[18+] Cyrille is a werewolf, and the moon will be full tonight. But he’s blessed with a boyfriend who will help him through the change process and make it interesting.

Today’s story is “Moon Me Up, Cyrille” by Alice Clawford, who writes furry erotica, as well as horror short stories, and is published in anthologies such as Purrgatorio by Thurston Howl Publications, and you can find more of her stories on Furaffinity.

Today’s story will be read for you by Ta’Kom Ironhoof, the equine charmer.

Ta'kom Ironhoof is also the host of his own podcast, Dinner at Yiffany's, where you can listen to more furry escapades. His podcast can be found on Spotify, Google, and Apple Podcasts.

The Voice of Dog can be found at thevoice.dog | Apple podcasts | Spotify | Google Podcasts

If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with Khaki on Twitter or Telegram!

Today I'm reading an adult story for mature listeners.

If that's not your cup of tea,

or if there are youngsters listening,

you can skip this one

and I'll have a new story for you next time.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog,

and Today’s story is

“Moon Me Up, Cyrille”

by Alice Clawford,

who writes furry erotica,

as well as horror short stories,

and is published in anthologies such as

Purrgatorio by Thurston Howl Publications,

and you can find more of her stories on Furaffinity.

Today’s story will be read for you by Ta’Kom Ironhoof,

the equine charmer.

“Moon Me Up, Cyrille”

by Alice Clawford Cyrille

Warren ran a hand through his short hair,

scratching it as the sun began to disappear on the horizon.

He’d been hard at work all day,

his hands had been shaking that entire time

and he knew it was almost that time again.

He wondered why he bothered to come into work today,

knowing it was going to be tough on him.

Oh yeah, money, he remembered again.

It was a sad unfortunate state of affairs,

but living cost a lot of money,

some he couldn’t really afford to lose, not this time.

And it wouldn’t look good on him to keep missing work on a semi regular basis with no good excuse as to why.

He made so many little mistakes,

nothing he couldn’t repair or

fix again quickly enough,

but his shaking palms and irritable demeanour

hadn’t gone completely unnoticed by his superiors.

“Get on home, Cyrille,”

His boss told him as they locked the garage together.

“Don’t know who pissed in your cornflakes,

but just get home,

fuck your boyfriend and be better tomorrow, a’ight?”

Never say his boss wasn’t one to mince words.

Of which, Cyrille was thankful for.

“Sounds like a good plan,

yeah, sorry.” He scratch his head again,

it might’ve looked like a nervous tick to anyone else,

but Cyrille could already feel he was almost out of time.

He needed to get home before the sun disappeared

and lock the doors,

then he would be fine. Cyrille

had always lived the quiet life,

always been a bit of a loner since he moved into Wolfscastle.

The community was a strong knit one,

so outsiders moving in were considered strange and unusual

until they passed some invisible barrier of being welcomed in as a local.

That worked fine for him,

he preferred being left alone

and to his own devices.

It was better for everyone.

Then he met Fran Dufour.

The man had sauntered over with his broken car for Cyrille to fix

and flirted with him the entire time.

He refused to leave whilst he was fixing the car,

saying he had “nothing better to do in this boring shitsville”,

not even when Cyrille gave him his best glare.

When the car was done,

Fran slipped his cash and a note with his number and name on and he drove off.

And came back days later with another problem.

A problem Cyrille knew the man himself caused.

Because who backs up into their own bin and dents their back bumper?

How did his exhaust pipe get cut in half!?

A myriad of other stupid and small repairs brought Fran back over and over,

until Cyrille finally gave in.

“Fine! If it makes you stop abusing your own vehicles

I’ll go on a bloody date with you.”

Even when Cyrille told Dufour the truth,

the man still remained by his side,

wanting to know everything about him,

the good and the bad. Cyrille

had to admit,

he’d never met a man with more patience than Fran.

Neither had he met a man more accepting of everything as Fran Dufour.

Who else would want to stick by Cyrille’s side for so long otherwise?

Now, they lived together,

two freaks who lived in the village but

had nothing to do with it.

They always spoke about them behind their backs,

how they were always alone together,

didn’t conform to the norm of the village,

etc. It was a pain to hear when he was working,

but Cyrille was the one laughing.

At least he was happy,

he’d found his love who accepted everything about him,

encouraged it and he minded his own business.

Tough shit the villagers were still moping

and Gladys from afar cheated on her third husband. Cyrille

made it home,

closing and locking the door quickly,

knowing Fran would be home by now.

