Peter and the Wolf

Peter and the Wolf

(c) 2021, 2024, by P.D. Vile

Story tags: Mf, best, myth

NOTE: This story was originally written for a story writing contest at another website. This version has been slightly modified from the original version.

Do you think I am weird?

No, don't answer yet. You are now looking at me. You see a normal girl, eighteen years old. You see my long blonde hair, my blue eyes, the dimples in my cheeks, my somewhat chubby nose. You see a mouth that I'm sure would look better with a bit of lipstick. But mom won't let me.

I look really normal for my age. I'm wearing a shirt that's actually too small for me. It's actually my little sister's shirt. My mommy won't let me wear a navel shirt and all cool girls have a navel shirt, so I stole my sister's shirt and switched into it after leaving home. It shows my belly real neat! But it is a bit tight, too tight. My breasts are really showing. As you see, I don't wear a bra. My boobs are small, I don't need one. In my own shirt you wouldn't even see them. But this shirt is so tight that you can see the outline of my breasts, as small bumps.

My yellow shorts are great. I love my legs. They are so nicely tanned. And the yellow of my shorts is a great contrast. My daddy always says that my legs make guys turn their heads. Don't tell him, but I know that damn well, and that's exactly why I love to wear short-cut shorts. Even much older men look. Weird, right? I don't mind. Most of them look very handsome.

But I'm rambling on and on. About my looks. And I wasn't even asking about that. I know I look like any other girl my age. I know I don't look weird. What I ask is, do you think I'm weird for what I do?

Yes, I know that I need to tell you first

what

it is I do. Sit down. It's a long story. And a weird one. Yes, the story is weird. I know. But I ask if you think

I

am weird. For what I do. So sit down, let me talk. And believe me, even when it sounds weird, this is all true.

The story starts yesterday. Or actually it starts a few months ago. But I'll start yesterday.

So, yesterday. After school I quickly finish my homework, so I can go to Marcy after dinner. Marcy is my friend, and we have a sleepover. Or, well, that's what mommy and daddy think. I'm not there for Marcy, you see. Not this time. I'm there for... No, wait. I'll start when I arrive at Marcy's house.

Marcy greets me, looking happy as always. But she's my bestie, I know her. Others see her smile, but I see the concern through that smile. I know she's happy to see me, but also concerned. But she says nothing, she just greets me and goes inside. I wave daddy goodbye as he drives off, then follow her.

The door shuts, and Marcy's smile is gone.

"Are you sure, Debbie? I still feel so bad for asking."

"Don't worry, Marcy," I reply, "I love you, you're my BFF. I would do everything for you. So of course I'll do it."

"Again," Marcy adds, "just like last month."

She sighs.

It's true. It's not the first time. That first time was four months ago already, and I've done it every month since. And I'll keep doing it, every month, until Marcy and her daddy find a better solution. A girl has to help her BFF, right?

We go into the living room and watch some telly. Marcy's daddy is there as well. Peter. He wants me to call him Peter. I don't know why, but whatever.

It's just Marcy, Peter, and me. They live with just the two of them, her mommy isn't there. I think she died, a long time ago, but Marcy never wants to talk about it. Not even to me.

Her daddy is nice. Peter, I should say. He's old, of course, like forty or forty-five or so. But he looks a bit younger than my daddy, and definitely better. I think he does a lot of sports, his body isn't really a body builder but not chubby or fat like my history teacher.

So we watch telly, and we eat some snacks, and eventually it's time for bed.

Now it is Peter who looks at me, doubt in his eyes.

"Are you sure, Debbie? You know I appreciate this, as I tell you every time, but you don't

have

to. We can deal with this. We dealt with this before you helped. I don't want you to feel like you are forced."

"It's okay, Peter. I made up my mind when I said yes to Marcy, that first time she asked. And again this morning, when I called for the sleepover. Let's just get this over with, okay?"

Marcy hugs me, crying.

"I'm so sorry, Debbie. I wish I could do it myself. But daddy and I... we tried, it didn't work, it felt too wrong."

"I know," I say. I wipe the tears off her cheeks. "Don't cry, Marcy. I said yes. My choice. Be happy that it works!"

She sniffs and dries her tears. I see how she tries to be strong for me. Just as I try to be strong for her, try not to show my fear, my repulsion.

