Stone Circle the wicker wolf

Like a thief checking if the coast was clear, Swift had a quick look around for other observers after the white wolf left. Seeing no one, he hastened to his business. Admist whines and whimpers and mad little growls, he nearly turned himself inside out trying to lick between his legs. The frantic bathing of his tongue failed to soothe these most tender pieces of himself, and so skeptical or not Swift scuttled over to the mud and dropped his rear down in it.

His mother came along just as he was desperately wiggling his hips, urging the mud to release its magic and quell the burning and throbbing that plagued him.

What? No! Don’t know what you talk about. Swiftlet played it all off, straightening his back and acting as though nothing were amiss. I’m just sit— He saw it then as he pretended to look around all nonchalant like. His reflection. His swollen face.

Swift guffawed. Cool! He said, forgetting the insult below his tail and admiring his new badass look.