Every year for Halloween I try to take an evil/scary creature and sexify it by writing some erotica. In past years we’ve done a succubus, a siren, a vampire and (my favourite from a filth perspective) a zombie. This year, @OnQueerStreet suggested I take on a werewolf, and I liked the idea of writing something romantic and loving that had hidden teeth. So here goes: The Relentless Moon. Werewolf erotica, for Halloween 2020.
The Relentless Moon
It’s the moon. The beautiful, evil, relentless fucking moon. The moon is his curse, so he curses it back. Yells and weeps and scratches at the door of the windowless room. Shrieks at that full moon he cannot see through the pockmarked plaster walls. Tears shreds from the thick bedlinen, whimpers and pleads. Pisses himself then chokes on sobs of shame.
The moon. The relentless fucking moon.
He doesn’t know what day it is, but she keeps him informed. She, faithful and kind and timid in his presence. Magical and patient and wise.
He looks forward to the hours they spend together – each day those hours seem to rush by more quickly, though she assures him they take the same time. It’s hard to judge, with no windows and no light. He doesn’t have a clock. The clock would only make things harder – he’d watch the hands tick away each minute of his life, each hour. Each day. He’s saving the lives of others, that’s purpose enough – too much to expect him to also endure reminders of the life that he’s wasting: his own.
The room he’s in is a pitiable, miserable hole. Once the back room of a dank clothing chain, it’s now boarded up. A victim of recession, or the plague, or whatever new hell 2020 has cooked up for its subjects while he hunkers down away from those rolling horrors. Hoping against hope he won’t turn into the next nightmare this year visits on everyone. Inside, the room itself is grotty – grey, industrial carpet, holes in the walls where thin panels were once fitted to divide it into cubicles. Mirrors long since ripped out and thick curtains torn down. Fluorescent lights which flicker and fuck with his mind. It used to be a changing room. How apt.
There’s a makeshift chamber between his room and outside – roughly constructed from concrete breeze blocks, with a heavy, locked door on one side. It’s a grim place, but safe because he cannot escape it, and she does her best to brighten it for him. She brings blankets and cushions in bright fabrics, colourful pictures to cover the stained plaster walls. One day, when she opens the inner door, he thrills to see her standing in the midway chamber, grinning and looking pleased with herself, toting books upon books upon books. And, of course, his greatest joy is her – the way she is with him. How she cares for him. If she could cure his curse with kindness, he knows she would have done so long ago.
But despite her spells, despite the potions, despite the increasingly-torturous rituals she recites from ancient papers in an effort to make him safe, the fact remains: he’s dangerous.
He remembers vivid snapshots from the last night he was outside: running, free and wild and angry through the streets. Snarling, growling, sinking sharp yellow teeth into succulent, forbidden flesh. He doesn’t remember…
don’t say who don’t say who don’t say who
…what it was he ate, but he remembers how the blood felt, warm and rich, coating his rough tongue. He does not remember where he changed, but he can still feel the cold night air on his shivering, almost-mortal skin as the fur sprouted thickly and his limbs lengthened and twisted and grew. The weight of his thickening cock between his legs. The power – the raw power – that throbbed in his muscles and flooded his veins, pushed his body outwards and upwards until he was gigantic. Monstrous.
He cannot remember everything about that night, but he does remember, post-kill, that he howled at the moon.
The moon. The fucking moon.
She brings him food every day. More food than he can eat as a mortal, wheeled to him on a trolley – piled high and served hot.
“It’s for your strength,” she tells him, before casting her eyes downwards as if ashamed. In human form, he can comfort her – hold her in his arms like the fragile bird she seems, and tell her that he’s grateful. The life he has here is a safe one, and through her it can sometimes bring joy. Like the joy of laughing with her as he shares nuggets from the books she brings, or the joy of seeing her arrive with new artwork. Or of tucking in to a trolley piled so high with food he couldn’t hope to eat it in a week. The pleasure of lying naked in her arms, as they sigh together and long for the day when he is cured and human and free. Dreaming together about the life they’ll live when he can be set free of this grubby, lifesaving cage.