And then Peter and I descend into the cellar. I hear Marcy bolt the door behind us. She won't open it again until the morning, no matter what happens. I'm sure that precaution isn't needed anymore, but old habits die hard. Peter and Marcy both feel safer that way.

I don't mind. I know I'm safe. Peter is a very nice man, you know? Even when... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I look around. Nothing has changed since the last time I was here. A large room, dimly lit by a wall mounted lamp on one side, and the light of the moon entering through a small window on the other side. In the middle of the room is a simple queen bed, bolted firmly to the floor, and with iron shackles attached to the corners.

"Why don't you remove those?" I ask. "They're not needed. I'll never use them anyway."

Peter shrugs.

"I feel better knowing they're there. Just in case. If it goes wrong, you can try to..."

I shake my head vehemently. I'd never do that.

"... Or else, when you no longer want to help me, we'll need them again."

I shudder. I have seen how Peter's wrists and ankles look after a night in those shackles. Or rather, after a night of trying to wrest free. That was six months ago now, and I'll never forget that sight. It's what caused me to keep asking Marcy to tell what she was hiding, until she finally opened up. But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Peter has already taken off his shirt. As always, he folds it neatly, then lays it down on one of the steps of the stairs. I don't understand why, he's going to toss it in the hamper tomorrow anyway. But he always does this.

I start to unbutton my blouse, but he stops me.

"Don't, Debbie. Let me do that, please?"

He's such a sweet guy. Always tries to make me feel special, while he still can.

So I stop and just look at him.

His hands look rough and sturdy, but as he slowly and deliberately undoes the buttons of my shirt I only feel a soft and gentle touch. His arms look strong, but I know how comforting they feel when he hugs me. His face, friendly as ever, lights up in broad smile as he opens my shirt and exposes my small breasts.

"Still nice and small, aren't they? Mind if I kiss them?"

Peter doesn't wait for me to reply. He knows how much I love the feeling of his soft and gentle lips on my boobs. He leans in and gently kisses my left breast. I shudder when I feel the soft and moist warmth of his lips on my nipple.

"Gently," I whisper, "they are extra sensitive today."

Peter immediately drops his hand. I think he wanted to rub my right nipple, as he did last month, but now doesn't dare anymore. Good. He's gentle and caring, and I normally love when he plays with my nipples. But they are

really

sensitive today.

His mouth on my left breast feels nice though. His lip grazes the sensitive nipple. He closes his mouth for a soft kiss, then caresses my areola. And then his tongue traces my chest as he moves to my right breast, and kisses it.

I grab his curly brown hair and press his head close to my chest, as he continues to lick and kiss my breasts. He keeps moving between the two, and I run my fingers through his hair. It feels so good. Even better then before, because they're so sensitive. I feel how my cunny starts to tingle.

He keeps kissing my breasts for a few minutes, but then he stops. I hear my own disappointed sigh.

Peter looks at me, and I see love pouring out of my eyes. He grabs both sides of my head in his strong hands and kisses me.

"I know, Debbie. I could keep kissing them for hours. But we don't have the time."

He is right. We must make sure to be ready in time.

It's my turn now. I unzip his pants and push them down. I see the bulge of Peter's penis in his black boxer shorts. It is already big and hard. I want to push his undies down, but I decide to tease Peter first. So I put my hand on top of his large bulge. I feel the warmth through the fabric, I feel the pulsing of the veins in his penis. I squeeze and caress it through his underwear.

I look Peter in his eyes as I do this. I see how love turns into lust. I see how he wants me to touch him directly. Instead of through his undies. I want it too. I forget abut my plan to tease him for a really long time. I can't wait anymore! I push down his boxer short, and watch as his penis springs free.

It is so large. So hard. It points straight forward. Near the tip it bends a bit up. His foreskin still covers the tip. I know I can pull it back and I'll see the tip, large and deep purple.

Dickhead. That's what it's called. Peter told me that last month. Strange word. As if men have two heads. My mommy sometimes teases daddy, says that men have two heads but only enough blood for one. I never understood that remark, but now I think I start to understand it.

I look at Peter's penis. It's lovely. It's beautiful. I want it.

I sink to my knees and close my right hand around his penis, near the top. Gently I move my hand backward, pulling his foreskin along, and his dickhead is revealed. I see a white drop slowly well out of the tip, Precum? I think that's what Peter calls it? I move my hand up and down, rub Peter's foreskin over his dickhead, and more precum appears. I hear Peter groan as his body shivers.

