Wolf Play

By H. A. Kirsch

"Wolf Play" is gay hardcore erotica featuring anthropomorphic animals and hapless horny humans.

When Mark decides to dabble in the 'leather community' to expand his sexual horizons, he accidentally ends up servicing a scoundrel of an anthropomorphic leather-wolf named Hawk. Hawk plays predator while Mark grapples with his prey feelings in the context of BDSM and leather fetish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. A. Kirsch
• Release date: Jul 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463901298

H. A. Kirsch

H. A. Kirsch has been writing anthropomorphic-animal (aka "furry") erotica since the early 2000's. This was foreshadowed by a childhood of imaginary talking animal friends, homemade fox and cat halloween costumes (his mom made his tail! insert humiliation here), and an episode in private grade school where he was reprimanded for "howling like a wolf and biting other children".Those embarrassing anecdotes left him emotionally and sexually scarred, and he now writes often-kinky, often-dark, and always-gay erotica. Sometimes, when writing biography blurbs, he likes to call his particular blend of content "anthrohorrotica".He has been published in several furry anthologies by FurPlanet and Bad Dog Books, and lives in a state shaped like a mitten.

Book preview

1

The Mistake

My profile was up on Inside Leathermen for all of ten minutes and I already had so many notifications that the little screen for them on my phone had filled up and I had to scroll through it just to see the clock. Most of them were the typical, yeah boy I wanna fuck that pussy mouth of yours and stuff, which honestly were red herrings. I'd already learned that some guys online just like to waggle theirs out over the internet while they sit at home in their cum-stained underwear. The rest were probably straight-acting guys who want to pretend they don't like other men and that they're doing something dirty.

Then I saw this one guy. His name was listed as, Hawk. That sounded sexy. Not like FuckYoPussyHole69. If I wanted to be fucked in the pussy, I'd get a sex change.

Hawk did not have his face in any of his pictures, or even his head. Instead, he had a carefully photographed collection of parts of his body, all fully clad in opulent black leather. Not much of a surprise for a hookup website called Inside Leathermen. There wasn't much else to his profile, only a listing of what he would and wouldn't do. He wouldn't poop on me or make me bleed, and he would do just about anything else. Okay. Sure. I’d gotten interested in leather enough to make a profile, me and my scrawny white ass in leather pants and biker-shop cowboy boots.

So I messaged him. Need a hand?

He messaged back: You think I want a handjob from you? Your hand's not in the fucking picture.

The nice thing about leather is that when you start leaking precum out of your stone-hard erection when some anonymous leather-daddy on the internet says something smartass, no one else knows about it. You just get all musky and wet inside and feel embarrassed all by yourself.

My reply: My mouth is in the picture, so I guess you'll be fucking that tonight. As I typed those words, I felt as if I was making a mistake. Too much. Not enough.

I deserve what I’m gonna get.

I clicked ‘send’ anyway.

It took about thirty seconds for the next message. I waited hunched forward, phone cradled in my hands, heart pounding, cock throbbing, staring at the picture of some un-faced person’s glistening leather glove holding the handle of a serious-business flogger made from a metal strap with punk metal studs on it. What if he used that on me? As long as I could put his dick in my mouth…

And, message: You tell me your address. I send a courier over to you to give you a hotel key card. You come to the Bell Tower Hotel, which you can't miss because it's fucking fancy as shit. It'll be the penthouse. I'm not fucking around. Go let yourself in and there'll be a little bit of instructions. I'll be there later tonight. You'll get the card at 9:30. It was 8:45.

I figured this guy was one of three things: A psychopath; ome kinky old guy with a case of obsessive anal compulsive disorder; or the hottest person I would ever meet.

My cock wanted number three, so I messaged him my apartment address.

He really sent a bike messenger courier. He really sent me a key card, and it really was for the Bell Tower hotel. It really was fancy ass, and he really was on the penthouse floor. And the frosting on this sex brownie was that he really wasn't home and there was a lascivious note just as described.

Put this on. Kneel and wait. Beneath the note was a black neoprene hood. It had a single hole for the mouth and chin, and tiny pencil holes to breathe through at the end of the formed nose.

I kneeled on the floor and stared into dark nothing. The hood smelled like vaguely chemical rubber and the hot, tart smell of sour spit, mixed with a much more aromatic and musky smell that proved I certainly wasn't the first person to wear it. In other words, it smelled like someone else’s dick.

I’d never worn a hood before, but when I decide to try something, I tend to stick to it. I put it on. I could feel everything from my hugged face down to my toes, but I could see nothing and smell only some other man's ripened spunk and spit. I was so dumbstruck that I only slightly registered that my ankles were starting to hurt from how I kept my feet, pointed boot toes bent and dug into the fine carpeting. I wore a tight black compression spandex tee-shirt, black leather jeans, and the aforementioned cheap-ass black cowboy boots. I hoped that was good enough for this Hawk guy.

A long while went by before the door lock whirred and clacked open. Someone came in, and they were wearing boots, a rich hollow clunk against the thin red carpet. Leather, which squeaked. No introduction, just a rustling sound, a grunt, and then something mashed against my lips. Sweaty, musky, and undeniably uncut cock. I had barely moved my lips apart when it stuffed right in and a hand grabbed onto my head. The unseen man gave me a solid five minutes of mouth-fucking that ended with a hot plop as he yanked backwards.

Over here, he said, in an astonishing sloppy and dark Brooklyn accent. I could only imagine what he looked like; probably a mobster. A mobster in all leather, from the sound and smell of it. He smacked my head in the direction he wanted me to go, so I stood and he guided me around, then had me sit again. I reached out and bumped into a chair, by feel. He sat down with a protracted creak and then started touching my hooded face. You know what? This was a real good idea. His fingers dipped into my mouth and I suckled on the leather. He took them out and stroked up my covered cheek. Keep going. Your mouth's a fucking dick magnet, isn't it?

I put my hands