Head Job

I killed the wolf today.

A long clean slit from throat to belly, redolent of an incision the enigmatic Agent Scully would admire. What a magnificent scar it would have made. If there had been time for healing.

<BUT there was only time for the
inevitability of decomposition, time to rot>

I watched the life morph
from the wolf's swimming pool green insolent eyes
into the familiar milky glaze of death. An insistent ache in my belly whispering 'Drink Me.' Knife in hand I ran my tongue along the edge of the blade, drawing out the moment. Self restraint being only relevant to those who still have some hope left, I leaned over the beast's furry chest and lapped at the wound with
all the dumb pleasure of an infant.
Revenge never tasted so sweet.



The wolf's body was cooling more quickly than than my desire, so I spread its long lean legs and sank my face into the distinctive coral. A single tear fell as I realised that I would never smell this creature again. Looking back on it now, i think that it's the closest to sadness I have ever come. Regret has never been more than a trace element in my character.

I gave the wolf the best head job of its sorry life that night. When I could feast no longer I splayed its limbs as far as they would go and ground my cunt into its cold wetness, imploding violently as I dug my fingernails into its lovely throat.

When it was finally over I folded myself into the hardness of death, resting my head on its chest as I had a hundred times before, lying so still I kept imagining the soothing trance duf of its heartbeat. If I dreamt that night I don't remember.