Pawn Among Wolves

The pleasure of the female's silken sheath milking his cock as he bit her washed over Mac, and he felt the rising swelling of his own approaching orgasm. He released her neck and snarled his pleasure as he forced himself a little deeper and pushed her shoulders down to the floor to hold her as he ground his hips, spurting copiously, filling her, spurt after spurt, deep, panting, satisfied, excellent. Sated, he sank heavily on top of her, breathing harshly, feeling the rippling aftershocks of the final drops releasing as he slowly relaxed. Basking in the pleasurable aftermath, sinking slowly, something flickered across his mind, but before it could take hold, he drifted out.

Gemma lay under him, shuddering. Just shuddering. No. Yes. No. Wow. Ow. What the hell happened? Wow.

Wow.

She had never imagined such intensity existed. Such. Just so much. That you could feel like that. Or like this, now. A small smile drifted across her lips as she lay, breathing heavily, underneath his weight, held down with pleasure, satisfaction purring through her still gently shuddering limbs.

Wow.

Ow.

Her awareness slowly came back into focus, and she felt a frisson of apprehension feather down her spine again. You are imagining things. That is not fur across your back, she told herself as firmly as she could.

Something was just wrong. Don't get hysterical. The trouble was, there was a strange brushing sensation on her currently hypersensitive skin as the unconscious - man - lying half on top of her breathed deeply. She didn't really believe it. Fear shadowed through her again as she switched her brain away from disbelief to another awareness - of the rising ache within her shaken limbs and her sore, sore pussy. Savaged neck. The pain was beginning to surface and she began to tremble in a different way. Okay, so that may not have been the loving, gentle introduction to sex you hoped for, but he did tell you to get out, she reminded herself.

Gemma found tears were leaking quietly down her face onto the rug. She smothered them as best she could and realised with a jolt of her pulse that it was far easier to do when she became aware they might wake him up. Oh god no. Afraid. Then she stuttered in a staccato gulp and the tears were rolling again as she remembered his playful threatening that morning when she'd swiped one of his pieces of toast on her way out. Her friend Mac. She couldn't have imagined being afraid of him. Then.

The trouble was, that glitter in Mac's eyes when he'd warned her to go had reflected the same wild, feral light as the eyes of the terrifying creature who'd ripped her clothes off and thrown her across the room. Effortlessly. The same shadow of power in both. Her brain stopped dead, and she drifted for a moment, thought free.

The pain started to pull her back. Her blood was congealing, and the memory of the pleasure with it, while the rawness in her limbs was ramping higher and higher as the haze of lust faded. Automatically, she smothered her panic.

You're not afraid of him. The thought calmly strode into her mind. You're just afraid of this ever happening again. You just don't want to know. The lust she had felt for six months, whenever she saw or pictured his body, was gone, blocked behind a wall of coldness, fear - he'd grind her into mulch if he ever did this again.

If we ever did this again, she reminded herself tautly, he did try to stop you in the first place. Tears leaked again, embarrassment at her own actions, her inability to stop herself, hold back the desire. Memory of that false promise to herself of "just one kiss", when she had known - had felt him trembling in his effort to hold back. To get her to leave. Trying to escape her thoughts, Gemma's blurred eyes opened, focussing instantly on the huge white paw lying in front of her face. She scrunched them shut again immediately.

Hallucination. Hallucination. Hallucination.

Her eyes opened again, and the paw was still there. And she was still warm, despite the cooling sweat on her body, the nearly dead fire, and the broken window. Come to think of it, her brain was slowly filtering in information, half of that gang jumped out of a third storey window. No. They must've ... her brain just kept stopping and retreating into fog and tears.

After some time, she drifted back to awareness again. She was warm. Warm because there was a bloody wolf lying half on top of her. No, impossible, answered her brain instantly. Hallucination, you're understandably stressed from the evening's happenings and not thinking straight. That started the tears leaking again. Bloody wolf. Bloody stupid sexual fantasy this is.

