Full Moon is a little bit of an experimental erotic short I wrote to explore the more bestial mind of a werewolf in the midst of their feral change. This takes place in my Blood and Fire world, in which true demons are soulless creatures driven solely by bloodlusts and a obsession with strength and power. So there's not much in the way of romance in this particular free read: the werewolves here are focused on one thing and one thing only. Hopefully you'll enjoy the action anyway. 😘
It means savagery. It means surrender. Bright, cold, gleaming impassively over the blue and sleeping world, it makes the blood turn to freezing silver and then burning, boiling scarlet, takes away the man and leaves only beast. The flesh disappears under pelt; teeth become fangs; body becomes something in between that of man and canine, a knot of carnivorous hunger, ravaging, barbaric need.
Tonight, the moon is full.
The big werewolf is hunting alone. He's left his alpha male and his pack behind him to chase the scent of a female. She is one like him, one that wears the shape of the she-wolf when the moon sings its seductive song. As the male follows, his greed intensifies with every breath. The she-wolf smells of fervor, ripe and excited, like the burning season, like autumn leaves aflame. Her scent is magnificent—she is in heat.
The scent leads through cool, dark wilderness, mingling with the earth smells of soil and roots, the sweet scent of decaying flowers and blooming berries. The male follows somewhere between the mind of man and wolf: one foot in front of the other, tracking slowly, crouching to press one hand against the damp dirt and center his predatory mind on her trail. His breath is a silver fog in the cold night air. He snorts once, listening.
The ears of a werewolf hear everything. He hears the patient call of night-birds and the flutter of bat wings in the darkness; he hears the teasing whisper of the cool breeze through the oak leaves. He can hear for miles, down the mountainside, into the canyon and valleys where prey waits, men around campfires muttering in their low voices. Any other night he would follow the smell of their bare skin and tear them asunder with his talons and teeth, devouring them without thought—but tonight the female is waiting. Her trail leads further up the slope, and her scent has him transfixed.
He stands again, twitching one large pointed ear, salivating as he climbs further up and further in.
Urine marks a tree trunk to the side of the path, acrid and pungent like sour wine. It gives him cause to hesitate. There is another male running in this territory, a wolf that is not a wolf, a man that is not a man. A low growl catches in the big male's throat and he quickens his pace; already his prominent cock is erect and provoked—searing awareness floods his muscles and he picks up into a run.
The female will be his. His will be the shaft she opens to, his will be the seed she takes into her in joyous supplication.
Wolves mate for life, but werewolves do not. Werewolf females allow only the biggest and strongest specimen to mount and fuck them in their heat, and werewolf males collect as many females, as many willing bitches, as they can manage. Sex in werewolf packs is a sign of nothing less than supremacy and dominance—there is no other goal but to mark territory, satisfy lust, gratify vice like rutting animals in the wilderness.
The scent of the rival male buzzes in his head like a fever. The big werewolf is barely aware his mouth is hanging open, saliva dripping from his fangs as he pants, running forward, pulled by the luscious promise of the female's hot, open sex yielding to him. There are low creatures in the underbrush, prey animals scattering and fleeing at the sound of his footfalls as he runs, but he ignores them. The only thought on his mind is of finding the were-bitch somewhere up ahead. Soon, though, he is aware of the sounds of a scuffle. He smells sweat and damp fur, the scent of sharp female arousal. Dropping to all fours he barrels through the brush, growling with furious determination.
The other male has already beaten him. On the banks of the river they are already in flushed coitus: the sleek red female on hands and knees, supplicant under the frantic pounding of a slim gray creature—a yearling. A damned yearling werewolf from the big male's own pack.
The snarl that erupts from the older wolf is like the sound of thunder. The two creatures glance up suddenly, their eyes full-black with intoxicated lust until they recognize the intruder, and their faces sour suddenly into shocked fear. It's enough to make the yearling hesitate—but then, registering the intent of the bigger male to take the bitch away from him, the pup snarls in return, firming his grip on her pretty hips and resuming his thrusts in blatant defiance.
