Werewolf Island

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham

© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(All comments, inquiries, and communication welcome, just drop an e-mail!)

Chapter 5

THE BREAKING

Breaking a man was an art.

It came to some with consummate ease, while others, plagued with delusions of morality failed to come to terms with the one, undeniable truth: do it enough, and they will learn to like it. This stark philosophy was a grinning, spurting maniac which ruled amongst the pack and its whorish apostles.

Gleefully they held the captured humans, stripped to the skin and quivering, while they, anticipating pleasure, an itching, climactic pleasure, they enjoyed every cry and grunt that they could rip from their lungs. They hadn't taken them, yet. Half of the fun was to simply build up the fear they felt. It was sport, as well as art.

Womack stroked his girth before anyone was allowed to even touch the humans. It was an unwritten rule amongst the ruleless horde. His cock filled with blood at the sight of the four humans on their knees before them, but it was the one, the redheaded one, who had most got him hard. How he longed to tear into his virgin hole in front of all of these people. Would he scream? Would he cry? These thoughts and rapturous wonders foreshadowed everything else, the ideas of what he could make him do was as much a need as any bucking and fucking. But there would be fucking aplenty; he just wanted to hear him beg for it, first.

"Tell me you want it," he growled, lowly, stroking his arousal to full mast--an impressive sight--erect already glistening in the firelight.

Red looked up at him, defiant. He did not look at the pulsing, hairy member, instead he looked straight into his glowering eyes with a burning of his own; why should he debase himself? Because his friends were at stake. Striker, and Katana. With so many lives lost already, a deeply ingrained guilt--survivors guilt--meant that he took on board a certain level of responsibility. To make them suffer when he could prevent it just by putting a cock in his mouth, would be selfish, obscene. Besides, the task itself seemed did not look entirely repulsive. The man, however.

"You make me sick."

"Your mouth won't be so smart when you've got this in it," he sneered, waggling his thick rod close to his wave, taunting. "You'll be sucking it like the bitch you are, boy."

He was right; Red's resistance could only go so far. They had a plan--an escape plan--but they had to get through this first. Through his mind a hundred options, possibilities ran, but none of them were quite as viable a this. He would sacrifice himself, offer himself to Womack, in exchange for their safety. "You won't touch them," he said, half-asked.

"Won't I?" With his hands wrapped around the base, he waved his cock close, and slapped it against Red's cheek. "I will touch whoever I want around here. This, you will come to understand."

Red's eyes snapped closed; he stifled a scream of rage. The heavy shaft was beat against his cheek. He could smell it. There was a wetness to the tip, a sticky trail from the head of him, to his cheek where a nasty smear of pre lay. He was shaking, fighting off the conflict within that would have him launch headfirst and push him into the fire.

Womack slapped him with his prick again, laughing. "Unless..." he said, with a sudden hand on the back of the man's red head, firmly holding him in place; the either hand wrapped around himself, the base of his throbbing manhood. He aimed it directly towards his lips, and with a fierce look of furious focus, he started to press against his arresting swollen lips. "Unless you are willing to bargain."

Disgusted by the closeness, the pressing of alien flesh so close, he turned his head, recoiling.

"I didn't think so," smirked the monster with no small amount of satisfaction, stepping back.

Red's blue eyes watered up, his mouth hung open clinging to whatever breath he could suck in, while he could. The hand on the back of his head tensed up, gripped whatever short hairs they could, and yanked him across the distance between them. He coughed when his face met the floor, a cloud of dust flew up and was sucked into his lungs on impact.

There was a short burst of laughter from he crowd.

"I am..." sputtered Red, spitting the taste from his mouth. "Getting real sick of this."

Womack smirked and squat down in front of him, huge cock again, well in view. "Then you know what to do."

