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_Click. "...-ty five to seven! Another win for our hometown boys, th-".

Click. "..-ve to our reporter on the scene, Sherry Goodall. Sherry, what can y-".

Click. Click. Click. "..-sp and cool spring night tonight folks, with temperatures hovering around the mid sixties. And for you stargazers out there, we've got a gorgeous full mo-"._

The crunch of disused gravel and snapping branches fill the air as you work your Dad's handmedown pickup down the abandoned old road, faded signs and weather-worn posters dotting bent and buckling posts alongside the pathway. As the weather report fades into so much background noise you think back to the day's events, ears still ringing from getting chewed out by the Photography club's leader over not providing enticing enough shots for your college's next newspaper. Said they needed something more gripping and gritty to really capture a reader's attention about your town's decrepit old properties and the waste they're making by just.. sitting around.

Frankly, you couldn't give less of a shit. You're only in it to make your resume look better in the future - and that stuck-up ass of a deer who runs the club more or less demanded you meet him out here tonight to provide backup lighting for his shots. Fuck. You had plans, and he snatched them right out from under you. You flick your eyes up from your thoughts just in time to see that rickety old sign roll into view, illuminated by your headlights.

"Shady Oaks - Affordable living wi-" the sign trails off into illegibility, the tagline from those commercials so out of your memory that you can't even begin to piece the rest together. You note that the fence is already open, thoughts already spiraling towards the inevitable future where you get yelled at - again - for not being on-location the literal second he requested. _"Fuck him"_you spit out unbidden, just above a whisper in the off-chance he's lurking nearby and might hear. The bright moonlight above casts gossamer halos around shapes further in which could only be old trailers, each and every one abandoned since what you _think_was some kind of toxic waste scare near eight years back - though you were too busy dealing with boners in math class to notice or care about what was going on in the news back then.

Giving the steering wheel a gentle turn to round out towards a clearing in the debris, you give a cursory glance around for any other vehicles and, aside from the rusted-out remains of a truck not much older than the one you're driving, you don't spot a one. You huff, _"now he's making me wait"_at that same, barely-above-breath tone. You decide to make the most of it, cranking up your radio and cranking down the windows, letting that cool night breeze roll thru the cab, caressing your fur and making your ears twitch with each little wisp. Before you can get too lost in your own thoughts, you hear your phone buzz against the dashboard, the screen illuminating the cab as you reach out and scan the message you just got.

Can't make it tonight, girlfriend needs me. Get those shots for me and have them in my inbox by class tomorrow or you're out of the club.

"Fuck."

That one was considerably less reserved.

You hear the wind rustle through an old screen door, rattling it against its frame as you contemplate telling that antlered asshole to go fuck himself seven ways to Sunday, but you decide that keeping your membership and maybe getting hired onto that paper you've been eyeing in a few months is more than worth a few minutes taking pictures. Alone. At night. In an abandoned trailer park.

Thinking back to that screen door, you begin to really, really hope that was the wind.

Quickly gathering up your photography supplies - deciding to eschew the set-up lights in favor of your camera's flash - chewing out be damned - you resolve to get those shots, pack back up, and be gone in the span of ten minutes. Fifteen if your camera decides to be the piece of shit it is and hang for a minute or two when you switch modes for low-light exposure. Tugging your hoodie tight to your slight frame, you can't help but steal a glance at the moon every now and then. You learned in biology class.. years ago, that canines like you have sort of.. an _affinity_for full moons. Just glancing up at the bright white sphere drenching you in light makes you feel warm and fuzzy, and you can almost _swear_your nose gets a bit sharper. You vaguely remember the teacher saying something about other breeds having a.. stronger connection to it, but you can't even begin to piece together that lesson right now.

..

Click, click, click.. fshh.

You glance down at the display and examine the shot you just took, the last of the seven you were planning to grab. The moonlight's playing havoc with your camera's light sensors, and this last particular shot's taken at least four attempts now. You sigh out, groaning and taking a moment to stretch your back out and fix your posture, keenly aware that the cold's beginning to tighten your muscles up and make you feel sluggish. One more try.

