by Sacchi Green
We chatted a little bit and she put her hand on my thigh. “I just want to, um…” She gave me a quick peck on the lips. “I just wanted to do that before we, you know. I just wanted to, you know, to thank you for what you’re doing.”
I reached the short distance to her neck and brought her face back to me, and my lips locked on hers. She tasted so sweet. My heart began to pound, and my blood sang in my veins. It had been a long time since I’d had this kind of reaction to a girl. Since before the change. I hadn’t let myself get close to anyone since, hadn’t wanted to. But maybe it was because I just hadn’t found the right person. Or it could be nothing. Wolves mate for life, but we aren’t above a nip and tumble with a sexy piece of fluff, either. So maybe she was just a sexy piece of fluff.
While she was busy kissing me back, I reached under her shirt and snaked my hand up to a breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her tit was just the right size for my hand. I gave it a nice, friendly squeeze before rubbing it in circles, pressing harder with each rotation. When she moaned into my mouth, I squeezed and dragged her to her feet so I could slide the shirt up over her head and throw it on the floor.
We gazed at each other as she unbuttoned her shorts and I slipped my T-shirt off and threw it on the floor with hers. As she slid her shorts and underwear down those long legs, I quickly undid my jeans and reached down to untie my boots so I could kick them off and finish getting my jeans off. I couldn’t stop looking at her. She was gorgeous: long legs, curvy hips and a round, killer ass, and those teacup breasts. My mouth latched on to one while I took hold of her hip and let my other hand run up and down her back, sliding over that luscious bottom.
Her hands were busy too. On my breasts, on my back, on my ass, until her fingers snaked their way into my pussy and I jumped. I half-pulled and half-dragged her outside. I could feel the moon, and I knew she couldn’t sense it yet. The moon on full days made me practically writhe with sexuality. It’s the hot blood. Usually I sated the desire with hunting and the very literal taste of hot blood coating my throat and running down my chest, but tonight I wanted to sate it with something else.
The moon took her and she fell to the ground and screamed. The scream morphed into a howl as she became more wolf than human. I watched her change because I knew she didn’t have control. It wasn’t the same for me. I could wait until the last minute and change almost instantaneously. So I waited and watched and protected her.
Once her metamorphosis was complete, she lay on her side, panting, tired, I knew, from the pain and physicality involved in the change. I caught her eye and flipped a switch in my brain and almost immediately my wolf stood before her on four legs. She started to get up but I knocked her back down with my paw and growled deep in the back of my throat. She had to know who was in charge. She didn’t know where she was, and I had to keep her safe. That meant she had to be submissive to me.
She backed away on her belly and raised her rear end, keeping her forelegs on the ground and her head down. What a beautiful creature. She was red, blonde, and black brindle and still had those amazing green eyes. I remember the human world when I’m a wolf, but not in the same way I do as a human. I think the same holds true when I lose the wolf. I can remember what it felt like, but not in the same way I do as a wolf. I do, however, remember everything I did, which can sometimes be a blessing and sometimes a curse because it really is the blood I crave.
I rolled her over onto her back and gripped her throat loosely in my teeth, not to hurt her, but to seal her submissive bargain. She closed her eyes and whined and I licked her mouth, sniffed her paws and her sex. Then, stealing a little lick, I bounded back a foot, allowing her to rise. She understood, got up and shook herself, then followed me as I moved off into the woods. I trotted out slowly until I knew she’d have no trouble keeping up, and then we were both racing the moon. And the feel of the wind and the scent of the earth fed an intangible sense of freedom. But now I was hungry. Hungry for meat and bone and blood.
I stopped and listened. I smelled fresh water and a decent-sized animal ahead, maybe fifty feet. We crept closer and sighted a single beaver in the creek. Circling round behind it, I waited for my moment and pounced, going for the throat. The beaver screamed and twisted under me and managed to bite my shoulder before I could get a good grip on him. Katharine jumped into the creek to help with the kill and got smacked with the creature’s tail, but together, we managed a fairly easy kill.
