Teen Wolf Slut

The shriek from the witch is so loud, the whole of Beacon Hills must hear it.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts. "Goddamn it! I'm going to kill her." He adds in angered frustration.

Peter shares the sentiment, although for different reasons.

He's been biding his time and scheming to divest McCall of his Alphahood again. And after eight long years, the opportunity finally presented itself when a witch rolled into Beacon Hills.

In exchange for a life of quietude in their town and the ability to tap into the Nemeton's power to her blackened heart's content, Peter has struck a deal with her.

Find him a spell to strip McCall from his Alpha spark and transfer it to Peter. She'd agreed, glad to be offered a home after her coven banished her.

She researched the possibilities and proposed a ritual.

It demands a series of complex ingredients, including Mister True Alpha in the flesh, access to the Nemeton, and a rare five-planetary alignment that's due to occur next month.

Everything has been set up for the plan to go smoothly.

Except for one curious, meddling Stiles Stilinski and her incessant snooping and sleuthing who caught onto the witch. It's justified, considering she's been behind the disappearance of several toddlers in Beacon Hills and the wider Beacon Valley. Peter wishes his new ally had curbed her enthusiasm for baby stew long enough for him to get his Alpha status back. Whatever happens to the old hag after his end of the bargain is fulfilled isn't his concern.

Unfortunately, here they are in the Preserve, running after Stiles who's chasing after the witch, who decided tonight's full moon would be a good opportunity to locate the ever-elusive Nemeton in preparation for her ritual.

Peter and Derek reach a clearing and skid to a stop. Stiles has thrown herself on the back of the witch, attempting to choke hold her. She's struggling to get a good grip on the woman's billowing cloak. She's easily dislodged and goes flying toward them.

Peter expects her to land in a graceless heap, but she ends up executing a perfect shoulder roll. She's back on her feet and facing the witch before anyone can react.

"You filthy werewolf bitch," the hag hisses, looking straight at Stiles.

"Hey!" Stiles squawks in outrage.

A pulse of energy then hits her square in the chest.

She's propelled backward.

The trajectory sends her straight into Peter and she slams into his chest.

He lands on his back, and in the process, Stiles headbutts him in the nose, which breaks with a sickening crack. Pain flares sharp and hot, and blood gushes out of his nostrils like a geyser.

At the same time, Derek rushes towards the witch with a mighty roar, only to be swept aside like a mere fly. He ends up crashing into a nearby tree.

Because Stiles seems to be made of slinkies, she bounces off Peter and into action, reaching for the pocket of her jacket.

Peter can make out a shimmering piece of obsidian. Probably nothing good. Stiles has been spending time with Deaton since she moved back to Beacon Hills, so that must be a weapon of sorts she concocted with his assistance.

"No!" screams Peter, as Stiles lobs the rock at the witch and shouts "Burn in hell, you motherfucker!"

The creature lights up like a match.

Dusk is filled with its awful shrieks of agony as it flails wildly. Bursts of green crackle around it, like it's trying to staunch the flames with its magic, but is unable to do so.

Stiles jumps a foot in the air, pumping her fist in glee. "Hell yeah," she crows.

Disconfitted, Peter picks himself up off the ground. He snaps his broken nose back into place, causing more blood to dribble down the front of his cashmere v-neck and coat.

His chance at finally becoming the Alpha again has literally gone up in flames. He is livid.

Eight years of playing the McCall's pack ally. Eight years of being at the True Alpha's beck and call. Eight years of having to let off scot-free creatures, sometimes people, who want to kill them because of McCall's no-kill policy. (Although on many occasions, Peter ended up permanently removing the threats anyway. He wasn't the Hales' Left Hand for his conversational skills and his good looks). Eight years of sustaining a galling series of Hale territory power grab, their enemies undeterred by the lack of severe retaliation one should expect. Eight years of doing an Alpha's job, while McCall is enjoying providing vet services to the pet chihuahuas of LA's suburbanites.

But Peter has to keep playing the game. Otherwise, if they discover his true intentions, there's little chance they'll forgive him.

If Stiles so much gets a whiff that he was in cahoots with the witch, she'll have no compunction about informing McCall.

At best, it would mean another stay at Eichen House. At worse, it would be his permanent demise, as the girl promised when she paid him a house visit the day after she returned to her hometown.

"For the past few years, I've been tracking all your whereabouts - travels, credit card and other financial transactions, electoral ballots," she'd said to him. "I don't believe for a second in this whole redemption arc. You're always cooking up something. I know you like to play a long game. It might be another attempt at killing Scott or getting your hands on another alpha to reclaim your previous status. Whatever machinations you're concocting, I'll figure them out. I might have been away from Beacon Hills, but I've kept my eyes on you, and now that we're in the same area code, that will be even easier. And I can guarantee you that this time, I won't be as kind as Scott and send you to Eichen House. I'll pump you full of wolfsbane and chop your fucking head off. I'll incinerate your body once and for all so you can't magic yourself back from the dead."

So he slips into the character he's manufactured for himself which aids in keeping a low profile. Not too low though, because that's equally suspicious.

"You stupid girl!" he hisses.

A gust of wind blows the smell of burning flesh in his direction, and he lets himself remember the night of the fire when most of his family perished. He lets his stomach roil with nausea at the stench.

He lets his eyes water and his lips quiver. His voice trembles ever so slightly when he speaks, teeth grinding together. If it's from ire rather than emotions dredged up by the human barbecue, no one needs to know.

"What part of wait for us didn't you understand? We had a plan. A plan we discussed beforehand and to which you agreed. You could have gotten yourself or us killed!"

He cuts his eyes back and forth to what's now become a pile of smoking clothes and a still-writhing shape buried underneath it all. He lets waves of disgust, grief, and horror roll over him.

Derek shuffles closer to him, probably sensing his distress and wanting to offer comfort. Despite having died and been reborn with a zen-like attitude and the ability to fully shift into a wolf, his innate emotional constipation means he's unsure how to comfort his uncle.

So he looks pissily at Stiles, who gesticulates wildly.

"She was getting away and I didn't want her to get to the Nemeton."

"Oh yes, because you know exactly where that magical tree stump is located? The one that reveals itself only when it wants to? The one Derek and I have no memories of because Talia took them away from us. The one you and your friends had to sacrifice yourself to find, yet still consciously don't know where it is?"

"We all know it's in a clearing." She affirms and raises a hand to where they've come from, pointing behind Peter. "That was a clearing. It could have been this one."

"It's a forest, Stiles," offers Derek curtly, "There are lots of clearings."

"Well, I wasn't prepared to take that chance. What if this was the one and she enacted her hoodoo or what-not?"

"That's why we agreed on a plan," Peter stresses once again. "We were going to follow her and neutralize her when she got to her destination. We were going to be stealthy and we would have made short work of it."

Stiles crosses her arm on her chest. "Well, excuse me, but from what I can see, the threat is pretty much neutralized."

"Yes, of course, but not after almost dying, because of your lack of patience," retorts Peter. "And another Molotov cocktail, how delightful. Very creative of you."

"We're all okay in the end, right?"

