“Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
I smell like I sound, I’m lost and I’m found
And I’m hungry like the wolf”
--Duran Duran

Midnight And After

To the Faery Folk of New Amsterdam daytime Central Park is useless, pedestrian, a simple lawn. Near twilight a motley group of restless men collect within the Ramble. Men rushing from work, tourists from afar who have long known the legends of the hazardous divinity broached by nightfall, the men who are just somehow always there. After dusk more men gather. Sundown men shed their shirts, impatiently kicking off boots and shoes, storing them among the worn roots of weary trees. They begin to shift. They shake out their fingernails into sharp things, arch their backs to a broader, more feral mass, howl as their teeth lengthen. They become wolves, wolves that lean into the dark hovels of trees to open their pants; angry cocks grow under the gaze of the few daring fauns already leaping through the twilight woods. Their cocks seem to breathe, uncoiling from within the dark crouch of new wolves, naked thighs pulse through ripped, dirty jeans, a glistening new crop of raw, lupine hair pours out. One werewolf pants as he pushes his cock between the lips of a young, kneeling faun. Inserting a lone claw sharply into the faun’s sweaty, proffered rear, the wolf asserts his claim while other wolves circle, some to watch, some likely to charge the scene. Circling, they show each other their teeth, white razors made to rend Faery flesh. The commanding wolf turns his frightened faun around and pushes him to the ground, positioning him on all fours. Firm claws open the boy’s backside like a new book. With a low, determined growl the werewolf forces his solid cock in deep, the internal heat of the faun grips him and he rears his head back to let loose a howl. This, in turn, spurs the watching werewolves into a frenzy; they pull on their long cocks, biting and nipping at each other. Others roll on their backs to lap at the red cocks of the nearest werewolf, their keen, bright tongues like felty sandpaper. Wolves put their paws against tall pines and bay at the moon, engorged dicks wavering like potent divining rods powered to charge the night and split many, many fauns. And out come the fauns. Skipping lightly over the low stone walls that divide park from city, the click of their lithe, shiny black hooves suddenly muffled by the damp earthen trails leading into the Ramble, fauns come from distinguished Fifth Avenue shops, where they are gaily employed, dressing windows and folding shirts. Others wait tables in bustling Greenwich Village restaurants, all gossiping together as they prance toward the park. With barely suppressed giggles they dramatically point toward those human souls hurriedly returning from the Ramble, trailing a shrunken sense of adventure. Most of these men will likely never return, though among them there are those who will soon thereafter dream wolf-dreams. They will be drawn back in, for they seek not an erotic adventure but an animal destiny. They will return. For them it is not a matter of choice. As the fauns’ foray into the Ramble deepens they adopt a more hushed tone. Holding hands for comfort they explore the dark twists and turns, everywhere wolves in the shadows track their movement, revel in their fresh scent.

The wolf to first claim a faun is done. Turning the young, battered boy over on his back the wolf pulls his steaming cock out and sprays the leaf-covered form beneath him with wave after wave of viscous seed. As he turns away to focus on fresh prey the waiting wolves wildly lap up the semen cooling across the faun’s heaving chest. The exhausted boy moans lightly, waving his skinny arms in faint protest. They take turns using the faun, stretching him across one of the many large, cold rocks that pepper the Ramble, the surrendered faun weakly licking one wolf cock while being plowed by another.

The night darkens further. More fauns enter the park and more and more wolves will feed. Midnight will pass. Dawn stains the horizon. Satiated werewolves shimmer back into human shape and wearily retrieve clothes from hidden hovels. Tired, happy fauns abscond from the Ramble. Some will take a refreshing splash through Bethesda Fountain, dipping their rears to leaven the dirt and leaves out of their frazzled coats. They exit nearly content. After returning to their apartments, most will slumber past noon to awake relishing the evening to come, yearning for that special mercy granted from a bite that does not kill, what lingers far longer than any mortal kiss. The aphrodisiac of absence, jeopardy withheld beneath the moonlight, this is what wholly ignites the Faery soul.

