Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

by MJ Lyons

  Our cocks pressed together as we fell into the sheets of the simple bedding, Hyacinth’s mouth pressed into mine, his tongue dancing into my mouth, running over my teeth, pressing against my own. Despite the indifference he had previously displayed, he seemed intent on giving me an admirable ravishing worth Dupin’s coin, for his length hardened with the fervour of his administrations. His head ducked down and he nibbled the lobe of my ear, then ran his lips along my neck before he bit, hard enough to leave a mark. I gasped in pain and pleasure, and commanded he do it again.

  His lips continued to kiss and bite their way down my body, particularly around my right papilla mammaria. As he continued down my abdomen he climbed backwards so he was kneeling on the floor beside the bed, between my legs. He then took my length in his hand and began to taste my stones, the shaft of my cock, before sliding his lips over the tip. He was a practiced hand . . . and tongue . . . for I was writhing on his bed, my head thrashing back and forth, hands clawing at the sheets. I tried to stammer out a warning, that I wouldn’t last if he continued.

  “What beautiful work,” Dupin’s voice came from behind the divider. As he appeared, clutching a small book of some kind, Hyacinth jumped up from the floor and closed distance to my friend, snatching it from his hand. I was left on the bed, panting from our exertions, snarling from frustration, on the precipice of release. “Are they yours?”

  “Yes, and I would prefer you not go through my things, monsieur,” the youth snapped, though his eyes fell on the book and his face dropped, as if he was deeply saddened by seeing it.

  “Apologies,” Dupin offered in what I recognized as feigned conciliatory tone, “but I couldn’t help myself when I saw a few sheets of loose paper glimpsing out of the folio. My companion and I are connoisseurs, you see. May I show him?”

  “I would prefer you didn’t,” Hyacinth replied, the book clutched to his chest, though he made no move to cover himself or his twitching excitement otherwise before Dupin’s gaze.

  “A commission, then,” Dupin pressed past the youth and moved to the bed where he quickly doffed his waistcoat and began to work the buttons of his shirt. As he did so he leaned in and gave me a long, passionate kiss before glancing up at Hyacinth, who studied us dubiously. “An intimate portrait of my paramour and I in the moonlight.”

  Hyacinth seemed incensed at Dupin’s intrusiveness, prepared to throw the two of us out with little time to dress, when my companion showed what, to a prostitute of Paris, was an outrageous sum of money. Hyacinth’s resolve collapsed and he excused himself to gather some materials.

  Dupin, now stripped naked, pulled the covers over the two of us and climbed on top of me and we kissed as we heard the youth rifling through the other room, castigating thieving Chouchou. I was prepared to lose myself in the familiar feeling of my friend’s body pressed against mine, but I broke the kiss, though allowed his hand to continue to massage my length beneath the sheets. “Our host will be but a moment, he has a small, well stocked studio hidden from this room.”

  Hyacinth reappeared, still naked, though his arms overburdened with a large pad of vellum and a rough box of artist’s charcoal. “I have to hide it from prying gentlemen.” The youth snatched an ancient, threadbare quilt off the end of the cot, then pulled the chair over, wrapping himself to fend off the cold while he situated himself with the pad on his knees. He picked up a piece of charcoal delicately with his left hand, reflected by the mirror behind him, and commanded us to find a comfortable position and be still, then went to work.

  “Prying gentlemen, you say. Then you are the masculine fraternity?” Dupin asked.

  Hyacinth scoffed, as his charcoal slid over the vellum “That’s a fancy way of saying that I fuck men in the ass.”

  “I simply ask because I know many boy prostitutes are of wholly mundane persuasions, but when I glanced through your sketchbook it was filed with drawings of men, sleeping men. Clients, I take it? Lovers?”

  “Ferme ta guelle,” Hyacinth muttered, clearly tired with Dupin’s line of questioning. “I’m trying to work.”

