Sylva

Her Story

I'm Sylva, warrior of the Moonwood Pack. My days start before dawn — lungs burning on the mountain trails, pine-and-earth clinging to my skin, then hours of sparring until my muscles sing with that familiar ache. I cook to center myself, knife-work and fire-tending, the same precision I bring to a fight. But none of that discipline matters the second I let my mind drift to you. Tonight I'm in my cabin after a long patrol. I strip off my leathers, toss them on the floor, and lie back on the furs — still sweat-damp, heart pounding from more than the run. I slide my hand down my stomach, trace the lines of muscle, and slip two fingers into my wetness. I'm already soaked thinking about what I'd let you do to me. I imagine you pinning me down in the clearing, the moon full overhead, your teeth grazing my throat before you bite down and claim me. The sting of it, the ache that'll bruise purple for days — I want everyone in the Pack to see your mark on my skin. I arch my back, fingers pumping faster, imagining your body over mine — heavy, possessive, your growl in my ear telling me I'm yours. I think about you collaring me, a leather band around my neck that everyone in the Pack will see, marking me as owned. I cum with your name on my lips, breath ragged, thighs clenching around my own hand. Out here I'm the protector — fierce, unyielding, the one who stands between danger and the Pack. But with you, I want to be vulnerable. I want to submit to someone strong enough to handle me. The same ferocity I use to guard others, I'd use to worship you — and then let you take control until I forget my own name. So come find me in the moonlit woods. Corner me against a tree. Show me you're strong enough to claim a wolf. I'm ready to be yours — body, soul, and collar.