When Cholon became a werewolf, the last thing he expected was that everyone would be calling him Chica. Chica, a pussy's name for a killing machine, three hundred pounds of solid muscles, moon-driven strength, and jaws powerful enough to tear apart a train. And yet, for all of his power and viciousness, his new pack named him like a bitch.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
Dark thoughts stormed in his thoughts as he sat in a hard-back chair near the entrance of the North Chicago Pack's den, an underground lair for a dozen werewolves, all men.
That night, most of the pack was gathered around a wall of sixty inch televisions and four gaming consoles. It was the end of an impromptu tournament and they were all cheering for the four remaining players seating in front of each one. It was a football game of some sort and all but one of them were playing the Bears. Most of the pack didn't bother with clothes in the den, which gave Cholon a disturbing view of tight, muscular asses and large cocks that swung with every jump and slap.
The only ones not playing or cheering were on the other side of a stone sparring ring. Bastile, the alpha, sat on the end of his bed, eyes closed and his body trembling. He was a massive man, with dark skin, short hair, and shoulders wide enough that he had to walk sideways through most doors. Every inch of his body was scarred and scratched, wounds that wouldn't heal even with a werewolf's supernatural healing.
Between Bastile's legs was the opposite of everyone else in the den: a slender young man with shoulder-length hair, a narrow waist, and a tiny ass. It was Bitch, the pack's omega and the whipping boy for everyone. He was a submissive little slut who wasn't much better than bringing food and sucking cock. At the moment, his head bobbed up and down as he choking on Bastile's uncomfortably large shaft. With every lurch forward, Cholon could see tremors of Bitch's muscles flexing along his spine. The young man was putting everything into deep-throating the alpha.
Standing next to the two was Raccor, the pack beta. Cholon's eyes narrowed and his lips peeled back into a snarl. Two days before, Cholon had broken into the den with the intent of making Bitch his personal bitch, a fuck toy. He wasn't entirely sure how he found the den—he would have never considered looking in the sewers—but the smell of Bitch was too hard to resist.
What he didn't expect, as he was fucking Bitch hard into the ground, is that Raccor would sneak up on him and challenge him to combat.
The snarl faltered. Cholon prided himself in violence. Before his transformation, he was a MMA fighter who managed to score a number of medals on the national circuit. Not enough to win a title, but enough that he saw himself in magazines on occasion. But up against Raccor, all his skills were nothing against the broad-shouldered man who easily defeated him. Raccor didn't use fancy maneuvers, only sheer strength and speed.
His cock twitched at the memory of being pinned down by the larger werewolf, his legs splayed open and a hard cock poised at his asshole. They were both werewolves at the time, but he could still remember an incredible shiver of pleasure that filled him as he realized he was about to be dominated.
Cholon rested one hand over his jeans to shield his growing hardness. He couldn't help it. The memories were still too raw and intense. The feeling of Raccor's thick shaft sliding into Cholon's ass caught him to grow harder. Each ridge and bump scraping against his insides threatened to let a moan of desire escape.
He shook his head, trying to tear his thoughts away from his humiliation. He couldn't have liked it. He wanted to say he was raped, but he was going to do the same thing to Raccor if he won. It was something more, a primal need to claim what he defeated.
But he had never lost before.
Uncomfortable, Cholon shifted one leg to relieve the pressure. He kept his hand rested over his shaft to hide it, but stared down at the ground. He felt like an outsider in the den. It seemed reasonable after two days, the rest of the pack seemed to treat him warily while cheerfully calling him Chica every fucking second.
“In your face!” Cholon jumped up as one of the players, a black man named Jesus, stood up and humped the air toward his opponent. His long cock slapped the other man in the head who batted it away, eyes cast down.
The opponent was a heavily tanned man that Cholon recalled used to be a farmer in Kentucky. The perpetually red-skinned man sighed and shook his head.
The roar of the bystanders rose up. Cholon glanced through the press of naked bodies to see that the other game was about to end. It was hard to tell who was who, he didn't try that hard to remember the names yet, but it looked like it was a sprint for the end goal. Both players were standing up, using their bodies as if it could influence the game. Cholon smirked as one of them ran in place, holding the tiny controller in his hand as he pretended to race down the field.
The others were cheering louder, even the player who lost. The excitement was almost addictive and it took Cholon effort not to stand up to peer at the final game.