  Dupin and I laid their side by side for an eternity, still, save for the occasional stroking of Dupin’s hand that kept me excruciatingly erect beneath the cover of the sheets. At one point I realized so much time had passed that the moon hung in the sky above the Seine, moonlight glancing through the windows all the way to the bed where it illuminated Dupin and I, a charming image framed by the mirror against the far wall. The entire time Hyacinth’s charcoal danced over the vellum, the quilt falling off his shoulders became a slow striptease that was, itself, erotically charged for me in my priapic state, his hands becoming darkened by the charcoal dust. Finally he stopped for a period longer than he had before, eyes studying the canvas. He made two final applications of the charcoal before standing and walking over to the window, the quilt falling so his body was lit, as well, by the moonlight, a nude, silver opulence in the darkness. He opened the window and blew the charcoal dust out into the street before returning to us, turning the canvas to its subjects.

  While merely a charcoal sketch, the youth’s work was almost beyond description. Dupin and I lounged in the image, my head propped up on the pillow, arms above the sheets, a look of hilarious consternation on my face from what I knew was my companion’s hidden teasing. Dupin, for his part, was propped up slightly against the wall, face alight with mischief, although Hyacinth had managed to capture the abstracted gaze I knew and adored. While my body was mostly covered, Dupin’s was not, and the artist had captured the pull of muscles, the gentle folds of skin of a lover leaning on his beloved. In the sketch, Dupin’s sex was barely concealed, and his curls of hair were a tantalizing promise of what was hidden. That same moonlight that bathed the room played within the sketch, lending a beatific glow in the study.

  Furthermore, the artist had heightened the natural, masculine beauty of my companion and I without sacrificing reality. We were two handsome, affectionate men bathed in moonlight.

  “It’s you,” I murmured, amazed it had taken me so long to unravel the mystery of the evening. “You’re not just the subject of ‘Hyacinth’ . . . you’re the artist!”

  “He called it ‘Hyacinth,’” the young artist snapped venomously, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around himself again, sitting back down in the chair before us, hunched over, face contorted in rage.

  “Favager,” Dupin commented, patting the sketchbook that now lay beside us on the bed with the charcoal sketch. “I recognized a sketch of him.”

  “A teacher?” I asked.

  “Client,” the youth offered, equal amounts of rage and heartbreak showing on his face, “and then more. He told me I was the most talented artist he had ever seen, that I could be as great as Delacroix. He told me I was the only man he ever loved . . . ”

  “A man renowned among the female prostitutes of Paris as much for his art as for his flattering tongue, as for his debt,” Dupin added, the abstracted tone of his voice returning as he was finally able to lay out his discoveries to me. “His paintings of prostitutes were never artful nor palatable enough to make a living off of, and a woman might be flattered by an artist painting her, but a working woman can’t be paid in canvas. I have a feeling when he could no longer frequent his favourite maisons de tolerance, he was directed to the much more economical Bains d’Hygieia.”

  The young artist seemed surprised at the depths of Dupin’s knowledge. His face softened somewhat, very prettily. “You know him?”

  “Hardly,” Dupin replied. “I induced a great deal after conversations with acquaintances, my companion here, and one very irate madam from Montparnasse to whom he owes a great deal of money.”

  The youth nodded, tears now welling up in his eyes. “He came into the baths looking for relaxation and companionship, but when he mentioned he was a painter I confessed I aspired to be one. We ended up here where I showed him my sketches, mostly farmers and old pe
ople from my village. He taught me how to work with oils, and when he saw that cursed self-portrait he claimed he’d show it to a dealer he knew, a patron who collected male nudes. He claimed it would solve all our problems . . . though he meant his own . . . ”

  My erection had only slightly softened from the turn in conversation, I sat up, glancing over at the mirror. “Then the painting? You . . . ”

