Wolf Cry

He was waist-deep in the river, his back to her; Sif and Baldur had vanished. As she first suspected, the water was glacial, making her gasp aloud and her nipples scowl as she rushed deeper into it, unwilling to prolong the initial shock and provoke more teasing. She was nearly up to her breasts when he finally turned around, as if having waited for her benefit.

It seemed so natural to Mikhail, playfully splashing Samantha, making her squeal and splash back. The riverbed was a ticklish silt carpet, and the water a constant pull downstream. She kept moving, invigorated now, accustomed now to Mikhail seeing her breasts, or other parts of her, as she swam about.

After a time, he made a show of pursuing her, and she half-stumbled to escape his clutches, shrieking and giggling as he chased her out of the water and onto the bank, both of them collapsing, rolling over each other, muddying themselves.

Then she felt his erection against her thigh.

Samantha's eyes widened as their wrestling ceased, both of them aware of how the circumstances had suddenly changed, with that simple, undeniable physical reaction on Mikhail's part. Then, with only some surprise, she found her own desire present, calling, as if it had been there all along, waiting the ideal moment.

But what about her Master?

To hell with Him.

When they kissed, not as friends but as imminent lovers, warmth coursed through her, sending her belly into somersaults but acknowledging that Samantha needed what Mikhail could provide. Their bodies fitted together, tongues dancing, his erection pressing into her mound with wild anticipation.

He parted from her, the breath leaving his body in a shudder, and she looked between them, at the firm stem of his cock, long and thick, its damask head collared by darker skin, and rearing up from a clump of black curls over his balls. Boldly she reached down and grasped it, easily drawing the foreskin back and forth, as if to confirm this was real, not some fantasy.

Then he gently eased her onto her stomach, her breasts pressing into the mud, saying nothing, having no time or need for courtship. She acknowledged how he wanted her; she wanted it, too, rising onto all fours. Warm fluid seeped from between her thighs, and she desperately craved to be stretched to capacity, literal fulfilment.

With something like a growl Mikhail parted Samantha's thighs and lifted her up, before mounting her. The lips of her sex swallowed the cooler head of his cock, then almost the full stem as he pressed into her, enveloping him totally. She felt his balls slap against her with every thrust, while his hands gripped her sides, unwilling to release her. It felt strange, new to her, his body having hardly the same amount of hair as... They found a mutual rhythm, each giving, each gaining, her mind and body awash with the sensations invoked.

But soon Mikhail coaxed their rhythm into a more urgent gallop, one Samantha agreed upon: lovely. She pictured how they might look to the wolves: naked, muddied animals caught in their own heat. This image, and an extra deep thrust on Mikhail's part, made her climax with a strangled cry; wave after wave of pleasure ran through her, making her dig her nails into the mud.

Mikhail came, too, grunting, his body spasming behind hers. After a time he withdrew, leaving her feeling empty but immensely satisfied, and they lay together, facing each other, their pulses still rapid.

But her post-coital embers died quickly, replaced by a cold wash of guilt. She froze, the warmth of spent lust seeping from between her clenched thighs. "Oh, God... Master..."

He stared quizzically at her. "Samantha?"

The realisation of her act struck her like a hammer, when it should have been evident from the start. "What the hell have I done?" She sat up, shame making her cover herself with her hands, then stagger to her feet to reach her clothes. When he followed, she raised a hand. "Keep back! Don't look at me!"

He turned away. "Samantha, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to force-"

"Shut up! You didn't!" She only wished that he had; at least she would have had a legitimate excuse. She was drawing her knickers up over her bum when she heard the growls. She froze at the sight of Sif and Thor, a short distance away, teeth bared and hackles raised.

For the first time in a long time, she felt fear. Still, she forced down her emotion and opened up her mind, letting the words flow from her. "Brother, sister, be at peace. We mean you no harm. Leave."

But even as she acknowledged not feeling the same power as before, she also acknowledged that the wolves continued to growl, and draw closer, as if they no longer understood, or cared.

A knot twisted in her belly. What the hell was going on?

Then she yelped at the gunshot directly behind her, turning to see Mikhail standing there, still naked but holding his rifle, with which he had just fired one round into the air. The wolves scattered.

Master, where are you?

