ShapeShifter Kisses

August 28, 2013

“Mayor Gil. He’s playing Secret Agent Squirrel.” by Savanna Kougar

Wednesday kisses, shapeshifter lovers.

Today’s flash scene stars Dante, alpha werewolf owner of The Pleasure Club, and his love, Kitty, a cat shapeshifter.

“Mayor Gil. He’s playing Secret Agent Squirrel.”

Settling back in his leather chair, Dante rumbled a short laugh. He placed the decades-old phone receiver on its cradle. The Ma Belle original served as his link to Louie, and Louie’s circle. Only.

As he lifted his hand from the phone, Kitty entered their private love lair, modeling the new gown he’d recently had designed for her. Pure irresistible woman, she swayed sensually toward him.

“I’ve never heard that phone ring once.” She raised a delicate brow in question.

Immersed in her radiant expression, the one a woman wore when she felt truly admired by a man, Dante hesitated for moments, savoring. 

“Mayor Gil. He’s playing Secret Agent Squirrel.”

“Is that so?” His Kitty cocked her hip flirtatiously. “Secret agent squirrel… secret agent squirrel,” she sang to the tune of “Secret Agent Man”.

She gave her long blonde curls a lazy toss. “Somehow ‘squirrel’ just doesn’t work for that tune.” After a small laugh, she sauntered closer, her every move a sensual response to the slinky forties gown.

The champagne golden satin clung to her lovely curves, and Dante let his gaze prey on her. “Yeah, kitten mine, secret agent squirrel doesn’t cut it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be crooning that version to Mayor Gil,” his Kitty exaggerated the roll of her hips, “if he ever decides to show up at the Midnight Stardust Supperclub.”

“I’ve put the invite out. You can lead a squirrel to a hidden cache of peanuts, but you can’t make him eat them.” Dante opened his thighs, an invitation to his woman.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she complained in a sultry voice, even as she glided between his legs, and softly touched his shoulders, caressing.  “Squirrels store nuts.”

“Mine are aching to be found, kitten love.”

She gave him playful yet seductive smile, then rubbed her knee gently against his balls.

His cock did him proud, thickening fast. Dante smoothed his hands up her satin-covered hips as their gazes met, and the magic of their connection embraced him once again.

“You don’t usually give anyone phone access. What gives, my big bad sexy werewolf?”

Kitty languidly shimmied, and Dante gripped her haunches hard, possessively, the way she liked it. Hell and howls, the way he liked it.

“Figured it was the easiest way to get the real scoop on Talbot’s Peak. You know Louie, his rat’s nose is always to the ground.” Dante paused, inhaling her luscious sex scent.

“Louie is the rat in the know… when it comes to the Peak.” Kitty stroked her fingers through his hair, her touch addicting.

“Gave him that number exclusively… had him ‘let the number slip out’ to Gil.”

“I bet the Mayor enjoyed his squirrel paw up on you?” She leaned over, his woman, and planted a soft, soft kiss on his forehead.

“Yeah, kitten, let the squirrel think he’s got hold of your nuts.” Dante molded her ass with his hands. “Gil’s been good for the town. Don’t want to scare him away.”

“Love how you think, wolf man,” she murmured against his forehead, “only I’m losing my ability to think.”

Fisting his hair, Kitty tugged with enough force to bring his mouth beneath hers. She teased his lips with the slow brush of hers. “Maybe we should honor the Mayor at the supperclub’s Autumn Equinox Ball… how could he refuse?”

Dante grinned against his woman’s mouth. “A pint or two at the pub would be more to the mayor’s liking, from what I’m told.”

“With all the peanuts he can eat,” she breathlessly whispered, then nipped daintily at his mouth until he groaned.

Dante trapped her between his thighs, and passionately swept his hands over every inch of her he could reach. The way the satin slipped over her gorgeous shape — slid over her perfect breasts — mating howls, he was hotter than the devil’s inferno.

Not relinquishing her grip on his hair, Kitty covered his face with kisses.  “Dante,” she purred against his mouth.

Capturing her breasts, Dante fondled as the harsh sound of their pants filled the room. With a touch as fleeting as a butterfly, she tormented his cock, stretching his already too-tight leather pants.

“Hot with stud lust?” she asked just to further his need. The phrase had become an erotic trigger between them.

“Make me hotter, woman,” he growled.

She mewed, a desperate little sound that didn’t make it past her throat. Dante nuzzled her neck, growling endearments as her limbs went weak.