My left hand cups his balls. They weigh heavy in his hairy sack. I massage them gently and softly, making sure not to hurt Peter. At the same time, I speed up my right hand. I am now really jacking off Peter hard. His breathing goes faster and faster.

I need to taste him. I open my mouth and quickly swallow Peter's penis as deep as I can. I go a bit too fast; I gag as he hits the back of my throat.

I love the sweet taste of his precum. Another drop comes out and I keep it in my mouth for a bit before swallowing. I then take his penis in again. My hand pulls his foreskin back, and I glide my head up and down, while sucking my mouth vacuum. I know Peter likes it like that!

Peter grunts hoarsely. I look up. Has it already started?

No. He's just enjoying what I do. Good! I'm enjoying it too! I get back to sucking him. My left hand finds my vagina. It's sopping wet! I can push my middle finger all the way in, easily, that's how wet and slippery I am. I move my finger in and out, and at the same time rub my thumb gently on my little button.

But then Peter pushes my head away.

"What's wrong? Did I do it wrong?"

"No, Debbie. You're doing great. Too great. Keep going and I'll cum. Too early. And I won't get it back up in time. We need to wait."

I look at the clock, the only decoration in the room. It's a quarter to midnight. Peter is right. We need to wait.

"But there's no reason at all why I can't do something for you," Peter suggests. "Lie down. Spread your legs."

I quickly lie down on the bed and spread my legs wide. I know my vagina is now on full display. I know Peter can now see the folds, the wetness dripping from it. He can see that I'm completely smooth down there. Peter told me, the first time, that he likes that. In the shower after PE, I see that more girls shave, but others don't, or keep some of their hair in a neat triangle or line. I think I like it like that.

But Peter really loves me fully bald. I see that in his eyes, as he looks at me, down there. He really loves what he sees! I even see his penis jump up and down a bit!

And then he sinks to his knees, and I see him lower his head between my legs, and then I feel his lips on my vagina. He has done this before, I know how it feels. And yet, just like all those other times, it feels as if it's the first time. I simply cannot believe how good it feels. His warm breath on my pelvis. His wet lips on my vagina. His soft, yet firm tongue, teasing my little button, then moving to my opening, pushing against it. I feel how he tries to force it in. And I'm wet enough. I'm slippery down there. His tongue is fatter then my finger, and Peter has to push hard. But slowly, his tongue enters me. I sigh. I feel good. Having Peter inside me makes me feel complete!

I lie back and close my eyes. I feel Peter's tongue push in and out. I feel his soft lips, closed around my little hole. I feel his nose exhaling warm air on my pubic area. And then I feel one of his hands on my breasts and he gently caresses my nipple, and I feel better and better. And then it hits me. My orgasm. I remember, the first time with Peter, when he gave me my first ever orgasm. I fainted that day, and almost didn't recover in time. I don't faint now, I just lie back, and enjoy the waves of pleasure in my body.

After a while, my orgasm stops. I look down at Peter. He looks up at me, smiling, his face all wet from my juices. I see him look past me, check the wall clock.

"There's still time," he mumbles, and then his face lowers again.

His mouth now goes directly to my little button. He sucks on it, pushes his tongue against it. I feel tingles through my body. And then I feel something entering me, and I know it's Peter's finger, I know he's pushing it in my vagina.

I sigh contently as I enjoy the feeling. His finger inside me feels almost as good as his tongue. But his tongue is now busy on my button. And together, it feels even better. I know of only one thing that feels even better than that. Soon, very soon.

And then... But I force myself not to think about it. I concentrate on feeling Peter's tongue on my little button, feeling his finger as he pumps it in and out. I think about his beautiful penis. How it tastes and feels in my mouth. I'm going to suck him again, I promise myself. After... Again, I push the thought away.

I hear a scream, and I realize it's me. Screaming Peter's name as he gives me another orgasm. He doesn't even slow down. He even goes faster. I feel how my orgasm almost stops, then starts again. And then, after that orgasm, Peter finally stops. It's weird. I love those orgasms but I'm glad Peter stops. I don't think I can take anymore. Not yet.

Peter smiles. "That were two orgasms back to back, Debbie. So close that they were almost continuous. I don't dare to give you more right now, but you'll get used to it and then you'll love it. Too bad men can't ever have that."

