At the vanity in the corner of the bedroom she applied a heavy coat of electric red lipstick to match her nails, and lined her eyes in sooty black. She was ready.
First stop was the Kmart. More than a few graying heads turned her way in shock as she paraded through the white, tiled aisles. To any close stare she was stark naked in a coat of blue spray paint. An old woman stood fingering a fuzzy pink nighty in the underwear department and happened to look up as she passed. The nighty dropped to the floor. “Young lady,” a scratchy high pitched voice chased her. There was a strong element of chastisement couched in those two simple words. Margaret glanced over her shoulder and flashed a crinkle eyed look. “You keep your man your way and I’ll keep mine my own way,” she smiled sweetly.
God, she hated people, she thought, picking up a white cotton tank. Confront them with the truth––a human body, un or thinly veiled––and they went to pieces. Religions had been built on hiding the truth of the human form. Laws had been passed on how it should be shielded and where it could be kissed. Human beings lived in denial of what they were, and she hated them for it. She knew what she was, and she was unashamed.
Shaking her head, she took the cotton t and matching bottoms, grabbed a box of popcorn, and went to the register. A high school-aged girl with braces and plastic framed glasses rang her up, pausing every few seconds to stare at her chest when she thought Margaret wasn’t paying attention. “Yeah, you’ll have them soon,” she thought wickedly. “And you’ll bind them and hide them and offer them in trade for a chain noosed around your lover’s neck. Happy hooking, hon.”
Striding purposefully from the store, she drove to a park nearby. The sun shone golden bright through the trees as she tossed handfuls of popcorn to the pigeons. They crowded her feet, scrambling over each other in their haste to eat. Others swooped down from the trees periodically, disturbing the complex pecking order of feeding. “Whoever pecks the most ruthlessly rules the dinner table,” she thought, and wondered if she and Charles stood at the top of the food chain.
A pickup pulled into the parking lot a few yards away, and a middle-aged man stepped out. He was maybe 5’6, white, looked like a going-to-seed blue collar. Handleable. With a deliberate stretch, Margaret put her hands on the back of the bench, thrust out her chest, and spread her feet far apart on the ground. Within seconds the man answered the call.
“Mind if I sit down?” a tremulous voice asked. She did her best Madonna. “Sit or spit, I don’t care,” she answered, calculatedly bored. It was best not to act too forward––only look that way. She felt his weight settle onto the end of the bench, but didn’t look at him.
There were only the noises of the scuffling birds for a few moments, and then he tried again.
“Um, my name’s Bill,” he said. She turned to meet his gaze. “Hi Bill.”
“You, uh, come out here and feed the birds a lot?” he pressed on.
“Now and then.”
“Married?” he braved.
“No.”
Quiet again. Probably time to help him a little.
“You want to toss some,” she offered, holding out the bag of popcorn.
His face lit and he slid closer to her.
“Sure.”
* * *
It barely took an hour. Bill was an electrician, supposed to be at a job site. Sometimes, he admitted, he came here during lunchtime, looking for “company.” She got the impression he didn’t care what kind, as long as he got off. He let it slip that he was married, while his eyes massaged her chest and crotch guiltily.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I like a little company, too.”
She stretched, put her arm around his shoulder and trailed a nail down his biceps. He stiffened, and then looked at her face in unveiled lust. She leaned over, kissed him, and then stood.
“Want to come back to my place?”
It wasn’t always this easy, but it was never that hard.
* * *
She led him by the hand down the stairs through the basement and into a nearly bare room. The walls were black painted cinderblock, the floor black tile. A white vinyl couch stood out in violent contrast in the room’s center.
“I like to pretend it’s night when it’s day,” she explained when he looked in dawning fear at the oddly decorated room. His suspicions evaporated when the blood rushed from his head to his cock as she knelt at his feet. She stripped them both, moving her supple body sinuously around his thickening waist and wrinkled rear. Laying him on the couch, she twisted and turned atop him, rubbing every inch of herself on his skin. No baths, and the scent of the man she’d brought him, that was what Charles asked. Smells drove him wild. She would not let the “other man” enter her. When he began to grow anxious for the act, she slid from the couch and worked him with mouth and hands as his own beefy palms grabbed and kneaded her flesh.
