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The Werewolf Toll

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The wind was howling. It was cold and dark, and the forest of Montfermeil seemed endless. Valjean could no longer say how long he had walked. He had intended to reach the inn shortly after nightfall, but it seemed to him that he had walked through the darkness for hours. Even the light of the moon did not seem to reach to the ground, the canopy of leaves above blocking all illumination.

It could not be much longer now, he told himself, and had he not lived through worse? He was free; that alone was enough to be grateful.

That was when he became aware that he was not alone in the forest.

There was a distant rustling. It could have been a boar, or perhaps a deer, out to feed in the light of the full moon tonight. It could have been a hunter, even, or another weary traveler like him.

But something made his heart beat faster in his chest, a strange terror taking hold of him as he turned to gaze at the darkness surrounding him.

There—had he not seen a movement there? And was that the sound of his own breathing, or not rather the panting of some large animal in the distance?

Again he turned—and then, out of the darkness, something hurled itself at him with such ferocity that even his great strength did not help him.

Valjean was forced down onto the cold forest floor, hot breath against his cheek. Claws slashed his clothes. Even as he helplessly struggled, the full weight of his attacker came to bear on him—and then there were fangs at his throat, and a loud, angry growl made him freeze.

A wolf. It was the growl of a wolf—but a wolf like none he had ever seen. As he trembled, unable to move with the threat of the beast’s fangs pressed to his throat, the beast’s claws tore his clothes. The wolf was heavy, and large—nearly as large as a man. And then, something hard and hot pressed against his thigh.

Valjean froze in horror when he abruptly realized just what it was.

The wolf was fully erect, and even as he growled against Valjean’s throat, saliva dripping from his jaw, the knobby erection rutted against his thigh.

With a terrified groan, Valjean tried to get his arms under him to throw off the wolf, regardless of the sharp fangs that threatened to pierce his throat—but just at that moment, the wolf had found the right position, and with his next thrust, the slick tip of the beast’s erection was jammed hard into his hole.

In agony, Valjean cried out. He had never been used in such a way; in Toulon, men had left him alone and feared him for his strength.

But now, with the beast resting on top of him, growling with hot breath against his throat, there was no escape as the wolf kept rutting against him, the knobby prick forced deeper and deeper into his aching hole until he arched in despair, stretched beyond what he thought he could bear.

And still there was more. The beast was panting, hot saliva dripping onto his skin as it fucked him with quick, rough thrusts—and every time the monstrous cock was pulled out a fraction, it was forced even deeper into him on the thrust in, until Valjean was moaning along with the grunts of the beast, filled and stretched open wide around the hot prick.

His face was wet with tears and the creature’s saliva. The violation ached—but at the same time, a horrifying pleasure had begun to bloom in him. Now, every time the bestial cock was shoved deep into his sore hole, the rippled surface of the monster’s prick filled him in such a way that his back had begun to arch to take it deeper, his own prick suddenly, shamefully hard.

The wolf was still growling as the assault continued, drooling saliva all over his neck—but now Valjean was panting, writhing beneath the beast not to escape, but because there was no escape from the pleasure that was being forced on him. His body throbbed relentlessly as the monster claimed him with brutal thrusts, his body at last relaxed and slick enough from the creature’s secretions that the knobby prick slid in deep enough at last that Valjean could feel the furry, enormous balls hit his own with every thrust.

He was panting for breath, groaning. Another thrust filled him, and another, his aching body clenching around the enormous prick—and then, at the next thrust, he was forced open even more widely as something as large as his fist seemed to batter against his hole.

The wolf was snarling even as Valjean cried out. Then, abruptly, his fangs sank deep into Valjean’s shoulder, at the same time as the huge knot was forced into his protesting hole.

Valjean spasmed around the wolf in agony, stretched beyond what he could bear. But even as he arched, the werewolf continued to thrust, the large knot swelling impossibly bigger, rubbing against him again and again from the inside. With the monster’s fangs still inside his flesh, Valjean spilled himself with a hoarse cry, an agonizing climax forced from him while the huge prick inside him pulsed and pulsed, jet after jet of burning heat filling him.

