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Wolf Pack Potluck

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Allison rakes her nails down his chest, hard. She loves watching the lines start out red and then get paler until they disappear. She loves that by the time she reaches his pelvic line, the marks by his nipples have already vanished - it gives her an excuse to do it again, and again, and again.

Scott whimpers, but he doesn't struggle. He doesn't try to buck her off, or break the fragile bonds holding each of his limbs to one of the four posts of her bed. He can't help but shift a little: just enough so that his eyes turn gold and his teeth and nails get sharper, but she knows that he can't help it, so she won't punish him for it.

Sometimes he regrets that. Her punishments are almost as good as her rewards.

Allison smiles down at him, fingers gently rubbing along the line of his boxers, driving him slowly to distraction. "You're being so good, sweetie," she reassures him, bending to nuzzle her nose against his belly-button and then trailing it up his chest to his collarbone. She takes slow, measuring licks from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, and Scott fights the urge to grind upwards, seeking friction.

He has to stay still, for now. He has to follow the rules Allison has made.

He's surprisingly okay with that.