WIP: My Knotty Slut Phase Ch. 6 (Patreon)

Chapter 6: Fur, Fuckboys, and Falling Apart

The strange thing about a slut phase is that nobody tells you how quickly it starts to blur. You think you’ll remember them all. The wolf with the tattoo. The badger with the ridiculously soft fur. The pair of otters who somehow finished each other’s sentences … Instead, they melted together into one long smear of sweat, cheap cologne, and unfamiliar bedsheets.

Harry had been out plenty himself.

Yesterday morning I’d wandered into the bathroom to brush my teeth only to discover the shower already occupied. Steam poured through the cracked door, along with the unmistakable sounds of a fox enthusiastically discovering exactly why wolves had such a reputation as lovers. 

“…gods, yes—right there—”

The shower curtain wasn’t completely closed.

I caught a flash of tawny legs wrapped around Harry’s waist, and my survival instincts should have kicked in. They didn't. I was frozen, a voyeur to my roommate's morning conquest. My gaze drifted lower, past the desperate clutch of the fox's paws against the slick glass, to the real show.

Harry's fat red wolf cock.

Fuck.

I’d never actually seen his dick before. It was a thing of brutal beauty, angry and flushed, disappearing and reappearing in a relentless rhythm. Each thrust drove a punched-out gasp from the fox pinned against the wall. Harry wasn't just fucking him; he was rearranging his insides. The beleaguered arselips of the poor vulpine, stretched thin and glistening, gripped him on every withdrawal, looking almost abused.

Below that lupine shaft was the knot. It was already swelling, a thick, menacing bulge emerging from his sheath, battering the fox's hole with every forward slam. It wasn't just threatening to get in; it was threatening to ruin what little muscle tone was left of that poor sphincter. The fox was a mess, head thrown back, eyes rolled, mouth slack, barely holding on to the shower glass for support as Harry used him like a living fleshlight.

Harry’s hips snapped forward, one final, brutal time. The fox cried out, a ragged sound of pain and ecstasy, as the wolf’s knot finally breached the ring of muscle with an audible …pop. It locked them together, and Harry just held him there, buried to the hilt, his balls twitching as he emptied himself deep inside.

“Fuck,” Harry grunted, his voice a low rumble even over the water. “Take it.”

The fox could only whimper in reply. I came to my senses in that moment, realizing how ridiculous I must look gawking at the pair of them. I backed straight out into the hallway, my own pulse hammering in my ears, praying to which ever of the gods might be feeling sympathetic towards a lecherous arctic fox. 

“Morning, roomie!” Harry called cheerfully over the sound of running water.

“Your arse is blocking the toothpaste!” I shouted back, my voice tight.

“Give us five!”

“I’ll give you twenty!”

Not that I had any room to complain. I’d been keeping myself plenty busy. There was the wolf. We met in the toilets beneath The Den after exchanging approximately six messages. He had a little silver ring through the side of his tongue and a smile that promised bad decisions. He was every bit as talented as he’d implied.

Fast.

Confident.

He had me pressed against the cold tiles in seconds, pawing at my arse, mumbling about needing a taste. Then he dropped, and I felt his hot breath on my hole before a thick wad of hawked spit landed right on it. I gasped as he worked it in with his fingers, then that cold metal of his tongue ring slipped past my puck. Fuck me. The feel of that pierced tongue fucking my hole... absolute heaven. He was eating me out like a starving beast, all wet and filthy, and I was just a mess, moaning like a proper slag.

He stood up suddenly, spat on his cock, and I heard the tear of a foil packet of lube. "Ready for this, foxy?" he grunted, not waiting for an answer. He lined up and slammed into me in one go. I cried out, my claws scrabbling at the wall as he set a brutal pace, just fucking using me. The sound of his hips slapping against my arse echoed off the tiles, mixing with my whimpers and his grunts.

"Fuck, yeah," he snarled, grabbing a handful of my fur and pulling my head back. "Take that fucking dick."

He was pounding me so hard my teeth were rattling, right up against the sink. It was fast, it was dirty, and it was over in minutes. He grunted, shoved deep one last time, and then pulled out.

When we were done, I was propped against the sink, legs shaking, trying to remember my own fucking postcode. He zipped up, washed his paws, looked me dead in the eye and goes,

"So... what was your name again?"

I had to laugh, didn't I? Otherwise I'd have cried.

Then there was the badger. Sweet bloke. Round around the middle. Smelled faintly of vanilla and laundry powder. He confessed over takeaway noodles that he'd always wanted to worship someone's feet.

