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Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. It may contain acts of violence and yiffery which include, but are not limited to, sex between males of differing species, anthro-human sex, near-bestiality, lycanthropy/transformation, and snuff. If any of these subjects bothers or squicks you in any way, or you are too young to view such materials, then you are more than free to go away. You have been forewarned.

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Natural Selection ©MMV Whyte Yoté

The two ice cubes floating in my drink make arrogant little clicking sounds as they melt away, chilling the glass and diluting the gin at the same time. I regret not having something with which I can crush the ice, because the only way to have a proper martini is straight up, without obstructions that can ruin the piney taste of the liquor. I make a mental note to buy something, think about plucking the offending cubes from the martini glass, and opt instead to suck them out and crunch the life out of them before finishing the libation, silently bemoaning the downfall of classic drinking as it once was.

Two more quick swigs send the last ounces of Bombay Sapphire down my throat, adding fire to what already burns in my gut...and my head. I take the lime wedge from the edge of the glass and bite into it, hating its initial sourness but always enjoying the way it cleans the palate after a particularly top-shelf drink...the only way I make them. Casting a glance out and up through the twenty-foot windows of my loft apartment, I see a skyline speckled with a large number of lit windows, and an infinitely larger number of stars. The western horizon seems to hang suspended in a kind of lit-from-behind glow, the likes of which will disappear in a matter of minutes.

I cherish this time of twilight. Some of my kind grow to dread its coming; the rest of us sit and wait in lip-licking anticipation, wondering how the hell we made it another month without going insane. Neither is the case for me...usually I use the time to sit and think, letting myself just be during that one time of the month I feel more myself than anytime else. The moon casts a pregnant soft glow in through the windows, almost overridden by the combined lights of the city and my apartment. I lift my right hand from the white armrest of my leather sofa, watch its barely perceptible shadow and know the light is real. The fine hairs seem to lift from their pores as if drawn upward, one of those little things that only happen "the night of."

Sufficiently buzzed and energized, I stand and make my way to the bedroom, deftly setting the martini glass on the counter to await washing. My head feels heavy but extremely loose, sort of like a bowling ball suspended by steel bearings. It has no effect on my senses, however: I can feel every strand of carpeting between my bare toes, the nearly nonexistent caress of silk on my skin, and I am acutely aware of my reflection in each doorknob as I pass. My senses are afire, they have been building steadily for two days, and I love it.

As I enter the bedroom I am taken aback momentarily by the assault on my nose. In the thirty minutes I have been drinking in the next room my sensitivity has more than doubled, and--stupid me--I forgot how much my room still reeks of sex. The collective scents of at least seven different men linger in the air, and my bed glows with odor. When you get close to the big night, scents cease being intangible and become more than abstractions...whether or not my mind is concocting them doesn't change the fact that there are bright pinkish blotches all over the innocently made bed, remnants of spilled seed slowly blending into everything else. I smile, remembering my tryst two nights ago with a pair of slender college students. They left at sunrise, happily ignorant of how close they came to death. Pity...I wonder if they would have tasted as good as they fucked.

I hyperventilate on purpose as I pad to the bathroom, letting the smells and memories stir my latent arousal and further my intoxication. Lights over the mirror illuminate automatically upon my approach, and I take a look at the man...well, for now...before me. I am pleased with what I see. Despite my age, which would be considered too old for the nightclub circuit, I have no trouble fitting in with...or seducing...any number of younger men. For all the burdens put into my life by my curse/blessing, there are a few benefits as well. My face has a self-assured quality, smooth but ruddy skin slightly tanned but not so much as to interfere with my naturally blond hair. Clear, smoky blue eyes are lined with the beginnings of crow's feet, giving the appearance of wisdom.

Transformation initially demands a lot of the body. If unprepared, it can kill the first time it is summoned. For those who learn to survive, shifting makes a stronger host: increased blood flow and oxygen capacity, flexible muscles and tendons, and (of course) reduced aging. It's like being in the mafia. If you can put up with doing a few despicable things, you are treated well and provided for. Me, I just happen to like paying the price. Call me what you will...no one ever suspects, and no one ever will. No one who wants to keep on living, at least.

The silk robe I wear falls to the floor in a weak, flat heap. I kick it out of the way and it slides along the hardwood, ready for the hamper. Returning to my reflection, I make quick work of polishing up for the night ahead. A quick shot of hairspray with a hand through my scalp and I am sufficiently coiffed. I find that carefully styled or over-gelled hair turns people off. Guys like a man who has clean hair through which they can run their fingers. It's a good get-to-know-you feature, and makes for great foreplay later on. Next comes a light layer of face lotion to moisturize the nagging dry skin on my nose, a little deodorant and cologne (my favorite brand, "Mesmerize," thank the gods my mother is an Avon lady), and a healthy dose of mouthwash to kill what the martini didn't.

I stand naked, my entire body shaved bald, for the final test. It's something I find relaxes me on these nights; in some way it enforces the reality that I am truly in control of my body, although at times it would seem the contrary. I raise my right hand until it is in front of my face and slightly off to the right. The fingers flex, shaking minutely; the beginnings of clamminess appear between the ridges and whorls of skin.

A glance behind me reveals the full moon, now fully white and bright against the night sky. I can feel it, like daggers in my pores, and fight to control the tingling that, if left unchecked, will bypass my own willpower. That cannot happen; not this early, so I focus my mental energy on the hand before my eyes. I look from my palm to the back of the hand, reflected in the mirror. About a second later I feel the tingling drain from my other three limbs and my torso, gathering and building pressure in the forearm. It swells visibly with blood but the skin loses its healthy color, turning to an ashen grey. I hold my breath and let go a short burst of power, like a dam; immediately hundreds upon hundreds of beige-grey hairs sprout from everywhere, covering my arm to the elbow. My fingers shorten, the nails crawling upwards painlessly and curving over into black claws. Bones pop and shift; more little noises signal muscles reforming themselves into a new, more powerful structure.

I make a fist and close my eyes, feeling skin rustle over fur as I pour on the mental blockage again to stop the rest of me from surrendering. When my appendage once more feels normal I look through the slits of my eyelids. What I see satisfies me and I open the rest of the way. From the elbow on down my right arm is completely covered in fur, that same grey-beige color interspersed with lighter cream and also some black. The fingers are truncated and thick, ending in sharp points; I turn my arm and see the soft black pads on the palm and fingertips. I always enjoy looking at this little part of me while I am still human, for my world is usually clouded when I am more...shall I say, savage?

From the hallway comes a soft chiming followed by ten tolls of the hour. I'll be late if I linger further; the best candidates will be just arriving if I time it right. It takes much less time and effort to reverse my transformed arm, and as soon as I am fur-free I walk to the bed, where earlier in the afternoon I carefully chose and laid out my wardrobe. First to go on is a pair of simple black silk boxer shorts...the kind that are especially easy to work a roving hand into and pull off quickly when needed. Next, over my slender but still defined torso I slip on a black mesh tank top, good enough for standing out on the dance floor with a punk quality that applies to a lot of Goth fags. The rest is simple: a plain white, wrinkled shirt left unbuttoned, tight black low-riding Levi's, black patterned socks shod in shiny slim Allen Edmonds. Next come the watch, ring, wallet/keys/change, and the finishing touch: my brand-new deep burgundy collar. It is my pride and joy, my one link to the other side I can wear in public without bringing questions of bestiality and the like. I tell them a collar isn't as much about animals as it is about power. Tonight it will merely serve as a tertiary identifier and as bait. It's time to go fishing.

An old, creaky cargo elevator, the staple of expensive midtown apartments, lowers me three floors to the parking area underneath my building. My motorcycle, a custom Kawasaki with deep maroon paint, waits in its reserved space, patient and eager to put rubber to asphalt. I straddle the machine and turn the key, breathing life into it, hearing its restrained power and feeling the gentle throb up against my crotch. I don't wear a helmet for fear it will muss both my hair and my chances of a "date." The clutch engages with a precise jerk and I weave my way out into the streets of the night.

Traffic is surprisingly light for a Saturday evening. I keep my speed below one hundred, a snail's pace compared with what I usually do. When I hit a jam, I take advantage of my narrow vehicle and pass slowly between lanes, always on the watch for big mirrors. I do not look at the moon...I don't need to look up when my body is practically screaming to be set free. For a fleeting second I fear I won't be able to keep control until the right moment, but I disregard the thought immediately. Once free of the bottleneck, only seven minutes gets me off the freeway and into downtown, where I park in a secluded garage (I won't be picking the bike up until tomorrow morning).

As I exit the structure a breeze whips around me, carrying with it the odiferous signs of a big city. I mean, where else can you smell baby powder and dead dog in the same whiff? Not that anyone but me has detection of that caliber; not tonight. Instead of trying to ponder some deeper meaning into it, I begin to whistle a disjointed series of notes, filtering out most of the scents and concentrating on the near future.

I hear my destination well before I see it; even without super-sensitive ears it's hard to miss the thumping beats of techno music from at least five blocks away. Clubs like "La Vie" aren't meant to be ignored. The hottest night spot in the metro area has the kind of power that draws even the most skittish in, with promises of being accepted and, if they're lucky, a partner for the night. These are the people I seek out in my monthly excursions. By the time I get in the door, half my job has already been done.

Turning a corner, I see it is a relatively light night: a line of fifty people or so extends from the front door down the sidewalk in my direction. Still whistling, I pass by the poor patrons who must wait for their turn to enter. I feel them staring at my back, hating me as I move up the ranks at a leisurely pace. Jimmy, a mammoth man and "La Vie's" official bouncer, turns from his duties and stares me square in the eyes. His shaved head and construction-worker body, clad in only black pants and a wife-beater, give off a radiant heat despite the temperate and slightly breezy night. He wears a scowl on his face, but we both know it's only to keep up appearances.

"Jimmy." I say evenly, curt but courteous. The bouncer nods, never having been given the benefit of my name. I make it a point not to give it out unless absolutely necessary. "You look bored."

"You kidding? Broken up two fights tonight already," says Jimmy with abounding neutrality. One would think he despises his job; in fact, he loves it and just doesn't see a need to express it. We've talked thoroughly on this subject. "Slow as hell though. Hey, dipshit!"

Jimmy turns away abruptly to drag an athletic-type back from the door through which he was sneaking. "You see that sign there?" He points to a corner of "La Vie's" entrance, where sits a sign clearly stating the club's capacity at no more than two hundred eighty-seven persons. After a certain point it is Jimmy's job to regulate capacity as well as maintain a friendly atmosphere. "As soon as someone comes out, you get in. Capisce?" The athletic-type, stuck between retaining his pride and obeying the rules, opts to keep his skin and nods. Jimmy lets him go and mutters something about trying to run a goddamn respectable business here.

A large drag queen, black with a gigantic blue beehive wig atop her head, bursts out of the door with a couple of friends. The three are visibly intoxicated, but all I care about is getting inside.

