For men OR women

11-22-25
This is for men or women. This gives sexual power, sexual skill, sex superiority energy. This means on the sexual superiority that you can control the person to get them to succumb to your wishes. You also get the strength, charisma and supernatural power. This is a moonstone pendant.
The moon is a raw wound in the sky,  
and it drags the beast out of me like a hook through the ribs.
I find you in the clearing, barefoot in silver frost,  
nightgown clinging to your hips the way sin clings to skin.  
You smell the change on me before you see me:  
pine needles, gunpowder, wet animal heat.
I step from the treeline already half-gone,  
bones cracking, lengthening, fur splitting open like black fire.  
You should run.  
You don’t.
Your breath clouds between us, quick, hungry.  
I circle once, twice,  
a low growl rolling in my chest that vibrates straight between your thighs.  
When I speak, my voice is gravel and smoke:
“Still.  
Or I’ll chase.”
You stay still.  
Good girl.
I close the distance in one lunge,  
claws shredding the thin cotton from your body in a single savage pull.  
Fabric tears like a scream.  
You gasp, nipples peaking hard against the sudden cold,  
against the hotter threat of my tongue.
I drop to my knees in the dirt and force your legs apart with my shoulders.  
One rough lick (broad, wet, animal)  
from entrance to clit, tasting the fear-sweet slick already waiting for me.  
You buckle; I pin your hips to a fallen log,  
mouth working you open with snarls muffled against swollen flesh.
You fist my fur, yanking hard enough to hurt.  
I like the hurt.  
I bite the inside of your thigh (not gentle, never gentle),  
teeth sinking deep enough to bruise, to mark, to warn every other wolf for miles:  
Mine.
Your first orgasm rips through you like claws.  
You sob my name (not the human one),  
the secret one you only whisper when the moon is full and you’re too far gone to lie.
I rise over you, fully changed now:  
towering, monstrous, cock thick and knotted, dripping.  
You reach for it like it’s salvation.  
I let you stroke once, twice,  
then snatch your wrists and slam them to the ground above your head.
“Look at me,” I snarl.  
Your eyes are wild, reflecting moonlight and madness.  
“Beg.”
You do.  
Broken, filthy, beautiful.
I drive into you in one brutal thrust.  
No easing, no mercy,  
just the wet, obscene sound of your body yielding to something too big, too feral.  
You scream (pain, pleasure, surrender),  
and I swallow the scream with a mouth that still tastes of your blood and cunt.
Every thrust is a claiming.  
The knot swells, catching, locking us together.  
You claw at my back, rake furrows through fur and flesh,  
hips rolling to meet me, greedy even when you’re sobbing from overstimulation.
I fuck you through another climax, then another,  
until your voice is only ragged whimpers and my name torn to pieces.  
When the knot finally binds us, I grind deep and spill,  
hot, endless, flooding you so full it leaks around us in thick pulses.
We stay locked like that,  
moon-drunk, trembling,  
my teeth on your throat in a bite that says forever  
without needing a single human word.
The night smells of sex and pine and blood.  
You are shaking in my arms,  
but your fingers are still tangled in my fur,  
holding on like I’m the only thing keeping you from floating apart.
I lick the tears from your cheek,  
taste salt and moon and mate.
Run next time, little red.  
I will always catch you.  
And you will always open.