He always came home earlier to make sure things were ready for him.

Warren’s hands were shuddering at this point and

his body began to ache

as if he’d run a marathon and exhausted himself.

He was sweating too

and all and all, felt like shit.

He wanted to collapse into bed and get it over with,

the whole day and night and forget everything.

But he couldn’t. He dropped his things in the hallway,

hanging his coat up

and made his way to the basement.

A door they normally kept locked

unless it was that time,

used only in these extreme measures.

It was open this time as Cyrille pushed it open

and then closed it behind him,

locking it with the key that remained inside.

He put the key in his pocket,

then came down the stairs.

The room was dark,

lit only with a single ceiling fitting hanging in the middle of the room.

It looked featureless,

with stone walls and it felt colder than the rest of the house.

Here, there was only a few things.

A bed, right in the middle of the room,

the centre piece. Right at the back was a cupboard filled with items

usually for after and self care,

a first aid kit, bandages

and a muzzle, just in case.

There on the bed,

Fran was already undressed,

his clothes strewn about the room

and his lithe but reasonably built body

was on full show.

He didn’t sport a six pack of the sort,

but he was by no means weak.

His cock was already at full mast,

being stroked by his hand

and he groaned with a wink as Cyrille came down the stairs.

“Hah… took your fuckin’ time.

Almost… blew myself before you got in.”

He panted, licking his lips obscenely and drawing out a growl from Cyrille.

One knee was up whilst the other stretched as if relaxed,

but that gave Cyrille

a full view of what he was doing to his prick.

Beads of pre glistened at his head

and by the looks of the colour, Cyrille

had to guess his boyfriend had teased himself to the brink

and held himself back more than once.

Jesus, the things he does for me. Cyrille

was never a man of many words,

Fran did all the talking for the both of them normally,

and the same could be said of their sex life.

Where Cyrille growled and snarled,

Fran quipped, whined and bit remarks,

as well as endearing comments and praises.

Instead of giving Fran any verbal reply back,

the man instead snarled,

a much lower growl than any normal human would give

and got onto the bed on all fours,

crawling and stalking towards Fran.

The man did not stall in his efforts to get himself off,

he didn’t even pause as the snarl left his throat.

If anything, his face grew more flushed and his eyes glazed over in lust.

“Fuck, I love it when you get rough on me.

When I see that beast inside of you coming out to play…”

He didn’t continue,

but instead pulled the leg up towards him and pulled them apart,

his hands letting go of his cock as Cyrille crawled over him,

pinning him down to the bed.

The man was still fully clothed,

but that wouldn’t last long either.

This was a game they both played.

It was the best deterrent they had come up with

which was healthy for the both of them

and fulfilled that extra excitement Fran liked to have.

When plans for this had first come about,

Cyrille told him absolutely no,

until Fran’s constant whining and bickering

and complaining ground the man down enough

he was willing to give it a try,

so long as they took extreme safety measures.

Measures, it turns out,

they didn’t need in the end.

It was better for them,

the pair of them,

and the village themselves.

Little did they know that Fran coming here and finding him,

sheep disappearances and slaughterings had decreased massively.

Nobody had ever been killed,

but Cyrille had always been unsure of how long that would last.

Now, thanks to Fran,

the super hero with his amazing skills of persuasion,

chances were their sheep would be safe again.

Fran knew the drill,

and sometimes he had to take the initiative,

even when he preferred being handled roughly by his partner.

Still, it wasn’t Cyrille’s fault.

It never was, it was just how things were

and how they were going to be.

He’d always accepted that

and wanted to help where he could.

Plus, it was exciting!

He moved forward,

taking in Cyrille’s lips into a crushing kiss

and a loud and rumbling snarl left the man

as he was lured on by sexual desire.

Fran couldn’t help but smirk

as he felt his lips being bitten into roughly,

sometimes drawing blood,

but never badly. He opened his mouth to allow Cyrille’s tongue in,

wrestling with it in a battle he knew he’d lose immediately,

but it had its desired effect. Cyrille

was quick to take off his clothes,

almost ripping them off of him

as the sun finally disappeared and the moonlight rose.

This was where it was crucial.

Often times, Cyrille would lose interest,

pain overtaking pleasure

as his body begins to snap

and violently shake as bones reshaped

and he would change shape.

This time was no different,

as Cyrille stopped

and collapsed on top of Fran, moaning in pain.

“Come on love, you can do this.

You’ve done this a thousand times before, focus on me.”