I figured…

Why not?

It was certainly different.

Five minutes later I was naked on his bed, propped up against the pillows, and he was kneeling at the foot of it like I was some kind of fucking deity. He took my right paw in his thick, calloused hands, and I swear to the gods he trembled. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice thick with worship. "They're perfect."

He started by kissing my pads, soft, wet kisses that made my toes curl. Then his tongue came out, long and rough, and he dragged it slowly from my heel to the tip of my longest toe. I squirmed, not used to the sensation.

"Stay still, beautiful," he murmured, his voice muffled against my sole. "Let me love them."

He took my toes into his mouth one by one, sucking on them, swirling his tongue around each digit. His other paw was stroking my ankle, his thumb rubbing circles into my fur. I could see the damp patch on his ceiling, and yeah, I was wondering if that mould was planning a fucking coup.

He moved to my other paw, giving it the same treatment. By now, he was fully hard, his thick cock straining against his trousers. He started rubbing himself through the fabric as he worshipped my pads, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

"Gods, your feet," he panted, his face flushed. "They're driving me crazy."

He pressed my soles together and thrust his cock between them, the rough denim rubbing against my sensitive skin. I could feel the heat of him, the urgency in his movements. He was getting close, his hips jerking erratically.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted, his eyes squeezed shut. "Gonna come."

With a final, guttural groan, he came, his hot seed soaking through his trousers and onto my paws. He collapsed forward, his head resting on my ankle, his body trembling with the force of his release.

He looked happier than I'd seen anyone all month.

I mostly felt… confused. And sticky. Very, very sticky.

And then there were the otters.

Gods.

I'd made the mistake of replying to a message that simply read: We are boyfriends who share. Hope that's okay.

It turned out "share" was a fucking understatement. The moment I was through their door, it was chaos. They were on me, sleek bodies everywhere, pulling my clothes off. One, Finn, had his tongue down my throat while the other, Rocco, was already behind me, his slick cock sliding between my arse cheeks.

"Get him on the bed," Rocco grunted, and I was literally lifted, my arms around Finn's neck, my legs around Rocco's waist as they carried me to the bedroom.

They bounced off each other like pinballs—laughing, flirting, stealing kisses between making out with me, constantly talking over one another.

"You've got him."

"No, your turn."

"Nah, I had him five minutes ago."

I was on my hands and knees, Finn feeding his thick cock into my mouth while Rocco ate my arse like it was his last meal. The room reeked of sweat and sex, the sound of skin on skin and their filthy encouragement filling the air.

"Look at him taking it," Rocco groaned, replacing his tongue with two fingers, then three, stretching me wide. "Such a good fox."

I was gagging on Finn's dick, tears streaming down my face, when Rocco pushed in. I cried out around the mouthful of cock as my arse was filled to the brim. They set a brutal, athletic rhythm, one pushing in as the other pulled out. I was just a vessel, a set of holes for them to use, and my own cock was rock hard, dripping onto the sheets.

They flipped me over, and suddenly I was on my back, my legs thrown over Rocco's shoulders as he pounded into me. Finn was straddling my chest, fucking my fist with his slick cock while Rocco jerked me off.

"Come on, fox," Finn panted, his hips bucking. "Make me come."

"Fill his pretty mouth," Rocco grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic. "He looks so good with a dick in it."

I was lost in a haze of pleasure and exhaustion, my body aching in the best way possible. I could feel my orgasm building, my balls tightening, and then I was coming, my release coating my stomach and Rocco's hand.

"Fuck, yeah," Finn groaned, his own release following shortly after, his hot come spurting onto my chest and face.

Rocco was last, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside me with a final, guttural groan.

By sunrise I was exhausted. My legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. One of them high-fived the other. The other high-fived me. Then they ordered breakfast. I wasn't even hungry. I just wanted someone to ask if I was staying.

Nobody did.

Funny how every night seemed to end the same way. The adrenaline faded.  The laughter disappeared. The door clicked shut. And I was alone again.

The funny thing was, none of them were bad. Not really. The wolf had been talented. The badger had been odd yes, but sweet. The otters had enough energy to qualify as a public utility. If you’d asked me the next morning whether I’d had a good time, I’d probably have shrugged and said, “Yeah. Sure.”

So why did I keep coming home feeling like I’d forgotten something?

The flat was dark when I let myself in. Harry was out again. There’d been a scribbled note on the fridge before he’d left.

