But That They Are Wolvesbynemo_quill©
Even a man who is pure of heart
And says his prayers by night
Can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms
And the moon is full and bright.
If you think these lines come from a wise old gypsy saying, you are mistaken. They were written for the film The Wolfman in 1941.
So many misconceptions …
The wolf-madness, they call it. Or Lycanthropia, in honor of that foolish old Arcadian king Lycaon, who had the balls to serve the flesh of man to a god. In return, Zeus turned him into a wolf, though he retained the mind of a man.
An aberration, a superstition, a form of madness, an allegory of good and evil – all cliched labels for something that is much, much more. For those who have changed, as I have, it is more than a way of life, it is life itself. Unlike the medieval shapeshifters, I do not wrap the pelt of a wolf around my shoulders, nor do I rub myself with ointments, or drink puddled water from wolf tracks. I will not eat your children or stalk you through the park on a moonlit night.
Unless, of course, you are a beautiful woman and I am stricken with the primeval as lightning urge to mate. If I catch your scent on a night when the moon is full and bright I may devour you – again and again.
My kind are known through ancient lore, movies, horror fiction, and case studies in psychology. The gist of it is summed up in this bite from an old medical treatise, Robert Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy:
"lupinam insaniam, or wolf madness, when men run howling about graves and fields in the night, and will not be persuaded but that they are wolves …"
Sounds grand, and horrific. Except there are few fields where I roam, and I abhor graveyards – too gloomy and not enough women. But Burton and company had one thing right - I will not be persuaded.
I am Raylan Paine, and sure enough I am a werewolf. In fact, my heart is no less pure now than it was before my …
However, it is true I no longer say my prayers by night, since I am often engaged in less sacred, more profane, affairs. I am man and wolf, but I do not wear a pentagram around my neck (though I have the mark on my chest, hidden beneath all my hair), and I don't walk on the tip of my toes. I only bare my teeth when threatened or cornered. Or when I smile. So, how will you know me for the creature I am?
Then again, how well do you know anyone you pass on the street, or meet in a bar?
How do you recognize the beasts?
There is much to tell, but unlike other storytellers I prefer to start in medias res, in the midst of things. Always time for beginnings, but the best meat is usually in the middle, wrapped around the bone.
Wouldn't you agree?
Since being a werewolf is not a particularly practical or lucrative endeavor, I have a day job as a librarian.
It's one of the more interesting pursuits available to the overeducated, the hours are flexible, and there are countless opportunities to meet women – with a minimum of stalking. I also like the irony. Repeat after me: even a learned man who is pure of heart and reads his books by night … you know the rest. Sort of like Clark Kent whipping off those coke-bottles and flying out the window as Superman. Simply remove the super and insert wolf.
Besides, my workplace is no ordinary warehouse of volumes. I am one of three reference personnel at the Institute of Paranormal Phenomenon, the IPP to its friends. Located on the upper east side of town, in a weathered, five floor brownstone, we of the Institute are all but invisible amongst the rows of old buildings and throngs of bored people. I'm sure you've passed it dozens of times on your way to work, or play.
Never directed even a sidelong glance at the moldy bronze plate on the door, have you? That's why I love this city. Nobody knows, no one cares.
Live and let live … and howl.
Now, there's this one story I must tell first.
I must …
It was a Friday evening. More often than not the library is dead, but not this Friday. There was a lecture on shapeshifting in Icelandic saga, and our floor was brimming with occultists, wiccans, academics, alongside the odd broker with metaphysical aspirations.
And there was Katya.
Sounds old hat, but I did notice her the moment she entered the room, or rather the alcove we use for presentations. Her long, striking figure, loosely wrapped in a black cape, was reason enough. But those mocha brown eyes …
Feral is the word that comes to mind.
I remember thinking that she seemed primitive, like some dusky force of nature bound in human form. I know, I know … bit over the top. Perhaps I was just horny, but she of the harsh stare had me snared from the start.
She draped her cape and bag over the arm of a faded brown leather chair at the back of the room. The darker browns of her hair and eyes made for a smart contrast in tones. Her short dress and knee length boots, both black, further deepened the darksome collage. My main interest was the healthy length of thigh exposed when she sat and crossed her handsome legs.
Throughout the lecture she recined in the chair, bouncing her calf on her knee, full attention on the speaker. The intensity of her expression was mesmeric. Nothing existed in the world beyond what fell within her line of sight. I made sure I held my place in that line.