 

Lycanthropy is transmissible, just not among Faery Folk. Fauns cannot become werewolves—they are meant to be devoured only. True, some fauns skip across the cobblestone only at twilight, never to slink through the bushes after dark, shoulders never whipped by branches as wanton wolves give chase. Such diffident fauns forgo the incomparable indentation of fangs on the slender nape of their sacrificial necks. Some delicate vases prefer not to shatter. So be it. But most take the plunge to join the feast, as is their proper nature. Of those fauns who emerge to return again and again, almost all will eventually develop into men, their future selves always startled by the memories of their part in the feasts of Central Park, memories seemingly too close to fantasy to be real, excepting that thin, white scar, assumed a birthmark, across a shoulder, a light impression on the underside of a raised arm. Such scars resemble the faintest of bite marks, tactile memories that will draw these men back into the Ramble one evening. A dark revelation awaits those that dare stay; the pleasure so hazily remembered returns as an assault, wounds that last past dawn. Such men return ravaged—filled with the permanent hunger of a werewolf.

After all, nothing is quite as brutal as the past.

Marcus shed the downy blonde coat of faundom not so long ago (or not as long ago as he likes to think). He had wandered out of the park late one morning, actually very late. All fauns go about the city as they would bucolic hills, naked and free. Meaning they don’t carry cash, meaning they rely on the kindness of those men so inclined to aid wayward fauns. No such fellows availed themselves to Marcus that morning as he exited the park, making him late to a job where his employment was already less than secure. Cabdrivers are alert to this situation to the point where they won’t stop for any faun unaccompanied by the aforementioned gentlemen. Marcus had to jump the turnstile and take the train during rush hour, though he shared the Faery Folk’s common aversion to the subway (shades of Hades and all). Commuters stared at him blankly, high school boys pointing and braying as he sat there, the subway seat cold against naked cheeks greasy from leaking werewolf semen. To add to his delay, upon reaching his building an absent doorman meant he then had to climb the fire escape and jimmy the window to get into his apartment. Needless to say, he was late for work at the department store. He worked a double-shift to appease management. That night he went home tired and dejected, breaking, for the first time, his nocturnal ritual of returning to the Ramble every evening- nor did he return the next night. Instead, he went to a bar with the other fauns from work. Together they laughed and drank while around them lurching centaurs kicked up sawdust and glitter from the barroom floor.

That night Marcus kissed another faun and the spell of the Ramble was broken. Soon after he lost the fur from his thighs, his hooves dissipated. He became a man. As his nocturnal cravings were redirected he was able to concentrate on his work, eventually gain a promotion to management, move to a larger apartment, and pick up the cutest boys. The Ramble was a thing of the past, or so he thought. Sometimes after work he would walk past the park and feel the jagged silhouette of the trees menacing him. Shadowy memories arose in his subconscious, lurking near the surface, predatory, a roiling surge of lust he could neither define nor suppress. Often of late he awoke parched in his fine, decorous bedroom, thirsty and perturbed over these unremembered dreams, carnal dreams impressed indecipherably upon tapestries ablaze with blinding moonlight.

 

For Barrett it was never a matter of choice. The Ramble was destiny. He nearly sprinted toward the park every evening after work, foraging through the brush with a smirk, thinking gamely, Here the hunter gets captured by the game. Preferring the tall, lone wolves, and not wanting to be the night’s centerpiece for any random feast, Barrett wished to be consumed solely, to experience all of the joy and most of the dread, the pleasure and pain such wild attention merits. As fauns go, Barrett was slender and boyishly short with rare, sprightly chest hair, as curly as the down on his thighs and above his backside, though like other fauns he had no pubic or underarm hair. Often he felt as if he were late getting to the city, late to the park, it had taken him so long to find the nerve to escape his family and small town, so that every night he entered the Ramble with relish, as if this were his last foray in amidst the dark sexual tension, an electric storm of which he was the living center.