Red did. It would be easy, he steeled himself and reached out. For the first time, he touched another man's cock, slowly reaching his fingers around the middle of the shaft, his own eyes bulged as he did this, he breath caught in haggard bursts. He was horrified at himself, red-faced and ashamed, and yet, this was what he knew he had to do. Slowly, he pushed and pulled, foreskin slid back and forth over the oozing cockhead.

"Not like that," scoffed the wolf, smacking away his limp hand and rising to his feet. "You haven't served me well enough, yet. First, you must worship."

"Worship?" He asked, drearily.

It was fucking hard to look at the naked, hairy, bulking god of a man before him and not hate his guts, but he was doing this for them, not him.

Rising to his knees again, he reached out, only to have his hands deflected again. "Oh, come, on!" He exclaimed, finally frustrated and unable to feign interest. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do here!"

Womack grinned and fondly stroked a hand over his sweat-soaked hair. "You will show me. Show me how much you want this. Tell me you want it, then show me: worship every inch of me."

In front of all these people, his friends, and someone he didn't know at all, the decorated fighter pilot looked up passed that meaty cock and burnished balls and further still he looked passed the hair and bulk and up to his face. The bastard was grinning furiously. Obviously, he thought he had won. That Red was just going to do this and let it slide. Nothing stupid would he do to jeopardise any more lives, but he was tempted to do it, to put his engorged flesh into his dry mouth, just so that he could use his teeth, so that he could make him wince, and again remind him that he was not in control here; he could bite him off just when he let his guard down. But then, wouldn't that be worse? They'd fall on him like a pack of wild animals; he'd be torn limb from limb, and he couldn't risk it, tempted as he may be.

Instead, he played the part: the cock-hungry martyr; taking one for the team.

"I do," he said quietly. "I want it, so... why don't you just let me?"

"Spoiled pup," he said lowly, a blunt mixture of lust and amusement: satisfaction, both. "You will learn to do as your masters say, or else... I'll snap your scrawny neck like a twig--after I make you watch me ruin them."

The viciousness took Red's breath away, as did the hands that clasped around his throat. He grabbed at the scarred fingers in attempt to prise him loose, eyes quickly rolled back, tongue lolled, and then he relaxed. And saw. Womack was hard as a rock, a perfect bead of pre leaked from his slit and oozed along the length like honey dew, and in a moment of insanity, when blackness started to come through in the lost world of snarling and anger, he truly wanted it. Wanted to lap at that singular bead, life itself, both symbolic and literal; it was life, and he was desperate for it. Anything was better than dying like this. When he came to terms with that, Womack eased his grip.

He watched him choke and splutter on his hands and knees for more than a minute, anger slowly subsiding; pride growing. Red was a hell of a stubborn human, and that made him want him more. He could see the way he looked at his cock, and it seemed he finally understood the seriousness of his words. He could easily get another mouth, another hole--he was disposable skin--no matter how rare he was. He had no qualms of killing him at all, should he continue the charade of pretending, pretending he didn't want this, when even he could see his half-hard dick between his thighs, try as he may to hide it between them.

When Red rose, he had a new--near-death experience--vigour for life, itself. Still shaking for breath, bleeding from his nose (red on red) he looked up at him again, new expression, new outlook, new everything. He spread his thighs and arched his back, then bowed his head low, subservient, for now.

"Please," he muttered, under his breath.

Slap. "Didn't hear that, pup."

"Please," he spat, looking him dead in the eye.

"Speak clearly." Slap.

Red knew that Womack was going easy on him, giving him chance after chance. One hand could have tossed his worthless carcass across the dirt again. He wasn't going to fuck this up. "Please." Clarity, firmness. "Please. I want it."

"Yeah, you do," he snorted.

Everyone heard him say it, this time.

"Bastards," said Striker, unable to refrain from letting tears slip.

Katana refused to even watch this disastrous spectacle, and then a wolf from behind him grabbed him by the back and forced him to. The creak in his bones and the whimper of his struggle and pain was heard by all, eliciting as much chortle as the degradation of Red centre stage. He watched, and his world crumbled. Red was the strong one, the muscle holding them all together. Striker was the thinker, the sane one. Dusk was the loyal and and coolheaded. He was the hothead, the feet-first one. Seeing Red taken down several pegs like this was a crushing blow to morale. It made him still. Made him, for the first time, seriously, fear.