She’s good to him, far better than she needs to be. Seeing as he almost fucking killed her.
She was there for his first change. He can’t remember how or why – the brain changes too, and you’re only left with snippets. A snarl here, a throat ripped there, running on huge padded feet. But he remembers her: the girl who worked at the coffee shop. Kind eyes, small hands, red shirt. The only one who did not run from him as he lumbered towards her, snarling and growling and ready to taste the hot tang of blood. He remembers his wolf-brain puzzling at the fact that she did not run. Cocking his head to one side as she stood there, in her work uniform and branded face mask, calmly staring him down like he were a mugger without a knife. He whimpered, puppyish in her mesmerising gaze, before running past her to the prey that fluttered and shrieked more temptingly. Prey that smelled like fear.
When he next saw her in human form, she made no mention of it: why would she? He was clean-shaven and stuttery and shy. If she’d known the wolf was him she’d have said something. Instead she gave the same blank-eyes she gave every customer. The ones that look kind but do not twinkle – showing you the barista is friendly but never your friend.
So when he woke up, after the fourth change, to find her kneeling over him, his first absurd thought was about coffee, and those little donuts that they sell in bags of three. When she told him ‘I’m a witch’ it made absurd sense. If werewolves can roam the streets of Manchester, why not witches who serve lattes? She explained things to him further, as he gulped down the coffee she brought, and let himself relax back into human feelings. Like shyness, shame and later – though not much later – lust. She stroked his head and called him ‘poor puppy’ and it made him feel less monstrous, so he clung to her and cried and cried and cried. Her hands stroked his human flesh. She gripped his cock with warm fingers and squeezed him hard.
That was twenty changes ago, she tells him. Twenty months. Twenty moons. Twenty soul-wrenching full-mooned nights since she saved him – no, saved them – the people outside. The ones battling plague and penury, whose throats he would have ripped out without her protection.
Since then, they’ve embarked on ritual after ritual. Trying, and so far failing, to find a way to stop the change. Blood rites and spells and potions. One after the other after the other, each time hoping that one of them will be the cure. But each time when she comes in to say the moon is full, and collars him, they sit together waiting to see if the magic has worked… and it never has. He feels that telltale tearing that begins in his heart as it starts to grow… the agonising stabbing of bones getting longer in his flesh… the throb of muscles bursting forth to stretch his human skin.
She holds his head in her lap and gently strokes that skin as it sprouts coarse, dark fur. Then she chains him by the collar to a mount point on the wall – to keep herself safe as the moon’s power takes hold.
The moon. Curse the moon. Fuck the moon.
Between changes, they are lovers. She gently covers his body with kisses, reminding him what humans do – what humans are. And somewhere in his fucked-up heart he wonders if this is a crucial part of the magic. Perhaps she doesn’t love him like she says she does, not really, she’s just trying to keep him grounded in what it is to be a man. A person. Her warm lips at his throat, her fingers squeezing blood and pleasure into his dick. The way she lowers herself so gently onto him, so he can almost feel her heartbeat thumping through her wet cunt. Those are part of a broader spell she’s weaving, one that will help drag him, one day, back to blissful mortality.
She takes the lead here, always. He is still too frightened of himself, even as a human. The memory of power in his muscles and meat between his teeth thrums through his body, and he is frightened – so frightened – of hurting her. Of one day feeling that tingling rush in the pit of his stomach that tells him he’s about to come, and in that rush losing all control – letting go and grabbing her and fucking hard up into her as his cock thickens and swells and his skin sprouts fur. Gripping the meat of her arse with fingers that are turning into claws. Growling at the first delicious waves of pleasure, and sinking mouth – now jaws – into her throat. Blood pumping hard and heavy from the wound in her neck, her squeals of pleasure silenced as his cock pumps spunk – hot and dirty and inhuman – into her cunt.
He’s scared – too scared – so he lets her take the lead. Sit herself, tiny and meek and kind and eager, into his lap, and rock back and forth on him until they both start to twitch and moan with pleasure. He lets her take his cock in her mouth, lap slowly at him until he cries out with joy. He, faithful and true and panting, curls up on the floor between her spread legs, head in her lap. Trembling with fear that he might just bite down into the slick meat of her cunt, he takes assurance from her delicate hands stroking his hair, and loves that she sighs those small sighs as her ecstasy builds. Adores the way she calls him ‘good boy’ and ‘puppy’ as he laps at her clit with his tongue.
