I killed the wolf today.

A long clean slit from throat to belly, the sort of incision any surgeon would admire.

What a magnificent scar it would have made.

If there had been time for healing.

[but there was only time for rotting]



I watched the life morph from the wolf's ice green insolent eyes into the milky glaze of death. Knife in hand I ran my tongue along the edge of the blade, drawing out the moment. Self restraint only being relevant to those who still have some hope, I leant over the beast's furry chest and lapped at the wound with all the dumb pleasure of an infant.

Revenge never tasted so sweet.

[but it wasn't really about revenge]



The wolf's body was cooling more quickly 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 as 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 delectable 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 thought I could detect the soothing thud of its heartbeat.



If I dreamt that night I don't remember.