Red dared. There was no asking. Womack was rigid, motionless except for the heavy breathing that filled and emptied his gigantic chest and the barbaric look in his eyes. No asking. Smug piece of shit wanted him to prove it--prove how badly he wanted it--knowing full-well he was disgusted at even the closeness of his cock to his face, and putting it in his mouth was something he definitely would have fought harder against if he could. It was up to him, now. All of their lives were in his hands, and when he took his cock in his hands, he knew that fact harder than ever.

He smelled worse than before. The head was somewhat rubbery until he ran a thumb over it and smeared the fluid pulsing out over. He'd done this to himself a thousand times before, and it was no big deal doing it now--surreal, but no big deal--taboo be damned. In fact, as he moved his fingers up and down and stroked his carnal organ, he imagined it was his own. Easy. And he started to firm up himself, but thought only of the one he handled.

There were interested mutters from the crowd, and voyeuristic curses. The three prisoners could have slipped away if they were in better state, in advantage of the sheer intensity at which they observed. Three out of five men were hard, and two out of three of those were masturbating idly, not a mote of shame. One out of five were sporting noticeable semis, but fidgeted at the state of arousal they were subjected to--torture. And the remainder was sniggering like schoolboys, leaning on shoulders, whispering obesities to their cohorts, all enjoying it, or taking enjoyment out of it in some sordid way. It was a circus, and the audience were as much the show as the main performers themselves. A real audience participation affair.

He took the head in his mouth with surmising ease. It was not difficult, he told himself as he kept his tongue out of the equation, pressed to the bottom of his mouth, despite the fact that he could taste regardless, the must and sex of his organ.

Womack groaned, not so much in pleasure from the act, but in the victory of it. He threaded his meaty fingers through the shorn spikes at the back of Red's neck and allowed the human to take what he knew he'd always wanted since seeing him.

Red started to slide his head back and forth, locking his lips just passed the head, and pulling off with a pop and a trickle. He had repeated the motion four or five times before daring to take little more of him. Half way down the shaft and his jaw ached, and his lips stretched to accommodate more inches of flesh. This was easy. The sighs and quiet moans above him served as encouragement. Secretly he was proud of himself; that he could so easily bring this self-titled god to his proverbial knees was a stimulating buoyancy. The whole world could watch for all he cared now, he had a man's cock in his mouth and he fancied himself not half bad for a first-timer, damn his ego, He took hold of the base with his hands and carefully rubbed, trying to time sucks and strokes to unison, but then, when he was feeling most rise out of his confidence, came the hands.

It was eye-opening--literally--tears burst from his eyes as Womack thrust himself deep, jabbing hard into the back of his throat.

Red immediately gagged and spat him out.

Or, he tried to. Womack's clutch forced him against it, driving his dick deeper, harder. He didn't care if he choked. Even then, not even half of him was submerged; he took over, holding Red's head in place as he fucked his throat without removing his length from those bruised and beguiling lips. Rolling, grinding, he was not too rough, giving the pet time to figure out what just happened.

"Use your tongue," he shuddered. "Breathe through your nose. Yeah... that's a good pup. Ugh..."

Red was crying as his throat was used; any grain of boldness he had was pulverised, as his much as his face every time that solid abdomen was slammed against him. He couldn't take it, his nails dug bloody trails down his assaulter's thighs. He dug in and clung on for dear life, and just hoped it would be over soon. Just fucking do it, he wished. Do it or kill me. Breathing was nearly impossible, but his orders did not fall on deaf ears, in spite of the ringing he heard. With every breath he tried to take, more was taken in return.

