Peter the Wolf

For Jenessa.

Hopefully this is even remotely coherent. I wrote it in hurried snatches between chores while recovering from being ill.





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He had to stop rushing over every time Cemal rang. It wasn’t the first time that Peter had had this thought. It likely wouldn’t be the last. Yet there he was, stripping away his shirt as he prowled through the main parlor.

“I think you’ve gained a good stone since I saw you last, Peter.” Cemal was leaning against the wall, his tone and posture maddeningly aloof. “And not all of it in muscle.”

Peter’s shirt fell in a grubby white streak along the vivid blue and amethyst rug. He pulled his lips back across his teeth, caught somewhere between scowl and grimace.

“It’s only been a week, you ass.”

“Well. Maybe half a stone, then.”

Peter fell upon Cemal with a low growl. His fingers curled roughly into the delicate satin silk of the man’s robe, and the heat of his nose found the cool hollow just beneath the corner of Cemal’s jaw. Peter’s growl trailed off as he breathed in Cemal’s scent.

Cemal did not smell the way that most people did. There was no salt about him, no musk or rich earthiness. He did not stink of fear or of lust. His smell was closer to that of water, or of a breeze that has traveled across miles of snow. The spiciness that clung to the surface of that scent, Peter knew, was from the soaps and oils that Cemal used on his skin and hair. And the man was cool, too cool, beneath the heat of Peter’s tongue as it slid along the shell of Cemal’s ear.

“Only a week,” Cemal murmured, “and you behave as though it has been a year. Have you no civility left in you at all?”

“Didn’t think,” Peter rumbled in reply, “that you asked me over for brandy and cigars.”

His teeth caught on the tea-colored skin of Cemal’s earlobe and gave it a tug. Cemal finally straightened out of his lean, his hands bracing to the wall behind him. He pushed into Peter, unconcerned for the way the man had crowded him, and then stepped smoothly past. Away.

“True enough.”

Peter still had his palm fixed to the papered wall. He twisted to look under it, behind him. He admired the way the rich teal silk of the robe draped from the curve of Cemal’s ass to flutter at the backs of his knees. And then the man was gone, turned through the door and into an unlit room. Peter growled.

“Well. Come along,” Cemal called liltingly.

He should have left. He was no dog to be ordered about. To be called over by phone, and then strung along in person. Anyone else he would have simply pinned and fucked, perhaps even made a meal of them afterward, but not Cemal.

Peter’s fingers dug against the textured paper. He should have left. He should not have come to begin with. He certainly should not have pushed away from the wall to go trailing after the man as though he were sniffing after a bitch in heat. Yet there he was, passing through the dark of one room, into the darker of another. Beyond, where he knew Cemal’s bed chamber to be, a sliver of unsteady light showed the bottom side of a door.

The room that revealed itself to Peter when he pushed open the door was opulent to say the least. It was vast enough to have been an apartment in and of itself. To the right was a mismatched, but well coordinated set of davenports and a chaise, all set before a fireplace that was not only dormant, but blocked by a grecian mosaic. The walls were lined with thick drapes that offset the rich colors of the rugs that were scattered over the floor, and it was impossible to look at any one thing without also taking in a painting or sculpture of some sort. Even the ceiling was decoratively painted, and Peter felt he was shutting the door more on an underground museum than on a bedroom.

Cemal had arranged himself in the massive four-poster bed to the left. Peter toed off his shoes rather than trail mud and dirty laces across the fine rug, but little could be done for the lingering dirt on his jeans. His gaze swept from Cemal’s bare toes to the splash of color his robe made against the black of the bedding, and then up to the delicate curvature of the man’s collarbones. Beyond that to the half-smirk on Cemal’s lips, to the impossible dark of his eyes. Peter’s thumb hooked on his button, and his jeans went straggling to be left in his wake.

“I’m afraid that there is a lack of brandy and cigars, but there’s some cognac if you want it.” Cemal’s hand tipped to the side, fingers unfurling in gesture to the small liquor cabinet near the bed.

“Ain’t plannin’ on stayin’ that long.” The mattress gave beneath his weight as Peter crawled atop the bed.

“No? Have you somewhere more important to be?”

Peter hummed as he picked at the tie on Cemal’s robe. “Guess not.”

