Chapter 3: The Wolf Pack Selection
The hologram glowed, casting Vance’s face in pale blue light as his fingers danced through the profiles. He bypassed the obvious powerlifters, their bulging necks and thick torsos. Too blunt. Too likely to make a boy like Nick fold in on himself completely. He needed hunters, not brawlers.
He found them. Five profiles, clustered together by some algorithmic fate. Their builds were variations on a predatory theme: lean, long-limbed, with the corded density of cross-country runners or rock climbers. Narrow hips tapered into strong thighs, shoulders sharp under imagined cotton. Not bulky, but wire-tight with kinetic potential.
Their facial features were sharp, almost hungry. One had a mop of dark, unruly hair and a smirk. Another watched the camera with calm, assessing gray eyes. Their medical notes were Vance’s scripture. Height ranged from 6’1” to 6’3”. Resting penile length: 8.2 inches, 8.7, 9. The notes described generous testicular volume and high sperm motility. ‘Jock seed,’ Vance thought, approvingly.
Scents were catalogued with clinical precision. “Primary note: clean musk, dried sweat on cotton. Secondary: alpine air, sharp pine. Tertiary: salted skin, faint hint of boyish pheromones.” Another: “Dominant odor: warm sandstone. Undercurrent: ripe apricot, male exertion.” Each profile promised a potent, natural aroma no cologne could mimic.
Body hair was noted. Sparse, dark trails from navel to groin. Patches under arms. The aesthetic was natural, untamed, suggesting heat and texture for a mouth or cheek to press against. Vance imagined Nick nuzzling there, breathing deep, his new senses singing.
Temperaments varied, perfect for orchestration. Vance tapped the first profile, expanding it. “Liam Shaw,” he murmured. The boy in the image had sun-bleached, tousled hair and a smile that hinted at easy laughter. His shoulders were broad but lean, tapering to a narrow waist, his chest dusted with fine blond hair. The notes listed him as a swimmer, his musculature long and dense, his scent described as ‘chlorine undercut by warm, salty skin.’
“Energetic. Playful.” Vance noted the psychological evaluation: ‘Exhibits dominance through tactile possessiveness—frequent, casual touching.’ He’d be the one to sling an arm around Nick’s shoulders, his grip deceptively strong, his teasing a gateway for the others.
The second boy, Silas Kane, materialized. Dark hair fell over one eye, his expression quieter, observant. His physique was all tensile wire, defined veins tracing his forearms, a dark trail visible above the waistband of his boxer briefs in the candid shot. His scent profile read: ‘Fresh-turned earth, midnight rain, and a persistent musk.’
“The calm one. Until he isn’t.” His file indicated a deep, simmering intensity, a preference for prolonged eye contact that could unravel a person. Vance imagined those gray eyes locking onto Nick, holding him still without a hand ever being raised.
Vance swiped to the third. “Evan Reyes.” This one’s smile was a sharp, knowing curve, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He had the build of a soccer midfielder—powerful thighs, a flat stomach etched with muscle, a dark thatch of hair peeking from his armpits in a raised-arm photo. His listed scent was ‘sun-baked leather and burnt sugar.’
“The teaser. Verbally clever.” His psychological notes warned of a wicked, provocative tongue, a boy who would undress Nick with words long before any clothes came off. He’d be the one to voice what everyone wanted, framing Nick’s own desires back at him.
The fourth profile glowed. Jace Tolbert. This one seemed to vibrate even in the still image. Tousled, dark auburn hair, a dusting of freckles across his nose and shoulders, and a grin that was pure, unadulterated kinetic energy. His lean frame was all tightly-wound spring, a live wire of motion barely contained.
His notes mentioned ‘gregarious, physically expressive dominance’ and an ‘exceptionally high baseline libido.’ His scent was ‘warm leather and the musk of a sun-drenched field.’ He’d be the one to initiate, to pull Nick into a headlock that turned into something else, all with a laughing ease that made resistance feel churlish.
Vance pulled up the fifth and final boy. “Leo Walker.” He looked younger than the others, but his eyes held a startling directness. Coppery hair, a spray of freckles across his shoulders and nose. His muscles were compact, a climber’s build, with powerful hands. His scent: ‘Wild bergamot and crushed pine needles.’
“The instinctual one. Pure drive.” His evaluation simply stated: ‘Manifests dominance through uncomplicated biological imperative; a nurturing possessiveness post-coitus.’ He’d be the one to nuzzle, to bite softly, to knot and hold Nick as if it were a fundamental law of nature.
Vance interlaced his fingers, staring at the five rotating images. A pack. Narrow-hipped, long-limbed, moving with a latent, dangerous grace. They were approachable on the surface—handsome, athletic boys you’d see laughing on a field. But their eyes, their listed proclivities, the sheer physical facts of them, spoke of a different core.
He imagined Nick walking into Room 7 on moving day. The scent of five distinct, potent alphas would hit him like a wall, a complex symphony of ocean, rain, leather, frost, and iron. His new senses, fine-tuned by the pill, would separate each thread, each one calling to a different, hungry part of him.
They would orbit Nick’s quiet, solid center. Their narrow frames held more than enough strength to maneuver his thicker body, to bend him, to hold him down or cradle him. Their described lengths would reach the deepest, most secret places Vance’s pill had prepared.
The modified pouch, the potential for lactation, the rewritten taste buds—it was all circuitry waiting for this specific power source. These boys’ combined energy, their seed, their sweat, their possessiveness, would bring the design online.
With a final, satisfied tap, Mr. Vance assigned the five profiles to Dormitory 7, Top Floor. The hologram winked out, leaving only the amber glow of the room and the faint, anticipatory scent of his own unlit cigar.