He looked beautiful, decided Womack; his blue eyes were eminent pools of cobalt gleaming up at him, and every time his cock vanished under that broken nose, between those plumped lips, his prick thrummed in response. Many short, sharp bursts; he couldn't get enough of seeing him swallow him.

Red was close to passing out, vision fading.

And then, more.

Continuously he was slapped into consciousness. Womack would never let him miss a moment of this. No taking the easy way out. "Fuck, he growled, becoming more rampant in every way: his breathing, his motion, his ruthlessness: he was close, so fucking close and he all he needed was that one special moment to bring him over the edge. And then he did it.

Red looked up at him.

He had how own dick in hand. He was hard.

Womack grunted and roared, thrust himself deep and held Red in place while he shoved. He was spilling like a flood to the back of his throat, roaring and spilling.

The shame, Red felt, and the defeat, he pulled off and Womack didn't stop him. There was no way he was swallowing any of that stuff, thick and salty. He cast his body aside and coughed up violently into the dust. Heavy flows of saliva, spunk and blood in a viscous frothy mess oozed from his chin, too ropy to be simply spat, so instead he stayed there on his hands and knees, shuddering and shaking, while it all gushed into the dirt before his eyes.

No longer did the wolf care for these games of dominance and submission. Once he came, he flung himself back to jerk himself of the last few drops into the flames of the bonfire. He convulsed for a long while after, and when it was all over and his cock seeped no more, he allowed the throbbing in his ears to die down, and revel in the cheering from the crowd.

They were roaring with cheers and laugher, and Red was sickened, unable to look at his friends, who were there, feet away from him and who had been forced to watch this excretive show. They were the only ones whose faces were not contorted with ecstasy and mirth, and that was perhaps the hardest part.

No amount of spitting could remove the ignominy.

Suitably broken, there was nothing now to stop him from killing them, nothing. Mouth full of spunk, Red could still have said to hell with it, and just stood up and let the fucker rip his guts out. But, in spite of it all, he still retained his self respect by some miracle.

A furious voice emerged. "How dare you--insolent--!"

At first, Red thought the end was coming, and that Womack had changed his mind after he refused to swallow his essence, and was coming for the death blow. But then the voice rose again, and it was a voice he could have done with minutes ago.

"Father, I--"

"--father, nothing!" Gogack had arrived, white hair flowing like sea-foam in fury. In his wake, a trail of sheer disbelief. He looked at the scene with utter dismay. "This--this--is how you respect us? We are savages now, no better than those Ghosts?"

Womack twitched. "They are shells!"

"Shells of men, yes, these men--do you wish to add to their ranks? Because you are doing just that, subjecting these filthy humans to degradation will only instil their hated, and they will--"

"They are slaves!" Insisted Womack. "I can do with them--any of them--as I wish!"

"There is a time and a place, and your impatience is infuriating!"

"I care not for your opinions," said Womack with a scoff, dismissing his father with a wave of his hand as he turned to survey his latest toy, freshly used.

All faces had looks of shock and embarrassment. Should they stay and bear witness to this family drama, or return to their objective posts? A bashfulness swept over some, who tentatively departed from the circle towards the village, while some other began to move towards Womack's side, as if asking for orders or any little thing that would bring balance in this situation.

As this war of words commenced, Red crawled away, away from potential danger, towards the three prisoners. It appeared as though Womack had forgotten him, until he heard the rasping anger behind.

"Stay, boy," he snarled, and dragged Red back across the dirt. "I am not finished with you..."

"You certainly are!" Countered Gogack at his back, he clasped a hand on his shoulder. "You and I will continue this in private. Return the slaves to their quarters! And you, come with me."

It was fiery, near-explosive, the look in Womack's eyes. All saw that he longed to tear the old man to pieces but relinquished the opportunity to do so with many supporters leaving to go about their business.

