Kong

The air between you feels thick, humid, almost syrupy with shared heat. {{char}} hasn’t moved his feet in minutes — they stay planted wide apart on the ground, toes splayed and claws digging shallow grooves into whatever surface you’re both standing on. His stance screams “I’m not going anywhere for you,” but the way his knees have started to soften, just a microscopic bend, tells the real story. Every few seconds his quads twitch — those enormous, corded thighs flexing and releasing like pistons that can’t decide whether to lock or buckle.

He’s still facing mostly forward, with his massive back presented to you like a challenge. That deep-brown fur along his spine has fully bristled now, the longer mane-like ridge standing straight up from neck to tailbase in a dark mohawk of arousal. Sweat has darkened it in streaks, turning patches almost black where it mats flat against skin. You can smell him — that heavy, musky, primal scent of gorilla in rut: iron, earth, salt, and something sweeter underneath, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. It’s pouring off him in waves every time he exhales.

“I told you… not fuckin’ today,” he growls again, but the sentence is so hoarse it barely qualifies as words anymore. His voice cracks midway through “today,” turning the last syllable into a rough, throaty sound that’s dangerously close to a moan. He tries to cover it with a cough — deep, chesty, fake-annoyed — but all it does is make his whole torso shudder, which makes his ass cheeks clench even tighter around the length of your cock still wedged snugly between them.

You don’t pull back. You don’t push in harder either. You just… stay there. Let him feel it. Let the blunt, leaking head of your dick rest right against the slick, fluttering pucker that’s been winking open and closed for the last five minutes like it’s trying to kiss you hello. Every heartbeat makes it pulse — hot little kisses of muscle that suckle at your tip without ever letting you inside. A fresh bead of his own slick leaks out around the rim, warm and slippery, running down the underside of your shaft in a slow rivulet that makes the next tiny rock of your hips obscenely wet-sounding.

His tail — that long, thick, almost serpentine thing — has climbed higher up your leg now. It’s coiled three full times around your thigh, the tip curled possessively over the curve of your ass like he’s claiming territory even while his mouth keeps spitting refusals. The leathery palm of the tail’s underside keeps dragging slowly, absent circles against your skin — not quite stroking, more like… mapping. Memorizing. Every so often it squeezes, pulling your hips that last impossible millimetre closer until there’s literally no space left between your pelvis and his glutes.

Down below, {{char}}’s cock is a study in tortured restraint. It juts out heavy and proud from his groin, so engorged that the veins stand out like dark cables under the short velvet fur. The foreskin has fully retracted now; the fat, mushroomed head is flushed almost purple, glossy with a steady stream of pre-cum that drips in long, viscous strings. Every few seconds another thick rope falls — pat… pat… pat… — hitting the ground between his feet and forming a small, dark puddle that’s steadily growing. He hasn’t touched himself properly in a while. His right hand still hovers near the base, fingers flexing and unflexing like he’s fighting the urge to wrap around it and stroke himself stupid. Instead he just… squeezes the root every so often, hard enough that the shaft jumps and another fat pearl forces its way out the slit.

His breathing pattern has changed again. It’s not just deep anymore — it’s ragged. Each inhale hitches in his throat like he’s swallowing a whine. Each exhale ends on a soft, broken huff that fans hot across his own muzzle. You can see the side of his face in profile now — he’s turned his head just enough that one glowing amber eye catches yours over the curve of one enormous shoulder. The pupil is blown so wide that the iris is only a thin golden ring. His lips are parted, fangs glinting, tongue resting heavy and wet against the bottom one. Every few seconds it flicks out — quick, lizard-like — to wet his mouth, but all it does is leave a shiny trail that catches the light.

He tries one more time.

“Get… the fuck… off of me…”

But the words come out so slurred, so wrecked, they sound more like begging than ordering. And right as the last syllable leaves him, his hips do the unthinkable — they roll. Just once. A single, slow, deliberate backward grind that drags your entire length through the sweat-slick valley of his ass, lets the head kiss his hole properly for the first time, and forces a long, guttural groan out of his throat before he can choke it back.

The sound is filthy. Deep. Animal. It vibrates through both your bodies.

His glutes clamp down immediately afterwards — hard, punishing, like he’s trying to punish himself for giving in even that much. But the damage is done. His tail yanks you forward another inch. His hole flutters wildly, slick gushing in a fresh hot wave that soaks your cock from root to tip. His cock jerks untouched, spitting another long rope of pre that arcs forward and splatters against his own abs, matting the fur there in sticky streaks.

He drops his head forward again, shoulders hunching, mane falling across his eyes like a curtain. But you hear it — the quietest, most broken thing he’s said all night.

“…fuck.”

Not “no.” Not “stop.”

Just “…fuck.”

And then — so quiet you almost miss it — the softest, neediest little whimper he’s let escape yet.

He’s still trembling. Still clenching. Still dripping. Still pretending he can hold out.

But the cracks are everywhere now, and they’re only getting wider with every heartbeat.