We had an informal reception after the talk. Nothing fancy, some wine, cheese and crackers for people to enjoy as they mingled. While everyone else was herded downstairs, I stayed behind to straighten up. I also lingered because the brown lady was still in her chair, still staring … at me. I was excited, but – oddly, I was anxious as well. There was something … well, something dangerous in that bestial glare. But I remained, and I stared back.
She uncrossed her legs and said, "You are Paine." Definitely a statement - no question. There was a hint of an accent, vaguely European.
"Yes, I am Paine," I replied smartly. "You're missing all the fine wine and witty banter downstairs. Or did you just come for the intellectual stimulation?"
She smiled and said, "I enjoyed your piece in last month's journal. What was it called … Wolf's … I have it here." She reached for her bag, took out a black eyeglass case and a copy of the institute's journal. After donning a stylish pair of graphite-gray specs, she began skimming through the magazine.
"Wolf's Bane," I said, trying to sound helpful as I walked toward her. I write infrequently for paranormal publications, mostly articles. But the work in question was my first attempt at fiction.
"Yes, yes, right here," she told the page when she found it. "I've read it many times. Very sorrowful, but very funny also."
Russian – not exactly Boris and Natasha Russian, more gentle and lilting. She took her eyes off the page and looked at me again, her eyes magnified by the lenses. 'Grandmother, what big eyes you have' came to mind, but I let it pass. Her glance held a hint of test, and I like to perform well on tests.
"Thanks … er," I looked at her and tilted my head.
"Katerina, Katerina Vassilova. But you may call me Katya," she replied, putting the journal and glasses back in her bag. From my new vantage only a foot or so away I noted that her arms and splendid thighs were covered with fine, brown hair. Thick eyebrows, hairy arms and legs, a whisper of fleece above the lips - seemed logical to assume …
"And you can call me Ray," I said, still forming a mental image of that sexy pelt. "I'm glad you liked it, Katya."
"Most werewolf stories are so steotypical," she stated firmly, almost angrily. The spark must have reflected in her eyes, but my gaze was wandering elsewhere. "They give us either the raging animal or the romantic beast," she continued. "That's why I found your piece so enjoyable, Ray. It is distinct, unique, in it's portrayal of the willing lycanthrope."
"Well, Katya, I have no interest in the terror behind the legends. What I was looking for …"
"It's not in there," she said, quickly crossing her legs. I'd been caught, but wasn't sure I'd failed the first test. She never stopped smiling.
I returned the smile, tried to seem contrite. I sat down in a chair opposite hers, hoping to hide my burgeoning erection.
"Sorry. I was trying to show how even when the choice isn't yours, even when it's forced on you, it doesn't reflect an end. It's a beginning, the start of a new, more vital existence than anyone could ever imagine." I leaned forward, giving her time to respond. Now I'd see how badly I'd blown my opportunity.
"So, you are the wolf in the story?" she asked, uncrossing her legs and revealing a sliver of silver panties.
"It's based on actual events," I replied, keeping my eyes on her eyes this time. I'm no easy prey. "I was staying at a friend's house in the country. I was out walking her dog and was attacked by two wolves, owned by neighbors. I managed to save the dog, but they ripped my head and arm open. The wounds healed in a remarkably short span of time, left no, almost no scars, and since then … well, you read the story."
"I like that, Ray. No, let us say, beating around the bush for you. No denials, hiding behind 'but it's only a story,' " she commented, laying one leg over the arm of the chair, giving full view of those panties and the hair that refused to be contained within.
"I figure, why hide? No one would take that sort of tale too seriously. No one, that is, except you Katya." I watched both her eyes and between her thighs, but knew we couldn't do anything in that room. There were still stragglers chatting downstairs. I had to get her to my office.
"You the wolf in your story?" I asked.
"My whole family, Ray. Full of cossacks and werewolves. We go back generations, before Peter the Great. Like anything else, the stigma is lessened by money and power. My family had, and still has, both. Those like us survive revolutions, wars and purges." She sat forward, ready to pounce.
"I love pups like you," she continued, "so full of yourselves, so sure of the power you possess. The lure of the animal is irresistable, and the scent of your own kind is pungent and strong. I felt it on the page when I read your story. I knew you must be what you described." She dropped to her knees and loped gracefully over to my chair.
"So, here I am, Ray," she said, placing her hand on the ticking bulge in my slacks, paralyzing me with the fierceness in her eyes, "Let's dance!"
Before I could even let out a yelp she was on me. She swarmed her lips over mine, driving her tongue in deep, and rubbed her crotch violently against me, crushing my hips against the chair. I was stunned, unaccustomed to being … the victim. But I was no less aroused, for the lure of this bitch was inescapable.
