Queer Werewolves
Full Moon Fever
by Andrew "Aethan" French

Given the events you're about to read, you might guess that Micky and I met at a Horror or Sci-Fi convention, or in some weird voodoo cult in New Orleans, or some farfetched locale. The truth is, Micky and I met in a little gay bar in downtown Boston. I had broken up with a real asshole (no comment; I have nothing to say about him, and he has nothing to do with this story) and was looking to drown my sorrows in a lot of bad alcohol and a few nights of utterly dangerous casual sex. I was crazy from having broken up, and I really didn't give a shit about AIDS or anything else. Luckily for me, the first night I went cruising, Micky wandered into my life.

When he entered, I was awed by the seemingly total focus with which he carried himself. Every step seemed to have been planned out ahead of time, and his walk was graceful and predatory. Everything about him bespoke a man who was looking for good sex in large amounts. I couldn't help but be attracted to those smoldering black eyes, set under brows whose fiery red matched the wild mane that framed his beautiful face. His body was muscular and lean, and his clothes snugged up against the fine structure beneath, hiding and revealing things in an alternating way that immediately sent a charge to my crotch. Judging by the reaction of the others in the room, everybody was experiencing the same sensation.

I felt, rather than saw, his eyes upon me, and I was disappointed when they flickered away to explore the rest of the crowd. I spent the night watching him. Everywhere he passed, heads turned, and he slipped through the busy bar, hither and yon, looking, apparently, for just the right somebody. I watched in mounting terror as the bar's patrons began approaching him. I wanted him, badly. I wanted him to dominate me utterly and use me as he chose. I wanted to belong to him, not in the sense of the short encounter I had come looking for, but in a long term relationship. This, I sensed, was the real Mr. Right of my life, and I wanted to be with him, more than I had ever wanted anything before.

When I saw a new wave of barhoppers enter and fixate on him, I knew I had to make my move or I was going to lose him. I was scared that he would ignore me or reject me, but I was going to have to take my chances. I waved at him, beckoning to him and smiling my best smile. He looked at me curiously, shrugged, disengaged one guy who had draped an arm around his waist, and glided in my direction. He sized me up when he arrived, and he didn't seem to have lost interest. So I steeled up my courage.

"I'm Jack. Can I buy you a drink?"

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and I cursed inwardly for using such an obvious pick-up line. To my surprise and eternal gratification he smiled, a long lingering toothy grin which spread from his mouth and eyes across his whole face. He spoke, in a deep sonorous baritone. "Hi Jack. I'm Micky. No, you can't." I felt my heart sink. "But I'd like to buy you one." I felt it leap back up. "Not here though....too crowded...too many assholes." He took my hand and drew me off of my seat. I couldn't speak. We stopped by the coats, where he pulled down mine and handed it to me.

"How the hell did you know that was my coat?" I asked, when we had slipped out of the bar into the cool spring night.

He shrugged. "It just seemed like the coat you would wear. I'm a pretty decent judge of character. Besides, it smells like you."

We walked under the light of the bright moon. It had just turned past full, so it illuminated the street like another lamp, casting our shadows ahead of us as Micky guided us down the sidewalks in the direction of what he referred to as "the best damned bar in Boston." It was indeed a cozy little place. Not a gay bar, but a fine place to talk quietly amongst a staff that genuinely seemed to like you.

It turned out that Micky was an amazing judge of character. He guessed instinctively what I drank and that I was a painter. "You seem the artistic type," he said with a shrug. I became more and more fascinated with Micky, and by the time the bar sent us home, I knew that I wanted to know everything about him and to be a part of what he was. So when he looked at me and asked "Would you like to come home with me?" I accepted without a second's hesitation.

His apartment was quite close. He lived in a one-room studio which had been, he explained, the attic of the brownstone building. A friend of his owned it, and his rent was remarkably low. It was spartanly finished, but plants grew everywhere. Their smell was heady and lush, and it was as if he had shown me a hidden rainforest in the center of Back Bay. A state of the art sound system surrounded the room with soft music. His CD collection showed extremely eclectic tastes. A complete run of the Beatles sat side by side with Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach. A They Might Be Giants CD sat atop a sound effect disk of thunderstorms. He put in the thunderstorms tape, took me by the hand, and led me into a space between the plants. His bed was a nest of pillows and blankets, and I let him lower me onto it, loving him even before we ever made love.

