Under the Moon, I Surrendered to the Wolf Who Dominated Me

Aliento de Niebla waited at the edge of the forest, transformed into a wolf. He had chosen that spot on purpose: far enough from his pack and from any human village that no one would suspect a thing. Every full moon he repeated the same journey, and every full moon his stomach tightened the same way.

They had been meeting there for two winters. Both of them excused themselves to their own people with the same worn-out lie: they needed time alone to run, to hunt, to clear their heads. Neither had yet gathered the courage to confess what truly dragged them to that clearing month after month.

Among the werewolves, bedding another male was taboo. Bedding someone of their own kind, doubly so. Three hundred years ago they would have been torn apart in the clan square. Now, perhaps, they would only be exiled. Perhaps they might even be tolerated, because the tribes were growing less rigid. But “perhaps” was not a word to bet your life on, and so they kept hiding beneath the moon.

It had not always been this way. They met at a conclave between packs, two young males forced to share a tent for three nights of truce. The first they spent in silence, back to back. The second they talked until dawn. The third, Obsidian Paw took his wrist when he got up, and nothing else was needed. Since then, the full moon stopped being a curse and became an appointment.

His nose caught the scent before he heard the footsteps. Adrenaline, thick and hot, mixed with upturned earth. Obsidian Paw was coming running from far away, as always, devouring the distance so he would not arrive late. The smell was so dense that a couple of deer bolted from the undergrowth in panic.

In less than a minute, he was in front of him.

He did not smell only of running. Beneath the adrenaline throbbed something darker: desire. Aliento de Niebla knew his lover had gone an entire month without touching himself, that he imposed that abstinence on himself so that every encounter would come at the edge of madness. Just imagining it sent a shiver crawling up his belly and made his hind legs tremble.

Today I’m not going to make it easy for him either.

Even though his whole body begged to be dominated, he could not stand surrendering without a fight. He knew he was going to lose; he knew it before they even started. But giving in right away would give him nothing. The pleasure was in resisting, in forcing the other to wrench victory from him with bites. And, if he was lucky, in humiliating him a little along the way: making a mere bard make a warrior sweat was an affront Obsidian Paw never forgave.

Neither of them said anything. No need. They began to alter their bodies without a word, lengthening their fangs, curving their claws, sharpening every tool until it became an instrument designed more to subdue than to kill.

They leapt at once.

Both went for the other’s neck in the first clash. Their jaws collided, their teeth slid over fur and sank into flesh while claws dug into their flanks. A sharp pain ran along Aliento de Niebla’s side, intense and constant, fading at times without ever fully disappearing.

They healed quickly, too quickly for an ordinary wound to mean anything. It was enough to measure the force, to avoid striking the blow that truly killed. Obsidian Paw mastered that art better than anyone: he knew exactly how much pain to give someone he loved without crossing the line.

Aliento de Niebla fought well, but he was not his equal, and he knew it in every exchange. His lover took hits on purpose. He let him sink his teeth into his neck when he could have dodged with a lazy twist. He was masochistic enough to enjoy the punishment. But the moment the bard bit down hard enough to truly hurt, the warrior sank his paws into his back and made him let go.

They fought for several minutes. An inexperienced witness would have sworn they were killing each other. Obsidian Paw’s fur was soaked with blood, his own and the other’s, and even so he kept advancing without flinching, absorbing each slash as if it fed him. Aliento de Niebla, by contrast, was beginning to pant. His entire body burned, his legs were heavy, and each breath cost more than the last.

***

On the final charge, he felt the other’s impatience. Obsidian Paw’s member, ignored throughout the whole fight, was so hard and so heavily veined it hurt to look at. The warrior no longer wanted to play.

He came down on him with all his weight and crushed him against the damp earth, all four legs bent, belly pressed to the ground. He closed his jaws over his nape and squeezed, this time with no intention of easing off, with a pressure that made it unmistakably clear who was in charge there.

Aliento de Niebla held out for ten seconds that felt eternal. Ten seconds of stubborn pride before he let out a plaintive, sharp, unmistakable whine. Submission. He could not keep fighting, and he also could not contain the impatient rocking of his hips, which moved of their own accord from side to side. Losing turned him on more than winning. He felt like the spoils of battle, a prize the victor could use however he pleased.

Obsidian Paw loosened his jaws and licked the side of his face, almost tenderly, as he adjusted himself over him. Aliento de Niebla felt the pressure against his opening and tried to breathe deeply, to loosen every muscle. Relax. Let him in.

He entered in one single thrust.

The rush of pleasure was so sudden that a shiver raced from the nape of his neck to the tip of his tail, and another moan escaped his throat—one made sharper by the embarrassment of hearing himself like that. The warrior settled himself once more, adjusted the angle, and set off a frantic rocking, nibbling at his back with small teeth, holding him with his paws, making sure to keep his body firmly pinned to the earth.

Despite the month of self-imposed chastity, Obsidian Paw had a stamina that seemed bottomless. He drove into him for a very long time, changing rhythm—slow and deep at first, then fast and brutal—but never stopping, never pulling out fully even once. The constant assault, added to the friction of his own member flattened against the ground, made Aliento de Niebla come before they reached the halfway point.

The rest was a haze. Overstimulated, unable to string together a single thought, he let himself be used without resistance now, delighted down to the marrow to be the prey chosen by the victor. Each thrust emptied him a little more, left him softer, more surrendered, more his.

***

After what felt like an endless while, Obsidian Paw finally came with a deep growl that vibrated against his back.

He transformed before being trapped, undoing his wolf body to avoid the “knotting,” that canine reflex neither of them found pleasurable and that both preferred to avoid. Skin replaced fur, nails replaced claws, human teeth replaced fangs.

They lay in the clearing, both in human form, dirty with blood and earth and sweat, holding each other without saying a word. Above the treetops, the full moon still hung in place, a mute witness to what the clan would have called sin and they called, simply, love.

—Next time I won’t make it so easy for you —murmured Aliento de Niebla against his shoulder.

Obsidian Paw let out a rough laugh and held him tighter.

—You said the same thing last month.

When they finally parted, each to return to his own before dawn, neither of them was thinking about the risk, or exile, or the three hundred years of clans that would have killed them for it. Both were thinking only of the next full moon.