The Howl of the Northern Wolf

Then I feel those dirty bear paws cup my breasts and squeeze. It is a very despicable feeling, being touched like that. It is as if he is appreciating what I am worth - as if he is measuring the potential pleasure I could provide.

I let out a slight moan. I can't stop myself.

I don't know what is what anymore. Whether it's my stepfather Oliver or some other strong, rough man who abuses me in a forest clearing, I don't know. I feel him reach under my bra and grip my bosom, rough hand on a naked skin, making a claim that this is his new acquisition. Whoever that dirty scoundrel is, he knows what he wants. He is a force to be reckoned with.

I sit in my chair, slumped, unable to resist. Something flickers on the stage; something spins; something dances and carries something in its arms. I look, but I can barely follow it.

On the stage, Basil lifts Kitri up, holding her waist with one hand, and with the other hand... Basil's other hand is holding Kitri's crotch and lifting her up, and through the binoculars I can see very clearly, up close, Basil's palm holding Kitri's sex in his grasp, holding her in his grip.

The excitement of that pitch-black night comes over me again, and again it seems that a thousand butterflies are fluttering in my stomach.

Will Oliver touch me like that too?

I feel the brute's paw slide down. Instinctively, I still try to close my knees, but I know it's no use. The stranger's paw feels my thighs and then presses its way under the dark pink skirt from my mom's wardrobe. It's such a lovely fabric, soft and delicate to touch, now being wrinkled and soiled by a dirty paw.

"Spread your legs, Irma, just a little," a voice almost unrecognizable with passion and excitement whispers in my ear.

It's just too much. Resisting Oliver, fighting my own emotions, struggling against love, against hate, against the thousand butterflies that flutter inside me... I can't fight them all. I give up and slightly open my knees.

A bear's paw gropes between my legs, squeezing the material of my panties several times.

I hear a voice in my ear. "Lift your bottom a bit, so that I can pull up your skirt."

I don't want to do it. I have no idea why I do it, but I do it anyway.

The man's fingers reach under my panties and touch the lips of my sex. His finger brushes against the middle. It doesn't enter, it just checks.

"You're wet, Irma," a barely audible voice whispers into my ear.

His hands move away. I did not see that coming. Thoughts run through my head: "He is leaving me now? He is leaving me like that? Bastard! Scoundrel! Dirty, dirty paw!!! He will pay for this! He will absolutely pay for this! Dearly!"

He buttons my shirt. He buttons my jacket. Then a wave of applause erupts in the hall. The performance is over.

I take the binoculars away from my eyes.

He sits next to me and smiles. He smiles as if he knows everything about me. He smiles as if he had figured me out. I hate that smile.

"This means nothing. Any woman can get horny and wet. I still hate you." I say.

My voice is cold, harsh and my smile is politely dismissive. The voice, however, doesn't sound quite as it should. Damn it. There is this tiny little crack in the tone.

At first it is a teeny tiny crack, then it begins to widen, then all sorts of debris and wreckage begin to pour out, and then everything starts collapsing and flying apart.

***

When we left the Opera and Ballet Theatre, Oliver led me by the wrist and I reluctantly followed.

"Don't pull my hand," I told him. "I'm not your property."

When we got home, Oliver was talking all sorts of nonsense about steampunk shows and about the need to restart airship transport around the world. The sky would be full of airships.

"Nonsense!" I said, "Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense! Oliver, say one more bit of nonsense and I will shut myself in my room."

He didn't argue. He opened the window to the garden, and the coolness of the evening started flowing into the stuffy room. Outside the window, the sky was black and there were no airships.

"You see, you fool?" I said. "No airships."

I felt him kissing my neck.

"You were wet in the theater," he whispered in my ear.

"Maybe I was," I said, "but there you only managed to outsmart me once. One time doesn't count. It won't happen again."

He kissed me deliciously, gently and giddily. He kissed my hair and nibbled my earlobe.

"I am sorry that I hurt your feelings that night, Irma," he whispered. "I meant no harm. I meant no disrespect. I sent you away because I love you."

"When did you know?"

"It began when we started hiking in the forest. I would spend a day with you and I would feel like I was reborn. I would feel that life is worth living again. I could smell your scent. I could hear your laugh. Remember that day we were lost just before the blizzard? When you howled in the car, I wanted you so bad that I almost drove off the road. It gave me goosebumps. It was also a bloody torture seeing you every day. Wanting you every day.