Click, click, click.. fshh!

Another check, and it seems, -finally-, that you've managed to get the damn thing working again. A wave of relief flows thru you, and as you make back to your truck, patting your pockets for your keys, a sense of uncomfortably warm dread rushes thru you like a blast wave. No keys.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You must've dropped them on the ground while you were fiddling with your camera - right? Its not like you went far , so you shouldn't have too much ground to cover! You switch your camera's manual flash on and hold the button down, illuminating the leaf-covered ground beneath you, frantically searching for a glint of light in the detritus below. As you search and scuttle, your eyes glance over to your camera's display, hoping to -maybe- see a metallic reflection in the last photo you snagged. And you -do-. That same sense of prickling dread rolls back up with fresh vigor as you study the photo further: Your keys aren't the only thing reflecting.

So are eyes.

You let out a yelp that, in another context, might be adorable. The shock that someone _else_is out here would be bad enough, but thoughts of motive and intent begin to fill your head. A drifter? A junkie? ..A serial killer?

Just as your thoughts race as frantically as your hands thru the leaves for those keys, you hear that same screen door rattle behind you. Its.. different, though. Clearly the same mechanism, but.. a different pitch. A different direction.

Its being opened.

You wheel around just in time to catch a glimpse of a figure rushing you down, the loud crunch and crack of dried leaflitter under their feet coupling with the roar of blood in your ears. You feel their body impact your own with a thump that knocks the wind out of you. Your head spins as your back hits the ground, powerful hands grip your shoulders and hold you down. Their imposing size utterly blocks out your view of the night sky above, the outline of their shoulders and ears eclipsing the moon.

The bright, pearly white of their teeth as they drip hot saliva down onto your neck and cheeks.

The heat of their breath as they pant gusts of humid air against your ears.

The smell of their musk, hitting your lungs like tear gas.

Time slows down to a crawl as adrenaline surges thru your veins and you strain your muscles trying to wriggle yourself free, but find little purchase. You rock and writhe against the ground, baring your teeth in a canine show of aggression and dominance. You even snarl - but the figure pinning you down doesn't budge an inch. In the midst of your fruitless struggling, the hulking canine's muzzle dips down to your neck, and you steel yourself for the worst - for the searing agony such a bite would surely cause - but it never comes. You finally get the faintest glimpse of their eyes - yellow and dilated, the look of a wild predator in his hungry gaze. His head finally shifts enough for you to see the moon again, and once its ephemeral light hits your retinas the forgotten chunk of that biology lesson rockets back to you.

Werewolves - or dire wolves, dire canines - experience a distinctly primal and bestial reaction to a full moon. Their inhibitions drop and higher levels of thought slow to a crawl.

You distinctly remember the teacher mentioning that medicine was available to nullify these effects, but this one clearly skipped a dose.

While lost in your own thoughts, the hulking mutt pinning you down was busy burying his nose every which where the were could find, the distinctively loud, bassy sniff that brought you back to reality was when he reached your crotch. You could feel his warm, copious drool oozing thru your old jeans, soaking your fur underneath. The rush of blood through your body had caused some.. reactions and he was clearly picking up on them - his cold nose prodding right up against your concealed, warming sheath. You watch his jaws open wide and instantly mentally recoiled, screwing your eyes shut as you just couldn't bear to see what was surely coming, only for his impending bite to land, blessedly, off the mark. He bit down hard, snapping the denim - and your underwear away - leaving a ragged hole in your clothes where your junk bathed in the cold air. His maw opened again, this time enveloping your plump sheath and nuts entirely, tongue slurping and sloshing his spit around your crotch as you stared slack-jawed down at him.

It took a few moments for the confusion and terror to run from your veins, only to be replaced by that sweltering heat and those pleasant tingles from his crude oral. If this was his idea of head, he could certainly use some pointers.