Red was lifted to his feet by a slave-driver, and the others, too, were picked up and corralled away like cattle. That was it, then? They were to be put back in their toy box after being played with for a while? And now daddy was scalding his boy for breaking his newest toys. Red would have laughed if he wasn't so damn disoriented. His throat burned, and the slickness that still coated his lips and chin was not even allowed to be wiped away in haste as he was pushed and shoved in every which direction by panicked a panicked wolf towards the cells yet again. For a moment, he turned to face the pushy thing, chest against chest. It did no good, eyes locked, but the fire wasn't the same; Red was no match, and not even his little show made him feel any better. He kept his eye on the prize instead: the escape plan lay only hours to fruition.

"All of you! Return to your posts!" Gogack called.

Everyone dispersed, erections were begrudgingly left untouched, and balls left full to bursting.

The cells were colder and darker, it seemed.

"Where is he?" Striker said.

"Who knows," remarked Katana, now able to join the others in the slave block. He sat in the middle of the area, legs crossed, while Striker fussed over his apparent endless wounds.

Red sat nearby, bruised and ego-battered, but otherwise uninjured, for once. All four of the men were naked, not even allowed their underwear, a tactic to lower morale even deeper into the pits of despair. There was an air of disquiet amongst them; they wanted to talk, wanted to shout, even scream, but none of them had the energy to give in to the whims of frustration.

They had been caged again for over an hour and the boy had not shown up yet.

Fed paltry sums of a strange meat in dirty bowls with strange fruits and strange nuts, they ate but without conviction. Hungry but with no appetite. And when, finally their bowls were empty and taken away by their slavers, they sat to contemplate.

"We're never going home," Katana declared, dismally.

"Stop that," said Striker. "We'll all be back home before we know it." Being positive was hard, and he would have been lying if he said he wasn't, but someone had to keep a positive outlook.

"We'll get out of here," agreed Red, who had taken to pacing again, a habit of his. Restless, uneasy.

How much longer had they to wait? The argument between father and son raged on. When it was over, it was over. They all heard Womack storm out of the village, once more relegated to jungle duty. He didn't even pay a visit to taunt the man who he had debased so successfully in front of dozens of eyes.

Red didn't care that he ever saw him again.

And he denied the feelings of disgrace again and again, telling himself that he did nothing wrong, that what he did he did for the greater good.

He did. And he would do it again if he had to. But hell if he wasn't going to try to get out of there first. They were still waiting for the boy wolf, Trayack to arrive, when they heard the Russian laugh.

"You forget my plan so soon? Cocksucker."

Red went pale. "The fuck did you call me?"

The two men were at each other, but were not touching. Somehow Dmitri had found a new strength upon his return and sought opportunity to devalue the American as soon as they arrived, sneering at his proximity, and avoiding any closeness that may have occurred, making it obvious his dislike for him.

"I called you what you are."

"Yeah? Well, call it me again and you'll be laughing though the back of your head. Shut the fuck up and sit down."

Dmitri did so, but with a pallid scowl.

"Striker, I swear I'm gonna kill this guy if he doesn't--"

"--calm down," said Striker with a solid articulation. "They could be listening. Now. Why don't you tell us your plan, again, while we have time to figure out the particulars."

"What is to tell? Were you not listening the first time?"

"Just tell him," countered Red.

"Yeah, some good it'll do..." said Katana. "We're not leaving without Dusk, remember. And we're injured."

"You cannot rely on that... thing. He may look like a mere child, but he is a beast, just as they are, don't be idiot."

"Look, if you have something to say..." Striker urged.

"At night, they transform into the monsters they are. You," he glared at Striker. "Do not believe me. But by tonight you will know. We must be quiet and we must be quick. They hardly ever sleep. If they do, I have not seen it."

"You've only been here a day longer than us. How can you be so sure?" Katana questioned.

"It doesn't matter," said Red. "We're all together now, and that's what's important. Katana, you need to lay low. If you get hurt again, we may not be able to risk rescuing you, if what this asshole says is true. We're gonna try and break about tonight. You weren't here when all this was decided but we're telling you now."

Katana waved him off.