She looks at Derek, whose expression is pinched. He shrugs despondently.

"This could have ended badly for us, Stiles!" Peter continues lecturing her, to make a point. At least, that'll earn him some brownie points with his nephew if he portrays the concerned (but not exaggeratingly so) Pack-adjacent member. "When you call someone for backup, I expect you to wait for them to arrive, no matter the situation. Is this why the FBI fired you?"

He adds this little barb because that's what would be expected of him, especially under the influence of anger.

"I left, you fucking asshole," she spits, playing right into his game. Their relationship is a strained one, and as few as they are, their interactions systematically devolve into aggressive confrontations. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me, so shut your fucking mouth, Peter. Just because Scott's named you an ally of the pack and so-called protector of Beacon Hills doesn't give you the right to push me around."

"I don't give a damn about your little ragtag pack of airhead friends and McCall! This is Hale territory. This is our name, our legacy and this has been our land to protect for centuries, not some snot-nosed, petty, selfish, useless bunch of entitled children who don't know their ass from their elbow."

Peter sticks to the script. Vitriol against Scott and his pack, to which Stiles responds without fail.

"Yeah yeah, says the lunatic psychopath and pervert who bit a innocent kid and possessed a teenage girl so he could bring himself back to life. You think you're better than us, huh, ZombieWolf? With all your smarm and your sass, so busy scheming and manipulating, you couldn't even protect your own nephew from one hunter bitch-"

"Stiles!" interrupts Derek, because even he thinks she's out of line. Stiles steamrolls past his interjection.

"You couldn't even protect your own bloody family when it mattered. Some kind of left hand you were, huh, Peter? You've never helped us when you could, never for free. You're no protector of Beacon Hills. You're just a self-serving, underhanded, pathetic conman. Even towards your own family. No wonder nobody loves you or cares about you. And that's all you're ever going to be."

Cue Derek.

"Stiles, quit it!" He shouts at the same time that Peter's hand shoots out and grabs her by the throat.

Now for a little physical threat that's become the norm between them.

Stiles reflexively wraps both hands around his forearm. Her heart is rabbit fast in her chest, but it's not fear. She hasn't been afraid of Peter in a long time. She should be really, but the girl is all kinds of fucked up, so he's not surprised anymore.

"Peter, that's enough!" Derek is aggravated, concerned his uncle will hurt their little True Alpha sidekick. He doesn't want to fight Peter, not anymore, but he will if he must.

Now for a few unkind words to his nephew, so he doesn't feel left out.

"You're not my Alpha, Derek. Or an Alpha, as a matter of fact."

Derek grumbles something unintelligible, but he's less alarmed, so he backs down, although he remains on guard.

Stiles leans into Peter's hold and it puts pressure on her windpipe. She glares at him, defiant, and croaks. "And what are you going to do, Big Bad? Rip my throat out?"

And now for a little hint of drama.

"It's the last time you speak to me in this tone of voice and using these words, Stiles," Peter says coldly. "The next time, there will be consequences you won't enjoy. Do I make myself clear?"

When she doesn't answer, he shakes her hard enough that she stumbles forward. "Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

"Yeah," Stiles wheezes.

"Peter. Let her go," Derek snaps.

"Yes, Derek," croons Peter, releasing his hold on Stiles and shoving the girl back. She trips but doesn't fall on her ass. She coughs. "I'm done with this insolent, entitled, narcissistic child. You'd think she'd have matured in her twenties but evidently, that ship has sailed."

He turns around and walks away.

Stiles mumbles "I hate you."

"Join the club, sweetheart," Peter replies, already twenty feet away.

Fade to black.

Aaannnd cut!

Peter would have made a great method actor.

It's a different story later that night, in the privacy of his home.

He paces restlessly across the Persian rug adorning his hardwood floor, wearing out a path through the fibers.

He replays the night's events. How his plan has been foiled once more time.

Anger is Peter's anchor, it makes him remember his human self. But right now, he wants to let it loose, for it to consume him and let his animalistic, monstrous side erupt and take over. It would cause another bloody rampage and he can't risk getting put down like a rabid dog.

So he tamps it down.

Instead, he smashes his entire collection of Baccarat barware.

Chest heaving, he looks at the shards of crystal littering the floor and the dent in his wall caused by the whiskey decanter he hurled at it.

He shrugs. That's a good excuse to arrange a trip to France so he can replace what his sudden outburst destroyed. He's rich. That's what rich people do.

*

Meanwhile, halfway across town, Stiles is twitching in the profound sleep that engulfed her as soon as her head hit the pillow. Her hair is still wet from the quick shower she willed herself to take upon returning from tonight's adventures despite the bone-deep exhaustion she felt.

She dreams.

Post-Nogitsune possession, she still experienced nightmares, often times flashbacks of the heinous acts she committed under the void spirit's influence, repressed memories she was incapable of controlling in the throes of slumber.

With time and therapy, loads of therapy, the nightmares eventually abated, becoming less frequent, less bloody, and less haunting.

Tonight her dreams are altogether different.

She dreams of cock. Not the male chicken, but the male organ in all its fleshy glory.

Small cocks, big cocks, flaccid cocks, turgid cocks, uncut and circumsized cocks invade her dreams. Cocks throbbing and spurting come in long thready strings.

The next morning, jerked away by the ungodly blaring of her alarm, Stiles doesn't recall those nightly visions conjured up by her imagination, but she experiences a low-grade hunger and a craving for salty foods that are rather unusual for her.

Foregoing her habitual bowl of Cap'n Crunch, she rustles up some scrambled eggs and bacon she washes down with a glass of milk.

At work, she steadily ticks off tasks from her to-do list, standing up and stretching from time to time to loosen up her stiff limbs. It's unsurprising that she feels sore after hitting the ground and then colliding with some two-hundred pounds of muscled werewolf.

The day goes by uneventfully, as every other day as can be expected in a job as a data analyst for a marketing company. Some might find it boring, but it's been the perfect career to reconvert herself into after leaving the FBI. Its job market is rather uncompetitive as not many people are excited by crunching data all day long, which means decent salaries and perks. It still engages her analytical brain and problem-solving skills, whilst providing her with a low-stress work environment. Her boss and colleagues are nerds like her, and relatively chill.

It's a conflation of events that led her to leave the FBI after four years of service.

It was a mixture of her father suffering a stroke from which he made a full recovery, and seeing one too many dead bodies that triggered a crippling panic attack, which was so severe she had to be hospitalized.

Notice handed to her superior, she packed her bags and moved back to Beacon Hills to care for her dad. She used her spare time to study and obtain the necessary qualifications to aid in her change of career.

Sure, it's disappointing to think that she failed to realize her childhood dream of working in law enforcement like her dad, but she tried.

Three days after the debacle with the witch, her nighttime reveries surface to her conscious mind, and an avalanche of thoughts all revolving around sucking cock, swallowing come, and getting fucked take up residence in her head.

While she considers herself bisexual, Stiles has been firmly in camp lesbian for a while.

But she's always been curious about male genitalia and had the opportunity of sucking off a guy she met at a club one night. Not the best in her decision-making process to bring home a stranger whilst inebriated, but sometimes hormones cloud judgment.