This was always the hardest part for her. Having to touch some disgusting strange man in the unclean places. She was not turned on by this––rarely did she pick up a man to whom she was sexually attracted. But she did this for Charles. She thought of the first time they’d met, when in her forward passion she’d reached inside his jogging pants in the very same park she’d picked Bill up in. Charles had kissed her lightly, and with a firm hand, had pulled her probing fingers from his crotch.
“I can only cum beneath the light of a full moon,” he said softly. She was not convinced––other women just hadn’t been as skilled as her, she thought somewhere deep in her lust clouded brain. His eyes looked sad as he watched her ego-deflating, vain attempts to prove him wrong. Filled with stubborn pride––and a telling, nagging wetness between her legs––she stuck out her chin and challenged, “Then visit me on the night of the full moon.”
His strong features both grinned and frowned at that invitation. “I will,” he promised.
She laughed inside now at her foolish naivety in extending that offer. She knew he had struggled not to accept––he’d liked her, and knew what would come of such a tryst. Ultimately, he had lost his internal battle. At her doorstep, 8 p.m. on the night of the moon he had appeared, a thin wiry man in a black t-shirt and jeans. He’d brought her roses and asked if she’d reconsidered her invitation. In answer, she’d leaned into his body, inhaling his musky, woodsy, animal scent and inserted her tongue between his lips. In moments, they’d been naked and rutting on the couch in the living room.
Beneath her absent ministrations she felt the warm stream that signaled an end to her duty. As Bill groaned in ecstasy, she reached a hand beneath the vinyl cushions searching for the chain. She needed a new couch, she thought. The cushions were cracked with age and scored with scratches. Her hand grasped what she was looking for. With a fast pull and snap, she efficiently cuffed Bill’s right arm to the couch.
“Huh?” he exclaimed and grabbed for her with his free hand. She skipped easily out of his reach, watching in sad amusement as his cock deflated instantly. “What are you doing? Let Me Go!” he ordered in false bravado.
There was fear in his voice, but nothing like the tremors that would shake it as the day wore into night.
“Sorry Bill, but I need you tonight. Get some rest why don’t you.”
Ignoring his angered yells and curses, she picked up the clothes that littered the floor and left the room. The door clicked shut to leave Bill in blackest darkness. His bellows diminished to murmurs as she climbed the stairs to wait for the night.
* * *
When the doorbell rang at eight, Margaret was ready. Dinner was in the fridge, a crisp medley of carrots, spinach, lettuce, onions and other vegetables. The house was spotless––her only means of passing the time between locking up her guests and meeting her lover in the evening was to clean. You could eat off her floors. And maybe they would tonight, she thought entertaining erotic designs. Maybe he would spill the salad across the tile and feed each chopped vegetable to her with his lips.
Her body pulsed with anticipation as she crossed the room to let
him in. She wanted this night to be perfect––it was their first anniversary. A carafe of deep ruby wine rested on the coffee table––his favorite vintage. She wore only the thin cotton underwear she’d bought this afternoon.
“Margaret,” he whispered, admiring her near naked figure from the stoop. He held out a bouquet of red roses. She took them and pulled him inside. “Your hair is beautiful,” he complimented, warming her to the bone.
“I need you so bad,” she said, staring up into his face. He had those eyes that shifted, looked green one moment, brown the next. His face was smooth, but sharply drawn. She leaned to kiss him, and in her hurry, caught the roses between their bodies. “Ouch,” she jumped and stepped back. A thorn had pricked her thigh. A thin line of red ran from the puncture to a crimson tear.
