The Coward and the Wolf Ch. 01

Author's Note: This is a story of a man pulled from our world into one filled with wolf people, elves, orcs, lizard people, horse people etc.

The first chapter focuses on the wolf people, as well as introducing our protagonist, antagonist and the first love interest. It primarily shows off their motivations and personalities and sets up the skeleton of the internal mythology of the world. It also contains a good deal of non-consensual sex, some light SM, a little POV swapping and a great deal of non-human action. I have always believed that with erotica the plot is what gives the sex impact, and I hope my story shows it. Anyway I hope you like it, and please give me your opinions and advice at the end.

P.S. If you're turned off by the initial love interest having an attraction to a character that's NOT just the protagonist, I would look elsewhere.

Steven Smith had a problem. A problem that was suspended at a guess about 3 inches above his right eye and maybe half an inch to the left, it also seemed to him to look remarkably like the tip of a spear. Although with the sun in his eyes, it was difficult to confirm the legitimacy of this unlikely claim. The fact that Steve's eyes had not yet become accustomed to their return to the world of daylight was forcing Steve to keep blinking in an attempt to avoid more obnoxious red streaks being seared across his retina. All in all, his environment was not aiding him in identification. The twenty one year old data entry clerk sighed internally.

The fact that this seemingly sharp object on a long stick in front of him, was in fact a spear tip refused to register with him on an emotional level. Spear tips, by and large, were not something he had been expecting to encounter in his day to day living. He had been raised in a middle class family, in a peaceful suburban home, in the middle of Leicester. Spear tips were just not naturally native to that environment. His mind quickly dismissed the object as unlikely to be a spear. Steve's mind immediately began seeking out an alternative, and more familiar answer to what this mystery object was. One that preferably did not have a high chance of him wearing an eye patch for the rest of his days. Or worse.

Thinking back, his subconscious mind sifted his through his accumulated knowledge. It honed in on similar experiences of having objects waved in front of his face immediately upon waking in a lying down position, with the distinct feeling of grass on his back, sun on his front and a painful throbbing sensation on his forehead.

The only thing that came to mind was the time when, in the middle of a football game at his local high school, he had been kicked in the head by, what was according to a third party "a flawless roundhouse kick by Sean Mathews".

The upcoming ace of the school football team and general all round prick, with a chip on his shoulder. The head-kicking had occurred when Steve's attempts at head-butting the airborne ball had been countered by the sudden arrival of Sean's foot. An accident that to a more naïve mind could have put down to youthful exuberance and enthusiasm for the game. In Steve's mind it was likely the result of Steve having been subtly flirting with Sean's girlfriend during a party a week or so back. An act that while worthy of some irritation, was hardly a great reason to unsubtly kick someone's head in.

The resulting blow rendered Steve dazed, likely concussed and flat on his back. A state that eventually caused him to be dragged off the pitch by his less than impressed teammates, when it became apparent that Steve would not be continuing the game.

At an unknown point later on in the game, one of the nearby onlookers in a stroke of genius, decided that rather than call for medical aid, as any reasonable well-adjusted individual might do, decided that the best thing to do was poke Steve in the face with a stick until he regained consciousness. A move most medical professionals would advise against, and yet still stands as a time tested treatment, used by immature dipshits the world over. This moment was defining moment in highlighting to Steve a scarcity of common sense and compassion in the British public school system.

An important life lesson he took from this epiphany was this; someone else's pain, can and should be your profit.

Thus was born the Steve Smith that he was today. He had become well known by his graduation three years later, as a master of situational profiteering, expert evader of consequences, and 'that guy that beat the shit out of Sean Mathews, when he cornered him with his pants down in the C buildings toilets'.

Steve having now subconsciously found a prior occasion for this stick waving event, jerkily moved his hands forward, and generally in the direction of what he concluded must have been a large stick.

