by MJ Lyons
As usual he’s flipping through his phone and narrates me the day’s headlines. A group of werewolves trashed several banks last night. The police would show up to one only as another one was being torn apart. I ask how they knew it was werewolves.
He gives me a curious look, “Their calling card: ‘QUEER WEREWOLVES DESTROY CAPITALISM’. They wrote it in blood and sharpie at each of their hits.”
I sip my tea and feign innocence, scratching Treads behind his ear.
Morgan doesn’t mind that I answer the call of the hunt. He knows the pain of covering up who you are. He puts on a suit every day and goes into an accounting firm for a corporate auditor, then comes home at night and tries to recover some shred of his humanity through his witchcraft. Like his wolfsbane tea, he offers spells, cures and concoctions through word of mouth bartering, and would never turn anyone in need away. The local coven convenes to ward off malevolent spirits and ease the psychic damage of the city, but it’s thankless work.
A hand snakes around and teases my morning wood, and I give a pained giggle.
My mind flashes to early that morning, the last bank my pack had hit, the largest ground level bank in the financial district. As a dozen werewolves tore the place apart like an 8-point, meaty buck, my pack brother found me and snapped at me genially. I snapped back at him and threw myself at him and we started tearing into each other playfully, smashing into a photocopier, practically breaking it in half. After wrestling around on the teller’s side for a few moments, nipping at each other, digging our claws into one another, throwing each other around. I got a good hold of his nape and thrashed him back and forth before throwing him through a partition.
I went back into attack mode, but found him crouching, tail between his legs, submissive. Already aroused from our play, my cock unsheathed and stuck out from between my legs, red and angry. As a man I was of middling height, but as a werewolf, half-man, half-wolf, I towered above most of my kin at eight feet tall on my hind legs. I leapt on him and wrestled him into the right position, listening as he whined like a bitch in heat. I smashed a bulk-sized dispenser of hand lotion from the desk of someone named Jeremy and let it drip all over my member. I may be a beast but I have no interest in killing one of my brethren with my cock.
Others caught the scent and sound of our burgeoning sex. Some ignored it, continuing to smash conference tables and send desktop computers through plate glass windows. Others bounded off through the huge hole in the window, off to hunt for their own mates.
Still, others sniffed around my pack brother and I as I mounted him, my cock sliding into his rump up to the knot. He grunted and whined beneath me as I fought against him to push it in. Once past the knot my pack brother began panting, his massive claws raking across the lobby carpeting where people were standing waiting for a teller half a day ago.
Other males began sniffing around us, but I growled at them, warning them off. They could try to fight me if they wanted, but this submissive was mine. I ran a clawed paw down his spine as he yelped and panted taking the entirety of my cock. My claw came away bloody and the smell of iron and plasm drove me into a frenzy. I buried myself deep into him and felt his insides twitch around me.
Meanwhile, others began mating or, in the case of most of us, simulate mating with one of our own sex. Even answering the call of the hunt we keep enough of our minds to not want to send bitches back with a pup in their belly, back to their normal lives. An awkward conversation down the line.
As I continued to thrust my enormous, knotted cock into my pack brother, I watched my sister from the woods sniffing around the labia of one of our pack sisters, a curious tongue lapping at the tender parts of her pack-mate. I could imagine the rough texture feeling particularly pleasing on my cock—I would have to test this eventually.
As if in answer, two other males joined my partner and I, one nipping at my submissive and licking at his own engorged cock beneath him, as well as mine as it pounded into my werewolf brother. I began to pant from the overstimulation. I felt something pressing against my tail, twitching between another male and I. I lifted my tail, growling in pleasure as he pressed his own member into me. I should have been more gentle, the knotted cock took awhile to get used to once inside me. More joined in, claws raking across flesh, teeth pressed into ears, fur pulled, saliva, blood, semen. I unloaded into my submissive, grunting furiously as I come. My orgasm practically sent me into an inhuman frenzy as I tore at the back of my submissive.