"May I?" I ask, and get the go-ahead from Jimmy. I can hear groans, curses and complaints from the entire line behind me at the special treatment. The athletic-type steps up and shouts, "Why the hell does he get in?" Uh-oh, stupid question.

Jimmy puffs out his chest in true bouncer fashion and is suddenly a foot taller than everyone else. Poking the athletic-type on his sternum, he says flatly, "Because he's special. End of story. Wait your turn like a good boy." At a loss for words, and knowing he doesn't hold a candle to Jimmy's authority, he backs down.

I am waved through; as I pass I brush my hand over Jimmy's crotch and linger there, squeezing. He stiffens, in more ways than one, and I'm pretty sure he's struggling against a blush as I enter the club. I am the only one Jimmy will let touch him; after all, he's totally straight. He pretty much lets me do whatever I want, most likely because he's the only one who's seen the real me and lived a day beyond. He prefers to keep his life, so he does me favors now and again. We both think of it as a fair deal. He also knows exactly what I am here for tonight, and his blind eye has made my life so much easier and more fun. Still would like to get him in bed, though.

Damn my blasted nose! As I walk in through the heavily tinted door I am nearly pummeled by the color and smell of the place. Yes, it is loud and active and packed full of people, but only one of them has the senses of a completely different species. It takes me off guard: the first thing to hit me is the rank bitterness of used cigarette smoke, which burns my sinuses all the way down to my lungs. I pass through the throng of club-goers, not yet paying attention to their faces but instead trying to calm my overwhelmed brain. Alcohol, perspiration, seduction...it's all there, just like every other night. I also sense a fair amount of Ecstasy and meth, along with some unfamiliar pharmaceuticals. Some people are out to have a good time, while others are out to take advantage. It disgusts me, but I think of my own sanguine mission and chide myself for acting like I sit upon a pedestal.

Once given a few minutes to organize the scents, sounds and scenes of "La Vie," I regulate my breathing and become one with the atmosphere. Now I can finally see the club as a normal person would...almost, except for the odor-auras which linger no matter how hard I try to filter them out. The club is set up like a house: up front and center sits a huge circular bar which acts as the main hub for dancers and drinkers. At equidistant tangents of the circular room sit entrances to further rooms: a karaoke lounge, a leather/bear den and the heavy rave room, all of which house their own counters stocked with alcohol. The entire club is bathed in blacklight with sparse neon bars along the walls and ceiling; the only real lights are those above the bartenders...small weak halogens that don't interfere too much with the ambiance of the place.

Bodies pack every available inch of floor space. The unfortunate patrons to have gotten to the front of the drink-ordering line attempt to do so without being crushed. Music flows all around me, a fast and heavy electronic beat that bounces off every available surface and reverberates through what air isn't taken up by dancers. I let the music and crowd move me naturally to the bar, which happens with surprising speed. The jarring bodies are nothing, but so many different flavors of sweat are quickly making my head ache. I order another Sapphire martini, up with two olives, and slap a ten onto the bar. When the drink comes I take it, down it (noting mentally that it can't compare with my own mixing skills) and part company before the bartender can bring me change. I don't need it.

The alcohol works within minutes, and the buzz which up until now was dying is back to full strength. It's time for me to go to work. I detest, at a basic level, coming here. But unfortunately, not only is it the best place to look for fresh meat, it's nice and crowded so there's little chance of anyone paying enough attention to my shopping trips once a month. There is only Jimmy, but I think he'll stay conveniently ignorant if he wants to keep a price off his head.

My stomach burns from its strong contents; I know my senses have been dulled a bit but it works to my advantage: I am numb enough to perceive reality with a heightened sensitivity but not distracted by that selfsame sensitivity. Not just anyone will do to satisfy my picky tastes...it takes a special kind of person to attract me. I need someone who is relatively isolated, sober enough to listen to me, and a bit of a sub. It varies from month to month, but someone usually fits the bill quite well. I 've had little trouble since I started this necessary recreation, and I have no intention of having any tonight.

I walk nonchalantly through the building with an air of confidence, something one must do anyway if he or she is to be taken seriously in any respectable gay bar. I pass a few regulars who call out to me as if they know me (they're too intoxicated to care, really), and I indulge them by grinding for a few minutes. Feigning interest, I yawn and move quickly to the outer perimeters of the crowd. From room to room I blend in perfectly, all the while smiling to myself knowing none of these people are aware of a true predator in their midst.

The karaoke lounge is filled with punks and Goths and lesbians. After a cursory glance I write the whole depressing lot of them off. Just looking at all that black sadness leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth. I give the bear room a chance, even though I've never had any success with the older crowd. My hopes are shattered, however, when I see no one who looks to be under thirty years old in the entire room. That's not a problem...I was hoping tonight to be able to stray from my normal routine, but the club is too segregated to make my life that much more interesting. Fucking gay drama, I think, but then again it's that same gay drama that provides such an necessary backdrop for my little hunting trips.

A sigh escapes my lips; I am visibly bored and a little irritated from that last shitty martini. The feeling doesn't last though, because when I enter the rave room I am faced with a bevy of fine young men. They all seem my type, they're all cute and frail-looking and having fun...but it's up to me who I want to pin down. Now's the time to use those keen senses of mine for their intended purpose.

I make my way onto the dance floor for a better view; there's no way I can shop around from a corner. When my feet hit the flashing tiles I let the beat enter and take over. Dancing comes naturally to me, thankfully, and soon I'm bumping and gyrating with the best of them. For the moment my ultimate goal is put into the back of my mind as I get wholly into the beat. So much so, in fact, that I notice those surrounding me starting to back away and form a circle. The last thing I need is undue attention before I have to do my dirty work. I back off drastically and melt back into the crowd, now cognisant that I need to be focusing on more important things than dancing. Once I stop moving, a rain of suspended sweat drips down onto my face, evidencing my exertion. It is transferred to a shirt sleeve.

This time I maintain a close watch on everyone, looking with my eyes at first but slowly letting my other senses in, one by one. First to come back are the odor-auras, but they do no good: everything is coated in varying shades of green, the color of hot humans. Slowly but surely more red creeps into the air as sexual tension escalates. In these terms, I'm looking for someone with very little green and a growing pink glow around them. How many times do you get the chance to go after a guy based on their aura? Yeah, not too often. Suits me just fine.

I sniff the air again, aware on some level that even in here, the moon has an effect on me. I can feel the tingling around my stomach and groin, just waiting for permission to be released. It will still be a while yet, but I plan to expedite the process as best I can. I know what I need, and the smell is unmistakable. I just have to sift through hundreds of them before hitting paydirt.

Self-confidence here, haughtiness and posing there, a few smatterings of advanced intoxication...then something drifts my way. It caresses my nose just slightly, and I have a fleeting vision of the old cartoons where the character is lured to food by wispy smoke-hands. I close my eyes and let the smell linger, almost flehmening it to determine its origin. Actually, it is coming from directly to my right, so close I wonder how I could have missed such a delicious aroma. Trying to keep the beat, and my incognito status, I angle my body and quickly zero in on what I know will be my target tonight.

A young man sits in the corner; he is of average height and build, with average looks to match. Brown hair, and what are probably brown eyes. Slightly overweight, meaning ten pounds...not enough to matter much but enough for ostracism in this gay bar full of faggoty-ass thin "bois" who are no more sincere than a manila envelope. His auras confirm what my nose has already told me: a little green all around from just being in the heat of this place, and the barest beginnings of pink hovering over the top of his head and around his groin. There is much sexual reluctance coming from his guarded posture-hands clasped around his drink, foot tapping off the beat, and just the smell of him-that I wonder if he's ever put his equipment to good use. I will be finding out eventually, I suppose.

I make my approach. I watch him as he watches the crowd, and I can almost feel what he is feeling. It sparks a bit of pity in my soul, having been there once myself, but that's another small price to pay. A young man in his early twenties, lonely for any kind of company, goes out to the bar hoping on the outside to dance and have a good time, hoping on the inside that someone will come up to him and start making conversation...suggestions...gestures. I intend to do all three.

The guy sees my movement in his periphery and casts a perfunctory glance my way. I know how good and tempting I look, like I'm seemingly out of his league, and his auras shift uncomfortably over his stationary body. He fears that the wrong move, no matter how small, will somehow scare me off and ruin his chances of anything happening, so much so that he dismisses me outright even before giving me a good once-over. But as I close the last ten feet between us, I crack a genuine smile and two things happen: first, his endorphin levels rise sharply, as do the patches of pink; and second, I get a whiff of his anxiety as it hits the roof. Unfazed, I sit down on the stool next to him, making it seem like I haven't noticed how much of a novice he is. It will be a breeze to seduce him, but first I have to nip his discomfort in the bud.

"Having a good time?" I ask disarmingly, leaning in to be better heard but not making eye contact. He senses no aggression in me, and a good portion of dark orange distrust dissipates. My hands are folded on the table, my back slouched. I'm just one of the guys, you know?

After a length of time, during which my new friend searches for the perfect response, he says, "Good enough." I get to smell his breath for the first time and discover he's been nursing his first drink, now just a sweaty mess in a glass, all night long. Not that it's a problem for me; I prefer not to get a contact buzz when I dine out. Others like to season theirs with alcohol and drugs.

Heathens.

Now that the ice has been broken, albeit with less than ten words, I pretend to pay attention to the dance floor, giving my companion the impression that I was not purely interested in him, but just making polite conversation. He is not expected to respond as if we were engaged in a one-on-one conversation, but he feels better now that some attention has been paid to him. As I look everywhere but directly at him, I can still tell what's going on with his body. His muscles have slackened a bit, the nervous twitches and taps gone. He looks less dorky sitting next to me, and his secretive relief is evident. I can smell his sweat, just a light coating of it, an "unscented" deodorant that is not doing its job and cologne reminiscent of cedar. He smells male, and the combination unnerves even my professional attitude. Now it's my turn to twitch.

Minutes pass while I feel the moon boring into my very being, warming me from the inside out, and it's all I can do to resist taking the young man next to me and ravaging him where he sits.

Trying to maintain a steady voice, I lean over and say loudly, "You come here often?" I make basic comments like this on purpose. I want neither to treat him like a child nor seem haughty, elsewise he might choose to cut off the rapport altogether. When that happens I have no choice but to stalk, and I hate eating without having thoroughly tenderized my meal. Leaves a heaviness in the stomach.

"Actually...no," he replies immediately in a confident tone, indicating I'm doing my job well. He even leans back and makes an effort to be heard. "I don't like to drink, so I don't get to do this often."

I decide to test the waters. "Why is someone as cute as you sitting alone at a table instead of being out on the floor, grinding against your boyfriend?" A nice double-compliment, assuming his looks and relationship status. My new friend blushes and looks away momentarily.

"I'm single." It doesn't sound dejected or bitter, just rehearsed...like he's used to saying it and resigned to saying it forever. Either he's come off a bad relationship or he's a virgin. I do hope it's the latter.

"Couldn't tell," I say smoothly, and extend my hand. I give him a name, something that is always contrived on the spot to protect my anonymity should I ever fuck up in any way.