“Let me,” he breathed, and knelt to lick her leg. His tongue was hot, but felt sandpapery, like a cat’s. She shivered at his attentions, tousled his hair with her free hand. “Come have a drink, baby,” she said, stepping back to break their contact. A few more minutes of this and they’d be fucking right there on the floor, and she wanted this night to be slow, thick––a steady building to perfect passion.
He stood, and flashing a row of gleaming white teeth, fingered her nipples, which poked like nails through the thin material.
“Whatever you say, lover.”
She trembled at his voice. So much power there. A quick look at him would not give this impression. A thin nose, deep set eyes, smooth white face on a fit but not obviously muscled body. He was Joe Average, but she could sense the strangeness, the exotic reeking from his pores. Maybe that’s what had attracted her to him in the first place.
They clinked glasses of heavy bordeaux together, and Margaret felt the sweat begin seeping from her body as he rumbled in his sexiest deep tone: “to us.”
She drank deeply, closing her eyes to feel the fuel of the wine mixing with the fire of her lust. God, it was so hard to wait. The days between grew longer and longer and once he was here, she struggled every moment to stop herself from ripping his clothes off and mounting him without a word. At the same time, she wanted these moments before, when they could talk and just be together as the musk of their mutual lusts rose around them like a fog.
When she poured the last drops of the bottle into his open mouth, Margaret could wait no longer. His features were wild with the pull of the moon, his movements jerky as a palsied man. He licked his lips and husked the word as she pounced.
“Now.”
His hands wrapped around her body in a bear hug, drawing her close. “You smell divine,” he growled and proceeded to lick her arms and legs, his nose chasing cool trails across her skin. Leaping from his lap, she dragged him to his feet and in fumbling haste undid his belt and pants as he unbuttoned and shed his shirt. He stood before her then, naked, yet covered with a manly down. His public thatch was thick and long, almost braid-able. Its wildness couldn’t hide the scope of the tool that hung hungry there. With a rough finger he traced a red line up her thigh.
“So, have you missed me this month?” he said from between gritted teeth.
She smiled at the ritual, and nodded affirmatively.
Tucking his finger inside the cotton panties,” his voice dipped even lower. “So I feel.” His hand cupped her, made her tingle, his head dipped to inhale her smell. “So I smell.”
She scratched the thickening hair on his chest, her hand resting on his engorged cock. “You’re the only meat for me, Charles. Let me eat you.”
Acceding to her request, he dropped to the floor. Her tongue lashed him then, her teeth threatening to chew him to a bleeding pulp. He only scraped his nails deeply into her back, shredding the cotton shirt and staining it in spots with drawn blood.
He was panting then in the thick of the moon’s pull, and she knew the change would soon be complete. Moving from his crotch, she posed on hands and knees beside him. He was quick to rise. With an excited tear of cotton he freed her breasts from the remains of the t-shirt, and at the same time shredded her panties, leaving a waistband dangling around her middle and swollen trails of blood on her behind. Her sex only ached more at his rough violations, and then, at last, he was mounting her doggy style there on the floor. She could feel him changing faster now, as he pounded his cock between her thighs. The nails gouging her shoulders grew sharper, the flesh meeting her butt grew prickly, as if she were being slapped by a bristled broom. Even within her, his cock altered, grew, until she screamed in spasms of ecstasy and collapsed on the floor as his frenzied motions peaked in a warm, wet rush.
“God,” she huffed, “God, God, God.”
A strangled “No,” answered her, before turning into a howl. She felt his teeth gripping her leg, breaking the skin, sinking into the soft flesh of her calf. She had to get up, she thought, or he’d devour her. In this state, his desire overruled his mind and it didn’t matter who she was.
Kicking out with her free foot, she slammed his head from her leg and launched herself down the stairs, a trail of blood marking her passage. He followed, raking claws at her thighs, tearing skin from her back as he tried to bring her down. She knew some part of him was fighting for restraint––or else she would not make it down the stairs.