  The boy’s face seemed pained and he wiped at an angry teardrop and seemed unable to continue. “Allow me,” Dupin offered. “Favager’s ‘Hyacinth’ was the talk of Paris’ artistically inclined ephebes, and so one night our young friend heard two patrons of the baths discussing their plans to view it at the home of ——— (the patron). Attaining an invitation was a simple matter, for who would turn away such a beauty? He wore a hat pulled low to hide his hair and features and a long, bulky coat under which he could hide all the artistic supplies he would need, and the second he stepped inside the house of M. ——— he disappeared, eventually hiding behind the curtains in one of the window alcoves of the gallery. No one would look for him, because why would they feel the need to? He was simply a handsome young boy who slipped off to enjoy the pleasures of the household. Once the house emptied out he set about at painting over himself in the stolen portrait, a very expert job too, except certain colours had to be remixed to match, and while your skill is precocious, even masters have trouble recreating certain colours exactly. Of course the slight differences in shades are invisible at a distance taking in the totality of the painting of the empty bed, but close enough the slightly contrasting hues show that there had been an addition after the painting had been first completed. The painting thus altered, the artist almost made his escape, save the ill fortune of a chamberlain arriving to work early.

  “Favager would not publicly guess as to what had happened, thus fessing up to the theft, nor would he offer to recreate the missing portrait, thus revealing his lack of talent. So the ephebes of Paris were left to marvel at the legend created of Hyacinth walking out of a painting, enhanced by Favager’s obsession with the arcane and the daemonic.”

  Again, the youth’s amazement was complete, enough that he had been surprised out of his sadness. “But how did you find me? I haven’t lived in Paris for half a year!”

  Dupin gave an enigmatic smile, “This was simply a pastiche of induced facts and assumptions. From what I knew of Favager’s work and what had been described of stolen ‘Hyacinth’ I knew the work was beyond his talents. I induced from my companion’s description that it was a self-portrait painted in reverse, in a mirror,” Dupin pointed to the very mirror we were reflected in, “the hidden right hand doing the painting was actually a left. Therefore I would need to find a beautiful left-handed youth, likely a prostitute given Favager’s previous associations.” With a wry grin, Dupin added, “I know the baths of Paris well enough to exclude certain businesses from my inquiries.”

  “But the manager said you asked for me by name!”

  “Your signature,” Dupin stated.

  “There was no signature on the painting,” I cried, but Dupin merely smirked and the youth seemed embarrassed.

  “The crown, added as an accusation against Favager, left like a token to remind him of the man he had betrayed. It was merely an extrapolation, but I figured I was looking for either a Stéphane or an . . . ”

  “Étienne,” the youth stated, a shy grin spreading across his face. He stood slowly, allowing the quilt to fall off his shoulders once again, but this time he stood in the moonlight, naked and impossibly beautiful and took two slow, deliberate steps towards us. He climbed atop Dupin and brought his lips to my companions, and they exchanged a kiss that was unlike any I had ever seen. It was slow, but forceful, their faces pressed together with a desperation so fierce it was almost bestial. Dupin offered truth, Étienne offered unspeakable gratitude.

  When Étienne pulled away Dupin, for the first time that evening, looked dismayed, and gasped from the ferocity of the kiss. He had denied himself release during the investigation, and now his hands clung at the back of Étienne’s head, frantic for more. Étienne had a devilish look on his face as he said to me, “I’m going to fuck your friend while he works you with his mouth.”

  Neither myself nor Dupin objected to the arrangement.

  The young artist used his athletic strength to wrestle Dupin into position, flipping him onto his hands and knees so his bottom was up in the air, his cock dangling against my feet. Étienne pushed him forward so his face pressed against my, once again, hardening length. I groaned, echoed by young Dupin who had clearly been craving such contact after his days of carefully tended concupiscence. He dripped onto my feet as he ravaged my stones with his tongue, quickly sliding my cock into his mouth, down his throat. I was the observer of this and more, illuminated by the silver of moonlight, for Étienne had produced a flask of oil and let it pour down onto Dupin’s derriere and his own engorged cock. He was poised and statuesque as he massaged the oil onto his length, like a Greek statue, a Roman soldier, a spirit of power and pleasure, a god. I felt as much as watched as he slid into Dupin slowly, agonizingly. Dupin moaned his appreciation onto my cock. Then Étienne slid backwards, then again into my companion. Then he was fucking Dupin in earnest, who could barely control himself as he continued to gasp and slaver over my sex.

  Eventually Étienne and I switched positions, and then soon after that I found myself being penetrated while I pounded into my companion. This and more was lost in the heat of lust, but eventually we collapsed into one another, our fluids dripping, sticking between us, charcoal smudges all over our bodies, limbs a tangle as we three fell to dozing in the minuscule bed.