"Devon," he says. No last name, so he doesn't have full trust in me yet. Par for the course, at least. He relaxes into the table, now making eye contact with me. That's a good sign of either friendliness or flirtiness, but right now there is no telling which. "You probably come here all the time."

"Only when I'm bored...or horny," I admit truthfully, pushing the conversation a little more aggressively in my direction. Devon doesn't respond...not vocally. I smell it rising: the first signs of arousal at my words, the stirring in his pants that, until now, had long been forgotten in favor of trying to impress me. Now he realizes two things: not only does he have a shot at getting some tonight, I just semi-advertised my similar intentions. His scent intensifies as fresh, nervous perspiration boils to his body's surface. I practically bathe in it.

As much as it pains me, I must control myself. If I come off desperate, I may not seem as dominant to him...it is critical that I am the alpha in this short-lived relationship. "Single or not, why aren't you dancing anyway? Don't know how, or just don't like it?"

"I don't care for trance and electronica. That must sound stupid, me coming here and not liking the music, but it's the only bar where I feel a little comfortable." For the first time I let my guard down and look directly at him, noticing that his eyes are, in fact, deep cobalt blue despite his brown hair. They are intelligent, soft and dilated, a side effect of his arousal. Gods, I must have this man!

"What kinds of music do you like, then?" I ask, thinking to myself You bastard, why are you stringing him along like this? At the same time I pray he won't say country music. I may have to hurt him if he says he likes country.

Devon smiles genuinely, and I know I've hit some common ground. "Oh, I love to swing. It's practically the only thing I can do well. Just give me a beat and I can swing to it." Now I know one of the main reasons he looked and felt so out-of-place at "La Vie:" it's hard enough to be gay, but to not like the "basic" things like trance and clubs? He is stuck in between the worlds of straight and gay, an outcast among outcasts. In this world, it's all about fitting in. Devon is handsome, smart and interesting, but not cliquey enough to be liked by any majority. Suddenly I feel very sorry for him. Then my stomach rumbles and puts me back on track.

"Really? You know, I've been known to cut a rug or two in my time."

"'In your time?'"

"Let's just say I'm older than you and leave it at that," I wink cryptically, furthering my seduction just a little. His expression tells me he doesn't believe me, but I wouldn't be able to give him an honest answer if I tried. The conversation has become more personal and amiable than I'm used to, and I have to hold my higher ground or else Devon might take it into his mind to jump my bones before I do the same to him. Given what I've learned from him, it is a possibility. Time to put on the leash, so to speak.

"Why don't we go out there and you show me what you can do? You've waited long enough," I suggest, gesturing to the dance floor with my head.

Giving me an odd look, Devon replies, "Here? Dance to what?"

"You said any beat, didn't you? As long as there's a time signature you can dance to it, right? Or were you just blowing smoke up my ass?" I rock back and cross my arms and legs, challenging him friendly.

"Oh, I can do it, alright. It'll just look weird doing it here."

"You're among friends, Devon!" I exclaim, opening my arms wide to encompass the whole room. "Who is going to care? I won't, I'll be dancing with you."

"You will?" he looks dumbfounded, not realizing the error of his question.

"Swing dancing takes two, dear," I whisper matter-of-factly, deftly placing a hand on his knee. I feel his body heat through the denim and less than a second passes before his pulse doubles. We share a moment of solitude in the middle of the din, and I watch, pleased with myself, as his body slowly turns pinker. I am half-erect as it is, and would welcome a distraction. "Come on, Devon," I say, rubbing up his leg a little, so innocently. "Show me what you got."

Devon responds by sliding off his chair (towards me, not away, in order to drag more of his lap under my unmoving hand) and taking me by the hand rather forwardly. I indulge his feelings of superiority and play the part of the follower. There is a hip-hop song blasting through the speakers, its simple meter and repetitive lyrics annoying but predictably easy to dance to. Devon looks at the ceiling for a moment and puts his body in sync before looking at me again with an eyebrow raised: you sure you wanna go through with this?

I smile and nod, giving him temporary free reign with me. The shy, introverted young man I greeted not ten minutes ago has turned into a regular dance machine. Seeing this as his one chance to impress the hell out of me and assure some overnight company, he forgets his fears and a cloud of red self-assurance (do I see a hint of arrogance in there?) envelops him, tight to his skin. After a few faltered steps between my feet, he pulls me close and takes my other hand, his lower half moving in a blur as we whip about the floor as one frenzied being.

A few clubgoers stop to watch our non-sequitur moves; some roll their eyes, yet all I can smell is envy...whenever I can manage to smell something other than Devon's mingled confidence and excitement. Taking my role seriously, I match him step for step but quickly realize that my partner is, in fact, more skilled than myself. Best to let him have fun now, because once we get into heavier things he will revert back into his former self...if my suspicions are correct.

I am pulled, turned, dipped, flipped and otherwise hurled around our little dancing space, and reciprocate as much as I am allowed. As we meet mid-turn, our groins touch momentarily and we both wince in pain as our similar arousals are discovered. Devon does it again on purpose, and we hold the pose until it turns into a grind, our concealed flesh rubbing clumsily together. Heat and passion are in his eyes, burning into mine, wanton lust fueled by raging hormones and a lucky break. I must step carefully, as the position of my legs directly affects the pressure on my cock, now rigid and very visible to anyone who cares to venture a glance in that direction.

A sudden blow to my sexual high, the music dies down and voices pick up the loss in noise. Devon brings me in for one final dip. When I come up again I feel a torrent of moisture fall to the floor from my dripping neck. We both breathe hard in the humid, stale atmosphere. I lean my taller frame over his and grip him in a sweaty bear-hug; my left hand moves of its own accord and clutches the waistband of his pants and briefs, a desperate move I can't help. I am becoming very hungry.

His soft, round, perfect ear is close to my mouth. "Want to go outside for a smoke?" I ask in a relatively calm manner.

"I don't smoke."

"Neither do I." There is a moment's pause, after which Devon seems completely satisfied with this strange exchange of words; he leads me (like a goddamn puppy, you weakling, I think) out of "La Vie." Cold night air hits my upturned face, making me shiver violently and chilling my clothed member into submission once again. It's time to pull the trump card. If he doesn't accept now, I'll have to do something drastic, something sneaky...and the resulting attention is not something I relish dealing with at such a crucial moment.

Devon walks along the wall of the building for a few feet, trailing his hand over its surface giddily. An idiotic smile dominates his face when he leans up against it, one leg bent up. How dare he act like this, like my equal, when I was the lone person to spare him a second glance tonight? Give 'em an inch and they'll take a fucking mile, right? It is high time I took his cocksure attitude and squelched it with all the force of stepping on a rotten piece of fruit. My game is nearly at an end, as is my patience.

Still playing the part of the seducer, I fawn over to him, hands in pockets, purposefully making a show of being visibly hesitant. "So, Devon," I purr, standing just enough inside his circle of privacy to make my intentions that much more apparent, "I'm getting bored of this shitty club." Actually, it's a very nice club, but I have a goal to attain. "Wanna do something else?"

"Like what?" His face has been concentrating on the pavement until now, and when he looks up at me his confidence, in mannerisms and in aura, has dwindled markedly. At once I know I've taken this a step beyond what he's accustomed to. The lone kid, who gets all worked up, only to part with the rest of the club-goers at closing time, faced with another night of jerking off to an LCD screen. His bewilderment makes him cute in the way one would find a confused puppy cute, and it instantly takes the edge off my dormant anger. Now that I have the upper hand, again, my job has practically been done for me.

"Oh, I don't know," I resume my low-level seduction by sliding up to him, straddling his legs and leaning oh-so-sluttily into his chest. I can practically smell his erection resurfacing, reminding him of a very basic need whose fulfillment is all but guaranteed at this point. "Why don't we have a nightcap over at your place?" My right hand seeks out the denim covering his thigh and finds its taut surface, vibrating nervously...it could be a shiver from the cold or from my touch, but it most likely is the latter.

Finally I can see his eyes, half-shadowed by the streetlamp above and thirty feet away from us. They dart as if trapped open in R.E.M. sleep. A wolfish (huh, fancy that) grin begins to part my lips; the moon's ivory glow seems to heat my back, trying to draw fur from flesh. I fight to keep my expression even as I quell the natural instinct with force. Damn, it's especially tough tonight! A raw, feral need crawls just under my skin, and it's all I can do to keep from scratching at the phantom feelings.

Subtlety no longer has a place here. In one swift move, I draw my right hand teasingly up his side, successfully diverting his attention while I bend my left arm in front of me. He is so caught up in the light touch on one part of his body that he never notices as I close the gap between us, effectively trapping my palm against his groin. The moment is upon me: my face meets his and travels slightly past it so I can hear the sharp intake of air, the halting gasp, as I cup his balls. As I suspected, the already tumescent flesh rapidly fills under my touch. My new "friend" has become the luckiest man in the world.

Devon wastes no time grinding up against my hand, and I respond in kind by rolling his penis around between two fingers, knowing his undergarments are helping my stimulation of his body. Finding my mouth conveniently close to an earlobe, I taste it fleetingly with just the very tip of my tongue. Its outer edge is covered in a very light fuzz, but I can feel every single strand. His skin, which reeks of testosterone, is salty to the point of excess. Hopefully it will have lessened by the time I get to my meal.

"Ni...nightcap, yeah, sure, okay," stammers Devon. Interestingly enough, he has not looked around to see if our actions have been spotted. It seems his earlier self-consciousness has all but evaporated away. Good...it means I won't have to worry about seducing him further; I just have to get him home and into bed. Suddenly his face has all the seriousness of a judge as he considers something. His voice is husky, breathless: "My, um, place is a mess. Maybe we should go to yours?" The statement turns to a question with the slight rise of tone at the end.

Now, this is something different. Taking a man home to have casual sex on your own turf is usually something you would prefer. Why does he want to come with me? Is it the thrill of foreign territory? Or is he just too distracted by my ever-present hand? Either way, I can't let him see where I live...in case he were to escape somehow. I smile inwardly at my mind's slow regression into predator-mode.

I pull away from him, still making sure to stand with some part of our bodies touching. Dragging an overdramatic hiss of air through my teeth, I bluff, "Mmm, I would, but I'm fresh outta condoms." There is no reaction from Devon, either way, to this bold and stark statement of intent.

To my luck, he takes the story as truth. There is a moment, however, when he does what nearly every male will when faced with such a decision. I watch it glint behind his eyes: I am so horny right now, I don't think I need a condom...just as long as I get to empty my balls. Of course, there are the pursuing thoughts of hygiene, diseases, and worse, all of which my acute perception catches. Thankfully, he comes to his senses and decides the risk is too great.

"I have some." Considering how many directions we could have gone from that one little predicament, I got off fairly easily. The bit about the condoms is purely for show, of course...they will be little to no help when we finally get down to business.

My hands find his crotch and chest again, rubbing both places in slow, general circles. "Good boy. You have a car?" Devon nods and points, having already gotten used to my attentions. People are too quick to adjust nowadays. Or maybe, Devon just needs a little unexpected twist to his evening.

