by Ana Felix
She is open to him, bare. She watches his dark head descend between her thighs as he roughly parts them. She gasps again, then pants softly when she feels his tongue probe the base of her cunt then slide upward through the furrow of her labia. He lifts his head for a moment, grinning. He knows she was wet with arousal before he pressed her down upon the bed. Her thighs are trembling in anticipation of his next move. “Please,” she whispers. “Please…”
“‘Please’ what?” His voice is teasing, playful.
“…Finish. Just finish,” she moans brokenly.
He grips her buttocks and lifts her groin to his mouth and he begins to suck her clitoris, gently at first then vigorously. Claire arches convulsively against him, her feet now planted firmly on the bed. She wants to press her fist against her mouth to keep from crying out, but somehow she manages to remain silent. Even in the throes of climax she must maintain some control. In spite of herself she smiles weakly realizing that she was worthy of an orgasm and the other girls were not.
When the deed is done Claire rolls over on her side in a loose fetal position, clamping her thighs together. She is both satisfied and mortified at the same time. She takes a deep breath, trying to sound calm and businesslike despite her dishabille. “So, what’s the verdict?” she murmurs against the thick comforter. A brief burst of adrenaline tells her that she already knows the answer.
Ian l’Argent comes round the bed and drops Claire’s underwear beside her face. “You’ve saved us. You are the one.” His tone is sober and the smirk has disappeared from his face.
THREE
“Why don’t you tell her, Ian.” Mel Tranter’s voice is both tired and irritated. “It’s your story after all, isn’t it?” The manager is sitting on a sofa, ruffling his hair and massaging his cheeks and jaw. “Perhaps over some dinner? I won’t be joining you, however. I’ll take mine in my room after a hot bath.” Standing up with a spurt of renewed energy, “I’ll leave you two alone, then.” As he heads for the door Mal sighs and shakes his head.
Claire watches Mal leave, feeling an almost wistful pang. She’s never been completely alone with Ian l’Argent, nor has she ever had a single conversation with him. He’d seemed, to her, spare of conversation in fact, given his brief responses to questions proffered by frustrated interviewers. She wondered if it was due to his shyness, disinterest or boredom—or a combination of all three. Now, after having shared an intimate act, he tracks her movements like a predator as he eases back against the leather sofa.
“Are you hungry?” He smiles slightly. “You must be. I know I am. What shall I order for you?”
Claire clears her throat delicately and looks away for a moment. “A little, yes. Whatever you’re having will be fine with me.”
“I’m quite carnivorous, I must warn you. Are you one of those hypocritical vegans who avoids animal products but drives a car with leather seats?”
“No, I’m an omnivore with a preference for vegetables…and I do drive a car with leather seats. Just so you know.”
Ian smile is wider. “Saucy. I like you. How about breakfast for dinner?”
Claire returns his smile. “Breakfast always makes a great dinner.”
* * *
Claire paints her forkful of scrambled eggs with the syrup from her short stack of pancakes and pops the golden wad into her mouth. She points the empty fork at Ian, “I believe you owe me an explanation regarding this unusual test of yours. Unless this was written in invisible ink on my contract, I never would have agreed to it.”
“I think that if Mal had explained it to you you’d never have believed it. Or you’d have run in the opposite direction—perhaps both.”
“Try me. Oh…you already have.” She chuckled. Sobering, added, “I’m up for a good story.”
“Well,” Ian’s voice hushed, serious, “I have one for you, indeed.”
* * *
Lycanthropy melded with l’Argent DNA via the curse of a defeated Saxon’s Welsh wife.
Robert l’Argent fought alongside William the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings in 1066, soundly defeating the Anglo-Saxon King Harold. For his bravery, l’Argent was gifted with a castle in Hastings, East Sussex. Before they were cast out of their former abode, the ousted Saxon’s Welsh wife hurled a curse at l’Argent and all of his kin to come under each new full moon.
To serve as an example for those who might cause future unrest Robert l’Argent had the Saxon flensed and beheaded, his wife to be burned at the stake afterward. As the flames licked and engulfed her, the woman screamed her oaths anew, wolves howling in the distance as she screamed.