He looks at the clock again. I look too. Just a few minutes before midnight.

"Almost time."

Peter lays down next to me. I see his penis. It's still hard, gently pulsing with desire. I see the tip glistening with his precum. He kisses my lips, gently. His one hand strokes my hair. His other hand caresses my breasts, softly, gently, making sure not to hurt me. He seems to really dig them, even though they're so small.

I gently trace the muscles on his chest with my hand, and kiss him back. Life is good.

We lie there for about a minute, just enjoying each other. And then Peter gets up again. He doesn't talk. He doesn't have to. I know what he wants. No, needs.

I scoot up to the head of the bed and spread my legs. Peter sits down in between. He lowers his body. His right hand on the bed next to me, so he doesn't crush me. His left hand holds his penis, points it towards my vagina. I open my legs as wide as I can, to make his entrance easy.

I feel how he shudders in anticipation as his penis presses against my vagina. I notice that I do the same. And then he pushes in. I feel the pressure, then feel this strange, yet so familiar object enter me.

Oh, it feels good. So good. Yes, his tongue is nice. His finger is nice. But Peter's penis... it's as if his penis was made specially for me. As if my vagina was made specially for Peter's penis. He fits exactly. He fills me so good. The movement of his flesh in my narrow tunnel excites me so much.

He pulls back, and I feel how I move my hips up, automatically, without thinking. My subconscious wants to keep him in. But he keeps pulling out, and I miss him. I feel empty now. And then he pushes back in again, making me complete, until the next time he pulls out.

He uses long, decisive strokes. Just the way I like it. I feel how another orgasm starts to build.

And then I hear, somewhere outside, how a clock strikes. I don't want to hear it. I don't want time to pass. I want Peter inside me, forever. I want it to be Peter, not...

that

. That

monster

. I want nothing to change.

But I can't shut it out. I can't stop time. I can't not hear the clock.

One.

... Peter grunts and thrusts. I drive my nails in his back.

Two. Three. Four.

... I close my legs around Peter, pull him in even deeper. I feel his balls hit my ass.

Five. Six. Seven.

... I open my eyes and look at Peter's face. At his body, dimly lit by the light of the full moon entering through the small window. He is so perfect.

Eight. Nine.

... I close my eyes again. I don't want to see what happens next. I've seen it before and I hate it. I want to keep Peter in my head as he is now.

Ten. Eleven.

... I know I would have had an orgasm now. If not for that stupid clock, that distracts me. Makes me think about...

Twelve!

I keep my eyes shut with all my might. I don't want to look. But I still

feel

the change. I can't prevent that.

Peter's smooth skin, touching mine, becomes rugged. Hairs grow, fast. Suddenly, it is fur that presses against my belly, against my legs.

I hear how Peter's breathing and panting changes. It gets lower. Soon it is a deep, animalistic growling.

I smell how his sweet breath changes to a dirty stink. How his gentle kisses degenerate into wet slobbering.

And his penis... his penis, deep inside me, grows. Grows longer and harder. He is so deep within me now that it hurts. Hurts on the inside. I want him to be gentle.

But he isn't. Primal needs overtake him. This is no longer love. It's lust, pure lust. His thrusts get faster, harder, deeper, more aggressive. His long, thin wolf penis pounds my vagina. It hurts every time he hits me inside.

And yet, despite the pain, despite the disgust, I feel a new orgasm build. I feel how I, too, am overcome by something primitive and ancient.

My legs once again curl around the pelvis of the wolf that Peter became. I feel his tail tickle the soles of my feet.

My hands grab his hairy back. I claw his fur, leave scratchmarks. As his rough tongue laps across my face, I try to suck in the tip of his tongue.

And my hips move, all by themselves. They meet his every thrust.

And then my orgasm comes. Harder then ever before. Stronger then ever before. I think I scream. I think I curse. But I don't know. I only know that I feel better then ever before. I want the feeling to last, and it does. Just when my orgasm ends, the next one comes. And then a third one. It's getting too much. Peter was right. This is too much. I'm not ready for it. He has to stop. I yell at him to stop. I can't take it anymore, it's too much!

But the wolf that Peter has changed into doesn't know. Doesn't care. He only thinks about his own lust. And so he keeps ramming his penis in and out my vagina. His mouth drools. Large globs of his animal saliva fall on my face. In my hair, on my eyes, on my nose, and even in my wide open mouth.