Not much happened to be honest, apart from a quick blowjob. The guy was apparently drunker than her, so he came in her mouth in under two minutes flat, not even warning her beforehand, and promptly fell asleep on her sofa. She went to spit the slimy, bitter splooge in the sink and gargled with Listerine to get rid of the taste.

Based on that experience, she certainly wouldn't develop an obsession with giving blowjobs and getting a load full of jizz down her throat and inside her.

The more alarming dimension of her sudden phallic compulsions is that they're all centered around Mister Asshole Supreme, Peter Hale.

Now, there's no denying that the man is attractive despite being twice her age. All the Hales seem to have been cast from the same mold used to create demi-gods. But he's a duplicitous asshole and a manipulative lunatic. He's tormented her and her friends. He's tried to kill Scott. And despite his apparent redemption, he's untrustworthy and still dangerous.

Despite appealing to reason and attempting to ignore them, the mental images crowd her mind, unbidden, making her more and more irate. And more and more desperate for a peek, to cop a feel, to taste.

Being a werewolf and having an accelerated healing factor means Peter is definitely uncut. Her brain conjures up daydreams and lines of inquiries that leave her perplexed.

What would his dick look like? Would it be thick, thin, long, with a curve in it? Would his glans be smaller than the shaft, or just as fat? What color would his dick be? Would it match his tanned complexion, be lighter or darker? How about his balls? Big, small, low hanging? How furry? Does he manscape or is it more au naturel? Then there's the taste of his skin and of his semen. Based on her one and only experience, she should be grossed out, but instead, it fuels an inexplicable yearning.

For fuck's sake! The intrusive thoughts spiral in her head like a whirlpool and have the effect of making her so wet, she has to keep going to the bathroom to mop up her damp panties.

She resists the urge to rub one out whilst at work.

Is that what sex addicts experience?

Something is definitely wrong and she needs to get to the bottom of it.

When she can finally leave at the end of her work day, she wrenches her car open and gets behind the wheel, attempting to regulate her breathing so she's not panting and shaking like a shitting dog.

A pull like a gravitational force she's powerless to resist leads her straight to Peter's building.

She rummages through her supernatural go-to bag to grab a wolfsbane-laced knife. Then, she clambers out of the vehicle and heads inside, past the front desk security, determined to deal with that fucking snake once and for all.

*

Peter smells Stiles before she even rings his doorbell.

It's that unmistakable scent. A combination of acrid anxiety, bitter prescription medication and a low simmering anger always directed at him.

He sips his Saumur Blanc whilst reading his book, and lets her ring the doorbell until she tires of it.

Obviously, she doesn't and switches to banging on the reinforced steel door that would take a wrecking ball to destroy.

"I know you're in there, asshole," she shouts. "Your lights are on and I saw your three fucking cars parked in the garage."

Good thing he owns the building and has no neighbors on his floor to complain about the ruckus.

He sighs and gets up to open the door. The quicker he can kick her sorry ass to the curb, the quicker he can resume his evening of quiet relaxation.

She almost mows him down when she barges inside his space.

"Hello Stiles," he says tersely. "Please come in."

"Get out of my fucking head!" She shouts.

She looks demented. Her clothes, cheap and in poor taste as usual, indicate she's been at work. Her short hair is sticking out at all angles like she's been pulling at it. She's flushed and her eyes are frenzied.

"Shoes off, please," he asks as he closes the door.

"Did you hear me? What did you do to my head?" She asks again.

Peter looks at her, nonplussed. "I have no idea what's going on with your head, Stiles. Only you do. Now please take your shoes off."

She spots his bare feet sticking out of his pants, and deciding it might be easier to comply in order to have him admit something, she unzips her ankle boots and kicks them off.

"Don't play coy with me, Peter," she barrels on, undeterred. "It's what you do. You mess with people's heads. You did it with Scott and Lydia. You've manipulated Derek and Malia. And now, you're trying it on with me."

He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is that so? Do pray tell why I would do such a thing?"

"I- I don't know yet. But you're up to something bombarding with those… those filthy images. I want you to fucking stop, right now."

He nods a few times, pondering. The girl is clearly delusional.

"Filthy images, huh? That's interesting. But tell me something. Why would I be interested in you, Stiles? You're an insignificant human in a pack of supernatural creatures. You might have been vaguely intriguing when you were possessed by the Nogitsune, although it was more the fox spirit than you. Look at you now. Weak, pathetic, uninteresting bag of flesh who clearly can't even hold herself together. How could anybody find you remotely alluring?"

"I'm gonna kill you, you bastard!" She yells and lunges at him, a knife suddenly clutched in her hand.

He deflects her attack, the smell of wolfsbane assaulting his nostrils. He catches her wrist and with a leg, swipes hers from underneath her. Her socked feet slip on the hardwood floor and she lands on her hip. As her hold on the knife relaxes following her fall, he kicks it out of her hand. It clatters and goes skidding off to the side.

Shock at being overpowered gives way to a dogged determination and she scrambles to her knees.

Peter readies himself for another attack, for another concealed weapon to make an appearance.

He doesn't expect Stiles to throw herself at him and nuzzle at his crotch.

He's too stunned to react and she uses his dismay to scrabble for his belt buckle.

"Stop!" He catches her hands, but she leans forward, craning her neck to stick her face in his groin again. "What is wrong with you?"

"Please," she whines, squirming. "I just- I don't know. I need to… I need it."

It hits him then. The stench of her arousal. Musky and citrus sharp. It's cloying, thick like molasses. She smells so fucking ripe, like a bitch in heat.

"What's going on with you?" he mutters, surprise replaced by curiosity now.

He releases her wrists and she dives for his jeans again.

Intrigued, he traps her hands once more to see what her response will be.

"Please, Peter," she begs, on the verge of tears. Her face is redder than when she burst into his den moments ago. A fine sheen of sweat is developing on her forehead. She's panting harshly. "I need it. Let me... Please. Pleeasssae! I need it."

Well, that ought to be a hoot.

"You want this?" he says.

One-handed, he undoes his belt. She leans forward, expectant, her eyes round like saucers.

Wow!

He pops the top button of his designer jeans.

Stiles sucks in a breath.

She's transfixed by the slow reveal as he slides the zipper down at a glacial speed. She emits a disgruntled huff at the black boxer briefs that add another barrier between her and the object of her desire.

Peter pushes his pants down to his knees, then peels off his underwear.

His heavy cock flops out.

"You want this?" he asks again.

She bobs her head fervently like a nodding dog and licks her lips. Her eyes fleet over his exposed length.

"Alright. You've seen it. Now what?"

Stiles appears to be stunned into silence.

"You're never at a loss for words, Stiles. If you can't say it, you can't get it."

"I- I…" She seems to be warring with herself over uttering the words. "I want…" She huffs. "I want to- to taste it."

Peter grins. "Come and get it, then."

He lets go of her hands and takes a step backward. She shuffles forward on her hands and knees. He steps to the left and she follows. Same thing when he moves to the right.