That spring the first of Robert l’Argent’s sons was born; three more followed. All was well until the first son achieved puberty. When the first full moon rose after his fourteenth year, the boy transformed into a wolf and went on a bloody rampage through the surrounding village. Fortunately for l’Argent, no one from the nearby village had seen the boy morph from human into a wolf and so all thought the massive beast a freak, though nothing seemed able to slay it. But Robert l’Argent understood the awful truth, remembering the Welsh woman’s curse.
Before each full moon thereafter the boy was confined to a cell deep within the castle. Robert l’Argent wept as he manacled his firstborn son to the dungeon walls. As each son approached his fourteenth birthday he was imprisoned and observed. As it turned out only the firstborn son was affected.
As the centuries passed each l’Argent son would be required to undergo confinement when the day of his fourteenth birthday arrived. The curse did not affect any of the daughters, favoring only the firstborn son.
Ian l’Argent was not only a firstborn son, but an only child as well. And, of course, he was afflicted with the curse of lycanthropy. From his fourteenth birthday on he was required to be chained and confined every full moon. He could never remember anything about his transformation from man to wolf—only that his muscles and tendons felt sprained and his head throbbed afterward.
He’d discovered how to control the transformation by accident.
In his eighteenth year a cousin, Elise, curious about her mysterious kin, decided to witness the transformation. She wanted to watch not from the safety of the cell door, but in the room itself. Ian warned her of the danger of proximity, but her curiosity made her reckless.
When the moon showed its full face, the transformation began. Ian stood before her nude and chained, waiting for the savage metamorphosis to happen. Impulsively, Elise shed her clothing, tossing the garments boldly aside, feral gleam in her eyes. Before he could demand why she did this, Ian felt the change begin with a sharp prickling all over his body.
As he threw his head back and screamed in agony, Elise launched herself at him.
She pushed him to the mattress on the floor and took hold of his cock, efficiently working it into a full curving erection. Straddling him she leaned forward and guided him into her, rocking slowly at first, then frantically until they both reached climax.
But Elise wasn’t finished. “Taste me,” she whispered, her voice low and husky with desire. “Put your mouth on me.”
Before he could say anything Elise had inched her pelvis along Ian’s writhing torso until her slick, tumescent vulva was pressed against his open mouth. She was so wet that he swallowed a few milliliters of her pungent juices.
Something else happened.
The transformation was slowing and stopping, leaving him in a limbo between man and beast. Unlike a completed transformation, in which he seemed to lose his human consciousness, he knew what was happening—in real time. He felt powerful but felt non of the bloodlust. He was fierce, but had no desire to shred and consume raw still-living flesh. Spurred by this discovery he lapped and suckled at his cousin’s pulsing cunt with purpose. She wriggled and swayed her hips as he licked her into orgasm and she threw her head back and howled like an animal.
When she crawled away from him, she crouched against the far wall panting and watching him with passion-glittered ey
es. Unfortunately, the transformation has only been temporarily halted. Elise watched in horror as the transformation began again. As Ian twisted and strained into a wolf, she inched along the wall, arm outstretched, hand frantically scrabbling for the door. She opened the door just in time to save herself from the enormous snapping jaws, slamming the door closed.
She stayed behind the door until dawn and watched through a window in the door as Ian became fully human again. Conveniently, Elise had come to live with Ian’s parents since she would be attending the University of Brighton. Ian hadn’t informed his parents of this breakthrough, however—nor had Elise. Secretly, at each full moon, the two teenagers coupled in the dank stone cell in the bowels of the l’Argent estate. Elise would make her hasty escape before the transformation would resume, waiting behind the locked door until Ian was human again.
