Never underestimate Ramiro Morales Medina, Constance thought as she froze in the doorway. She could smell his nonchalance as he sat with one ankle over one knee, a heavy book entitled Dog Obedience Training open in his solid hands.
Ramiro knew very well that she was a werewolf.
He claimed that he was only human himself, but the effortless way he radiated charisma suggested some kind of otherworldly ancestry to her. Still, it wasn’t just his charisma that had drawn her to him. Of course, there was the deep physical attraction—her breath caught in her throat every time he came near and she got a whiff of his cologne, and she couldn’t help the way her eyes lingered on the strong, stubble-lined angle of his jaw, his full lips, his dark eyes, his wavy hair and easy smile, his tall figure, the toned muscles hidden under his vest…
But there was also the fact that he was so genuinely concerned about justice that drew her to him. She was an editor for the op-ed section of The New Angeles Times, where cops were always a touchy subject. She didn’t think that she could ever date one, but here Ramiro was proving her otherwise—and only because he was so thoroughly a good person that she truly believed he would never exploit his power. He cared about people. He believed that he could help the community rebuild after the undead riots that left half of the city in ruins.
And he was doing it.
Ramiro liked being an everyman, even a clown around others, but he dropped the act around her. He read with deliberation, his brow smooth as he scanned over the words.
“Hi,” Constance managed when her voice had finally found its way back to her throat. Ramiro looked up, his eyes unreadable, his scent cool and collected.
“Hello, Constance,” Ramiro replied. He shut the book, the muscles of his arms shifting ever so slightly as he focused his gaze on her.
Constance broke out in a fine sweat.
“What are you reading?” she asked. It was a silly question—Ramiro had no doubt seen the way her eyes lingered on the book’s cover—but it seemed to be the safest thing to say.
“Some nonfiction,” he said. He set the book on the arm of the chair. Had he deliberately made sure that the gilded spine with the title was facing her? She tore her eyes away from the book just in time to see his eyes shine in the dim light. Her skin prickled.
“Did you know,” Ramiro said, “that the ‘lone wolf’ is a misconception, and that most wolves are pack animals who like company?”
Did he know the effect his words had on people? There was no way he could be Ramiro, with his dumb façade and calculated center, without being aware of his every syllable.
“I have heard that, yes,” she said.
Ramiro uncrossed his legs and leaned forward so that his elbows were now resting on his thighs. Somehow, the gesture only made him seem larger. His spread legs remained firmly on this side of decent.
“Constance,” he said. She swore under her breath as a chill ran down her spine. She was sure he had seen; he smiled as he continued, “What kind of company do you like?”
Goddamn Ramiro Morales Medina. He could probably make dirty talk sound noble. Constance bit down the temptation to cover her face.
“I…” she began. Ramiro’s scent was radiant, a brilliant, prismatic palette of smells that wrapped around her.
There was no point in denying their mutual attraction. Although Ramiro didn’t live at the boarding house with her—“We aren’t married; what would Sra. Contreras think?”—he visited often enough that there were spots in her home that had become his. The weight now ever-present in the armchair seat cushion, even if he was absent; the spare clothing in her closet; the bright smell in the air. He was discreet, but she noticed.
Having a nose a million times more sensitive than a human’s helped.
Constance swallowed again. She had too much pride to admit what she wanted, yet Ramiro had somehow sussed it out anyway.
It was almost as if he were a good cop.
He gestured to her bed. His smile was small, but kind and warm. Ramiro could be unreadable at times, but one thing remained clear: he never had any ill intent toward her.
Fuck. Constance’s hidden tail perked up and wagged at the command as a tingle spread through her stomach to her fingers and toes. Heat rose to her cheeks as she sat, the mattress springs creaking as she settled and placed her hands in her lap.
“Good,” Ramiro said. Try as she might to contain it, a smile broke out over her face, one that made her look like a different person, her features soft, her eyes shut. Not because she didn’t want to see, but because the pleasure engulfed her so thoroughly that she felt safe enough to let down her guard.
“So,” Ramiro said as he rose and came to stand before her at his full height, “do you want to be a good girl?”
“Yes,” Constance replied. She felt like an exposed nerve, trembling with his every breath.
When he was this close to her, all Constance saw was his belly, covered by nothing more than a dress shirt—his vest and gear were resting in Constance’s closet. It was an offering in itself, Ramiro displaying his softness and vulnerability to her, a werewolf who could disembowel him with her saber-toothed maw, just as she’d done to many backyard chickens on nights lit by the full moon.
