Page 9 of A Wulver for the Week

Thinking about Minerva on all fours, her bikini bottom pulled to one side just enough to let me glimpse her perfect pink and brown folds sends me back to panting, growling, and pumping like I’m in heat.

Oh, that’s right. Wulvers share several traits with our wolfish cousins, including the furry snout, the pricked ears, the fancy kilt snake, the sense of smell—and something similar to heats and ruts.

“Well, what are ye going to tell her, ye daft numpty? ‘Pardon me, Minnie, I’ve not been honest. No, I’ve not got a girlfriend stashed back in Caithness or even closer to home—I’m part beast, a mythological creature, lass. And I want to fuck you seven ways from Sunday until you beg me to bury my muzzle in your quim and my knot in your pussy. And yes, I’ll shed something terrible in the winter.’”

Guilt eats at me even as I keep letting my mind wander down the beach and past the bikini. A wedding night under a full moon. Tropical breezes. Salt air. Her in that pink champagne bridesmaid’s dress, dancing with me, her cheek pressed to my fur, her body molded to mine.

She’ll feel your stiffy, Craig. No two ways about it. It’s not like you’re packing dragon meat or an Orc’s bone-breaker, but a solid eight plus an apple-size knot isn’t easy to hide.

And my innocent moonlight romance suddenly slides to me lathering Minerva up with body oil and working my hand into her pussy to prepare her for that knot. One finger, two, three, four...Watching her stretch and split around me, coating me in nectar that smells like gardenia and tastes like honey...

Another torrent of cum shoots from me, so hard and fast I almost lose my balance in the shower.

Maybe it’ll be a good thing that her relatives will be underfoot at all times. Can’t make a fool of myself then.

“HEY, CRAIG.”

“Minnie! Hi. Should we call each other something else? Honey, baby, sweetie pie?” I ask, mobile on speaker as I inspect my three open suitcases.

Minnie’s warm chuckle brings a broad smile to my face. “You mean likehubby? All the nurses are saying I’m your work wife.”

“Och, no!” I cry out, secretly pleased.

“Och, yes,” she challenges. “You’ve been my work hubby these last two weeks, bringing me coffee every other morning, helping me take all those case files to radiology, and even staying late when I had to pull a double yesterday.”

“You know me. I was pulling a double myself. Trying to make sure the rest of my department can pick up the slack while I’m off in sunny Florida,” I say as if it’s nothing, but the truth is I’m swooning in a most unmanly fashion.

Hubby. Hubby used to call to mind images of pot-bellied men with fading hairlines who talk about their gardens far too much. When Minerva says it, all I can picture is her sliding out of that pink dress and into a white one, putting a ring on my finger. Keeping me.

“We’d better not,wifey,” I clear my throat and hope it sounds like a laugh. “Your mother might expect you to show upto Christmas with a fake fiancé next. By next spring, we’d be holding a fake wedding.”

We laugh together, but I’m wishing Minnie would yell out, “Yes! That’s a great plan!”

“Honey, baby, and sweetie pie it is,” she sighs. “Okay, baby?”

“Yes, gorgeous,” I croon.

I slap myself full across the face.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I don’t know. It sounded like something smacked the phone out of your hand.”

“Oh, just shutting the lid of my suitcase,” I fib.

“That’s why I was calling. I have our tickets printed and the codes on my phone. I have my dress, my resort clothes, my bathing suits, all my toiletries and makeup, my sunblock, my sun hat, my swim cap,” Minerva rattles off the contents of her bags, and I skim over the list I made as she does.

“I’ve got my suit, my good shoes, my tie, my trunks, my Hawaiian shirt, my polo shirt, my shorts, my sandals... socks. I need my good black dress socks. And my Atlanta Braves cap. I ordered one, and it came last night,” I say, trotting to the wardrobe and rummaging for socks and a few spare t-shirts. “I think I’ve got it all.”

“You’re really packed? And really going to pick me up at six tomorrow morning and take me to Binghamton Airport for our 9:30 flight?” she asks.

“Well, that’s the plan, pet,” I soothe. “Why do you sound so shocked all of a sudden?”

“I just can’t believe it, that’s all. You’re actually going to go through with it? You’re going to be the Evel to my Knievel as we do this crazy thing?”

“The crazy things make life exciting.”

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