An Excerpt from Emily Veinglory's “Wildest Dreams” in A Kiss at Midnight
Luke stepped out of the truck and took a deep breath. Salt air and the dark, moist smell of foliage. His inadequate human hair stood erect along his arms, and the dark pathways beckoned to him.
“Go ahead,” Charles said in an amused tone. “Anything that gets you out of your clothes seems like a good idea to me.”
Luke looked at him leaning at ease against the side of the truck, and it was like saccharine, all taste and no nutrition. Coyotes did not run in packs; they ran together a while, and then apart. Their bonds were well meant, but transient, and did not answer the deep need for fellowship their larger brethren felt.
Luke popped open the buttons of his shirt, ignoring Charles's curious gaze. The change advanced slowly, the soft fur pushing through his skin, first the feather-light down and then the wiry overcoat. His feet shrank out of his shoes, and he tugged off his trousers with clawed, foreshortened fingers. He passed right through the wolfman shape into the true wolf.
After a brief pause, Charles made his change also, to his slighter form, hardly distinguishable from a bushytailed German shepherd in the dusk. Flooded by the keen scent of earth and falling night, Luke turned to Charles. The coyote knew this area better and was due some deference for that, even though it was not the true wilds and a coyote was only a wolf by courtesy.
Charles set out with the sly-footed walk that was the trademark of his kind, silent in the damp pile of fallen leaves. Luke followed. The woods were almost silent. It was too close to the city for prey other than elusive birds, gone to roost in the darkness. There was only a shallow canopy, above a deeply scored trail, but wild enough to his nose—as any food to a starving man. He followed silently at Charles's shoulder, his body following the swift turns of the trail faster than conscious thought could calculate. Charles loped on easily, familiar with the trail. Luke began to flag a little, his sedentary life taking its toll on his strength in any form. They passed out of the ferns and into the arms of a small beach. The smoldering stars were revealed and lit the beach with a dim blue fire that reflected off the water.
Charles skipped sideways and gave out a yip and a piping howl. Luke added his deeper and more sonorous voice. All his loneliness poured out into the sound like honey, sweet in its sorrow. The coyote fell silent, casting him a surprised glance. Charles morphed halfway back, his wiry body taking on human proportions though his face was still clearly canine and the fur was thick all across his body. He reached out, running his clawed fingers through the thick ruff on the nape of Luke's neck. With the other he drew out a small packet he had been keeping in his mouth. There was a glint of condom foil.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “You're not alone, not today.”
Luke was sad already for how fleetingly he had this touch; even now while he had it, it was gone. He leaned against that hand like a petted dog. Closing his eyes, he let his form move back towards human so he matched Luke. His larger form, swathed in a thicker pelt, gleamed gunmetal grey in the starlight.
Their eyes met, brighter than the distant stars. Charles wrapped his arms around Luke in a gesture that was at first merely conciliatory. Luke pressed into him, turning. Charles leaned back under him against the cool sand. Luke felt the harsh granules between his fingers, his hands on each side of Charles's body. The coyote was yielding, showing his throat. Luke ran his rough tongue over the side of Charles's face, the sensitive flesh inside his ear. He combed his teeth through the short, soft fur on his neck.
Charles reached up and around his body, kneading Luke's tense back muscles. Gradually Luke relaxed his body, descending to mesh with the smaller one beneath him.
“Oh, yes,” Charles growled. “Give me a house of straw any day.”
The coyote was small, but wiry and strong. He turned the tables on Luke and rolled him over onto the ground. He was tentative at first—seeing how Luke would react. Luke melted back into human form to feel the touch closer upon his skin, and Charles matched him.
There was damp sand against his back, but the night was not cold. He felt Charles's palm run up between his thighs, the coyote's forefinger running down the sensitive crease between his balls and his ass. No mystery what it sought.
Luke felt a little distant from his hungry body. He did not feel quite himself, and all the jigsaw pieces of fingertip touches and starry sky, the sound of water and harsh breath, and the sure knowledge of what would happen now…It did not add up to nearly enough to fill the emptiness inside him. He offered himself freely to further encroachment, but already knew it did not really answer his need.
Charles ventured one finger gently, teasingly. Luke went still, eyes closed, and listened to his body. The coyote pressed a little further and withdrew, then two fingers, probing. Luke consciously relaxed and let it happen. He kept this eyes closed as he heard Charles tearing the condom packet with his other hand and teeth, fumbling in his haste.
The next thing he felt was not a finger, but a stiff cock sheathed in slick latex. It was broad enough to stretch Luke further as he pushed his shoulders back against the ground and felt the sand grind beneath him, taking on his shape.
Charles crouched hard against him, pushing down into Luke's body, touching him sweetly on the first drive. Luke clutched at him, driving him on. The coyote needed little encouragement, but he was careful of the angle, striking shivering sparks of sensitivity with each short stroke.
Luke lifted his knees as high as he could and wound his hands in Charles's rough hair. He wanted more; he wanted to feel lust, passion, something great enough to sate the emptiness that gnawed within him, if only for any hour. If only for a minute. Charles's body slammed against him, not so calculated now, deeper up inside him and faster. Luke's hands drifted down Charles's sides, feeling the curves of his thinly fleshed ribcage and curling over his small, muscular ass. He pulled in time with the coyote's thrusts, digging his short nails in and urging his lover to be hard, to be rough.Copyright © Emily Veinglory, December 2005
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