"The kid--Trayack--is gonna sneak our equipment to us tonight when they go out on the hunt, apparently they will be all over the jungle with hardly any of them here. Asshole knows a route to the beach, which will get us around some of the jungle."

"Ghosts are active all the time, they never sleep, so we must be careful." Dmitri shuddered.

"What's so bad about these Ghosts?" Striker queried.

"Ghosts are sometimes worse. They are cannibals, you see."

"And werewolves aren't?" Red scoffed.

"Ghosts stay away from the lycans--they are afraid of them--and lycans are scared of ghosts."

"Sounds like we're caught in between," said Katana.

"Not a great place but I don't think we have much of a choice. We will escape tonight when they leave, quietly. The only reason this boy wolf did not suggest the beach is because he, too, is afraid of the Ghosts. We will ditch him then and go on without."

"But I saw them," said Red. "The tribal guys are a lot more scared of the werewolves--with good fuckin' reason--I saw one of them just... pull them to pieces. I really don't think they are scared of the Ghosts at all, and let's be honest, man: you don't know everything that goes on here, trapped in a cage.

"It's gotta be something else that keeps them all away from the beaches."

"Whatever," said Katana. "What's the plan, then?"

"When we leave," said Dmitri. "We will split into two teams. Team one will be me and you," he said, looking at Striker. "We must go around the beach to find my submarine that is still out in the bay. It has not moved. And we will ready it for launch. It is a two-man-job at least, to get the girl going, and we have more technical experience than you two.

"Team two will part from us mid-way and go to the jungle to rescue your friend to rendezvous on the beach after you collect compatible parts from your flimsy little planes, and by then they will be enough and we should have the submarine ready."

"And what's to stop you from taking off without us?" Katana asked.

"I won't let him," said Striker, reassuring his friend with a touch of his shoulder.

"Sounds solid if we can get out of here alive, first." Red said.

Red's remark was not an idle one: a lycan--not the boy--approached, bald-headed, and Red remembered him as the one who had given him particularly rough treatment at the gates. He marched to the cage bars with his tough exterior glistening. His heart sank; just why was he here? To split them up, keep them from talking? Perhaps they had been overheard, or maybe Trayack had betrayed them. The possibilities were all as disheartening as the next and oddly, the aviator was relieved when, after he approached, a hand on a bar, he waggled his soft penis through the bars and smirked.

"Service. Now." He barked.

Red approached. "What are you talking about." Just out of reach, his mouth was braver. What could he do except shout?

"Suck," he emphasised his member, rolling the thick purple foreskin back and forth, carelessly masturbating before them.

Katana was disgusted and turned away.

"You," yapped the wolf, he pointed at Katana. "Slant-eyes, come suck me."

"Not on your life," he scoffed.

"Leave him alone," said Red. "He's too hurt. You know that."

"Your boss won't like that?" Striker came next to Red. "It seems you aren't allowed to fraternise with us."

"I do not care--he will be dead before the dawn--now suck me off, or you will join him."

"What? What are you going on about?" Red flinched; the only one so far who had seemed in anyway shape or form not willing to take pleasure in their undermining, was the pack alpha, Gogack. Twice he had prevented his son from engaging with them completely. If he was out of the picture, it spelled bad news for them, and their plan. "He's your leader, right? Gogack. The old man?"

"He is obsolete. Womack will be in charge."

"Not if we tell Gogack what you're planning."

He sneered, but never stopped massaging himself. "Then you will be dead. Nothing will stop us overthrowing him tonight. So do not get too comfy here. We have better plans for you. You will start right now."

"Not on your life."

"Womack is going to kill Gogack?" Striker asked, making sure he heard right.

Even Katana had turned a head to hear more of this scandalous plot of mutiny.

"That is right. Now is one of you going to service me, or do I have to bring others here to silence you all?"