He retreats further from her and she crawls like a baby, growing increasingly frustrated at being denied.

It's bloody brilliant. Absolutely hilarious.

When he's within reach, Stiles pounces on his cock, but he holds her at arm's length with a hand on her forehead.

"You'll get it," he promises, "Just a little patience."

"Please," she wails like a spoiled toddler.

"Hush! Be a good little slut."

He takes himself in hand, and gives a couple of strokes, aiming to get himself fully erect, the promise of a blowjob a potent motivator.

Stiles is entranced by the slides of his foreskin over his shaft, the way it reveals, and then conceals his fat cock head.

She looks like a supplicant before her god.

"Come here."

She edges forward, uncharacteristically docile. He grabs a handful of hair at her crown and she winces at the sudden tug.

He folds his cock against his stomach, then releases it so it bonks her in the face. She flinches. He rests it there, shaft on her brow, taint over her nose, hairy gonads on her mouth.

"Lick them," he orders, referring to said bollocks.

She doesn't hesitate. Her little pink tongue darts out and licks at the sack. After a minute or so, she mouths at them, trying to gobble them up, but they're too big, so she proceeds to suckle each one in turn, left then right, back and forth until his scrotum is nice and soggy, coarse hair matted with her drool.

"Wanna suck it?" He asks, fisting his dick again.

She nods.

"Words, Stiles," he chides.

"Yes," she whispers.

"Open your mouth."

She does and without letting go of her hair, he slides his cock into her mouth in one confident thrust. He sighs at the warm, velvety plushness of that wet cavern. She echoes her own appreciation with a throaty moan.

Peter doesn't have a horse's schlong, but he's not average either. A respectable eight inches at full mast and a girthy six inches give the ladies both a bit of a challenge and a memorable experience.

Stiles' lips are stretched obscenely tight around him. He pushes the inches not enveloped by her mouth, and hits the back of her throat, making her gag.

He pulls out and slaps her face. 

"Watch the teeth. Stick your tongue out, nice and flat."

She glares daggers at him but follows the order. "Good!" he croons, and pushes in, and in, and in and holds it there, his shaft slowly vanishing in her mouth, spongy head bumping against soft tissues.

She panics and starts pushing at his thighs, her air cut off. He holds her head still, keeping her captive.

"Easy there!" He scolds. "Breathe through your nose. Come on, you can do it." His coaching seems effective because she stops pushing, resting instead her balled-up fists on his hairy thighs.

Her shoulders lose some of their stiffness. "Yeah… Attagirl!"

She's not particularly experienced at sucking cock, but for her sake, he hopes she's a quick learner.

"I'm going to fuck your face now," he decrees after exactly three preliminary thrusts that make her retch but he doesn't take pity on her plight.

He makes good on his promise, releasing her hair to grab her by the ears, pumping his hips like a maniac.

She bucks against the onslaught, but she mostly takes it, despite hateful looks she somehow succeeds in sending his way. There's a strange dichotomy between her clear revulsion at the savagery of the act he's subjecting her to and whatever impulse is compelling her to endure it.

He gives her a couple of breaks so she doesn't vomit all over him or pass out from lack of oxygen, but they're short. He uses them to slap his cock on her cheeks or her mouth and further smear on her face the sticky slobber she's producing and that's dripping down her chin onto her shirt.

It's beautifully debauched.

"You want my come, huh, little slut?"

She makes a muffled noise that could be "please" or something else. Who cares because it sends delicious vibrations up his rod to his nuts and his pleasure button, making him come undone.

Peter throws his head back and howls as his orgasm explodes out of him. His wild thrusting tapers off as he shoots rapid-fire jets of gooey nut juice down her throat. He slides back a smidge to make sure some lands on her tongue, intent on making her discover his unique flavor.

"Fuck!" he exclaims, heaving like he just sprinted for his life.

He vacates her mouth but wrings the last dregs out of his knob, pulls his foreskin back where they're collected, and shakes them off on her lips. Stiles licks them up without needing to be told.

"I'm glad your mouth is good for something else than spewing drivel," he observes as he allows her to nurse on his cock that's still half hard, like it's a kid's pacifier.

Her eyes are glazed over with bliss, her face beatific like she's just lived a transcendent religious experience.

It lasts a moment before she regains both intelligence and lucidity. It occurs in a fraction of a second like she's been walloped in the face by reality.

She wipes at the mess coating her face with a trembling hand, then looks at him with a mixture of shock and horror.

"Oh my God!" she whimpers. "Oh god."

She scrambles backward and dry heaves a couple of times.

She succeeds in standing up, legs coltish, and she staggers around to grab her shoes and flee from his apartment without even putting them on.

Peter readjusts his clothes, tugs himself back in, and returns to his wine degustation.

He's unable to resume reading his novel, cogs rotating in his head at the events that have just unfolded.

What the hell just happened?

Stiles hates him. She can't wait to find a reason to kill him. She might find him attractive, which everybody does in any case, but she's never manifested any interest in him. He knows she's primarily a rug muncher.

Was this a one-off?

A spontaneous moment of insanity? She's clearly got bats in the belfry at the best of times, but this is something else, alright.

It doesn't take long for Peter to find out.

*

Stiles returns the next day.

It's Saturday morning, less than twenty-four hours since she sucked come out of his dick like her life depended on it.

He's just come back from his workout and is cooling down with his t-shirt off, preparing a protein shake when the doorbell rings again.

"What is it now?" Peter asks coldly as he yanks the door open, and she's standing there.

She looks even worse than last night, and like she's recently been crying.

She gawks at his sculpted bare chest, then her eyes snap down to his bulging crotch.

She reeks of frustration, arousal, and shame. It's a weird bouquet he's never smelled before, and it's so potent, it saturates the ambient air in a matter of seconds.

Wordlessly, she shoulders her way in, shuts the door, and toes off her shoes. Then she sinks to her knees, giving him a look that's both baleful and pleading.

"Well, well, well," Peter jeers, although he cannot believe his luck at the chance of yet another bout of oral sex. "Here we go again with the hungry cockslut behavior. What have you gotten yourself into Stiles?"

Her bottom lip wobbles.

"Please," she says softly.

He laughs. "How can I resist, since you ask so nicely."

He hasn't showered yet, still in his sweaty workout clothes. He drops his sweatpants and briefs. Let her have his junk that has been marinating for the past two hours in sweat and a hint of piss from the leak he took five minutes ago.

She takes his soft cock in hand, not batting an eye at how tacky it is with perspiration, and slurps at it like it's the nectar of the gods.

Before long, Peter's at full mast and is using her mouth like it's a vulgar fuckhole, much like last night.

He makes it last, taking an inexorably long time before he comes. He finds her stamina rather commendable, seeing how he's wrecking her.

"Fuck," he blurts out. "You're nasty, aren't you? I bet if I smeared shit on my dick, you'd still be a greedy slut for it."

In response to his crude comment, she digs her nails into his asscheeks she's hanging onto for dear life as he ruins her mouth.

Peter laughs. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't be so crass. You'd get sick and I'd miss out on using that delightful orifice of yours. Fuck! Here it comes."