What he expected to happen was this. The offending object to be removed, with some stifled giggling at his expense. Much to his surprise, he found this was not the case, as he immediately felt a dull thud followed instantly by an intense pain in his stomach. A feeling that corresponded to being stomped on by someone's heel, eliciting a wheezy exhalation of air from him and a command of his full attention to his current circumstances. A surge of focus that before had been somewhat lacking due to his recent revival from unconsciousness. Never let it be said that waking up in an unknown location with partial amnesia was any excuse for inattention.

In reality he shouldn't have been too surprised by this turn of events. He himself having stomped on more than a few prone figures himself in the last few years. He might have laughed at the karma of the situation. If only laughing at the distinct possibility of serious organ damage weren't the actions of a silly git. More importantly the feeling that someone has just run you over with a small truck does not exactly do wonders for ones sense of humor.

The person in front of him had finally coalesced into a bleary dark and undeniably massive humanoid figure. Although most people look a lot larger when they are in a position to cause you serious harm.

The facial features of his assailant were still obscured by the sun high in the sky behind them. Steve subtly used his eyes to look down, using a barely perceptible tilt of the head, carefully avoiding the sharp object above his eye. He found the figure did indeed have a foot firmly placed on his stomach, in addition to the now confirmed spearhead hovering above his right eye. Yep, definitely a spear. This was definitely an escalation from the usual attacks on his persons. He took a quick moment to be depressed by the phrase 'usual attacks on his persons'.

Steve was not by and large a violent person. If a fight did start his usual reaction was to run. In the opposite direction. As fast as he could. To others this behavior was seen as cowardly. To Steve this behavior was seen as not fucking retarded. If Steve was ever the one responsible for violence, it was always on his own terms. His own terms being typically from behind, with a large easily swung blunt object. The fact that he would have to wait for his opponents to drop their guards and forget they were even in his bad books, meant that when he did finally get even, his target had no clue why. This made for a cycle of revenge that kept Steve's social interactions very interesting.

Steve closed his eyes again. Having discovered that hand simple gestures had failed him, and the fact that whoever was commanding his attention was not exactly a delicate soul. He decided that diplomacy was the next best option. He attempted to best voice his curiosity as to his current predicament, as well as his thoughts on his treatment, to whoever had awoken him. While still under the effects of what he was now sure was a somewhat serious concussion, this proved more difficult than he had originally hoped.

"Fupher, you ashat?"

Steve, in the few second it took for something to grip the front of his jacket, and with alarming strength lift him bodily off the ground, decided his diplomacy may have been ineffective.

The only bright side to his new position relative to his attacker, was that he could now begin make out their facial features without the sun in his eyes.

He reopened his eyes. Just in time to see a fluffy tan fist flying towards his face at an alarming speed. The speeding object successfully blocking out his vision of the rest of his attacker. Steve had just enough time to have one thought before it collided with his face, rocking his head back and causing him to sink back into the murky black depths of unconsciousness. "Those are some fucked up gloves..."

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The rhythmic light thudding was what awoke Steve the second time. A light thumping sound that was the result of the back of his head thumping against a wooden floor in time with a rhythmic rocking motion. He could feel a steady horizontal movement in addition to the rhythmic side to side shaking. He opened his eyes, and shot up into a sitting position. If someone was going to beat the shit out of him, he was going to at least remember their face so he could return the favor in the future.

He was sitting in a wooden cart with high sides, and an open back. The sort of cart that was used to transport hay bales in mediaeval movies. The front had a wall that was too high for him to see over and look at the driver from his sitting position.

Steve looked out the back of the cart to see the sun was still high in the sky. It was bathing light onto vast verdant green fields that went for miles in the direction of the rear of the cart. I he strained his eyes he could make out a forest that stood out as a wall of darker green reaching far into sky off in the distance. The cart was gradually moving away from the forest on a dirt road.

He also noticed that there was a dark tower of black smoke billowing from deep within the woods. Perhaps there was a fire in that direction? Or a coal mine? Did coal mines create smoke? Steve had to admit he had no clue, and decided to focus on what was immediately in front of him, as opposed to hypothetical smoking coal mines.