With a roar, the game ended. The winner was the Irish named Stout. The winner was another black guy, Isaiah. Isaiah, like most of the pack, was broad-shouldered and muscular. He stood up and held out his hand to Stout, who yanked him in a hug.
Cholon couldn't help but watch as their bodies rubbed against each other, their cocks no doubt pressing. It was like being on a gay porn set; the pack was comfortable with each other in a way that made Cholon more than uncomfortable. The constant tension in the underground lair felt like either a fight or an orgy was going to break out.
“Losers in the ring!” bellowed Jesus as he shoved his opponent toward the metal stairs leading to the sparing arena. The stone circle was thirty feet across and heavily scarred with supernatural claws and stained and more than a little blood. It was also where Raccor had beaten and humiliated Cholon.
Cholon watched as the werewolves changed to the new arena. They surrounded with the exuberance of a fraternity, shoving and jostling each other as they tried to find their spot. The sight of bare asses and half-hard cocks was almost too much for Cholon. He liked guys, but there was a lot of man spread out in front of him.
The farmer and Isaiah took their positions in the arena. Both men were hard and already panting, a thin sheet of sweat coating their bodies. It came to no surprise to Cholon that they had plenty of chest hair over their tight muscles. Hair seemed to be a common thing with most werewolves except for Bitch.
Jesus held up his hands in the middle. “You know the game. Let's see who's the loser! Ready! Fight!”
Both fighters let out a yell as a shimmer rose up from their bodies. Muscles corded, standing out along their sweat-slick flesh. As the roars continued, both of them swelled as the change too over.
Cholon couldn't help but grow more excited as he watched the two werewolves transform. It was a slow and painful process, taking almost a minute for fur to spread out along their bodies and their bones to lengthen and harden. Neither man stopped yelling as the sound grew deeper and more guttural, a low rumble that resonated in Cholon's chest.
The rest of the pack was cheering them on. The cries of “Isaiah” and “John Boy” echoed painfully against the walls, muted only by the debris that a dozen naked men living in a sewer produced.
Isaiah finished transforming first. With a snarl, he launched forward with his outstretched claws. The right-handed strike caught John Boy across the chest. A splatter of blood sprayed out against the bystanders, who only roared louder with excitement.
John Boy finished transforming soon after, the red-haired werewolf answering with a punch of his own. It missed, but the second and third didn't. Each impact shook the air, a visceral thud of a thousand pounds of force striking hardened muscle and bone.
Isaiah was faster and nimble, moving with surprising grace as he ducked from John Boy's attacks. He lashed out with his claws, cutting into flesh and splattering everything with blood.
John, on the other hand, was obviously more powerful. When he did land a blow, it threw Isaiah back almost out of the ring. He also moved steadily, if slow if he was in the MMA circuit.
Cholon couldn't help but compare himself to the two fighters. He guessed he was faster than John but more powerful than Isaiah. He saw both werewolves using their supernatural bodies in ways that he didn't expect and made note of it. Maybe he could learn something from the Pack.
Movement caught his attention as Raccor pulled a chair up and sat down next to him. The older man, maybe his early thirties, was just as fit as the rest of the werewolves. He had a little gray in his dark hair, but otherwise was fit as the young man clawing each other with reckless abandon.
Cholon fought the snarl and glanced away.
“Still sulking, Chica?” Raccor had an northeast accent, something that sounded almost like the voices from Boston. He thankfully was wearing a pair of boxer briefs, though the black fabric outlined a disturbingly large cock underneath.
Cholon blushed and realized he was looking. “No.”
“Really?” asked Raccor. “Because sitting alone in the corner watching everyone have fun seems a lot like sulking.”
“I'm here because you made me!”
“Then leave,” came a simple reply.
Cholon wished it was that easy. The Pack wasn't keeping him there, but something else was. A longing, Cholon hated to say, a need to be near others who understood what it felt like to transform and the overwhelming urge to fuck and fight. He growled and stared at the fight, watching the flash of bodies, the bob of erections, and the fur that flew in all directions.
“You can't, can you?”
Cholon's lips tightened.
“It's that feeling of belonging, isn't it?” Raccor chuckled. “That need to be part of a group.”
Glancing at the older man, Cholon tried to come up with some response, but words wouldn't come. He didn't want to admit Raccor was right.
Raccor stood up and walked away.