Bloody.

Slowly, Gemma realised that she could feel the patch of warm stickiness against her back was still growing. Slowly, slowly. That meant - Mac was still bleeding.

Good, the pain made her snarl internally, but her heart clenched in a different way at the same time. Her brain flipped to that wonky chocolate cake he'd made for her birthday, despite the fact that he hated chocolate. The night he'd gone out to hunt down her bus pass when she'd dropped it on the street, the happy croon from the bathtub as he drenched the room in hot water.

How can a person have so many stupid tears in one head? Gemma asked herself angrily.

Ah, her brain whispered carefully after another long pause, that much blood loss might also mean that he can't wake up -- he's unconscious, not asleep. Gemma felt a glimmering of hope. If she could only get out of here before he did come round, she could forget this had ever happened, forget she'd ever made up this weird fantasy where she'd been hardcore fucked by a wolf... werewolf. She lay trembling for another minute, considering, as her brain drifted in circles, possibilities. The one thing she was certain of was that she couldn't bear to look into his eyes. So.

Gingerly, Gemma stretched out a hand past his - paw - and began to shift her weight onto her palm. Her breath hissed in a sharp gasp as every single muscle in her torso and thighs screamed, her neck spasmed in agony, and she felt a searing, raw pain where the root of his cock was buried unmoving inside her. She collapsed back with a whimper, shuddering against him on the floor. Her muscles felt like she'd been pounded all over with a hammer, and her vagina and neck -- oh my god, now that the adrenaline had worn off, they felt absolutely excruciating, ripped, torn by - don't even think about it. Don't move. Don't move.

Gemma huddled for a long while, trembling under his fur until she'd calmed down and the pain receded. Slowly she felt all emotion seeming to drift out of her brain. She was an analyst. This was a problem. Emotion was useless and distracting. Balanced precariously in constructed calm, internally cold, she started pondering the problem. If he bled to death, would that free her from his cock? Or would it happen normally? Would he wake up? Her mouth twitched in a brief smile as an irrelevant thought surfaced -that all the stories about men falling asleep instantly after sex were obviously true. Back to the problem. He hadn't woken when she'd jerked back into him against the pain just then, and she knew he was usually a light sleeper. So let's assume he can't wake up. But I can't get free.

Anger spiked briefly in memory of pain, at being tied to that monster. I could cut it off. Nausea rose in swift counter to the thought. No. And besides, she realised, I don't want him to die. He was a good friend. Was. So what if being in his presence ever again was an absolute no, that didn't mean she wanted him to die. Didn't mean she had to turn into the kind of person who wanted him to die. It wasn't like he didn't try to get you to leave. Yes, but I just didn't realise what staying meant, that he'd ... her mind echoed emptily in more circles, avoiding memories before she hauled it under control again. Stop snivelling, girl. And admit that even if you're sore as hell, you also begged him to drive you into ecstasy and he did it - his own way. You always thought he was too much for you to handle. He is. Deal with it.

So, she should stop him bleeding before he died anyway. Gemma looked around for his shirt, and reached cautiously across the carpet with her toes, crinkling them up to hunch it towards her. As she moved again, she realised both that the pain in her limbs was sinking to bearable, and the pain of his cock stretching her was slightly less. He felt slightly looser. The only really bad bit was her neck, and she could be careful how she moved. Very careful.

Gripping his shirt, which was ripped anyway, she worked slowly to tear the body and sleeves into long strips, pulling the collar and cuffs loose for pads, without jarring her own body into pain. A distraction. She had to knot the strips together to make a makeshift bandage, and as she did, she hunched up slightly and felt a wave of pain and relief as his softened cock slid, finally, out of her. The interminable tears started to flow again, keeping pace with the slow leak of cooling moisture down her leg, but she ignored both. Carefully, she crept out from under him, and shivered in the cold night air. She thought about getting clothes first, but decided she didn't want to come near him again, so impassively pressed the pads to his sluggishly bleeding, furry back and chest, and bound them on tightly with the rest. Then she slowly, agonisingly, got to her feet and stood, swaying slightly, looking down at the bandaged, huge white wolf comatose on her tatty old fireside rug. Weird.

