Wolf and Prey

This is a work of fantasy. Any resemblance to people -- real or fictional -- is a complete coincidence.

Themes include: fantasy, stranger, forced impreg, non-human, sexual assault and violence.

*

With his bow slung across his back, Grayclaw, proud warrior of the Wolf Clan, slunk down from the mountains in search of his prey.

The sun had not yet risen, so the morning air was crisp and cool, flooding his lungs as he ran. It was a day's journey to the valley below. There he would find running streams and green fields where animals would gather to graze; there he would lie in wait in the tall grass, ever patient. When his prey wandered into view and the moment to strike presented itself, he would take his bow and make short work of whatever hapless creature found itself at the end of his flint-tipped arrow. To him -- and, indeed, all warriors of his clan -- there was nothing purer than the graceful arc of an arrow or spear as it flew into a beast's heart, nothing more holy than the stench of hot blood as it soaked the ground. Their deaths were a sacrament, their cries of pain an invocation.

He grunted as he sprung himself off a boulder in his path. This was his purpose in the world. And Gaia willing, in a week's time he could honor his village with a great feast.

One only had to look at him to know which clan he belonged to: tall, lithe and strong, covered from head to foot in old scars and dark-gray fur, his every muscle rippling as his feet carried him forward, he was all Wolf. And while his tribe was known far and wide for their prowess in battle, this warrior also knew he had to conserve his powers for the hunt before him. One misstep, wrong turn, or miscalculation could spell his end. His heart hammered in chest as he dashed between the moss-covered trunks of ancient pines, his senses rapidly taking everything in around him. Too often, he knew, the line between life and death was razor-thin.

However, there was no time to pause or reflect on this -- not for the successful hunter.

Even though Grayclaw was alone, he knew the way better than most. These were the paths his father and mother had taken on their hunts, as their parents had done, and their parents before them. The knowledge was passed down from one generation to the next, imprinting itself on the cubs like a map one could see by closing one's eyes. He hoped to reach the bottom of the mountain by nightfall, and he was making swift progress. He darted over the bramble and twig-strewn ground, his motions as graceful and fluid as a hawk's.

Focused as he was on the task at hand, he almost missed it when his instincts alerted him to the presence of a threat -- no more than a whisper in the back of his mind that reminded him of danger. Though he needed little reminding, for it seemed as if danger forever clung to the forest like a shadow, waiting to seize the unwary.

But this was different. He skidded to a halt and froze.

All his preparation was tossed to the wind as he at last sensed that something was amiss. He sniffed the air, his ears twitching, his eyes glancing from tree to tree. The woods were calm -- too calm for his liking. It took him a few moments before he caught it.

On the breeze ... a foreign scent, one his inhuman sense of smell didn't recognize.

His hackles rose. That could only mean one thing ...

Interloper.

Instantly, he broke off and headed in that direction. Clan Wolf was old. Some believed that it was as old as the mountain itself. As a result, outsiders knew better than to wander idly onto its slopes without good reason. Any creature foolish enough to make that mistake soon found cause to regret it. His tribe made sure of that.

For now, his hunt would have to be put on pause.

With his nose in the air, he followed the scent, and it grew in strength the closer he got to its source. Grayclaw struggled to place it, try as he might. A warrior's greatest weapon was his ability to plan. He wanted to know what he was dealing with before he came face to face with his adversary. Nevertheless, if Clan Coyote or Bear had infiltrated their outer defenses, he was in for a tough fight.

However, a part of him feared that he might be too late. What if the stranger had already made it up to the mountaintop, where his pack resided? It didn't take a large force to do serious harm to a tribe's chances of survival. One ambusher could spoil foodstuffs, kill guards, harm one of their females -- or, worst of all, launch an assault on the nursery. It was a cruel but effective method of eliminating the competition. When the winter months came and food was scarce, the fewer predators stalking the countryside the better: easier to make another's younglings suffer the price than risk one's own.

His stomach tightened and, unconsciously, he bared his fangs. Although he was alone, he knew he was a match for any warrior. He would strike quickly and without mercy to protect his tribe. It was the only way to guarantee their continued safety. More than that, it was his duty.

He inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill his highly-sensitive nostrils. Not much further, now.

He came to the crest of a steep hill flanked by bushes. As he approached, he slowed down and dropped into a crouch. Creeping forward, he unslung his bow from his shoulder and, using the curved end like a hook to create an opening in the shrub in front of him, peered into the ravine below. From his perch on the decline, he was able to get a good look at his 'opponent'.

There was a small brook that cut through the gully. Some forty paces away, kneeling amongst the boulders and reeds and stooping low to cup some water into her hand, was a girl. She was Deer Clan by the looks of it. She had long, powerful limbs, bronze skin, and a white, fluffy tail on her backside. More impressive, perhaps, were her large ears, which sprouted from the side of her head like broad leaves. The females of their kind rarely resembled the males. Whereas he stood tall and proud as a Wolf-kin should, the appearance of their women -- Gaia knew why -- more closely mirrored that of the southern hairless apes known as humans. Still, this one's features were elegant and equine like those of all Deer-kin, and she had brown eyes that were the color of stamped earth. She was naked save for a small leather satchel looped around her bare breast. Chestnut hair fell across her face, shielding her from view, as she leaned down again to scoop more water from the stream to drink.

What was she doing out here? It had been ages since he'd seen one of her kind this far from their grazing lands. He looked at the bag again. Perhaps she was foraging for berries.

Grayclaw gritted his teeth, and a growl formed in the back of his throat. Not that it mattered. Her trespass could not -- no, would not -- be forgiven. The foolish girl would have to be taught a hard lesson, as a reminder and warning to her people to never again transgress on the sacred lands of Wolf.

He placed his bow and quiver on the ground. Still crouched, he circled the perimeter of the gully, slowly and steadily, keeping a close eye on the girl the whole time. She was singing now, in a language he didn't understand. It sounded like some kind of lullaby. After a few more moments, when he was securely in place, with her back facing him, he paused to watch in silence. She poured water into her hair and brushed it with her fingers, completely oblivious to his presence. Then, without a sound, he pressed forward, slipping out of the surrounding treeline. He stalked over the rocks underfoot. He was a fast runner -- one of the fastest in his tribe -- but the People of the Fields were renowned for their speed and agility. If she spotted him now, there'd be no catching her.

Gradually, he travelled the span separating them. Soon he was no more than a couple paces from her, well within striking distance. But as he was readying to pounce, she suddenly turned and, with a gasp, dropped what she was doing. The singing stopped.

They stared at each other, frozen in place.

Snarling, he pounced.

Quick as a hare, she ducked under his arms and slipped beneath him, preparing to sprint for the trees. At the last second, however, his claw shot out and grabbed the satchel; the cord tensed. She screamed and fell backwards, right into his waiting arms. Thrashing furiously, she fought to free herself, kicking and screaming in her alien tongue, but it was no use.

Grunting, the warrior locked his arms around her thin frame and effortlessly carried her over to a large rock formation, where he laid her down on her back and mounted her so that they were facing each other.

She spat and swore. Her brown eyes were now filled with rage and indignation as he pinned her wrists to the hard surface of the boulder beneath them. She bunched up her legs as if to kick him again, but before she could, he launched himself towards her throat, and in a flash he had his fangs around her vitals.

A snarl tore through his chest that was so loud it caused his own ears to ring. It was like the quaking of earth and stone when Mother Gaia grew cross with her progeny.

As soon as this happened, he felt her go limp under him. She knew she was beaten.

Panting heavily, the warrior took this time to deliberate on what to do next, all with the girl's neck still in his jaws. If she had been from the People of the Plains or Caves, she would already be dead. He'd be cleaning the flesh from his teeth in the stream beside her headless body. There'd be no point risking her continued presence in these woods. However, the People of the Fields were a different matter altogether. They were a strange folk from what he'd heard, less wild and warlike than their kin. Nevertheless, she had to pay for her transgression. But how?