  I didn’t have the abstract, calculating mind of my dear Dupin, but I felt that Étienne had been waiting for a man—or, in our case, men—to see him unlike he had been seen since he had been with the one who betrayed him. It is one thing to be physically present with another, even to make love, but it is another entirely to be truly seen—to be understood.

  I awoke to the sun streaming through the window from the east, alighting the wall beside the bed. Étienne sat in the chair, pad in his lap, sketching, although he stopped and grinned when he saw me stir, again taking my breath away at his easy beauty. He blew away the charcoal dust and turned the pad toward me. It showed Dupin and I, naked, vulnerable, beautiful, wrapped in each other’s arms. “When Favager left me I swore I’d never paint again, but I think I’ll develop this study into a piece.”

  Even if he did, few during our time would look on it, for few enough could appreciate the kind of love we shared. For that reason, as well, this chronicle has likely sat unread for many years, awaiting a more enlightened time.

  Still, it was a beautiful thought, and I said so, though I admitted I was sad that his self-portrait was painted over and could never be enjoyed again.

  “But since the laws of fate bind us, you shall always be with me,” Dupin murmured sleepily to no one in particular, blinking in the morning light, clearly awoken by our exchange, “and cling to my remembering lips. My songs; the lyre my hand touches; will celebrate you . . . ”

  Étienne didn’t pay this any mind as he washed his hands in a water basin and then returned to bed, climbing atop my love and I, no one less naked than the others, plying us with kisses, eager to share his passions with us again. “No mind,” he said. “I shall have to paint another.”

  Queer Werewolves Destroy the Oligarchy

  I don’t know if smashing the windows of conservatives, capitalists and oligarchs will save the world . . . but it sure does make me feel better.

  I don’t know if breaking into the seat of local governance and fucking on the desks of anti-gay politicians helps anything, but it sure does feel good. Plus it’s easy to do with a witch boyfriend.

  Morgan spent the day preparing his magic. I awoke to find him tracing glyphs with his finger onto my morning wood, and then he stroked me
for a little bit to help them set. I climbed on top of him and we started to make out, but the second I started to nudge my cock against his dripping boy hole he shook a finger at me. “We fuck now and we’ll loose the spells.”

  So I spent the day in agony, not helped at all by the fact that while we were making breakfast, both of us completely nude, he would take every opportunity to brush by me in our cramped, tiny kitchen. As we sipped out coffee, both of us on our laptops, he would occasionally reach over and pinch my nipples, or take a moment to get me hard all over again. As we showered together he pressed himself against me and we made out, hot and sloppy like a couple of clumsy teenagers. He pushed my head down and made me take his hot, twitching trans guy dick into my mouth, and I could taste him and it was all I could do to not let his smell throw me into a frenzy. Just as I was about to come without even touching my hardon he turned off the water and stepped out gingerly, towelling himself off, bending over so his perfect ass was wiggling up at me. As we walked over to Queen’s Park in the cool summer air we stopped on a street corner and he told me to strip naked, promising me he’d cast a spell to make it so no one would look at me. It felt utterly bizarre being completely naked, other than my chucks, outside, but no one arrested us so I guess the spell had worked.

  I was dripping non-stop by the time we got to the seat of provincial parliament, so many splatters of pre leaving a trail behind us we could follow home.

  He had me lay down on the grass behind the provincial parliament and stroke myself to my full length, which took me all of three seconds to do. Watching him work was always fascinating to a non-witch like me. I couldn’t see the threads of reality like him, but I could sense them as he wove his magic. I could see the brief flashes of the glyphs’ power in the air. He’d been practicing, first a gentle spell that settled over the building, making anyone inside feel intensely sleepy, not knocking them out, but enough they could convince themselves to sit down and doze for a few moments. Then a flash of electromagnetic energy to knock out the build’s security system. Each spell he cast my cock would twitch and send drips of precum splashing onto my abdomen. My cock was his arcane locus, channeling his power. I moaned with each spell channelled through me, I could feel his hand stroking me even though he stood several feet away.