was more than just a power trip, it was the pinnacle of what the pimp desired; call it revenge, call it lust, call it atrocious, Georgie couldn’t care, he was enjoying himself and that was all he was focused on.
He took a long drag and followed it with a drink, tapping the ash into a grimey ashtray. He wanted Bigby to suffer the wait, to wonder what was happening, to eventually come to terms with his inevitable future entirely planned by Georgie. The club owner knew he was a disturbed individual, most people considered revenge as violence, murder or torture; Georgie was creative and lacked the lingering desire for true revenge. It lost that aspect long ago, now it was for pleasure, and the pimp had precautions. He was going to get out of this alive, Bigby would have to let him go after. Georgie had plans. He had a second plan. A third plan. He was patient and conniving, he was going to get out of this alive.
He finished smoking, stubbing it out and finalising his actions with one last gulp of his drink. Walking through the door to the backroom, he passed Hans, telling him to watch the club for anyone entering before finally making his way to the room his solution for his need for pleasure was in. The purple hue of the rooms followed the pimp into where he was needing to go, clouding him with desire as he pushed open the door.
--
Usually, Wolf was able to deal with any situation, he was calm and collected. Even in the face of failure or danger, he could manage it. This was something else entirely. It was disturbing how easily he was thrown over Hans’ shoulder, how easily he was manhandled and weakened. Nothing had ever frightened Bigby as much as this, not even his untimely demise when Woody had caught him about to eat Red Riding Hood. At least humiliation wasn’t involved, at least he could recover from it; what he was feeling right here and right now was simply sinful.
Placed on a hooker’s bed, hands tied up to the posts. He hated to admit it, but the soft binds were pointless, Wolf doubted he’d have the strength to leave or fight. Even still, he squirmed on the bed, there was a horrible ache infecting his stomach which travelled down, it wasn’t natural. Whatever it was, it was obviously the potion’s work. Another problem which presented itself was the tail stuck beneath him, it felt strange to have one, Bigby definitely preferred it hidden. Heat was flooding through Wolf’s body, and the warmth seemed to pool between his legs.
He bit his lip to stifle a noise caused by the sudden pressure of nerves ignited by whatever was going on in his body. In response, all Bigby could manage was closing his legs together, the sudden brush of his legs rubbing against those sensations occurring between them. It felt as though he were in a rut but the intensity was beyond what the sheriff had experienced, along with the internal feeling, there was an external one, somehow, between his were wet. This was not good.
Then the door had opened, the infamous club owner waltzing in and instantly looking Bigby up and down. “What,” unprepared to talk, Wolf followed it with a noise attempting to cover the whine, “did you do?” he had finally slurred that last part out, desperately trying to sound intimidating. “What did I do?” He echoed, the question being rhetorical and the ‘I’ dragged out in Georgie’s voice. “What’s it look like?” the Brit followed with a smug voice. An impatient sigh was the sheriff’s response, his head falling down against the cushions.
“I believe you wankers call it revenge,” Bigby had to scowl at that response, his legs falling slack as the Brit approached him, sitting down on the bed next to him to take a harsh grip of his face, thumb and forefinger holding his cheeks immobile. “You look better wiv’out that hair caking your mug, I prefer my girls smooth; suppose I prefer i’ for my bitches as well,” Bigby genuinely managed a scoff at that, yet it was interrupted by a typical whine once more. It had taken a while for the sheriff to grow used to the constant teasing, the endless jabs; he was hoping for a time to use ‘son of a bitch’ at some point, yet now the word was tainted.
Georgie simply scoffed and removed his grip, or maybe it was a tut, Bigby couldn’t tell, “What? Didn’ like my joke?” the club owner laughed out, his hoarse voice irking the wolf. “No, sense o’v ‘umour ay?” After chuckling out his words, Georgie took a grip of Bigby’s thigh, a devious look painted on his face as he leaned closer. “You know that,” the pimp started, his hand drifting carelessly to the button and zip of Bigby’s trousers, he paused for a minute, thinking of what he wanted to say, “that funny song they sing?” The button popped open, the zip pulled down and all Bigby could do was lean his head back and grit his teeth. Well, that was until his canines grew uncomfortable, and he felt the need to respond. “You mean the one your excuse of a club is named after?”