Fran demanded, lifting Cyrille’s head as his eyes opened,

disorientated and unfocused.

He pressed a kiss to his mouth, Cyrille

groaning in response,

though it could’ve been both pleasure and pain at this point.

It would be all over him,

every part of him would hurt and itch.

His mind could barely focus on anything

as control slipped out of his fingers

and his personality would dissolve

as the beast inside would take over.

He’d fight and fight until the bitter end, wrestling with it,

but eventually he would always be beaten,

exhausted and locked away.

He never remembered the nights the beast won

(and the beast always won)

and it frightened him

in case the worst would happen.

With Fran being there,

grounding him, he could fight a little longer for self control,

but ultimately, even his boyfriend couldn’t keep Cyrille’s spirit

from losing this war that occurred monthly.

Cyrille sat up on his knees,

his hands holding his head

and covering his face as growls and snarls began leaving his mouth,

human sounds soon abandoning him

as he slowly began to transform right before Fran’s eyes.

And Fran watched it happen,

albeit with a sad sort of fascination.

Maybe he was crazy,

or perhaps he had gotten so desensitised by seeing it happen so often,

every month he refused to leave Cyrille’s side

and stuck with him through his change.

Slowly, Cyrille’s body would change colour,

from white to charcoal,

as if he were turning to stone or becoming a shadow.

His bones crunched as his arms became longer,

leaner and his legs did the same.

Behind him, a tail would sprout and fur would grow out of his skin everywhere,

to his newly formed tail,

his legs, arms, crotch, face and back.

His fingers would change to claws, becoming longer

and bending more than before,

becoming monstrous and deadly.

His teeth would grow sharp

and venomous, dripping with saliva as his snout elongated

and gained a black tipped nose.

His eyes changed,

from green to yellow,

gaining slits as he did to better see in the dark.

But that wasn’t all. Cyrille

changed more than his species,

but his sex as well.

His cock and balls shrunk,

disappearing as his body grew and absorbed it somewhere else

and left instead was a vulva,

grey and around the labia

remained furless as did some parts around his face,

near his eyes especially.

His chest remained much the same besides being covered in long black fur and grey skin,

but where he once had small pecks

were now rounded mounds,

breasts but still smaller and more animal than human.

Through this transformation,

Cyrille’s cries and groans

turned into snarls and whimpers

and yelps as he changed from man,

to a wolf. This was the big secret Cyrille had been keeping from everyone in the town,

one that Fran guarded with his life.

A town that got its name for murdering the last wild wolf

had no idea that inside,

the wolf still reigned,

and the only reason it hadn’t slaughtered them all,

was Cyrille’s determination,

Fran and a whole lot of luck.

They were indeed very lucky that the wolf inside of Cyrille

cared for Fran as much as the man did too.

That showed now, as the wolf shook her head,

dazed from the transformation,

and howled to the moon in greeting.

The first time this happened,

Fran remembered being scared out of his wits,

trembling and terrified of the beast,

who in the end, only sniffed at him

and nudged his face with her nose.

She was actually quite shy,

but spoilt. She knew exactly what she wanted

and would try anything to get it.

She was curious and held no fear,

but extremely possessive and

was very touchy.

She loved touching him,

rubbing her body against his,

leaving her scent everywhere,

and she loved to lick him all over.

Everywhere. She was never satisfied until he smelt entirely like her.

And when he was exhausted,

she would curl up as best she could for a bipedal wolf,

and lay on top of him.

She wasn’t light by any means, but Fran also didn’t have the courage to ask the wolf to get off either.

Now, she looked to him,

her ears tilting as she took in all the sounds with her new hearing

and she leaned forward on all fours.

Her tail wagged and Fran smiled.

“Hey there girl.” He reached forward and ran a hand through the fur on her head.

She pressed her head into his hand with a growl of approval

and took a sniff.

She stopped. She sniffed again,

insistently, and pressed her nose right against his abdomen.

He flinched, her cold nose startling him

and he was unsure as to what she was doing.

“What is it? I’m not wearing any strong perfume or anything,

never do when I’m expecting you.”

Not that he was sure the wolf had any idea what perfume was,

but the wolf usually understood the bare basics of English.

Her vocal cords had been entirely cut,

unable to reply,

but she could still understand.

She sneezed, much like dogs did,

then pressed her nose urgently to his abdomen still.

Much to his surprise,

she pulled away slightly

and snarled angrily.

She turned her gaze to his,

as if she had been betrayed.

What the fuck? “What’ve I done?”