With a twist she turned the knob of the door as his teeth sank into her arm. She felt a rush of wetness between her legs in answer to the pain and laughed out loud. If she let him, she’d cum again as he ripped the flesh from her bones. One day, she thought, that’s exactly what would happen.
But... not... now, she grimaced, and pushed the door open.
“So you came back, finally,” Bill’s voice trembled from within the pitch black room.
Margaret felt Charles’ weight shift as he heard the voice. She could see his ears pricking up, feel his paw leave her back as, for a second, he pointed, and then sprang.
Bill screamed his loudest then, because Charles generally went for the throat when he was really hungry.
She remembered hers’ and Charles’ first time, when, as she watched the hair growing from his limbs like cheese from grater, she’d realized how it had to end and as his wolfen cock had spurted its seed within her, she’d called out to her roommate.
“Cathy,” she’d bellowed, in the midst of an orgasm herself, “I want you to come down and meet somebody.”
Charles had flipped her over with a huge hairy paw and was going for her jugular when Cathy had cautiously peeked into the room, mere seconds later. “Bitch was probably was listening to us,” Margaret had thought, and with all her strength she’d pushed Charles’ muzzle in Cathy’s direction.
“Get HER,” she’d screeched, and somehow, even that early in their relationship, Charles had been trying to hold back the beast he was. He’d sprang and ripped out Cathy’s throat in seconds and so, their monthly routine had been born.
Behind her, Charles’ growls and Bill’s wails were fading.
“Shoulda stuck with the noose you knew, Bill,” Margaret thought as she limped up the stairs to the kitchen. The gurgled “helps,” “stops” and “oh Gooooods,” quit before she’d even pulled her salad from the fridge.
She went back down to eat with him, flicking on the light and sitting naked on the floor. Feral eyes looked up at her from the disemboweled carcass on the couch. She didn’t share his meal. She trapped his food out of necessity, but she herself was a vegetarian.
Across the room, he slurped and chewed, wolfen head disappearing in and out of the gory chest cavity. She wished she didn’t have to handle his food so much beforehand, but Charles said the scent of the other man on her was what ultimately, kept him from killing her. It got in his nose as he made love to her, and when that wolfen olfactory sense picked out the origin of the smell, his instincts took over and he was after it instead of her.
Crunching a carrot between her teeth, Margaret melted inside at the sight of her werewolf. Five feet of iron bone and sinewy strength, his paws shredded and picked apart the man on the couch as if he were
butter. Her body warmed again in anticipation as she thought of him returning to her at the end of his meal. Before she uncovered the drain beneath the vinyl couch and hosed down the slaughter room (and herself), Charles would pad across the tiles to her, green eyes filled with lust. Then he’d hold her down with a vaguely human paw, and lick her clean with that rough and tumble tongue. He’d mount her again, fast and hard, before disappearing up the stairs and into the night.
She didn’t have to cuff him to the couch and he didn’t wear a collar, but she knew he’d be back. Real men didn’t fight their chains. Sated and relaxed, she propped herself up off the cold floor with one arm, and watched protectively as Charles enjoyed his meal.
She lived for the nights of the full moon.
THE VIRGIN O’ FULL MOON FALLS
JAMES NEWMAN
Stand right there, asshole.
Does the gun make you nervous? Good. I’m glad. At least I know you ain’t gonna try nothin’ funny.
Don’t you dare move a muscle. Don’t even blink.
Now. Listen. I want to tell you a story––
* * *
There was this girl back in Full Moon Falls. Town in North Carolina, where I grew up.
Rayleen Estelle Connelly. Prettiest lil’ thing you ever did see.
Rayleen had just turned sweet sixteen when all o’ this happened, but she was so tiny a lot o’ people used to insist she didn’t look a day over thirteen or fourteen years old. Fiery red hair, pigtails, face full o’ freckles like God’s own game o’ connect-the-dots. She used to wear these cute frilly dresses all the time, with flowers and honeybees and butterflies all over ‘em. Pink and yellow ribbons in her hair.
Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) Page 6