Sex with Micky was an almost religious experience. His gentle ways of coaxing me into various positions and activities only served to heighten my arousal with him. He seemed to know my body and its desires better than I knew myself, and he cheerfully exploited every one of them. And when it seemed that things were getting too innocent, he would suddenly reveal a rough side. His straightforward, uncomplicated, animalistic charm truly won me over, and I felt completely vulnerable and yet totally safe in his arms. We finally fell into sleep in each others embrace, and when I awoke, he was lying there studying me, smiling. From then on, we were lovers.

I had never had a complaint with Micky as far as his being my lover went. He and I had been lived together for two years or so, after my parents disowned me for being gay. We shared his great studio apartment in the Back Bay. It turned out that Micky was very well off, owning his own shipping company, and this gave me the freedom to paint for a living. Micky became my favorite model, and his easy-going attitude towards nudity made him fun to work with. He developed a following among my audience, and while it became increasingly easy to sell my work, it became increasingly difficult to part with my pieces. I loved looking at my nudes of Micky, and I was jealous of anyone who bought one. He was supportive of my work, and whenever I would express disappointment in myself or comment about my shortcomings, he would hold me and rock me like a child until I felt myself again. Everything seemed ideal, except for one detail.

Every month, Micky would get very moody and restless without any provocation. The next day, he would disappear without explanation, not returning for three nights. When he returned, he was always in better spirits, and we would have wild, reckless sex for hours non-stop. That part was okay, but his disappearances began to bother me. He would always try to say that he had been away on business for his company, but I began to recognize a pattern. I became suspicious, even morbidly so. Was he in the Mafia, doing hits for money? Was he seeing another lover? What was he hiding from me...or trying to protect me from? As much as I loved him, I began to be afraid of him.

Doubt became my worst enemy, forcing me to worry that we were about to spiral into a breakup. I questioned him at length, but he would always worm his way out of the conversation. At last, I couldn't stand it any longer. He was sprawled on the couch, and he was moody. I sensed the time was about to occur; he would disappear tomorrow, unless I was able to determine what was happening.

"Micky," I said, quietly but firmly, "I know you're going to leave tomorrow. Please tell me where you're going."

"Business," he muttered darkly. "Commodities deal in Acron. Be back..."

"Three days from now." I glowered at him. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I haven't noticed the pattern? Don't insult my intelligence."

"Jack," he said, as his temper rose, "don't be ridiculous. I have business. I'll come back on Tuesday. You'll have a nice quiet long-weekend, and everything will be fine again."

"Bullshit, Micky! I've called your company. They never know what I'm talking about when I mention these business trips. They say you take the time as vacation days. Now will you tell me the fucking truth."

He sat there, his hands clenching and opening as if he might suddenly attack me. I felt an anger boiling just below his facade of calm. "Jack, you wouldn't understand."

"Try me, for Christ's sake. I don't understand now, but I'm willing to listen. Otherwise this whole relationship is for shit! If you go away without explaining yourself, I won't be here when you get back." Saying it nearly destroyed me, but I was insane with the need to know.

That was the threat that got him. He deflated visibly and stared up at me miserably. "You might leave if I tell you the truth."

"Better that than to keep living with these stupid lies."

He struggled with himself for awhile, emotions playing across his face. Finally, he sighed heavily. "Okay, tomorrow I'll explain everything." His expression darkened. "I'll show you everything. You deserve to know."

We didn't make love that night. I sat awake in bed, feeling his warmth near me under the sheets and listening to his slow deep breaths. I was afraid. Now that I was going to know everything, I began to wonder if I really wanted to know it. But I felt that it was too late. I had started everything sliding, and I was just going to have to find out what was at the bottom when I hit it. I just hoped we'd survive the fall.

I sank at last into a fitful sleep. When I woke up, Micky was gone. At first I was afraid that he had left for the weekend, having chickened out of telling me his secret, but I found a note that indicated he would be back later that afternoon. The day crawled by, and I worried about Micky. I was worried I had driven him away, that he could not tell me his story, and that he had left me alone again. I tried to do some painting, but I couldn't concentrate. I started at every movement in the hall outside our door. Every time the phone rang, I jumped. At last, around sunset, he appeared, and I almost cried with relief. He was carrying two bags of groceries, both of which proved to be full of meat. He stuffed them into the fridge and came over to me. "Its almost time for you to know."

