tagSci-Fi & FantasyWolf's Bane

Wolf's Bane


(Author's Note: I have endeavoured to make this story as readable as possible without people having to know or read the previous Wolf stories on Literotica. However, feel free to go back and read the others. And if you want, leave some feedback too, it's greatly appreciated...)


The room was cold, bare, windowless, uncompromising: perfect for interrogation. An unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling, struggling and failing to cast away the bleak shadows in the corners, and the furnishings consisted of a simple metal table and a simple metal chair, both bolted to the floor. The heavy iron door behind the chair had locked with a unnerving sound of finality as it closed shut, leaving the air in the room stale and fetid, and the single inhabitant of the room alone with her thoughts.

She was a woman in her early thirties, with long, shoulder-length chestnut hair and matching eyes that stared forward, as if genuinely interested in the random cracks in the brick wall opposite her. She sat in the chair, her wrists bound by leather straps to the arms of it, her ankles bound in identical fashion to the front legs of it. She swallowed, long past panic, more accepting that her current predicament wasn't some terrible nightmare, that it was painfully real.

A shiver ran through her, uncontrollable. Upon her arrival at... wherever she was... her captors had removed the hood and cuffs they'd put on her, and made her strip out of her own clothes, in favour of a thin pair of baggy white flannel trousers with a drawstring at the waist, and a loose top barely held together by a few buttons, with no underwear or footwear provided. Her nipples had peaked from the cold to an almost painful degree, and she had to struggle to keep her feet from touching the stone floor.

But the effort to do that was nothing compared with the last handful of hours. She was exhausted, hungry, afraid, and needed to use the toilet – but she knew that she would not soon receive relief for any of these things.

Behind her, the door opened, but she continued to stare straight ahead, waited and watched as a nondescript young woman in a pressed olive-drab uniform and skirt carried in and deposited a chair on the other side of the table, before departing, never acknowledging the room's occupant. Another moment, and another uniformed person, a man this time, guided in a metal trolley with squeaky wheels, leaving it at her side. Now she glanced at it; the top shelf held a tray with a number of syringes and bottles.

The woman started as the man undid the buttons on her shirt and opened it up, exposing her, a little. But he made no comment, didn't molest her, showed no emotion in fact, leaving her like that. She kept silent, however, having already been struck in the back twice with a nightstick for speaking.

Now someone else stepped into the room, striding purposefully around to take the seat opposite her, setting out a sheath of papers in front of him. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, with an elephantine girth, and a moon face whose lunar resemblance was accentuated by the craters and pockmarks upon it. He wore a creased and crumpled olive-drab uniform like the others, but with more decorations on the epaulettes and the chest, and it looked to be a size too big for him once he sat down. Jowly flesh hung over the high collar, and he removed his peaked cap and set it beside his papers, revealing a shock of greasy black hair. She had long since lost track of the time, but he looked like he'd been woken up and brought here to deal with her, and wasn't at all pleased about it.

Not that she thought her situation here could get much worse.

Now he looked up at her, sniffing distastefully from his pug nose, his English faltering but functional. "My name is Major Piotr Roshenko of the Glavnoe Razvedyvatel'noe Upravlenie. As you are not Russian, that will mean nothing to you, but we deal with matters of military intelligence." He turned over a page, frowned at some details, then continued. "The normal procedure at this stage is to let the prisoner lie as much and as elaborately as they want, let them get it all out of their system, let them think they are convincing us. Then we begin to grind away all the lies in the crucible we provide here, grind them away until all that remains is the pure, unadulterated truth.

However, my superiors are expecting a preliminary report today, and my head hurts. So let's skip past any lies you might wish to weave. You are Samantha Brennan, a British citizen and member of an eco-terrorist group called World Wolf Watch-"

She blinked. "We are not-"

"-And you are involved in the deaths of several members of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, and of a civilian team in its employ."

Her mouth was dry. "I want- I want to speak to the British Consulate-"

"That will not be possible. You now reside in the Aryekhi, a facility that is part of my country's contribution to the Global War on Terror. Unlike the Americans and their Cuban camp, however, we are more successful at hiding its existence, and its inhabitants, from the outside. In fact, only three people in the world know your identity and that you're here, and they're all in this room."