It's just that it is not right and there is no way to make it right. It is all gonna blow up in our faces one day. It is madness. I know, it's madness. But there is nothing I can do about it. I love you Irma. I can't stop myself."

I turned to face him and Oliver kissed me on the lips. He kissed me more: on the face, on the neck, on the cheeks, on the lips, on the eyes.

Then he made a pause. We were both breathing heavily.

He reached under my dark pink skirt and lifted it up. The dirty paws pulled down my panties and reached inside.

I am a scientifically minded woman, who doesn't believe in mysteries and conspiracy theories. Once Oliver had empirically proven his point, I had no way to deny it. Why should I deny an obvious fact?

Whatever you think Oliver wanted to check about me, the answer was affirmative.

Yes, I was.

Yes, I was very wet.

He said he would kiss me there once. I trusted him. I was deceitfully and treacherously cheated.

He didn't do what he promised he would do. That hungry grizzly, that dirty paw, that brutal scoundrel, that filthy...

Down there he did not kiss me just once.

He kissed me one thousand times.

VIII. The Howl of the Nordic Wolf

Tonight is another night in our vacation chalet. I carefully massage my father's shoulder. Then I rub his back. He is making just a faint sound.

I'm quite tired today. I've spent half a day in the swimming pool and that burns a lot of energy. I'm about to fall asleep.

He's sniffling so softly. Maybe he's asleep already?

My hand gently slides down his chest, then his abdomen, and slides under the boxers. I gently take the object of the ultimate father's authority into my palm. It is quickly getting big. I state a scientific fact to myself: Oliver isn't sleeping.

"So, you came after all," he says in the dark.

"Someone has to take care of poor Oliver when my mother is away."

"You were simply unbearable today."

"Did you like it?" I pull down the foreskin of his penis head and gently tickle the underside with my finger.

He doesn't say if he liked it. He just makes a guttural "mmmmmm" sound, like the creak of a door hinge.

"I came here," I say, tickling him, "to apologize."

My hand moves up and down. I hold Oliver's penis in my palm, and it is hot and big and it is talking to me. It seems to me that in the subconscious mind of every woman, there is a desire to hold a man's penis.

Imagine a situation: After a shipwreck, there are only girls living on an island. They grow up into their twenties or thirties without ever seeing a man. They don't even know that creatures like men exist. Then, one fine day after a terrible storm at the sea, a man like Oliver is washed out on the shore. He is there, laying on his back, naked, unconscious. One could do with him whatever one liked.

Those women discover him on the beach and carry him into their hut.

Wouldn't those women be curious to touch his thing, even though they wouldn't know what it was?

I think they would all want to touch it. Much more than that - I think they would feel an urge to hold it in their hands, and kiss it, too. Later, perhaps they'd even want to feel it inside their body. One way or another - nobody would have to teach them. They would know because it is in their nature. You may suppress it or alter it by civilization and upbringing, but it does not change the fact that it is still there, somewhere, hidden in the depths of the mind.

I gently cup my father's balls and press my fingers underneath. He squeaks again. I love the way he squeaks. It's like a cat purring, but not a soft fluffy purr. It's a harsh, masculine purr.

"It's a cleverly designed world that men and women are so different, isn't it?" I say to him in the dark. "I like that you squeak like a barn hinge."

"And I like... mmmmm... that you howl... mmmmm... like a she-wolf."

"And maybe I won't howl at all. I'll sip a mouthful of water and I'll keep silent. I won't howl. You'll see."

"Mmmmmm... " he squeaks. "I'll be very sad if you don't howl. Your mother is always like this now. Like she has pledged a vow of silence in bed. Not a sound. At the beginning, we used to worry that she'd wake the neighbors. Now she does not make a sound."

I am not my mother, even though we are the same tribe. We are very different.

I'm stroking Oliver's cock, up and down, up and down. My palms are small and white, but Oliver's cock is hairy and rough. These opposites go very well together. He feels that I am genuinely happy to stroke him. It's like petting a cat, but ten times more pleasurable.

He's pleased that I'm pleased, and I'm pleased that he's pleased. It's like two mirrors placed in front of each other, reflecting off each other, farther and farther away, into infinity.

"Do you like my tits?" I ask out of the blue.