He curls his body, gripping her head tight, despite her gagging and weak struggles, and empties his loaded nuts inside her gob.

Peter comes profusely. A spurt of ejaculate must hit her epiglottis because she chokes and wrenches herself from his hold. She coughs and splutters, come spilling out of her mouth.

He tuts. "Look, you made a mess. Clean it up."

He expects her to rebuff him, and although she winces in disgust, whatever is controlling her makes her bend down to run her tongue over his foot where some spunk landed. He splays his toes so she can lap at the skin between them.

"The floor too," he points out.

She obeys.

"Good girl. That's a good way to start the day, isn't it?" He observes as he insouciantly tucks himself back in.

He thinks she's going to freak out and run out again.

But she stays put, forehead resting on his hipbone as she pants. Embarrassment and arousal swell to unbelievable proportions. She shoves her hand down her pants and begins to masturbate furiously.

Peter's seen some shit in this hellscape of a town, but this is the Twilight Zone dialed up to a hundred.

A tear of bitter defeat rolls down Stiles' cheek as she struggles to get herself off.

"I can smell how wet you are," he states. "Sucking the come out of my cock is not enough, isn't it?"

A broken sob escapes her.

"No, it's not," she implores. "I've been like this since last night. I'm so uncomfortable."

"I bet."

"It hurts. It's awful. Please, Peter. Please make it stop!"

"You need me to fill that greedy cunt of yours?"

She inhales sharply. "Yes! Please!"

Peter snickers. This is fucking amazing. And fortuitous.

He's been going through a bit of a dry spell lately. It would seem that most of Beacon Hills' single ladies are after a relationship when all he wants is a quick tumble in the hay. Paying for sex is out of the question. He's rich and attractive, he can get what he wants for free.

He hates Stiles, probably as much as she hates him.

But he's an opportunist and this is a two-birds-with-one-stone situation. Cure his case of blue balls, and retribution against that annoying girl. A little payback for all the shit he's had to endure from her and her shitstain friends since emerging from his coma. Yes, he can be petty.

"You're in luck, sweetheart," he intones. "As a werewolf, I have an exceedingly short refractory period. You're in for a treat. Let me get a drink and then I'm going to fuck your slutty hole. Go wait for me on the couch."

Stiles detaches herself from his body, stands up on unsteady legs, and hobbles over, electing to sit on the chaise longue portion of his Italian leather sectional.

She scrutinizes his movements from across the open space layout as he lopes into the kitchen and consumes his protein shake. He follows it with a glass of water. He takes his time sipping at it, looking back at her.

"Do you expect me to fuck you through your clothes?" He quips.

"No."

"Then, what are you waiting for? Take them off."

She hesitates for a moment, then she strips.

Peter concludes that she's definitely not his type. The messy, cropped hair, angular face, almost androgynous, the athletic, flat-titted, boyish build don't do it for him. He prefers his women more voluptuous, with some give, something to hold onto and that jiggles when he rails them. Think Monica Belluci.

It'll do for now, though. He only wants to get his dick wet, not marry the girl.

He walks up to her. She's standing in front of him, her hands fisted at her side.

"Gosh, you're really wet," he observes, peering between her things that are coated with slick. "Do you always get that wet when you're excited?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"Sucking my dick really turned you on?"

"Y-yes," she reluctantly admits.

He hums, then grips her jaw so she looks at him dead in the eyes.

"Tell me something, Stiles. Have you ever been fucked by a guy before?"

He's asking out of curiosity, not for her well-being. He's already decided that he's going to wreck her. She'll be lucky if she manages to walk or sit down comfortably for the next few days.

"No," she whispers.

"But you're not a virgin though. You've had sex with my daughter, Lydia, god knows who else. I bet they've fucked you with their fingers or a dildo." For some reason, the image of Malia penetrating Stiles with one of these dainty little toys is surprisingly exciting. "Just never had the real flesh and blood thing?"

"No," she confirms.

He grins. "Aren't you a lucky girl? I'll be the first one to defile your pussy."

She looks sick at his affirmation but doesn't answer.

He releases her jaw and shoves her so she falls back onto the sofa.

He takes advantage of her moment of confusion to discard his clothes. He pushes her back when she tries to rise, and joins her, kneeing her legs open.

He grabs at her small tits, and mauls them, pinching and twisting her nipples.

She yelps and tries to push his hand away, but he grabs her throat, letting a hint of unsheathed claws rest against her carotid.

"You better stay still, Stiles," he vocalizes the threat.

She settles down but tenses back up when he continues torturing a nipple until it's peaked and puffy. Then he probes at her entrance with one thick finger.

She moves her hips back at the sudden intrusion, and then unconsciously cants them towards him for more, her unnatural lust stronger than her.

He thrusts in and out, then adds a second finger on the way back in. It's a snug fit despite the abundant lubrication easing the way.

"Peter, please!" She implores.

"My fingers are not good enough for you? You want my cock to fill you up?"

"Yes!"

"Such a demanding slut."

Cock in hand, he rubs the head against her sopping cunt to anoint the tip. He bumps her clit on purpose to see her body reach up, yearning for fulfillment.

He positions himself at her slit and presses forward without further preamble. There's initial resistance as his fat head seeks entrance and she shouts. "Ahhhhh!! Peter, it hurts!"

"Not as much as not having your cunt fucked," he sneers, mindless of her flailing limbs. He has her pinned by the throat. He retracts his claws and when he squeezes the delicate tissues there, she behaves like prey and freezes.

What little breath she has, she uses it to scream as he carves his way inside her body, prying open her stubborn tight hole, forcing her muscles to accommodate him until he bottoms out, his furry weighty balls nestled against the space between her cunt and her ass.

"Wonderful," Peter says, savoring the spastic rippling of her unprepared cunt around his rod.

He begins thrusting, not allowing her to adjust. "Fuck! So good. You're tighter than a nun's cunt. It's like sticking my dick in the eye of the needle."

She's whimpering now, her face contorted in pain, ugly tears streaming from her eyes.

"You wanted my cock, now you have it, sweetheart." There's no affection in the term of endearment.

He sets a punishing pace, really pounding into the narrowness of her channel, barely keeping himself from using his werewolf speed and strength.

The leather underneath creaks, and their bodies clap loudly as they collide against each other.

She makes quieter pained pitiful whines now, interspersed with a litany of hushed "Yes, yes, yes" and hiccuped "Oh God!" like she's expressing to a higher power her disbelief at how much she's enjoying the abuse.

He cups the back of her head and makes her curl up into a crunch, so she can watch his cock diving in and out of her hole.

"Look at this. Such a greedy little cunt. In spite of all your protests, you like being used, don't you?"

He pinches her labia together, just because he can.

"No," she moans feebly, eyes rolling back in her head.

Bored with fucking her in this position, Peter pulls out of her with a lewd squelch, unhands her throat only to grab her by the hair and yank her off the sofa. He forces her to kneel down on all fours, and crouching over her, shoves his dick back in for another hard ride.