Managing to pull himself from my pleasurable grasp, Devon takes my hand and leads me (yet again) across the street to a quarter-block of gravel that serves as an impromptu parking lot on busy nights here in downtown. He fumbles in his pocket for a few seconds, and we hear a double-beep from four cars down even before we see the corresponding set of keys. I roll my eyes and he smiles at me...this time it is unnerving. I don't like the look of that smile one bit. It's probably just the weak lighting.

As we approach, and enter, his vehicle (a mid-nineties Buick something-or-other, blech!), I try to keep Devon's mind occupied with idle chatter so he doesn't fall off the road and kill us both. Lunar energy swells within me as I ask him stupid questions and he answers. Normally at this point, I would nod and make like I was a compassionate, caring person who really wanted to know more about his personal life. Sometimes I do, honestly, and regret I have to put an end to such people, with their families and friends and nice, comfy jobs. But my needs supersede theirs on nights like these. Tonight...well, I just don't give a shit.

"Do you come here to the bar often?" I ask stalely, purposefully keeping my hands off him as another mild form of a tease. At once I remember that as the first question I asked him, and feel stupid for being redundant. He doesn't seem to mind...either that, or he's hiding himself better than I can see.

"Like I said before, there aren't many times when I feel like going out." We turn onto the downtown expressway and soon are traveling at a healthy sixty-eight miles per hour. I want to open the window and air out my face, but that silly and exposing act is out of the question. Patience for my human body is dwindling. Having nothing better to do at the moment, I continue the conversation. Anything to pass the time.

"What are you into?"

"Oh, books, cars, waterskiing..."

"No, not that. Leather, bears, bondage...animals?" I say this last one with added emphasis, making fun of myself...maybe trying to unnerve him on purpose.

Devon recoils against his side of the car but manages to keep it on a straight course. The city flies by beneath us, the skyline dwindling as we move our way into the suburbs. "Why in the hell would you ask me a question like that?" His tone is resentful, almost hurt. I wonder if he took offense to the whole thing, or just that little bit at the end. At least he didn't kick me out of the car.

"I'm just making conversation. No need to bite my head off," I reply sternly but affectionately, and back up my words by clutching his thigh across the center console. He remains stiff as I squeeze methodically, but eventually returns to the center of his seat.

"Why did you pick me, anyway?" Pick him? Does he still think I just randomly came up to him and chose him to be my partner for the night? Part of that is true, yes, but I'm a finicky eater. He doesn't know the half of why I picked him. He wouldn't believe me if I explained the entire situation with PowerPoint!

"Devon," I murmur, further massaging him into submission, "you have a big self-esteem problem. I walked into the club, looked around, and you immediately caught my eye. I asked myself, 'Why would a handsome man like that be all alone in such a busy place?' I had to find out. You go there and sit, don't you?" I watch his face for an answer, and his deadpan silence affirms what I figured out at minute one by looking at his aura. He knows I know, and he is ashamed for being a sad, lonely, unloved man.

Time to seal the deal. Keeping my hand on his thigh (in fact, I slide it up a few inches for good measure), I put my mouth right next to the curved cartilage of his ear. First nuzzling the earlobe, then curling my lips over my teeth and tugging, I bring him to full erection for the umpteenth time tonight. "You are a very attractive man, Devon. There are dozens of people out there who don't know what they passed up. I know a good time when I see one, and I think we could have a good time...together. I didn't 'pick' you. I like you." It is part seduction and part statement. I mean every word I say.

My friend swallows, making a clicking sound deep within his alcohol-dehydrated throat. "Can't believe it. Can't fucking believe this," he mutters, his eyes never leaving the road.

"Believe it, Devon." My hand between his legs again, grasping his penis through the denim and masturbating him with his own clothes. I feel like a total slut, but I am enjoying this moment...the moment of my triumph over my prey...thoroughly.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence: Devon tries to concentrate on his driving while I find new and pleasurable ways to manipulate his genitals through two layers of fabric, never once making any indication that I want inside. A furtive glance at my watch tells me it is coming on one-thirty, and I have waited way too long for the moon to overtake me. When it comes it will be quick and very uncomfortable. For once, I am not sure I will be able to control myself after that point, but to turn back now, denied, will surely kill me.

Devon pulls into the parking lot of a small but affordable-looking apartment complex. We waste no time in climbing a flight of exterior stairs to a door with "2F" painted on its surface. As he searches through his keychain, I enjoy running a line of fingers behind his briefs and through his pubic hair. His whole aura flushes a deep red. We finally make our way into the small apartment, my hand still firmly trapped.

"Well, this is it. Told you it was..." Devon attempts to make more conversation, but I've had my fill of words and crave only actions now. Using my hand as a handle, I twirl him around and push back, slamming his waist into the edge of a counter. He yelps, and I take advantage of his open mouth by clamping my lips over his in a fierce embrace. I wait two seconds for him to reciprocate, but he just stands there like a dead fish.

Come on, Devon! You can do better than that! my mind screams at him, and I shove my hand deep down into the heat of his essence, the place whose scent threatens to drive me insane. Finally, the exotic feel of flesh surrounding his male bits, squeezing and pulling and teasing with the intent to, ultimately, make him come, encourages his mouth to do a little more work. He moans into my mouth; I feel a hand solidly planted in the small of my back, urging me closer. His voice dies, and the only thing I hear is the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the room...seconds passing before I get to have my fun.

Suddenly Devon's the most professional kisser in the world. I feel a sense of pride in bringing such an aggressive quality to an otherwise meek person. We match stroke for stroke, tongue for tongue, and I find I must practice the utmost reservation as he actually bites my teeth. This show of bestial bravado impresses me and drives my lust into a higher gear. No longer can I tell whether it is my cock or my mouth which should be fed first; fucking his brains out and ripping his throat out hold equal places in my mind.

Fortunately, the last thought my upper brain manages to transmit is the realization that I can have both his body and his life, but only in one order. I pull off Devon's suctioning mouth, producing a comical sound that, because of our collective preoccupation, goes ignored. Hand in pants, I drag him down the hallway to the bedroom (it's the only hallway, so I assume it must lead to a bedroom). My pace increases as the change begins its transformation from the inside, rapidly eating up what mental control I have left. The hand that still clutches Devon's genitals feels thrice its size, throbbing, wanting to reject its current form. Devon doesn't notice, but still the fear remains...and sends more blood to my groin.

Past family pictures that I ignore on purpose, past dark doors and straight through into the black space of Devon's bedroom. I only assume it is dark; with the way my senses are shifting colors and scent-auras the lines between human and lupine have become inexorably mingled. With hardly a sound of warning I toss him bodily onto the mess of sheets that is his bed (its shape and smell, rank with human fluids, is unmistakable). The sound of breaking wood shatters our erotic interlude; apparently I have thrown him a bit harder than intended. My muscles have already started to reform.

Devon curses under his breath, undoubtedly pissed at the rough turn his night has taken. "Jesus, fuck!" The bitter indignation in this short outburst draws up a boiling anger inside me for no apparent reason, but I say nothing as my boiling body is freed in a scattered exodus of cloth. I stand nude in the dark room, and even though Devon can't see me I know he knows what I've done.

He would probably scream bloody murder if he could see me. I'm not a pretty sight when I'm shifting. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat, but it is oily to the touch instead of just plain wet. When I shift back I will be covered in a thick clear jelly that, even to this day, disgusts me. Before I run out of time to keep my secret a surprise, I climb on top of Devon, still stunned and holding his head in one hand. A tentative sniff informs me that I have not yet drawn blood. Good, gives me time to play.

He is impressively strong for his lack of visible muscle, and he resists the weight of my body even though I have, as of yet, given him no reason to fear me. Maybe he's playing. No, the growing scent of fear, that urine-acrid smell, has seeped into the upper layers of his skin. I take a moment to savor; it's almost as intoxicating as fresh blood.

"Hey...hey! Stop it, okay? Just stop it!" Devon shouts my name du jour and his voice breaks. I grin madly in the room, only dimly lit because of an unfortunate position away from the moon's light. I imagine it is just one of several factors keeping me from losing it immediately.

"Devon, honey," I say as softly as I can manage, simultaneously patronizing and assuring. "Isn't this what you wanted? We've spent the entire evening, invested so much in this moment right now. Can't you feel it? Don't you want it?" The edges of my words are tainted with a husky underhandedness that does nothing to calm the young man's nerves. There's nothing more I can do but try and let it take me over as slowly as possible, until I can find the right moment. I pray that that moment comes soon. My stomach starts to curl inward upon itself; pinpricks of light dance across my vision. God, it's so fucking difficult!

The resistance lessens, and I draw back equally right away to give him the impression I mean him no harm. I can see the outlines of his face and body as pale ghosts cast by my goddess outside. Devon's expression is now neutral and smooth, and he truly looks like a kid in a way I can't describe. I instantly feel an insurgence of self-loathing, and a hate I used to have when I first started having to go on my monthly "hunts." That was before I started liking them.

I let a little more wolf into my body, squelching the self-incriminating thoughts into oblivion and starting my bones humming. "Aaaaahhh!-" The moaning gasp that drops an octave mid-breath is unavoidable. My charade is close to being over.

Devon says that false name again, and it's maddening. "Are you all right? You feel really hot." His concern is genuine, of all things! My hands leave his and I manage to balance on my knees above him. I answer his question nonverbally by undoing the buttons which cover his heaving chest. It twitches anticipatorily when he feels the cloth move over his body. I waste no time, going directly from shirt buttons to pants button to fly, spreading each in succession. My hands, no longer as deft or as human, fumble the khaki pants and boxer-briefs down to his knees, where they stop there and stay put.

"Oh, just fine," I puff hotly onto his body. My face is inches from his swollen member, now, as I drop to all fours to catch my breath. I 'm aflame; I want to vomit and scream and come all at the same time and with equal desire. This is not at all how I wanted tonight to go. I try to convince myself, sitting there like a mess on top of Devon, that it's all his fault. Something about this man has threatened to undermine me from the get-go. His innocence, his warm charm, and the ever-present childlike demeanor that drives his actions, decisions and speech. It's always so much easier with the others, because they knew what they were doing. Devon's tenderfootedness is disarming to the point of spawning regret. Regret, in a person like me!

Nobody ever trips me up, goddammit. Especially not vanilla pricks like this.

I am so distracted with my mental buildup that I barely hear a minute click near the head of the bed. In the space of a half-second I have just enough time to process what it is, but no time to warn Devon of the danger awaiting him. My arm is raised when I hear a second, identical click, and I am blinded. The simple act of turning on a bedside lamp, out of concern for my well-being, has just very effectively sealed his fate.

When it was dark, I could concentrate. When it was dark, I was still human, with the power to slow the changes invading my body. The silence and shadows were my friends helping me remain calm like a hooded hawk. But now...now it's all over. My mask has been lifted, my naked, flexing, melting body exposed in transformation. I watch Devon's eyes as they first adjust to the bright light, then processes the thing poised prone above him. His erection begins to deflate immediately.