On some days he lets himself acknowledge his deep fear: that she’s faking all that love. The tiny part of him that remembers wolfishness instinctively recoils at her joy. Perhaps she doesn’t love him after all. She just cares. Wants to help. This is part of a wider spell to remind him he’s human.
He’s almost as frightened that she doesn’t love him as he is terrified of that full moon.
And perhaps it’s partly to test her love that he eventually agrees to her strangest request. The ritual she thinks might make the difference:
She wants to fuck him while he’s changing.
It might work, but it’s like the other spells: part research, part guess, mostly hope. When she tells him what she wants to do, she’s all awkward blushes and stammering uncertainty. But nothing else has worked so far – the blood, the torture, the potions, the spells. And as she explains, in that trembling-nervous voice, love is sometimes stronger than magic. The strongest magic she knows.
He knows too. He’s compelled by her.
Before the act itself, she brings more food. A mountain of meat, to satisfy inhuman appetites. “For strength,” she says, “and also safety. I thought if you were sated with meat it might help you feel more comfortable.”
She does not say ‘less likely to rip out my throat’ but that’s what he’s thinking as he chews through steak and chicken. Turning his own stomach as his teeth click greedily on bone.
He senses something’s shifted in the way she is around him. She’s still shy, for sure, but with a little hint of confidence. Is it their upcoming fuck? She’s scared for her life, but eager for his cock. He shakes off the arrogant thought – physically, like a terrier killing a rat – quickly twists his head from side to side then looks at her again.
No, it’s real: there’s a glint there in her eye.
“You want this, don’t you?” he asks incredulously. It’s inconceivable to him that she could want the monster as much as the man.
“I do,” she whispers, “but don’t worry. I’ll stop you before you hurt me. I have the power. I know it.”
That glint in her eye again. A flash of something wolfish in her own smile. She pushes a plate of dripping ribs towards him, urging: “Eat up, eat up, pup. The moon is rising.”
When he’s finished, she takes away the trolley, but instead of locking him in as she usually would, she just leaves the dishes waiting in the chamber beyond his room. The airlock place between safety and the outside. The place he has not been into for twenty excruciating months.
She leaves the door to that open, as if she’s pondering escape.
She checks her watch: almost dusk. The flickering fluorescents might stay the same but night must be falling outside. He kneels at her feet like the puppy she’s trained him to be, and despite the fear of hurting her, he rubs his face against her thighs.
“It’s time,” she tells him gently. And he whimpers with lust and terror and abject, devoted love.
She strips him slowly, taking care to fold his clothes in neat piles on top of the bright-coloured blankets. Taking pains to kiss each part of his body that she exposes so slowly and carefully. He can feel the pulse of blood as it starts to fill his cock, and the ache of his heart as it begins to grow with the moon.
For the first time, he doesn’t curse the moon. He wants the moon to come, begs her to come. He twitches and whimpers with each kiss his beautiful witch lays upon his body and hates himself for wanting that moon to rise. His body to change. His limbs to lengthen and muscles thicken and cock to hang heavy and ready for her to fuck.
The collar she puts on him hangs absurdly round his weak, still-human neck, and the chains are far too heavy for his frame. So heavy that they pin him to the ground, till he can hardly move at all. But they’ll be lighter soon. He’s changing, he can feel it.
“Oh how you grow,” she whispers, awestruck. “How large you grow already.”
She takes his cock in her hand and squeezes, as she did that very first time. Tiny fingers, delicate hands, massaging hot half-human blood into a cock which thickens each second. Her eyes grow wide and he looks at her with loyalty and love. She does not remove her clothes – not a stitch – just lifts her skirt so she can straddle him. Hooks one thumb around the crotch of her knickers, pulls it aside. In the eyesight that is blurring as his sockets and eyeballs change shape, he can just make out the dark pink skin at the glistening lips of her cunt.