What the sheriff got in return for his snark was those deft fingers slipping into his trousers and taking a painful hold of him. Bigby was furious to find out he was growing in hardness from that grip through his underwear. “You know the story they say’s be’yind it?” Georgie continued, his hand squeezing momentarily, dragging a stifled whimper followed by a growl from the wolf. “Should I?” Wolf had responded, his eyelids fluttering closed when the hand relented, pulling out of his trousers and moving up to fiddle with his tie. “I’ve ‘ad my fair share of,” he paused, thinking, his fingers pulling the tie from around Bigby’s neck, “how the fuck d’you bastards put it,” the words came out with the typical aggression Wolf expected from the pimp, “Controversies?”
“That whole fing wi’v the king from some fuck off land,” The tie was removed, and the words were igniting a few memories in Bigby’s mind. Those same fingers had pressed against the heat of his neck, Georgie’s head tipping in a curious manner before undoing the buttons of Wolf’s shirt. “Fuck off land sounds about right,” Bigby responded, his voice void of its usual intimidating edge, “you and the king or something, wasn’t it?” Georgie seemed to narrow his eyes, popping the buttons undone at a slow pace, marvelling at the smooth skin underneath. Bigby was undeniably surprised by it as well, it was definitely not like this before he entered this god forsaken club.
“When the boys came out to play,” The last button was popped undone as Georgie sang out, his hand sweeping the material of the shirt away, “Georgie Porgie ran away,” the club owner finished; Bigby had heard many different versions of the rhyme, though he never really looked into what they meant until now. “Fuckin’ mundies,” he snarled out, “their fuckin’ way to,” his voice wavered, struggling to think of how to put it, “to,” his hand went down to grip Bigby’s trousers, “be homophobic?” Finally Wolf understood, his voice resembling that of sympathy, realising the internal conflict Georgie was going through- explaining why he was wanting to weaken Bigby, to feminise Bigby. “They spit on every’fing; I’m not fuckin’ gay a’right,” All Wolf could do was furrow his brows and stare at the conflicted Brit, clearly a byproduct of decades of prejudice.
“Not gay?” Bigby echoed, doubt riddled in his expression. Georgie scowled at him, “Y’know what, who fuckin’ cares, piece ‘a shit world the old one was and even shittier this one is, innit?” The words came from somewhere the pimp kept buried, Bigby couldn’t quite understand why he was the one such information was being revealed too. “Is this your fucked up fantasy then?” Despite the genuine sympathy he felt, Bigby was the one being violated here, he wasn’t prepared to submit in any way.
“I don’ give a shit what it is,” and with those words, Georgie had stood up, hooking his other hand beneath Bigby’s trousers and yanking them down off of his legs. “Fuck’s sake,” when the club owner muttered that, the sheriff’s head lifted up, realising Georgie had forgotten to take his shoes off; now was his chance to talk once again and to ignore the worrying lack of hair on his legs. “I thought that rhyme was about some fat king as well-,” “do I look like some bastard king to you eh?” Georgie had retorted, his hands busy removing Bigby’s shoes. “They’re all fuckin’ liars, the lot of ‘em; no one knows who I am, not one single bastard on this planet; these piss poor rhymes chattin’ shit about who I fucked, who I was, they can all fuck off and go to ‘ell,”
That was one way to put it. The crude ranting seemed eerily endearing; though, his emotions weren’t too reliable right now, so Bigby simply had to suffer with the strange feelings- at least it was easier than resisting them. The wolf simply laid there as Georgie finished dragging his trousers off of his legs, throwing them on the floor without a second glance. “What? Got no smartarse remark for that is it?” Although he wanted to ignore the pimp, his near nudity was influencing a rush of nerves, shuddering at the unwanted exposure and returning with a growl laced within a whine. It must’ve been that noise which urged the club owner on, urging him to pull down the remaining clothing Bigby had on: his underwear.
When Bigby was entirely nude, he felt Georgie move to straddle him, the jeans he wore rubbing uncomfortably on his unnaturally hard cock. Furthermore, his aforementioned pride and joy was no longer the average human shape and had adopted a very obvious knot. Worst of all, “I always knew you ‘ad no balls,” he no longer had the typical human attribution of ‘balls’. The frustration of the situation was getting to Bigby, his body had been cruelly altered to fit Georgie’s twisted concept of pleasure, “Fuck you,” Wolf spat out, still lacking in any semblance of intimidation.
