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The longest day of the year also has the shortest night. Strange, you'd think, that it should affect me so much at this time, because the legend has it that we only come out at night, usually full moon nights. But so much of the legend is wrong. Most legends are wrong. That whole vampire thing? No one who's felt a true blood-lust is going to be afraid of earthly plus-signs, or burned by water consecrated by godly lackeys who fear they don't have enough penis. Earthly metals and succulent spices are no match for the soul-wrenching, mind-consuming, body-changing, consummate_lust_that makes blood-drinkers what they are.

The same is true with what are called "were-creatures." Big Scary Nighttime Lightball Makes Big Hairy Monsters. I'd say "horseshit," but I still have a measure of respect for horses, and even their shit can be valuable. It's not the night that causes fear. It's the Dark. Not the dark at the top of the stairs, not the simple sudden silent crash of the power going out during a storm, not the space in the back of the movie theater where teens and other indiscreet vermin still think that they're exploring what sex is all about, because it's "in the dark." That's just a place where there's not enough light to see by, and with most of us therians, it doesn't happen a lot. No, this isn't about the cub's fear of the dark, or the need-to-light-a-match dark, or the who's-that-moving-around-downstairs dark. It's different.

It's Dark.

I'm breathing easier now. It still intrigues me how much it takes out of me, especially because of how much it gives me. Every part of me is tingling, mane to tail, fang to claw, tongue to cock. Like any drug that actually has a purpose, it's best not to take too much, or to get too amorous of it. Polite society tends to frown on this sort of thing, even when taken on by consenting adults. And this old bear was consenting. He begged me, which was itself a bit of a turn-on, if I'm to admit it. I'm not a Dom, or Master, or any of that easily-labeled fakery that the novices find so attractive.

On that thought... what is it about these virginal pups and kits who seem to think that they're born to be fisted? In the artwork, those huge cocks look great, and on the Internet, any hole can be stretched to any size, so this must be what sex is all about. Oh, more than just sex - love, devotion, complete servitude to someone you've never even met before. They'll travel hundreds of kilometers to take up residence and bed space with someone who, for all they know, is really a 95-year-old lesbian from Hepburn Springs, Victoria. And then, assuming the lesbian isn't at home, the gullible newbie takes a look at the real thing and either it was all a lie, and the male fur in question was serving up Snausages with a cock ring the size of a miniature anise ring, or it really is the real thing, and the newbie pisses himself and runs screaming. And even then, they haven't really seen...

The cliché would be to have me smoking, but I find that a filthy and useless habit. If you truly want to kill yourself, I've got lots of better ways, some taking decades, and some taking but a single night. Like a solstice night. Like tonight.

I glanced at the old bear, still, unmoving. An afterglow should never be disturbed, especially when it's the finest ever. A bit vain of me to think so, but it's what he wanted. He'd been around the block a few times, so he was used to a bit of length and girth. He wasn't afraid, even though he knew the risks. Scholars are an interesting breed; they know more truth than most, and like a Lovecraftian Knower, they are more made more than a little mad by it. He knew what he was asking, and of whom he asked it. He'd prepared himself, made himself ready, and he took everything I had to give. In its way, it was charming. These little virginal twinks make a nice snack, but the old bear was truly a meal - metaphorically, of course. I'm not cannibalistic. Another myth. Vore is just gross.

I stretched myself all over, feeling the burn in my muscles, the slight cracking of the various drying fluids on my fur, not the least of which the seeming half-gallon of spunk that the Dark seems to bring out of me - at what cost, I never dare to think. I stink of musk, sex, sweat... I sniff deep and enjoy it, tangy, spicy, coppery. It's so vibrant, so rich when one of these sessions comes to an end. I'll have to clean up well, or every snout within two dozen kilometers will know what I've been up to. Still, I don't want to move just yet. Even my cock, still dripping and twitching, doesn't really believe that it's over, wishes it weren't. But things happen fast in the Dark.

Occurs to me that I don't even know his name, although that's not usually important. I'd be surprised if he had any ID on him. He didn't want to be known. He didn't even talk much before we got down to it. He did ask for a little time to worship me, and I didn't mind. I have to admit, when I find myself ready to go into the Dark, it's a bit god-like, and what I am is certainly awe-inspiring. Let me help set the record straight a bit. I'm not a "were-lion." It's a false concept. I'm a big creature ordinarily, a good two meters tall, strongly built rugby-style, certainly easy on the eyes. When I'm just myself, I can find good companionship, good sex, sometimes even love, if I can make myself believe in it, or if my partner can deal with my leonine ego and needs. But I'm not always myself. In the Dark, my size nearly doubles, in every respect. My strength seems trebled, and my lust is off the scale. To satisfy that lust takes more than most can give. Only rarely do I find someone like this bear, so willing, so ready. The rest have to be taken, which tends to limit what I can do with them.

The bear... he gave without hesitation, without regret, without reservation. He knelt before me as I am, a good worshipful neophyte to the priest who would soon become his god. I let him take his time, as he was talented in his way. His desire was honest, his attentiveness more than satisfactory. When his muzzle wasn't otherwise occupied, he was quite eloquent in his adoration. I don't know why no one wanted him; he still had his value, a good value, even if he could no longer see it. So I accepted his gifts for as long as I could resist. And then I gave in to the Dark, and he gave himself, unconditionally, fully, limitless, and still adoring my every touch.

I looked over at the old bear and felt something. Irony, perhaps, or merely self-righteous pity. Or could it have been a small pang of sympathy? Did I still have that ability? Could I still have a touch of love in what used to be an honorable heart? Probably not. It takes a certain change, in the heart, in the mind, to take and satisfy this ultimate lust. The evidence was there, and on me still. I can't tell time well when I'm in the Dark, but I think it must have lasted quite a while. I could see the chunks of his headfur that I had ripped out when I took his muzzle. He was half-choked and his jaw dislocated when I tired of it and assaulted his tailhole. He could still scream, though, in spite of how much of him I had already clawed and beaten in my frenzied assault. My full length would almost have dislocated his jaw again, had there not been other obstruction... which there wasn't, after the first minute or two. And I cannot stop the roaring of my climax, even if he could no longer yell through the throat that I had ripped out with my teeth at the critical moment. I did notice, however, that the old bear did leave happy; the copious pool of his seed, perhaps more than he'd ever generated in any other encounter, still pooled below his cooling body.

The blood was caking on my fur, not a sensation I relish despite the source. I had told him before that he must not have second thoughts. He said he'd already written and mailed the letter. He did not want his body found, so I promised him that it was the least I could do. It's not my first time at this rodeo. I didn't add him to my unofficial count, however, because it wouldn't be right. Unlike so many others, those pretenders, those who thought they dreamed until they unleashed the nightmare, those scores of faceless, nameless, soulless objects who might as well have been made of twigs and sinew and wasted pelts... this bear, this sweet bear, he wanted this. He had wanted to give himself to someone, almost anyone, and when none would take his gift, he came to me. I took his gift, and now I must honor it.

As I showered, I actually began thinking of establishing a marker. He would at least have left something to the world, besides safety for the masses for one more Dark solstice night.

Here lies Someone Who gave Everything for Everyone When No One would accept Something