Gone to the gym. Probably dinner after. Don’t wait up.

He’d drawn a little wolf face beside his name. The idiot even gave the sketch eyebrows. I smiled despite myself. Then I caught myself smiling.

“Oh, don’t start,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.

I made tea. Because apparently tea had become my emotional support beverage. The kettle hissed. The Earl Grey filled the kitchen with bergamot and familiarity. It smelled like mornings. Like home. Like something dependable. I carried the mug into the lounge wearing nothing but my boxers and collapsed onto the sofa.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Inside, the only light came from my phone. My Howlr icon glowed.

Seventy-three unread messages.

Gods.

Harry hadn’t been kidding. The photos had worked. Wolves. Foxes. A surprisingly eloquent yak. Someone whose entire profile consisted of three eggplant emojis and the sentence “You’ll understand.”

I archived a dozen without opening them. Deleted another handful. Paused over one from a particularly handsome lynx before deciding I simply couldn’t be bothered.

That was the strange part.

Two weeks ago I’d have been halfway across campus already.

Now…

They all felt interchangeable. Different fur. Different voices. Different cocks. The same silence afterwards.

My thumb drifted almost unconsciously to the top of my inbox. Not to the new messages. To the one conversation I’d reread so often I practically knew it by heart.

WolfInTheWoods.

The little green dot beside his name blinked.

Online.

Before I could overthink it, I’d already opened the chat.

IceFox: Couldn’t sleep either?

The typing indicator appeared almost immediately. It made my chest warm in a way that probably wasn’t healthy. The typing indicator blinked. Stopped. Started again. Whoever WolfInTheWoods was, he apparently overthought texts as much as I did.

WolfInTheWoods: Not really. Brain won’t shut up.

I smiled.

IceFox: Same.

Another pause.

WolfInTheWoods: Good night?

I looked around my empty lounge.

Cold tea.

Rain against the windows.

Seventy-three unread messages from strangers.

“…Define good.”

I typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

IceFox: Depends whether you measure success by orgasms or conversations.

His reply came almost immediately.

WolfInTheWoods: Those are usually very different scoreboards.

I actually laughed.

Not the polite little puff of air I’d been giving hookups lately.

A real laugh.

Gods.

When was the last time someone made me laugh over text?

IceFox: Let’s just say I had plenty of one and not much of the other.

The typing bubble appeared.

Vanished.

Appeared again.

WolfInTheWoods: Lonely?

Such a tiny word.

Six letters.

Yet somehow it landed with more force than all the filthy messages I’d received that week combined. I stared at it for a long moment before answering.

IceFox: …yeah.

There. I’d said it. Not horny. Not frustrated. Not “looking.” Just…

Lonely.

His reply took longer this time. Long enough that I wondered whether I’d made things awkward. Then—

WolfInTheWoods: Me too.

No attempt to fix it. No motivational speech. No “you’ll find someone.” Just…

Me too.

I don’t know why that hit me so hard. Maybe because everyone else on Howlr seemed determined to convince me they were having the greatest sex of their lives every night.

Perfect bodies.

Perfect confidence.

Perfect abs.

Perfect fucking everything.

Meanwhile this mysterious wolf—assuming he even was a wolf—had just admitted he was lonely. It felt…Real. I curled one leg underneath myself and settled deeper into the sofa. The rain outside had picked up now, drumming softly against the glass. The whole flat felt smaller somehow. Cosier.

IceFox: Can I ask you something?

WolfInTheWoods: Always.

I chewed my lip. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

IceFox: Do you think people mistake being wanted for being known?

The typing indicator appeared almost instantly this time. Then stopped. Then appeared again. He was thinking. Actually thinking. Not reaching for the nearest clever line. Finally—

WolfInTheWoods: All the time.

Another message followed before I could answer.

WolfInTheWoods: Being wanted is easy. Someone sees your body.

A pause.

WolfInTheWoods: Being known is terrifying. Someone sees you anyway.

I read it once.

Twice.

Three times.

The room seemed to disappear around me.

I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath until I let it out slowly.

Who writes like that on a hookup app? Who even thinks like that? My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then, before I could lose my nerve, I typed the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind for days.

IceFox: Can I ask something slightly weird?

WolfInTheWoods: Depends how weird.

IceFox: Have we met before?

The little “typing…” bubble appeared. And stayed there. Long enough for my stomach to tighten. Long enough for doubt to creep back in. Then it vanished. No reply. A full minute passed.