She tries to buck him off. She yowls when as punishment, he slaps her ass hard enough to leave crimson hand prints on her pale skin. Tugging on her hair again, he prevents her from flattening her torso on the ground to escape him. Satisfied when she's on all fours, he hooks his fingers into her mouth like they're a horse's bit, and he's a racing jockey mounted on a prize horse, galloping towards the finishing line, victory in sight.

He feels her tongue licking over his digits like she cannot help her oral fixation. Her grunts punctate every other of his thrusts.

"Shit!" he exclaims after a long while.

He needs a breather. He vacates her sopping wet hole that's leaking slick like a fountain. His dick and balls are covered with her juices.

He shakes his head, sending droplets of sweat flying out. He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back.

Stiles is collapsed on the floor, chest heaving, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders.

"Whoo!" Peter hollers. "I haven't had such a vigorous fuck in ages. You should be proud of yourself for being a mere human and keeping up with me like that. I guess you don't really have a choice though, seeing you need my jizz to be satisfied. Come on then."

More hair-pulling that is met with fruitless thrashing to break free from his clutches, and he drags her over to the couch.

He beats her ass red until she capitulates and bends over the back of it.

"Good slut," Peter praises.

He steadies her with a hand on her shoulder, bends at the knees, and forces his cock back in, delighting at the sight of his meat spreading her puffy pussy lips once more.

He picks up speed again and jackhammers into her. She's lucky not to get whiplash from the way she's jolted around like a vulgar fuck doll.

Her conflicted sobbing and moans of "Yeah-yeah-yeah" resume.

Long minutes of brutal fucking go by. Until it feels like she's working up to a panic attack. She begins trembling uncontrollably. Her breathing turns short and ragged and her heart is pounding like it's about to burst out of her chest.

"Touch yourself," he barks at her.

There's a kernel of clarity left that allows her to reach between her legs and work her engorged nub.

She cries loud and sharp as she comes. Her entire body locks up with the intensity of her climax. He keeps fucking her through her clamped-down muscles, even when she gets oversensitive and she starts to struggle against him.

"I know you've got another one for me, sweetheart."

She ends up resting against his chest, limbs limp, head lolling with each thrust. His arm across her torso and his dick in her cunt are the only things holding her up.

"Please," she utters, so quiet he has to strain his hearing to make out the word.

"I know what you want. You're going to have to milk the come out of my cock, like a good whore."

She whimpers, but ultimately, after another long minute of ruthlessly battering her cunt and tormenting her clit, his prediction comes true and she has a second orgasm.

"Here's your reward for being a good slutty hole," Peter grunts as he shoves deep inside her and dumps another load of come, breeding her like a bitch.

He's basking in the aftershocks of emptying his nuts for the second time today when he feels a sudden gushing sensation.

"Did you just piss yourself?" he asks, wrenching out of the heat of her body. He whirls her around to face him.

She's quivering, probably in shock. Her expression is both hazy and mortified. There are tears and snot smeared on her face. It's disgusting. He shakes her.

"Did you just piss on my cock, you filthy cunt?"

"Yes," she bawls.

"Dirty girl. Worse than an animal. Clean it up."

He pushes her down to her knees and crams his wilting, soaked cock in her face for her to lick.

"That too," he presses her nose in the puddle of urine when she's done sucking his dick clean, but she resists and he abandons his attempt at making her wipe off her mess. "Fucking hopeless," he hisses. "You're fucking useless."

He uses her balled-up discarded clothes to mop up the mess. He throws them at her curled-up form that's crying on the floor.

"Get dressed and get the fuck out of my home. You got five minutes, or I'm chucking these out of the window and your naked ass can collect them off the street."

She's out his door in four and a half minutes, walking bowlegged.

Seeing that she comes back the week after, looking as dejected as ever, but craving his come and his cock like an addict, Peter surmises Stiles has been whammied.

Unless she mouthed off and seriously pissed off someone else following the events that ruined another one of his plans for Alphahood, Peter puts two and two together and posits that it must be the witch.

Filthy werewolf bitch.

The words pop inside his head.

Before she got blasted into smithereens, the witch said them, prefaced by something in Latin he can't remember, and zapped Stiles. Boom, less than a week later, Stiles is at his feet begging for his cock.

A last parting gift from his would-have-been partner in crime to him. His very own little bitch.

In normal times, Peter would smile at his good fortune. He hasn't had much in life. However, since the witch is dead, it's not a spell, as these tend to unravel with their caster's death.

It must be a curse. Since it's on Stiles' person, and not on an object that can be passed on or returned to the witch, it means it's immutable. 

Despite how ingenious the curse is in its perversion, Peter isn't particularly enamored with having this little toad of a kid grafted onto his dick for eternity.

To allay his unhappiness over the insipidness of their situation's perpetuity, he intends to capitalize on Stiles' subservience to the curse.

Let's call it a little science experiment. Something fun to pass the time.

He aims to find out how much humiliation she can endure until her brain functions prevail and she refuses to put up with his abuse, instead electing to suffer from forgoing the gooey sustenance his balls churn out. He wonders if she'd go mad or perish physically first.

"Come on Stiles. Lick my asshole," he instructs the girl.

He's sprawled on the couch, knees to his chest, whilst she's kneeling on the floor before him. She's been mouthing at his furry balls for a good ten minutes now whilst he's been stroking himself. She's been motivated by the promise that he'll spill his nut juice down her throat at some point.

Stiles' brain short circuits and she stops and stares at him, uncomprehending.

"You heard me, little bitch. Lick. My. Asshole."

Stiles is not stupid, she's sussed out by now that she got hexed by the witch. They haven't discussed it, of course, because it's not a part of their tacit arrangement, but they figured out that in order to be fully sated, she needs to ingest a load of his come and get her insides painted with it. That particular regimen tends to last her a week before she's back for her next dose of tadpole-rich medication.

"You have a wicked mouth," he continues, grinning wolfishly. "Let's see what else you can do."

He wriggles with a creak of shifting leather until he's halfway off the edge of the couch and presses her face against his ass.

"Come on," he encourages her.

She whimpers, noticeably grossed out. Her inner turmoil is obvious, but she complies.

She laps at his hirsute ring piece, and when he makes a sound of approval, she soldiers on, seals her lips around the rim, and sucks.

"Oh shit!" He exclaims. He uncurls from the crunch he's been holding to look at her and reclines. "Oh yeah. That's it. Push your tongue in. Get rid of all those clagnuts."

There's a lot of bluffing with Peter. It's all part of the humiliation. He's too fastidious, too concerned about appearance. He's borderline obsessive-compulsive about order, cleanliness, and personal hygiene to walk around with an unwashed, crusty ring-piece. But what can he say? He relishes playing mind games.

She recoils at his words, and he chortles. He hangs onto her and bears down so that the point of her tongue sinks into his anus.

"That's a good girl," he sighs and grinds onto her face.

He groans and frantically jerks off while she eats his ass out with loud slurping noises, culminating in him coming all over his stomach and chest.

He pulls her up by the hair and she eagerly scrambles over him to collect in her mouth the last dribbles from his still pulsing head. Then, she proceeds to lap off the come pooling on his stomach.