..N-not that -you- would have any.

Despite the clumsy, brutish technique, it seemed to be having the desired effect all the same. Practically stewing in the werewolf's spit, your soaked-thru sheath was lazily spilling out that crimson shaft, his broad, powerful tongue slathering it up nice and good_as each lick coaxed more and more meat from your pouch. Your heart still hadn't stopped pounding in your ears, but that icy cold rush of terror was replaced with _oozing warmth, the same kind you get when you find some really good porn for that pre-bed jerkoff session. Despite the chill in the air you found yourself beginning to pant, breath turning to a light mist of steam as it trailed from your maw. You didn't even bother saying a word - good or bad - about your predicament, given with one good clench of his jaw muscles he could seriously hamper your dating prospects. Seeing as he was content to let you lay back and enjoy it, tongue slurping up those spurts of precum that lanced from your pointed tip - you might as well too!

Your propensity to get handsy during sex led you to test his grip against you. While one firm, muscular hand was still forcing you against the ground, the other had slackened considerably, and you took it as permission to shift your hand. The initial movement led his eyes to snap up and meet your own, then shift to your hand. Freezing in place from just the gaze, he slowly began to resume his lazy bobbing and slurping, eyes locked on you as he loosened his grip some more. With one hand freed, you placed a tepid palm against your chest, trying to steady your heart rate as you felt your unswollen knot pop free from your sheath and bob around against the werewolf's tongue. You groaned openly - the first sound of genuine pleasure you've made this whole time. That familiar.. spring-y feeling in your crotch tips you off to your coming orgasm, your face gently scrunching up as your eyes lose their focus and stare off into the treeline behind his head.

He catches on, quickly letting your soaked crotch go from his mouth, forestalling the nut that you were _actually_beginning to look forward to. When your instinctual thrusting causes your wet dick to squish against his lips he gives a snarl, hand darting down from your shoulder to quickly -squeeze- your knot tight, pinching the base shut with two fingers. You practically snarl in the mixed pleasure and tension, your plump bulb flexing as it slowly inflated. Clearly, he didn't want you getting off from oral. He slowly released his grip, confident that the message had been received and you gave a quick nod to confirm such. He took to his feet with a lumbering pace, a sudden change in the wind causing the wisps of fur surrounding his ears to flick towards you, the renewed chill hitting your nose.

Along with something else.

Before, you simply smelled.. him. It was hard not to. That rough, raw scent a canine gets when he hasn't washed in a day - the kind that sort of smells like corn chips if you're hungry. But this?

This was different. It was a scent you'd had before, on nights when your girlfriend bargained a handy or a blowie instead of vaginal because she didn't want to get knocked up. Nights when birth control just didn't work. Nights when she was in heat.

In heat.

That same, spicy, tangy, intruding smell fills your lungs and makes your head swim, it makes your cock throb and pulse , shooting wispy clear strands of precum right into the air and into the dirt. So lost are you in that pure pleasure of letting your potent nose pick thru and drink in a smell that you don't even notice him squatting down - and that recent sensation of wet heat coats your cock.

Only.. it can't be his muzzle. You can see it. You look down, eyes drifting down his body. By now, your night vision's adjusted back from all of the flashing and you can pick out fine details even in the moon-cast shadows. That's when you notice it - that puffy, pointed mound. Fat, dripping, swollen. _ Pussy . You can practically _feel the heat radiating off of it, tickling the sensitive nerves in your crimson spear, you can almost see it steaming in the cool air. And, fuck, you can certainly _smell_it. How could you not? How could anyone in a five mile radius not? The werewolf dropped his hips down, squishing that plump, puffy spade down against your needy dick, the throb of his heartbeat beating thru the blood-engorged mound enough to make the mere motion of squatting on your dick feel like a handjob.