Dragging the carcass up the bank, we blooded ourselves and feasted on the meat. After drinking our fill of water a little ways up the creek, we viewed the moon through the trees. I began to howl and she joined in. Nothing feels better than a full belly and a good howl. We ran a bit more and finally settled down to sleep off the meal.
I awoke the next morning to find myself spooning Katharine, my legs entwined with hers, her head resting on my arm, and my other arm thrown protectively over her. Waking up naked in the woods is usually a bit disconcerting. I have to say, it’s much nicer waking up naked in the woods, wrapped around a beautiful woman. I nuzzled against her neck, and she awoke and stretched in my arms.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said. Somehow I knew that a kiss would be a bad idea, at least until we’d had a chance to get home and cleaned up. I seldom strayed very far from my house on full-moon nights, so we didn’t have far to go. Both our bodies were streaked with mud and dried blood. It’s never bothered me before, but I wasn’t sure how Katharine would react. I had no idea what she’d done her first four months as a wolf and I was afraid, based on her propensity for salads, that she’d be upset, but she seemed to take it in stride.
We showered together and, once clean, lingered under the water awhile. I kissed her and then spun her to push my chest against her back. Wrapping my arms around her I hugged her.
“What did you think of last night?” I asked. “Was it better, worse, or the same?” I ran a hand over both breasts and down her belly.
“I liked it. I’ve never enjoyed my wolf before.” She leaned back against me, resting her head on my shoulder. “It was easy—nice—running with you. I’ve killed before but hated every moment of it. I didn’t hate it last night.”
My fingers played in her pubic hair as she talked.
“I could sense your joy and, I don’t know, maybe it was catching. All I know is I had a good time last night and I never thought I’d be able to say that. So thank you.”
My hand continued down and I split her pussy open with my finger and began to rub. She jumped back and yipped.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “I’m sore, there. Really sore, you know?”
I knelt down in the shower and gently parted her folds. Her lips were swollen and puffy and her sex was red and a little raw looking. And then I remembered.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I remember it was really nice while you were doing it.”
I remembered spending I don’t know how long, but a long time last night, licking and nipping at her sex. It could have been hours. It was like I couldn’t get enough of her and her hot, tasty blood. And now we were both paying the price. I started to laugh. What else could I do? I turned off the water and grabbed a towel for her and one for me.
“Well, fuck,” I said. “I guess that means no sex. I’ll try to remember not to do that again tonight.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I kinda liked it.” She took the towel and got quiet.
I did too. We’d be together for this moon cycle, but then her car would be ready and she’d be gone and I knew I’d miss her. “Idaho isn’t really all that far from here, you know,” I said.
She turned to me and smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.”
MAKE THEM SHINE
Sossity Chiricuzio
I sense a trail of sparks wending through the crowd and right up near to me in the shape of this lanky genderqueer, now standing just within my periphera
l vision. I’ve seen them before, exchanged some clever banter, noticed walk and hands, and now, in this dim light, I notice the crowding in their back pocket. At least two, maybe three hankies, and as I try to figure out what complex signal code I’m seeing, I realize that they are watching me. I fight the impulse to look away—sometimes shy just won’t serve.
They turn to the left, throwing a better light on the pocket, and look back at me. I confirm that the lightest one is indeed mint green—even in femme-friendly Portland, a mama hankie is rarely seen—and my teeth and cunt both clench down for a moment in anticipation. Distracted as I am, it takes a moment for the other two to register: a black-polish-stained length of cotton rag, and a vintage men’s handkerchief with brat stitched in the corner in crooked black script. I’ve hit the lotto of good karma payoff, and I don’t even try to hide my grin. Practically made to order.
I know enough about them to know that my brain, the word-smithing twist of language in my mouth, and the sharp edge of my wit are all equally as compelling as the rich flesh I inhabit. But make no mistake, the flesh does compel. It is a mama fullness I carry: soft covering firm covering an iron will, and the tenderness to apply it. I am not simply curvy, I am fat: dove’s breast, summer-thick peach, rolling hills, high-moon fullness, white-capped waves, lush as cream on your upper lip, fat. Shameless.