Peter slid the panels of fabric to either side, exposing the lean length of Cemal’s body to the relative cool of the room. One calloused hand slid up a deceptively slender thigh. His nails caught along the delicate angling of Cemal’s hip, and his hand splayed over the dip of lightly muscled belly. The lack of movement was always distracting. Always made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“You’re very odd,” Cemal commented, his perpetual smirk deepening.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Quite the contrary,” Cemal purred as he hooked his fingers into Peter’s hair. “It seems to have gotten me everywhere.”

The pull to his scalp had Peter easing upward. He prowled over Cemal, hands and knees braced to either side of the man. Long fingers curled against Peter’s scalp, the smooth edges of nail teasing at oily skin. Peter sucked in a breath as he let himself dip closer, the bits of scratching sending little starbursts of heat beneath the surface of his skin.

“You’re entirely too easy, Peter.”

“Shut up.”

A low chuckle parted from Cemal. Peter passed his fingers along the man’s arms, lowering to drape the heat of his body over the cool of the one beneath him. He couldn’t help but tuck his hips to grind pleasantly along smooth skin, his half-hard cock swelling all the more.

Cemal was, at least, obliging. The man’s fingers slid along Peter’s scalp, tracing the dips and planes, feeling out bone through the layers of tense muscle. And oh how Peter groaned, his eyes rolling shut as he focused on every scrape of manicured nail and brush of pad. His hips tipped and jerked as Cemal pet through the hair behind Peter’s ears.

“Do you never bathe?”

Peter’s lips stilled where they had caught on Cemal’s jaw. He hummed thoughtfully, his cock sliding a sticky trail near Cemal’s navel. Never was an over estimation to his thinking.

“Took a shower couple days ago,” he rumbled.

“Of course.” Cemal’s tone was as resigned as his sigh.

“Yeah, well. You’re cold,” Peter replied defensively. He rasped his teeth along Cemal’s smooth skin, and returned to nibbling at his ear.

“Not for much longer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the lube?”

Cemal’s fingers curled into the tangles of Peter’s hair. They grasped close to his scalp, sending his spine into a paroxysm of shivers. Cemal’s chuckle and the drag of his lips along Peter’s shoulder only made it worse. He finally stilled, all but panting, his body in a boneless sag atop the other man.

“That can wait.”

Cemal’s voice was all around Peter then. It closed in on his ears, passed through his thoughts, and rolled through his very bones. He groaned and rocked his hips again, his cock aching unbearably just for those words. Words that all but swallowed him up and left him drunk on the feel of the body against his.

It could wait. He had to agree. Nevermind that his veins were burning and his chest was tight and his throat had gone dry and his cock was throbbing, throbbing, and throbbing between the weight of his body and the firm resistance of the one beneath him. It would wait.

Cemal’s mouth was moist at Peter’s jaw. Teeth scraped in a blunted drag over the outside of Peter’s ear, and he was dimly aware of the fact that he was growling again. Of the fact that it made his throat raw to do so, but that the sound couldn’t be stopped. No more than he could soothe the prickle of his hairs standing on end.

He knew when it happened, because that was when he stopped caring. The first instants were the most incongruous. There were teeth digging into him. They were sharp, and they were long, and they burned as they pierced his skin. They didn’t matter. The pain was there, certainly, but it was distant. It would pass. And where once the sheer apathy to his situation would have frightened Peter for the briefest of moments, now it did nothing. Events were noted through his thoughts, and then dismissed altogether.

He was warm, and he was heavy, and his heart beat a steady, loud pulse in his chest. The hammering of it spread to his head, through his limbs. His entire body seemed to rock with it, and that drumming blurred out even the insistent demand of his cock. He was floating, and he was sinking, and everything was pleasant. Fuzzy and warm and tingling. He was drunk without drink, high without the urge to vomit. He was himself, and the trees, and the wild. He was the earth and the moon and the stars. He was howling through his soul, and the howls of a hundred wolves answered him.

Peter did not know how long had passed when he again became aware of the fact that he had limbs. The spittle clinging to his cheeks was thick, as though he’d been sleeping with his mouth open, and his head was light. He was staring up at the canopy over the bed, though he had to blink repeatedly to get his eyes to focus on the black on black embroidery. He grunted, muzzy-headed and heavy, and let out a long sigh. Oh but he felt good.

“Mmmm.” Cemal’s lips found the hollow of Peter’s cheek. “You’re awake.”