I felt a shiver of anticipation, or was it fear? I could not say. Then, inexplicably, Micky started removing his clothes. "Oh, no," I laughed nervously, "I'm not going to be so easily distracted."

Micky smiled without humor. "This is integral to your understanding of the truth."

"I've seen you naked before, Micky. Its impressive, but nothing new."

"You've never seen me completely undressed," he muttered mysteriously. I started to protest, but then something prevented me from continuing. Micky's skin began to ripple and bunch, as if he were changing subtly, underneath. A slight tear showed in his skin, revealing... what? Fur? So it seemed. The surface below was covered with a fine glistening fur the same color as Micky's hair. I realized that all of Micky's skin was peeling away in chunks. It fell to the floor, dry and brittle, like the outer skin of an onion. The thing underneath the skin was seven foot tall if it was an inch, and its body rippled with muscles. A canine snout unfolded beneath Micky's face, tearing through. Gleaming fangs shone in the light, and I wanted nothing so desperately as to be able to run, but, somehow, my brain seemed to have shut down, refusing to send signals to the rest of my body. One message only was getting through.

Micky's a fucking werewolf.

It began to make some twisted sort of sense. Three day disappearances. Must be the full moon. I couldn't move; shock held me rooted to the spot. I was going to die, and Micky, my lover was going to kill me. He would leap on me, his powerful jaws crushing the life from me. With a jolt of terror, my body began functioning again, but far too slowly. I turned to run, when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Jack, its me."

I turned back to look at the creature which stood before me. It had Micky's voice. It was deeper and harsher, but it was his voice nonetheless. "Micky?" I gasped out from lungs frozen with shivery fear. "Are you in there?"

"Its me, Jack. This is what I am."

I stared at him. This was no Lon Chaney junior with yak hair on his chin. Micky looked like someone had put a huge wolf's head on top of a weight-lifter's body and covered the whole thing with fur. He was gigantic. His whole body seemed to have swelled, getting physically massive. I glanced down; his cock had become huge. It was nearly a foot long, and it stood erect, giving it the illusion of even greater size. Despite myself, I was a little aroused. I had always been satisfied with Micky before, but this was a fuzzy Adonis! I laughed, a hysterical little giggle, at the incongruity of my thoughts.

"Shit, Micky. How the fuck did this happen?"

A low guttural laugh escaped the fanged maw of my lover. "Puberty. Some kids got acne; I got fur. My dad said that it skipped a few generations, that my great grandfather had had the gift, and that now I had it. He taught me not to be afraid of it. Its a good thing, I believe, but its hard to explain that to people. Telling people you're a werewolf makes them think you're really crazy or really kinky. But as you see, its the truth. On the three nights of the full moon, this is what I become. It doesn't make any sense. For one thing, I put on about two-hundred pounds of mass...pure muscle."

"Yeah, you certainly got..." I looked at his cock involuntarily, "big!"

He chuckled. "My senses go from being remarkable to being downright scary, even to me. I can smell things...and hear things....God, Jack. You can't imagine what its like."

"Help me to imagine. How does it feel?"

He shrugged his gargantuan shoulders. "Natural now. It was weird at first, but now its very natural. It doesn't hurt or anything, like they show in the movies, and I don't eat people. I just get a little wilder, a lot hungrier, and my instincts start kicking in." He blushed then, under his fur, and I caught his train of thought.

"In other words, you get really really horny."

He grinned hugely as I said this, exposing sharp rows of teeth. "That's why we always fucked so crazily when I came back. I couldn't get laid all that time, and I'd be aching for sex."

I looked at him closely. He was so different that he almost couldn't be Micky in my mind. The fur was definitely Micky's hair though, his wild red mane. And the eyes were just the same as Micky's, big, black, soulful, and full of love.

"Wow, Micky. I really wasn't ready for...this."

He nodded sadly. "I understand. I'll leave. The rent's paid through the end of the summer, and you'll have plenty of time to find a new..."

"No Micky! That's not what I mean. I don't want you to leave. I still love you. This is...really weird, but I think I can handle it."

He looked at me, hope radiant in his face. "You mean it, Jack?"