"Holy G-!" It is infinitely difficult to describe the range of emotions I see on his face. He lets out a yelp, again sounding like a small terrier in the way his voice breaks and belies his age. This is accompanied by him scrambling out from under me; I do not move even though his flailing feet come perilously close to my balls. All I can do is look at him and watch, patiently, power surging up from somewhere within. I never know where it comes from, or where it is stored. It just wells up like some unseen cauldron, painless but overwhelming. It has to be; if it didn't take over my entire consciousness, do you think I would let it happen in the first place?

Devon now cowers, looking even more like a kid dragged into a whole hell of a lot more trouble than he bargained for. I'm sure he's wondering what possessed him to go out in the first place, and I relish the irony of his regret selfishly. My eyes hold his, smiling all the while like I'm insane (sometimes I wonder if that analogy will eventually fulfill itself) as I draw myself into a more stable position. I find it particularly apropos being on all fours; it's the most natural thing in the world right now.

My muscles are afire and twitching against the bone; from the way I convulse and drip onto the bed, which is already damp underneath my hands and knees, you would think I was dying of pneumonia. Instead, it feels like some wonderful drug has been released into my system. Flowing freely now, the changes take effect disturbingly fast. I struggle to form coherent words with the last remaining bits of my human voice. They seem superfluous compared to what Devon is witnessing.

"Watch carefully, Devon," it comes out in a bivocal snarl. "You won't be seeing this again." Of course, my fearful prey is too busy trying to keep control of his bladder to recognize the hidden meaning in my words. I suppose it's all for the best that he not know his ultimate fate. I may be a carnivorous monster, but that doesn't mean I don't have a sense of pity, even in the throes of lycanthropic passion.

Suddenly, my throat closes forcefully upon itself. This has never happened before; then again, I've never let my other side rush into me all at once before either. For one terrifying moment I think this is it I tried I tried to make it work I went to the ends of human endurance for this sick fucking disease and I'm still going to die here like a dog what did I do wrong, but something in the feral heat of my gut pops (it's really the only way to describe it without experiencing it firsthand) and spreads outward to my limbs and head.

It's like a warm breath of supernatural air; as I prepare to put on a show for Devon, it bumps gently into the make-believe obstruction in my throat and powers through it like so much Drano. It's all expelled in a cloud of orange dust that I know can only be seen by my eyes. Mucus drips from flared nostrils as if I had just ingested a spoonful of wasabi; it flows down my philtrum in runnels, over my growing teeth to mingle with the saliva already collecting and overflowing in my lower lip. It all adds to the copious stains on the bedspread.

I've found my voice again, but for now it rests as a constant deep guttural growl where my windpipe was closed off. The room is incredibly, unbearably, hot. I drop my jaw a little more and out pops my tongue, now thin and lolling out the side of my still-human mouth. It must be a sight to Devon, by the look on his face and the way he crushes the sheets in his hands and feet. Yet he doesn't move...or scream...makes my job that much easier.

What colors I can see in the darkness are dulled and muted before my vision explodes altogether. We are now bathed in varying shades of grey, scent-auras and all, but I can still interpret exactly what they are, even better, thanks to my nose, which seems to be pulling away from my face with an abnormal lack of pain.

Of course, as soon as I think about the absence of pain my back chooses that moment to relocate itself. I didn't notice the building pressure there until my reforming muscles pushed the bones past their limits. The snap is a gunshot; Devon screams like a little girl at suddenly seeing my body split at an extremely obtuse angle, and I emit an aggravated snarl while promptly vomiting what little my stomach contains onto the bed. Immediately the smell is horribly acrid.

I struggle to remain in a prone position to guard myself in case Devon has a sudden attack of bravado. I have never transformed so quickly, in this position, and with such unbelievable force. Too many things are happening at once for the human side of my brain to process, and I'm sick and tired of being hungry and unsated, so I just let it go. There will be plenty of time to think once I'm a bit more...comfortable.

Hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs make their presences known, emerging from every pore and even in between. Normally my skin would simply cease to exist under the fine fuzz that grows to cover my entire body, but in the dark the effect is minimized. My right leg gives out, the tibia and fibula merging and bending into a new, higher, ankle. I fall onto my side, finally unable to keep the threatening posture I had been maintaining to keep Devon in check. Now that he's sufficiently terrified out of his mind, I don't think taking a few moments for comfort will compromise my meal or my safety. The bed's soft pressure on my shifting spine is a welcome relief. There is another, softer pop as my other leg follows the first.

Even though I am now in a rather submissive position, arms and legs flailing at unseen targets in the air as they seek out their new forms, the sounds coming from my mouth-turned muzzle are no less intimidating. I sound like a dog giving birth, the moans and hisses of a soul in turmoil escaping, ever-changing, through a jaw which refuses to stay one length. My teeth and tongue are already done, they just move forward and stretch as my face does. Oddly enough, there is almost no longer any pain...a little self-satisfaction, even.

There is pain, quite sharp, in my lower back as my spine lengthens and stretches skin around it, not used to being pinned along the bedclothes underneath me. The semi-tail thrashes like an infant as it evolves and sprouts its own long fur to match the rest of my body, dragging my lower torso to and fro.

At last over the major hurdles of bone- and muscle-shifting, and the itching from my newly-sprouted fur coat nearly gone, I can relax a bit, and do so with a heavy baritone sigh. My limbs go limp, still clutching the air as my fingers truncate, toes elongate, and calluses turn to black pads of flesh. It still amazes me that, as all this change is occurring, I can't feel my skin altering texture or growing into something new, even though by all rights I should. Call it an unsolved mystery of lycanthropy.

A pressure between my legs reminds me of the one thing left to change. I manage to bow my head with effort, not worried one bit about Devon (he's made no sound and no movements; I can tell without trying), and cast a glance downward. My crotch is open and exposed to the air, the only area on my body still bare. I get a friendly wave from a tail that now is an extra appendage, regal and fluffy. Yes, now that my mind has regressed (or evolved, take your pick), I want to play.

Surrounded by soft short fuzz, my penis has drawn up to a near-vertical position, the glans staring at my navel. It looks out of place and ridiculously small on my seven-and-a-half foot body. A giggle (and it is quite the sound coming from me at this point) escapes me as I feel my shaft attaching itself as if by zipper to my lower torso. The fuzz follows soon after, sprouting up from underneath the coarse pubic hair and covering every available inch of skin. It makes its way up to the head, surrounding my urethra like a whirlpool, drawing the skin the final few inches over and around to effectively trap my member inside its new furry home. All the while I writhe in pleasure like a puppy as my most sensitive parts are rearranged and enlarged. An odd sensation at the base of my cock signals the formation of a new bone, and my erection is quelled...not that I can tell from the outside; my sheath remains plump and ready.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity but in all reality probably took no more than a minute, my transformation is complete. I am not exhausted though; this time, the combination of tonight's well-played game and the general horniness from being moved into a new body have given me enough energy to remain on keel. I wheel from my back onto all fours, a new being, ready to be consumed by an even larger monster than what I have become--lust.

Though my vision is lacking in color (I can see pale blues and yellows, but little else), I make up for it in sheer sharpness. On Devon's face is a look I've never seen before. Usually my partners/victims are curled up in one corner of the room, mouths agape and blabbering. Some of them take to screaming during the change, and as soon as I am lupine I must take them down immediately...it leaves such a mess, and I end up masturbating over the corpse to an unsatisfying end.

"Christ...fuck...fuck..." Devon swallows again after a few whispered obscenities. I admire his aplomb, considering what he was just witness to. His entire body is bathed in sickly green fear (I assume the aura by the scent's massive presence in the room), his eyes are wide and unblinking, but I sense a curiosity in there as well. Intrigued, I crawl forward towards him, my muzzle smiling its wolfy smile, my now-yellow eyes gleaming attractively, meeting his own. I rumble just slightly, assessingly, looking my prey over with a new point of view. But my senses have returned, transformation or no, and I know I still have to goals to attain.

Devon has plastered himself to the headboard. His breaths speed up, becoming shallow and forced the closer I get to him. Soon my body covers his, the heat from us both mingling suspended just off the bed. To my surprise his fear evaporates some when he has a good look at my features up close. He must be blocking out the inherent danger of the situation, justifying me as a cute little dog wanting to play and nothing more. It's a common effect of lycanthropic shock.

"You didn't expect this, did you?" I say slowly and evenly so Devon has a chance to get used to my new, deep gravelly voice. He shakes his head just as slowly and evenly. My arousal has again started to make its presence known, this time indicated by pressure around my member as it strains against its fleshy boundaries. I lower my head to his, preparing to give him one hell of a kiss, but he pulls to the side at the last moment, twitching all over, and whimpers. He won't speak a word, so I must try other means of making him talk.

"What's wrong? You're not scared of me, are you?" My tone has switched from menacing to everyday-conversation. I am genuinely concerned about his well-being despite the fact that he has precious little time left on this planet. I want him to enjoy himself without being afraid. Fear tends to sour the taste of the meat.

My companion avoids my eyes still, afraid to talk, to touch, to move. I do it for him. With my right paw I turn his head to face me. When I draw it away the fingerpads are wet; a quick lick confirms the presence of tears. They stain Devon's face in twin trails from eyes back to ears, flowing freely. He doesn't sob...he doesn't sniff or cough...the tears just flow over silently. I honestly cannot tell what's wrong.

I flick my tongue out over his chin, giving a long, warm lick up the sides of his face, cleaning up the tears the way a mother wolf would comfort her pups. I find myself giving into his emotions. This is screwed up...I'm supposed to be the strong one here. There is an air of dominance to be maintained, and I'll be damned if I let myself fall prisoner to such an inane concept as compassion...not this late in the game. I move to speak, but Devon does it for me.

"Not anymore," comes the mumbled, sullen reply. His eyes are everywhere but on my own, as if staring directly at me will bring home the realization that there is a werewolf (I hate that patronizing term with a passion), a creature of myth and horror, hovering over him. "Yeah, scared, surprised, I don't know. This is just so weird." Devon has never been one for words. I don't expect any more from him.

"Understandable, Devon. But don't you think this is much more meaningful than risking some disease-ridden floozy?"

He actually stops and thinks this over; I want to smack him and tell him it obviously is a hell of a lot more interesting than fucking a random guy you just met at a bar, no matter how handsome he is, but once gain patience wins over.

"Yes, very much so," Devon agrees with my thoughts. I detect him holding back a giggle but a smile creeps through anyway. A great wave of relief washes over me. Whatever fear he may have had is gone; I am no longer a separate creature to him, but the same man who sauntered into the bar and went about the simple task of seducing him. And now I am covered in fur, tail thrashing happily, still wanting to fuck as much as he does. Devon finally looks at me straight-on, studiously, and I know what he wants. All of my victims want the same thing, no matter who they are: they have access to the taboo, the unreal, and they want a taste.

"Go ahead," I allow. "Touch me. You know you want to, don't you?"