The beast did not stop. Even after Valjean’s body had at last finished, the monster’s prick was still deep inside him, the huge knot spreading him open so that new pleasure coursed through his veins every time he moved. Even now, Valjean could feel the werewolf’s large testicles pulse against his own, a new gush of the beast’s spend released inside him until his stomach cramped at the sheer volume of it and he groaned, filled to bursting.

The wolf had at last released his shoulder, the wound still stinging with pain—but it had not released him. Even when the huge prick inside him at last stopped pulsing, the creature remained inside him, the knot swollen to a terrifying size within. He could feel it inside himself every time he shifted, tears running from his eyes at the incredible pressure, which even now sent new pulses of pleasure through his ravaged body.

Moaning brokenly, Valjean at last felt for it with his fingers. The beast growled as his fingertips encountered the large, furry testicles. Then he found his own hole, stretched impossibly wide around the knobbly prick, the tight muscle stretched wide open. Panting helplessly, he tried to slide a fingertip inside, feeling for the knot that kept the prick lodged within him—but at the stimulation, the wolf growled and lightly rutted against him instead, the painful knot pressing down, and Valjean’s body arched as another weak dribble of his own release was forced from him.

Hot and wet, the creature’s long, red tongue licked at his wounded shoulder as Valjean continued to tremble. The monstrous cock was still inside him, and no matter how much Valjean convulsed around the agonizingly large prick, or how much he helplessly tried to stretch open his battered hole even further with his fingers, the knot was too big to expel.

Furthermore, any attempt made the creature rut against him instead. Four more times, the heavy, furred testicles released another load of the beast’s burning seed deep inside him, until at last, sobbing at the feeling of fullness, Valjean abandoned every attempt to extricate himself.

In return, the werewolf licked his neck, his shoulder, nosing along his ear with pleased little huffs of hot air while Valjean rested on the ground in broken surrender, his body still stretched around the beast’s knot.

Time passed slowly. Despite his earlier release, something about the large presence inside him kept him aroused, although much of the urgency had passed. Now, he couldn’t help but focus on the strange feeling of warm fur all along his back, the bestial testicles resting against his own, the way his body seemed filled to the brim with the creature’s hot release.

When the beast’s knot finally subsided, the monster pulling out of him, Valjean groaned in terrible relief. His cock weakly jerked again, spending what little was left to him even as the wolf’s copious spend rushed out of him, drenching his thighs with the hot slickness.

His shoulder still ached, but compared to the ache of his empty hole the pain in his shoulder was bearable and seemed to fade unnaturally quickly.

Valjean did not resist when the creature nudged at him until he had turned over. The wolf lapped at his spent prick, the coarse hot tongue making him groan again as it swiped over his sensitive glans. The tongue kept licking over the tiny hole—as if it wanted to take his scent with it to remember him by, so that Valjean shuddered in sudden terror at the thought.

Then, at last, with the full moon still shining down on him, the creature slunk back into the shadows, and Valjean was alone.

An hour passed until he found the strength to rise and pull his clothes up.

Every step was agony. He could still feel the creature’s heat deep inside him. For a long, long time, he kept walking, until at last, with the first light of the dawn, he made it to a small village.

“What place is this?” he asked an old, grey-haired woman who was the only person out so early on the streets.

“Have you come from the forest?” she asked instead of answering him. “You must be careful, monsieur. Don’t you know that forest belongs to the werewolves?”

He paled as she cackled. Then, after a shrewd look at him, she pointed at a house across the street.

“This is the village of Montfermeil. Go to that inn yonder. It’s early, but they’ll serve you some bread even at this hour. And don’t go back into that forest unless you’re willing to pay.”

His throat tight, Valjean murmured his thanks. He did not dare to ask what sort of price that might be, for he feared that he knew the answer all too well.

In the light of the rising sun, the old woman’s eyes seemed to gleam a strange gold for a second--but a heartbeat later, that flash of light was gone, so that Valjean thought it must have been a stray ray of sunlight.

The inn’s sign above the door creaked in the breeze. He paid no mind to it as he entered; after all, he knew the name of the place, and that of the inn-keeper.

As the door fell shut behind him, the sign continued to sway in the wind, showing a man carrying a general on his back on a battle-field—and behind them, painted so faintly that only the sharpest eye would see, there was the form of a large wolf with golden eyes, gleaming from the darkness.