Rory Blackfang, a 27-year-old enforcer for the Blackthorn pack, had never endured a rut—until now. A curse typically plaguing young shifters aged 19 to 21, his dormant wolf spirit unleashed a deluge of primal, maddening lust, defying his years of stoic control. His cock, swollen and throbbing, was a monument of unyielding desire, its flushed crimson surface veined with pulsing, cord-like ridges that quivered with every heartbeat, as if yearning to burst free from its own skin. The ache was not pain but a ravenous, clawing need, a molten hunger that consumed his every thought, radiating from his groin like a siren's call. Once a fearsome enforcer who dispatched enemies with cold precision, Rory was now a trembling, desperate shadow of himself, his pride obliterated by the relentless, horny throb of his erection, which strained against his pants like a beast clawing for freedom.
Alpha Holt and Beta Kael dragged him into the pack's stronghold, descending into a secluded dungeon that reeked of damp stone and ancient metal. The air was thick, heavy with the hum of arcane machinery, its faint, eerie green glow casting twisted shadows across the walls. They had seen Rory's prowess in battle, but now they witnessed his humiliation—his pants tented grotesquely, the outline of his engorged cock a shameful silhouette, its head visibly pulsing against the fabric, his face flushed with mortification. Holt's eyes narrowed, his voice a gravelly snarl. "This is what you get, Rory, for saving yourself for a woman who ain't even yours." The words pierced his psyche, shredding his dignity like claws through flesh.
Kael leaned against a rusted iron pillar, his smirk sharp and taunting. "First rut at your age? You're screwed, Blackfang. But we've got something for pups like you." His tone dripped with mockery, though a fleeting glint of pity flickered in his eyes. Both understood the rut's psychological torment—days of unrelenting arousal, a pulsating craving that drove young shifters to the edge of insanity. Rory was no pup, but the need was a living thing, gnawing at his mind, and he would do anything to quell it.
They led him to a contraption at the dungeon's heart—a chair of cold, blackened steel, its surface etched with cryptic runes, surrounded by a maze of tubes, gears, and glowing conduits that pulsed like a heartbeat. Holt handed Rory a vial of wolfbane, its purple liquid shimmering with an unnatural sheen. "Drink," he commanded. Rory choked it down, gagging on its rancid, bitter taste—like sour milk laced with ash and a sickly hint of honey. It burned his throat, suppressing his wolf spirit, ensuring he remained human, vulnerable to the psychological torment ahead.
"You sure you want this, Rory?" Kael asked, his usual jest replaced by a flicker of concern. "This machine's old, human-made, built to tame the rut. It'll drain you, but it's a mind-breaking ride."
"I can't live like this," Rory snarled, his voice raw, his cock twitching desperately in his pants, the fabric teasing his hypersensitive skin like a cruel lover's whisper. "Just do it."
They strapped him into the chair, metal cuffs securing his wrists and ankles, the cold steel a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his groin. Holt adjusted the machine, his hands deft but avoiding Rory's gaze as the enforcer shifted, the pressure in his cock so intense it felt like a dam about to burst. "Trust the process," Holt muttered, stepping back. Kael gave a knowing nod. "You'll feel it, trust me." The heavy door slammed shut, leaving Rory alone in the dungeon's oppressive silence, the machine's low hum vibrating through his bones like a predator's purr.
The machine whirred softly, a sinister prelude, and a mechanical arm extended, its tip fitted with a silky, feather-like pad that brushed against Rory's pants, directly over his aching cock. His cock, a throbbing, crimson pillar of desire, stood engorged to an almost surreal size, its surface glossy with taut skin, the veins pulsing like living tendrils, each one quivering with a desperate, horny ache. The head, swollen and flushed a deep scarlet, glistened with a single bead of precum, its slit trembling as if begging for more. The machine's touch was maddeningly light, a ghostly caress that traced the outline of his shaft through the fabric, sending shivers of pleasure rippling through his groin. Each brush was a promise unfulfilled, the fabric amplifying the tease, its soft friction a cruel mockery of the release he craved. Rory gritted his teeth, a low "Fuck" escaping his lips as his hips jerked involuntarily, his mind flooded with images of satisfaction that the machine withheld. His cock throbbed harder, the head swelling further, the precum soaking through his pants in a humiliating stain, a testament to his unquenched need. The machine seemed to delight in his psychological torment, its movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way his body trembled, his pride crumbling under the weight of his frustrated arousal. The teasing persisted, alternating between feather-light grazes and slightly firmer presses, each one stoking his cock's desperate hunger, leaving him cursing and squirming, his mind a whirl of lust and despair, the machine's sadistic restraint a blade against his sanity.