But the moon was just shy of gibbous today, and she still had control over her impulses. She took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She’d regret the way it magnified every scent in the room if the experience of smell-colors washing over her weren’t so pleasant. Over her own scent was Ramiro’s: sandalwood soap, pheromones, and sweat permeating with something deeply masculine.
Ramiro reached a hand out and stopped just shy of her cheek. The space between them was a presence in itself, as if he were compressing a bubble between them. He was so restrained, always in command.
And so damn respectful, too.
The soft contact of his palm against her cheek took her breath away. Her sense of smell was heightened, but so was everything else. She would have shuddered at the intensity of just this touch if it hadn’t been him. Every ridge of his fingerprints brushed against her skin as he caressed her cheek, leaving embers in their wake.
“What do you want, Constance?”
God, the way her name sounded on his tongue… He could say it a thousand times and she still wouldn’t be tired of the way the syllables unfurled like a finely embroidered banner from his mouth. Lost in his touch, she hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes again until his voice brought her back. His breath barely graced her, but at this time of month, her hair was as sensitive as whiskers, alerting her to every current of air displaced by his movements and presence.
“I want to be a good girl,” she said.
“What does that mean for you?”
“I’ll listen to your every command. I’ll give you whatever affection you want. I’d…”
She hesitated. She’d always fantasized, but actually doing it was another matter. She’d never felt safe enough, never been around anyone who she thought wouldn’t judge, never been around anyone who she felt she could trust.
“I’d let you collar me,” she whispered. “If only for a night.”
He cupped her cheek in one hand. She leaned in to the gesture gratefully, nuzzling up against him, allowing herself to show her needier and softer side.
Constance didn’t like to be soft around other people. She had to project a bossier and more commanding personality in the newsroom to make herself heard. As a Chinese woman, she was one of the few people of color in the room—despite representing New Angeles of all places, the newsroom was still mostly White.
She was also part of a vocal undead minority. Well, werewolves weren’t exactly undead, but they weren’t accepted as fully human, either, so that was where she fell when the lines were drawn. People expected her to be a demure Asian girl willing to go along with their demands. She had to go against that image all she could when it came time to make her opinion count.
In the bedroom, though, things were different. Here with Ramiro, she could be as submissive and pliant as she wanted to be. He saw not only her Chineseness, which he never whitewashed, but also what she hid deeper within her: the desire to give up command and be dominated, subjugated—on her terms.
“I have something for you.”
Ramiro got up, depriving her suddenly of his touch, leaving her keening and wanting. When he returned, he had a plain black box tied with a delicate pink ribbon. With trembling fingers, Constance undid the ribbon and opened the lid, revealing a rose gold collar, the polished metal gleaming, the perfect circle just the right diameter for her neck. It was elegant and subtle. She sucked in a breath. Traditional leather collars had their appeal, but this one was ethereal.
“You’ve brought it up before—I didn’t want to pressure you. But since you mentioned it…”
“It’s beautiful. I love it.” Constance reached out, but stopped just short of picking up the collar. Instead, she looked into Ramiro’s dark brown eyes, her heart skipping. Shyly, she said, “Could you… could you put it on me?”
He smiled the tilted, charming grin that lured everyone in, only this one had an edge of mischief and play to it that thrilled her.
“It would be my honor.”
He lifted the collar, his hands larger than hers, criss-crossed with scars and rough with calluses. He unhinged the collar and placed it around the base of her neck; she shivered as the weight settled on her collarbones and the chill of the metal kissed her skin. With the tiny hex key, he fastened the screw on the underside that would keep the collar on her.
Her skin prickled with goosebumps. The collar wasn’t permanent, but the fact that she couldn’t take it off easily, that the power to release her was in his hands, was exhilarating in itself. As he parted from her, she eagerly met his gaze, basking in the tangible symbol of his attention. If tonight were a full moon, she’d be wagging her tail, but all she could do now was squirm.
“Are you going to be good for me?”
“Yes,” she breathed. A slow, lazy smile spread over her face. She wanted to say I’ll be good for you, but she was already losing words in subspace, everything turned to sensation and physicality. She wanted so badly to be his pet, to please him and gain his approval.
