Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

by MJ Lyons

  “I’ve got to say,” he says, gasping for breath, grinning, “this is one of my more fucked up hookups.”

  I lift him in my powerful arms and lay him down on the ground still in the warm circle of the fire. I stand over him, my cock already unsheathed. He eyes it dubiously as it twitches, dancing in the winter air. I’m panting, my tail wagging.

  Morgan rolls his eyes at my arousal and excitement. “Gods, I feel like I’m going to regret this in the morning . . . ” He reaches up and grasps my cock, murmuring an incantation as a film of magical energy wraps around my member—a spell of protection improvised as a spell of prophylactics. He adds to this lube, mundane, not magical, a packet he fishes out of my bookbag. He knows his slutty boyfriend too well.

  I’m panting in anticipation as I crouch down on top of him, and he kicks his pants off, spreading his legs wide, grasping my werewolf cock and lining it up with his boy hole. He takes a few deep breaths and then looks up, nodding at me. I lean forward slightly and he guides my length into him, not even an inch before he gasps, “Hold on. Slow.”

  I let him adjust before he nods again and I push a little further. It takes all the will in my body to not simply mount him like one of my packmates, but a part of me, the human part of me, has been fantasizing about this. It’ll throw an interesting new dynamic in our lovemaking, although I have a feeling I might destroy the bed if we tried this at home.

  “What the fuck is that?” he gasps as my knot hits his lips. I bare my teeth in pleasure as I let him adjust and then slowly inch it into him. He wriggles beneath me, doing all he can to find the right angle and take it, but there is no right angle. I’m not too worried, I’ve seen some of his toys. After a minute the knot slides into him with a satisfying, wet “pop” and he cries out in wordless pain and pleasure, his fingernails clawing at the frosted earth. I’m locked inside of him. Now the fun begins.

  I slowly, inch by inch, slide the rest of my thick werewolf cock into him, stretching his boy hole under my weight and girth. He’s speaking in another language, either the old arcane language of witches or else just ululating as he’s stretched open. I whine at him in worry and he looks up, we lock eyes. He growls up at me, his voice gone feral, “Did I fucking say stop?!”

  I don’t need any more encouragement, I plunge the rest of the way into him. His back arches as he skids along the forest ground underneath me. I begin pumping into him, my cock not coming out of him further than the knot—I’m afraid if that pops out of him he’ll lose his bravado. I begin fucking him in earnest, fucking him like the animals we are.

  “Pick me up,” he growls. He wants me to impale him on my massive cock and I do. Scooping him up into my arms, I sit back and thrust him down onto it. He cries out as he slides onto it, almost to the base of my sheath, his hands tearing at my chest fur, which only heightens my own pleasure. I let him fuck himself onto me, only thrusting slightly. Any more and I very well could break him.

  He comes not long after this, but he keeps going, still not spent. I fall backwards onto the ground, clinging to him, tight, making sure not to dig my claws into him as he rides my huge, thick, knotted cock. With my heightened senses I can smell each slick, wet, heady thrust.

  I’m close, my whine goes high each time he thrusts down onto me. He picks up on it, maybe it’s not too different from when I fuck him in human form. He grabs the tee underneath his winter jacket, scarf long tossed to the side. He tears the shirt down the front, exposing his chest down to his bellybutton. I eye his delicious collarbone.

  He grabs my muzzle and pulls it up to his neck as we fuck, my hot breath panting against his flushed skin as I rest my incisors on his collarbone. He cries out as I bite into his flesh, gently as I can, his hole convulsing around my thick cock. I unload inside of him so forcefully that my come pushes out of the protective condom-spell, coating my crotch fur, and his. He shakes on top of me, both our bodies wracked by pleasure.

  That’s how we find ourselves laying on the forest floor, Morgan half-naked, me with naught but the fur that coats me, come and juices coating one another, the solstice moon disappeared in the canopy. I slide myself out slowly, he’s barely able to stand it as I pull my knotted cock out of him.

  He lays on top of me, running his fingers through my thick mat of chest fur, me luxuriating in the smells of our fucking and my still dripping, twitching cock. He begins to shiver from the cold, so I flip over, carefully positioning myself so I’m a gigantic, furry blanket on top of him. After finally catching his breath he scrambles for his discarded pants, taking out his phone, checking the time.