"Of course I do," Oliver replies, laughing softly in the dark. "You don't have to go to a wise man to find out that answer. All men like all women's titties".

"Fuh, how unromantic. That's it! I'm leaving now. I'm going to go to all the men who would appreciate my titties, because you don't know how to appreciate them."

"No, no, no, no! Please, please please, don't go! I know how to appreciate them. You just won't let me."

"I am strict, but fair," I reply. "I allow when I can and I don't when I can't. My tits are the most beautiful artifact of this family and must be admired from a distance and not overused. Tell me mine are prettier than Mum's."

"Much nicer, Irma. No doubt about it. And much more pleasant to touch."

"Oh no no, you can look a little, but you can't touch at all."

"And again! What a terrible injustice!"

" Well," I say, "today I grant you the privilege to touch, because you were very good at staring at my wet shirt over and over again."

"I didn't look at all!"

"You were staring. Don't argue."

I turn over in bed and lean back against him.

"You can," I say. "You have a special favor."

I feel his hands pull up my nightgown. Then, he touches my breasts and gently squeezes.

"Well?" he asks.

"This time it is a very unsatisfactory C minus. It should have been stronger. I don't want to be touched superficially; I want it to be serious."

His fingers grip my nipples and squeeze. I squirm and moan.

"Now you're going to apologize, little pup." Oliver's voice turns into a bear's voice. It becomes disguisedly malicious, cold and cruel.

"I won't... won't apo... logize," I answer, unsuccessfully trying to escape.

"Oh, you will!" says Oliver as his paws pinch my nipples painfully - angrily. "Like a grown-up! You'll squeal, you'll squeal and you'll apologize."

I keep trying to slip away, and he keeps hurting me, pinching and squeezing harder each time.

This is the most exciting part of our bed game. I have to resist and refuse, and he has to defeat me and force me. Sometimes he squeezes and pinches me until I can't take it anymore! Sometimes we wrestle. Sometimes we push and bite. Sometimes... There are no rules in love and war.

For a man to take a woman is a victory in the grand battle of life. Any man who deposits his seed in a woman's vagina is Alexander, Tamerlane, and Caesar - he is the winner in the battle of survival.

I know that Oliver craves this feeling. It is a powerful drug. He badly wants to feel victorious. How about me? I like to be conquered. I don't want to feel that I am being taken by some lazy cat who would never catch a mouse. I want to be defeated in a hard fight by a man who is superior to me. I would not surrender to a weak man. I need a strong man.

Oliver defeats me about half of the time. Sometimes I don't give in and bite like a wild wolverine with extremely sharp teeth. Sometimes I just run away.

This morning I didn't know how it would be. Would I stay or would I run away? I was teasing him all day. He suffered stoically, all day long.

His hands are very strong. He grips me so tightly that - oh! - I don't feel like fighting to the bitter end tonight. Another reason: I've been aroused the whole day and I want to make love, actually, quite badly.

"I give in, I give in," I squeal.

"If you give in, then apologize." I can sense from his voice that he doesn't trust me.

"Oliver, I'm begging you, I'm begging you, I'm begging you to make love to me, please. And I apologize, too."

"Are you really asking me? Really, really? I have a suspicion that if I let you go, you will run away".

"No no, I won't do this! I won't run away! You can trust me unconditionally."

He still doesn't believe it. He pinches my nipples again, even harder.

"Say it again!" he demands.

"Oliver, I'm asking, I'm really asking, I want you... Woooooofff!!!... to... fuck me."

"And how should I take you, wolf pup?"

"Woooooofff!... just... any way... you want."

He releases me and caresses my hair.

"First," he whispers in my ear, "get down on all fours. In the style of a she-wolf."

"Wiaauf," I whimper quietly. " Wooff, okay.

He switches the bedside light on. I, too, like it when it isn't completely dark. I kneel on all fours on the bed and wait for him. Every time, I make a promise to myself. I promise that I will not howl.

At first, I'm silent, as if I've really taken a mouthful of water... Then I start giving in. I can't hold back.

"Aw... more... whoa... aw... whoa... woooooofff!"

My dad sighs with satisfaction at the sound. He takes a short pause and pulls my head back by the hair.

"You will howl... " he says. "You will howl like your mother used to do... loud and wild... like a wolf in a Nordic forest."

Then he fucks me harder and I start to howl like I should, when I am trying to please my dominant wolf, my authoritative man, the alpha of my pack.