Ramiro was dignified and modest in public, careful to show a respectful image to all. He was very aware of his existence as not only a Mexican man in New Angeles, but a tall, striking one who commanded traditional masculinity and all its accompanying power. So he did his best to be tender in public, conscious of the way others could view him. But here, he could let down his guard. He could play with power in a way that kept her powerful; he could express a side of himself that he kept carefully hidden from the rest of the world. With an audience of one, he didn’t have to be Officer Morales. She already knew him deep and bare, mind and body. Here, he was Ramiro; here, he was hers.
“Remember, say ‘mercy’ if you need me to slow down, or ‘silver’ if you need me to stop,” Ramiro said, brushing her lips with his thumb. She tingled from head to toe as she nodded, drinking in his words. “Tonight, you’re Daddy’s bitch. Got that?”
Damned if Constance wouldn’t let that word spread through her body like fire. She could never bring herself to use it, but she loved the way it felt on his tongue.
Ramiro tugged her collar harshly, making her yelp. Her panties shifted over her soaking cunt.
“Answer me,” he said, voice low.
“Yes, Daddy,” she breathed.
The masculinity he usually commanded was the kind that exuded a soft power, one that relied on communicating respectfully with others. But this—the dominance radiated off of him, from the intensity of his gaze to the openness of his body language, from the way he had two fingers hooked under her collar, his lips curled back in a sneer as she arched toward him, her nipples rubbing against the lace of her camisole.
“That’s my girl,” he said. She sighed with the pleasure of his praises, the flitting touches he left on her, his scent dusting the air like autumn leaves.
“Now,” Ramiro said, cupping her cheek with a rough hand, “get on your knees.”
Constance nodded, her mouth going dry. She kneeled before him as he sank back into the armchair and picked up the book. He let it fall open in the palm of his hand, the spine nestled into the crooks of his fingers. As she watched, he flipped through the pages, filling the air with the soft perfume of worn, yellowed paper.
She closed her eyes and let the smellscape wash over her. She picked up on all of Ramiro’s scents first: his cologne, the faint trace of aftershave on his jaw, the warm, musky smell of him, human and oiled, salted by his sweat. Then, her own smells: the jasmine of the perfume she’d dabbed on that morning, the sweetness of her own body odor, hints of her wetness whenever she moved. Layered between those notes were other ambient smells: frying garlic floating up from the floor underneath, synthetic laundry detergent, sachets of sage and lavender, the slightly chlorine smell of the bathroom, exhaust clouding the air from the road beside the boarding house, ozone from an oncoming storm…
Ramiro’s voice broke through her sensory dive. Her eyes flew open.
“Obedience training involves teaching your dog basic commands,” he read. “Commands provide your dogs with structure and can resolve behavioral problems. A few tricks that every dog should know include ‘down,’ ‘stay,’ and ‘come.’”
He enunciated each command carefully, his consonants sharp. Constance shivered, her tailbone perking to attention as he set the book aside again.
“That should be doable for today, don’t you think?” he said, leaning forward.
She nodded. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his stubble prickling her skin, raising goosebumps all over her. He stood, undoing his tie and the top couple buttons of his shirt. Then, he unbuckled his belt and slid it from the loops. She squirmed as she took in the sight of his square fingertips pressing against the hand-stitched leather of the belt. The tanned, animal scent was still present enough to whip through the air when he tossed the belt to the corner.
God, her pussy ached with want. She didn’t have to touch herself to know that she was glistening wet.
“Take off your clothes,” Ramiro said, his voice low, just loud enough for her and only her to hear. “Leave nothing but the collar on.”
She obliged, happy to follow his commands. She didn’t take particular care to be sensual—he hadn’t asked for that, and she was too eager to please him to put artistry into undressing. She tugged off her blouse, then stripped off her camisole; she undid her bra and tossed it aside. Her breasts hung low, tender with release, her nipples dusty pink and hard, her ribs still imprinted with marks from the underwire. She wriggled out of her jeans, pulled off her socks, and finally shimmied her panties down her hips and over her knees so she could kick them away.
She settled back onto her haunches before him, suddenly aware of how clothed he was compared to her. His tie hung loose around his neck; his dress shirt and slacks were still crisply pressed. On the other hand, she laid everything bare before him: every stretch mark, freckle, birthmark, hyperpigmentation; all the extra curves and creases her fat gave her; the soft swells of her dimpled thighs; the wavering crest of her stomach. She would feel more self-conscious, but she knew that he liked his women thicker—with handholds, tits and ass that took up space, thighs that shook with every step and quivering orgasm. So she’d learned to flirt with him, perk her ass high and shake as if wagging her tail, just to see him already half-hard with appreciation. She loved every bit of herself now, content to be a fat, meaty, solid Asian girl.