“Other way ‘round sweet’eart,” after those smug words, the pimp had shuffled down, manoeuvring Bigby’s legs so they were above his own clothed ones until he was kneeling between the wolf’s bare legs. One of Georgie’s hands travelled up to take a grip of Bigby’s thigh, pushing it out to rub his other hand below the base of Wolf’s cock. Two fingers trailed down, past where he should’ve had his balls and slipping into a definitely new and definitely unwanted hole. Bigby couldn’t help but yelp as a finger slid into him; whatever it was that had corrupted his body, it had altered his sex to the point where he was a literal hermaphrodite. At least he knew where the wetness had initially come from.
“Wa’n’t expecting that, was’you?” the club owner smirked, his brows raised at the heat flooding Wolf’s cheeks and chest and the dripping hardon between his legs. “Now tell me, sheriff, is this gay?” he pressed his middle finger in deeper, relishing in the squirming of Bigby to escape the intrusion. “F- fuck you,” he had spat out, his wrists pulling at the ties and his legs struggling to figure out what to do in the face of such abuse. Georgie simply shuffled forward, his finger pushing in until it hit the knuckle, then the pimp pulled it out and shared the space with his forefinger. After he’d managed two fingers, Georgie’s other hand went to pull at the cock, specifically taking a hold of where Bigby’s knot should be.
“Never knew you ‘ad one of these, what’sit called again?” The teasing was relentless, the club owner’s voice filled Bigby’s mind, giving him nothing else to focus on and yet, somehow, it only made him more aroused. In fact, it was a terrifyingly familiar sort of ‘aroused’, one he associated with his feral days: a rut. But this was ten times that feeling, and Bigby could only surmise it was due to his new sex being assaulted down below- he’d seen it enough times, knew what it was, could even recognise the smell. A fucking heat.
One of Georgie’s hands had whipped up to twist Bigby’s nipple, the pimp’s chipped nails pressing cruelly hard into the sensitive bud, “I asked you a focking question, Bigby,” His face grew closer, letting Wolf see the glee tainting it. Despite the pain, Bigby preferred it over giving the cocky Brit his obedience; he was a wolf not a common bitch. “Stubborn prick,” the club owner spat, giving Bigby a harsh slap to the face. Although the slap hurt quite a lot, the sheriff was much more distressed by the fingers deep inside him, fitting snugly into his virgin cunt. Talking wasn’t even possible for the writhing wolf, his tail becoming much more apparent as it attempted to almost wag beneath his weight and the influx of so much pleasure sending him into a mortifying state of hatred, confusion and pleasure.
“What’s this eh?” that same hand which had slapped Bigby had now moved to stroke through the fur of his tail, “D’you think if I pull ‘ard enough you’ll bark?” a sudden curl of Georgie’s fingers had dragged a hazy moan from Wolf, his eyelids fluttering closed and his hips moving to retain that pressure of pleasure. Georgie simply chuckled, pulling his fingers away, letting the tips linger to tease his bound victim. “Go on,” he drawled in his northern accent, “say somethin’,” he whispered, a low and deep voice echoing through Bigby’s ears as though a mantra of his own thoughts. “F-” He planned to say his infamous catchphrase of ‘fuck you’, but Georgie was quick to combat such a response; the pimp’s fingers drove back into the sheriff, curling once more in an impressive act of skill. A pitched whine was all Bigby could manage in place of his intended response.
“How long before I can make the big bad wolf cum all over my fingers?” the other hand which was stroking his tail had pulled away, returning to grasp the base of his sex and placing an agonising pressure to add to the endless teasing he was suffering. Georgie had dragged his hand along Wolf’s length, his thumb lazily smearing the precum leaking from Bigby’s wound up cock; he complimented such actions with his fingers deciding to scissor the squirming sheriff. A weak whimper followed, followed by his thighs tensing and trying desperately not to wrap around Georgie. The pimp’s fingers seemed to dance in a repetitive act of pleasure, drawing a series of weak pants lingering within resisted moans. What said pimp did next was like a kick in the metaphorical balls: his hand had left from stimulating his swollen head and had moved to curl deft fingers around his belt, undoing it with impressive precision and laying it on the side of the bed.