"Come on," Mikhail was saying, dressing quickly, looking like a man who'd just realised he'd walked on to a pond . "Let's get back to camp."

She wanted to stay, to follow the pack and find out what had happened, perhaps try again. But instead she dressed as well, silently, guilt and dread welling up inside her like blood from an internal wound, avoiding his touches, his overtures to get her to open up.

*

They had move from the waystation to a smaller, more claustrophobic and primitive cabin, but she didn't remain inside long after dinner. Despite his protests, she had ventured out alone, into the woods, promising to bring a weapon along with her. When she found a suitable small clearing, a haven for insects in the salmon-pink sky of dusk, she began stripping off her clothes, piling them together with the rifle, needing none of them, nor any of the candles or other mystical paraphernalia that was once required, such was her rapport with Him. But she did bring the collar, as a focus – and a symbol.

She had to summon Him, summon Him now and explain what had happened.

The cold harsh ground was ignored as she fitted the collar around her and knelt down, emptying her mind to all but the prayer, knowing that as it took hold, a welcoming heat would envelop her: O Powerful Fenris, son of Loki and Angrboda, bound to the rock of Gioll, I, your servant, your possession, conjure thee on this night and at this hour here, to order firmed affairs with thee...

She waited for the expected swirls of air, the eldritch crackle of energy dancing across her skin like snakes of static electricity.

She waited.

She whispered the Summoning aloud this time.

And waited some more.

A terrible dread gripped her, twisted her insides. She opened her eyes, looked about, and smelled the air for his musk. "Master?"

Nothing. "Master? Please, come to me."

The silence was unbearable. "Master!"

Panic set in. She dropped forward until her head nearly touched the ground, and her fists banged again and again. "Master! Where are you? Please! Please come to me!Please!"

She didn't hear Mikhail approach, lift her up, didn't hear his concerned pleas to know what was wrong. She was swept away in a hysterical panic. "He's gone- won't come- won't speak to me- Master-gone-GONE-"

The slap across the face snapped her back. She stood there and shook, as he stepped away long enough to grab her coat and wrap it around her.

*

"Six years ago, I began dabbling in the Wiccan arts. I turned out to be quite good at it - great, even." Sitting by the fire in the hut, still wrapped in the blanket, with a mug of vodka in hand and the collar in her lap, she stared blankly into the flames. "Though it turned out my arrogance exceeded my mastery. I told you about the spirit forms that could be summoned and made to serve those with sufficient power and skill. Well, I sought to become Fenris' Mistress. But instead I became His slave, His... pet."

She looked across at Mikhail, as if daring him to contest what she said. When he just sat there, hands steepled before him, staring at her, she continued, the shock of losing contact with Fenris overwhelming any embarrassment at telling the Russian the full truth. "And I have lovingly served Him ever since. I changed my career, my very life, in service to Him. I have even helped give a sort of 'birth' to His spirit offspring; the reports of wolf sightings in the Scottish and English forests now outnumber the ones for big cats."

She rubbed her eyes. "And it was He who bade me go out into the world and help those of His earthly brethren who are threatened by man. He even gave me the gift of communicating with them."

Mikhail leaned forward, dropping his joined hands to hang between his parted legs. "You tried to summon him tonight?"

She nodded. "But He didn't come. He can easily appear in the flesh, as real as anything else. But there was nothing now, not even a whisper."

"Why do you suppose?"

She looked up, almost afraid to voice it, but knowing she had to face it. "A relationship with a being like Fenris is all-encompassing, uncompromising. He demands obedience, loyalty, fidelity. I... betrayed him. Betrayed him by having feelings... having sex... for you." She startled herself with the level of anger in her voice, as if he was to blame for her own actions. "Now He has abandoned me."

"Perhaps... perhaps not." He raised a finger towards her. "Have you tried summoning Fenris here before?"

She frowned, as if waiting for him to start rationalising it all, or worse, ridiculing her. But still she replied, "No. I've not had much opportunity. Why?"

"Wolves have territories. That might also apply to wolf gods, their energies bound to the lands where belief in their existence has held dominance for centuries. Fenris may consider Britain or Northern Europe his territory, but this land belongs to Zakarij. And as with real wolves, there may be protocols to be met, appeasements to be made. Perhaps you need to summon Zakarij first, beg her permission to let Fenris here... with some local help."

