A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn


October 24, 2010
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On the night of the full moon, all the werewolf knows is that release will come. Freedom will elope the form of it’s cage. One soul into another and then there is just the wolf.

The moon’s presence will strum along my skin, prickling it, testing it, taunting inside me, with a fiery blood that wants to surge to delight.

It’s the touch of another, wolf, my packmate Paris that abates this for me and fuels the urgency to shape shift.

There will come a crucial point in the night, when I can not hold back any longer. When I know, my body will break, if I do not succumb to the shape shift.

So we do what we must. We tease and coax one another. Because what better way is there to come into our own? It’s fun, it’s enjoyable, it’s eventual. It makes the process of the shape shift smoother.

The night after full moon, and sometimes, it still feels the same to me. I still feel the urge, the need, but my body doesn’t command me without choice. But it doesn’t mean I won’t play under the moonlight, in the embrace of it’s pressence.

The best part of lunar week, is the indulgence. The sense of escape. Burning hot with everything, that you control and slowly rid yourself of. Shackled heavily with heightened sensations and emotions.

The lust in the air is so thick it could be considered stifling, if I didn’t like the sensation of being wrapped in it. The werewolf population will ride out a lunar week, as long as they can. It’s our fun time.

The tip of a tongue trails down the back of my neck slowly.

Jules finishes speaking beside me and Paris mummers “Mmhm” against my skin then pulls away to answer Jules. I’m sitting in front of Paris, closest to Jules, as the boys lean back behind my shoulder line to talk.

Werewolves are used to close confines, to being around one another when they’re dripping in moon heat, lunar lust. But it’s the small touches, innocent enough, that set me off.

It’s familiar that pack wolves do this, rub and touch against one another. Regardless of who they are.

Jules doesn’t mean it, but my brain is elsewhere having very naughty thoughts, as the two men behind me, talk, their heads close together.

Jules’s finger tips, rest right at the side of my thigh. Just touching, barely touching. Resting on the seat we all sit on. His shoulder, brushes against me as he holds his conversation behind my back.

I have no idea what they’re talking about, I haven’t been paying attention to that. My mind is firing on touch, scent and building want. Still. I need my fill, again.

I need to get a grip.

I pick up my champagne. The cool glass is heaven to touch and gives me enough focus again, to drag my mind out from the after glow of two and half days of having the Manhattan Maen Alpha all to myself.

It doesn’t matter that we’re back in the thick of pack again, because when the evening closes down on us all, I will have him again. And that’s what keeping me patient right now. As Paris’s hand slips under one side of my dress and around my leg. I find myself moving my leg slightly, more open for him.

Encouraging him to do what I think he’s going to do, right there under Jules nose, out of sight, under the table. Because he can sense my relentless want to keep this fire between us going.

You see it’s the touches. Small touches, that burn, drive and sate us. It’s the small touches, his touches on me, my touch against him, that contain, control and release, us, and our werewolves.

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