"I mean it, lover. Look, I'll cook some steak for dinner, and you can explain it to me over dessert."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "You are a hell of a guy, Jack. I was so scared...so afraid that I would lose you. When we met, I knew you were the right one, but lately I...I...." He smiled; it was Micky's same gentle smile. "Thanks, Jack." He reached over and took me into his warm furry embrace.

Dinner was messy and a bit awkward. Micky insisted that I not cook the steaks he ate, and as I was talking forkfuls of my own well done T-bone, he was ravenously ripping chunks of raw beef into his mouth and swallowing them whole. I drank several glasses of red wine, while he drank nothing but water. "Trust me Jack. You don't want to get me drunk when I look like this. Tipsy werewolves singing Irish drinking songs under a full moon is not the sort of thing we want the neighbors to see." We laughed then, and I was pleased with myself. I was really adapting to this well. It must've been my abiding passion for Micky. Or maybe it was the wine.

We talked until three, pondering the existence of other werewolves and whether any of the others were gay. As the clock struck, he looked out the window and sighed. "Thank goodness," he said. "It'll only be a short time until dawn, and then we can be together again."

"But we are together, Micky."

He shook his head. "I mean sexually. It'll be good to relieve the urges on a daily basis rather than all at once. I was always afraid I was gonna hurt you."

It was then that my wine-befuddled head finally acknowledged what my sober self refused to. I wanted to have sex with Micky while he was like this. I couldn't help it. It was the one thing I could do to really prove to him that I was fully accepting of him. I stood, and crossed the room. As he turned, I wrapped my arms around him, laying my head against his chest. He seemed surprised, but he returned the hug. His body seemed to radiate heat, and as we stood there, I felt his dick pressed up against me. I felt a throb of sympathy from my own crotch, and I couldn't help letting my hands explore down his back to his ass, which I began kneading roughly. He pulled back a little, surprised. "Jack, you ought to be careful. I have claws you know. And I'm afraid I'd be really rough if we..." his voice trailed off.

In reply, I began undoing the buttons on my shirt. "You won't be rough with me, Micky. I know you. You're still in control in there, and you'll be very gentle." I stripped off my shoes and socks, then beckoned to him. "Help me, Micky."

He approached, trembling. His huge hairy paws reached out and came to rest, feather light, upon my shoulders. He pulled off my shirt with the care of a mother undressing her child. I could feel his enormous claws, sharp as razors, but his touch was so light that they never drew blood, only traced lines along my skin. His hands drifted lightly down my sides until they came to rest on the front of my blue-jeans. With exaggerated caution, he worked a finger inside the waistline. I flinched involuntarily.

He froze, panic on his face. I smiled at him. "Don't worry big guy; you didn't Bobbittize me. He relaxed and unfastened my pants, then slowly pulled them down until I stood, as naked as he. I took his hand and led him through the plants to the nest of pillows and blankets.

We embraced again, and feeling his furry muscular frame pressed close to mine, his warm fuzz on my cock, made me squirm with pleasure. Our hands explored each other's bodies, eliciting occasional murmurs of pleasure from one or the other. I ran my hands over his body, delighting in the magnificent muscle structure. I swirled my fingers through his fur, causing him to shudder and shake like a dog whose belly is being scratched. Then I took his enormous cock in my hand, feeling the new weight and heft of it. This was so strange and wonderful; it was Micky's soul in a new body that was mine to explore. We were intimates and strangers at the same time. Knowing Micky's favorite sexual zones gave me a certain advantage. I tugged at the hairy balls with one hand while feathering a finger up and down his thickened shaft with the other. Micky's beautiful eyes closed and his head lolled back on his shoulders as he succumbed to the stroking I began to give him. I knelt before him, sniffing the musky odor of his crotch. My tongue darted out, flicking into the hole at the end of his massive wolfmeat. He moaned, and his hands fell heavily onto my head, pulling me towards him.

I obligingly opened as wide as I could to take him in. Inch after heavenly inch shoved its way into my mouth, and my eyes watered as I nearly gagged from the sheer size. I gave him a good session of sucking, his hands running through my hair and insistently continuing the rhythm we had fallen into. He tensed, his body going rigid and a low ululating moan escaping his lips as the first wave of his cum splashed the back of my throat. I renewed my sucking, intent at getting every last drop. Finally, when nothing more seemed forthcoming, and his body relaxed, I came off of his shaft and grinned. "Your turn, Fido. Lie down."