This boy wants it, wants it all.
Wants to grab hold of, be restrained by, be denied, be granted, sink deep into this flesh. Burly and sensitive and carrying a scent of my own pheromones, welling up in my sweat where it beads between my breasts. To lay a finger, tongue, cock, just there… to push in and nestle and rub and claim, for a moment, their strength and softness. The boy is gazing at me, and it’s all in their eyes—a dark heat, a trembling shiny lust. I know well this primal craving for a sacred initiation, untrampled by all that is thrust upon us in this “civilized” world as we strive to survive childhood. It’s a bone-deep desire for the potent combination of sweet safety and sacred whore—a loving, terrifying gateway to self.
I have survived my own mad scramble to become who I am; shed demons rather than parts of my body and found a deep source of power in loving the flesh that is, rather than the flesh that “should be.” I can take all that fury, all that sorrow, all that joy, all that pleasure—pour it on, pound it in—let it roll through me, and out, and cradle you there, both of us purified by the flood. This is the promise my gaze returns, my body offers. This is what the boy seeks; and we make our way through several dances, in and out of an energetic, flirtatious conversation, down the dark city streets, up to their room, into privacy and the peace before the storm. The practicality of our discussion is in no way formal, occurring as it does in the midst of the surrender of jackets, scarves, buttons, zippers, personal space.
Between kisses that defy time we move to the bed, laying out ground rules, off limits and safewords, and then lose ourselves in the play of tongue and lips, and the transfer of power, playfully, slowly, into my hands. Sweet boy, brat boy, their mouth full of words sugared and salty, pushing me to take them down—not disrespect, but rather a high-wire joyous grace and eagerness for the tumbling fall…down and down and opened wide. Were I actually the big cat I feel like at these times, I’d fasten my teeth into the back of their neck and shake them into submission. As it is, I bite down into shoulders, jawline, flickering soft kisses across the indents of my teeth as they shudder and release that belly-deep breath of softening, and give over to me.
In this moment, they are mine. Mine to reward, to punish, to fill, to leave empty, to spread myself over and slide against until we’re both shaking. Mine to leave alone, eyes closed, hands empty, waiting. Mine to gather up and cover with kisses, nibbling them into giggles and whispered pleas. Not to possess, but to celebrate, and revere, and witness and bless. To gaze into eyes glistening with the tears of being fully seen, and root that deeply in their heart. This is sacred work we’ll do here, together. It’s also scorching-hot sex, flesh swollen taut and aching, vulnerable and full of need.
I have them pinned beneath me, hands wrapped around biceps, feeling muscles tighten and hips jerk against me, uncontrollably. I can feel the hard length of cock pressed against me through denim and black satin—the combination of textures and slickness making every movement rich torment. Their fingers are tangled in my fishnets, pulling, testing, trying to creep farther up my thighs in something approaching subtlety. The crook of my eyebrow disabuses them of any such success, and sends a mingled look of glee and frustration chasing across their face as they move hands away and flat against the bed, as previously instructed. Having already gone through this cycle three times, I decide atonement is in order.
I pull away, leaving them aching and widespread on the bed, and gaze down long and deep, until a flush begins to spread across their cheeks. They’d like to look away, but that would be a mistake, and they sense it, and freeze. I stand up, straighten my clothes, walk across the room to the easy chair in the corner and seat myself, taking my time. They’ve turned their head to maintain the line of sight, but otherwise remain still. Fast learner after all. I look down at my boots, scuffed and dusty, look back at them, and give the command:
“Show me your skills, boy.”
They scramble to their feet and begin to gather supplies, then kneel in front of me, quickly arranging bottles and cans in an orderly fashion around them—everything in its place. Reaching out to pick up my right foot with a practiced move developed on many a Saturday leather bar night, and then stopping, midair. They look up at me and ask permission.