  “Oh gods,” he groans, holding the phone up to me. “It’s not even 1 am . . . we’ve got hours left until you transform back . . . ”

  I bare my teeth, hungry for more.

  As we watch the sun come up together above the Don Valley, our strange bodies curled around one another, completely spent from the excitement of the night, a happy, crackling magical bonfire warming us, I think back to how this all started.

  I think back to that first evening after the Conservative government’s announcement. I had never in my life felt such determination, such fiery purpose. I transformed and flew across the fields, skirting around towns, covering more distance than I thought possible. I smashed into the office of the politician and trashed the place to my satisfaction and, despite my exhaustion, bounded back across the farmlands and suburbs. All those months ago I was resolved to be back in Morgan’s arms before the sun rose. But that evening I stopped outside the Hero Burger on the corner of Church and Wellesley and, with the dirt beneath my claws, scrawled my message, the first: “QUEER WEREWOLVES DESTROY CAPITALISM”

  Then I howled into the night.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  “QUEER WEREWOLVES DESTORY CAPITALISM” was originally published as a Halloween zine sold exclusively at Glad Day Bookshop in 2019. Several elements of the story draw on real life. The graffiti was inspired by the author seeing “NISH 2018” at the corner of Church and Wellesley in Toronto’s historically gay neighbourhood, a short form proclamation of the existence of the Anishinaabe people (or “Neechii” on the West Coast, thanks Sam Mukwa for the info) on their traditional lands in Tkaranto also shared by the Mississaugas of the Credit River First Nation, the Haudenosaunee, and the Wyndat. Further inspirations come from Canada’s top banks pressuring their employees to “dupe” customers, the ongoing (tiresome) debate over uniformed police officers marching in Toronto Pride, a Canadian grocery chain, Loblaws, caught price-fixing bread for over a decade while their millionaire CEO, Gaelen Weston Jr., fought against minimum wage increases for a livable wage. With all this stewing, the story came as an angry screed following the (at the time of writing) current Ontario provincial government freezing minimum wage at $14/hour. In the immortal words of Ursula Le Guin: “We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable – but then, so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art. Very often in our art, the art of words.”

  Obsidian Devil and the Dead Man’s Hand

  New Mexico Territory, 1859

  I rolled into Last Ditch three days prior, horseless and little more than a rucksack and the rags on my back. A sole free man wasn’t unheard of in these parts, but the more downtrodden I appeared the better. I assumed Slick Sam and his outlaws were just as like to drink with me as clap me in irons and sell me off to an eastern plantation.

  Slick Sam’s was a dusty prostíbulo, little more than a few rooms attached to a bodega and some stables where a traveler from Albuquerque or Fort Thorn or some such place could indulge his baser instincts before pushing on to Las Cruces. There was a neglected trading post, an ancient blacksmith’s and Slick Sam’s.

  I took up slopping the stables under a mulatto curmudgeon by the name of Keller, and traded my wages for the smallest room in the establishment. When he rolled around late in the after
noon I negotiated with Slick Sam himself that I’d sling some whiskey that night for the use of one of his girls, to which the old crook was amenable. Sam might once have been a prize bull, but he’d gone to seed as a petticoat pensioner in Last Ditch. He was mostly bald and paunchy, shifty, squinty blue eyes, his white skin stained an orange-ruddy-red from years in the sun, exacerbated by a habit of sucking at a canteen full of rotgut; ugly as a mud fence, as the Old Man used to say. He struck me as a paranoid type, always keeping a couple of his cracker Texan companions or hired Mexican outlaws looking over his shoulder.

  Keller lorded over me all afternoon, and that evening I joined an overworked but pretty, long-haired Mexican boy named Narciso behind the bodega’s bar. I had a talent for spotting a sturdy gal-boy or a prancing nancy from a mile away, however rustic or dressed up, but I managed to keep my eyes to myself that evening, despite the odd sideways glance from little Narciso. I wondered if he was on the menu for patrons who desired a little bronco ride.