He slips his hips forward, right as you begin to offer the first protest of the night. Skipping past the fact that this guy's, y'know, forcing himself on you, ignoring that you're technically cheating - which, given the first concern, seems a moot point - he's in heat. You utter a quick whimper, your lips opening to begin to say "I don't want a kid" before a groan of raw bliss takes those words out behind the barn and puts ' em down like Ol' Yeller. Raw, surging, consuming heat engulfs your crotch from tip to base - your knot and_sheath disappear up inside that surprisingly tight cunt - and all you can do is grip the dirt beside you for purchase. A low, satisfied groan rumbles out of his throat with such bass that you can feel it vibrating through your cock and in your very bones. The hulking mutt leans himself back and begins to _rock his hips down against your own, the chorus of squelches_and wet, squishy noises too lascivious to give form to drowning out the ambient background. Each time he presses himself down, a gooey, viscous **_plap** fills the air; the cooling saliva soaking into your skin constantly being replaced by the honey-like juices running from his pussy like a bad faucet. Each drop of it sends another miasma of fuck-pheromones into the air, each whiff making your head grow fuzzier and your throbbing canine dick harder.

Losing yourself in the act, you fail to notice your own orgasm approaching - the flow of your perception running like a drizzle of molasses before the weight of that impending climax slams into you harder than he initially did. You feel him force himself down hard in response to your dick twitching and spitting ferociously inside his snatch, muscles contracting tightly around every inch of your cock in rippling waves until your knot begins to balloon out and lock in place. You feel the first shot of your bubbling jizz fight its way past those practiced walls until it erupts from your spearpoint like the finale of a fireworks display - a fitting analogy, given that you're currently seeing sparkles and phantom flashes of light in your peripheral vision. Each rocketing jet of jizm follows that same rhythm, forced to work past the werewolf's tight musculature until the pressure forces it to erupt out against his cervix like a Super Soaker - each delayed spurt causing a groaning, whimpering gasp from your drying throat.

Four ropes, seven, twelve, by now you've lost count - and the ability to count- until you dimly realize that it isn't stopping or tapering off. Growing fatigue and overstimulation cause you to test the tie, yanking your hips back, but to no avail. You can feel your knot beat against those walls, but they aren't budging an inch. As if to add insult to injury, the werewolf presses back against the ground, lifting you up at least a foot by your knot alone. The gesture is obvious.

_ You're going to sit here, pumping rope after rope into me, until either you pass out, or I get knocked up. _

That slow, lumbering thought process is the last thing you can coherently remember, along with the sensation of being dragged across the dirt by your still-lodged knot. Darkness consumes the rest of your memory, though the faint impression of orgasming at least twice more during your sleep sticks with you.

...

You slowly smack your lips, driven to wake by the incessant chirping of a mockingbird perched outside. Your eyes slowly focus in, beating past the sunlight streaming thru the boarded-up windows of the room you're in. You're so drained from last night that you don't even panic at the realization that you aren't outside - merely glancing at the open door beside you to determine that you're still in the trailer park. You go to move, finding the weight of a blanket covering your chest and legs and the jingling of keys between your legs. The shift upright is uneasy and your back is ten different kinds of sore. You move your hand to rub your face, surprised to feel it collide with a paper bag. A warm paper bag. You glance over.

Its a.. breakfast meal, from the fast food place up the road.

You shift your legs, your crotch still feeling wet and squishy - and you've the distinct impression that the blanket is covered_in cum underneath. You don't have the stomach right now to check. You grab the bag, too over this shit to contemplate eating mystery meals and lumber back towards your truck, the chill morning air making your bare balls scrunch up _tight to your groin. Glancing at the driver's seat, you spot a note, hastily scrawled out on the back of a sun-bleached receipt.

_Sry about last night, I bought you breakfast to make up for it.

There was more but I get hungry after I, uh, yeah.

PS, you've got good dick game_

Beneath the note was a twenty-dollar bill, presumably to cover the cost of your.. well, your pants are pretty much only good for kinky roleplay now.

You check the time. Class started fifteen minutes ago.

Fuck.