The girl on his shoulders tumbles. Her pubic bone rolls gruffly around his neck, fat little labia squish gently together, sandwiched between bone and shoulder – a punchy bite of pleasure. Her silk scarf flutters, catching briefly; a fleeting still-life, hanging from the crook of his armpit. They collapse on all fours and rumble, all paws and claws and fangs. She buries her face in the soft ruff of his neck and he whimpers. She takes a mouthful of fur and a fat roll of skin in the clam of her mouth, and she pulls. Shaking her head, growling softly, she bounces. On her knees, on the mattress, where she’s fallen, in the forest.
Leaning back on his haunches, watching her; she lies on her back, knees up, knees open, feet together. Rays of sunlight bamboozle dark places. He is panting. His cock, bright, bright pink and rubbery, retracts into the soft velvet of his underbelly. His raspberry, tar-soaked tongue drooling pink-tinged saliva where he’d lapped at wounds inflicted on the soft, soft brie of her flesh. Scraping the platter of her body from beneath his claws, he recalls saliva, nicotine, whisky, cheese and mushroom. The fresh- kill deer upon which they’d briefly gorged, as they loped on in.
Bared teeth glint in the sunlight, sunlight. The spent afternoon lies wine-soaked; bellies lapped, teats suckled, hearts pounded. Panting, he pulls her from the bed, she straddles his neck. Paws rest lightly on her thighs. Secure on his shoulders she is insouciant, defiant, triumphant (she has tackled the wolf, and won) breasts bounce, eyes smoulder. She flicks her scarf, all cinnamon and crimson. They lop and lope, out into the night, back to join the pack, back toward the city, toward the darkness, to the concrete, in the rain.