Peter drew a deep breath in along his tongue. He let the smells of blood and lust, of spice and water, mix between his nostrils and his pallet. His cock gave an insistent, aching pulse between his legs. It sent a pang just behind his temples, but Peter paid it little mind.

“Y’trying to kill me?”

A long, husky laugh rolled through Peter’s thoughts. He licked at his lips and tensed, feeling the soft bedding shift beneath his shoulders, ass, and heels. Cemal was nibbling at the cleft in his chin.

“If I were trying to kill you,” Cemal whispered, “you would be dead.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Mmhm.”

Slick, soft fingers wrapped about the head of Peter’s cock. They twisted and teased, feeling out the curves and creases, and then swept down with a firm press along the belly of his shaft. Peter groaned throatily as Cemal shifted above him, as those fingers fanned along his balls and then grasped anew for an upward pass.

“Nnh-” Peter sucked in a sharp breath as his hips strained upward. “Wait. Wait. Need to recover a minute.”

“What? So you can turn me over and rut into me like an animal again? I think not.”

Peter tipped his chin toward his chest, chasing after Cemal with his gaze. He was greeted with a wide, wicked grin. With white teeth and bright eyes. With a trail of dark hair along pale skin, so that Peter was made to shiver for the drag across his nipple.

“You didn’t complain at the time,” he said as he dropped his head back to the bedding. The embroidery was row after row of tiny fleur de lis.

“Nor shall you,” Cemal all but breathed his words as he pressed himself back and down.

The fingers gripping at Peter’s cock tightened, guiding, so that he was made to press against a tight ring of muscle. The pressure might have aggravated him, but the generous slickness of it all had him sliding, dipping inward in a steady feed and purposeful clench and ripple of muscle. Knowing that Cemal did it deliberately made it all the more exquisite. Peter groaned, straining and arching as Cemal’s fingers fell away and the man sat himself abruptly to the base.

“Never do,” Peter whispered.

Cemal’s legs shifted against the bedding, splayed wide and awkward as they were. He pushed himself up, one hand braced to Peter’s thigh, and let himself drop again all too quickly. Peter whined.

“You might if I hurt you,” Cemal observed, sounding nearly bored with the entire affair.

“I might hurt you back,” Peter growled.

He detested that tone. He longed to sink his teeth into the man’s shoulder and leave him crying out for every sharp thrust. Instead he lay there, gasping like a fish as Cemal worked himself up in another slow drag.

“That could only end poorly for us both.”

Peter’s fingers twitched where they grasped at the instep of Cemal’s thigh. He dug against the muscle, felt the skin out with his nails, and pushed the heel of his palm up toward the man’s hip. Cemal sank, and rose, and Peter’s hips followed to meet the next drop with a purposeful slam.

“You talk too much.”

“And you’re a brute. What is your point?”

“Nnnh- I forget.”

“How surprising.”

Peter’s fingers dug to bruising. He gripped at the narrow jut of bone, dug at the attachment points of lean muscle. He wanted nothing more than to tear into Cemal’s throat, but it was difficult enough just bucking into the man’s ass at a sedate pace.

“Don’t be cross, Peter,” Cemal purred as he leaned forward. His knees went wide, and he bent to tweak at one nipple, to tug at the short, coarse hairs that whorled around it.

“M’not.”

Oh. That again. That. Peter’s breath caught, and eased, and then quickened anew. He lurched pleasantly for the way Cemal pinched at the opposite nipple, sending it stiff as well, sending his cock to throbbing all the harder. He yearned to strike deeper into the tight squeeze of Cemal’s ass. To angle himself just so and rock and rock and rock. He managed something a little faster, a little more intent with the dig of his heels into the bed, and was rewarded with a muted chuckle from Cemal. Peter shut his eyes.

“Yes,” Cemal crooned. “Just like that. Do you feel it? I can feel it building inside of you. Your heart is racing, and your entire body is singing. Humming with want and desire. There -nh-. Oh what a symphony it is. Surely you can strike harder. Surely I’ve left you with enough energy for tha-AH-.. t.”

Cemal was not going to shut up. But those words. Oh, what words. Sweet, sinful music in their own right. Peter worked into him in as much of a frenzy as his reluctant body would allow. He bucked and jerked and grasped. He met each descent with a slap of skin and a low, eager panting. Until at last the knot low in his belly began to unfurl, paused, and then tore itself abruptly free.

