Coyote Bang
by Alex Severin

   If he told anybody about it, they would have thought he was a freak. It wasn't a simple kink like a foot fetish or a smoking fetish or a big tit fetish; they were accepted fetishes; nobody batted an eyelid at any of those, they were
considered normal. His was more a little more complex, something nobody would understand. At least nobody in his social circle would understand it.

   When he made love to his wife, he'd be thinking about them. When he masturbated in the shower, his pearly seed mixing with the white foam of his shower gel, he'd be thinking about them. When he sat on the train going to work or
coming home and had to put his briefcase in his lap to hide his hard on, he'd be thinking about them.

   The sight of a slavering dog would do it, the sight of a cat yawning would do it; watching the documentaries about the jungle on Discovery would do it; sometimes he would spontaneously ejaculate watching those.

   When his wife went to visit her mother in Oregon and he had the house to himself and no fear of being walked in on, he would take his little black box in from the garage and spend the hours of darkness with the contents.

   He'd skulk into the garage, pretending he was out on the desert plains, the chill night wind biting through to his bones, sand sticking to the anticipatory sweat on his skin. Each time he picked up the box was like it was the first time; he'd stare at it as if it were buried treasure he had happened across, gaze at it as if he didn't know what delights it held for him inside.

   Then he'd take it back into the house, into his bedroom and draw the curtains but leave them open enough so that just a slice of moonlight could filter through - that was important.

   He would undress first, lie on the bed and tease himself, building himself into a frenzy until he could contain himself no longer. He had to open the box.

   He stared at it in awe, smooth and hard and bleached-white. The gap in the curtains spilled silvery moonlight onto the object and made it glow in his hands, making him think that there was still some life in his beloved coyote skull.

   He caressed the skull, fondling the little ridges in the bone and savoring the texture. He moved his fingers slowly down its smoothness - he liked the eye-sockets and rubbed the tip of his cock around the cool bone holes, leaving glistening traces of his pre-cum.

   Then for the best bit - he opened the jaws of the coyote skull and placed his sensitive cock in amongst the dangerously sharp teeth; he sucked in a shocked breath as the two broken front teeth in the top jaw threatened to tear
his foreskin. He opened and closed the bony mouth making it bite all he way down and then back up his rigid length. His legs twitched and he moaned into the darkness as the ghostly moon shone on his skeletal lover making the teeth
shine like Venus in the gloom.

   He gargled, eyes rolling as he shot a hot load into the skull. It dribbled down the back of the brain pan and splattered onto his thighs. He rubbed the skull lovingly as if it were a big white tit or the cheek of a lover's ass.

   When it was over he would wonder why he could never come like that while he was banging his wife. She was good in bed, sure, but she could never make him climax the way the coyote skull did. When he'd asked her to drag her teeth up the length of his cock and gently bite it, she freaked out and called him a pervert. But it was fine for him to fuck her in the ass when she wanted it and she would scream 'Oh daddy, fuck me, yeah!' Apparently, that was not perverted. He curled his lip Elvis-style as he thought of how little she really gave him.

   But he smiled as he remember how he managed to get himself a sharp teeth fetish. He thought back, way back to when he was sixteen and he would hide in the bushes on Lover's Lane and watch the teenage couples making out, giving head and eating pussy, and, if he was really lucky, he might see somebody fucking. He liked it best when the guy would take the girl from behind - he could see both their faces then, until the windows steamed up.

   He could imagine the stink of sex inside the car, the smell of dripping wet pussy and musky cock, the smell of hormone soaked sweat that stuck to the leather seats. Most of the kids carried air freshener with them in the glove
box so their parents wouldn't smell their fucking when they used the car.

   Then there was the night, the night when something special happened. Johnny and Celia were in Johnny's dad's Mustang. He knelt in the bushes, his cock aching as Johnny removed Celia's sweater, then her bra. He sighed as he
remember those perfect, round white tits with deep pink nipples; he thought of her every time he saw a knickerbocker glory - the white cream the mound of her breast and the cherry on top the juicy nipple. She was perfect.

   It wasn't long before they were in the back of the car and his view was obscured by a huge trashcan. He had to move over a little, working his cock all the while, hearing her gasps and Johnny's grunting through the open window. The something cracked and squelched under him at the same time. He looked down but didn't stop his frantic wanking when he saw the half-rotted coyote corpse, its putrefied innards seeping through his jeans and onto his skin. The
coyote head was bereft of fur and flesh - the bone was completely clean, bleach clean, and shone in the moonlight, the teeth dazzling, beautiful to him.