Samantha blinked, not sure of what he meant but recognising, and grasping, the glimmer of hope he seemed to be offering. "You know where we can find this... 'local help'?"

*

It was a chill, starless night, the wind stirring the surrounding trees of the clearing, a precursor to the oncoming storm.

Mikhail had brought out with them some emergency candles, salt, water, a knife, and a hastily-fashioned ring of wolf hair gathered from previous pack encounters. He cleared an area on the ground of stones and leaves, and began preparing a circle of salt, as she watched, her nerves attacking her gut. "Mikhail, are you sure about this?"

"Sure? Of course not, my little witch. If my parents knew what I was up to, or our superiors..."

"I meant, are you sure you can remember enough from what your grandmother taught you?"

He paused before answering. "The specific words and procedures aren't as important as the mental state. Which is a good thing, as I don't think we can find a chalice of virgin blood around here."

She recalled her own history, how a slight mistranslation of a Summoning spell on her part had ended up binding her to Fenris, and was less optimistic. "We're mixing magicks here. I blew my hair dryer to buggery when I plugged it in my hotel room the first day I arrived. I don't want to think about what will happen with this..."

He knelt and removed his boots, then his socks. "If you feel strongly enough about this, you can always wait until you get back to Britain - once our real mission fails."

In the distance, the wolves howled as if in agreement. They couldn't stay where they were now, it still wasn't safe. And they wouldn't move unless Samantha could regain her abilities, her link with Fenris. She accepted that there was more at stake than just her damaged relationship with her Master-

"Samantha..."

She glanced up. Mikhail had almost finished undressing, and was obviously waiting for her to join him in his skyclad state. Blushing, a strange sensation given that they had fucked that afternoon, she followed quickly, hoping that her guilt and dread could be kept under control, allowing her to achieve the proper mental state.

She never saw the candles being lit - perhaps they did it themselves? - as she knelt within the circle, facing Mikhail, also kneeling, the required tools close at hand, as was her collar – but she left it off, Mikhail telling her it could be considered an insult to Zakarij. She tried not looking down at him, her skin hot with embarrassment rather than magic; the last time she had performed a spell with another was in her early days, with the coven in Wiltshire, and she'd never outgrown her chagrin at being naked with them.

Mikhail was speaking in his native Slav, the words tumbling from him like water over rocks, a pleasing, almost hypnotic sound that helped her relax and reach a more receptive state of mind. She watched as Mikhail poured water into a wooden cup, then reached for the knife... a quick cut on his forearm, a few drops of red into the water... then he gently reached out for her arm as well. She prepared herself, barely winced at the touch of the blade on her skin, watched blankly as she bled slightly into the cup. Finally he added the ring of wolf-hair to the mix, swirled it about.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the candles go out, but leaving an eldritch moon-white glow bathing the clearing.

Before her, Mikhail rose to his feet, still mumbling, but stepping backwards, out of the circle, kneeling beyond it, his features becoming indistinct, swallowed up by the surrounding energies that were building, swirling like a whirlwind about the circle. She felt giddy, as if Mikhail had drawn too much blood from her. But she recognised this sensation, recognised the power, and that odour of musk and sweat and fur that filled her nostrils.

She kept still, eyes wide open, watching portions of the energy coalesce, solidify into a huge, familiar shape standing before her: as large as a bear, four-legged, the large head, the pointed ears and bushy tail... but clad in fur as white as the purest snow...

But even as this figure took shape, it was changing, shrinking, rising on hind legs that grew longer and slimmer, fur disappearing into alabaster skin, long white hair descending from a smaller, rounder head to caress full, feminine cheeks. With the fluid ease of butter melting on a hot pan, the wolf... became a woman: white-skinned, white-haired, tall and regal as a princess and as naked as Samantha, standing proud and unabashed and regarding the kneeling woman before her with deep green eyes that shone as brightly as the coruscating energy about her.

Samantha had to blink as she looked up at the spirit form. "Are- Are you Zakarij?"

The spirit woman offered a slight, knowing smile. "I have been called that. You are the pet of the Wolf God from the Northern Lands?"

