A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

At Play

October 8, 2009
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We were playing a few nights ago. It was more than fun.

It was…involved.

I decided to meet Conall at Burning Ground rather than have him come and get me as usual.

I walked in and I swear I heard him hold his breath for a second.
Which is good, really, because I was going to some effort for an effect as it were. His eyes connected with mine and I smirked before looking away. Like I hadn’t really seen him, like I was actually looking around, for someone else.

I kept walking as I pretended he wasn’t there, staring at me. His eyes running over the shiny, red, patent heels I was wearing, up along my black fishnet stockings. Blocking most of me with my highly fashionable overcoat.

I almost laughed as I walked past him, where he was standing around with other people. Most of whom I didn’t recognize. As I slowly untied the belt around my waist and slid my coat off my shoulders. I walked to the coat room and deposited the coat. Ensuring my heels tapped loudly along the floor, echoing my confidence as I kept ignoring Conall. Giving him, now, only a view from behind.

I was wearing a short enough, black dress to taunt him.

I went to the bar, it was at least three deep. A busy night, the crowd were eager and full, the music was loud and pumping. You could feel the bass reverb through the floor up into you. Connecting you instantly with a beat, as if your body need further rhythm pounding it’s senses. Making you even more restless than you already are for the nights festivities to truly begin.

I was waiting in the crowd, amongst them, surrounded by warm bodies, smelling a mixture of musk, cinnamon, spice and all manner of delicious flavors when I was pushed into, bumped from behind. I turned my head to look over my shoulder around the same time he pressed his hardening groin into my bottom.

Conall murmured at me.
“Just keep looking ahead, like your actually waiting to be served a drink.”
So I turned my attention back to the bar.

I felt the press of his fly seam of his jeans against me. His chest pressed up against my back. Hard, heated up. His right hand slipped around the top of my thigh, as people around us continued to stand in a crush, waiting to be served. Trying to capture the bar attendant’s attention.

Conall’s hand snaked around under the front of my dress.
I bite back a strangled gasp.

He was looking over my shoulder at the bar. As if he was any other patron just wanting a drink. “You’re going to be lucky if I don’t do you here and now.”

“You call that lucky?” I muttered through smiling teeth, watching the movement of the bar attendant and trying to open up my leg stance more in the space I was in, unsuccessfully.

He would have replied, only then the bar attendant finished serving the people in front of us and looked up at us both, expectantly. Like he, was on a schedule.

Conall pressed harder into me and leaned right over my shoulder at the same time, holding up his free left hand with money in it and yelling a drinks order at the bar attendant who nodded his head at us, to indicate he understood.

“I’m gonna be generous. I know how much you love the club scene during lunar week. You just got here, but you had me waiting for an hour. Then you walk in like you own the joint and everyone should bow down to you…Your making me harder every second. I’ve ordered you a drink. You get to have your drink, and then I get to have you.”

I would have responded but it was difficult to think beyond his touch even amongst the crowd we were engulfed in. Breathing normally and trying not to looked flush, was hard enough as it were.

He pulled back when the drinks were placed in front of us. The sudden loss of his body heat and connection was instantly maddening. I could’ve hit him. Probably should have. Prick tease.

I pushed my way back through the throng of the crowd to him, as he turned, smiled and handed me my drink. Conall raised his beer bottle to my champagne glass. His eyes ran over my outfit again and he said “With the heels and fishnets on.”


Best part of Lunar Week

October 4, 2009
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Burning Ground is an interesting club. It gets quite a mixed audience during Lunar Week. Where as The Reflex is for the younger crowd, and Disco and Rhyme is more my sister and her friends crowd and their nostalgia over the 1980’s music scene, Burning Ground is neither. Or rather, it could be both.

Everyone goes there, there’s no specific age group or music type or look to it. Which I’ve always found quite fascinating. It’s kind of like, anything goes is the golden rule there.

So second night of Lunar Week and that’s where Conall and I decide to be. You see, we don’t necessarily lock ourselves in our houses when Lunar Week starts up each month.

What would the point to that be?
We’d probably destroy everything in the house, in the process of shifting or coming to, in werewolf form.

The clubs are like foreplay for werewolves.
We’re all riding a wave of sexual wants, needs, desires and fantasies during Lunar Week. So we start our evenings off at the clubs, not so much to get us in the mood for sorting out those sexual needs. Rather for heightening all that sexual tension that we carry around with us, in the daylight hours of Lunar Week.

A pack atmosphere filled with heightened werewolf pheromones, it’s like we all use one another in there. Of course, all the dancing, sweating, grinding, rubbing against one another, adds to that desire, till you can feel it dripping down your skin. The sweat of sex, seeping further into you until you really can’t take no more, at least, publicly.

Although this is not always the case.

Sometimes you need to go with just how you feel.

A darkened corner in the club, and everyone is too busy doing their own thing to notice you and yours.

Eyes close briefly as a tongue licks up the side of my neck. His teeth sink into the back of my neck. He’s in no mood to wait and be restrained. He’s been patient enough all day. Going about normal life, working, doing the daily routine until he could be himself at night, with me, in Burning Ground. Till he could get me here to do just this. What he wants.

He wants me.

Hands run up the side of my body, holding me tightly, controlled with need to soak in the feel of my body in his hands. His thumbs brush the underside of my breasts and his teeth get harder, sinking into the skin across my back shoulder blades.

Serves me right for wearing a halter neck top.

Normally about this time, when his hard body is pressing into me, making sure I can feel what he isn’t verbalising to me, and he’s touching me so much, we would leave and head back to Conall’s place.

Normally I’m the instigator of this routine behaviour. After all, the boy has to shape shift for every night of the lunar week, I don’t. Especially not on the second night.

Sex helps shape shifting.

Well more precisely being with another wolf, helps shape shifting. There’s a feeling of safety and recognition and protection, which makes the werewolf calm down and so it doesn’t necessarily feel like you’re body’s being torn and ripped apart from the inside out. It tends to go a lot smoother if you are with another werewolf.

Add sex to that mix and it’s even better, smoother for those that need to shape shift around their partner.

It’s almost seamless and effortless and for the best part of all, fast.

A normal shift for a beta werewolf can take fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on the werewolf and circumstances. When you partner up and introduce sexual release into the mix, a shift is more like two to five minutes, max.

Conall and I know, exactly how long we have to tease out the sexual foreplay before he has to shape shift.

So he rides it out, because he can, because he wants to get me as worked up as him about what we’re both thinking of doing in the dark, at Burning Ground.

I don’t need to tell myself that this just for his benefit, as the back of my skirt slides up out of his way. Because it’s for my needs as much as his.

I may not need to shape shift, but I need to be with my werewolf.

Insanity would be what it feels like to be soaked in the air filled lust of the clubs during Lunar Week and then be alone and do nothing about it. I mean, the atmosphere the pack of werewolves creates in heat, is maddeningly delicious and touching it, tasting it, just once, would never be enough to be satisfying.

It’s like a powerful aphrodisiac, the body craves and responds to. It’s something I’d rather not, go without out.

After all, that’s the best part of Lunar Week.

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