Knowing the instant his beautiful woman’s knees were about to buckle, he hauled her onto his lap. Their lips seized each other, their passion still unspent. 

Dante figured their furious kisses could have steamed up every mirror in the supperclub.


Wishing you shapeshifting love on the wild side… 


Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance

Originally posted at SHAPESHIFTER SEDUCTIONS ~ Turning Into Your Wildest Desire


August 24, 2013

In the Beginning… White Fang Khent by Savanna Kougar


Friday kisses, shapeshifter lovers.

[Given the tech glitch with wordpress earlier in the week, this blog is just now being posted.]

Harken ye back to the beginning of our fair shapeshifter town, Talbot’s Peak. Originally taken over by a werewolf pack, the Peak has come a long way, baby cub. Heck, we now have a squirrel shifter as the Mayor.

White Fang, Ace Wolf Reporter, was my first… dare I call him a mere character? No, let’s say my super wolf starred in the first Talbot’s Peak flash scene I wrote. Recently, I changed the spelling of his last name to Khent instead of Kent, given any trademark issue that might arise.

So, I have to get up earlier than usual, and I’m already darn worn out. Awhile back I began writing White Fang and Pasha’s erotic love story. It’s about a third done. Anyway, here’s the first chapter, a revised version of my original flash scene.


Chapter One ~ White Fang Khent  

Talbot’s Peak, Montana

White Fang Khent seated himself before the used desktop computer he’d picked up in town, not four hours ago. As an instant upgrade, he slid a formless silicon device into the USB port. Brought from his home planet, some four light years away, the adaptive technology did his bidding.

With urgency eating at his gut, he positioned his chair, then removed the specialized pair of eyeglasses he often wore while in public. They helped disguise the odd intensity of his eyes and changed the blue coloring to a shade Earth humans didn’t question him about.

In no time, White Fang scanned the online version of the town’s newspaper that had recently been taken over by a werewolf pack. Great Caesar’s Ghostwolf! It was true.

Leaning forward, he re-read to make certain. Lykouz, he had no choice. The brazen pack’s ill-considered actions were a danger to all wolfkind. Especially his wolfkind.

There would have been no problem if the pack had written their features and articles as ‘tongue in slavering cheek’. As werewolf fantasy.

Truth, White Fang found it damn hell refreshing. But, with the full humans in possession of devastating fire power and still in fear of anything paranormal–well snapping fangs, he wondered if this younger generation had ever seen the horrific Old West photos of slaughtered wolves. Not to howl about the current-day helicopter hunting atrocities.

They probably hadn’t witnessed what he had, the scarecrow remains of several scorched-to-the-ground shapeshifter towns. Not all the residents had been lucky enough to escape with only singed smoking tails. No, it appeared as though, this werewolf pack most likely thought the government’s ghost-kill squads were only nasty rumors.

Nov 12, 2010 Guts and Butts, 2nd edition…

    Here’s wishing Kitty ~Cat~ Collins her very own fond farewell. Story and photo’s on page one.

White Fang figured his brow looked like an aerial view of the Grand Canyon as he focused on the obituary, and frowned. Absently lifting his mug of steaming joe, he almost snarled into it. Instead he took a sniff, then swallowed down a healthy swig, or unhealthy, depending on which science study you chose to believe. With his physiology it didn’t matter.

“Not subtle enough,” he growl-muttered. Not at all.

White Fang set his mug down with a decided clank, but not hard enough to splash his window-on-the-world equipment. Lykouz, he remembered the good old days when coffee stains were a journalist’s badge of honor.

What he wouldn’t give for just a pen and pad at times. Even now, his fingers itched to bang out a story on his old typewriter. He threw a fond glance at the working relic before blinking and staring at the screen again.

He’d have to investigate this Kitty Collins, and obviously double quick. That is, before he sought employment as a Guts and Butts Gazette crime reporter.

It was one matter if this Collins, woman or catwoman, deserved to be entrail-splattered roadkill. It was a whole other matter if she was a victim of prejudice or, worse, targeted as an unwanted rival by one of the werewolf bitches in heat for a mate.

White Fang arched his brows, then they took a leap for the ceiling as he read Maggie Novak’s celebrity gossip column. Howling about bitches ready to kill…

Good news, girls – Damien, Alpha of the Hancock pack, informs me his son Devon is on the prowl for a mate. Devon’s just out of grad school and likes fresh-killed elk and long hunts in the moonlight. He’s not a cat fancier, however, so no felines need apply. Wag those tails, ladies – the line forms now!