Samantha swallowed; Fenris had never adopted a form as human as this whenever He had appeared before her. Was that a conscious decision on His part, or a distinction for the spirit forms of this part of the world? Then she focused on her reason for being here. "I- I am. I summon thee here to beg permission to let me speak with my Master within your domain..."

The woman smile shifted - and grew cold. "Tis far too late for begging my permission. When you performed your Summoning at the setting sun, your Master broke agreements - and now lies bound, as he once did on the rock of Gioll. Unlike then, however, there will be no freedom."

Samantha grew ashen, and her heart leapt into her throat. Fenris, bound, imprisoned in some ethereal realm? Because of her ignorance, because of what she had done tonight? No, it couldn't be! She raised a hand towards Zakarij, flinching as if she might be burned by the vision. "No! Please, I beg of you, free him! It's my fault! Mikhail, please-"

She turned to face the man beyond the circle - only to find he was no longer a man.

He rose onto thickly-muscled limbs draped in ashen fur, his snout distended and jaw curled to reveal pointed fangs gleaming in the arcane glow, pointed ears raised, clawed hands curled outwards. He howled, blood-red eyes fixed upon the woman and the goddess.

"And now the man achieves his true destiny," Zakarij announced. "The destiny he renounced as a boy, when the Vukodlak found him in my forest, and marked him to join their kind."

Samantha swallowed, her head spinning. Had she done this as well? Forced Mikhail to reawaken something within him that he had buried and forgotten, in order to help her? Was that why she had been as attracted to him as she'd been with no other man? It was too much, too much for her to bear... she returned to Zakarij. "Please, free Fenris! He cannot be bound again! Punish me if you will, but not Him! It's my fault!"

"Yes, the fault lies with you, pet," the goddess agreed, drawing closer, the features growing more and more woman-like, svelte like a ballerina. She reached out and took Samantha's chin in her slim grasp, forcing her to look up past the small, round breasts to those eyes. "The fault, and the solution. I will free the Wolf God... if you renounce him, and swear fealty to me, and me alone."

Samantha gasped. "Wha- What? But- but why me?"

Zakarij half-knelt before her, her fingers trailing across Samantha's cheek, sending tingles through the woman. "You have natural power and skill; even untrained in the local arts, you have been able to help summon my form to Earth, more substantially than any other I have known." Her hand descended to one of Samantha's breasts now, idly trailing over the nipple, making it pucker and tighten. "And your form is pleasing to me. I would enjoy having you as my pet."

The hand dropped between Samantha's parted legs, moved over her bush, across her labia, roughly manipulating her. Samantha shuddered in place, felt herself respond to the touch even as she fought with the notion of rejecting Fenris. He had been her Master, for years! How could she abandon Him now?

Because it would be to save Him.

She loved Him. Not as a pet or a slave, but as a woman.

Loved Him so much that she would risk never seeing Him again, never feeling Him against her, beside her... she couldn't make such a decision now, even as she knew such offers were not made lightly, or held in abeyance for long.

She dropped her head and let the tears fall unhampered to the ground as she murmured, "I'll- I'll do it."

Zakarij released her hold on Samantha and straightened up once more and drawing closer. "Then seal your bargain with your new Mistress through the Fivefold Kiss."

Samantha understood: the traditional Wiccan kiss on the feet, the knees, the womb, the breasts, and finally the lips. She descended to Zakarij's feet, kissed each in turn, then rose to follow suit with the goddess' knees. She straightened up to kiss her belly, but Zakarij's hand shot out and took Samantha by the hair. Her green eyes narrowed. "Too high, my pet."

A part of Samantha expected this, and focused now on the goddess' sex, a full, thick delta of hair as snow-white as that on her head. She felt as if she was as if she was on an inescapable, stomach-churning river. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the bush, the familiar musk, so like her own.

She pursed her lips and kissed, tasting honey.

Now the hand at her head pulled her roughly to her feet, allowing Samantha to kiss each of her nipples, Zakarij forcing her to linger on each one, until she realised she had to suckle on them, making them peak. Their bodies pressed closer, Samantha felt her own nipples harden against her as Zakarij forced an open kiss on Samantha's lips, her tongue probing, demanding. Samantha felt herself responding, even as her eyes remained open, open to peer into those vivid green eyes... green eyes...