Ditry Sheets: Jody Blythe and Michael part 3

Jody jolted awake in the tangle of her threadbare sheets, the kind that stuck to her skin like a bad habit. Her tiny apartment smelled of stale coffee and the faint tang of whatever she'd microwaved last night—probably those discount burritos again. But the wetness between her thighs cut through it all, a slick reminder that her body had other plans. She shifted, feeling the damp spot spreading under her ass, her pussy throbbing with the echo of a dream that left her gasping. Michael. That playground fuck, his claws on her hips, the way he'd flooded her until she leaked for days. Months had passed since that night, but the dreams hit like clockwork, pulling her under and leaving her soaked.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cool against her bare feet. Her groin was a mess—cum, or whatever the hell it was now, trickling down her inner thigh in a warm rivulet. Not her cum, not exactly. Since that encounter, her body had... changed. Spontaneous releases in the dead of night, like her pussy was still clenching around his dick, milking out his essence from some hidden reserve. She wasn't used to it, not after all these months, but denying it felt pointless. The sheets were ruined again, a dark stain blooming where she'd thrashed.

Groaning, Jody peeled off her panties, the fabric clinging wetly to her folds before she yanked them free. They hit the hamper with a soft thud, joining the pile—half a dozen pairs already crusting over from previous nights. She had two drawers dedicated now: one for the daytime cotton ones that mostly stayed dry, and this one for the nights, the heavy-duty ones that could handle the flood. The laundromat was a nightmare waiting to happen; those old washers in the basement probably reeked of everyone else's secrets, and yeah, people had to notice the sheer volume of her loads. But fuck it, she wasn't explaining satyr jizz to the neighborhood busybodies.

She padded into the bathroom, even tinier than the bedroom, the kind of space where you could piss and brush your teeth at the same time if you angled right. The mirror above the sink was fogged from the humidity, but she wiped it clear with her forearm. Staring back was her face—Jody Blythe, 44 going on... fuck, 20? The nose she'd hated since high school, that slight hook from a playground fall as a kid, was still there. The faint scar on her chin from a bar fight in her twenties. But the rest? Soft skin, glowing like she'd been dipped in some anti-aging serum. No bags under her eyes, those permanent shadows from dropping out of college and pulling doubles at shitty jobs. No crow's feet from squinting at computer screens or laughing too hard at bad jokes. Hell, her pores looked like they'd been ironed flat. She ran a finger along her jawline, smooth as a peach, and felt a weird thrill mix with the unease. Fountain of youth, courtesy of a horned dickbag who'd sung "Hurt" like it was a personal confession.

"Creepy as shit," she muttered, splashing water on her face. But her reflection smirked back, lips fuller, cheeks flushed from the dream. Her tits, too—firmer, nipples perking up in the cool air like they were begging for attention. She cupped one, thumb brushing the peak, and a spark shot straight to her core. Wetness gathered again, her pussy lips swelling just from the touch. "Down, girl," she told herself, but her hand didn't stop, sliding lower over her stomach, now flat and taut without the pooch from years of stress eating.

The knock at the door came sharp, like a gunshot in the quiet morning. Jody froze, hand midway down her belly, heart slamming. Who the fuck? She wasn't expecting anyone—rent was paid, no deliveries, and her social circle was basically a bar stool and a half-dead houseplant. Wrapping a towel around her naked body, she cracked the door, peeking out.

Michael stood there, leaning against the frame like he owned the building. Same worn leather jacket, same tousle of dark hair, but those eyes—tired, sad brown—locked on her with that predatory glint. No horns in sight, not yet, but she could feel the pull, the same shiver from that karaoke night when he'd belted out "Stand by Me" and made her feel seen.

"The fuck are you doing here?" she hissed, but her voice came out breathy, towel slipping a fraction to reveal the curve of her breast.

He didn't smile, just pushed the door open wider, stepping in without invitation. The apartment shrank around him, his presence filling the space like smoke. "Heard you dreaming about me," he said, voice low, that gravelly edge hinting at the shift beneath. "Walls are thin. And you... you smell like me. Still."

Jody's cheeks burned, but she didn't back down, letting the towel drop to the floor. Nudity hit like a challenge—her body on full display, skin gleaming, pussy bare and already glistening from the interrupted self-touch. "Months, Michael. You ghosted after pounding me into the grass like a goddamn animal. Now you show up smelling like regret?"

He shut the door behind him, eyes raking over her, lingering on the renewed youth in her curves. "Couldn't stay away. The bond... it sticks." His jacket hit the floor, shirt following, revealing the lean muscle dusted with that faint trail of fur starting low on his abs. Pants next, kicked aside, his cock springing free—thick, half-hard, the tip already beading with pre-cum. No shift yet, but she knew it was coming.

She should have kicked him out, demanded answers about the changes, the wet dreams, the way her body betrayed her every night. But the air crackled, that same electric hum from the playground, and her thighs clenched, more slickness leaking out. "Bond, huh? That's what you're calling this pussy upgrade?"