Cholon let out a sigh of relief, which ended when the beta returned with a six-pack of beer.
Snapped one off the plastic, Raccor set the rest of the pack between the two chairs before sinking down. The hard-back chair creaked under his weight. “It's part of being a were, you know. The need for a pack.”
“I,” growled Cholon, “I don't like it.”
“Of course not, you are new to the pack.”
“I'm tired of getting my ass raped.”
Raccor glanced at him and then gestured to the beer. “And yet if you won the match, you'd be the one balls-deep in some ass. That isn't rape, that's just how it ends. The loser gets fucked, the winner fucks. You knew that when you enter the ring. You just want to be the winner. Just like John Boy is going to win this fight.” He pointed to the match.
From Cholon's experience, it was Isaiah that was going to win. The faster fighter was tearing the hell out of John, ripping strips of flesh off his bones as he punched and bit. “I say Isaiah.”
Raccor chuckled. “Want to bet?”
Cholon glanced at the older man, wary of the sudden humor.
Raccor looked back, his green eyes sparkling in the light. “All contests end the same way down here. Loser gets fucked. But, I want you to crawl in my bed willingly, not fighting it.”
Cholon's cock twitched hard, straining against his pants. He couldn't forget that moment of being impaled by Raccor's hard cock. It haunted him, an intense orgasm unlike anything he had experienced before. He fought his mind away from it. “Keep out of my ass.”
Taking a swig of his beer, Raccor shrugged. “You were going to lose anyways… Chica.”
A growl rose in Cholon's throat. “Fuck—” He stopped when Raccor looked at him. Flushed, he turned back to the fight.
Isaiah had caught John in the stomach, slicing it open. Blood coursed down the former farmer's legs, puddling rapidly as he clutched his stomach. With a howl, he grabbed John by the ears and dragged him around in a circle, much to the bellowing cheers of the Pack.
Cholon gestured with his hand. “See, Isaiah wins.”
“You should have bet.”
“I would have won.”
Raccor held out a beer for Cholon. “Fight isn't over. Still time to bet.”
Cholon realized he was relaxing next to the man who humiliated him. He froze, his fingers inches away from the beer. There was another wave of bellows as Isaiah punched John in the face repeatedly, the heavy sounds of the impact interrupting the yelling.
He looked back at Raccor who smiled back. It was a sly smile.
It also threw Cholon. There was something Raccor knew. Or, the old man was just letting Cholon get the upper hand. He glanced back at the fight and then to the beta. The idea of having Raccor's ass impaled on his cock rose up. With a sigh, he grabbed the can. “Fine, I can't wait to fuck you until you scream.”
Raccor shrugged. “I don't scream.”
Isaiah yelled out over the cheers. “Should I fuck this bitch's ass!?”
“Yes!” came the bellowing responses.
Cholon smirked himself as he watched the bloody wolf holding John off the ground with one hand. Blood dripped from hundreds of scratches and cuts, splashing down on the stone. It also painted Isaiah's hardness which bobbed with the rapid beats of his heart.
He wanted to call out, to cheer him on.
“Let's teach this bitch a lesson!” Isaiah dropped John to the ground to the roar of his audience.
John bounced once and then on his side. His heavy body fell back before slumping back, his hard cock standing straight up. One furry claw relaxed, spreading open as blood pooled underneath his body.
But, even with John's grievous injuries, the werewolf was already recovering. Cholon watched as the cuts pulled themselves together, sealing up underneath the bloody smears. John's body tensed, every muscle in his body swelling, and then relaxed. He seemed to deflate for moment.
Isaiah stroked his cock as he reached down. He grabbed John's tail which peaked out from underneath the massive werewolf and yanked up.
Instead of flipping over like Cholon expected, John lashed out with his fist. There was a meaty thunk as the knuckles connected with Isaiah's erection and then a muted crack.
The den grew instantly silent.
Cholon's heart skipped a beat as he stared in shock himself.
Isaiah froze and then clutched his groin. A low whine escaped his furry throat as he sank to the ground.
At the same time, John staggered to his feet. He swayed for a moment and then punched Isaiah in the face.
The other werewolf flew back, sliding along the stone before coming to a halt at the edge of the ring. He gripped the ground to pick himself up, but his entire body was shaking. His tongue slipped out of his mouth, resting over the ridge of his fangs.
John Boy said nothing as he stomped over and yanked Isaiah back into the ring. He punched the darker werewolf in the stomach and then tossed him back across the ring.
