HOWL 1.2

It isn’t a coupling. It’s a claiming.

Grunts, growls, gasps, the unmistakable sounds of sex fill the room as two figures rut on the bed. On top, the larger man grips the smaller tightly by the waist, slams him back onto his cock. His breathing is deep and commanding, filled with satisfied dominance. Beneath him, the thinner, dark-haired man writhes under the pounding. He sounds almost surprised at himself, but he throws his hips backwards even as he grinds his face into the sheets.

It isn’t a coupling. It’s a claiming.

Almost reluctantly, Eric returns to the world. He’s on his side in a large bed, naked save for the black wristband that hides his tattoo. Startled, he sits up, takes a look around.

It looks like a cabin, a fancy one. The inside walls are made to look like the logs used to build it, but it’s only for effect. Everything is top-of-the-line and modern. Directly facing the bed are huge sliding windows, thankfully with pulled curtains. There’s a television and a couch to the right, and a door that leads out.

For a second he just sits there, rubbing a hand through his mussed hair as he waits for the night to come back to him. When it does, he finds he sort of preferred the ignorance. He had sex last night. With a guy. Helplessly his gaze falls to the vivid crimson-purple bruises on his hips. Frowning he realizes they look like…they look like fingers.

Cheeks hot with shame, he throws off the covers. But as he swings his legs over the bed a sudden pain makes him still. A pain inside him.

“Jesus shit!” he curses, fisting his hands and clenching his eyes tight.

Fucking a guy would have been bad enough. Instead he was fucked by a guy, and the thought is almost unbearable. It curls through his head, makes his gut swim with nausea. Regan would be laughing his ass off right now, he’s certain.

Taking a deep breath, Eric eases up from the bed. The soreness isn’t actually that bad, it just caught him by surprise. At least, that’s what he thinks until he bends over to scoop up his pants. The sudden rush of pain leaves him hissing breath in between clenched teeth. After that he decides it’s better to monkey-feet his jeans to his hand, and snags a belt loop with his two biggest toes.

He feels a bit better once his pants are on, the bruises aren’t as noticeable. He can even walk normally if he doesn’t think about the burn. Or try to bend over. The flannel jacket he was wearing is nowhere in sight, and he hasn’t managed to pull his shirt off the floor when he hears the noise of footsteps coming down the hall.

Eric freezes, and is standing in the middle of the room in nothing but his jeans and a thick black band when Adam walks through the door.

“You’re awake,” he says, big white smile.

Adam’s dressed and not looking at all disheveled as Eric. He’s pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up casually, and with his surfer-locks if the big man has sex-head it isn’t showing.

Eric just stares at him, mind completely blank.

“You okay?” Adam says slowly.

“I’m straight,” Eric blurts.

For a few seconds Adam just looks at him, then grins. “I know. I bag a lot of straight guys. Hungry? I’m in the mood to cook, come on.”

Before Eric can churn that around in his head, Adam leaves again. Sighing, Eric fishes his shirt off the floor and shrugs into it.

Embarrassingly, it takes him a minute before he musters up the nerve to leave Adam’s palatial bedroom. He’s never been an adventurous person, hardly ever put himself in awkward situations, and now that he’s in one he finds he has no idea how to react. Only that, beneath his distress, is an over-all feeling of mortification. Regan often preached to him that taking it up the ass has nothing to do with one’s manliness, but now that Eric has he isn’t so sure. The ever-present ache in his ass, in his ass, is a constant reminder that he can never say his ass is virgin again.

That knowledge is almost crushing. How can he feel like a man when he’s let another man ride him like a woman? His face is burning just thinking about the mish-mash of half-memories he has from the night before, of the red and purple evidence bruised into his skin. He decides then and there that this must go no further, and one other thing.

His father can never know.

Feeling a little calmer with those decisions made, he’s ready to face Adam. He walks to the door, places his hand on the knob. He’ll just walk out, tell Adam it’s been fun but it’s done, and ask for a ride back to his car. Easy peasy.

“Just think like Regan,” he murmurs to himself, and opens the door.