Then his jeans’ button was undone, followed by the zipper; however, Bigby was distracted during these actions, the fingers constantly edging the g-spot inside of him. It was impossible for the wolf to resist when the club owner had lifted his legs, resting them above his thighs and pushing them up to grind a very notable bulge against Bigby’s crotch, grinding expertly in sync with the fingers. A deep chuckle from Georgie had assaulted the sheriff’s wolven ears, subsequently followed by his spare hand moving to grip where Bigby’s thigh met his curved ass, gripping it hard and lifting it slightly, That aforementioned slight movement had twisted Wolf’s hips into a position of immense pleasure, the fingers within him finally forcing out a pitched whine mingling with a moan in short, exasperated, clear signs of a climax.
Georgie had moaned in response, a chuffed grin on his face as his fingers had finally relented, his spare hand moving to feel along the thighs of Bigby’s legs. The legs having been curled entirely around the slender waist of Wolf’s tormenter. Pitiful whines resembling a come down followed those same, clear legs falling slack, a wetness dripping down between them and seeping into the bed sheets.
Georgie had tutted, a scoff complementing it. “Look at the mess you’ve made,” his voice was cruel and spiked with glee, a wet hand moving to rub along Wolf’s length in an act of overstimulation. He revelled in the yelped sob he drawed. Georgie had sighed, a dramatic hue tainting the noise, the noise of feigned disappointment, “bad dog,”
Completely unaware of the dampness between his legs, his tail had moved to instinctively curl between them, simply a catalyst of the flush on his cheeks returning in a wave of humiliation and heat. Georgie’s talented fingers pulled away, the wetness of the sheriff’s orgasm slightly dampening the front of his jeans. A whistle had followed, the pimp wandering past the bed to a bedside table, pulling open a drawer and reaching inside. What was inside had made Bigby freeze, his breath shortening and his head moving to turn the complete opposite direction. He simply despised looking at the insulting form of punishment.
A fucking collar.
Finally his breathlessness had subsided, finally allowing him to growl and bare his teeth as he felt the weight of bed beside him dip. Bigby turned his head further into the pillow, facing away from the club owner as best he could. It was futile, however, Georgie had unbuckled the leather and yanked Bigby up by his hair, proceeding to slide the colder leather beneath his neck. Wolf did not relent in his attempts to rid himself of the insulting collar, twisting his head and squirming on the bed as best as his exhausted body could manage. Once again, the pimp had won, buckling the collar securely around the sheriff’s neck.
“Perfect,” Georgie had breathed out, his deep accent exploring the extent of its hostility and arousal. “Fuck you,” Bigby had finally managed to react to this treatment. A scoff was the pimp’s response, “all bark no bite, you are,” a chuckle had followed the words, the club owner returning back to the side of the bed on the carpeted floor. He wasted no time in shedding himself of his jeans, somehow entirely graceful yet predatory in his movements of returning between Bigby’s legs.
‘Oh no’ was all that Bigby could hear in his mind, every thought trembling at what was about to occur.
“Your fuckin’ face,” Georgie laughed, the face in question looking like that of terror. Wolf knew the word ‘please’ would never amount to any form of kindness, so he preferred to hold his tongue, hazel eyes watching through a purple haze at the pimp lifting his legs to kneel below them. The club owner had unbuttoned his underwear, pulling it down enough so that he could free himself, pushing his hips to rub it between Bigby’s legs. Georgie had pressed his own cock against the sheriff’s, his hand rubbing the pre across both of them; during such pornographic actions, Georgie had moved to press his hand beside Bigby just enough to lean over, his cruel smirk moving to place an experienced kiss to his sternum. Following the kiss, he continued further along Bigby, taking advantage of his absolute shock of Georgie’s bravery and unwanted arousal of Georgie’s skilled, shared handjob. It was when the brit had reached Wolf’s neck, lips parting to nibble at the soft skin until it seemed bigby snapped, his sharp teeth bared.
He bit at Georgie, his frustratingly smaller canines struggling to puncture the skin of the pimp’s jaw.