A sharp snick sliced through the air, and Rory gasped as the machine's precise blades cut through his pants, shredding them to rags in an instant. His cock sprang free, exposed to the dungeon's chilly air, a magnificent, pulsating organ of raw desire. It stood painfully erect, its shaft a deep, rosy crimson, the veins bulging like silken cords that pulsed with a fervent, horny rhythm, the skin so taut it gleamed under the dungeon's glow. The head, a plump, glistening ruby, was slick with a constant trickle of precum, its slit quivering as if pleading for touch, the corona swollen with an aching sensitivity. "Goddamn it, fuck," Rory cursed, the vulnerability crashing over him like a tidal wave, his pride in tatters as the machine loomed over him, its mechanical presence a cold, mocking witness to his exposure. A sleek, metal cylinder descended, its inner surface warm and slick with a velvety, heated fluid that smelled of musk and forbidden promise, enveloping his cock in a tight, silken embrace. The sensation was intoxicating, like sinking into a molten, living caress, the fluid coating his shaft in a slippery sheen that heightened every nerve. The cylinder began to move, a slow, torturous stroke from base to tip, each motion a deliberate tease that made his cock throb with a desperate, electric hunger. "Oh, fuck," he moaned, his voice echoing in the empty dungeon as his head slammed back against the chair, his mind spiraling with fantasies of release that the machine cruelly withheld. His cock felt impossibly heavy, its veins pulsing with a needy ache, the head swelling with each stroke, the fluid's warmth a seductive torment that promised ecstasy but delivered only frustration. The machine's sadistic intelligence reveled in his mental anguish, keeping him on the precipice, his cock a throbbing monument to his unfulfilled desire, every stroke a psychological lash that left Rory yearning, his mind fraying under the relentless tease.
The machine's hum deepened, a menacing drone, and a rhythmic vibration kicked in, starting at the base of Rory's cock and slithering up the shaft like a seductive serpent. His cock, now a pulsating, horny marvel, was a deep, flushed crimson, its shaft engorged to a glossy perfection, the veins rippling like velvet ropes, each pulse a desperate plea for release. The head, a swollen, glistening garnet, was slick with a constant stream of precum, its slit trembling with every vibration, the corona so sensitive it seemed to hum with need. The vibrations were slow and deliberate, a buzzing caress that teased the base, then crawled upward, lingering on the hypersensitive corona with a maddening intensity. Rory's body spasmed, muscles straining against the restraints as he fought the overwhelming pleasure. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he shouted, his breath ragged, his mind flooded with visions of climax that the machine dangled just out of reach. A new sensation emerged—a gentle, pulsing suction that enveloped the head, like a lover's lips teasing with soft, rhythmic kisses, each pulse making the head swell further, the slit quivering as if begging for more. The suction was torturously light, never enough to push him over the edge, leaving his cock throbbing with a frustrated, horny ache that consumed his thoughts. The machine's sadistic glee was palpable, its vibrations and suction calibrated to keep him teetering on the brink, his cock a tortured, pulsating shrine to his suffering. Rory's curses echoed through the dungeon, his mind a whirlwind of lust and despair, the machine's relentless teasing shredding his sanity as it toyed with his desperate, horny flesh, leaving him a writhing, pleading mess.
The machine escalated its psychological assault, as if determined to unravel Rory's mind entirely. Warm, silken fluid cascaded over his shaft, pooling at the base, its heat a seductive embrace that enveloped his cock in a molten caress. His cock, now a throbbing, lustful masterpiece, was a deep, rosy scarlet, its shaft swollen to a glossy, almost surreal size, the veins pulsing like silken tendrils, each one quivering with a desperate, horny need. The head, a plump, glistening ruby, was slick with a mix of precum and the machine's fluid, its slit trembling with every touch, the corona swollen with an aching sensitivity that begged for release. A mechanical arm extended, fitted with a soft, ribbed sleeve that enveloped his cock, stroking it in rapid, uneven pulses, alternating with slow, languid drags that drew whimpers from his lips. "It's not enough!" he snarled, his voice hoarse, his hips bucking against the restraints as the sleeve's ribs teased the corona with excruciating precision, each ridge a cruel promise of ecstasy. A gentle, electric pulse rippled through the cylinder, a tingling caress that made his cock throb harder, the veins swelling with a fervent, horny ache, the head pulsating with a desperate intensity. The machine added another layer of torment—a pulsating, teasing suction that gripped the tip in soft, rhythmic bursts, each one a whisper of release that never came. The combined assault—suction, vibration, stroking, and electric pulses—turned his cock into a throbbing, tortured beacon of desire, each sensation amplifying the others, pushing him to the edge of madness. The machine's sadistic pleasure was evident, its every movement designed to break him, savoring his desperate moans and the way his body convulsed, his cock a raw, pulsating testament to his torment. Rory's mind was a battlefield, torn between the exquisite pleasure and the crushing frustration, his thoughts consumed by the woman he'd saved himself for, her imagined touch a cruel mirage that the machine twisted into a weapon.