So, was this steak-of-his-daddy’s eye, this Devon really what he appeared to be? Or, was he a closet cat fancier? Perhaps, even a past fancier of Kitty ~Cat~ Collins? Lykouz knows, as a reporter searching out leads, he’d prowled many a freaky-sex lair party filled with wolf grad students.

Taking another long swallow of his joe, White Fang ignored the yip-yip tones of his apartment’s doorbell. When he’d rented the place three days ago, his landlady’s yellow-gleaming gaze had alerted on his lap package. He’d felt like prime eats. To his private amusement, Tina Havulik had licked her lips as if they were wolfen chops.

Already, Toothsome Tina, as he thought of her, had invited herself in for coffee and bone meal biscuits on two occasions. White Fang figured he gained a couple ace hands, though. His landlady was a raging gossip queen, which gave him a hiked leg up on the inner workings of the town.

It was also an opportunity to practice the role he played in public. He’d pretended to be the shifter geek klutz of the century, thus fending off her amorous advances without offending her bitch sensibilities.

At least, so far, she hadn’t gone rabid werewolf and lunged for his defenseless dick while snapping her formidable jaws. Unlike her wolf breed, he had no desire to harm her or make her into instant roadkill.

White Fang owned no real worry for his physical well being. With one aimed fist between her eyes, he could knock Toothsome Tina out cold and leave her with a nasty headache for about a week’s time.

Glad his landlady had decided to quit leaning on the doorbell, White Fang drained his mug, and set it aside. A low growl vibrated his throat. His gaze narrowed on Mooney McMahon’s sports column.

The city council did not approve the request to allow roller derby tournaments at the city’s recreational facilities, so next week’s bone crusher will be held at the Roller Rama again, assuming we can get old Mrs. Fuddy-Duddy to drop the cease and desist charges.

Was this the same Mooney ‘wanna rip your throat out’ werewolf he’d tangled with in an LA sports bar? Mooney–not a lookalike for George Clooney–had gone neon-green eyed with jealousy over the attention his date lavished on White Fang.

While the woman had been a sweet piece of blonde tail, the only interest he’d had in her was if she could tell him the whereabout of her ex-boyfriend. The Dire wolf biker had gruesomely gnawed through two patrol cars, officers included.

Rumor had it the cops were on the take and shot at bikers for sport. Rumor had proven to be true. White Fang’s news story in the internationally distributed, Shapeshifter Globe Trotter, had saved the Dire wolf’s enormous furry hide from extinction.

Leaning back, White Fang stretched out the kinks from last night’s shift. He’d roamed the back streets, getting a feel for the Talbot’s Peak. Staying out of nose range, he’d watched werewolves hightail it for the surrounding forest. Most of them had been mated pairs.

Bringing the town’s directory up on screen, he typed in a search for Katrina Collins. There it was, address and phone number. Grabbing his cell, he thumbed in the number. No answer, just a cheery voice mail greeting.

With action now required, White Fang rose and strode toward his second floor deck. Once outside, he glanced around, then jumped over the rail. An instant later he blurred to super speed.  


Wishing you shapeshifting love on the wild side… 


Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance

Originally posted at SHAPESHIFTER SEDUCTIONS ~ Turning Into Your Wildest Desire

August 14, 2013

Living to the Kilt… by Savanna Kougar,+another+incredible.bmp

Wednesday kisses, shapeshifter lovers.

For Talbot’s Peak fair week, I had an entirely different flash scene in mind. However, that was before Scottish, sexy, kilt-wearing shapeshifters got the best of me.

Well, no surprise there ~grinz~

This scene follows last week’s post, Wearin’ Their Kilts at the Talbot’s Peak Fair. Hope you enjoy…

Living to the Kilt…

Tripping to a halt, Patrice slowly lowered her camera. Lusty Scotsmen in Talbot’s Peak? Who knew?

‘Course, she’d just moved to Mystic Falls, Montana. Upon his passing, her beloved uncle had kindly willed his small retirement house to her.

Hearing about the ‘first annual’ fair, Patrice had decided to unpack her camera, and give it a whirl. Check out the lay of the land, so to speak.

At the sight of several manly men in kilts, Patrice couldn’t help it. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared like an infatuated teenager. To her credit she didn’t drop her older, but expensive camera.