Georgie, in shocked retaliation pulled away, dragging the teeth along his jawline and leaving a trailed pair of scarred flesh. It wasn’t detrimental, it wasn’t much of an inconvenience either, it actually seemed to arouse the sudden masochist once more. He grinned with a celebratory impression, his grin altering into a genuine smile, the blood slipping down his neck instigating his hand to wipe at the bite marks. A stain of red lingered on his face, blood returning from the small lines left by the canines. Blood also seemed to paint Bigby’s lips, his brows furrowed in fury at his futile attempt.
The action left them both aroused, heated and plagued with lust.
“You cheeky cunt,” Georgie had breathed out, his red stained hand wiping at the leaking cuts once more. “You wan’ a muzzle? Is it?” It seemed rhetorical, his body moving to sit up once more, “bastard,” he muttered out, the spite in his voice entirely contrasting the glee on his features.
A growled moan was Bigby’s response, his eyes swirling in a shade of yellow and his tail curling reflexively by his side. “I’d make a joke about doggy style,” that northern English voice remarked, followed by an equally heavy accented remark, “but tha’s jus’ immature,” Georgie’s smile said it all, he was a stickler for irony, “an’ I prefer seein’ your cute face.”
Bigby, however, did not share the same humour, the iron taste of blood becoming his demise as it fuelled his animal instincts: which had now involved his new sex’s desires. Georgie stayed silent, his hand relenting it’s grip on both of their cocks, drawing a deep whine from the desperate sheriff. A coo was all the pimp provided, too busy for words as he took hold of his base and rubbed his hand along his length, pressing the head against Bigby’s new cunt. To Bigby’s dismay, his legs had curled around the club owner, pulling him closer and causing the head to press hard against his sex. Fingers were not nearly the same as cock, so when Georgie had finally pushed inside of him, a mild yelp mingling with a whine was the response. It only spurred Georgie on, however.
Halfway in, the club owner had slowed down upon seeing the pained look on Bigby’s flushed face. As curious as he was to Georgie’s unusual form of kindness, Bigby was much more focused on how to relax during the violation of his body. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too hard, the burn from being stretched becoming the secondary focus, a sudden wave of pleasure being the main focus instead. A moan was all the sheriff could provide. It urged Georgie on, pushing in deeper until he was finally settled to the base. The club owner couldn’t resist his own moan in response, grinding his hips and giving an analytical look at the brunet.
Something in the disturbed Brit’s mind declared that Wolf was ready, his hips slowly pulling out and pushing back in. “y’feel that?” he whispered deep, causing nerves to tingle in the bound sheriff’s body. The sheriff in question moaned to respond, his legs pulling Georgie back, pulling him deep once more. “I prefer you like this,” the pimp’s lustful voice whispered, finally letting himself thrust into a rhythm. Bigby would never verbally admit it, but the club owner was definitely an expert in this, each thrust causing sparks of pleasure, the timing of each thrust melting Wolf’s mind into nothing but arousal.
Finally a hand had taken a soft hold of his knotted cock, the other arm currently busy supporting Georgie’s weight over the sheriff. The hand was following each thrust exactly, the stimulation paralysing Bigby in place, his thighs so tense he could feel the shivers throughout them. Eventually a deep thrust was the catalyst to Wolf’s climax, a particularly filthy rub along his sex causing his second climax, combining them in a synonymous wave of intoxicating pleasure. The noises Bigby had made sounded like white noise to his lust-filled mind. For Georgie it sounded like heaven, as fucked up as this was, hearing what he caused was delicious, it filled his desire to the point of his own orgasm, filling up Wolf with his own cum before pulling out and regarding the mess they had both made.
“Fuck,” he breathed out in a chuckle, biting his lip and wiping at the wet mess of blood on his jawline once again, feeling that the cuts had healed. “What a fuckin’ mess,” The pimp’s words had instigated a simple hum as a response. Georgie could only scoff, looking at the tired wolf with an amused expression. The pimp followed his once over of Bigby’s body with a deft act of putting himself away, crawling out of between the sheriff’s legs. He had stretched his arms and wandered over to the mirror in the corner of the room to look at his jaw and to see if it left a mark.
