He sat -- sprawled, really -- on her couch, slouching and almost looking like he was trying to slide off onto the floor as they zoomed around the Mario Kart racetrack. "I just -- I dunno," he said, popping a red shell at one of their electronic opponents. "We always got along, we never really had any arguments or anything. Except yesterday."
"So she didn't say why she was dumping you?" She leaned as she piloted Luigi around a curve, power-drifting around Bowser and getting the blue sparks of a Mini-Turbo to send her shooting ahead.
"I mean --" He hesitated.
She glanced at him, then quickly back to the race. The two of them never competed, always doing their best to knock the AI's racers out and place one-two. "Christ, you're blushing. Something to do with sex again?"
He didn't answer until the end of the game -- damn Bowser managed to squeak in to place between them -- then tossed his controller to the table and dropped his head against the back of the couch. "Yeah, it is," he finally admitted.
"Are you
finally
going to tell me what the hell keeps making you lose girlfriends?? This is, what, the fourth this year?" They'd been friends since forever -- at least third grade -- and while maybe there was some crushing going on in the tweener days, first on one side and then on the other, nothing came from the infatuations besides their lasting bond, one which wound up sending them to the same college. There weren't many things they kept from each other; boyfriends and girlfriends were introduced to the other somewhat sooner rather than later, then in private discussed, dissected, analyzed, and -- at this point, always eventually -- disposed of.
She'd been without a boyfriend for a couple of months at this point; not that there weren't guys she was kind of interested in, nor guys more than kind of interested in her, but her last breakup was on the disastrous side, so she was giving herself some space -- 'taking a break', she called it. And he, of course, had slunk over almost immediately after having come home to find his girlfriend packing the things she'd moved to his apartment, handing him the key, and walking out.
"It's... you know I've always had problems with my shifting."
"I thought your Dad helped you figure that out in, like, sophomore year." She finally dropped her controller on the coffee table too, and snuggled into her corner of the couch, feet folded beneath her as she watched her BFF bang his head (metaphorically) against his problems with romance.
"He did!! It's just that, um..." He blushed, glancing at her in her loose crop-top tee and yoga pants, then shifted to stare instead at the character-selection screen and crossing his arms. "I... go big when I, um..."
She eyed him, then found her gaze being drawn to his groin as his sweatpants shifted. Like other werewolves, he rarely wore anything tight; loose t-shirts, sweatshirts, loose shorts or sweatpants (with either boxers or without underwear entirely) were their preferred dress code. It was rare they
went
either combat-form or full-wolf without warning, but it was an intrinsic part of their culture that they ought to
always
be ready to do so -- just in case. He, obviously, went the no-underwear route.
"Not get hard," she guessed, watching the fabric tent, then giggled when he blushed, groaned, and threw his arms over his face as if to hide.
"Fuuuuck. No. When I cum."
"That... I don't get it, what's the problem?"
He gave her a
look
past his shoulder, still trying (very cutely, in her estimation) to hide his embarrassment. "I quintuple in volume when I go war-form. I get
big
."
She bit her lower lip, running her eyes down his body. "All of you?"
His muffled groan made her laugh, and she pulled herself out of her corner, to cross the couch and bump his shoulder with her own. "So how big do you
get
?"
"Oh, god, not you too," he groaned, then yelped, arms coming away from his face as she jabbed his ribs
hard
. "What was that for??"
"I'm not
anyone's
'you too', mister, and don't you forget it."
He met her glare with his embarrassment, then muttered, "Yeah, I know. Sorry." His gaze fell, his blush intensifying as the tentpole in his sweats started to make a dark spot. "Fuck. I should go home."
She noticed he didn't really want to, evidenced by the fact that he didn't try to get her to stop leaning against him. "Your rut coming on?"
He groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch again, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. I was hoping she'd see me through. You know how I hate going to the pit."
"Well... the pit
is
useful-like," she mused. "Not that us normies really
get
it."
"
Other
normies, you mean.
You
get it just fine." He threw his arm back over his face, as if hiding his eyes would stop the inevitable progress of time.
"Comes from majoring in psych with a focus on sexuality. Wolfboys gotta rut, wolfgirls gotta heat. If they don't have help getting through it, give them something so they won't breed, then let them get through it together." She shrugged, eyeing the slow spread of the dark wetness from the tentpole's peak. "So how long does the rut last? I mean, actually. I usually don't see you for, like, three days, but..."
"Mmfph." He unconsciously reached down to adjust himself, something he'd rarely done in her presence, and even gave himself a squeeze and a bit of a stroke. "Forty hours or so."
"A few hours to get set," she guessed, "a day to recover?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Huh. Be right back."
He sighed when she left, but when she glanced back before ducking into the little hall that led to her bedroom and the bathroom, his hand was back on his cock, masturbating a little bit. She did her business, made some clothing alterations, then washed her hands. As the water ran, she opened up the medicine cabinet and lifted out the package she'd bought near the start of the school year, when she'd been dating a werewolf. The breakup there had been relatively quick -- great sex, shitty attitude -- and she'd never had a reason to tell the werewolf in the other room what she'd picked up. For a moment she hesitated, then took it out and tucked it under the wide elastic hem of her yoga pants, just in front of one hip before finishing up.
Out of the bathroom, she crossed to the kitchen, pretending not to notice how his hand had hurried to slide out of his sweatpants; she wondered what he was thinking about. "You want anything to drink?" she called, opening up the fridge and deliberately bending at the waist, letting him see (if he looked) the curve of her ass, the way the loose crop top hung down to give him a look at her underboob. She knew she was a little plumper than she'd been -- she hadn't lost the Freshman Ten, nor had she kept running and swimming quite as much as she had in high school -- but there
was
a reason she could have had someone (or someones) warming her bed every weekend, if she'd wanted.
There was silence from the living room, and she looked past her shoulder, a little smirk popping onto her face as she caught him looking. "Sorry, I'm all out of milk," she teased.
"Water," came his clumsy, embarrassed reply. "Just, uh, just some water would be fine."
She retrieved two bottles from the store, then checked her cabinets for a moment before coming back and returning to her position -- against him, not opposite him. "So. Speaking of the elephant in the room," she says, handing him his bottle and opening up her own, "how big
is
your dick?"
The only reason he didn't splutter was because he hadn't been drinking yet. "Fuck -- c'mon, seriously?!?"
"Well," she said with all the reasonableness she could muster, "you're sitting on my couch with a raging fucking hardon, you've been stroking it when you think I'm not looking for, like, the last fifteen minutes, you've been ogling me every chance you get -- I think I have a right to know how much meat my boy's been giving his girls."
That
shut him up. He fumed, but the precum stain on his sweats was the size of her hand, maybe bigger, so it wasn't like he had a leg to stand on, not even a third leg. "Just over eight inches," he finally admitted in a sullen, embarrassed mutter.
"
Fuck
me," she breathed. "Really? How big are you in war-form?"
He glanced at her, noticing the fact that her nipples were stiffening against her crop top, and looked away. "With or without the knot?"
"Mmmm, why not both?" She couldn't help it, her tongue stroked her upper lip. He wasn't looking, so it didn't count, right?
"Thirteen and seven-eighth inches above the knot, sixteen and five-eighths all the way to the root." He looked and sounded embarrassed, but his cock wasn't twitching, it was downright
throbbing
.
If he asked her later and he seemed upset, she decided, she'd tell him she couldn't help herself. And she almost
couldn't
... but it was
absolutely
her own decision, reaching out and wrapping her hand around his covered cock, squeezing it.
His eyes popped open wide as the rest of him froze. Well, not completely frozen -- his