"Then when- when will I be released?"

Roshenko leaned forward, thick stubby fingers pressing into the tabletop. "Miss Brennan, I must be honest with you. You will not leave here alive. Nor will you die anytime soon. And your life here will never be easy, certainly not as easy as you might have known it. But there are many ways to live here, and your co-operation can ensure you live in a way that is not too unpleasant." He looked up to the aide near Sam, and nodded.

She watched as the aide readied a syringe. "I'm not- I'm not a terrorist."

"Truth or not, Miss Brennan, that declaration will not spare you."

Now she went silent, tried not to flinch as the aide drew back her shirt even further, baring her left breast, shoulder and upper arm completely. She watched her skin prickle from the cold and fear as the aide rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on her bicep, then injected her with an amber-coloured fluid. She looked back at Roshenko. "What- what's that?"

"It's called diosethanine, a new mixture provided by the Americans, though I suspect we are being used as guinea pigs. Unlike previous truth drugs, it also suppresses the creative centres of the brain as it dampens inhibitions, proving more efficacious in helping the subject provide the unadulterated truth, as opposed to some bastard mixture of fact and fiction."

"You can't do this to me! I have rights!"

He regarded her, then rose from his seat and walked around to her. Resting his ample rear against the table, he looked down at her, reached out and stroked her hair, ignoring her attempt to pull away. His hand dropped to her breast, idly played with the nipple. Then he dipped down further, beneath the waistband of her trousers, touched her bush, her labia, his expression to his casual violation of her body insouciant. Closer now, he murmured in her ear, "I have no patience to indulge your denial of your position here." He took some skin between thumb and forefinger and twisted until she winced. "Do you think you can get past that to an acceptance? Or shall we move you into a cell for half an hour with the rapists?"

Fighting back the pain and humiliation, she shook her head. "I- I accept..."

"Good." He removed his hand, wiping his fingers on the sides of his trousers as he returned to his seat, as if nothing had just happened. His stubby fingers now sought out each other, embraced as he folded his hands before him. "You will soon start to feel relaxed, more receptive."

A shudder ran through her, and her chest ached, as if she wanted to hyperventilate but was being prevented, smothered. "P-Please cover me up."


"I've- I've done nothing wrong..."

"Miss Brennan, I have seen the aerial pictures of Tsyerkovolk. It looks like it was devastated by a tactical nuclear device, with no traces of radiation or chemical explosives. You were the only survivor."

She knew that already, shaking her head; it felt thick, as if she had a cold. She wanted to cry, but felt too numb, and not from the drugs or the fatigue. Her spirit had been ripped from her, ripped from her and cast into the darkness, never to be found again. Like her body, in this place, with only an interrogator for company.

"You mentioned a name when you were first arrested: Fenris. What is this, an organisation? A code?"

For the first time in a long time, Sam wanted to tell a stranger. Tell him everything. Maybe because it didn't matter anymore. "A name."

"Who is it? An associate?"

She glanced down, staring blankly at nothing. "A lover."

"Indeed. And where is this man?"

"I never said he was a man." She raised her head again, wishing she could cry. "And he's dead."


The Corinthia Nevskij Palace Hotel was one of the newer five star hotels in the heart of Saint Petersburg, Russia's "Northern Capital", the result of the renovation of two historic 19th century buildings on the city's main boulevard, Nevsky Prospect, retaining its classic facade, but reshaping the interior into a fine blend of concentric lights, gleaming brass fittings, curved glass ceilings and sumptuous galleries.