Devon doesn't reply, but a hand on the back of my arm says it all. My eyes are closed now, to enhance the touch through my soft, supple fur. There is something to be said about animal sensitivity: when your body is covered in fur, your skin tends to feel a whole lot more than usual. I only get to experience pleasure of this magnitude once a month, and it never fails to blow my mind. I intend to get the most out of it.

Fingertips graze my elbow and drag along my forearm to the bed, where they abruptly change direction and return, against the grain, to the junction of my shoulder. It is merely exploratory, but tinged with just the right amount of daring to make it inherently dangerous to Devon. I open my eyes to see that his are now closed, following my lead. I take the opportunity to move our night along by bringing my lips to his, and lap at his chin.

His skin is almost too salty, and I normally would shy away from any more taste-testing. But when I feel Devon's body go rigid and his mouth open, I can't stop my tongue from plowing right into him. His plaintive little moan is buried between us, transferred from human to wolf and killed on the spot. I turn my head ever so slightly and open wider to gain better access. Devon puts up no struggle, unless his hands clawing over my arched back are an indication for me to stop anytime soon. His tongue is foreign, thick and wet compared to my own; it neither resists nor encourages me. I couldn't ask for a more willing partner.

If you ask a man whether or not he would ever consider having sex with a werewolf (again, that demeaning term!), despite the fact that we technically "don't exist," he will refuse and deny it outright. No, that's sick, he will say, never in his life would he consider something so base and immoral. But, once you get him all riled up and in the same room, face-to-muzzle, something changes. The creature, now that he is so close and the man can see him as a living, breathing, sexual being just like himself, becomes an object of lust and fetish. I am the subject of stories...of urban legends...and the mere proximity of me is enough to change his mind. Any moral thoughts are thrown out the window; here is the once-in-a-lifetime chance to fulfill some latent desire perhaps carried over from every childhood in some form or another, and few are the men who willingly pass up the opportunity. Eat your heart out, Freud.

Without moving my muzzle from Devon's ravenous lips, I draw my body into a scrunched position, something no human could achieve without breaking bones. This spreads my legs to display my bits, resting invitingly upon the man's navel. I know he can feel the heat and weight of my genitals, so different from his own, and that he wants to touch me but can't bring himself to do it. I let the kiss last a few moments longer, pulling away with numerous baby-licks to the underside of his nose. Sitting up, my back goes from convex to concave; supported by my paws on his ribs, I now sit straight, my sheath dangling ponderously just over him.

"Go on, Devon," I purr, my lust driving my actions once again. It's definitely good to be stuck in this moment, taking my time while wanting a million things to happen all at once. It means there is still some time before I have to consider doing my dirty deed. Right now, it's all about making Devon happy.

The man looks down at my sheathed member, his hands hesitant but making their way nonetheless. This is the breakthrough moment: the hardest decision my lovers must make. They must come to terms with touching a creature of a different species in a sexual manner, for the purpose of gratification. Of course, none of them think of it that way...their minds are too clouded by testosterone at this point to make a justified argument to the contrary. Devon turns out to be no different, and as his hand crosses the last remaining inches I hear myself take in an audible breath and hold it.

Devon grasps my sheath and squeezes.

"Oh, God..."

"Holy shit...oh, wow..."

We both speak simultaneously in the dimly lit room. I lower my head and watch my human friend explore my genitalia as if he were a curious preadolescent inspecting the family pet. I harden quickly in his hand; after all, I've been waiting and working up to this for hours now. The low rumble is back in my chest with a vengeance this time; I grit my teeth and snarl my acquiescence.

Devon squeezes more, runs his hand lightly along the underside of my sheath down to the hidden bulge of my knot, gets more bold and starts pulling the skin back with his strokes. My lupine penis, looking like a veiny hot dog but swelling and darkening rapidly, is exposed and rehidden as I am slowly masturbated. I am finding it difficult not to hunch forward, but somehow I maintain control.

Balancing with one arm now, I reach behind and search for Devon's cock. It juts stiffly out of his groin, having been pummeled with my tail, and I can only imagine how good it must feel on his bare skin. Devon utters a little gasp and spreads his legs, exploring my groin with both hands. He is enjoying watching the furred skin of my sheath spread and cover, spread and cover my cock as he rolls it around. Then he attacks my balls; his moves are quick and thoughtless, nothing like what a pure lovemaking session would entail, but we are both running on adrenaline-driven lust and have no time or need for such intimacies.

Eventually my member grows uncomfortable within its home and my pleasured rumble turns to one of mild aggravation. Devon looks up and sees my slightly wrinkled muzzle, knows exactly what it means, and immediately freezes. I can see he wants to say something but is still too afraid to take the risk. Maintaining my stroking, I use my free paw to guide his hand down the length of my shaft, bunching up the sheath as it first hits, then stretches over my knot. We hit the apex and the last two inches pop free with a gratified sigh from both of us and a small stream of preseminal fluid onto Devon's chest. I am now my full nine inches out, gloriously slick and twitching.

The room has taken on the hot, heavy smell of males in rut. My own musk drifts to my nose from between my legs, but since it's my own scent I become accustomed to it almost right away. Devon is a plethora of scents: a little fear, apprehension, self-doubt, and an overriding wantonness in which I revel. This boy wants it no matter who or what I am, that's for sure. I'm going to see if I can give him something special...something I've only ever been able to do once before.

"So, how do you like me now, Devon?" I coo, looking down at him with fondness, my fingerpads becoming slick as they spread pre over his glans.

Devon has this dreamy look in his eyes. He has finally accepted (or allowed himself to accept) the fact that he is about to have rough sex with a walking, talking, stroking wolf. I imagine the gleam in his eyes is matched only by my own. "You're beautiful," he grips me behind the knot and rubs at my left thigh. "I still can't believe this is happening. I've never seen anything like it before." Ah, the vocabulary of foreplay!

"A once-in-a-lifetime experience, my friend," I continue, but Devon still gives no indication he understands the gravity of my words. "I intend to make it unforgettable." With that, I scoot backwards a bit, still holding his manhood up, teasing him. Devon has no idea what I am doing until I sit down, hard, and slide three-quarters of his penis under my tail. This is no big deal to me; I've taken much bigger meat than Devon's, so I enjoy the look on his face as he feels my body heat, a full five degrees above his, envelope him. He claws the sheets, staring at the ceiling, lips rounded in an "O" of blissful surprise.

I bear down again and hilt him on the second thrust. Devon is average, about six inches and a bit narrow, but his cock is very straight and penetrates me with ease. I wriggle my hips back and forth like the raunchy beast I am, making him squirm and screw his eyes shut. There is quite the puddle of wolf-pre on Devon's chest; my balls practically ache from the need for release. I have been saving myself for days.

My partner bends and raises his knees so they are just behind my arms, to gain better leverage for thrusting up into me. I oblige him by keeping my rear off the majority of his shaft, then letting him close the gap for me. Grinning, I bring my legs together in a vice around his waist, keeping myself elevated and letting him do all the work. Even though I'm pretty sure mine is the first ass he's ever had, he acts like an experienced fucker, using what he feels to alter his motions for the most possible pleasure. Even though Devon is enjoying himself, he still claws at my thighs like anchors to keep himself from somehow falling off the bed.

Truth be told, I didn't plan on taking his cock tonight. I just saw his face, the look of pure need for any kind of the physical contact he'd been denied for so long, and decided it couldn't hurt. And it doesn't; Devon goes nice and slow, and I settle to pump myself behind my knot...I feel so good right now, indulging my submissive side, that if I touch my exposed cock it might decide to ejaculate without my permission.

Devon pushes in and stays in, bucking my body up against his and igniting my prostate like a button pushed repeatedly. I moan into the night, feeling my torso bending and lowering to Devon's. He has me held prisoner by my tailhole, and I don't even have to keep the grip on my cock to feel the warmth of a climax slowly building. My paws go to his upper chest and just sit there, on either side of my head, as I drool onto his perspiration-moistened skin. It is only now that I realize how long it's been since I was last fucked...before I became a being of two lives.

I want to give myself up to Devon, content to just lie there and be rammed by his wonderful, wonderful length until my system decides to dump a substantial load onto his chest. My lack of a predatory backbone is too much of a liability at this point, but as I am about to gather the strength to tell Devon to stop, he solves my problem for me. I feel his hand creeping between my fur and his skin, and then a stinging pain as he grips my shaft and strokes it.

"Aaaahhh! Shit...!" With a feral snarl, I am dragged back into reality. In a purely instinctual reaction I hop to my feet and rise as far as the ceiling will let me. It is difficult to talk myself down from thoughts of breaking his neck, but I overcome my lupine side's attempts to finish the hunt with some good old human logic. Most evident is the fact that I need to come as much as I need to feed. When I can finally see and think clearly, I realize I am standing above him, no longer connected by his member. It sits semi-flaccidly against one leg. But his loss of erection is nowhere near as serious as what my paws did to his chest.

Going to my knees again, I get a good look at the eight parallel bloody furrows I dug in his flesh during my outburst. The irony scent hits me like an old, dear friend inviting me to stay awhile. "I'm sorry," I manage, but I neither regret nor take pride in what I've done. "You...you just can't touch it like that. The salt on your hands is too much." I am quickly becoming mesmerized by the rank odor that blocks out everything else; I swear my vision is turning red even though I have no ability to see the color. My fingertips pat the wounds dearly, becoming wet with his essence.

To my astonishment, Devon is smiling. I have no recollection of him yelling in pain, or any other reaction, but he looks like he actually enjoyed having his flesh ripped apart. "Battle scars," he says proudly. "They'll always remind me of you." Such sickeningly sweet emotion would make my heart break...provided I cared about such things and didn't have the aroma of blood to distract me. Or keep me focused, depending on how you see it. I bring my fingers to my lips and hesitate, wondering if this will be the thing to set me off. I wait...lick...oh, God, it's so good!

A part screams in relief deep down inside of me. I believe it is my conscience. Now that I have tasted Devon's life-giving blood, any doubts I may have are swept away like so much dust in the wind. I suppose my conscience, or whatever was left of it, feels it can't compete with such a basic hunger, and that last bit of reservation goes out the window. Mind you, I can still hold back, but there is no longer any argument of whether or not I will be able to go through with my murderous intent. When I feed, it will be a climax in its own right.

My tongue lashes at the stripes of open flesh, making Devon hiss and quiver against me, but I hold him fast. Eventually he settles down when he realizes my cleaning is taking the edge off his pain. Then I feel the bulk of his renewed erection against the underside of my dangling scrotum and realize it's become just another part of the game to him. I am having a field day, digging my taste buds into the tender red meat just inside the parted flesh, fairly drinking him clean and getting an hors d'uvre of what the rest of him will taste like. The anticipation builds with every lick. Once the wounds are clean and no longer bleeding, I kiss Devon again, shortly, just long enough to give him a taste of himself. Of course, he finds this unbelievably kinky.