Finally—

WolfInTheWoods: Maybe we’re just two lonely idiots who would’ve recognised each other eventually.

It wasn’t an answer. But for reasons I couldn’t explain… I let it be.

I stared at the chat long after the little green dot disappeared. The last message sat there on my screen.Being known is terrifying. Someone sees you anyway.

Who the fuck says something like that on Howlr? More importantly… Why did I keep reading it? I locked my phone. Unlocked it. Read the conversation again.

Gods, Wes. Get a grip.

You downloaded this app to get your back blown out, not to debate existentialism with a mysterious woodland cryptid.

I snorted to myself. “Woodland cryptid.” Yeah. That felt about right. I still didn’t know his name. Didn’t know what he looked like. Didn’t even know if he really was a wolf. For all I knew he could’ve been three possums in a trench coat with a languages degree.

And yet…

I found myself looking forward to our conversations more than the hookups. That was probably a problem. My phone buzzed again. Not WolfInTheWoods. Just the inbox. Twenty-three new messages. Harry hadn’t been exaggerating. Apparently one decent photoshoot and half the university decided I was worth climbing. I sighed dramatically.

“Right,” I told myself, setting my mug down.

“You came here to get laid.”

I opened the inbox. My thumb stopped moving. The username hit me before my brain caught up.

UrinalPup101.

No.

No, no, no.

I didn’t open it.

Not immediately.

Instead I went straight into my account settings. Blocked users. There he was.

UrinalPup94.

Still blocked.

Still reported.

Still very much not supposed to be talking to me.

I backed out. Looked at the new message again.

UrinalPup101.

He’d made another account. Just… Just to get to me. I felt my stomach tighten.

Who does that?

Who has that much time?

Or that much obsession?

I swallowed. Then, against every survival instinct I’d ever possessed… I opened it. 

UrinalPup101:

Hey Wesley,

Still watching you, you little piss-slut. Saw you getting bred by that wolf in the club bogs. Should've been me stretching that tight arse open. He didn't know what he had, did he? Just used you and forgot your fucking name. Pathetic. I'd have made you remember mine by carving it into your fur with my claws.

Then that lion. Fucking hell, Wesley. I watched him mount you, saw your face when he knotted you. You looked like a bitch in heat, and I was so hard I nearly broke the fucking stall door. I wanted to be the one to fill you with my spunk, to make you carry my scent for a week.

And those otter cunts... spit-roasting you like a piece of cheap meat. They passed you around like a party favour. All that slick, athletic fucking... made my cock ache. I should've been there, Wesley. Should've been the one making you choke on my dick before I bred your sloppy hole.

I'm going to make you my little piss pet, Wesley. I'm going to defile that pretty white fur of yours until it's permanently stained yellow. I want to see you gagging on my stream, to see it running down your face, your chest, your pathetic little cock. I want to watch you squirm as I fill your arse with my hot piss, until you're bloated with it, begging me to let you release it all over yourself like the disgusting urinal you are.

You think those other fucks were using you? They were just playing. I'm going to fucking ruin you, Wesley. I'm going to break you down until you're nothing but a whimpering, desperate mess, begging for my cock, my piss, my filth.

I'm saving up a bladderful just for you. A nice, strong, morning-after piss to really mark my territory. I'm going to find you, Wesley. And when I do, you're going to wish you'd never been born.

Until then, keep being the public toilet I know you are. I'll be watching. And waiting.

I barely even finish reading before my thumb hit Block so hard I nearly cracked the bloody screen.

Report.

Confirm.

Done.

I tossed my phone onto the bed. It bounced once. Twice. Landed face-down. Normally I’d have made some stupid joke. Something about collecting stalkers like loyalty points. Something to make myself laugh. Nothing came. I just sat there on the edge of the mattress. Listening to my own breathing.

“…Right.” My voice sounded smaller than I expected. “So that’s… that’s happening.”

Either somebody had an exceptionally unhealthy hobby…Or somebody was actually watching me. Neither option was particularly comforting. I rubbed both paws over my face.

Maybe I should tell Harry.

The thought appeared almost instantly. He’d probably tell me to stop meeting strangers. To stop walking home alone. The bastard would probably be right.

I hated that almost as much as the messages themselves.

I sat there for another minute, staring at the black screen of my phone. Nothing moved. Nothing happened. The flat was silent. So why did I feel like someone was standing just outside the window?

“Right.” I pushed myself off the bed. “Enough internet for one evening.”