He held his arms up in surrender,

unsure what was going on.

The wolf huffed, putting her nose back there, another groan leaving Fran as the cold and wet organ bothered him more.

Then, her ears pulled back and she whined

and yowled sadly. She turned her gaze to his,

ears pulled back and her eyes…

were they glistening?

He looked down… oh.

He’d forgotten.

Dogs had an acute sense of smell,

they could smell things most others couldn’t.

Like diseases.

Like cancer. For days, Fran had been getting random pain in this stomach,

feeling sick sometimes and thought he felt a lump or a mass when he pressed hard,

so he visited a doctor.

Terminal stomach cancer.

Symptoms he had ignored for weeks,

his loss of appetite and losing weight when he hadn’t tried.

He hadn’t worked up the courage to tell Cyrille,

but he only intended to do this after this full moon.

Yet… here she was,

the wolf within Cyrille knew.

She knew that he was dying.

Slowly, he would get worse

until he’d need to go to the hospital,

not that there was much they could do either for him but prolong it.

Ah, but Cyrille’s wolf…

she, however, could. Cyrille

absolutely would kill him for this.

He never wanted Fran to be inflicted with what he had.

But, he was sentenced to death now.

Fran could not live with himself if he left Cyrille behind,

and he’d been through this enough times with his boyfriend

that he was sure he could deal with it.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”

He still apologised to the wolf,

knowing she must’ve felt hurt.

Maybe it took her a moment to realise what was wrong,

smelling something different the first time?

He wasn’t sure how it worked,

but the wolf huffed

and a look of determination took over her features.

Before he could ask what she was up to,

he softening dick suddenly felt the press of her vulva.

She’d rubbed her lips against the head,

spurring him on as he remembered what he was meant to be doing.

Somehow, his untimely soon death

hadn’t put her off at all.

Her claws suddenly dug into his shoulders,

small pin pricks that only added to the sensation

and without preparing herself

(she never did), she sunk down completely right to his hips.

Fran shouted in surprise,

then let out a groan as her claws

grasped the back of his head and pulled it aside,

bearing his throat out to the werewolf.

He might’ve been the one penetrating her,

but make no mistake,

she called all the shots

and was in charge.

She leaned forward,

stretching and part of his length pulled out of her,

his head still breached inside of her,

a little painful for him,

but nothing that would’ve dampened the mood.

She licked from shoulder to ear,

over and over again,

until Fran felt the cold air of her breathing down his neck.

Then, she backed off a little,

sinking back down onto his cock and drawing another moan of desire out of him.

She was relentless,

the scare of him possibly dying was very likely the source of it.

A couple of times,

she squeezed hard enough Fran felt the tinge of pain against his cock,

but it only turned him on more,

the small stab electrifying

and keeping him on his toes.

Whenever he tried to touch her,

she snarled and pushed his hands down against the bed.

Doing that too many times resulted in her pushing her hand against his throat,

pinning him to the bed

and leaving him gasping.

He could breathe fine,

the pressure was merely a threat,

a domination and fuck his cock twinged inside of her at that.

She was getting wet quickly,

the sound of their bodies moving against one another was barely audible beneath the snarls and howls of the wolf.

Fran felt increasingly grateful that they lived far from anyone else

so they wouldn’t hear them.

Much to Fran’s delight, he got an eyeful as the wolf sat up

of her bouncing breasts,

ones he wished he could touch,

but the wolf forbade.

He hadn’t earned that, apparently. “J

-Jesus… y-you’re ngggf- rough today.”

Of course, even when the wolf was fucking him hard,

his pelvis was beginning to ache,

he still had quips.

None that the wolf cared about, of course.

She couldn’t reply verbally,

but she did snarl

and scratched at his chest.

Gently. Leaving angry looking red marks across

and Fran grunted

and thrust up into the wolf in reaction.

“I-I’m close…!” He at least warned her,

right as the wolf apparently felt the same.

Her vaginal walls trembled against his cock,

sucking him in and clamping down tighter as she got closer.

Her growls turned more into pants

and she leaned forward again,

this time thrusting her hips far down

and taking his entire length into her.

Her walls clamped down on him like a vice,

drawing out the man’s orgasm and a shout as he shuddered and spurted cum into her.

The wolf, satisfied, felt her own waves of completion roll over her,

and she leaned forward

with a snarl and bit into his shoulder.

This time, she made sure to break the skin,

biting down hard enough

blood began to drool beneath her fangs.