Steve might have taken another moment to be impressed by this breathtaking scenery, if his mind had not then immediately latched onto the idea that he had been kidnapped, and was in the process of being taken off into the countryside to be disposed of. Or worse.

He quickly ran a hand down his front. His clothes were fine. His white polo and work tie were still on, and his pants only had light scuffs on the knees. His usual jacket was notably missing though.

Steve took a deep breath to calm himself. A pragmatist does not panic, even in the face of the possibility of sexual assault by deviants with a fur fetish, that may exist in their immediate future. He took a quick sniff of his sleeve and discovered he smelled like smoke. Which meant they must have been in or around a fire recently. It was most probably the one he saw earlier. This only confused him more. Had his kidnapper set a fire to escape pursuit? Had Steve set the fire? Do coal mines smoke? Fuck it. His head hurt, he again focused on the problems immediately in front of him and tried to forget about coal mines. Unsuccessfully.

He did a quick check over his physical assets. Head. Sore, but roughly functional. Arms. Check. Legs. Check. He did a manual check of his genitals. With both hands. Some things were too important just give a cursory inspection, especially when it's entirely possible you have been kidnapped by a sexual deviant with a fetish for entirely average data entry clerks.

He rationalized that with his short brown hair and light blue eyes, he looked entirely average. Even with his lean, reasonably muscular build from regular football practice and gym trips, it seemed as far as possible targets for sexual deviants, with a fetish for horse drawn carts and open country sides went, him being the current choice for abduction was probably a statistical anomaly.

His body was intact. The next step was escape. Steve tried to stand, only to be jerked back down by a yank at his neck. He made a light tinkling sound as he fell on his ass.

A quick check with his hands found a leather collar attached to his neck, and a chain attaching that to the back of the cart, something he had missed in his earlier self-inspection. A fact he put down to the resulting of stress from a kidnapping and two blows to the head in as many hours.

Sitting down he decided to retrace his steps through his memory. He took a moment. Then another. The next moment was reserved for him to quietly curse under his breath.

He had nothing. Ok, maybe nothing was an exaggeration, but it felt appropriate compared to the amount of memories, he felt he was supposed to have. It felt like the last six months were a blur of unfocused memories, prior to being beaten up by an unseen assailant while lying in the sun.

He calmed himself. The information would comeback with time. That's what he hoped at least, but essentially he had no choice in the matter so he decided to stop worrying at it and focus on the immediate problem of kidnapping. Kidnapping by assumed sexual deviant with a fetish for horse drawn carts.

Taking further interest in his surroundings, he started to watch the scenery go passed. He wasn't going to break the chain or collar without tools, so he may as well conserve his energy and wait for an opportunity to present itself.

As the journey continued on he thought about how strange it was he was in a wooden cart. He could hear the clopping of hooves, so he knew it was a proper old fashioned cart. But why? Normally kidnappers were all white vans and tinted windows right? Even if it was one of his old enemies with a score to settle, they could have just used a car. Now that he thought about it, something else didn't make sense. The spear and the tan furry fist that had knocked him out. Had kidnappers gone on hard times, and been forced to rely on fluffy mittens and spears to capture people? Steve leaned back to rest his head. Thinking was hard.

Looking up contemplating his current circumstances, he stared off into the clear blue sky. Steve had a sneaking suspicion he was not in England anymore, the weather was too warm and sunny. Although considering the state of his memories it could have been the sunniest England had ever been for the last six months, and he wouldn't have a fucking clue. But on top of that, the air just didn't seem to smell right. To him proper British air had a dampness to it that persisted no matter what the actual weather was. He realized that this was hardly a scientific way of deciding where he was. None the less, the feeling of being away from home persisted.