Constance was a feminist. Or, as Ramiro would put it when she went on another deep dive about gender and oppression, a nerd. She could write essays about the male gaze in her sleep. And yet there was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel liberated instead of objectified.
It wasn’t the act of finding her sexually attractive in itself, as she had had enough of being sexualized and hypersexualized over her life. It was more the sensation of being seen, in the passive—an action that still centered on her: I am seen. She remained whole and at the center. Seeing was an act separate from her, shaped by separate forces, an act that ultimately did not define her.
“Now,” he said, “when I say ‘down,’ I want you face down, ass up. Understand?”
She nodded, warmth blooming through her chest when he smiled.
She got on her hands and knees, then lowered to press her face against the hardwood. Her breasts flattened under her weight. She let herself sink into the position. She pushed her hips back, conscious of the way the folds of her pussy parted, revealing more of her sinful wetness.
A wide, pleased smile broke out across her face as she chanced a look up at him. He was hard, his slacks tenting. The knowledge that she was responsible for that made her squirm with pride. Every one of his praises shot through her like a bullet, exploding into prickling heat that pulsed through her.
He stepped over to the chair and read from the book still lying open on its armrest.
“‘Down’ can be a difficult command, as it puts your dog in a submissive posture. Well, I suppose it’s easy for Daddy’s sweet little sub, then.”
She basked in his voice, her eyes fluttering shut, her grin softening into a smile that buoyed the apples of her cheeks. Thrust into subspace, where her world was purely sensory, purely response, she found words cumbersome and replied only in hums and halting commands. It wasn’t much different than when she transformed into a wolf, only here, her world was centered on pleasure.
“I love seeing you like this,” he said appreciatively as he squatted down, one broad palm on the curve of her ass, his other hand toying with her pussy, his fingers grazing against her lips but never dipping deep enough into her wetness to satisfy her. “Especially with your legs together.”
He withdrew his touch, making her keen and writhe. In one movement, he whipped the tie off from around his neck and wove it between her ankles, producing a quick and firm double column tie. The silk was smooth against her skin, slip-sliding as she wriggled. She could let her knees fall apart, but too much and the bones of her ankles would press together painfully.
She felt exposed, deliciously so as she stuck her ass out so he could see even more. Ramiro stepped out of her line of sight to rummage around in his bag. When he came back, he set down a bottle of lube and a steel plug on the night stand. The gem inlaid into the base sparkled with all colors of the spectrum as the teardrop-shaped plug rolled around.
“I’m going to play with every part of you today,” he said, clapping his hands on the full cheeks of her ass. The jiggling reverberated through her; she swung her hips to ease the sting. He grabbed her hips in response, steadying her before he spread her open, her cunt and the dip of her asshole on display for him to see. Her breaths came in short, heavy bursts, humid as sweat pearled on the nape of her neck. There was a part of her that was embarrassed to have everything so visible, but most of her was aroused by his gaze. Her flushed cunt was full and sensitive, fat and layered compared to the bareness of her asshole.
Ramiro drizzled lube on his fingers, then circled them, slippery and slow, around the rim of her asshole. She bit her lip, wanting to drive herself back onto him. But she reminded herself that she was at Daddy’s whims today, not her own.
When he tired of teasing her, he eased a broad finger into her. She groaned, burying her face in the crook of her arm and muffling herself as she breathed and relaxed into the breach.
“Good girl,” he said, slipping in another finger. Her whole body seized with the invasion. She curled her toes as chills ran through her. How she loved it, though—being at his mercy, giving the most hidden parts of herself to him. He stayed in her for a moment, letting her adjust to the girth of his fingers, before stroking her once, twice, just enough to get her mewling, wrecked.
“What a little slut,” he said, but she could hear the pride in his voice. She was glad her face was covered so that he couldn’t see her blushing furiously. Here, within the boundaries of their play, the power of slurs could course through her in a way that felt sanctioned and safe. He was the one person she could trust to see her as more than just a sexual object, even if that was what she wanted to be in a given moment.