Suddenly the sound of sirens in the distance. I pulled away from my pack brother fucking me, a struggle to get his knotted member out, and we all bounded off into the night, the first golden hint of sunrise in the distance.
As Morgan plays with my erection the next morning I groan in pain and pleasure, my body sore. “You have fun?” he asks.
I can’t help but think of my submissive, Randy, and I, deep in the woods of the Don Valley, rutting in the early morning as the last vestiges of the transformation faded away, as the moon disappeared and the sun began to rise. “Maybe.”
Morgan carefully climbs on top of me and we kiss. He’s a babe, especially naked in the blaze of morning light filtering through the curtains; the light striations of scar-tissue from his top surgery, the arcane tattoos that cover his ribs, his arms.
He picks up a joint and a zippo, lighting it expertly with a big inhale before handing it to me. I lay back and pull practically half the joint before dangling the ashy end into an empty Diet Coke can on our bedside table. The THC hits my mind hard and fast, I’m sure helped along by a calmative spell. My aching muscles relax and my body feels like it’s floating. I’m smiling up at him from underneath him, a big, goofy grin on my face.
“Hey babe?” I ask, my stoned mind drawling it out.
He shakes his head, smirking, “Yes?”
“Suck my cock,” I growl.
He pretends to argue with me as he repositions himself between my spread legs, pulling the sheets off me. From the foot of the bed his familiar, Treads-Through-Oblivion, gives Morgan a disgusted look and leaps off, tail twitching in irritation. I giggle, shivering as my cock stands at attention. He wraps his hand around the base of my dick and mutters an incantation. When he removes his hand it’s like the tightness of his grip is still there. An arcane cock ring. I groan as he strokes my cock, letting the head dance against his tongue, hot and wet.
I take another big inhale on the joint, ribbons of smoke blowing from my nostrils as I cough out a “holy shit . . . ” He licks his way up my shaft and then runs his lips down my cock, taking me deep in his throat, a practiced cocksucker.
The first time I’d disappeared into the woods and ended up with another guy, another werewolf, I’d come home terrified about what I’d done. This was the end of our relationship. But no, Morgan had said. Monogamy was “their” device, a tool of control. My mind flashes back to mounting Randy as a werewolf, the pucker of his hole stretching around my huge werewolf cock. I wonder what it would be like to fuck Morgan in werewolf form. Would he be able to take me? I look down at him as he glares up at me, he gags a little as I thrust into his mouth. He slaps my thigh hard as punishment and I groan, laughing, imagining plunging my knot into him. He’s staring up at me through the pot haze, a hungry lust in his eyes as he works his lips down my cock until I can feel his morning stubble against my balls.
I lay the joint down on the coke can and start clawing at the sheets, my head thrashing back and forth. I’m completely lost in my boyfriend’s lips on my cock, completely lost in memories of violent debauchery with my pack. I glance down and make eye contact with Morgan, feel the spell around the base of my cock and balls tighten slightly as the look in his eyes dares me to come and I’m practically howling as I go, grabbing his hair and forcing my cock down his throat.
Morgan had avoided the topic of exclusivity for a reason, he didn’t believe in it. Words had power and it wouldn’t hold power over him
. There were precious few freedoms in life we could take, and sexual freedom was one he’d never give up. Also, if I thought for a second he didn’t get up to trouble with his coven, I was in for a rude awakening. Now it was a game we played, titillating one another with descriptions of our extracurricular activities, talking to each other through our jealousy and desires. I began to understand the insidious tool of control, and I began to see others of its kind; unspoken boundaries and shackles we took as natural. Money was one of them, one which pitted brothers and sisters, entire populations of people against one another. One which structured hierarchy and dictated social norms. One none but the ludicrously wealthy were free of.
“Solstice Feast” was Patricia’s idea. The impossibly rich scion and CEO of a supermarket conglomerate had, of course, been critical of the proposed minimum wage increase. This coming after the fallout of his company’s bread-pricing scandal. For more than a decade the chain of supermarkets had been gouging customers by increasing the prices of bread along with competitors. His answer to a brief period of bad press was saying that it was wrong and offering a $25 gift card to customers, then turning around and saying a $1 minimum wage increase would hurt the company’s bottom line. He needn’t worry, the new Conservative government’s successful wage increase freeze had put a stop to that.