  The place filled up with cowboys up from Las Cruces, lean-looking rustlers from Texas and scurrilous soldiers down from Fort Thorn. I’d never heard such blusteration than in Slick Sam’s that night; you’d’a thought every high roller outlaw and war hero had pulled in for a lick of the meanest tonsil paint I ever did taste. Narciso and I kept the Jack of Diamonds flowing and I bided my time ’til the degenerate mercenaries and thieving scalawags had paired off with the desperate looking ladies of the line. I watched Narciso talking low to the proprietor’s right hand man, a bandito and gunrunner by name of Félix Madriz who had a nasty look about him. Way they talked you’d’a thought they were an old couple, ’cause Madriz gave right back what he got from the little molly.

  Slick Sam had saved one for me: Old Carol, the most strapping, dowdy, scowly-looking Irishwoman you ever did see. He said he was glad I had a taste for potatoes, for she usually ended up being chucked to whatever man had drunk enough to have her by the end of the night. I took her up to my room and we made a little noise before I kicked her out, satisfied with our liaison.

  The next day went much the same, save I forewent Old Carol that night, for we’d had all we needed from each other. Little Narciso brushed against my front slipping by me as I was grabbing a keg from the storehouse, and I can’t say a little back room tussle didn’t mighty appeal to me, but we’d be missed, so I ignored him. “Buenas noches,” he purred to me as he slipped back to his closet of a room behind the bar while I finished mopping the various fluids the crooks had left behind. I ignored the invitation, but didn’t fail to notice he had a fresh shiner blooming around his right eye.

  The third night would serve my devices. A Sunday evening meant the religious or superstitious whoremongers were off counting their sins. The place was only patronized by a half dozen Texans and their hombres, all Slick Sam’s men. With a nod from Old Carol I withdrew a small bag of Eagles and plonked it down on the table near Slick Sam’s elbow. “Poker,” I grumbled.

  His eyes went wide for a moment, but he slowly sat back, flicked the bag open, then smirked. “You uppity free men, I hope you didn’t roll over one of my amigos for this.”

  I growled that he could call me a thief and be knocked out the window, or he could fetch a deck of cards and I could show him how I earned my gold. There was a moment’s silence throughout the establishment, all eyes on Slick Sam. After a long moment he howled with laughter and bade Narciso to toss him the house deck.

  Two of his bodyguards joined us, proffering up their meagre wages. Slick Sam started dealing and I could already see his handiwork. The man was as cunning as he was ugly, for after flipping through it once his fingers danced over the deck as he shuffled, and I could see he was a subtle but practiced rook.

  His companions folded out fast enough, miserly of their gold, but I ended up besting Slick Sam with the three of a kind he had generously provided me. The way the man went on you would of thought I was robbing him blind with my expert card playing, but I could see from the looks on his companion’s faces that they were well used to being swindled by their employer, drawn in by early winnings before being taken for all they had. I bled a little gold in the next couple of hands, but took a handsome pot with a full house when the man to my left dealt. Sam’s face twisted in anger, perhaps he had miscounted the cards. I could tell he meant to make me pay for them when they were in his hand next. He called for Narciso to fill up our glasses before the next hand, the usual ploy of a conman looking for any chance to loosen the senses of his mark.

  The man on my right went bust quickly enough, but one of Sam’s girls came over and whispered in his ear that she was feeling a surge of Christian charity, and that she’d repay him for his loss upstairs. On a normal night Slick Sam’s men took a girl if they felt like it, assuming she wasn’t already occupied, so he seemed ready enough to head upstairs with her. In fact, Sam’s strumpets had led off a number of the men. Only Old Carol and Narciso remained by the bar behind me, looking on the game intently.

  Slick Sam Butler was a slippery bastard. The old slaver had cashed in on his holdings in Texas while the going was good, and had holed up in this little settlement east of the Rio Grande folks ’round these parts called Last Ditch. He’d traded up dealing in black flesh for that of the fairer sex.

  Some of the ladies back at the settlement had told me how Slick Sam and his ilk snatched the girls en route to California or Oregon. He’d sweet talk ’em all sorts of nonsense about the temperate pleasures of the southlands, the good Christian values of the Mexicans of Los Cruces and El Paso, the romance of hooking a chivalrous cowboy and settling down on a homestead. What he’d failed to mention was that it was his own homestead, and he’d be setting up the hooking.