Feeling cold, empty, and very, very old, Gemma shuffled carefully through to the bathroom and gently sponged the blood off her hands, neck and thighs. In her room she wriggled very carefully into warm, non-abrasive layers before squashing a spare set of clothes and her wash kit in a backpack. Numbly, she picked up her purse in the hall, not even glancing towards the living-room doorway as she let herself quietly out.

*****************************

Mac was finding it strangely hard to pull himself awake. He was a wolf, for god's sake, what could... his eyes shot open and the fur ruffled down his back. Nicolas. Here. And then - Gemma. Oh god, Gemma. He bounded to his feet, driven by instinct before memory had fully surfaced, then staggered, and growled as his head span and his legs seemed to shake under him. What the hell? Blood. So much damn blood, thick scent in the air. Most of it his, some from that cur he'd swiped as they fled, but some -Gemma's.

Shit. No, not Gemma.

His heart accelerating with fear of what he would find, Mac padded swiftly, shakily through toward her room, following the scent. Where the trail doubled in the hall he realised that she'd left, and felt a whine of bitter shame reverberate inside his head. Left, still deeply marked with his seedscent and her own damn blood. Gemma, little human caught in the cross-fire. That he'd thought he was out of.

At least she could still walk. Just about.

Slowly, he became aware of the rage that had been rebuilding inside him since he woke. Rage was too gentle. Damn Nicolas, damn him for setting this up so that the shame of raping the girl was on Mac's own damn head. Damn himself for not damned well having better control over his own damn wolf. Damn the whole fucking grey tribe, and the warlords. They were so fucking going to pay for this. Mac was already shifting human by this point, yanking on clothes in his room over his infuriatingly unsteady limbs. The bandage unravelled and fell to his hips as he twisted, and he stared at it, and the rough, already puckered-over scar on his chest.

She'd fucking bandaged him? After he'd...? He could smell the kid's fucking blood on his own fucking cock, and some of it was virgin blood, and yet she'd still ... Angrily he ripped the final shreds of his ex-shirt off and pulled on a T-shirt, then stomped into some trainers and grabbed a packet of ham from the fridge, wolfing it down as he jogged unsteadily down the stairs following her scent.

He lost her at the airport. She'd been first to the late-night pool, and damn, that was either clever or very lucky, because it was impossible to sift her individual scent out under the stench of chlorine clinging to everyone who'd walked out of there. Probably, Mac admitted to himself, she'd gone in because she'd needed to feel clean and hadn't wanted to stick around in her own flat with him there. He growled quietly, hating the wash of guilt. After the pool, he'd wasted a lot of time trailing around tracking the twelve individuals who'd been for a late night swim, and eliminated all but the four of them who had gotten on the down town bus and then separated off in the diesel stench at the bus depot. One of the bus crowd had headed out into town, one was in the station cafe, and the other two had caught other buses on.

Then the scent staining the ground where she'd waited at the aircoach stop - his own seed, mixed with her blood and vaginal fluid - had made him clench his jaw, and directed him to follow out here to the airport. But with no new scent to find, god knew which flight she'd caught. It's not like she ever had enough money. Damn. Exhausted, blood loss and silver poisoning shaking his limbs, Mac scanned the timetable, but couldn't work it out. At least, if he couldn't, no-one else would be able to scent follow her either. Nicolas couldn't, he named in his mind, and felt his wolf growl silently. His rage had banked down to a steady, implacable fire and he'd decided what to do. Find the girl. Protect the pack. If the greys wouldn't leave him alone, well, so be it, let them deal with the consequences. He would deal with the wolf. He could feel Peter already responding, startled, to his mind nudge.

I'm back, he called. Come get me.

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