Suddenly, Greyclaw became all too aware of the scent emanating from her skin. Surprised, he unclasped his teeth from her throat and looked at her again in a new light. She refused to meet his gaze: her blushing face was turned to the side with her eyes clamped shut. She was muttering what sounded like a prayer under her breath. Beads of blood fell like tiny gemstones from the tiny puncture wounds in her neck. His eyes wandered down the length of her body, from her small firm breasts to the flat of her stomach to her hips, which were concave like a bowl.

His sex was stirring to life between his legs. There was, he perceived, another way to dole out justice.

When it came to whelping, health was the most important factor for any prospective mate. Running through the list of necessities of things in your mind before embarking on the act of mating was always recommended. Strong limbs? Healthy diet? Good teeth? Nothing was overlooked when it came to the survival potential of one's own litter. For a female from another people, this girl was in as fine a shape anybody he'd been with. Frankly, he'd coupled some females from his tribe that were in worse shape, though he would never admit as much. The women he was used to were not known for their gentleness or meekness. They were as likely to rip out your throat as share a spot beside the fire with you.

He caught her glancing at him from the corner of her eye, a look of terror and wariness on her expression. She was trembling like a leaf. He knew he was wasting time here: the sun had almost reached its zenith in the sky, and he was quickly burning through daylight. But the truth was, with this fresh mate available, his procreative instincts were taking control. The Second Hunger -- so common to his kind -- was overtaking him. Heat was spreading across his flesh like a wildfire, causing his senses to sharpen and his heart to race.

He held her wrists in place with one hand above her head. With his other hand, he began prying apart her legs, attempting to make room for his hips. At first a look of confusion spread over her face. But when she finally intuited his purpose, she bucked and screamed in desperation, seeking to break his hold on her by any means necessary. He tightened his grip around her wrists and growled menacingly as a warning. Completely powerless, she groaned and went still, dropping her head to the side and revealing her throat as a show of submission. He threw her legs apart and, with a grunt, snapped the threaded cord of the satchel that was wrapped around her neck with his teeth, then tossed it away. The bag's contents were overturned upon hitting the ground: out spilled various berries, herbs, tubers, several vials filled with a mysterious liquid, mushrooms -- he'd been right before, she was collecting plant-life for the good of her people. He marvelled at the collection of items she had gathered. Guessing from the materials in her pouch, she must have been a medicine woman of some kind.

So young, and yet already a practitioner of the healing arts? He knew he had chosen well. Their cubs would grow to be strong and resourceful one day.

He brought his snout to her neck and inhaled deeply. Every lover Grayclaw had been with had possessed a particular scent. One of his first mates, Rosemary, smelt of sandalwood and jasmine; another, Willowsmoke, had carried a rich perfume of incense and nutmeg. Since his youth, he'd coupled with countless females, and with his powerful sense of smell he was able to remember all of them. This one's aroma reminded him of the valley: sunflowers, rain, and elderberries fresh from the stem.

He took another deep breath, wanting to savor her. It was, in a word, delicious. He stood up.

As he prepared to carry out his plan, another thought occurred to him. It was a belief among the medicine women of his tribe that conception was more likely if the female was in a state of arousal at the time of climax. Every young male at one point or another learned the secrets of "The Art of the Dancing Worm", in order to bring pleasure and joy to their mates. Whether the first part was true or merely an old wives' tale, the females of the village never seemed to care.

Now, there was an idea.

He looked down upon his prey and grinned, displaying row upon row of devilish teeth. Then he leaned down and opening his jaws, tasted her neck with his long, prehensile tongue. She shivered at the contact.

He worked his way downwards, tracing the shape of her body with the organ in his mouth, bringing it over her shoulders and collarbone, across her breasts, caressing the smooth plain that was her stomach, keeping a firm hold of her hips as he went. When he eventually came to her lower half, he positioned his hands under her rump and lifted her waist into the air. She was as light as a feather. He admired the beautiful pink hue of her sex, the way the delicate petals fanned outwards, and the faint musk that emanated from it all. He felt himself harden. With two claws he spread her folds, and, after some searching, located the hidden pearl in the rough. Experimentally, his tongue flicked outwards; she gasped as it brushed up against this feature. Feeling more assured, he petted the soft meat of her womanhood with his tongue, relishing the honey-sweet taste of her kitten. Tilting his head back, he began exploring more and more of her depths, sliding his rough and sticky tongue against her inner walls. He heard her gasp and felt her jump up at the intrusion, but he kept a firm hold of her waist as he plundered her feminine warmth. His tongue behaved like a sea anemone, exploring, poking, prodding -- devouring whatever it touched. After a few more minutes of his ministrations, dew began leaking from her orifice at an alarming rate; he lapped it up with a voracious appetite.