Micky did as I asked, his massive frame sinking deeply into the cushions. I knelt with my cock poised over his face and my balls dangling down to brush the tip of his long wolfen snout. He carefully covered his sharp teeth with his lips before reaching up to engulf me with his mouth. I felt his hot breath against the length of my shaft and shuddered with the anticipation. He reached up and encircled the globes of my ass with his hands, pulling me down into his waiting jaws. The length of his mouth made it the deepest throating I have ever had, and I humped my hips, fucking his face so hard his head bumped against the floor with every thrust. Meanwhile, I reached out to continue my research into his larger member and wonderfully full scrotum. His dick responded immediately, beginning to swell up again. I remembered that Micky's power to get it up again and again after he had been absent had been startling. If he was any more capable of multiple loads in an evening in his wolfen form, we might be at this for a long time! Within his mouth, he began rubbing his long slippery tongue against my cockmeat. I felt myself slipping towards orgasm, and I halted my screwing, unwilling to give up my load so soon.

"Uh, uh, Wolfboy. You're not getting off so easy. I want to be reamed. Royally screwed, and you're the best werewolf for the job. You're the best one I know; hell, you're the only one I know!" Micky seemed to be in a fog. His meat was swollen again, and he looked about ready to stick it someplace moist and tight. I knelt down on my hands and knees beside him. "Okay, Micky. We'll do it doggie-style. In your honor of course."

With no hesitation, Micky grabbed my ass and heaved himself forward. He buried his long nose in my butt, licking and slurping. I felt the elongated tongue snake forward and push against my tight hole, shoving with such authority that it finally wiggled its way in. Micky ate out my ass with relish, making it nice and slippery for what was to come. By the time he pulled away, I was aching for more. He obliged me by sliding forward until I felt his shaft at the very opening to my hole. I shivered with anticipation, and it was with slow and cautious movements that Micky began moving into me.

Now I'm hardly a beginner at anal sex, but the sheer size of Micky's meat made me tremble with fear. I could feel it inching inwards, and my poor ass did its best to relax and open as wide as possible, but it still hurt like hell. Micky, to his credit, waited every time to let me get used to what was happening. I felt like a virgin again, but when he had slid in as far as possible, so deeply that I was sure that if I looked in the mirror I'd see his cock in my throat, the feeling that I was getting melted me to my heart. He reached around to stroke my straining meat, and I moaned in painful pleasure.

"Oh, God, Micky. I can't believe you've got the whole thing in there."

He didn't respond, except to whimper slightly in sympathy. We started rocking, and I did what I had always done sexually with Micky. I put myself completely under his control, trusting to his gentility and judgment. I was glad I did. Micky's senses allowed him to know exactly when to move and exactly when to be still. And if Micky ever ignored my comfort, I never noticed.

We fucked in a slow deliberate rhythm until we realized that dawn was about to break, at which point Micky began pounding into my ass. I felt nothing but waves of pleasure now, and a few minutes later, I felt him tense and buck. A howl burst from his throat as waves of cum came rocketing into my ass. His hands clenched on my cock, and the combination of feelings was enough to send me over the edge, just as the sun rose into the sky. We collapsed onto the bedding, Micky's body slipping rapidly back into human form. Exhausted, we both fell into a dreamless slumber. Micky's arm encircled my waist, and I felt loved and protected as I never had before.

The following two nights were a repeat performance, and I began to realize that Micky as a werewolf was just as wonderfully sexy as Micky as a human. Once he got over his initial fear of hurting me, we got back into our usual routine of alternating roughness and gentility. The nights passed too quickly for my tastes, and I found myself beginning to long for the next full moon.

Life with a werewolf has now become my norm, and Micky is just as glad not to have to spend his full moon nights hiding in dark alleys and getting chronic blue balls. Micky still models for my paintings, and if some people wonder why I've stopped working on nudes and started painting sexually explicit werewolf scenes, I just explain it as a creative phase. Micky is just as wonderful a lover as ever, and I count myself lucky to have found him. And if he's a fucking werewolf, so what? He's MY fucking werewolf.

Nobody's perfect.

Originally published in Circlet Press's Wired Hard. Reprinted with permission from the author.

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