“Mama, may I polish your boots for you?”
With my nod they lift my foot up onto their thigh, and begin working with quiet certainty. There’s plenty to do—these boots reach up high, with laces running through hooks from ankle to knee. I feel their fingers tremble as they brush against me while undoing my tidy bow, but their movements stay focused and precise. They lean in close, for just a moment, not quite laying their cheek against my calf, and I feel leg muscles tense under my boot sole. The interplay of energy through the leather is like lightning to the brain, and the groin—we’re both heady with it. My other senses are heightened as well. I feel the skin of my body tightening in pleasure; I breathe in the scent of polish and sweat, and the sound of the laces slipping loose fills the room.
My boots are an extension of me. They radiate power, queerness, the ability to take me across my own mud puddles and climb up into trucks and carry me home from wherever I go. They are sturdy enough for mosh pits and gravel roads and woodland sex marathons and hours of marching. They make my short skirts subversive and mark me as not easy prey. They are a clue about me, a signal to other outlaws, the ones who work with their hands, on their feet, the ones that stand strong in the face of adversity, and claim their perversity as a blessing, and a right. By kneeling at my feet and polishing my boots as a conscious act of service, this boy is honoring all of that. Smoothing out the scuffs of wrestling and traveling and carrying and dancing, and rubbing those memories into me all the deeper. They are caressing me through my supple armor, and the channels open wide, uncanny nerve connections sparking into life and I feel every stroke like it’s inside my skin. This delectable boy is deep into the give-and-take of oil and leather, using the strength of arms and shoulders with every stroke.
They move my foot up against their chest, to better work it into the grooves in the leather, slipping their fingers slow and firm into every cranny. The press of my foot into their chest is almost involuntary, as is the breath that hisses in between their teeth. The sound of it brings up both my tenderness, and my desire to inflict pain. I back off, just a bit, and they lean into me like a wall, or a strong wind, seeking that solid press, asking for it…and why not press down, just a little, like praise, like a thank-you? I bend my knee, bringing them closer to me as my skirt lifts, ever so slowly. They fight to look only at my boots, and keep steady hands for the task, though their breathing grows more ragged. What we both
want is to fuck, but first to wait, and wait just a bit longer, until it hurts. Until someone begs for it. I am determined it will not be me, and bend my knee further. They are now fighting not only a desire to fall upon me, but also gravity, and the grip of greased hands, and mutter something under their breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing…”
I look at them, eyes narrowing.
“Nothing, Mama.”
I grab a handful of hair at the back of their head, and pull, just a bit.
“I just, I just said.I just said you were mean…”
I let go of their hair and straighten my leg in the same movement—sending them sprawling backward for a moment before the grip I have on their shirt stops them short. Before they can find their balance, I come out of my chair and push them all the way to the floor, fast and gentle, and whisper into their ear:
“If you get one drop of that oil on me, it’s game over, so you better not move.”
I straighten up, look down, see that their arms are stretched as wide as possible and feel a wicked smile forming on my face. I begin to run my hands over my breasts, stroking and cradling them, pinching my nipples and rocking, just a bit. Their face is a study of lust and vexation and I chuckle to myself as I slip my hands into my bra, and then remove it entirely. I lean over, pressing myself against their chest, and slide one hand down, under my leather mini, and inside my panties. They can feel my fingers slipping over and over and around my clit, and they arch, just a little, trying to move against me, entice me. I simply gaze down at their face while I get closer and closer to coming, feeling trembling beneath me, wanting, left wanting…and I come, small guttural sounds escaping as I bite down on their shoulder. I raise up onto my knees and slowly, finally, open their jeans, release their cock and reach for a condom.
They are shaking, working so hard not to grab me, and I take pity, and forgo further teasing in favor of sinking down onto their cock, hard and fast. They thrust deeper than I think possible, using only their legs and back, and I come again, quicker than intended, and see a look of victory in their eyes.