The female is large and savagely gorgeous. Her red mane is glossy and fully, tumbling from her pretty head like a royal mantle; the light dusting of fur along her regal limbs, lost in the primal shape-shift, wears a sheen of lovely, pungent sweat. She is a wolf that might be the beta of her own pack, dangerously vicious and deadly alluring. Her ample breasts sway as her partner fucks; her tongue lolls out of her mouth in a taunting smile at the newcomer, showing her teeth in an expression of bliss.
Not under a simple dog, the big male rages in his head. She should not be beneath a simple goddamn dog less than a year into immortality… she should not spread her legs for a little scrap of shit like that!
With a roar he charges them, driven into a fury by the smell and sight of the younger werewolf, eager to tear at his throat and belly, eager to spill blood for the female. The bitch snaps at him as he gets near but the pup drops back with a whimper of surprise, his weak cock slipping out of the she-wolf as he falls into a defensive crouch.
Claws fly for eyes, teeth for flesh as the bigger male leaps onto the dog. The little one's hands come up to protect his face and he cringes down, his cock—still glistening with the wetness of the female's sex—shriveling quickly in fear. But as the larger wolf knocks him to the ground the pup falls into a roll, taking the attacker along and throwing him down on the shore of the river. Then, to the werewolf's surprise, the pup actually snarls, bearing his vicious little fangs, and advances to return the attack.
The show is unforgiveable, a posture no lower member of the pack should ever take up against an older werewolf. The intoxication of the female's bitter musk is scrambling the little dog's senses. The big male lunges to his feet, returning the snarl—they circle, biting, snapping. They lunge and swipe, claws tearing through thick fur and drawing blood.
During all this the bitch has backed away. Out of the corner of his eye the werewolf can see her crouching down with her tail curled over her naked cleft, arms shielding her flush breasts and the excited points of her nipples.
The bigger male turns his attention on her instead of the pup. Lunging, he topples her to the earth and with a bark of rage she snaps at his face.
The scent of her is hot and feverish, all over her body. He rubs his face in it, running his tongue over her velvety flesh, licking up the taste of her sweet, pungent pheromones. Like heady, potent drugs they set his brain aflame, make his cock twitch with eager hunger.
The little dog advances, trying to shove the bigger wolf aside, but a slap of canine talons tears open four wide gashes on the pup's face and sends him reeling. As the pup stumbles back the bigger male forces the female to open herself; pushing aside the brush of her tail he enters her violently, bragging her wrists as her claws come up to fend him of, pinning her to the ground as he swiftly drives his cock to the hilt in her, burying himself between her thighs and running his long, hot tongue over her breasts. Her sex is already wet and already marked with the pup's feeble scent. She snaps at the big male and he snaps back, fucking her harder. Soon, she yields, a lascivious grin crossing her face as he fills her with more suitable flesh, a bigger, harder shaft invading her deepest parts.
There is a snarl in his ear as the pup attacks him again; the little creature pounces and topples the bigger werewolf, dragging him away, cock slipping out of the bitch's warm, dripping sex. The big male bellows with rage and they fall into a wrestling match, rolling over and over in the grass until finally the older wolf brings one knee up to pound the rival dog's gonads.
With a pitiful yelp, the pup goes limp.
The bigger male snaps at him again and strikes him twice in the stomach with closed fists. Defeated, the little dog can't stop himself from vomiting in pain, curling into a ball in surrender.
With a low, vicious snarl, the werewolf climbs to his feet. He looms over the audacious little whelp. It is the female's scent: so strong, so intoxicating, so undeniable. That is what has driven this yearling to offend.
Shrinking under the bigger animals' glare, the little gray wolf tries to crawl away. If the moon were not full and mercilessly bright overhead, perhaps the gray fur would have disappeared, the claws becoming normal human hands. He could escape some of the pain in the act of shape-shifting back to man's form. But the moon means savagery, surrender: no one marked as a werewolf can shed the Shape of the Beast when the moon sings her song.