Now fueled with a little liquid appetizer, my body shakes violently, craving more substance. I am down on all fours again, my muzzle snapping at the air involuntarily. Devon rubs his way up my sides to scratch the backs of my perked ears. I collapse halfway, try to remain up and fail, flopping heavily onto the human.

"Puppy likes?" Did he just call me what I think he called me? Puppy? I can see that my befriending Devon has done more than raise his self-esteem. It has brought forth a whole other side, a haughty overconfident bastard who, despite the precarious situation in which he finds himself, sees fit to call me by a pet name.

"Puppy, huh?" Through my weak whimpering, I utter through gritted teeth, "Bad boy. My turn."

My grimace soon turns to a smile as I prepare to take control of this sexual tea-party once and for all. With resistance akin to the Great Wall of China (at least, that's what it feels like), I make swift work of hopping backwards and clear of Devon, then bearing forward with my paws on each of his ankles. I grip them and dig in; nothing he can do will be able to overpower my newfound strength. For the first time I see an end in sight, our dragged-out foreplay finally come to a close.

Devon cries out as his legs are lewdly spread and raised. He has to know what's going to happen to him in just a few short moments. Sinews and tendons strain under my paws, yet his legs move nowhere. My smile grows.

"Hey! I'm not ready!" He complains, a tinge of panic creeping into the last word.

"I thought you wanted this. Don't tell me you're entertaining the thought of denying your 'puppy.'" The last word is so laced with venom that spittle slews from my mouth in thin streams and lands on Devon's abdomen. He makes tiny airy whines, knowing he's royally offended a creature that could very well rip him apart at any moment. Well, not for a while...

Without compromising my hold on Devon's ankles, I bend down closer to the cleft of his hairless hole, licking stray saliva from my lips. The resistance, so strong before, has abated to the point where Devon feels like a baby waiting to be changed more than a man about to...*sniff*...be deflowered! I knew it! There is the unmistakable scent of male, tinged with hints of Ivory soap and the ever-present bit of dirtiness that never seems able to be cleaned no matter how hard you try. But there is something in the body's chemistry that changes once an orifice has been filled with cum, and there is no trace of it, nor latex, here. What I have suspected all night has finally played itself true.

I take one long, last sniff and raise my head slowly like a shark surfacing between Devon's outstretched legs. I can only imagine the grin of knowing on my muzzle as I see my human friend's plaintive eyes.

"You're an awful dominant and straightforward person, Devon...for a virgin," I jibe, and he winces. "That's why you aren't ready, isn't it?" Why didn't you tell me?"

"I...I was afraid you wouldn't want to," he stutters dejectedly. "It's happened before."

I do have to admit that, despite other reasons, I am attracted to Devon physically as well as predatorily. Why anyone would want to pass up a chance with him, the stigma of virginity aside, is beyond me. "You poor thing," my paw travels up to his chin and back, dragging his balls and cock either way. Devon stiffens up again. "Are you going to be okay giving your virginity to a wolf?"

Devon pauses at the obvious, yet strangely-worded question. For him, it's probably still unreal. "No way, man. This is great. I actually...wouldn't want it any other way." He's being quite the good sport.

Huh. Some part of my mind says I should have done this a long time ago if it were going to be this easy, but I must remind myself that tonight's encounter was a complete coincidence. It was, and still is, my most interesting to date, though

"Good." The taste of blood still lingers in my mouth and nose. I urge myself to be patient and enjoy the first half of my satisfaction for the evening. My face disappears again as I prepare to open Devon up, at least a little, for my more-than-ample member. I have no problem with rimming, especially since Devon is so unusually clean (a ritual of hopeful anticipation for people like him), but I intend to expedite our coupling as much as possible.

I make a show of extending my tongue to its full length and running it from his anus to the base of his shaft, taking the excessively salty skin and cleaning it of perspiration, soap and his own scent. His balls are rolled around, examined, lapped at and nibbled, each action gaining a new and more vocal reaction. I would also move my attentions to his cock, giving it a good slathering (and there's really nothing like having your cock in a lupine muzzle...believe me, I have friends), but I don't fancy the taste of my own tailhole that much.

Devon's, however, is proving quite delectable. There was a point in my life when I had a "never" list. That all changed when I did. One by one, my "nevers" became "just this one times" and eventually grew into a regular part of my repertoire. Rimming is something I've grown especially fond of, exactly why I can't tell. Maybe because it's a natural part of greeting for wolves, maybe because I just like licking people out. Either way, I like the way Devon tastes, and he likes me tasting him. I can tell by the way he lifts his butt up to give me better access, of which I take advantage by inserting my tongue ever deeper and in whatever direction I want.

The end of my nose is plastered so deeply into Devon's ballsac that it forces me to breathe through my mouth, around my probing tongue. Even then, his smell is all around me. His thighs tickle my whiskers as he twitches epileptically on the bed.

"Haungh!...Haungh!...Haungh!" Like a fish out of water, I have reduced my human lover to a writhing, panting pile of sweaty skin and bones. The sounds coming out of his slack mouth are irregular and mostly vowels. His hands are on his chest, tweaking his nipples, clutching the bed sheets, clawing at the air, and finally driving my ears, pulling my head so close it hurts. Now I don't even have room to pull my tongue out, so I drive it past his second ring and curl it upwards, brushing against the warm, slightly hard protrusion of his prostate.

I am almost kicked in the shoulder for my efforts. Devon's literal knee-jerk reaction breaks my hold on his right foot and it slices the air just shy of my head. "That's enough of that," I say matter-of-factly after removing my tongue. It is clear by the angry, frustrated grumble I hear that Devon is not in agreement. Nevertheless, my cock has been denied for too long already.

Once I have his ankles firmly secured again, I march my way up to him on my knees, member swinging lazily this way and that, all the while a string of pre attaching it to the bed, my thighs or Devon's bare skin. His legs slide up and back, gliding along my shoulders until his knees bend and lock him loosely to me. In this position I don't have to worry about him sliding down, and he won't cramp up trying to hold his weight by his legs. My hardness rests directly above his, dwarfing it in size, shape, and leakage.

Both of our faces are masks of concentration. There is a certain amount of sexual edginess that disappears once the prospect of intercourse is made a certainty. Some of its eroticism, until now tainted by the unknown, becomes commonplace. It is, however, still easy to keep some spice in sexual play, especially with a virgin like Devon. He knows what I'm going to do, yet he has no idea how I'm going to do it. I'm glad he won't have the chance to "get used" to me.

I bring my hips back and guide the head of my cock to Devon's entrance. Looking up, I ask him with my eyes: Are you ready?

"I thought you said you wanted to use a condom," he says meekly.

"Come come now, Devon. Look at me. Personally, I don't think that's a problem now. Do you?"

After short consideration, he agrees with my words of persuasion. He shakes his head, brave but scared shitless just the same. He won't last long, that's for sure. I can only hope I make it worth his while.

I bear forward, and that lovely, hot little tongue-prepped pucker gives way to three inches of wolfhood. Devon inhales at length, then wheezes it all out in short bursts. There is no indication of pain on his face or in his body language, but I stop anyway just to let him become accustomed to having himself filled.

"How do you feel?" I ask

"Wuh-wonderful!" He exclaims in disbelief, as if he expected something completely different from penetration. "I think your tongue really helped." And, just like that, his virginity is bidden a fond farewell.

Without asking, I inch my hips forward, feeling his rings clench around my flesh as it warms to his body heat. I continue to plow past any resistance, and when Devon finally cries, "No more, no more!" I lay on top of him and lap at his neck. He settles down immediately at the distracting pleasure, so much so that he doesn't even notice when I've stopped pushing in.

"Devon?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't go any further."

"You-oooohhhhh..." Devon shudders at the realization that he has taken my entire length (sans knot, of course) into his body. Just to prove my point I withdraw almost completely and reinsert myself, smooth as silk. He is powerless to do anything but moan, spread open as he is. Any pain he might be experiencing is undoubtedly overridden by his adrenaline-infused body. It was the same for me, my first time with another lycanthrope. You enjoy yourself immensely, but pay for it dearly later.

Devon lowers his legs to wrap them around the small of my furry back, and I make it easier by hunkering down to make full bodily contact with him. Holding his shoulders, my neck encircling his head, I settle into a nice, slow lovemaking rhythm. The room is almost silent, save for Devon's intense, shallow breathing and the occasional grunt from me as I shift to gain a little better angle. This goes on for some time; my lover is being very obedient and quiet, enjoying his initiation with all the sensory gratification a first time should afford. The silence gives me time to think about how I can make his death as painless and pleasurable as possible, simultaneously. There is one way I have rarely used before, and this may be the perfect time to try it.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Devon?" I ask, as an owner would ask a pet.

"M-much...much, sir."

I stop in mid-thrust, lift off and give him a light smack across his cheek. His head recoils, much more than the force I had behind my paw, and looks horror-stricken up at me. I say, "Never call me 'sir' again. Do you understand?"

"Uh-huh." The human looks about ready to burst into apologetic tears. I digress with as friendly a smile as I can muster.

"Nothing personal. I may be older than you, but I'm not "sir." Especially like this. Am I right?" It's not too difficult to talk about normal things while embedded in someone else's ass, if you try.

"Okay." He seems satisfied, and I resume fucking him. This time, I start off at a faster pace with shorter thrusts, and now I can really start to feel the pleasure from Devon's clenching hole. I started off slow more for his pleasure than for mine, to get him used to me and being mounted in general. He took it like a pro; now the haughty bastard I saw before is just a self-assured sexual man, being deflowered in a way few people ever have the chance to experience.

An urgent heat begins to build in my loins, the long-awaited release I have sought for the past month. Normal (read: human) masturbation cannot satisfy the feral hunger inside of me that screams for more than just a release of semen. I open my eyes long enough to notice that the moon has lowered in the sky; it could either be late evening or early morning. The bright silvery orb has actually snuck into one corner of the window, looking like an overgrown piece of pie. It pulls at my back, then pounds in the reverse direction, seeming to aid my thrusts. Whether I am imagining this whole thing is up for speculation, but I've done odder things under its power.

Now Devon's arms have joined his legs, clasped tightly around my thick neck, effectively rendering him weightless when I raise and lock my arms. With the short distance between us, and Devon dangling as if from a harness, we've got the perfect setup. All I have to do is stay where I am and pound away at him like a dog, without worrying about things as inconsequential as support and position and cramping. After all, it's things like those that get in the way of a nice powerfuck, and that is quickly becoming the case for me and Devon.

My body trembles with the double effort of sex and increased weight, but my muscles are far from giving in. Since I retain my unfortunate human characteristic of perspiration, I quickly break out in a sweat that lingers below my fur and emits a gentler version of "wet dog" to mingle with the varied palette already in the room. I can't believe Devon has held on this long; with the pummeling his rear must be taking it's a miracle he hasn't passed out from pure sensation overload. Believe me, I know what my cock can do to people when used effectively.

I dance on my knees and lower my rear a touch, creating an effect akin to a sinking ship: Devon is now forced onto my cock with the help of gravity, no longer just a toy which hangs ready to be played with. He can't help but slide down a little further onto me each time I hunch upwards, my knot forcing him open that much more.