Michael closed the distance, hands on her hips, pulling her flush against him. His cock nudged her belly, hot and heavy, leaving a smear of pre-cum on her skin. "You look... alive," he murmured, one hand sliding up to cup her face, thumb tracing her smooth cheek. "My doing. Old blood wakes things up."

Jody shivered, nipples hardening against his chest. She grabbed his dick, squeezing the base, feeling it twitch and thicken in her grip. "Flattery's cute, but if you're here to finish what you started, make it quick. I got a shift later."

He growled, low and real, the sound vibrating through her. No more words—he spun her around, bending her over the bathroom sink, her hands bracing on the cool porcelain. The mirror fogged again from their heat, but she caught glimpses: her tits swaying, his body looming behind. His claws emerged, just the tips, scraping lightly down her back as he kicked her legs wider. "Quick? Nah. Gonna take my time with this pretty little pussy."

Jody arched back, ass pressing against his cock, the head sliding through her folds, coating itself in her wetness. "Then shut up and fuck me," she demanded, pushing back until the tip breached her, stretching her open with that familiar burn.

He thrust in slow, deliberate, inch by inch, filling her until his hips met her ass. She was soaked, the dream's residue making it easy, but the fullness hit hard—his dick pulsing inside her, thicker than she remembered, like it was adapting to her changes. "Fuck," she gasped, fingers slipping on the sink as he bottomed out, balls snug against her clit.

Michael didn't rush. His hands gripped her waist, claws pricking just enough to sting, holding her still as he ground deep, stirring her insides. The angle let him hit that spot, the one that made her knees buckle, and she moaned, loud and unfiltered in the tiny space. Water dripped from the faucet, a steady plink mirroring the wet sounds of him sliding in and out, slow drags that pulled her lips taut around him.

"You been dreaming of this?" he asked, voice rough, one hand sliding up to fist her hair, tugging her head back so she met his eyes in the mirror. His were shifting, amber flecks bleeding into the brown, horns starting to curl from his temples. "Waking up wet, pussy clenching like it's empty without me?"

"Yeah," she admitted, breath hitching as he snapped his hips forward, harder now, the slap echoing off the tiles. "Every fucking night. Your cum leaking out of me like I can't shake you."

He chuckled, dark and satisfied, releasing her hair to slap her ass—sharp, the sting blooming heat that shot to her core. "Good. Means it's working." His pace picked up, thrusts turning punishing, dick plunging deep enough to nudge her cervix, making her toes curl against the bathmat. She rocked back, meeting him, the friction building fast, her clit throbbing untouched.

Jody's reflection blurred with sweat, her mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure coiled tight. His free hand dipped between her legs, fingers—clawed now—circling her clit, rough pads pressing just right. "Come on," he urged, breath hot on her neck. "Squeeze me like in your dreams."

She did, walls fluttering around his cock, the orgasm hitting sudden and fierce. Her pussy spasmed, gushing slick down his shaft, soaking his balls as she cried out, body shaking against the sink. He didn't stop, fucking through it, the wet squelch louder, obscene in the confined space.

"Shit, Jody," he groaned, claws digging into her hips as he chased his own release. One more deep thrust, and he came, hot spurts flooding her, thick and endless, like the first time. Cum overflowed immediately, dripping down her thighs, pooling on the floor. But he stayed buried, grinding to push it deeper, his dick still hard, twitching with need.

Panting, she twisted to look at him over her shoulder. "That's it? One round and you're spent?"

Michael's grin was feral, horns fully out now, fur sprouting along his arms. He pulled out with a wet pop, cum gushing free, and spun her to face him. "Hell no." Lifting her onto the sink edge, he spread her legs wide, dropping to his knees. Her pussy was a mess—swollen, red, leaking his load in steady dribbles. He dove in, tongue flat and broad, lapping from her asshole up to her clit in one long stroke.

Jody's head thunked back against the mirror, hands fisting his horns as he ate her out like a starving man. His tongue speared inside, scooping out his own cum, the filthy taste making him growl against her folds. She bucked, the overstimulation sharp, pleasure bordering on pain. "Fuck, your tongue—deeper," she demanded, grinding against his face, smearing the mess over his cheeks.

He obliged, nose bumping her clit as he tongue-fucked her, claws holding her thighs open. One finger joined, thick and insistent, curling to hit that spot inside while his mouth sucked her clit, fangs grazing just enough to tease. Her second orgasm built quick, crashing over her with a squirt that hit his chin, his throat working to swallow it down mixed with his cum.

Not done, he rose, cock slick and ready, flipping her again—this time facing the mirror fully. He entered her ass this time, no warning, just the head pressing against her tight ring, lubricated by the cum dripping from her pussy. "Relax," he murmured, but his voice was command, one hand reaching around to rub her clit as he pushed in slow.

The stretch burned, full and invading, but the pleasure from his fingers made her push back, taking him inch by inch until he was seated deep in her ass.