The bigger male stomps one massive foot down on the pup's retreating tail. Another yelp of pain. As the little creature mewls, the big werewolf jerks at his own still-raging erection, and in seconds he is coming fiercely on the dog's quivering belly and face.
The scent will serve to mark the pup in shame. With another snarl the big male grabs his would-be rival by the hair and forces him to his knees, making him take cock in mouth to lick it clean. The pup submits with a little whimper, sucking obediently until the big male is satisfied. Finally, he shoves the little yearling away—it is permission to go.
Cringing, the pup crawls away into the brush.
Finally, the werewolf turns his attention back to the female. She hasn’t gotten up.
Falling to hands and knees, he crawls to meet her where she lies, belly up, searching his face with her glowing, longing eyes. The scent of her heat, wet and ready for him, is strong.
Then she wriggles a little in the grass; her mouth pops open playfully and her long pink tongue lolls out in a grin. One hand drifts to her own glistening sex, and she rolls the bead of her clitoris longingly between two fingers.
He snaps at her; she snaps mischievously back. It turns into an embrace, his tongue tangling with hers as he comes into a kneel, taking his cock in one hand, giving her a little growl of command.
The bitch rolls on her belly and wriggles closer. Her long tongue explores the length of his wet, hot shaft and with a look of pleasure, she inches closer and takes him in her mouth. Within moments he is stiff again—smooth, mellow bliss ignites in his loins.
She licks, long, indulgent. Her mouth opens momentarily and she salivates over his head, playfully running her tongue around the bulging tip before tracing it down to lav eagerly at his testicles, too.
He pushes her away without warning, but the meaning is clear enough. The she-wolf turns and lifts her hindquarters into the air, offering him her open, reddened pussy. But first he must deal with the last traces of the other male.
One hand on either curve of her delicious buttocks, he presses his mouth against the lovely, wet opening. The smell of her is overwhelming, making his temperature rise and his cock twitch hungrily. He searches inside of her with his long, flexible tongue, caressing her every inch and dragging whimpers of delight from her, more than enough to say she is won over. He tugs at his own cock eagerly as he licks her clean of every last drop of scent the little pup left on her body.
With a grunt she wriggles herself away from his mouth, and he growls at her. She presents again, inviting him with the musk of her sweet arousal, but when he leans forward to lick at her she pulls away.
He snarls. Seizing her by the hips he jerks her back towards him, and with one hand guides his cock into her wetness, sliding in slowly, letting her feel every solid bit of his raging erection sinking into her body.
Sounds of pleasure escape her as he enters. Her muscles squeeze tight around him. The first hard thrust elicits a joyous yelp and she presses back, opening more for him, panting in ecstasy and inviting him to fuck.
The male is urgent, mad with his hunger. He holds her tight in his hands and snaps his teeth close to her ear, and she snaps back with an excited, passionate snarl. The force of his pounding picks up quickly, and she is dripping with wetness around his mean, throbbing cock. She squeezes tight around him, moaning and panting with each satisfying thrust of his hips. The big male feels loins tighten, hot and stirring with indignant need, a desire to explode deep within her. He could, at any moment: he could release himself, pumping her full of his semen, filling her until it bursts out around his still-straining member—but he holds, steadily pounding her but refusing to finish. She will feel his primal, savage power. She will howl with madness and beg for him to strike up a crashing fulfillment throughout her wet, quivering loins.
She bounces against him, and he growls with pleasure as his member sinks even deeper. She raises a delighted snarl, bucking eagerly against his hips.
It is coming—he can feel it. His climax will be immense: he can feel the knot of tension growing deep in his loins, can feel the burning need to fill her.
The female raises a keening howl as she reaches her limit, throwing her head back as her body tightens around him, quaking and quivering. He purposely withholds his own climax, driving harder and deeper as she yips in glee: finally, he is unable to deny it anymore—the hot gush of his seed bursts inside of her, flooding her with his carnal, primal joy.
His howl joins hers, echoing through the wilderness all around them with savage, enraptured harmony.
The full moon glows with smug, cold light overhead.
It means savagery.
It means surrender.