Gah, those kilts looked real, even if they weren’t. Obviously the hunky Highlanders ‘manned’ the ‘Scots Best of Breed Tavern’ booth that was behind them.

Instead of serving customers, two of the out-of-time-appearing Scotsmen played a game of hopscotch with a group of younger children — excited, giggling kids with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Patrice ogled, while giving them brownie points for the tender, playful way they  interacted with the youngsters. Almost in the manner of a family dog, she thought.

How odd…that thought followed on the heels of the first… then was lost as she watched the brawnier Scotsman, the one with the gorgeous sable and tan locks, swing one of the children onto the first square.

When it was his turn, Patrice murmured before she could stop herself, “Everybody pray for a good stiff wind.”

But what holy, unholy inspiration! Already, she was damp in her so-called nether region.

With each hop on the squares, the brawny, but noble Scotsman’s kilt flipped upward, revealing rock-hard, fine-fine thighs. Patrice clutched her camera hard. Was she actually drooling over the flex of  his thigh muscles?

“Lassie,” a voice boomed toward her. “Why don’t ya come join in the game?”

Patrice tore her gaze away long enough to locate the baritone gruff voice.

“Lassie, come on over.” The giant Highlander sporting a wild black mane of hair, waved her closer. “Have a pint of ale. Plenty of Scottish shortbread ‘n fixin’s.”

Patrice followed her feet. She had no choice. They moved her toward the booth, closer…closer to him, her kilt-wearing dream come true — who now mock wrestled with one of the boys.

“Duff’s the name.” The Scottish giant pulled out a heavy wooden chair. “Give your feet a rest, lass. I’ll have me boys serve ya, once the parent’s come for the wee ones. Won’t be much longer.”

Patrice knew she sat, knew she nodded. “Ale sounds good. My throat’s gone dry,” she semi-croaked.

“Comin’ up, lass. Good timin’ must be on your side, showin’ up now,” Duff continued, as he poured golden ale into a tall glass. “Plenty o’ lassies lining up for Donnie and Dristan. Tonight is a dancin’ party.”

“I bet,” Patrice mumbled, taking hold of the ale Duff placed before her. “How much?” she remembered to ask.

“On the house. All you have to do is answer one question, lass.”

Wary, about to take a sip, Patrice asked, “What’s that?”

“Have a fondness for dogs?”

Thrown, but seeing no harm in the question — after several moments of thought — Patrice answered. “Sure, I like dogs. Why not? Why do you ask?”

“Go ahead. Take a sip, lass. If the ale’s not to your taste, I have several other brews on hand.”

What met her lips, then her mouth…well, delicious was hardly an apt description for the unusual ale. Patrice downed several more swallows.

“It’s an old recipe.” Duff spoke as if he read her thoughts. “Been in the family for several generations.”

“You ought to bottle this stuff…oh, you did.” Patrice grimaced at her words. What a way to make a good impression. To cover herself, she made a show of placing her camera inside her carry-all bag.

“Any particular dog breeds catch your fancy, lass?”

Duff’s unexpected question caught Patrice mid-sip, and she nearly choked. “Have a litter of pups?” she managed to ask.

Even as she spoke, her gaze had been captured by Donnie and Dristan as they said their ‘goodbyes’ to the children. Although, which one was which, she didn’t know. Not yet. She damn well intended to find out.

“No litter, lass. Are ya lookin’ for a pup?” Duff set a plate of what looked like biscotti, but was likely something Scottish, in front of her.

“I want to settle in before I think about getting a pup…just moved to Mystic Falls,” Patrice added, while wondering why she felt compelled to answer.

“Only been in this fair land of Montana for about nine months, meself. The tavern’s between town and the Pleasure Club. A lovely forest glade, if yer so inclined.”

Pleasure Club? Patrice felt her brows shoot upward. What the hell? What had she gotten herself into? Better question, what did she ‘want’ to get herself into?

Anything! that had to do with the two Highlander hunks striding toward her, both of them with the sexiest pair legs she’d ever had the ‘pleasure’ of seeing.

However, if she had her choice…

“Dristan,” her choice introduced himself in a brogue that did terrible-wonderful things to her womanly parts. He extended his hand American-style, but Patrice got the distinct feeling he’d just learned this social expectation.

“Patrice.” Willing her hand to quit its sudden shaking, she reached out.

Dristan enfolded her hand as if he’d been given a gift. Patrice quivered inside, then flushed hot — yeah, as if she’d turned the shower up to its highest heat level and stepped inside.

