Mans Beast Friend

The howl cuts through the still of the night; the sudden noise makes me jump in my chair. When will I get used to it? The doorbell rings, and I go to open the door. A group of children, dressed up as devils and ghosts and witches and sickening, sugary-sweet fairies - aren't Halloween costumes supposed to be SCARY? - are standing on the doorstep, yelling "Trick or Treat!"

A group of Responsible Adults, presumably the little midgets' mothers, are grinning sternly, stretching their necks to inspect what kind of candy I'm handing out to their offspring. Jellybeans and Hersheys? Approved. Again, the howl echoes through the night, and this time, the kids are the ones who jump.

"Do you have a wolf in your house?" a little boy asks.

"No," I say. "It's a werewolf."

The kids grin and go "whow" in various degrees of approval. The women smile condescending, one says "nice sound effects", and nods to me as if I've passed some kind of test. I close the door behind them, hoping that they will be the last of the looters for tonight.

I watch some old film on TV, and when no-one has come to bugger me before 11 pm, I decide that the trick-or-treating must be over for tonight, and I go to the bathroom to take a hot bath. The howling has stopped. Perhaps the moon's hidden behind the clouds? I run a bath for myself, and add some lavender bath foam. I lie there for at least an hour. The warm water is making me sleepy. I get out before I drown, and dry my body with a coarse towel, making my skin red and tender and scrubbed soft. I pour some spicy-scented oil in my hand; rub it into the skin, making it soft and shiny. I dry my hair and wrap a towel around it before I put on my make-up. I smear several layers of blood red lipstick on my lips, I line my eyes with charcoal black, and I even take the time to paint my nails a shade of red that's even darker than the lipstick. I walk naked through the house, into the bedroom. I open my closet and stand there for a long time, picking out dress after dress, hanging them all back as they fail to suit my fancy. I want something classy yet sexy. Something that will make you harden at the sight of me.

Finally, I choose a long, black dress with long, narrow sleeves, a deep cut, and a high slit in the skirt. I dress, and look at the time. It's still too early; it's not even 3 am yet. I set the alarm, and stretch out on the bed, to have a little shut-eye. I have barely fallen asleep before the wretched thing calls, and I rise from my bed. 6 am. I let my hair out, but don't bother combing it. The messed-up strands of black hair frame my face, enhancing my sex-starved appearance.

I walk up to the attic, open the door, and walk in. It's all quiet. I walk up to your cage, and look in to see where you are. You're on the floor, sleeping. Naked. Your body's back to normal, the fur is gone, the claws, and as you turn over, I see that your face looks normal, too.

"Good morning," I say, and you open your eyes, wide awake in a mere matter of seconds.

You get up, and walk over to me, I can see that you're trying to walk steady, but you're still weak from the night's transformation. You look at me, and I see the fatigue in your warm, brown eyes change into lust.

"Good morning, my beauty," you say.

Your voice is hardly more than a growl. It sends chills down my body. I unlock the cage, and walk in. You take me in your arms and kiss me. I feel your manhood grow against my crotch.

"You're beautiful," you whisper in my ear, and I caress your naked back, move my hands down to your firm butt, cup it, and press you against me. You hitch up my skirt, grunt with delight when you discover that I'm not wearing any underwear, and we walk backwards, until my back is against the fence. I put my arms around your shoulder, and you lift me up, hold me, while your hard tool finds my wet opening. You come inside me, and my lips find yours again. What do I care that the iron bars are hard and cold against my back? You kiss my neck; I pull my cleavage down so you can reach my breasts. The position is awkward, but neither of us have the patience to walk downstairs to find a more comfortable place to mate.

Yes, mate. The way you pound me, against the iron bars of your cage, is not a matter of making love, there's no romance in this, no clinical, sterile "having sex". It's raw. It's sex. It's mating. It's us, grinding against each other, making sounds one couldn't transcribe. Your cock in my cunt, thrusting, penetrating, invading. I'm at your mercy in this position. I can't move myself; I'm hanging in the air, held up by your strong arms. My hands are in your hair, my mouth a dark red "o", as you bite my nipples and fuck me. I can't move, I can't escape the pain, the orgasm, I cry out when my body tenses up around you. You growl in my ear, you bite my neck, and you fill me with seed. Your body presses mine against the bars. Slowly, you let go of my legs, and they sink back, until I stand on my own two feet. We lean against the bars, both of us are weak; we might fall without the support of the cage.

You kiss me, tenderly this time, and I move your messy hair out of the way, so I can look into your golden brown eyes. You're so wonderfully handsome and manly. My heart still trembles when you look at me like that.

"Breakfast?" I ask.

"Sleep," you say.

I smile, and take your hands. I lead you downstairs, to tuck you in. You've had a rough night, you poor thing.