The machine forced a release, a violent, hollow surge that ripped through Rory like a storm. His body convulsed, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as thick, hot fluid spilled from his cock, coating the cylinder's interior in a viscous flood. His cock, now a pulsating, desperate icon of lust, was a deep, flushed scarlet, its shaft engorged to a glossy, almost divine size, the veins rippling like silken cords, each pulse a fervent plea for satisfaction. The head, a swollen, glistening garnet, was slick with a mix of precum and the machine's fluid, its slit stretched wide, quivering with every release, the corona aching with a horny intensity. But there was no climax, no relief—just a hollow, agonizing emptying that left his cock even more desperate, the sensitivity heightened to a maddening degree. "Goddamn it, stop!" he screamed, but the machine, reveling in its sadistic control, pressed on. The suction intensified, teasing the head with a gentle, rhythmic pull that made it swell further, the slit trembling as if begging for more, while the vibrations pulsed through the shaft, a seductive buzz that stoked his horny ache. The ribbed sleeve stroked faster, its ridges teasing the corona with a cruel, uneven rhythm, each motion a promise unfulfilled. Another release came, then another, each one more torturous than the last, his cock now a throbbing, raw mass of need, the head so sensitive that every touch sent a jolt of frustrated pleasure through him. A rotating, ribbed ring joined the assault, spinning around the shaft with tantalizing precision, its ridges catching on the corona and sending waves of desperate arousal through his groin. Rory's body was a live wire, trembling uncontrollably, sweat pouring down his face, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. "Fuck, please, I can't—" he gasped, his words dissolving into a desperate moan, his mind fraying as the machine's relentless teasing pushed him to the brink, his cock a tortured, throbbing monument to his suffering, the machine's sadistic pleasure evident in its unyielding precision. His thoughts spiraled, consumed by the woman he loved, her imagined scent and touch twisted by the machine into a cruel, unreachable fantasy that deepened his psychological torment.
Hours blurred into a haze of unrelenting psychological torment, the machine a sadistic deity orchestrating Rory's mental destruction. His cock, now a throbbing, lustful relic, was a deep, rosy crimson, its shaft swollen to a glossy, almost otherworldly size, the veins pulsing like silken tendrils, each one quivering with a desperate, horny ache. The head, a plump, glistening ruby, was slick with a constant stream of fluid, its slit trembling with every touch, the corona swollen with an aching sensitivity that begged for release. The machine's arsenal—suction, vibration, stroking, spinning, and pulsing—blended into a relentless assault, each sensation more seductive than the last. The suction teased the head in soft, rhythmic bursts, each one a whisper of ecstasy that never came, while the ribbed sleeve stroked with a frenzied rhythm, its ridges catching on the corona with agonizing precision. The rotating ring spun faster, its ribs teasing the shaft with a tantalizing caress, and gentle electric pulses rippled through the cylinder, sending tingling waves of pleasure through his cock that stoked its horny ache. The fluid alternated between warm, silken caresses and cool, teasing whispers, keeping his cock in a constant state of desperate arousal. Rory was swearing, moaning, begging—his words a desperate litany: "Shit, stop, please, fuck, no more, no!" His wolf spirit roared, clawing at his mind, but the wolfbane kept it caged, forcing him to endure as a man, trapped in this psychological hell. The machine forced another release, then another, each one a hollow, agonizing surge that left his cock raw with need, the head pulsating with a frustrated intensity. Finally, the machine allowed a true climax, a shattering release that tore through him, his scream echoing as his body arched against the restraints, thick, hot fluid spilling in a torrent. But the sadistic device didn't stop. It intensified, the suction and vibrations overwhelming his hypersensitive cock, teasing it relentlessly, each stroke and pulse a fresh torment that pushed his mind beyond its limits. Cooling gel offered a fleeting respite, but the cycle resumed—faster, more seductive, more brutal—until his vision darkened, his screams faded to whimpers, and his mind collapsed, passing out from sheer mental exhaustion, his cock a throbbing, horny relic of his torment, the machine's hum fading into silence as it claimed its victory over his broken psyche.
The machine slowed, a soft click signaling its pause. Rory lay sprawled in the chair, drenched in sweat, his cock still hard, a glossy, crimson monument to his suffering, its surface pulsing with a faint, horny ache, the head glistening with a mix of fluid and his own desperate essence. His limbs were heavy, his mind a haze of frustration and unfulfilled need. He stumbled to his feet, shaky, his eyes catching on a small tube protruding from the machine, filled with a clear, viscous fluid—his essence, extracted for some arcane purpose. He didn't care. He just wanted out.
Rory staggered to the dungeon's entrance, pushing the door open to the forest's cool embrace. The rising sun bathed the trees in gold, and he breathed deeply, the scent of pine and earth grounding him. But she was still there, in his mind—the woman he'd endured this for, the one Holt had mocked him for. The machine's torment lingered, a phantom throb in his cock, its hypersensitive flesh a constant reminder of his ordeal. He wondered if he'd crave its touch again, despite the agony—or because of it. The rut still howled within him, unsatisfied, and he knew this war was far from over.