“A pleasure to meet ya, lass.” 



“Looks like you have a fondness for collies, Patrice lass.” Duff barked a laugh that sounded like he enjoyed an inside joke.

“Pay him no mind.” The one who had to be Donnie gave her an exaggerated wink. “You’ll excuse me. Customers are arrivin’.”

“So they are, Donnie bonnie lad.”

From the corner of her eye, Patrice watched Duff whip around fast, surprisingly fast given his enormous size. And, an even greater surprise to her, Dristan still held her hand. More like he caressed her hand with his.

“Now you just stay seated, me beautiful lass,” he intimately crooned, “while I help serve. I’m Duff’s partner. You’ll understand my responsibility in the matter.”

Patrice could only nod as Dristan let go of her hand. Feeling dumbfounded, but like she floated on a whole sky full of clouds, she watched him pivot toward the bar.

Whatever…she knew one thing. Her butt wouldn’t be moving from this chair. Her gaze wouldn’t be straying from Dristan, or his kilt-covered assets.

“Living to the kilt,” she murmured to herself, as she lifted the glass of ale to her lips. “Why not live to the kilt?”


Wishing you shapeshifting love on the wild side… 


Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance 

Originally posted at SHAPESHIFTER SEDUCTIONS ~ Turning Into Your Wildest Desire

August 8, 2013

Wearin’ Their Kilts at the Talbot’s Peak Fair by Savanna Kougar

After the New Moon kisses, shapeshifter lovers.

From author, Solara, at SHAPESHIFTER SEDUCTIONS ~ “Looks like Talbot’s Peak Fair is getting ready to commence.  Join us beginning next Saturday for the Fair.  Our week long posts will bringing you snap shots of the happenings along with vignettes of the folks attending and running the fair.   We look forward to you and our Talbot’s Peak group enjoying Fair week.”

Duff McDuff, my Scottie dog shapeshifter, returns in this scene. He has a dual purpose for having a food and drink booth at the fair. He’ll be offering a friendly paw to the fine folks of the Peak, and advertising his Scots Best of Breed Tavern. Also, he’ll be introducing Donnie and Dristan, his new partners — and so much more than their outward appearance. As is always true in Talbot’s Peak.

Read on, if you will…

Wearin’ Their Kilts at the Talbot’s Peak Fair

Duff McDuff threw his arm around the stout shoulders of his last customer, walking the wolf hybrid shifter to the door. The man’s Scottish blood hummed, bold as the wind blowing over the heather moors.

Duff opened the oak wood door wide, letting the forest-rich, night air pour inside his tavern. He gave Dante’s longtime, biker buddy a hearty slap on the back before wishing him ‘goodnight’. Given the tough as a Dire wolf shifter could handle himself, and was headed to the Pleasure Club — not a great distance — he didn’t concern himself about the man’s safe passage.

“Donnie me bonnie lad,” Duff barked, as he turned, “yer stirrin’ the fire like a crone with a pot of o’ special brew.”

“The fire’s not complainin’, as you can well see, ya old growly Scottie dog.” Donnie straightened, whipped his lean length around, and winked. A grin spread across his face, long as a bean pole, but uncommonly handsome.

Certainly, the maidens had not a whit’s problem stroking the Scottish Deerhound’s human face, or his dog face, either — for that matter.

“Not enough spirit in that wee fire to do any complainin’.” Dristan smirked good-naturedly at Donnie.

In a show of playful temper, Donnie brandished the fire poker at Dristan before placing it in its proper place.

Taking his time, Duff strode toward his two warrior comrades from the olden days of epic battles and magnificent magickal chaos.

“Lads, it’s summer here in Montana. I’ma takin’ the chill off the stones. Givin’ the place a proper atmosphere. Don’t want me guests to be sweatin’ like hogs on a spit.”

“Not a pretty picture, Duff,” Kyrbella trilled from the kitchen doorway.

Pleased his wee fae-fox shifter had ventured this close to Donnie and Dristan, Duff paused in his steps. “Will ya join us, love?”

With his heart glowing like the bright moon above, Duff smiled. “I promise the lads won’t bite,” he encouraged in a tender tone.

“No…” her fae light flickered, a sign of Kyrbella’s distress. Duff knew little about the small-statured woman he’d rescued, the woman who now held every beat of his heart in the palm of her tiny hand.