He growled and shuddered and lifted. Raised eagerly into Cemal as the man laughed above him. Peter could scarcely hear it past the rush of sound in his ears, the siren of ecstasy that left him trying to squirm in deeper, and harder, so that he was rocking as he held Cemal close to him. Tight and pulsing. Grinding into the careful twitches and spasms that the other man timed on the heels of each eager spurting.

Peter sagged back into the bed, breathing labored and eyes watering at the corners. He sprawled once again, just as limp and heavy feeling as he had been before Cemal had set himself astride Peter’s lap. Peter cracked open one eye, then the other, and gave a gasp as Cemal picked himself up. The sensation left Peter wincing, and Cemal smirking.

“I am going to shower. I trust that you’ll be up to doing the same when I am done. You positively reek of sex.”

“And whose fault is that?” Peter threw one arm up and over his head, turning his nose toward the musk of his armpit. He liked that reek.

“Tch.”

Cemal withdrew, the sound of his steps barely audible even to Peter’s ears. The rush of water in the distant shower was a scream in comparison. Peter rolled to the side, closed his eyes, and listened. There, just barely audible past the steady rush of the shower, was the sound of Cemal humming.

It took several pleasant minutes before Peter had the energy to sit himself up. Cemal had placed a glass of orange juice on the bedside table, and Peter quaffed it as quickly as he could manage. He’d never particularly cared for the stuff. Feeling better by the minute, he went padding bare-footed through the splendor of Cemal’s bedroom.

The bathroom was steamy from the shower. The whole of it smelled of cedar wood and spice. The tile was slick, and it was a struggle to keep his prey pinned and his balance at the same time, but Cemal tasted good between his teeth. Felt good as he fucked the man up against the wall twice over. Those times it was without discourse, and without rejoinder.

They washed in silence afterward, with Cemal allowing Peter to run the sponge carefully over the mild inflammation at his ass. It was silent, strangely intimate, and left Peter smiling sedately as they moved back into the bedroom.

Peter gathered a package of cigarettes from his abandoned jeans, fished his lighter out of his pocket, and moved to perch at the edge of the bed. Cemal slithered up behind him and caught the smoke out of his hands. Peter could just make out the narrowing of dark eyes in his peripheral vision.

“You know better than to do that in here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter set the lighter down alongside the empty glass.

Cemal flicked the cigarette after it, and leaned back as he toweled at his own hair.

“Is your name really Peter?”

“We’ve been fucking for five years and you’re asking me that now?”

Peter curled his toes against the wool rug that fed under the bed. His stare was fixed on Cemal’s newest acquisition: some modern affair with too many clashing colors. It hadn’t been there the last time he’d visited, and even in his sated haze he found himself irked by the thing. Rather than spring up to tear it to bits, he fixed his gaze longingly on his cigarette.

“Do keep in mind, darling,” Cemal said, his towel working vigorously at his hair, “that you only told me your age over dinner last month.”

“Dinner.” Peter snorted. “The name Peter goes back pretty damn far, darling,” Peter replied with a twist of mockery.

“Well, yes.” Cemal agreed as he slid up behind Peter once again. His hands, still warm from the shower, fanned along the man’s shoulders. “But you must admit that it’s far more likely that your name is something along the lines of Piotr or Petru or the like.”

“Mmm,” Peter rumbled distractedly. “Nope. Just Peter.”

Cemal traced the outline of Peter’s spine. They both fell still and silent, with Peter ruminating on the painting, Cemal at his back. The longer he stared at the damn thing, the more he wanted his cigarette.

“Still,” said Cemal, his mellifluous voice slipping like a shadow into Peter’s thoughts, “it is rather amusing.”

“Uh?”

“Well you aren’t very well going to catch yourself by the tail.”

“Uh?”

Cemal’s sigh was thin and drawn out. “Nevermind.” He slid from behind Peter to settle into the rumpled bedding. “Turn off the lamp when you go.”

Peter rumbled. It might have been an agreement; it might not. He did not move to leave. Instead he curled his toes again and contemplated the painting on the wall. The lingering twinge in his thighs.

“I could go for some duck,” he muttered as he reached over and snapped off the lamp.

Cemal’s amused chortle chased after Peter’s heels as he collected his things in the dark.


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thank you, Felix