Right up against his neck,

down across the front of his chest

and the back of his neck,

a ring of her fangs would be scored into him.

She bit hard, leaving lines of red to flow down his body slowly in dribbles.

The man screamed,

his arm paralysed and yet,

his balls emptied themselves again inside the werewolf,

excitement growing even still.

His head thrust back and he shuddered,

pinned down onto the bed

as the werewolf snarled and latched onto his shoulder.

She didn’t move, remaining as still as possible as Fran soon felt the venom

getting to work. It was surreal,

terrifying to feel what he thought was hot syrup

running through his shoulder,

pierced down into his veins

and before he knew it,

it felt like heartburn.

His chest began to hurt,

burning and stinging

and he wondered if he’d made a terrible,

horrible mistake.

Regrets began to pool in his stomach,

for allowing this to happen,

letting the beast know that he was dying and selfishly,

he had egged the werewolf on.

He didn’t want to die,

to leave Cyrille alone to suffer with his lycanthrope on his own,

not again. Not after the man was finally opening up more than ever before.

Just like that, the burning ceased

and Fran was left with a chilled

numbing sensation in his shoulder.

The werewolf let go

and ran a long tongue against the bite.

It stung and Fran hissed,

gritting his teeth as those nerves and cells got to work on rebuilding themselves

at break-neck speed thanks to the werewolf saliva.

The wolf hummed, almost like a purr as she watched the wound close itself up.

Fran, for his part,

was utterly exhausted

and felt his vision blur.

He didn’t complain as the werewolf slid herself off

with a squelch and curled up over him,

the same humming lulling him slowly to sleep.

“What the fuck did you let me do!?”

He woke up with a banging headache

and groaned pitifully.

He turned away from the noise,

curling up in the duvet

and whined as he felt a human set of hands shaking his shoulder.

His bad shoulder.

It was insanely sensitive!

The touch was like a searing energy touching him,

sparking him to alertness and he sat up quickly in surprise.

“Whoa! What the-?”

“You idiot!” Cyrille was furious.

His eyes were red and glistening

and his eyes never left Fran’s right shoulder,

the one that had been bitten

and now sported a round brown mark of the werewolf bite.

“Why did you get the fucking muzzle?!”

“Because I wanted this, Cy!”

Fran shouted back. Cyrille

seemed shocked,

but oh no, Fran wasn’t quite finished yet.

“I’ve always wanted this.

I know you were scared

and you didn’t want me to suffer,

but I’ve thought about this for a long time.

I know we aren’t one for marriage,

but this comes as close as I can think of.

I’ve been marked by you; permanently.

I can be with you forever now,

for better or for worse.” Cyrille

took deep breaths,

taking in everything Fran told him.

An admission deeper than anything they’ve ever told each other before.

He might as well have asked his hand in marriage.

“But what if you get sick of me after

ten years? A hundred years?

Who’s to say you wouldn’t tire of me?”

“I’ve stuck around this long.”

Fran took a deep breath.

“Cy… I was dying.

Terminal stomach cancer.” Cyrille

let out a breath,

almost a sob, his hands coming to his head

as he tried to make sense of everything.

“So when… you weren’t eating and…”

Fran nodded and looked down at the duvet sheets bunched around his knee as he continued.

“I went to see a doctor about it.

It was inoperable already,

I would’ve had months to live.

So, I thought long and hard.

A good week, when I decided I couldn’t leave you behind.”

Fran looked up, his eyes tearing up and a smile on his face.

“I’m happy to suffer with you,

happy to take some of your suffering on,

so that you wouldn’t be left alone anymore.

I couldn’t stand the thought!

I love you, Cy.” Cyrille wasn’t one to get emotional,

but he would be damned if he tried to hold back now.

With a sob, he got back on the bed

and hugged his boyfriend tight to his chest,

the pair remaining curled up together

as they let raw emotion do all the talking.

Every so often, the pair would whisper ‘love yous’ to one another,

realising that they had nearly lost one another,

but now they were stuck with one another

for as long as they both would live.

And that was a very long time.

After a pause, Fran spoke.

“I wonder what kind of sexy werewolf I’d be?

What would I look like…

hey, have you ever seen what your werewolf looks like?” Cyrille

rolled his eyes.

Some things would never change,

but he would love his boyfriend

all the same. This was

“Moon Me Up, Cyrille” by Alice Clawford, read for you by

read for you by Ta’Kom Ironhoof, the equine charmer

and panty melter.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your

podcasts. Thank you for

listening to The Voice of Dog.