“I wanted you to know,” she softly voiced, “there are still helpings of tatties, and the onion herb stew is hot.” His Kyrbella had taken to religiously watching over the vigor of his health.

“Thankee, love.”

She shimmered just for him, beautiful as a rainbow, his fae-fox woman. With another burst of radiance, she disappeared. Most likely he’d find her at the spinning wheel, or weaving the fine delicate cloth she favored.

Duff scowled at the curious, trouble-about-to-happen expressions on Dristan and Donnie’s mugs. He knew it well from their days together, an age now lost to history.

“No questions,” he mouthed, then curled his lip in fierce Scottie dog warning.

“Yer like cats wantin’ to know what could turn ’em stiff as a house plank,” Duff continued, closing in on the hearth. “Ye only need to know it was Kyrbella’s magick which assisted me in bringing both of you lads through the mists of time — dense as bowl of over-cooked porridge, I tell ya.”

Dristan nodded once, eyeing him with the noble wisdom that was his collie dog nature. “A second chance at life is worth more than a pot o’ gold. I’ma agreein’, Duff.”

“Lot of fine shapeshifter lasses you’ll be meetin’ at the fair in Talbot’s Peak proper,” Duff tempted in a lighter tone. He propped a boot on the hearth. Gazing into the flames, he enjoyed their gentle dance in the bed of peat moss.

“The modern kilts arrived,” Donnie laid on the brogue. “They’ll do, but nothin’ like the sweet heavy wool we rolled in, dressing our loins for battle, for livin’ in the wild clan lands…once upon a time.”

“Once upon a time,” Dristan echoed. Sadness laced his voice for all that had been lost to them — the good sweet life that could have been.

Despite their many victories, their fight to live as a free people, the dark shroud cast by the evil ones had overcome the world.

“The breath of freedom blows from our lungs, just in our livin’, in the fight we’ll be givin’ alongside Dante, and his clan of warriors,” Duff solemnly reminded.

“I smell it, Duff, when I run the land in this haven for the shifter-likes of us, for other supernatural beings. The breath of freedom splendidly, savagely whirls like the winds of the White Goddess,” Donnie spoke as poet. “Besides,” he continued a moment later, “I’ll be showin’ off me sexy legs to the pantin’ ladies when we’re servin’ real Scotch shortbread — the old recipe.”

“I’ll be outdoing ya, spinning me kilt high, when I’m servin’ Apple and Bramble Pie, then dancin’ with the single maids,” Dristan bantered.

In his mind’s eye, Duff saw the collie shifter’s thick ruff stand, giving him a majestic appearance. Still entranced by the tame fire, Duff grinned to himself. It was a true sweetness to have Donnie and Dristan by his side again. Thank the Great One Above.

“The Fruit and Nut bread tastes like the loveliest dream,” Duff straightened, then stretched mightily for moments. “My Kyrbella added a touch o’ love magick, so be aware, lads.”

“Ya didn’t say, Duff, ya big-hearted dog, what liquor stocks you’ll be offering the fine shifters and other fair folk, at the fair,” Donnie sang in a lilt, the tone he used when courtin’ the ladies. “That is, once the wee ones are slumberin’ and dreamin’.”

“A bit of golden ale, the kind the maids favor. A couple of dark hefty brews for the lads. See for yourself.” Duff gestured toward the cases he’d stacked in the far corner that very morning.

Dristan aimed his nose and took several long sniffs. “Heavenly…just a bit ‘o heaven in me nostrils. The Scotch,” he began, then offered an appreciative, human-sounding bark.

“Yup, lads,” Duff proudly woofed. “The Scotch has been aged in me original oak barrels.”

“When the stag gods ruled the forests,” Donnie spoke like a bard of old.

“When the dragon race still flew the mist-curtained skies,” Dristan roughly crooned.

“When the battles were fought without a stitch of clothing,” Duff reminisced, a tear in his eye.

“How old are ye?” Dristan and Donnie barked the words in concert.

Seeing both of their brows raised high, the true surprise in their gazes, he winked — his little tease before answering. 

“Scottie dogs rule in that realm, me bonnie canine lads. We’re older on Earth than most of the wolf kind.” Duff savored their astonishment for a bit. “Why doncha go don those kilts, me boys. Let’s have a proper look at ya before I let you loose on the ladies.”


Wishing you shapeshifting love on the wild side… 


Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance

Originally posted at SHAPESHIFTER SEDUCTIONS ~ Turning Into Your Wildest Desire



Create a free website or blog at