He saw her nails dig into the boulder. That, he decided, had to be a sign of encouragement.

He continued to invade her flower, lapping up her juices, travelling deeper and deeper as time went on. Soon, however, his feeler bumped up against something firm and smooth. She squirmed under his grip, and he reasoned that he had discovered the bottom of her well. He massaged this part of her (it felt like no more than a thin piece of parchment) with his anemone, and she yelped in surprise. Pushing her legs up, he sought to find every groove and crevice, so that she was well and truly ready to accept his seed.

Then, feeling his job was done, he drew back and stopped to admire his handiwork.

But when he studied her face, he felt a twinge of disappointment. It was clear his Hunger was still not reciprocated. She was looking away from him, lips pursed. A veneer of cold acceptance had settled over her expression. It seemed as if she was annoyed or, worse still, impatient to have it done with.

Lying there, he saw that his efforts had clearly made little impact. The flesh of her cheeks and chest were flushed a deep red; sweat beaded her brow. Otherwise, however, the girl showed no outward reaction. She was as resolute and stoic as ever, frowning with her forehead wrinkled in consternation as he hovered over her. Briefly, she glanced at Grayclaw as if to gauge his feelings to her reception, and then, once again, went back to ignoring him. It seemed as if she was dead set on enjoying this as little as possible.

He glimpsed down at his penis, which glistened with oil from being in its sheath. At the moment, surrounded by its forest of fur, it looked rather pathetic; the bulbous gland at the base that was designed to ensure a successful mating did nothing to help. He'd brought many of the women of his tribe pleasure with this instrument. Why should her kind be any different? he wondered, his sense of frustration growing. Was he not a desirable mate? There were worse options out there, surely.

He studied her a moment and, after determining her lack of interest to be genuine, grimaced.

So be it. The female's enjoyment was secondary to the copulatory act. As long as he had the opportunity to lace her womb with his seed, the rest was in the goddesses's hands. Besides, it wasn't as if this had been his plan this morning. But the Deer Clan needed to understand that this was Wolf territory. Getting this girl with child, he knew, was one way of sending that message. It established a dominance over interlopers they would not soon forget, and at least it was better than all-out war.

At any rate, she was the one who had transgressed; therefore, in order to redress the imbalance, she would have to carry his litter to term. The honor of his pack demanded it.

He positioned his manhood before her entrance, prepared to perform his duty and beyond the point of caring if she wanted him to or not -- the advice of medicine women be damned -- when something on the ground caught his eye.

Several vials filled with thick, oily liquid lay on the ground. The fluid was gold and shimmered in the sunlight. On a whim, he leaned down and took one up between his first and middle finger. As he began to rise, he detected a sudden intake of breath from his prey. Looking up, he saw her gaping at the vial in his hand as if he had just picked up a live snake.

Curious.

He popped out the cork with his teeth. When he went to sniff the container, an overpowering stink rose from the tube. Truly, the smell was like a combination of overripe milk and fish guts. He coughed and spat, trying to rid his nostrils of the stench, shaking his head. Then, suddenly, realization crashed on him like the roof of a stonemason's hut. His eyes widened.

He had seen this substance used before.

Once, many years ago, a local shaman had used it in a mating ritual between two members of warring tribes. Grayclaw had been but a young cub at the time. Both the male and the female had been the children of their tribes' respective alphas; their coupling was meant to seal an alliance between the two parties concerned, putting an end to the bloodshed. However, neither child had been willing to perform their duty. Consequently, the shaman had concocted an extract from the oil of the Amora tree, and, with the approval of the alphas, slipped it into their spruce beers.