--
Bigby thought he was irrefutably weak. It seemed a plausible assumption considering he just had his brains fucked out, and likely due to the lingering effects of the potion. Yet he felt that same immense pain he had first felt during the humiliating transition. The idea that he was regaining his original body seemed to be confirmed when he could feel his stubble returning, the feel of it irking his skin momentarily before it felt entirely natural. Soon he lacked all the typical ‘feminine’ traits. In fact, he seemed to alter into a more wolfish exterior. His return into his human form seemed to not stop there, his teeth finally altering into his usually restricted wolven structure. Furthermore he knew his eyes were altering as well, followed by his legs assuming a digitigrade structure saved for when he lost his temper and returned to his savage form.
A ferocious craving altered his thoughts, his hand tensing and his bones snapping and growing whilst he tried to keep quiet. He didn’t want Georgie to see this. Not yet. Nails pushed through his chipped ones, black claws curved and sharp. Finally he had the necessary strength, his wrists pulling at the silk ties and ripping them instantly. Turning his head to face away from the busy pimp who was still looking at himself in the mirror wiping away the dried blood, Bigby allowed his face to alter. Soon he was embracing what mundies would call a ‘werewolf’ exterior. A wolven head supported by soft fur, clawed hands and paws below his ankles. The tail had stayed, simply growing longer to accustom the larger build he was embracing.
Bigby had turned entirely, his snout dragging along the pillow, saliva dripping from his bared teeth in hunger for the human trapped with him. Hunger wasn’t correct in the simple sense, it was more of a desire for revenge, an ‘eye for an eye’ type of revenge. His ears tilted in the direction of the pimp’s quiet breathing, his nose twitching as he smelt the sex still lingering on his body. The tail behind him swirled in anticipation whilst he moved his legs to press his werewolf-esque paws against the soft mattress. Finally he turned his head to regard the club owner.
Said club owner was frozen, brows raised in shock, hands gripping the dresser behind him, eyes wide open with evident panic. Bigby could practically hear his heart beating in devastation. Maybe he thought he was going to die. But he wasn’t one for murder, despite this disturbed individual deserving it. “B-,” likely about to say the wolf’s name, he was interrupted by a feral growl, the head of such a tremendous beast tilting to regard the pimp. Georgie’s brows furrowed, his hands relenting from their death grip on the dresser. His change in reaction was a topic of interest for Wolf, causing him to gracefully climb from the bed, standing up into his full height to tower over the usually lanky club owner.
Sniffing the air, he bared his teeth, approaching at an intimidating pace to lean down and press his snout against the frozen club owner. That same club owner seemed to surprise the wolf when he failed at hiding a smile, his hand carelessly reaching up to pull at the collar still snug around the wolf’s head. In response, Bigby snarled, his clawed hand reaching up to yank the insulting accessory off. “You’re no fun,” Bigby simply growled at that statement, his arm moving to yank the pimp by the back of his neck, forcefully pushing him over to the bed, finding amusement when he tripped and fell atop it.
“Oh f-” About to speak again, the club owner was cut short when Bigby pushed his face into the duvet, his other hand tearing the clothes from him. When he’d stripped the pimp bare, the hand he was using to push Georgie’s face down had moved to the side, pressing into the mattress, claws digging in and piercing the duvet. “I ‘ope you fuckin’ pay for that,” a ferocious growl was his response, a wet tongue lapping at the stain of blood on the side of his neck immediately afterwards. “Do you even fuckin’ speak? You twat,” teeth buried into his shoulder as a response, crushing the bone and drawing a frustrated yell from the pinned down pimp.
“Only if I want to,” he growled out, the deep voice meddling with animalistic fury notably turning the club owner on. Bigby could smell it, sense it, and he seemed to like it; it ended up with him pressing a large wolven cock against the cleft of Georgie’s ass. “Oh fuck,” a sudden rush of panic interrupted the cocky impression surrounding the pimp, “you’re not gonna-” the tip of the hard, foreign cock cut off Georgie’s fear. “ Don’t you fuckin’ dare knot me,” hissing out the demand and following it with a crude insult, “you prick,” then a scream through clenched teeth came after such words.
“I thought you didn’t know what it was called,”
Bigby’s voice was laced with animalistic glee, swapping their roles entirely as he pressed his wolven sex into the pimp, lubed from the precum but definitely not enough to ease the pain of the sheer size of it. “Fuck off,” Georgie spat, following it with a pained scream muffled by his clenched teeth. As the cock was buried further inside of the pimp, he finally began to shake beneath Bigby’s bent over form. Georgie couldn’t see it, but he could feel the tail curl around his leg with enough strength to pull it apart from his other leg, spreading them. During this, Bigby shifted his hips to angle his cock in deeper, losing all need to hold back.