Dusk and the last of the tourists made their way from the park while fatigued joggers filtered out of the Ramble. A crease of pink light thinned on the horizon as shadows unfurled. Barely perceptible shifting shapes of men stood against the darkness of the trees. Men walked past him, coming close and staring hard. As his eyes adjusted he could see the broad, tight chest of a shirtless man leaning against a nearby tree, his features obscured by a low branch. Barrett stood in the path watching him change. At first the man did not move, so fully engrossed in the ecstasy of his own transformation, but Barrett could sense the man’s muscles tensing, the hair on his arms thickening, the air around him charged. Jeans ripped audibly as burgeoning thighs expanded. As the change became more pronounced the man could no longer remain still. He stepped out onto the path, bending down to come at Barrett from behind, sniffing at his exposed ass. The shifting man-wolf tried to force Barrett to the ground, seizing him by the elbow with one strong hand while struggling to free his own wormy, brownish cock with the other. Barrett was not quite ready to partake in the evening’s festivities and leapt away. It was too early for a werewolf to land any prey. That was for midnight and after. Both moved on.

Throughout the Ramble men circled fauns and caressed one another. Now was the time to strip off their clothes and pull on new muscle. One wolf stood nearly invisible within the fold of a massive oak, his huge member shone white and tough as an ancient birch in moonlight, its slight throb pulling Barrett toward the darkness. He was drawn to it, thrilled equally at its commanding size as with the unseen wolf that could possibly rule him with such a magnificent, animal scepter. Instinctively he knew it was still too early to fully surrender to the Ramble, but the werewolf’s cock was hypnotic, tugging Barrett forward, urging him down on his knees. Arms behind him, he knelt and softly caressed the cock with his cheek; ribboned muscle pulsed against his closed, parched lips. He lifted one hand to caress the fur of the werewolf’s strong abdomen, the barred gate to an intense hunger. The wolfman purred approval. This was all Barrett required; opening his mouth wide he slowly engulfed the thickening cock, swabbing the sticky pre-cum off its ample head with a dexterous tongue. The length and girth of the cock gave him pause. The werewolf bucked hard, driving his face in anger at having been denied for even that one second. Barrett felt another beast scratch at his anus but petulantly swatted the errant paw away. He wanted to focus solely on this beautiful cock. He wanted to serve.

The wolf in his mouth grunted, allowing his long nails to brush back and forth across Barrett’s scalp like an ominous pendulum. His mouth was open as wide as possible and still he could barely contain the massive cock pummeling his throat. The werewolf was still for a moment. The faun froze. The long cock lay in his mouth like dormant lightning then withdrew. The wolf turned his back to Barrett, lupine skull cocked to the wind, the scent of another distant faun percolating in his enflamed nostrils. He bounded off into the night.

Barrett stood and brushed the leaves from his elbows and buttocks. He was not offended. It was too early for either of them to climax. This was simply the way the night began. They might even meet again, among other shadows. The werewolf might take him from behind after chasing him across the Great Lawn. Not recognizing each other Barrett would perform the same ritual. Or not. Regardless, both made their way through the Ramble having warmed to any encounter, primed to take it to the next level.

 

Around the corner another faun was struggling in the arms of a massive werewolf, one with a gray coat and sharp, long ears. Barrett could see his teeth gleaming in the moonlight, a dangerous array of wicked diamonds; the faun’s tear-filled eyes also glimmered, with the sparkle of an equally multi-faceted fear. Two more wolves emerged to snatch at the faun, each hoisting a leg as if the boy were a mere wishbone. A fourth werewolf lopped out from the darkness to kneel beneath the now raised faun, sniffing curiously at the faun’s exposed, ripe ass. He licked it with his large, harsh tongue before inserting one of his claws. The faun let out a whimper, but his struggling subsided. With this surrender the wolves began to howl, the gray wolf turning him over so the others could take turns mounting him. Torn from the earth, now afloat, one rough cock after another entering his every orifice, the faun’s torso shook, a plank of ecstasy. The werewolves panted and drooled. Those at the faun’s arms held him aloft with one strong claw while stroking one another’s elongated, red cocks. Barrett swiftly and quietly moved away before he was forced to join. These early fauns were better off keeping to the shadows rather than openly cruising. To get bitten or raped too soon would spoil the night, though certainly there were numerous fauns not so delicate as to endure multiple encounters. Many more savored that dark, tasty fear, the anticipation of a midnight chase.