She protested when he pulled out of her, but he shushed her as he slicked the plug with lube and pressed it to her, the metal heavy and cool. She willed herself to relax again and take deep breaths so she could allow the plug entrance. There was always the moment when the widest part of the plug cleared her where the stretch felt painful, but, if she focused on it, on accepting the sensation as what it was instead of trying to chase away the pain, she found that it was pleasurable in itself. She bit her lip, wincing for only a moment before the plug sank fully into her and her rim relaxed around the narrow base.
He released his grip on her. She yelped as her cheeks touched together, shifting the plug within her.
“Up on your knees now,” he said, tugging her up by her collar. Her heart thudded. Her skin turned rosy as she hobbled onto her knees, the plug reminding her of its presence with her every movement.
He unzipped his slacks and tugged his cock free. She stared, her lips parting, and took in every detail as she always did: his smooth and soft foreskin, the freckle on the underside of his cock, the vein running along its length. Her mouth fell open as she readied herself to worship him and suck his cock as he loved her to, but he surprised her by holding up a hand.
“Stay,” he commanded.
The whine that escaped from her was embarrassingly canine. She wanted so badly to reach out and pleasure him. That was her one duty right now as a sub, but he compelled her to stay with a dark, dominant gaze that made her tremble even as he struck awe in her.
“You love Daddy’s cock, don’t you?”
She nodded eagerly. He stroked himself, stopping to linger on the head. He dipped a finger into the pre-cum beading on his slit like dew, then dabbed the sticky drop onto her lips. She darted her tongue out to catch him, getting only a hint of his salt before he pulled away again. The distance between them magnified, every absence of his touch an ache in her.
“I want you to show me how much you love Daddy’s cock,” he said, his voice a low thrumming. She throbbed with how badly she wanted to please. She looked up into his face, hoping that her wide eyes would plead well enough for her. Sure enough, his face hardened into a mask of dominance as he sneered and spat, “Now.”
She wasted no time and closed the distance between them, moaning as her lips slid over the head of his cock. She couldn’t explain why she loved to blow him so much. She knew kissing was pleasurable in part because the lips are sensitive, so that was probably why having his cock in her mouth felt so good. But there was something else, too: no matter how many times she sucked his cock, it was still a challenge to deep throat him. Her gag reflex was mostly mental. Combined with subspace, sucking his cock and doing her best to swallow it deep down her throat became a meditation, a moment for her to center herself and talk herself through relaxing enough to take him fucking her mouth, a moment when she could actively connect with her body.
Constance had been born a werewolf. Her metamorphoses began with her period at nine years old. She wondered if that was what began her disconnect with her body. She had never felt quite right, as if her body were a shell that wasn’t her size. The monthly transformations only made that feeling worse. Sex, though, was a place where the physical and sensory realms ruled. She could pull herself into her body and fill it up like a vessel. Ramiro was an integral part of that process, not just because of the primal attraction they had to each other, but because of his quiet acceptance and his loving gaze that made her feel safe enough to sink into the full sensory overload and the full shape of her body.
She closed her eyes and savored having his cock in her mouth. This close to the full moon, a slip into her wolf mind could turn her jaw hefty and her canines sharp. She had power too, strong as tungsten, as he sighed with bliss.
He was, after all, in the mouth of a wolf.
She dragged her tongue along the ridge of his cock. He was hard, painfully so; when he grabbed her hair and fucked her mouth with earnest, his ramming cock left her throat raw as she sputtered and choked. As he withdrew, long, thick lines of spit hung between her lips and his cock. He draped the slick threads over his palm like lace, then rubbed them into her face as she laughed.
“Cochina,” he murmured, but his tone was clearly pleased.
She opened her mouth and leaned in, pleading at him with her eyes again. He obliged her, slipping his cock back into her mouth. She bobbed along it, willing herself into submission: Open. When he sank into her throat this time, the last of her propriety vanished. She let him fuck sounds out of her, wet and sloppy as her own slick traced a trail down her thigh; her eyes teared up as she choked, bringing with them the endorphins that hurled her deeper into subspace.
“Fuck,” he murmured as he withdrew from her, leaving her gasping for air even as she smiled up at him, cock-drunk. He tugged her up by her collar and kissed her hard, sucking down her every gasp as if she were his lifeline. Spit dripped down her face and onto her breasts, her nipples, where they left a dark line in the fine weave of his dress shirt as her chest brushed against him.
“On the bed,” he said. Constance struggled over, the ties on her ankles giving her little room to move gracefully. She flopped herself onto the mattress, very aware of how awkward and restrained she was and delighting in it. Just as she managed to get herself upright and seated, Ramiro snapped his fingers.