And the parts of human left inside his brain make moans that sound like growls.
When she slides onto his cock, she lets out a gasp – fear? Pain? Delight? – he is not sure he can determine which emotion is which now so much of his humanity has left him. When she runs her hands from his stomach to his chest, he feels the telltale pull of coarse fur instead of skin. When she slides down to the base of it, his engorged cock throbs larger – stretching her wider as she rides him with ambiguous cries.
His hands, now paws, grow gnarled yellow claws and it takes all his strength to keep from touching her. He grits his teeth – big teeth, my my – against the need to tear her blood-filled throat. The chains will hold him down for now, but they’re growing lighter as his wolf-neck thickens inside the collar. As his cock thickens inside his lover, his witch.
She rides him harder, gripping the collar with both hands so she can lift and lower herself onto him. Part man, part monster, all hers. As she rides him she whispers spells, and shrieks, and digs her fingernails into the flesh beneath his fur. The smack of flesh-on-flesh is muffled now, the moaning growls of pleasure turned to snarls of fear.
Whatever he is, he is barely human. Whoever he is, he’s hers.
Turning her face to the ceiling and closing her eyes in pleasure, the witch grips his collar with both hands and lets herself go: riding him, thighs-clamped to hold him still, her strength in this moment almost superhuman. Gushing hot come all over his now-monstrous prick, twitching tight around him as if her cunt will never let go.
When she’s done, she looks down, panting, at what she’s made.
What she’s claimed.
And the tiny part of him that’s still a person sees her grin a brand new grin. One that makes him shudder.
Climbing off brusquely, she wipes the mess of her cunt with the palm of her hand and holds it out for him to lick. He laps obediently with his rough, doglike tongue.
Still grinning that ice-cold grin, his witch takes the key from the food-stacked trolley and unlocks the outer door. It makes a sound he hasn’t heard so clearly since the night he first arrived: the ‘click’ that signals outside. Freedom. Danger.
He whimpers, again. Still fearing the moon. The fucking moon. Relentless moon.
“Poor silly puppy,” she tells him, swinging the door wide. He is dazzled by a shaft of blinding, shocking sunlight.
“It was never the moon.”
He cowers, blinking, whimpering. Pissing himself and choking on snarls of shame. He has almost changed, almost gone, but somewhere in his soul there is resistance. He nurtures it, or tries to, even as his teeth snap and his throat growls and his stomach hungers hungers for meat. The witch is still speaking.
“The spells weren’t there to cure you, pup: they were there to make you mine.”
He tries to shrink away from her, but realises he can’t. He’s powerless as she grabs him by the collar and yanks him upright. He yaps. Whimpers. His claws scruff and tug at the carpet as he tries to keep himself from running out that door. Trembling with the effort of staying inside.
Outside, in the daylight, he can hear crowds. With the outer door now open his sharp, predator’s hearing thrills at the longed-for sound of people. Rumbling, happy chatter coming from tender throats. They aren’t locked down – they’re out! Everywhere! Fresh-smelling and succulent and filled with blood blood blood. The part of him that is still him resists resists as he strains to tear himself away from that open door. To stop himself from tearing out those throats.
“I need more of you,” she tells him, in the drawl of one who’s long grown bored of waiting. “Now you’re trained, I want more. A whole litter.”
He whimpers. Straining. Resisting resisting resisting so hard he thinks he’ll snap in two.
Resist. Resist. Rrrrr.
Reaching out to pet the head that he cannot bring himself to turn to bite her hand, she tells him:
“I am the fucking moon, pup. I always was the moon.”
At that, she unclips the chain and untethers her wolf, points a delicate finger at the door. The people. The throats.
And as something inside him finally, thoroughly snaps, she tells him:
If you liked this werewolf erotica you should check out some other creepy audio porn stories over on the halloween tag, like Call of the Beast by Victoria Blisse, Haunting You by Molly Moore, or G is for ghost ship by Ella Scandal. If you mostly enjoyed this story for the fact that she fucked him while his cock was growing (no judgment, I did too) you may also enjoy this non-Halloween-themed monster cock fantasy)