The Clearing
When a poet attempts NSFW flash fiction for the first time.
The Clearing
The indicative cobalt pallor of nighttime. Across the clearing, across to where a werewolf stood. All knowingly. A single werewolf at that. This line of flight was executed in nonetheless fatalistic fashion. Ahead to la petite mort; one wondered if anything at all had happened.
Nonetheless it had happened. As if compelled, by natural scripting. The Berner was walking, after studies, from the library to the dorms. The Humanities library. The line of flight, a secant across the clearing. There was something particularly horny about this line of flight and something particularly horny about this clearing now. Perhaps because of this he, ambling in chubby huffs, ambling in worn loafers and frumpy cargo shorts, with curt, nervous swishes of the tail, snagged a paw on a jutting root, in the clearing.
Through the blurring veil, this life without glasses. They had rolled down the slide of his snout, during his tumble, and now they were gone. The looming figure recovered them, and placed them back atop the Berner's snout, an offer of a view. A spectral clearing, with the hulking and imposing werewolf. Such a pretty Berner, with limpid waves of white, brown, and black through the fur, a cleanliness proper to the cloistered scholasticism of his look.
The Berner rose to a kneeling, the hem of his dirt-stained polo and the waistband of his shorts still failing to meet, the excess of his soft tummy peeking widely. He nuzzled the werewolf's tattered jean-shorts. What a good boy! Right against the bulge, snout between those impressive thighs, as he pulled his miniature leaking prick from his cargo shorts, stroking with ritual instinct.
The knotted werewolf-cock slid into his maw as it was supposed to. Through a lacuna in the tattered denim. Our Berner sucked as if it were right, that fleshy length, tip to hilt. What a good boy! The dog pawed at the pendular balls while throating the turgid member, muzzle rocking forward and back in accelerated repetition.
A spatter. Then a barrage, slickly plunking array of young seed, Berner-seed splaying on the ground. He choked on the wolf, emitting a silent yelp of shame, but what a good boy! He kept sucking as all pupils must. Bobbing back, and then with his nose to that miraculous fat-pad, he felt the inexorable jets, the invasion of that wolfish torrent, so much cum with which he slaked himself eagerly. He gasped before again attempting to swallow it all, but there will always be that little bit that trickles down one's chin.
On both fronts, what had happened? He scurried away, fumbling his stack of monographs. And which professor had that been?