A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

This skin

October 21, 2010

At the best of times during lunar week, werewolves are driven to fulfil their baser desires and needs.

The driving force behind the lunar tidal waves that shock our bodies again and again, are pheromones. Very powerful ones. So it’s not that surprising, when there are times, where we literally can’t keep our paws off one another, Paris and I.

Although to be honest, I’m the one who is worst out of us. He has more control than I think I can muster and the patience almost of a saint, I think sometimes.

But that can be worn down, if you’ve willing to see it through. And if you’re me, the one he desires, considers his.

After our previous night’s efforts, I decided being dragged out of a warm, happy place full of love, bed, was not on. So I trapped Paris to bed for the entire day. We ordered in for food and other than modest sheets covering us, we remain naked.

My teeth want to mark his beautifully smooth skin, I try to sink my teeth a little into the skin on his upper thigh and he chuckles.

“That kind of tickles.”

So I use my tongue to trace my teeth indentations around the marking. Which just makes him groan impatiently at me.

I sweep little moist kisses along his skin, to the sensitive skin between his thighs. My tongue traces a direct line along the side of him, to the top. I look back down at him, over his body as I sink my mouth around him, slowly devouring.

A loud sigh escapes him as his eyes widen, watching, just my mouth, he’s barely noticing anything else, as it moves over him. Hypnotically it repeats the movement.

The slow, languorous movement, of driving pressure through him, is maddening to both of us. But who wants this to stop so suddenly? Neither of us. Because it’s a benefit to both of us, to what we want.

We’ve both got a sole focus here. Mine is to drive him as insane as possible. His is the same, by watching what I’ll do for him, to him. Visual clues to a destination, that we both want to reach, but are in no hurry to get to.

You see, it’s the pheromones. They make me want to continue in some form or other, to touch his skin. It’s an Erotic ambrosia that the moon fuels our minds and that of the werewolves contained within with.

I could touch with my hands, let them skim over all that hard muscle, touch and flick his nipples. Trace the patterns, outlines of muscle, of shape. Or I could rub the curves of my softer body along his, pressing my breasts into his chest. Rub myself against him, without him being in me. Setting off erogenous zones that require as much attention as the rest of either of us. Straining my nipples onto his smooth skin.

Or I could use my mouth.

Taste him as well as touch him with my teeth and tongue. Of course, when I started down this path, it was about the time I wished I had the ability to do a partial shape shift so I could use my werewolf fangs on him. But alas, this beta wolf can not do that. But knows from experience, how turned on she gets, when the Alpha werewolf under her, does that to her.

So I offer my mouth, willing. A supplication to consume his body tenderly. Devouring him, in a moist heat. Paris’s hips jerk upwards slightly with one movement. But I’m not done yet, I want more.

Pheromone addiction or something. Well it’s not me that wants more, not just me. The wolf, his and mine, they’re so close and yet not connected enough. They need each other, I can sense not only his restraint to let me take him as far as he can with this slow ride of sensuality. But other feelings, near the surface, the scent of fur is becoming heavier to me. Mixing more with the amber and almonds I know that is his scent.

The werewolf is on the rise.

It’s pressing at him, to bring on the shape shift. To let it out to find the wolf it can sense within me. The pull of the moon, high in the sky is coursing through both beings. The sound of blood rushing through our ears, is just a small prelude. As the night wears on, our bodies become hotter. The blood driving through us, feeling more like a liquid heat of essential gratification.

It’s the deciding factor in who will win out here. Will it tip the power of the shape shift to the werewolf, so that Paris feels not just compelled to shape shift, but unable not to? This skin will out. It’s the testing ground for conceding all or holding just the slightest bit of him back.

Have I gone too far in straining his patience for so long? My mouth curves into a smile around him, as I plunge deeper.

When can a werewolf ever go too far?

Love is Noise

March 10, 2010
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I held my own pretty nicely against The Manhattan Maen matriarch and head D’arenberg Alpha.

I wasn’t exactly, thrown to the wolves so to speak at dinner. She proved to be a hard-ass who was of course, rather protective of her son and his interests. Romantic and otherwise.