“Which do you like better?” Patricia asks me as she creates the invitation that will go out on her Whatsapp to her network. “‘Feast upon the free market’ or ‘Christmas dinner’s on him!’?”
We’d been resisting the urge to capitalize on the growing “QUEER WEREWOLVES DESTROY CAPITALISM” brand. Without our involvement, there were t-shirts, there were posters, there was a hashtag. We tried not to step on the toes of other, much more organized groups, although there’s plenty of overlap and lycanthropy doesn’t discriminate between communities. We did our best to (anonymously) coordinate with Black Lives Matter Toronto, whose reports on extrajudicial police killings were helpful in finding our targets—while doing our best not to implicate them in our extraordinarily illegal vigilantism. One of the stranger tips from a street-involved trans woman Patricia knew led us to a couple of masked neo-Nazis spray painting swastikas on a rainbow crosswalk in the gay neighbourhood, scaring them so bad they pissed themselves and were consequently caught, demasked and photographed. I was pretty proud of that one only for the look in their eyes as I charged them down.
People with absolutely no claim to lycanthropy appeared on television as experts, spouting support or condemnation; there were celebrity endorsements. But one of the benefits of the call of the hunt was that we knew each other. And, increasingly, we’d begun to know one another more and more. We’d begun to meet during the day time. Our hunts had new prey and were not limited to the night of the full moon.
Talking heads wondered how such savage, stupid beasts came together so often as of late to target banks, and politicians’ offices, and condo development sites, transphobic businesses, exploitative employers, anti-indigenous vigilantes. Why weren’t the police gunning these monsters down in the streets? The Solstice Feast whipped the media into a frenzy.
The night of the solstice, Morgan kisses me and slips his favourite necklace around my neck, a simple pentacle on a long silver chain—silver, the alchemical symbol representing the moon and purity, he explains. I tuck the pendant underneath my shirt. “For protection,” he says. We hadn’t spoken about it, but I’d disappeared at night often enough, and he wasn’t an idiot. He knew what I was doing.
Patricia, Randy, myself and a couple dozen others somehow sneak past the police patrol’s sights to meet deep in the valley’s woods. The police are thick on the ground tonight, the roundups had only increased as the attacks had grown. We all strip and shiver violently as the cold claims our human bodies, the silver pendant heavy and chilling against my chest. The night sky is crystal clear, and as the moon appears above us we let the transformation take us.
We werewolves can transform at will, but the full moon is one night away and the power that courses through our bodies is but a fraction of what it could be. Still, the pack is bolstered by our numbers and after a rally of howling we take off, tearing through the backyards and side-streets of Cabbagetown, coordinating to avoid the cop cars that hunt us, dodging between vehicles foolish enough to take to the road so late at night.
If the numbers who had gathered for the hunt had surprised me, the mob at Church and Gerrard gave even my wolf’s heart pause.
The pack stops in their tracks in the middle of the street at the sight of the crowd that’s flooded the streets ahead. We pace, tails twitching, whimpering or baring our teeth. I stand straight, tail out, staring them down.
Until I realize they are cheering; not a mob but a rally. Indigenous activists, labour rights groups, advocates for the poor, homeless, underhoused and elderly, LGBTQ activists, religious leaders calling for an end of starvation and exploitation. Maggie’s, the local action project run by and for sex workers, has signs about violence, legal discrimination and decriminalization. The BLM Toronto contingent is at the forefront, signs about anti-black economic violence and police killings of unarmed black and indigenous people—a big “No Pride in Policing” banner. Signs and banners and the sheer sea of humanity dwarfs even the extensive police presence. I lope forward, cautious but bolstered. There is fear, sure, for we are fearful to look on. But somehow these small, fragile, ordinary humans see something of themselves in our plight. The crowd parts before me.