“Down,” he commanded.
Face down, ass up. She got into position immediately, her spit-slicked face sliding on the sheets. Ramiro toyed with the plug in her ass, tugging it to just shy of its widest part, then letting it sink back into position. Constance squirmed, whimpering with the pleasure of it. But it wasn’t enough—she was worked up, needy; she wanted him filling her, claiming her.
“Please,” she managed to say finally as she looked back at Ramiro, who was teasing at his cock.
“Please what?” he said, his gaze dominant and intense, setting heat blooming through her every cell. Goddammit. He’d sent her into subspace enough times to know that she went practically nonverbal every time. Words became harder to string together as she found it more difficult to act on the impulse of speaking. It was like slipping into her wolf mind and her wolf throat, neither of which were able to articulate human language, leaving her with her mouth shut and her words gone.
So when she did manage to squeeze out words, they became all the more thrilling, syllables heavy with the effort of rising from the depths of her sensory sea. Each word became filthier, more delectably humiliating. Ramiro knew that simply from watching her reactions: she’d quake as she spoke, her skin breaking into goosebumps, just as it was doing now.
“Please fuck me,” she breathed, her heart thudding against her chest, her sternum flat against the comforter and sheets.
“Daddy, please,” she whimpered.
She thought she might’ve heard him breathe the words oh fuck, but her gasp drowned them out as he drove his cock into her. No matter how thoroughly he fucked her or how often he did, she was always tight the first time he entered her. He’d told her before that he loved the feeling of her loosening around him, her cunt slack, blossoming with arousal. She reveled in the sensation of opening up, held in his arms, pressed under his weight.
She was especially tight today with the plug in her asshole. She whimpered as the ridge of his cock squeezed against the metal, the sensitive wall between her pussy and ass pinned tight. It was too much.
“Mercy,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. Ramiro stopped still. She fumbled around behind her and grabbed on to his sturdy arm, taking one deep breath after another as she squirmed to a more comfortable position.
“Doing okay?” Ramiro asked, petting her hair.
Constance smiled, humming contentedly, the plug settled more cozily inside her, snugly pressed up against his hard cock. She nodded.
He took his time fucking her. She squirmed, gasping as he rocked in and out of her. Even at this pace, she was already making obscene, wet noises, her pussy squishing with her juices as he dragged the head of his cock against the sturdy ridge of her G-spot. Her head fell back. He groaned, his hands clutching hard at her hips. Her clit had to be big and fat, brimming from her hood like a pomegranate seed; it jostled with every slap of their hips, sending sparks through her, any of them ready to ignite the wildfire of orgasm. She sobbed with pleasure as Ramiro leaned forward and kissed along her neck, then cried out when he bit her shoulder and sucked a bruise into it.
“You’re Daddy’s,” he murmured, lips shining with spit as he released her. Fiery tendrils of pleasure licked at her limbs. She curled her toes and planted her face into the pillow, where she let herself moan unrestrained, her lungs flushed through with air and energy, his cock drawing howls from her throat. He hammered harder into her, jolting the plug in her ass, sending tingles through her. Fuck, she loved how his balls slapped against her pussy and her mound, loud and unrepentant. She reached through her legs with a hand to fondle him, drawing a long groan and a string of whispered curses from him.
She grinned, but Ramiro chose that moment to toy with the sparkling plug again. Pleasure washed over her pride, thrusting her into the undertow as she whined and shoved her face into the pillow again.
“Daddy,” she sobbed, toes curling and uncurling. The deep, driving thrusts were making her quake like slip-sliding tectonic plates in a subduction zone.
Constance did her best to speak in English across New Angeles so she could accommodate the most listeners. When she used Spanish, it was usually to interview people for the newspaper. Mandarin, though, was the language that she held close to her heart. She spoke it only with family.
And now, with Ramiro too.
She bit her tongue, but as he rammed into her particularly hard, she couldn’t help but let the words tumble out, pulled from the depths of her id.
“S-shufu,” she groaned. “Hao shufu…”
“Mmm.” His hum vibrated through her. “‘Baobei.’ That’s how you say ‘baby,’ right?”
Constance nodded, smushing her face into the smooth weave of the pillowcase. Thank God she’d sprung for the high thread count, or else her face would be rubbed raw by now.
“Well, baobei,” Ramiro said, pausing, “let’s try this.”