Steve looked at the location of the sun to get a better sense of the time of day. It took him a moment to realize something was strange. It was a very long moment. High off in the sky completely indifferent to Steve's distress at the sight of them, sat two fiery orbs. Hanging lazily in the sky next to each other, one slightly was larger than the other. To say Steve's carefully arranged and somewhat delicate sense of calm disappeared would be an understatement. His mind was doing backflips.

Sometime, and a considerable amount of internal screaming later, he had decided on three possible reasons for these unknown celestial bodies. One, he had been knocked on the head worse than he thought. Two, he had been drugged. Three, he was no longer on earth. He hoped for option one, or perhaps even a combination of options one and two. The third option was not something a normal person would even be considering as a possibility. Steve however was a flexible soul, and more importantly he had read a lot of fantasy and sci-fi over the years. He knew the tropes. Even if he didn't want to seriously consider it, the possibility of him being moved to another planet stood unmoving in the back of his mind.

The thought of continuing to look at those two alien suns was making Steve stress out. He knew that choosing to ignore the two suns was not going to make them, or the implications of their existence go away, and that to doing so was tantamount to ignoring reality.

"Rationality can suck a fat one" He muttered bitterly "when something rational happens to me today, then maybe I'll listen to it".

Steve decided to go to sleep. Hopefully he would feel better after he had a sleep that wasn't induced by the possibility of brain damage. He also quietly subscribed to the hope that this was a dream. That seemed unlikely, the throbbing in his head felt all too real, and as a rule of thumb, if you felt like crap, it was probably reality.

He trusted his sense to wake him if there was a change in situation. It wasn't not like he could have stopped himself from passing out soon anyway, and if he was going to escape at some point he needed to be sharp and well rested.

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Steve was jolted awake. The cart had stopped, and he could feel the cool night air on his face. The scene was illuminated by a figure with a torch. He was standing on the end of the cart looming over him. Steve opened and closed his mouth like a fish, eyes gaping wide.

It was a fucking werewolf. The dark tan fur and heavy muscular build towered over him, a literal figure from fantasy, easily taller than a man. The creature was wearing only a light cream loincloth, assumedly made from the fur of some local animal. He was daubed in white paint that formed intricate swirling patterns all over his body.

A growl issued forth from the canine snout of the creature, the lips pulled back to reveal large canines and sharp teeth. It was a low guttural sound that made the hairs on Steve's neck stand up.

He knew it was a male. The large bulge that was barely hidden by the loin cloth confirmed that. He nearly yelped when it advanced on him. It reached for the collar at his throat, unlatching it and then unceremoniously putting a new one on. The new lock made a clicking sound that seemed obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet night air. The new collar was also leather, but attached to it was a new chain that was wrapped tightly around the free hand of the wolf.

While the werewolf moved into attach the collar, Steve had noticed silvery scars on its face and all over its body. More importantly it had some fresh wounds as well. They were for the most part just shallow cuts. Cleanly cut and individual spaced for the most part. They suggested sharp blades, rather than the wide furrows and the close grouping of claw marks. The only exception was on his collar bone, there it looked like something had something with a great many teeth had bitten him, but been unable to cause any serious damage. Looking around he saw many similar scars that spoke of other bites, almost all of which were around his neck.

The werewolf leapt off the cart with a resounding thump. Steve was pulled off the side of the cart along with it, hitting the floor with a light puff of dust and a not so light groan. He quickly noticed that the grasslands they had been traveling through had given way to light well tread dirt. His sarcastic inner monologue pointed out that maybe this was the reason for his rough treatment, maybe the wolf man wanted to show off his amazing dirt, in any case Steve was not particularly impressed.

It would seem the shock of seeing a real life werewolf had made him go a bit emotionally distant to his circumstances. He no longer felt as terrified as he felt he should be, hence the smart ass internal remarks. If his reaction to seeing a real life werewolf was incorrect, he was sure someone would at some point tell him the the correct reaction to 120 kilograms of pure teeth, fur and muscle, besides soiling himself. He was saving that for the moment he thought he was going to be eaten. It paid to plan ahead.