Barrett could make out the naked pale shoulders of several fauns hidden in the brush, baiting temptation. His own erection from his earlier encounter was lessening; the head of his cock withdrew into the fair sheath of his foreskin. He turned a corner that lead to a high stone bridge and paused. An ebony werewolf stood panting beneath the dim lamp post which illuminated the arch of the bridge. The black wolf glistened with sweat -his hair matted and pearled with moisture. He stood beneath the light with his legs spread wide, his hard black cock like the needle of a powerful compass quivering toward one direction: Barrett. And Barrett could tell the werewolf had recently given chase to a faun and likely let him escape, prolonging the night, sweetening the eventual capture of any prey. With fiery eyes the dark wolf gave him a commanding look. Barrett obediently dropped to his knees. With a quick, assured stride the werewolf was upon him, mounting his mouth with an animal growl. He gasped for air as the wolf’s wide cock routed his mouth in one long, deep plunge. He nearly chocked on the sinewy pre-cum caulking the back of his throat. Rather than struggle he clasped the hairy calves of the werewolf to steady himself. He fed slavishly, working his tongue beneath the thick canvas of foreskin billowing into his mouth. The werewolf paused and Barrett braced himself for the wave of thick semen surely about to flood his mouth. The beast had other plans; with cock still firmly planted in suppliant mouth, he turned his attention toward a trembling faun half hidden beside a tree at the other side of the bridge. With the same commanding stare with which he summoned Barrett, the werewolf demanded the faun approach. In the stark light of the lamp post the faun appeared scared and frail, considerably smaller than Barrett, a youthful creature whose curly black locks were shorn just short enough to reveal the silver cut of elfin ears. His slender waist tapered into boney, hairless hips from which sprouted a small, hardy penis -the hair on his thighs the thick, white coat of a faun just past adolescence. The frightened creature began to lower himself, mouth open, to replicate the service offered by Barrett. The wolf let out such an angry roar leaves shook loose from the trees. The boys shivered in fear. The impatient wolf turned and put one huge claw atop the young faun’s head, directing him to kneel and please Barrett.

With renewed vigor the werewolf continued plundering Barrett’s mouth, his pendulous testicles stirring the little faun’s sweaty hair as the boy tenderly took Barrett’s cock between his own tremulous lips. He winced as the tiny, amateur teeth raked the thickening flesh of his cock, though he was careful not to lose his rhythm, least he suffer the werewolf’s wrath. The monster howled, struggling to push his cock impossibly deeper into Barrett’s mouth. Barrett was nearly faint from such an infusion of sensation; tears streaking down his cheeks further seasoned his pain while pleasure rose from the meek faun nibbling at his cock like a sweet, docile lamb. But such is the erratic nature of encounters in the Ramble; just as Barrett adjusted to his new partner and his momentary master’s renewed thrusting, his lamb-like servant was suddenly yanked away with a cry. The werewolf turned sharply, jerking his cock out from between Barrett’s startled lips, knocking him to the ground where all he could see was the wide-eyed faun on his back, impossibly large claws clasped around his tiny ankles, pulling him into the dark foliage. The werewolf bounded after the stolen faun, as likely as not to fight with the other wolf or pair up for a dual assault.

Barrett found himself alone and starkly vulnerable, breathing heavily, his heart racing, one cheek smeared with saliva and glutinous semen. His hard cock was still moist from the diminutive faun’s attention; he scooped up some of the faun’s spittle from his twitching member and licked his finger. Tasting the sad sugar of innocence, he stood and brushed himself off. He heard distant whimpering from the bushes, the grunting of wolves. The hour was now late -the hunt had begun in earnest. The pain of need tightened in Barrett’s chest. He must find a werewolf to serve, the right beast to savagely shred his desire.

As he crossed the bridge his shadow clung desperately to the base of the lamp post, mingling with the inky remnants of previous passing shadows, reveling in the homey comfort of new black scents before being yanked like an errant pet back into the greater darkness of the night.

 

© 2007 Tom Cardamone - Contributor's Bio

Read an Interview with Tom Cardamone by Sam J. Miller