He pulled out, then hooked a couple fingers around the base of the plug and tugged slowly and carefully, gauging her reaction. She bit her lip, then moaned softly, panting as it popped out of her. She felt empty suddenly, already longing for him to fill her again.
“Be patient,” he said, smirking at her. He manhandled her, tugging her back toward him, keeping her propped up so that her pussy and ass were still high in the air. He planted a kiss at the base of her neck, held on to her waist, and pushed his cock into her again.
Toys had their place, but Ramiro could drive deeper into her, fill her more comfortably, when all of her pelvis was pliant for him without toys in the way. With her attention no longer split, she could focus on his cock pounding her pussy and shaking her whole body. Her skin prickled as his sweat dripped onto her. His clothes stuck to her, her juices slicking his front, leaving smears and trails on his dark slacks. She clutched the sheets, knowing that she would be doing his laundry later and loving the thought that she’d see traces of their sex later, staining his nice dress clothes.
There would often be a moment like now when Ramiro was fucking her so deeply, so thoroughly, that she faded into sensation. She relaxed and allowed herself to feel the pleasure fully. When he bottomed out, something in her core released and opened. The tense, restless energy wound up within her now had an outlet. She became a channel, pulsing and frantic, ready to crest over.
“Ramiro,” she moaned, too lost in the pleasure to remember to call him only “Daddy,” his name tumbling from her lips. “I—I—”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. She trembled and clenched her cunt, savoring the drag of his cock inside her. Her hips rocked and bucked as if of their own volition. She blushed at how shameless she was, moaning, grinding up against him and engulfing as much of his cock as she could, riding him to the hilt, burying him balls-deep in her.
“There’s still one more command,” he said. He pushed his pace to relentless, making her eyes roll back as she slumped deeper into her submissive pose, allowing herself to become an aqueduct for bliss, open and wet and fucked, flowing and carnal.
“I—” she stammered, feeling the crest coming on again. Her toes curled and uncurled; she squeezed her eyes shut and bit at her cheeks, her lips, willing herself to keep the coil of pleasure inside herself tightly wound.
Ramiro tugged her up by the collar. She choked, the metal hard against her neck, but he released his hold as soon as she was up on her knees. He clapped a hand over her mouth and hooked the other around her waist so he could keep his pace.
“Shh,” he said. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his facial hair bristly, sending chills down her spine. His voice was low but precise when he spoke in her ear: “Come.”
Her orgasm contracted through her, then rippled outward, supernova-like in form and intensity. It left her shaking and gasping, her cunt pulsing along his entire length. She sank back onto him, shuddering as his head nudged deeper into her. She grabbed at the sheets, at Ramiro’s arms, snarling as the crash of orgasm pulled her to the brink of metamorphosis. She tamped down on the urge to transform before her claws grew out and injured anyone. Her legs went weak; only his arms kept her up. When he lowered his hold to her hips, she flattened into the mattress. He shifted his weight onto her, pinning her down.
“It’s too bad I can’t knot,” he said with a soft chuckle as he kept his hips pressed tight against hers. Constance moaned at the thought, her eyelids heavy as she squinted and tried to make sense of the sensory landscape around her.
“You’d be too perfect if you could,” she said. Her tongue was heavy and thick, but words were coming back to her.
They lay simply breathing for a while. Then, the bed creaked as Ramiro sat up. He undid the tie around her ankles and rubbed her skin until the impressions left by the silk calmed down. He went to the adjoining restroom and ran a washcloth under warm water. When he came back, he wiped Constance off, his motions tender; he was careful not to rub too hard with her so sensitive after a session.
“Do you want me to take the collar off?” he said, touching the ring around her neck.
Constance hesitated. She touched the collar herself, her fingers dancing along the smooth, heavy metal. She’d said that she’d let him collar her for one night, but something about this felt right to her.
And a collar would stop her from being mistaken for a stray whenever she transformed.
“No,” she said after a while. “I love it. I—I love you, Ramiro.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, wide and genuine, heartfelt and true. Just as he saw her for all that she was, she liked to think that she could do the same for him: see beyond every guise of masculinity he had to wear to the spirit inside, shy and yet commanding, powerful and gentle.
“I love you too, Constance.”
He held her close. Then, after a pause, he spoke again.
Constance looked up at him, her eyes shining and earnest, richly brown as a Rottweiler’s. She wished so badly for her tail so she could wag it.