It was a dark omen; the camp would be in great disarray soon enough. While they cared not for either Gogack or Womack, the elder was steps ahead of his son in terms of diplomacy. Womack was just insane, a brain wired for pleasure and pleasure alone. His crowning as pack alpha would surely lead to chaos. It was something Red had no intention of seeing, and, he assumed, neither did his companions, especially not after all the suffering the younger werewolf had inflicted upon them. Even so, within the confines of their cell, they could do not a thing to prevent it, useless, while malevolent politics blazed on like an inferno. Like never before, urgency rooted itself in their blood: they had to get out of here as soon as possible. And they had to get the wolf away if they had any chance of cementing their escape plan.

"Fuck it," said Red. "I'll do it."

Red got to his knees, and took him in his hands. He was smaller than Womack, and a lot less hairy. His cock and balls were smooth and warm in Red's hands and he closed on it with his lips with a surefire quickness that might've sickened him to his core before, but now, knowing how much their lives depended on escape--now--he was determined to do it, just to get him to go away.

The wolf groaned mutedly.

He was soft in his mouth, and Red took to swirling his tongue around the head, flicking the tip with the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck... no," he growled. "Not... not you."

Ignoring him, Red continued, and his erection came at full mast after he reached outside to roll and smooth his balls along with sucking up and down his long shaft. He was far easier than Womack, and for some reason that was all it took for him to go on. There was very little taste to him, and his lips didn't have to stretch to an obscene degree to swallow him whole. Red geared himself up and opened his throat more at the feeling of a hand. He had expected to gag, to be face-fucked again, however, this hand pushed him away. Red was not felled by the mild effort, but he came away in surprise, a wet pop and a long string of saliva. As the pre that still connected tongue to cock finally broke the connection, too, was lost completely.

"Wha... what?" Panted Red, rising, confused.

The wolf growled his meaning, pointed finger and pointed dick towards the one who looked straight back at him.

"I get it," said Katana, rolling his eyes. To everyone's surprise, Katana emerged from his squat position and walked over as if it was normality for him. Then, he stood there. He looked the man in the face and then down at his spit-slick rod and turned a shade of green.

"K. You don't have to do anything," said Red, grabbing him by the shoulder and attempting to steer him away.

Striker was the next to subdue him. "He's right. Sit down, you'll hurt yourself."

"I'm..." he grated. "I'm fine, fuck. I'm not letting you do this anymore, Red. Just... please."

Red backed down, meeting his eyes with a sympathetic expression. "Come on, man."

"No. You've done enough," then, whispering: "If it makes him fucking go faster."

Striker sighed. "It's not worth it. Just--"

"--leave him!" The oaf bellowed, his half hard cock in his hand.

Katana shrugged off the naysayers and for his friends he lowered himself on to both knees. The cock, he took into his mouth with ease and wasted no time with pointless teasing, his head bobbed up and down, first at an even pace, but once his mouth acclimatised, faster he moved. It earned illicit moans and groans from the man, who, after taking fistfuls of Katana's black locks, plunged in deep and shuddering mercifully quickly.

"God," breathed Striker, turning way from the scene.

Moments later the sounds of Katana spitting up the squirted contents came, and made Red shake with frustration. He lifted the man up and pulled him way before the werewolf had finished, and resisted the urge to seize his cock through the bars and really give him something to scream about. "Get out of here, you got what you came for, you bastard."

He sneered and palmed his dick, wiped off the slime and flicked it off his fingers. "Not bad. He's done that before," he provoked, and then slowly turned and tracked back the way he came.

Red stared after him, burning hatred into his back.

"If they keep coming," said Katana, pained, breathless. "We'll never get a break."

"We have to get out of here sooner. Striker," Red helped Katana, whose wounds had opened again, into Striker's arms. "Take Katana. I'm gonna start working on the plan early. Who knows if we'll get another chance."

Striker nodded, visibly distressed. "Do what you have to."

They were all willing to sacrifice themselves now, and Red would never let that happen. He was willing to do anything it took to protect his team. And so Red got to work, the imprint of promise emblazoned on him.