“Woi fuck, it’s-” Georgie had stuttered unable to find the right words, only managing to cry out in pain, feeling the wolf pullout only to lube up his cock as best he could with the precum he was producing. A broken sob was Georgie’s response, frustrated to know that his masochism kept him aroused enough to urge Wolf on.
Halfway deep inside of the pimp, Bigby let out a slight growl, his hand moving to lift the pimp’s hips up to pull him further inside of him, the tip of his sex rubbing against Georgie’s prostate. “Fuck,” he had breathed out, a whine in his voice whilst the wolf pushed further inside. Eventually he was fitting the small swell of his knot inside, preparing Georgie for a rough session of faux breeding. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck just fuckin’ stop a minute you furry twat,” Bigby considered the pimp’s words, thrusting further inside of him at the insult, a deep snarl echoing afterwards.
Georgie could only manage a pitched scream, a clear level of frustration lingering within it. “I treated you nice, you c-” At the threat of another insult, Bigby shoved the club owner’s head into the duvet once again, a noise resembling a sigh following as he adhered to the desperate requests. The typically savage wolf had slowed, stopping momentarily and easing himself out of his whining prey. Then he had reversed, dragging his maw along Georgie’s back and letting it glide through the cleft of Georgie’s cum stained ass. Bigby gave a warning growl before he taught the pimp how werewolves eat ass, with precision and one long, beautiful tongue.
Finally the pimp let out a pleased moan, the tongue having a weird amount of expertise in its movements; or perhaps the club owner just wasn’t used to a werewolf’s tongue. Either way he was having a good time, and Wolf seemed to have quite a lot of saliva to add to the necessary amount of lube for the slender pimp to take Bigby and enjoy it. The tongue had brought Georgie’s arousal back to its peak, his hard on trapped between his hips and the edge of the bed. Of course, there was a needy noise that had left his mouth when the tongue had pulled away, but soon the sheriff had returned over him, caging him in his furred embrace.
He assumed the next noise that Georgie made was something that resembled a ‘thankyou’, but he didn’t linger long on the thought, pushing the squirming human back down against the bed and lining his wolven cock up once again. This time, Bigby had slipped in with ease, filling the sex-drugged pimp in a pleasurable manner. Finally, the wolf had bottomed out, rubbing his furred base against Georgie’s ass and pulling out.
He thrusted back in, and soon it was a violent and animalistic pace which, despite the aforementioned description, caused the club owner to revel in a cloud of arousal: soft moans that contrasted his behaviour coming from his dry throat. Words were not spoken as Wolf thrusted in and out, his ruthless rhythm enveloping both fables into a shared cloud of lust and desire.
The sex became too much for Georgie to withstand any longer, his moans evolving into a loud yelp mingling with immense whines while he came into the duvet below him. Bigby followed suit, however, for him it was a much different form of climax. “Nonononono, stop, fuck’s sake,” the club owner’s voice lacked aggression, simply worry and annoyance tainting the words as Bigby knotted the squirming human. “You basically asked for it,” was the sheriff’s simple response.
After the plain and simple statement, Bigby had wrapped his arm around the miffed pimp, lifting him to crawl onto the bed alongside him, holding the would-be bitch of his close to his chest. Considering he was still half-wolf, the sheriff had moved his head to lay against the duvet, the bottom of his maw resting against it with his furred neck tilted. Furthermore, his digitigrade legs had wrapped around the smaller framed fable, letting his soft tail curl around the both of them into an impersonation of a nest. “You’re a bastard,” the northern voice spoke out, the club owner’s legs shuffling to find a comfortable position. Bigby simply huffed, moving his head in a canine-esque manner to rest once again.
“Deserved,” the word followed that huff after a few moments. “This mean you won’ kill me aftah?” A rumbling followed, the owner of such a deep voice responding, “only if you shut the fuck up,” Georgie scoffed and tutted, leaning his head into the duvet and letting his eyes close, adhering to the wolf’s wishes of silence.