You could have been at Rutt's house celebrating Halloween with all your other friends, but no.  Roscoe had to invite you out to one of his “special” trick-or-treats, and now that you’re here you’re sure it’s more trick than treat.

 

How could you say no to him?  Whenever that big puppy bats his eyes at you and tilts his head in just the right way, he always gets what he wants (though usually what he wants is to get into your pants.)  This time was no different.  How are you today?  Very good, Roscoe.  What are you doing for Halloween?  I usually get together with friends, Roscoe.  But what if this year you came and went trick-or-treating with me?  But I’d already planned, Roscoe.  And then he gave you those eyes, and that sad little pout, and his tail tucked between his legs.  You really need to get better at saying no.

 

And now you’re paying for it, because the address he gave you isn’t looking like prime trick-or-treating territory.  Hell, it doesn’t even look populated.  You’d call it abandoned.  Desolate.  Haunted.  Downright fucking spooky.  People used to live on this cul-de-sac once.  There’s houses here, but every one of them has a “For Sale” sign that looks like it hasn’t seen activity in decades.  

 

The run-down shambles of the houses here have been reclaimed by the forest that surrounds them.  Grass as high as your waist grows in gardens, except where instead it’s crowded out by trees growing up through cracked paving slabs.  The one remaining street-lamp is flickering uncertainly with a yellowish-green tinge that casts long and worrying shadows.

 

You hear crunching behind you.  A roofing shingle crumbles as it falls from a dilapidated canopy over the ram-shackle house that used to be a home.  Above the roof shines the moon.  It’s marvelously bright and clear, this far from the city, and to either side the stars shine bright and sparkling.

 

Then, at the peak of the roof, a shadow eclipses the moon.  A hunched form that you thought was just an awning over the upstairs study uncurls itself.  You see a head lift from the amorphous black shadow, followed by triangular ears that poke upwards to occlude the starlight.  Arms reach outwards, and legs left the shadow up to its terrifyingly majestic height.  It—no, HE—howls.

 

Normally in werewolf movies, the moon would be perfectly placed to ring the head, showing off the bestial jaws and the slavering fangs and the crazed eyes.  This, however, isn’t one of those movies.  Instead, the moon shines bright between the werewolf’s legs as he stands erect.  Well, not completely erect, because dangling down into the moonlight is the most intimidating cock you’ve ever seen.  It’s thick and throbbing in silhouette, and you can see a wayward drip detach itself from its head and splash down onto the roof.  Swaying in the moonlight just behind that is an impressive pair of nuts, furry and tufted with glimmers of the light shining through the thick pelt.

 

You back up in alarm as the werewolf leaps from the roof and lands twenty paces away from you with a hefty thud that makes the ground beneath you judder.  The sound of his breathing is throaty and growling.  Even at this distance, you can smell him.  Musky and earthy and wild and natural and male.  What the fuck are you doing?  Why are you still staring at him?  Fucking run!

 

You don’t make it far.  Across the road and into the forest, you scamper away from the snarling beast.  You can hear him prowling behind you.  Every three of your panicked footfalls is one of his monstrous strides.  He’s not chasing you.  He’s playing with you.  He lets you get to the edge of the forest before you feel massive jaws grab your ankle and turn your world upside-down.

 

A heavy paw lands on your chest, pinning you to the dirt and pine needles.  In the flickering lamplight and pale moon glow, you can see the werewolf’s dark pelt, interrupted by a splash of brighter fur across his face in a mask that looks…  Familiar?  That’s malamute markings.

 

“Roscoe!  Fuck, is that you?”

 

The werewolf makes a happy whining noise and pushes his nose against your belly.  It is.  Those horrible teeth part as his muzzle opens to make room for a massive tongue that licks your entire face with one swipe.

 

“Okay!  Okay.  I’ll go trick-or-treating with you, okay?  Here I am!  I’ll-”  You’re interrupted as his teeth grab your costume and tear.  The flimsy pirate tunic and breeches come apart at the seams as Were-Roscoe bites and pulls.

 

What little you can see of the scenery spins as he lifts you bodily with one monstrous hand.  You feel a wet slap against your belly as his hanging shaft throbs upwards and leaves a wet mark on your now-bare pelt.

 

“Whoah.  Hold it.  I’m not sure I can…  Roscoe, don’t—”

 

Roscoe does.  A cock-head that must be as big around as your fist slides against one of your inner thighs.  His grasp around you is tight, but he’s holding you almost casually, as if your whole body-weight were a mere triviality.  His other hand grabs one of your legs, lifting it away so he can fit his cock in between and—

 

“Roscoe, don’t—”

 

He’s so thick that it hurts for a moment, but the moment passes and is replaced with bliss.

 

“Fuck, don’t stop!”

 

You swear you can feel your belly bulge out as he pushes in deep, until you can feel that sleek knot of his kissing you.  The ground rises to meet you as he stilts over you and humps.  Your hips are bashed into the loam as the werewolf ravishes you.

 

Then you’re pinned against a tree as he grinds.  You can feel him throbbing—feel him cumming inside you—feel it dripping down your legs when there’s no more room for it to fit inside you.  But that’s not the end.  He drags you into the forest, still perched atop his cock, and takes you again over a fallen log.  Then again in the dark when all you can hear is the leathery flap of bats wings above, and even the moon can’t make it through the dense tree canopy.  And when you’re spent, he lets you slurp down into a puddle of his own making on the forest floor.  You can see his glistening cock, reflecting star light as he strokes himself.  A massive foot pins your pelvis to the ground while his monstrous shaft sprays werewolf cum over your chest and face.

 

He howls, and with a sussuration of wind through the trees, the moonlight emerges again in fits and gasps to illuminate your werewolf, bestial and dominant, erect and throbbing, dripping and spurting as he makes a mess of your fur.

 

When he’s done, Roscoe stares down at you, big puppy face smiling and panting, while he shakes his spent dick off onto you.  He tilts his head in that way and he doesn’t have to even voice his question.  Don’t suppose you could make room in your schedule in about a month’s time, for the next full moon?