"How it is?" he asks. She takes his momentary post-orgasmic slouch to reposition herself on top of him. She's visibly eager to proceed with obtaining her second dose of jizz, because she starts rubbing her slippery folds against the underside of his mostly hard cock. "You look like you just drank the nectar of the gods."

"You're a pervert," she spits at him, evading the question. She digs her nails into the meat of his pecs in silent revenge.

He twists one of her nipples in retaliation and she screeches. He flicks it for good measure and catches both her hands as she attempts to strike him.

"You should be more grateful, seeing as I'm your come dispenser and I can cut you off whenever I want."

She squeezes her eyes shut.

"No," she moans.

"No what?"

"Don't cut me off."

"Then answer my question. How is it?"

"Good."

"Only good?"

"No… It… It tastes divine… Please…" her tone is desperate, her hips snapping back and forth against his length. It's helping him harden up again.

"Jesus Christ. That witch really did a number on you, didn't she? Stop that!"

He gathers both her wrists in one hand and smacks her ass with the other when she begins grinding her clit against the mushroom head of his cock.

She whines.

"We both know that won't fulfill you, do we? Only a big load up your cunt will. Since you're an ungrateful slut, you do all the work. Fuck yourself on my cock."

He frees her wrists.

"What you're doing?" He aborts her intention to turn around with her back at him. "No, no, no. You face me. I want you to watch me. Look me in the eyes so you know exactly whose dick is filling that tight hungry hole of yours."

She hovers above him, probably stealing herself for having the equivalent of a baseball bat shoved up her snatch, but he grabs her by the hips and pushes her down as he surges up.

Like every time he breaches her, she yells in pain.

In this position, when her legs tire, it's tougher to control the depth of penetration, and her cervix inevitably takes a beating.

"Stop being such a drama queen. You should be used to being split open by now," he taunts.

"I fucking hate you," she says, teeth gritted.

"The feeling is mutual, sweetheart... But I gotta say, I love seeing you like that. Distressed. Hopeless. With only one thing driving your actions. Dominating your thoughts. I find it extremely gratifying to see you so lamentable. Now bounce. Bounce on my cock and get yourself off."

He tips his head back and watches her through hooded eyes do her best.

It's pathetic really.

Feeling magnanimous, he rearranges her so she's in a crouch, feet planted on the couch, instead of on her knees.

"That's better that way, see?"

She springs up and down enthusiastically, arms looped around his shoulders, her pussy muscles in a constant state of protest, pulsating every time she impales herself on his rod.

Despite the discomfort, she reeks more and more of arousal.

She digs her nails into his flesh, and he should smack her for breaking his skin, but Peter's too mesmerized by the picture she makes, riding him like a bucking bronco, face tilted up to the ceiling, eyes glassy with lust, throat exposed.

He spanks her jiggling tits a few times, then plucks at her nipples, eliciting anguished groans at his mistreatment of her flesh.

Her mouth flaps open and closed repeatedly like a fish and he obliges. He sticks four fingers inside it, wedging it wide, pushing in until she starts gagging.

She grabs onto his arm with one hand but doesn't dislodge him.

"You like having things in your mouth, don't you?" Peter croons. "I'll get you a nice, thick dildo for you to suck on whilst I'm fucking you."

She moans and her cunt clenches around him, apparently turned on by the idea.

"I'm amazed what a dirty, nasty slut you are, Stiles. What would your father think if he saw you? The Sheriff's precious daughter getting rogered by a man twice her age, a killer no less. Do you think he'd be proud? Imagine being passed around to his deputies at the station. Have them bend you over their desks and take turns fucking you. Stuffing you full of cock at both ends? Would you like that?"

She chokes on a sob, and he extricates his fingers from her mouth so she can shake her head.

"No? You wouldn't? You don't like the idea of someone else fucking you? You only want me, don't you?"

She nods miserably, and curse or no curse, it's a boost to Peter's already considerable ego.

"I get it," he reassures her, "You only crave my cock. You're only a slut for it. A little bitch in heat. A slave to it…"

"Yes, Peter… please."

He feels her tightening progressively and she dips a hand to her clit to rub the hard nub.

She loses some coordination, so he helps her with one hand grabbing onto her hip in a bruising hold. He sneaks his spit-soaked fingers around her ass and pushes his index in.

She squeals and comes, clamping down on him.

Worn out, she pitches forward and rests against his chest, huffing shuddering breaths.

"Ah shit!" he says, so close to coming.

He raises up with her and tips her off onto the solid teak coffee table that's in front of the sectional. He holds her legs open by the ankle, hunkers down, and fucks into her at breakneck speed until he spills inside her with a roar that practically rattles the walls.

He circles his hips so he pushes his spunk deep, deep inside her, where her body will absorb it and obtain temporary relief from its famished state.

When she left after that second visit, realizing he'd fucked her bareback, he'd appropriated her number via Derek. He'd texted her to get herself some Plan B if she didn't take regular contraception and to get on the pill or to get an IUD fitted, or whatever. He'd stressed he didn't fancy another brat, and in the eventuality he'd knock her up, he wouldn't be responsible for whatever spawn comes out of her.

Sure, she could get a paternity test, but he has more money, connections, and influence than she does, and would utilize them to win whatever legal suits she and her father would attempt.

*

It's a mystery whether her tolerance increases or the curse ratchets things up a notch, but in the weeks that follow, Stiles needs three loads of semen to quench her hunger when it overwhelms her.

By God, Peter's got stamina, but there's no denying that in time, this will become unsustainable.

He wonders if the curse hasn't been indirectly aimed at him by the witch, as punishment for failing to see their plan through and for getting her killed.

It's irksome, to say the least.

So obviously, he takes it out on Stiles, dishing out pain, torment, and humiliation the best he can.

He progresses their sessions to anal sex. But before they can embark on the act itself, there's the all-important matter of getting her prepared.

He texts her information about performing enemas for extra cleanliness and ideas for butt plugs and special lube she should use.

Because he's considerate, he gives her a couple of months to get herself habituated and conditioned for the good ass fucking he plans for her.

In the meantime, he continues ruining her pussy. He loves that she's so fucking narrow and muscled inside, she doesn't seem to lose any tonicity. It's like fucking her for the first time over and over again.

As expected, the anal experience turns out to be as traumatic for Stiles as the first time he fucked her front hole. Peter wouldn't have it any other way.

Despite copious amounts of silicone-based lube and the rather large plug he extricated from her ass, she squeals plaintively and thrashes when his thick knob pushes through the first ring of muscles. Except there's more work to do, being an outhole. She remains uncooperative and tight, and he slaps her ass to distract her.

She yelps and unclenches on reflex and he takes the opportunity to slide it one more inch. Her muscles clamp down though, impeding his progress.

"Jesus Christ, Stiles! Will you just relax? You're undoing all your work."

"It burns!" she wails.

"Yes, I know. We've established you've got small holes and that taking my dick is going to hurt. Now. I'm going to pull out, add more lube and we'll try again. Just bear down on me, that'll make it easier."

He retreats, squeezes about half a gallon of lubricant inside her hole, and goes again.

"Bear down on me, like I said. That's it."

