The Ritual

I don't know how my body knows the fall equinox but, come September, I start to crave coming back. Nothing else can quench my thirst the way our ritual does.

Last year, I convinced myself that rough, primal sex and fresh, almost-raw venison would satiate me. I did the same thing back in 2020.

There's sex and there's fresh venison at the ritual, but neither one is what makes it special. Anyway, I'll die before I let myself slip up, so that means going back.

It's a little clearing that's just a few hours from here, but it's a two-day drive from where I live.

I spent the first night at a clean, cheap motel with little bungalows. They're old but well-maintained and I get privacy in case I growl in my sleep. As I lay there, waiting to drift off, I imagined what my ancestor felt.

Hunting a maiden through the forest with his packmates. Scenting her fear from the chase. Almost devouring the woman who would be my great grandmother, many times removed.

But as his jaws close on her neck, his muscles seize up. Hot drool drips onto her skin as his tongue traces her jugular, feeling the pulse. It should be so easy to bite. But he cannot.

I'd seen an illustration in the sacred grimoire so I know how it went next. Jaw muscles go slack as leg muscles tense and suddenly, he's kneeling. As he looked up at the Priestess and her circle of women, lit by torches, my ancestor felt something more than hunger awaken inside: his humanity.

I wonder if the maiden's hand shook as she stroked his pelt, whispering calming words to him. In my hotel room, my cock is achingly hard as I imagine that first time, the first ritual.

*

The sun is setting, and there's already almost a dozen cars parked around the woodsy cottage where the current priestess lives. Just as I'm grabbing my duffel bag, my brother, Owen, and his husband pull up in an electric SUV with barely 1,000 miles on it, so I wait for them, leaning on the passenger side of my hatchback.

They're holding hands as they walk over. Chris meets my gaze, smiles. There's no shame in being queer in our pack, but I feel the mix of judgment and concern on Owen's face as he takes in the rust and dents on my car, and my cheeks burn. Why does my big brother make me feel so small, even now?

"Hello, Billy," he greets me. "We're both running late for once."

There are ways to complete the ritual if you only fuck men. But Owen and Chris like to pick up women together.

"You look good, Billy," Owen says, "Been working out?" My heart warms from his praise.

An hour later we join the others in the enchanted woods: men, women and enbies carefully drinking white wine in matching white robes. Our pack returns here every year, but the witches' coven sometimes changes. They aren't bound by the same ancient compulsion, the one put on my great ancestor by the First Priestess, so they're free to come and go.

But there's always a priestess and no shortage of witches. And every equinox, the pack comes back together, no matter how far we roam.

I look over the new witches, who I don't recognize from last year. A Black woman, with beaded braids in her dark hair, meets my eyes. Even without speaking, I know I'll see her later.

It's time. The circle of witches start to murmur and cry. I hadn't even realized that we're surrounded until they began to chant. My robe drops away as my skin begins to burn and my muscles tear. I'm changing.

*

The memories are spotty after. My conscious mind assembles a story from bits and pieces that linger.

The witches scatter, and we take off running.

I remember chasing my maiden, how her round ass looked delicious as it jiggled. She smells of adrenaline and arousal and I drool as I run on all fours. I hear her giggle and shriek with excitement. Around us, in the thick forest of branching paths, we hear the echoes of her coven and the growls of my pack.

When I catch up to her, her back is to a tree. There's enough moonlight that my lupine eyes can easily make out her dark skin and her brown eyes. She looks down at me with shocking confidence and calm as she says "Stop."

I'm running when she says it, so I literally skid into her, until my wet nose bumps into her leg. Her thigh quivers, and I smell her cunt.

My instincts tell me to bite her, knock her down, go for her neck. I don't move. Can't move?

The moment stretches. I feel her fingers stroking my pelt, between my ears, sharp nails on my scalp.

"Good boy," she says, and my blood burns deliciously with humiliation. I'm hers, at least for tonight.

She could make me do anything, but she parts her thighs and guides my snout to her core and tells me to lick. She tastes like citrus, and musk and the earth.

When she goes down on all fours, I do bite her neck, but carefully. She's my mate, not my meal. Her plump warm ass is crushed against my abdomen as I thrust into her from behind. Her wetness drips from us both. I'm exactly halfway between wolf and man as I loop my fingers in her hair, so that we can both howl as we come.

The ritual is complete.

Later, we'll feast around a bonfire as the sun comes up. But until the night is over, we belong to the witches and they do with us as they please.

Author's note: I wrote this for the Austin Erotic Open Mic for October 2026. Each reader gets 7 minutes or less to read, so I wanted to create a complete=feeling story which fit within that time limit.