I pulled her dress up her back and over her head, running my fingers along the ridge of her spine. She stopped writhing long enough to rip my shirt open, buttons flying like bullets off neighboring tables. She sucked and pulled on my nipples while I fondled and pinched the taut muscles of her ass and thighs.
The feel of that hairy thigh under my sweaty hand, and the pinpricks of her teeth on my chest, almost sent me over the edge. Katya must have sensed this. She pulled back and rested her weight on my legs.
"No, no. Too soon for that," she whispered as she reached down, opened my zipper and released my rigid prick. Pulling her panties aside, she impaled heself on me on so hard I thought the chair would collapse.
"Mmmmm," she growled, slowly rocking her hips. "You like my fur … you like fucking my furry hole?" She smiled - a ferocious, hungry smile. "I'm nearly furry as you …"
And she was getting hairier, second by hirsute second! Her bush had grown at least an inch longer, there was a thickening line of brown creeping up her belly, under her arms, on her arms, her thighs … and it didn't feel coarse or prickly. It was soft, luxuriant … it was fur!
Her pumping became more intense. I licked and bit her nipples, tracing my tongue over the ever hairier aureoles. I twined my fingers in the downy curls that were spreading up her ass and over her back.
Did I imagine it, or were her teeth larger, sharper? Perhaps I had figured it all wrong, and the movies were right.
"I want you behind me," she snarled. "Fuck me like the wicked dog you are, deep and hard." She lifted herself and flung me to the floor. She dropped on all fours, tore the moist panties from her body and stuck her ass right in my face.
The smell, that savage and musky smell, was intoxicating. I plunged my nose into her dense brown rug, inhaled, and started pulling at it with my teeth. I found her asshole in that forest and caressed the rough bud with my tongue. Katya rolled and moaned. I probed into the musty nest below until I found the pink of her gash. I parted her hairy lips with my fingers and curled my tongue around the gorged hood of her clit. She gasped audibly and stuck her ass even higher.
I tongued her while flicking my finger in and out of her pussy, then two fingers, then three …
"Fuck me Ray, fuck meeee … now," she demanded.
I kneeled behind her and pulled my pants down to my knees. I wish I could describe the vicious passion of that moment - the dripping furry mound, the animal in heat stretched before me …
I rammed my cock inside her, and she bucked back to meet my thrust. It felt like I was squeezed inside a flaming glove, she was so tight … and hot as a furnace. We pounded against each other at first, but then fell into a rythmn where we moved as one. I leaned over Katya's back and bit gently as I reached my hand around and under to play with her mound.
Our bodies built momentum and tension. Her hair tickled my balls when they bounced into her bush, and I guided my hand until I found her clit again. I rubbed, but the increasing contractions of her muscles did most of the work for me. I felt my juices begin to boil. Katya was thrusting hard back at me, moaning louder and louder.
"Alll … most … oh fuck, yes … harder, fuck me …" was her guttural drawl, until she snapped her head up and started to howl. She actually howled - like a banshee caught in a trap.
That was it for me. Good pack animal that I am, I fucked her hard and howled myself when I came, shooting long and deep into the burning, grabbing flesh spasming all around my cock. I jerked and stopped when I lost control, but resumed pumping as soon as I was able. I felt spent, but was still diamond hard. This was like no fuck I had ever had before. We were two animals in a maze of concrete and people, but we mated with a passion so blind that we may as well have been in a black forest, fucking and howling, lit only by moonlight.
I finally relented when I felt her body soften and go limp under mine. My knees were raw with rug burn, and my hair - all over my body - was dripping with sweat. We lay facing each other on the carpet, glistening in the glow of false, phosphorescent light.
"Not bad for a pup?" I asked, rolling closer to kiss Katya's warm, wet nose.
"You'll get even better," she sighed in reply.
The hair was thinning all over her body – at least in those places where she wasn't naturally furry. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me …
I rolled over and saw Mrs. Grimm, the chief librarian, and several other staff members gawking at the two of us, faces frozen in disbelief.
"Yes, Mrs. G," I answered with a wolfish grin.
"I want both of you … out, out now. I'll call the police …" she yelled as she and her minions retreated.
I turned back to Katya. We held each other, counting breaths, saying nothing. I decided to break the silence.
"Guess I'll be looking for work."
"But we work so well together, Ray," she murmured, "and in America don't you say that if it is not broken then don't …"
I kissed her again, on the mouth - partly because now she was my mate …
But mostly to shut her up.