For Samantha Brennan, who had spent the previous several months of her life seven hundred kilometres south in the wilds of Belarus, this felt like Paradise – even the awful vol-au-vants and snacks on the tables now lining the conference room. And all she had to do was give a lecture at the International Wildlife Symposium on behalf of her organisation, and look pretty enough to attract the monetary interest of those among the sea of tuxedos and suits, Russia's biznesmeny, who were looking to practice conspicuous consumption on an extravagant scale, driving flashy Western cars, sporting expensive clothing and jewellery, and frequenting stylish restaurants and clubs that are far beyond the reach of ordinary Russians. Of course, she missed Mikhail, but he no longer needed her help-


Sam pushed aside the thought that slipped into her mind like a hand around her waist. She moved a little uneasily in her new imported black gown, an elegant number with three-quarter length sleeves and a V-neck that provided more cleavage than she had displayed in a long time. She had never been one for glamour, and she felt as unsteady in things like this as she was in her new high heels. But she recognised that she was an asset to the World Wolf Watch, and was not ashamed of schmoozing or trading on her looks to help achieve her ends.

Samantha... Beloved...

She sighed, ignoring it and smiling as someone walked up to congratulate her on the talk she'd given that morning. She nodded and remained affable – but the voice in her head remained insistent. Samantha, come away from these people...

Then came the breath on her neck, and she gasped aloud, blaming the air vents overhead for her reaction. Stop it, now! I'm busy!

And I'm hungry.

Then go catch an elk or rabbit, or whatever animals exist where you are.

You're more appetising.

Fuck off now... But his words touched her deeper than she would admit, even to herself, and certainly not to the tall, thin man before her whose English was so broken as to be irreparable.

Sam started again when she felt the brush of fur against her leg, resisted the urge to glance down, knowing that there'd be nothing there. At least, nothing that could be seen.

Then something pressed against her rear.

To hell with schmoozing... "Izvinichye," she said to the man, excusing herself and departing from the room as quickly as she could without attracting too much attention. The party had not long started, but she was damned if she could get any work done while her lover had the horn. She had an obligation to him, to his needs and desires and-

And yes, she had the horn as well.

In the lift, she felt the hot breath, the scent of him filling the enclosed space, and her hands moved down the front of her body, as if he was fully present, trying to make his way under her dress. Stop it, you bastard, this dress was expensive! She looked around her, at her reflections in the mirrors on the lift walls, saw her flushed skin and full lips. God, she looked like she had just been fucked, let alone about to be fucked-

Then she straightened up as the lift stopped and the doors opened, allowing an elderly couple to enter. The man sniffed the air, spoke in German, the only word of it Sam recognised as being 'dog'. He glanced at Sam, as if she might have one concealed on her person, but she just shrugged. They departed, and the lift continued – downward. Sam frowned and pressed the button for her room on the sixth floor, but the lift continued down into the hotel's garage. "What the hell-"


She stared up at the lift's ceiling light, as if he resided there. "My room would be more comfortable."

But there's no space to run in there...

Now she shook her head, understanding as she stepped out of the lift, her voice echoing slightly. "There might be people down here!"

There is no one. Summon me.

Sam looked around anyway; she hadn't been down here before, not having any use for it, but it looked like most others she'd seen, cars stationed in groups of four in sectioned bays, with red and yellow pipes running overhead, and sliding metal doors hooked up to smoke alarms. It was also thankfully warm, a necessary requirement to keep the guests' expensive counterfeit Ferraris from suffering from the frost.

Samantha, I want you...

"I'll bet." It was public, the most public place they'd ever been together. If anyone came along... but then that was part of the spice of it all, wasn't it? She could refuse. He was silent, away by day, but at night was almost fully there, but she could still push him away, if she wanted.

But she didn't want.

She reached down and unzipped the side of her dress as high as it would go, then raised the hem up the rest of the way, up past her stockinged legs, until she reached her black satin knickers, slipping her thumbs beneath the tanga briefs and sliding them down. She stepped out of them, looked for a place to put them, then gave up and threw them to the floor near the lift doors, hoping to retrieve them before anyone else did. After a moment's thought, she slipped out of her shoes and sent them there as well. "You have no sense of the romantic, did you know that? No flowers, no chocolates-"

Summon me now, and when I catch you, I might be merciful and leave you with some clothes intact.