  Slick Sam snuck a couple of aces into his hand and won a modest amount of his tin back. I pretended to be stumped at the defeat, but won it back when his drunken companion busted a few hands later. Old Carol herself led the man off, promising him that a night cap would wash the bitter taste of loss out of his mouth.

  Slick Sam didn’t seem accustomed to a man who could outplay him, especially a taciturn young Black man, and the Eagles washed back and forth across the table, steadily piling up on my side. The more he lost the more he drank, and the more he drank the angrier and more obvious his cheating became. When I noticed the girls begin to filter back into the room I leaned back, studying my hand, and said, “I have a business proposition for you, Butler.” I raised him a few coins, and he checked before doling out another card.

  “That’s ‘sir’ to you, b’hoy,” Sam growled. He threw down his cards, two pair, black aces and black eights. “What could an itinerant negro possibly propose that I’d be interested in?”

  “I’ll let you keep all the gold on this table if you get out of that chair, walk off into the desert and never bother these women again.” I laid out my hand; a flush of hearts.

  His eyes went wide at my hand and snorted, oblivious that the women outnumbered the men in the room by that point. “Why the hell would I do that? I should put a bullet in your gut you uppity little–”

  He’d failed to notice that I’d come to the table with my prized revolver, Iron Queen, nestled underneath my vest, only lady what I ever loved. I slammed her down on the table in the small pile of coins before me, and pointed her at his midsection. “I should let you know that I put a bullet in any white man who uses that word, and you ain’t no exception to that rule.”

  Slick Sam’s face contorted in wild fury and he glanced about the room for his thugs, but only found the women of his establishment looking on dispassionately at the plight of their jailer. “The fuck you think you are?” he spat, fumbling for his old pistol before finding the holster empty, care of Old Carol.

  “Obsidian Devil is about the most polite thing folks ’round these parts call me,” I muttered, and heard an excited flurry of whispers from behind. Narciso swore an oath. “But I’m known by many names.”

  H
e scoffed, “Well boy howdy, the Obsidian Devil in my little watering hole.” He spat a slick of tobacco on the table in front of me, spattering my linen shirt. “The Obsidian Devil is a fucking legend. I call you a liar and a thief.”

  “That might be so,” I said, raising the gun off the table to level with his head. “I seem to recall I said any man who calls me a thief would get knocked out the window, and you’ve got a perfectly good one behind you, but I wouldn’t deprive these women the opportunity to pass judgment over you, as they rightly deserve. Ladies, raise your hand if you think Slick Sam Butler deserves to die for the crimes of sexual slavery, rape, murder and the litany of his other sins against man- and woman-kind.”

  I watched as Slick Sam’s eyes went wide, keeping my eyes on him. “Narciso, how many of these women are raising their hands?”

  “All of them, señor,” the boy murmured from the bar.

  Slick Sam stood to run but my trigger finger twitched and a kiss from the Iron Queen sent him stumbling backwards. A second bullet whizzed past his shoulder, shattering the window behind him, and I stood and walked over, kicking the man out to fall into the pile of glass just outside. He gulped in pain, twitched and then laid still. I holstered my iron and turned to face the women who looked on, silently.

  “The rest of the men?” I asked Old Carol.

  “Dead, or they wish they were.” She tossed me my herb kit, much lightened of its atropa belladonna.

  I nodded. “And Slick Sam seems to have come down with a fatal case of lead poisoning.”

  I cupped the Eagles on the table and shifted them into my bag, now much heavier for the bullets I’d traded Slick Sam. “Ladies, Señor Narciso, you’re free of this man’s tyranny and can now name your own fates,” I said. “I reckon you could move on to Las Cruces, or El Paso. Or else you could clean the filth out of this place and make use of it. If you did I promise to check in whenever I’m riding down this way, or if I hear of anyone giving you trouble, but I’m returning to my own tribe. Any of you who are inclined can come with me. It won’t be a comfortable journey there, and it sure as the devil won’t be an easy life in Little Hope, but it’s a different place than this.”