He glides in a little easier this time. She tightens up again.

"Bloody hell!" He's getting cross now.

He begins seesawing in and out, nudging at her muscles with short jarring stabs. Naturally, she jowls and tries to twist her hips away from him. He holds her firmly by the back of the neck, and clambers over her, mounting her so he weighs her down and she can't move.

Finally, he sheathes himself inside her, heavy balls resting against her pussy lips. Fuck, that was hard work. He wipes sweat off his brow.

"See, we got there in the end," he observes, satisfied that the hardest part is over.

She's hiccuping, shaking, attempting to dislodge him, but she's trapped.

He gives her thirty seconds to acclimate.

Then he pulls out and presses back in, somewhat slowly for the first couple of times, then with more verve.

Spreading her ass cheeks open allows him not only to stabilize himself but also to witness his prick drilling her hole. He alternates between quick short rabbity jabs and longer strokes, whereby he pulls out until his glans is kissed by her rim, then plunges back in.

She bitches and moans and whines, not sharing Peter's overt enthusiasm for destroying her asshole and making it gape.

In a benevolent mood today, he assuages her by rearranging them so that he's kneeling and she's sat across his lap, so he can knead her swollen clit until she comes. She sucks him into the vortex of her climax, and he follows shortly behind, painting her channel with his creamy goodness.

Stiles' asshole is a dilated, angry red, swollen thing at the end of it. Globs of come cling to her rim. It's tastefully ravaged.

A voice resounds in Peter's head, his mother's voice:

"Peter, you need to learn to play nicely and stop breaking your toys. We won't replace those that you've decided to destroy."

He fetches himself a glass of water from the kitchen, leaving her to recover from her orgasm and calm down from her lamenting over why he's so despicable.

His time for more experimentation and pushing the envelope has come.

He returns to her to offer her a glass of water he makes sure she drinks.

Then, he takes her by the arm and jerks her up.

"I just want to see if you're okay," he imparts genuine concern in his tone. "To make you feel better. Turn around. Come on." 

He nudges her so she's on all four again. Her head is craned to the side so she can keep a watchful eye on him. Not that it would accomplish or change anything.

He crouches behind her and pries open her asscheeks, looking at her inflamed ring of muscles.

He skates his finger over it, prods at it, and she hisses.

"Easy there," he says when she lunges forward. "I just want to check if you're bleeding."

The amazing thing is that under the scent of pain, her arousal is still ever present. She's still desperate for more spunk.

"You're okay," he concludes. His finger comes out clean of any blood.

He stands and with one hand on her hip, starts absorbing some of her pain. She sighs in relief and relaxes, tension leaving her body.

He surreptitiously inserts the tip of his cock in her battered asshole and releases a stream of piss he's been holding back.

Blissed out on endorphins from the pain drain, it takes Stiles a moment to realize what's going on.

"No, you motherfucker! Stop it! No! Noooo!"

He laughs at her flailing but tackles her, scrabbles for the discarded butt plug from earlier, and shoves it back inside her hole like a cork.

She screams and kicks, lends a few blows on his chest and cheeks, but undeterred, he throws her over his shoulder in a fireman carry and traipses into his en-suite bathroom.

He dumps her in the shower, dodging more blows from her, and wrestles her until she's bent forward, with her hands braced against the tiled wall and her feet spread wide.

He wrenches the butt plug out, her ass pointing towards the closed glass door.

"Push it out," he orders. "Push it out and I'll give you more of my come, I can smell how starved you are for it."

It's a battle of wills, an attempt to discover her breaking point.

He spanks her. God, he loves leaving marking up her pale, mole-dotted skin.

A dribble of combined piss, spunk, and lube oozes out and flows in rivulets down the back of her thighs.

The saltiness of her renewed tears permeates the air in the enclosed space.

"Come on Stiles. You're not a quitter, I know you can do better. A big hard push. I won't mind if you end up shitting yourself. That's why I brought you here, so you won't ruin any of my precious furniture with your slutty secretions."

Fine tremors rack her slight frame. He revels in seeing her in that state. She always gets the most powerful orgasms when she's brought to heel. She should be grateful he's elevating her pathetic sexual life to heights never experienced before.

He smacks her again. Her reddened pucker blooms out, she strains and after an aborted attempt, a jet of liquid shoots out of her, splashing against the glass.

Diggy with excitement like a kid at Disneyland, Peter whoops and laughs raucously. He claps his hands at what currently stands as the paroxysm of Stiles' degradation. "That's absolutely incredible! Splendid!"

He grabs the girl by the hip, shoves his cock back in her poop chute, and empties the remainder of his bladder. "There you go, more for you. Do it again!"

And she does. And he applauds her like it's an amazing performance from Cirque du Soleil.

He pivots her, hikes up her thigh to spread her open, and sticks his dick for her sopping wet cunt. He fucks her against the stall's wall in a way that makes her howl in pained pleasure. Reaching between their bodies, he pulls and pinches her swollen nub.

"Fuck! Your clit's so hard, it pokes out like a teeny tiny cock. So fucking hot."

He rips an orgasm out of her. Then another one long minutes later.

She crumples on the floor, gasping, breathless, reeling from the ordeal inflicted upon her.

Fisting her hair, he steadies her as he humps into her slack mouth and spends himself, letting her imbibe in the warm, delicious spunk she's become addicted to.

"I despise you so much," she hiccups at him, afterward, defeated but not broken. Not yet. "You're a fucking sadist! You're repulsive! I should kill you!"

He yanks nastily at her sensitive roots until she's standing. He makes her look at him.

"Kill me, Stiles? Really? You know what that would mean, huh? It would mean living the rest of your days in pure agony, unable to obtain the remedy, albeit temporary that makes your plight bearable. Are you ready for that? You barely survived the Nogistune. Or perhaps, you're thinking about telling your father, Scott or Derek? Deaton maybe? What do you think will happen? They'd try to kill me. We know how that would end for you."

He licks a stripe up her cheek, savoring the salt and the misery from her skin.

"Oh! How about running me off Beacon Hills, hum?" he says more quietly. It's almost a whisper like he's sharing a secret with her. "You'd follow after a while when you couldn't stand not having my cock. Your last resort, really, is death. But you know it will destroy the ones who actually love you, and you're not that selfish a bitch. The witch didn't bind me to you with her curse because I'm a nice man, sweetheart. She did it to make sure all of your options cause you excruciating suffering. So you're stuck with me. You better get used to it. And make sure you continue to entertain me so I don't get bored with you. Because until I decide to be less accommodating of your needs, I'm all that you have to keep you out of the looney bin and in relatively decent physical healthy. Now. Wash those filthy orifices of yours, and when you're done, we'll go back to the living room. I still need to breed your pussy properly. We both know you're never satisfied with just two loads and as much fun as I'm having, I've got places to be today."

Later, when she staggers out of his apartment, he tells her. "Get yourself some hemorrhoid cream. And for next time, make sure you prepare your ass more thoroughly because I won't be so gentle."

If looks could kill, Peter would already be a dead man. But they both know her only choice is to make the best of a dire situation.

Her only choice is to survive him.