"You're too kind." She ignored the cold garage floor on her feet, her stockings offering no protection; she was a woman who had performed rituals naked in Scottish and Belarus forests in the dead of winter, and a few days of decadence had not softened her. She emptied her mind of distractions, focused on the image of her lover, on his form and sound and scent, as oft-spoken words quickly escaped her lips. "O Powerful Fenris, son of Loki and Angrboda, bound to the rock of Gioll, I, your consort, conjure thee on this night and at this hour here, to order firmed affairs with thee..."

And as the ceiling lights flickered and cracked, and the air itself charged with electricity, she began running, feeling the air within the garage whip dust around her. Her feet pounding on the floor, the tails of her dress flying behind her, she turned a corner, never looking back, not needing to, knowing what would soon be appearing. Once, when she had first performed this ceremony, it required specific times and paraphernalia, required tremendous amounts of her own personal energy. But she had changed so much since those days, six years ago.

But now was not the time for reminiscence. She moved through the shadows of the now-darkened garage, dodging in and around the parked cars, avoiding touching any of them in case they had alarms, and controlling the sound of her rapid breathing, so aware of being knickerless beneath her evening dress. It was inevitable that he would catch her, but that wasn't the point of the hunt. She heard the footfalls behind her, and she almost slowed down, almost gave in too soon, such was her desire for him upon her. But that would be cheating, and he would know.

She winced as she stepped in what felt like an oil puddle, nearly skidding before catching herself. Now she looked back – and saw him, in his full glory: racing down the centre of the garage, a wolf the size of a bear, with pointed ears and a long muzzle on a huge head mounted on a thickly-muscled neck, its fur thick and ash with black waves, its teeth gleaming, its pointed ears swept back, and its blood-red eyes, slitted with black, fixed upon her. The claws on its massive paws made a noise on the garage floor.

She waited, until he was almost upon her – then dodged him, running around the nearest car and glancing back to see him struggle to stop and turn, suppressing laughter as she started back the way she came, this time moving down along another part of the garage, her breasts aching within her dress as she ran, but still enjoying herself. It had been ages since she had last run with her lover, since she had last let him hunt her, and she felt giddy - and aroused-

Her pursuer was upon her before she even realised it, crashing into her like a runaway bull – but careful to let his own body take the tumble, keeping her safe.

Out of breath but laughing, uncaring now of how this could ruin her dress, Sam struggled with him, a playfight that she could never win, his scent overpowering to her. She felt his features shift beneath her, producing less lupine and more humanlike characteristics, ash-grey fur patched with black around his neck, at the joins of his wrists and ankles, at the base of his bushy tail, and dipping down his belly to collect around his shaft, long and thick and pink and pressing against her.

Sam pressed her mouth against his chest, nipping at his furry flesh and making him growl with delight at her response. He nipped back as they fell into each other's arms, his own incredible strength kept in check. Yes, she thought, this was so much better than if they'd just returned to her room.

I said as much, he gloated, his mouth suddenly clamping around her neck, his teeth sharp but careful not to pierce her skin. Now, will you submit?

"Fuck off," she murmured, feeling so alive.

His hand shot up under her dress, the base of his palm pressing against the pouch of her sex, feeling the wiry hairs of her bush, the heat of her pussy and the folds surrounding her clit. He massaged it, making her squirm like a worm on a hook. Submit to me... will you submit?

Her heart pounding in her chest, mouth panting and sweat beading down between her breasts, Sam swallowed. "Y-Yes... Oh yes... Let- Let me..."

He released his hold on her neck, but hovered close over her as if she might bolt, as she twisted in place, moving up onto all fours, reaching back behind her to lift up her dress and expose her rear to him. And as she submitted, she felt the familiar rise and thickening of his shaft between her upper thighs, a movement that never failed to increase her own arousal.

And as Fenris mounted her from behind, gripping her hips, claws digging into the material of her dress, offering her short, rapid trusts into her pussy, she buried her face in her crossed arms and let herself surrender completely.

"Miss Brennan?"


"Miss Brennan?"

The stubby fingers clicking drew her back from her memories, and she blinked again, the warm, comforting feeling quickly replaced by the cold and bleakness of the here and now. The memories had been so vivid, and yet so distant and dreamlike – and now only reminded her of her loss.

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byDshannon© 16 comments/ 50362 views/ 23 favorites

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