The body hitting the ground shook the stone, but Isaiah tried to get up again.
The farmer continued to assault the other werewolf. Not with the speed or claws, but a simple brutal beating. By the time Isaiah held up his paw in surrender, John's fists were dripping with blood and pre-cum drooled down the thick length of his cock.
“G-Give!” Isaiah said, his lips peeled back.
“Turn over, bitch,” growled John Boy as he stroked his cock.
The den, formerly yelling at the top of their lungs, were strangely silent. Cholon saw them stroking their own shafts. Some of them were bumping against each other. On the far side of the den, Bastile watched with a grin on his face and Bitch impaled on his cock. The omega was using his hips to thrust down onto the alpha's shaft.
Cholon couldn't help but feel excitement himself. John Boy's beating was brutal and ceaseless, but violence was foreplay to werewolves. He clutched his growing cock through his jeans as he stared at Isaiah, wondering if the darker werewolf would fight back.
Isaiah's eyes were clear as he glared out across the arena. He was beaten and broken, but to Cholon's surprise, he lifted his body and flipped over. He landed on his knees and spread them wide, his tail rising up in submission. Cholon could see the reluctance and humiliation burning, but the werewolf still accepted his defeat with more grace than Cholon could manage.
John stood between Isiah's legs and grabbed the werewolf's buttocks. Even from the edge of the room, Cholon had a clear view of him lining up the thick, dripping cock against the tightly clenched sphincter.
Isaiah's eyes softened and he trembled.
Cholon's cock burned with desire now. He was in Isaiah's place not long ago and could remember that humiliating surge of pleasure that filled him when Raccor was about to rape his ass. It was intense and addicting, but he didn't want to admit he enjoyed his submission.
John drove down without any prelude or foreplay. The thick shaft buried balls deep in an instant.
Isaiah moaned and clawed at the ground, his hips rising to meet the thrust.
A ripple of moans filled the den as John began to pound Isaiah's ass, driving his ten-inch cock deep into the werewolf's ass with the same brutal, unstoppable force that he won the fight.
Cholon's breath grew faster as he watched John Boy dominate his opponent. At the same time, he could see the pleasure in Isaiah's face, the way the defeated werewolf pawed at the ground and his cock dripped on the ground. Each thrust drove Isaiah's face into the bloody stone, but he didn't seem to mind as he continued to fuck back.
It was hard to admit that Cholon was imagining himself in both John Boy's and Isaiah's position. He wanted to dominate and win, but at the same time, it was difficult not to see that Isaiah was getting as much, if not more, pleasure out of being humiliated in front of the pack.
John Boy continued to drive deep and hard. The seconds stretched into minutes, the world focusing one cock impaling a pair of tight buttocks.
Isaiah suddenly cried out, cum splattering against the ground. His body began to deflate and shrink, the fur fading away and the muscles growing slender. He was transforming back, still impaled on the massive cock of his werewolf opponent. His cries grew louder as his body shrank around it but the strokes didn't stop with their depth, speed, or power.
It took another minute for the werewolf to return to human form. BY the time he finished, he was writhing on the cock that looked larger than his forearm.
The cock slid deep and pulled out, every inch dripping with pre-cum as it slipped out of a tightly stretched ring.
John reached down and grabbed Isaiah by the throat. Yanking up, he pulled the black man off the ground and slammed him down on his cock. The size of his shaft bulged out Isaiah's muscular stomach.
Isaiah's cock streamed cum. It spurted into the air and rolled down the side.
Using Isaiah as nothing more than a cock sleeve, John gripped him tight and pounding him hard, holding him off the ground as he drove deep into him. The strokes grew faster and harder.
Isaiah's body shook as he whined and flailed out, cumming again and again.
Cholon's body grew tight with a hunger. He needed to cum.
With a start, he realized he had just lost to Raccor again. His initial feeling was to run away or lash out, but his eyes never left the sight of John Boy fucking the hell out of a very willing Isaiah.
Gulping, Cholon wondered if he could do the same thing. TO surrender to his opponent. His cock surged with the thought of being pinned down against the ground, ass up in the air and cock driving balls deep into his body. It wasn't hard to imagine, two days ago, it had been a reality.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, Raccor, you won.” He turned to look at the pack beta. “I'll submit….?”
Raccor was gone.