A phalanx of officers decked out in heavy armour and riot gear stand before the doors of the monumental flagship supermarket. I bare my teeth, and square off against them, and take a step forward.
A couple of them recoil, a couple flee, but the majority stand their ground. I watch as one shakes where he stands. He drops his shield and pulls a pistol. There are screams as the closest of the crowd duck away, causing a general panic. This was supposed to be riot control, state-funded corporate protection, there aren’t supposed to be guns.
I hear Morgan’s voice in my ear just before the muted pop of the pistol fire, a silver flash in my periphery. It staggers me and I fall to the ground. I watch as the werewolves take the opportunity to lunge, bowling officers over, throwing them out of the way. There will be cuts, bruises and broken bones, but we do not consume the flesh of men, a covenant formed in recent decades, unspoken among our kin, preserved out of survival, and out of the human core within us. To do so would lower us to their level, they who worship false numbers over the value of life. Glass breaks, the crowd surges forward, I watch from where I lay as the store is looted.
Morgan crouches at my side and gently lifts the necklace. The bullet is lodged at the centre of the pentacle. The impact of the bullet on the protective spell winded me, paralyzed me, and the thrill of the hunt has left me, I simply watch. Morgan runs his hand over my muzzle, his breath swirling in front of him. Despite the chaos of the looting, rioting mob, the destruction of my kin inside, it feels like it’s just him and I on a cold December night.
A concealment spell gets me back to Don Valley in one piece—not true invisibility, Morgan’s not all-powerful, but simply a spell that makes people not feel like looking at me. I lope along beside him, almost three feet taller than him on my hind legs, our breaths misting the cold December night.
The police have been pulled away by the main attack and several sister events throughout the city, so we enter the Don Valley without incident. Once Morgan drops the concealment spell I bound off into the forest, running circles around him, returning to him in a play stance. His smell is overpowering to me in werewolf form, I’d only ever smelled him on my clothes. Having him here is almost too much.
“You’ve got the zoomies,” Morgan quips. “I should have brought a ball, we could play fetch. How about a stick?”
I bare my teeth at him but duck my head in a bow, showing him I’m only playing as I bound off again.
Morgan speaks to
the trees, to the roots, the earth, drawing their own life out of them. The path blurs, it’s like a whole different world with him, new smells, new prey. Still, we find the place where the werewolves left our clothes. He can see the rigid straightening of my back, the thick sniffs as I test the air for animal smells. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, scratching my muzzle. “I’ll get a fire started. It’s the longest night, we’re going to be here awhile.”
I dash off into the underbrush. There’s a squirrel warren with my name on it.
Eventually I return, making sure to get most of the blood and viscera off my muzzle and claws. Morgan is poking at a fire likely helped along by some elemancy, a joint in his finger-gloved hands. I lope up to him and nuzzle into his lap. The warmth of the magical fire envelopes us like a blanket and I huff in appreciation.
Though the smell of him is intoxicating. I begin to nuzzle into his lap a little harder, pressing against his crotch. He laughs, “You’re about as subtle as a werewolf as you are in human form.”
I growl, but he unzips his puffy winter coat, pulling it open, and then begins to undo his belt and zipper, and my cock begins to harden. As he turns towards me, wriggling his pants down, he gasps as his bare ass hits the frigid ice-frosted log he’s sitting on. Even with a magical fire the ambient winter chill pervades.
My enormous wolf tongue begins to lap at my lover’s front hole. I form a curling spoon motion, as if I was lapping up water, and begin to almost literally eat him out, pressing my nose against his abdomen, breathing him in, my incisors raking his flesh carefully. My enormous tongue is so powerful and he is so unprepared for the sensation that Morgan almost falls over backwards. Instead he curls his body forward over my muzzle, bracing himself against my larger frame, emboldening me. I drink from him.
“Holy fucking shit,” Morgan’s body writhes against my huge werewolf head. I feel him shiver and then convulse as he comes, and I lap up his juices.
