You look nervously from one side to the other. The trees are mere silhouettes, dark against a sky of black velvet. A breeze rustles through them, and it rustles your hair across your elfin ears as well. The air coursing over your arms makes you shudder with sudden sensation.
You look to find tiny black hairs peeking through the backs of your wrists, sprouting and waving in the breeze. They lenghten as you watch with wider and wider eyes, and in a rush, the tingling itch races up your arms beneath your clothes.
You slide your legs against each other, and they too tingle and writhe with silken hair. Your thighs glide, silken against each other, and the bowl of you nestles against them both, tufted in something you can only feel but not see. Your breath catches in your throat as you can suddenly smell your own arousal, the pheromones bubbling up from beneath the skirt that hides you.
Gritting your teeth, no... your fangs, your eyes dart from place to place as you tense your thighs together. No one watches. No one sees.
You curl your skirt up, and tufts of black fur lie smooth and sleek against pale skin, thicker and thicker the more of your skirt you lift. Suddenly, a rush of sensations and needs make you clutch the top of your skirt and stand. The need to know. The need to feel... more of this. The need to stop the itching where your clothes meet what's happening underneath... to you.
You look up, thickening, clawed fingers curled around your skirt, and your eyes find the moon. The moon, hidden and revealed by sliding clouds that obscure its ivory color, the moon itself lighting them from behind. The moon within the clouds seems to waver in your sight as you stare, captivated. Slow, creeping, squeezing, rustling hair courses across you, scurriying beneath your clothes to lie across your skin, seeping across you, taking you, encasing you, burrowing into the furrows of your body, caressing every curve as it moves.
The moon calls you, simmering within the clouds. It promises, and your fangs click against each other as you raise your face to it, feeling the tingling reach your temples and your jaw.
Hurrying to free yourself of the creeping, tingling itching that dances across your skin, you yank your skirt down across your thighs, and tug at everything else that restrains you. Moonlight touches your hairy self, and it bursts with fur instantly, beading with your own juices as the black, sleek, satiny fur swaddles your thighs. Your arching, sleek claws splay across black fur as you touch yourself, panting in shock... and desire.
You look to the moon for answers, and find a lure instead, and a simmering desire... for more.
Yet you know that every touch, every touch of the moon, every thought of it, will bring you closer to this thing that's coming out of you.
Is this what you really want?