The Full Moon

Miklos Pascal lived in one of the Southern states in the U.S.A. But he had not been born there. He had been born elsewhere.

If he had been born in Hoboken, or Sheboygan, he would not have recognized the signs on his next-door neighbor, Rita Thompson. She was an attractive woman, around his age, and over the brief period that they had been living in houses on adjoining properties, they had become quite friendly. Intimate in fact.

But still, he could read the signs.

For Miklos Pascal had grown up in Poiana Sibiului, Romania. He had listened attentively to his grandmother when she baked bread or made the beds. He knew all about the meaning of Rita's eyebrows that met over the bridge of her nose. He understood her curved nails. And her swinging stride.

However, the thing that really clinched it, was her ears. Set low on her head. He had only learned of that last week. Normally Rita wore her shoulder length hair loose, covering her ears. But on that night, after perhaps a few too many beers in Micklos's kitchen, she had wound up down on her knees. With him standing there as she sucked him off.

The same way she was doing now.

When she had first dropped down to her knees, she grinned up at him. A wicked, mischievous look on her face. Reaching into her pants pocket, she pulled out a hair scrunchie and tied up an impromptu ponytail. As she hauled out his erection, that was when he noticed her ears.

It did not prevent him from letting her blow him. After all, the moon was waxing gibbous. He was completely safe. For the moment.

Since that night a week ago, Rita had returned nearly every evening. Always through the back door, as most people did down South. Only once was she unable to give him his nightly hummer.

Mikol opened his eyes, looking down at Rita's head bobbing back and forth. Her fist working in unison with her mouth. Her other hand fondling his balls. Was such a shame that this would be his last blowjob from her.

Re-closing his eyes, he recalled obtaining a firearm. It had been ridiculously simple to purchase a handgun. All he had to do was to wait three days for a background check to be run. And finding a gun shop that sold the equipment to self-load was as simple as just driving down the highway. There were almost as many gun shops as there were churches, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants. The shop owner cautioned him on the dangers involved, but did not try to dissuade him from his purchase. After all, business was business.

“Oh, Rita!” he gasped, opening his eyes wide and grabbing the sides of her ever moving head. “I am gonna cum!”

She quickly nodded her head, making a humming noise signifying yes, and prepared to swallow down the load he was going to give her. “Arrrrgh!” he screamed, the small kitchen making the yell sound even louder. He exploded inside her mouth, flooding her oral cavity with cum. Shooting out glob after glob of his spunk.

When his climax had subsided, she pulled her head back and wiped at her mouth. It was a symbolic gesture. Rita had not spilled a drop. As the two rearranged their clothing and hair, Miklos asked, “What say we take a couple more beers into the living room and watch some T.V.?”

Rising stiffly to her feet (she had been kneeling on the hard linoleum covered floor for a considerable time), she answered, "Sure. If you let me pick the program."

All of this would end tomorrow night.
When the moon would be full.

***** ***** *****

Miklos reviewed the events of last night, of the last eight nights, as he waited in his kitchen. He really wanted a drink, but a lot depended on his actions tonight and he had to keep a clear head. There would be time for afterwards.

Again he checked his revolver; he had more faith in one of those than in a semi-automatic. The projectiles of the hand-loaded cartridges were silver, of course. He had melted down dimes and poured them into the molds. He should only need one.

Suddenly he looked up. There was a light tapping on the door. A quick glance as the clock on the stove confirmed that this was her usual time of arrival.

"Come in," he called out, his right arm extended, pointing the gun at the door.

It was Rita alright. But not the one that he had grown accustomed to. Fond of, even.

In her place was a grey wolf standing up on its hind legs. Towering over five feet.
Its lips pulled back to reveal its fangs as it snarled at him.
Miklos squeezed the trigger. Inside the small kitchen the explosion was deafening.
The wolf was spun completely around, but when it had made its full three hundred and sixty degree revolution, it lunged.
Miklos was knocked to the linoleum covered floor, the gun flew out of his hand, and the wolf's teeth... Rita's teeth... went for his jugular.

For you see, if he had been born in Hoboken, or Sheboygan, rather than Poiana Sibiului, Romania, he would have known that the United States dime was 91.67 percent copper; 8.33 percent nickel.

[As much as I would like to take credit for the plot, it is a re-telling of a short story I read long ago. With appropriate CHYOA embellishments, of course. I do not know the name of the original author.]