   What happened next would stay with him always; his knees lost their hold and slid backwards away from him making his body pitch forward. He was too close to an explosive orgasm to quit now, even though his cock had slid into the open mouth of the dead coyote, the tongue still there, still wet, oozing with decaying flesh. He felt the pin-sharp teeth scraping his length and coming perilously close to piercing his balls but he didn't care - Celia's tits were hanging over the edge of the open car window now and he could see the glistening of her wet tongue as she licked her lips and moaned. One last thrust against the tongue and the teeth of the dead beast and he came so hard he thought he was going to lose consciousness, his pulse throbbing hard in his temples, eyes rolling in ecstasy.

   Later that same night, lying in bed looking at the full moon shining down on him through his open window, all he could think about was the coyote skull, how the sharp teeth felt as they grazed across his tumescent flesh and ended
the ache in his balls. It was all because of them, the teeth in the skull. He had to have it again, over and over. He got out of bed and went back to the bushes in Lover's Lane and rescued the coyote skull.

   He hid it in his room in an air-tight container he swiped from the kitchen until he could get to the bait shop next day and buy a tub of maggots. His task lit only by the moon, he dug a hole in the woods behind the house, put the skull in and poured over the maggots and buried it. In a couple of days, the remnants of the tongue, the brain and some lingering pieces of furry flesh that remained on the underside of the skull would be gone. He could wash it after that, hold it, kiss it, and love it. Always.

   He used to have the skull on show in the bedroom, mounted on the wall but his wife would complain about it, saying it was creepy and ugly. She angered him when she said things about 'Skully,' his secret name for his bony lover.
'Skully' caused a huge fight between them one night when he called out 'Oooh, Skully!' whilst shooting his load into his wife; she cried herself to sleep that night, cursing her husband and his X-Files obsession. He didn't bother
to correct her - he'd rather she thought he fancied Agent Dana than the skull of a dead coyote. In fact, he thought to himself, he'd rather she thought he had the hots for Mulder than the skull of a dead coyote. She'd never understand his fetish and she'd say he was a pervert if he tried to explain it.

   The dry heat of the full-mooned night made him nostalgic. Lover's Lane was just a short walk, five minutes or so through the woods at the back of the house he had lived in all his life. He'd trod that route so many times over the years that his feet had made a narrow path straight to the spot he liked to watch from. Tonight there were no lovers in the lane, no steamy windows to try and peer into, no sweating teens bumping and grinding in wet heat inside cars. He was alone, only Skully and the moon were there to keep him company. And an angry-sounding snarling beast behind him that made his feet put down roots under him, anchored him to the spot.

   He could smell the stink of rotten meat on its breath; probably been eating road-kill for dinner, he thought. He felt his cock receding into his body with fear and suddenly he was dying to pee, his bladder like a rock in his abdomen.

   He felt the heat of its stinking breath on his ass and realized how big the beast must be. He had to see it, had to see the size of the teeth on a beast this size; they'd be dripping with saliva, he thought, sparkling in the light of the moon, the razor-sharp tips of its fangs would be shining like diamonds. His manhood became brave again and fought to get out of his pants. He had to turn around, had to see this beast and its teeth.

   He turned around and nearly let go his pearly jizz on the spot. They were huge, sharp ivory towers, ivory stakes in his heart, ivory athames. They were beautiful and he wanted them.

   And he would have them.

   The coyote leapt at him off powerful haunches, coiled like a spring, the release of energy was enough to knock him flat on his back. The coyote went for his throat and he moaned as the little white daggers tore into his flesh, tearing and ripping, reaching his vocal cords and severing them in one snapping bite. He could no longer make sound to express his ecstasy but his eyes rolled, his back arched as he bucked his hips making his cock bang against the muscled under-side of the coyote. Just at that last moment he came, the greatest orgasm he'd ever had showed in the damp stain on his pants as the coyote snapped through his spinal cord and his head rolled away from his body.

   His consciousness remained long enough for him to feel the coyote's teeth on his lips - it felt like a kiss to him, his last kiss. The coyote made a pining noise as he saw the skull of brethren lying smashed in the dirt, shattered by the weight of the body as it fell.

   The coyote ran off into the distance, heading towards it home in the desert; tonight though, it would not be alone. Tonight the coyote had a new toy to play with.

©2002 Alex Severin

Alex Severin is an author of horror & vampire erotica. Alex appears/will appear in such anthologies as 'Blasphemy,' 'Scary Holidays,' 'Femmes de la Brume,' 'Ghostbreakers' & 'Chimeraworld,' is the co-author of 'Broken' with Hertzan
Chimera & Wrath James White, and 'BoyFistGirlSuck,' with Hertzan Chimera. Her debut novel is 'Vampire Red.' and is scheduled for publication in late 2003.

She is married to fellow horror writer Kailleaugh Andersson.

Learn more about Alex and her work at her Official Website - www.AlexSeverin.co.uk

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Blasphemy - The Anthology of Religious Erotic Horror
www.religiouserotica.com
The Official Alex Severin Website
www.alexseverin.co.uk
Vampire Red - the debut vampire erotica novel by Alex Severin
www.vampirered.com