The shower took an age to warm up.

I stood beneath the lukewarm spray anyway, forehead resting against the cool tiles while the water slowly chased the tension out of my shoulders. It wasn't the message that I couldn't shake. It was the certainty behind it. The confidence. Like whoever was writing them wasn't trying to shock me anymore. He was trying to make me afraid.

I scrubbed far harder than I needed to, my claws scraping against my skin.

Shampoo.

Conditioner.

Body wash.

As if somewhere between the citrus soap and the eucalyptus shampoo I could rinse away the feeling of being watched. I glanced down at my own body, at the white fur of my belly. My fox cock was a complete non-event, shriveled and tucked deep inside its sheath. Pathetic. Even under the supposedly warm water, the fear had me clenched up so tight my own dick had given up the ghost. My body knew what my mind was trying to deny: I wasn't safe, even in my own fucking bathroom.

"Get a grip, Wes."

The words echoed uselessly around the bathroom, swallowed by the steam.

By the time I shut the water off, the mirror had vanished behind a sheet of steam. Good. I wasn't particularly interested in looking at myself. Earlier, when I caught my reflection heading into the shower, I swear I saw myself besmirched by him: my normally pristine white fur, my arctic fox coat, imagined as a canvas for his filth. I saw the golden streams soaking my chest, the grime, the piss. He was painting pictures in my head, and they were sticking. Visions of my fur matted with his waste, of being used and violated until I was nothing but a filthy, broken mess.

I shuddered and wrapped a towel around my waist and another over my head, rubbing my ears until they fluffed back into something resembling respectability.

Better. Not fixed. Just… cleaner. Less … besmirched. 

The tea I’d abandoned earlier was stone cold. I poured it down the sink, made a fresh mug, and wandered back into the lounge, leaving damp pawprints across the hardwood floor.

The room had gone properly dark by then. The rain hadn’t stopped. It had settled into that steady, stubborn drizzle that made campus feel smaller somehow. Cosier. Like the whole university had pulled the duvet over its head and decided to deal with Monday tomorrow.

I wasn’t quite ready to join it.

My thumb hovered over the search bar.

I knew it was stupid.

Still…

ShaneTrack97.

Nothing.

Maybe he’d changed his username.

I tried coyote.

About four hundred of the bastards appeared.

Helpful.

I narrowed the search.

Brown fur.

Track team.

Green eyes.

Nothing.

“Come on…”

I scrolled anyway.

One profile.

Then another.

A coyote with a fishing obsession.

A coyote who apparently collected antique toasters.

One whose entire personality seemed to revolve around deadlifting and chicken breast.

None of them were him.

I frowned. Maybe he’d unmatched me? Could they disappear completely if they unmatched? I wasn’t actually sure. I’d downloaded Howlr to make catastrophically poor decisions, not read the user manual.

I opened our old conversation. Or…I tried to.

Nothing.

Not archived. Not deleted. Not hidden. Just…

Gone.

The little knot that had been sitting in my stomach all evening tightened another notch.

“That’s weird.”

I checked my notifications.

Nothing.

My screenshots.

Nothing.

Did I seriously not save a single picture? Not one? 

Gods, Wesley. 

You let a bloke rearrange your guts, walk you home under the moonlight, kiss your forehead…

…and you never even thought to save his profile.

I fell backwards onto the sofa with a groan.

“This is why I can’t have nice things.”

Maybe he’d deleted the app. Maybe he’d met someone. Maybe he’d decided I wasn’t worth another evening. That one stung more than I wanted to admit.

Because we’d agreed. No dating. No expectations. One lovely night. That was the deal. 

So why did it feel like I’d been stood up for something that had never even been arranged? I dragged both paws down my face.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

I barely knew him. Didn’t know where he lived. Didn’t know what he studied. Didn’t know his surname. Hell, for all I knew, Shane wasn’t even his real name.

I knew exactly three things. He liked old films. He laughed with his whole chest. And he’d held me afterwards.

That last one…

Gods.

That last one was proving remarkably difficult to forget.

I reached for my tea. Cold. Perfect. Just like my love life. I took a sip anyway. It tasted like disappointment and bergamot.

Honestly?

About right.

I stared at the empty search results until the screen dimmed. Somewhere out there, one wolf I’d never seen had somehow become the person I looked forward to talking to most. Somewhere else, one coyote had vanished so completely I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined him. And somewhere… someone who wanted to make me his little piss toy knew where I lived.

I switched the phone off. It didn’t help.