But Paris is a big boy and he runs his own life and he wasn’t afraid to pull her back when he thought she was overstepping her mark with me.

Between him playing referee and me not whimpering and backing down like an animal being preyed upon, we put on quite a show of defiance that entertained both his father and brother. Who politely chuckled their way through dinner behind raised hands and ducked heads.

Because of too much red wine, we ended up staying over. Has to be a good sign, that they drank the wine I bought. Right?

Paris got into a rather hushed and heated argument with his mother about our sleeping arrangements. She said I was going to sleep in the guest room, Paris said I was more than a guest and would sleep with him in his room. His mother then pulled out the old “this is my house” rule. Paris replied that if I slept in the guest room, he would sleep there with me. I was his packmate and his mother needed to respect that and that we are adults and will be sleeping together, in the same bed.

I could hear her say “Packmate? Don’t you think that’s a little strong a term to use, on her?”

“No, it’s not.” Paris fired back at her.

I of course, eavesdropped out of view, spying on the whole clashing of wolf egos.
Alpha’s are known to have a wicked temperament, and the more of them you put together in strained circumstance, the more explosive it can get.

We ended up staying in his old room. Together.
As I pulled off my top, and dropped it on the dresser drawer, Paris stilled, looking at me through dark and hungry eyes.

The way he stills is incredible. I mean, it’s like barely breathing. He goes into this ‘mode’ of stillness. It’s perfectly controlled and uniquely skilled. Not many could be so subtle and still project presence that consumes your conciousness.

I could never feel scared of that look, the one that says he’s turned predator and going hunting for me. It ignites a flame inside me. Makes my skin, heat up and my mouth goes dry in anticipation of what’s coming my way, because of him.

He was half undressed, his tie was off, his shirt untucked and undone, as he stood, breathing evenly, just watching me. His eyes tracked the movement of my hands as I slid down my skirt over my hips, stepping out of the material on the ground.

I was slow, and deliberate in my movement. As I stood on the opposite side of the bedroom, around the far side of the bed between us, in my boots and black see through underwear with purple ribbon edging.

“New?” He asked me softly, his eyes dropped lower and back up to my breasts again.
“I like.” He murmured as if distracted by the sight of lingerie wrapping my body was a tasty treat, he had yet to sample.

He crooked a finger at me, indicating I should go to him. I walked around the bed to him. He let out a soft rush of air, and sighed as he ran his nose up along the side of my neck, right under my hair line. My breasts pushed into his chest, slowly pushing against him as I tried to breathe calmly while my pulse raced.
His lips kissed my shoulder, his hands pulled at the bra straps, ever so delicately, like the material was a caress ghosting over my skin, alerting my skin to prickle it tightly, aware of what I was getting into with him.

His head dipped and his lips sucked my brazenly exposed skin and I gasped as his tongue played. Running his shape shifted fangs over me, ever-so-lightly. Werewolf fangs, can be even more sensitive to sensation, through sex, than human teeth. So it was a win, win for both of us, that he was using them on me.

He walked me backwards till my knees hit the edge of the bed and we fell down onto it. Paris moved over me, those hands unhooking the sides of my knickers and pulling them down my legs, over my boots, until the skimpy material was flung aside. Wouldn’t want it to get in the way. Fingers, slid along soft skin and causing me to moan lightly. Which caused him to lift his head and look into my eyes.

“We’re going to play a little game of who can be the loudest.” He trailed his tongue around my nipple.
I groaned out loud.

“I think you can be louder than that.”

“Oh really?” I asked a little breathlessly as he moved those fingers in heated skin and my body filled with a sudden need for more. My breath rushing out in a gasp at his touch.

“Yes, I want everyone in this house, to know exactly what we are doing in here. What I’m doing to you. Consider your goal achieved when Wiatt bangs on the wall next door to us and tells us to keep it down.”

I started to laugh but the sound fell off my lips as his mouth started tasting me. He raised my leg up high, running a hand over my boot and grabbing the high heel of it. Using it as a handle to direct my leg where he wanted it. Above his head, in the air seemed like a good place.

My head tilted back and my mouth opened to greet the rest of the night before us.

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