His limbs first quiver, then loosen altogether. He tries to say something, but my gruff treatment of his body is making him hesitant. Feeling him slipping further away from conscious thought, and knowing that is not a good thing at this point, I shrug his arms away and let him fall onto the bed with just his legs clutching me near.

"Getting...ungh!...close..." This takes me off guard for two reasons: one, that Devon would have the mental or physical strength to warn me, and two, neither of us has touched his cock as of yet. I admire his youthful vigor and envy his ability to climax without contact, something I have never had the pleasure of accomplishing. Nevertheless, my envy is mixed with pride at being the one to bring him to such a self-satisfying end.

Speeding up approvingly, I growl, "That's what I want to hear, boy. Let it all go." My mind, already shed of its human skin, gradually begins to shut down to its most primitive level. This is the part of lycanthropic mating I fear the most because of its "Jekyll & Hyde" factor: what's left of my human faculties give way completely to my lupine bloodlust, and after that there is absolutely no control. I fear I will do something truly regrettable and inhuman, mostly because I have done so before. I am not a monster, but that simple fact didn't seem to stop my other, savage side from torturing a young girl for hours before devouring her alive. I am not proud of that. I do not want to repeat it, ever.

"Trying to...to..." blubbers the man beneath me like a young boy. We are both so caught up in our little worlds, both with the same goal, that we seem to forget about the other person and concentrate on the lightning bolts of pleasure radiating from our connected flesh and points beyond. Tail thrashing, raised high in dominance, I go full-bore now, my hips a blur, wondering what Devon sounds like when he climaxes. Words are born and killed in the same breath on his lips, never having formed coherent sentences. His prostate feels like a croaker, gliding over the top of my cock; its hardness and pressure adds a new level of sensation that, if continued, is sure to send me off soon if I don't control myself.

But it is too late for any measure of control. My stomach announces its impatience and I let out a snarling roar to keep its complaints at bay. I lift up to do this, and catch a glimpse of Devon. He is caught up in the ecstasy, his face wrinkled in the intense concentration it takes to push oneself over the brink. I can tell he wants more than anything to touch his cock, to have me touch it, but I can also tell he wants to shoot unaided even more. Supporting my upper body by my arms once again, I lunge for Devon's neck...I need something to gnaw on until our mating is completed.

Devon emits a startled, elongated raspy breath; the bed vibrates on either side of us underneath his pounding fists. I nibble along his flesh, just hard enough to cause pleasurable pain but not nearly enough to break the skin...yet. I am counting on all my senses to tell me when the moment is right.

Suddenly something breaks loose inside of me, sending my body into a near-panicked state. My orgasm has snuck up on me prematurely! I have quite a bit more time (well, only twenty seconds or so) before I start shooting, but that is not nearly as important as my swelling knot. On an in-thrust, I stop moving completely and dig my footpaws into the sheets. I have to hold Devon down as he starts to wriggle and thrash against my invasive member; the pain he feels must be immense enough to drown out all other sensation. Yet he never tells me to stop.

I smell fresh and copious tears, forced out of eyes closed so tight they look sewn. My jaws clamp down harder, finding good purchase for the final act. Seconds tick by; my balls churn and then spasm, releasing their initial load before I can tie with Devon. His hole, slick with wolf-pre, retains a chokehold on my knot, almost halfway in now. Human fingernails dragged over my shoulders and upper arms do not compare to my paws, now punching little holes above the furrows in his chest. My climax is just around the corner, as is Devon's. Just a little more...

Three long, lazy shots of cum erupt inside Devon's body; I feel it as it is pinched between the walls of his anus and my knot, then sent the rest of the way down my cock. A wail-turned-scream is swiftly interrupted by my muzzle around soft, sweet, healthy flesh. Realizing I have been holding my breath, I exhale; it is enough to send my knot sliding past his sphincter to lock our bodies together.

It all happens as if on cue: physical release finally comes in the form of waves that seem to accelerate my thicker, more potent seed out into Devon. The volleys are long, forceful and tremendously relieving. Instead of relaxing, though, I wait for my lover to come around, which doesn't take too long. Devon starts to sound like he's choking, when in fact he is experiencing an orgasm so complete it takes his entire being prisoner. I detect an abrupt change in body chemistry, almost identical to my own a few moments earlier, and choose that moment to seal his fate.

There is nothing in my world now, except my cock and my jaws. My long lupine climax continues as I apply constantly increasing pressure to Devon's neck, feeling the skin and tendons part before my teeth. Then they sink into the muscle, which gives way without allowing the severing of tendons. An explosion of irony blood, which in all reality is just a superficial trickle, fills my muzzle.

I adjust my angle downward to accommodate my prey's gaping jaw, which is trying to suck in air where none will ever go again. His body gives one lunge upwards, and my left ear and the side of my head is suddenly warm, wet and sticky. It is thin, dripping stuff, soaking into my fur immediately, but it is copious. Through the bestial layers of my current state of mind, I take a little solace in the fact that Devon's last moments on earth are being spent in sexual delight.

The absence of sound from Devon's mouth is a sign I am succeeding. Still processing the feelings from his groin, I know there is precious little suffering on his part, but I hump him, rocking back and forth slowly, to make sure he rides the pleasure calmly into death. His hands flail a bit, never trying to push me off, but just searching for something to grab as his vision fades. Eventually even these come to rest on the bed, limp and too weak to move. I feel his pulse through my gums, fading fast until it stops altogether. I wait another minute after that, just to make sure, and then release him. The sacrifice has finally been made.

My mind comes back into some sort of focus, and I see no point in staying tied to a corpse. With some pain, I carefully disconnect myself, still dribbling cum, from Devon's body and set about the gruesome task of filling the other hunger still within me. The heart comes first; it is said, by some of my "peers," that eating the heart before anything else is the surest way to gain your victim's strength and ensure their soul a place in heaven. I personally think it's a bunch of bullshit, but I'm not about to take my chances. For the next hour I let myself go, rending flesh and bone like a wild animal after bringing down a particularly good kill. There is nothing humane about the way I feed; I view it as something imperative to me if I want to keep on living, nothing more or less

Oddly enough (or conveniently), I find that most of my conversation with Devon is lost to memory. The more of him I eat, the less I can remember about him. The power of repression at its finest, to be sure.

No part of his body is wasted. Blood soaks deep into the bed (and into my fur) as I work, down to the box spring and, most likely, the floor. By the time I look at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, seeing the red numbers illuminating 5:00, nothing is left but a pile of loose bones, licked almost clean. Devon's skull lays shattered among them; the skull is always the most difficult to eat, but the brain is almost always a wonderful way to wrap up a repast.

The moon has sunk past the horizon, taking with it my ability to hold my lupine form with ease. Little by little I feel it draining from my overstuffed body, and know I must escape before I lose any more darkness. Forcing myself to walk (it's like exercising after Thanksgiving dinner), I go to the kitchen where, after a short search, I find a box of heavy-duty trashcan liners. They always seem to be around when I need them. The bones go into the bag like so many leftovers, as do my clothes, wrapped in their own protective plastic. I now feel out of place, cleaning up my mess with bloody claws.

I take advantage of a quick shower to get the majority of carrion washed from my body. It never disappears fully from the fur, but once I transform back it will no longer matter. Once I am mostly clean and dry, it is time to make my exit into the world again. Full, exhausted, and emotionally drained, I exit Devon's building, bag over my shoulder, draped in a large blanket I also found in the closet. I don't have to worry about locking the door or leaving trace evidence behind; all the police will find is blood, wolf fur and a copious amount of semen, left to their own devices to figure out a scenario involving all three.

At this time, on a Sunday morning, no one who values their life would be out on the streets. This is to my advantage, as I shuffle from shadow to shadow, looking for a dark alleyway in which to become human again. Only three blocks away I spy a Dumpster hiding a nice dark spot, make quick work of myself, and try to wipe down without touching that awful clear goo. The transformation back is much less painful and takes no time at all, yet when I emerge into the sickly green glow of the arc-sodium streetlamps my stomach feels almost empty. It constantly amazes me how much energy I burn on my hunt every month. Almost makes it seem like Devon gave his life for nothing, but I remind myself that if he hadn't, I'd be the one dead right now. Survival of the fittest, my ass, I think sarcastically, and I have to chuckle.

Iron languishes in the back of my mouth, heavy and nauseating to my human taste buds. I need to get home and brush my teeth before I vomit. This is the point where, sometimes, regret would come rushing in to take the place of predatory pleasure, I suppose. It seems I've become a master of my emotions at long last. I am numb, hung over from life. Thank God (I doubt he likes me much by now) my senses are now ignorant and dulled, just like a human's should be. One night a month is enough for me.

After disposing of the bag of bones in another innocuous Dumpster ten blocks away from where I reverted, I wander to a main artery and hail a rare early-morning taxi. The driver is quick and direct, honest and not at all intrusive, and I am glad for the bit of normalcy that provides.

I pay dearly for the ride back to my bike, but walking over roughly seven miles of interstate is not an option. Tipping the cabbie, I shuffle over to the bike. Its bright, beautiful paint reminds me of the new dawning day, and last night already seems like a wonderful, horrible sexy nightmare all rolled into one. Its high-strung engine, revved to the redline and back, drowns the thoughts nicely. All I want to do now is sleep.

The ride home is slow and cautious; I've been known to pass out after such busy nights, and I'd rather not do it at eighty miles per hour on a speedbike. I make it all the way to the garage before my vision starts to double and my balance goes to shit. I can barely make it to the cargo elevator, hitting random buttons (that does absolutely nothing, as the elevator is programmed for my loft only) before my own floor is selected. My stomach churns on the journey, but I know I must keep my food down or die.

I stumble into my spartanly clean living room. I liked Devon. He was a nice kid. He was cute. He didn't deserve to die.

But he tasted so good...

Entering my blur of a bedroom, I collapse onto my blur of a bed. I am seriously sleep-deprived, and I can't be counted upon to make rash observations. I will sleep away Sunday to face Monday with a renewed spirit and energy, just like every other self-respecting member of the human race. I won't even need to stop by Starbucks to plant a smile on my face. And, come Monday night, rest assured I will be entertaining some anonymous male visitor, this time without the threat or burden of killing him.

By that time, the police will have entered Devon's apartment and cordoned it off.

My cock has erected itself again, to my annoyance. I feel a strong urge to masturbate again to rid myself of residual tension, but there is simply not enough strength to go around. Undressing automatically, I crawl under the sheets, and the soft silk warms and comforts me as I finally let go of consciousness. At this point my sleep will be restful and dreamless, which is exactly what I need to recuperate from my exhausting nocturnal activities.

After all, I have plenty of time for pondering the finer points of my existence. No reason to jump to irrational conclusions now, when it will do nothing but keep my drained mind awake with rambling thoughts. With my eyes closed the world slowly ceases to be, as does the grip of the moon. It's nice to have things back to normal again.

Until next month, that is.

FIN

6/16-7/25/05