"Ochh... Aachh... WWOOOUCH!!! AAAAOOOOCHH!!!... WHOOOWWWW!!!... YES!!!... OH HOLY... WOOOOOOHHH!!!"

When he slows down, I am sure he was just a tiny bit away from exploding.

He does not want to finish yet. That's the way he is. He will be greedy like a hungry bear. He will turn me on my back, and then he will make me stand against the wall, and then he will make me kneel, and then he will lay me on the dressing table, and then again, he will make me bend down again on all fours like a bitch, and then he will make me me whimper and moan and howl, and he will take me more and more. The night is long and this is just the beginning. I already know him well, that grizzly.

If anyone were to ask me who owns my whining and howling, I would say: it's him.

Who owns my lips? It's him. He can kiss and bite my lips if he wants to.

If he asked me whose property are my pointed titties, I would say, "They're your property, Oliver. Pinch them."

My best friends have been trying forever to find out who my boyfriends are and whom I am sleeping with.

Sometimes I tell them that I am having sex with a big, rough grizzly. Sometimes it is a brute scoundrel deep in the woods. Sometimes - that it's a cute teddy bear. That's all they know.

My friend Gina asked me for a favor when we were texting earlier that night: "Cuddle him for me too, all right? Just one tender hug. And a tender kiss."

I hug Oliver and I hide my face in his chest. I climb up and I kiss him on the lips, just a simple tender kiss. "That's for you, Gina. I know, you are desperate to be loved. You are a good person. You deserve to be loved," I whisper in my mind.

My other friend - Laima - that's quite another story. She is a bitch, no doubt about it. Her parents are very rich, but she is embarrassed about them, because they are crude - neither educated nor cultured. She thinks that my parents are high class. Therefore she wants everything that I have and she always copies me. If I get chic pants from Cop Copine, she buys the same. When I told her that I liked hiking in the forest, she signed up with a hiker's group. If I read the Forsyte Saga, she must read it too. Laima knows that I am in love with a "grizzly" man. She sees that I am very happy. That means that she must have that man too. It doesn't matter who that man is. She is jealous.

"We can hold a democratic vote. It would be two votes against one, so the majority wins. Get that grizzly guy over here!" - that was one of her jokes tonight.

Well, there is a bit of joke in every joke, and there is a bit of truth in it. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to steal somebody's lover.

Oliver takes me by my hair and pulls me closer. I feel how greedy he is. When he roleplays a grizzly, he is never a gentleman. He is a brute scoundrel with dirty paws, who ambushed a girl of a noble family.

I imagine him as a dark figure in a hooded cloak.

He asks me in a husky voice, "Isn't it dangerous for a woman to walk alone like this?"

"I am going to the castle." I say, " Let me pass, countryman, your Lord will reward you for helping find my way."

"Oh, just look at what the cat finally dragged in! Aren't you the youngest daughter of the most noble Duke?"

"Yes, I am. You'd better address me politely, peasant, because my father doesn't suffer insolence easily. Show me the way to the castle and you'll be handsomely rewarded. Disrespect me, and you'll be whipped in the stables."

"A fine lady with a laced corset and fancy silk skirts has no business walking alone in the middle of the night," the scoundrel says "Especially when she walks in a dense forest, where no one can hear her and no one can help her."

"What is it that you want? I'll make sure you will get it."

"Tell me, what you had for dinner, señorita."

"It was asparagus in sauce hollandaise with bread and a sip of Rheinwein."

"These are luxuries of the castle that a common girl would never get to taste. Do you think it is fair?"

"It is my birthright."

"You are a pretty young woman, señorita". Do you know what happens to a commoner girl, who is as pretty as you?"

"I am sure I don't know and I do not care. Let me pass."

"When a maiden or a young bride is as pretty as you, they always get invited to the Castle - that's what happens to them. They have to meet our most noble Duke and get a taste of his generosity."

"I do not understand you and my patience is wearing thin. Speak up! What is it that you want? Let me pass and my father will grant it to you".

"What is it that I want? I'd like to give you a bit of that taste."

"I do not like the meals of the servants."

"Oh, don't you? Don't worry, señorita, you will get a Lordly taste. Whether they like it or they don't like it, every pretty bride of a merchant, every handsome youngwife of an artisan or a farmer - they always get a taste."