He’d always wanted to become a rock star and he possessed a decent singing voice—but he was anything but unique among so many other handsome young men with some talent for singing. It was Elise’s idea to allow Ian to partially transform then perform at local clubs. They built a backing band and gave their first performance at a Brighton club. Ian was an instant hit. The tricky part was getting Ian back to his cell in the castle before he could resume morphing into a huge wolf and consuming the audience. The solution was Elise fucking Ian in the back of the band’s van as they sped through the roads back to the family castle. Obviously, faraway venues were out of the question. The band members had no idea what was going on; they just assumed that Ian and Elise were slightly agoraphobic nymphomaniacs.
Mal Tranter eventually discovered Ian—and Ian’s secret—and offered him a lucrative contract. In a few short years Ian became a multi-millionaire and moved to Los Angeles, transforming a huge old mansion into an exclusive venue for his act. Fans came from all over the world to watch—and worship—him during each full moon phase. As Ian became rich, so did his manager.
Elise went along with the act for a few years, but wanted her own life again. Fortunately she found a replacement for Ian before she left.
* * *
“That replacement girl recommended by Elise,” Ian says, frowning, “is the reason we needed new recruits. I suppose you could say she escaped. Didn’t expect her to leave a note, of course. I told Ian months ago that we should have got rid of her.”
“Well,” Claire says, leaning back from the remnants of her dinner. “That’s quite a tale.”
“Not a tale,” Ian replies, fixing his unnerving golden stare at her. “It’s my history. And I don’t give a rot if you believe it or disbelieve it. In a couple of days you’ll learn what I’ve told you is truth.”
“I thought werewolves were supposed to be immortal, that in order to kill one you’d need a silver bullet.”
Ian turns his head and grins sarcastically at the wall, quick snort through his nose. When he turns to face her again, the grin is gone. “That’s a myth, folklore, fiction. It’s what movies and novels tell you. My afflicted ancestors all lived normal lifespans, and that included deaths by disease, cancer and random accidents—even murder.”
“Murder?”
“Or perhaps by usurper in the old days. An ancient way of ‘climbing the ladder,’ so to speak.”
“Getting back to the current situation—”
Ian nods, the grin returning. “Ah, the situation. And your role in it. You’ll help me stall the transformation, keeping me in that limbo between man and wolf.”
“By having sex with you during the full moon?”
“That’s the general idea, yes.”
“For how long?”
Ian’s smile darkens, looks sullen. “I realize that it’s a rather distasteful task for you…”
“It’s not that I…” Claire finishes the sentence with a confused flourish of open palms. “I mean…it’s not that I find you…repulsive…or…” Hangs her head, forehead supported by the heal of her palm. “I’m really digging myself into a trench, aren’t I?”
“Oh, keep digging. I find it quite amusing watching you awkwardly defend your virtue.” The last word a slight snarl. “Believe me, though the thought of coitus with you arouses my manhood, I don’t relish the thought that I might also be…raping you.”
Claire squares her shoulders. “It’s not ‘rape’ if I’ve given my consent. And I have.”
“Your duty.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly. You make it sound as if I’ll need sedation in order to get through it.”
“And will you? Need ‘sedation,’ I mean?”
“Now you’re the one sounding ridiculous. Of course not. Who knows? I might even enjoy it.”
I know that I’ll enjoy it, Claire thinks to herself. But I’ll never admit it to anyone…but myself.
FOUR
Claire is in the shower, washing all traces of him from her body. She can’t even say his name in her mind, even though they shared an intimate moment.
Intimate moment: a polite way of saying that he put his mouth on her privates. And though she tries to convince herself that she should feel some shame, Claire feels excitement instead. In fact, the more she rebels against her desire the more aroused she becomes. She’s alone and no one can see her. No one can listen to her thoughts.
She looks at the oval-shaped loofah in her hand and imagines it’s his cock. Her breath comes in quick, short bursts as she stares at the thick porous thing poised above her belly. On impulse she thrusts it against herself, teasing the manicured cleft of her cunt with the tip before sliding the loofah under and across her swelling, opening vulva.
Claire half-squats, opening her thighs to the soaked loofah and the heavy shower spray. She throws back her head, braces herself with a hand against the shower stall and moans brokenly. As she feels sweet stringers of a beginning orgasm she rolls onto her back, legs open so wide that she feels she might split like a halved fruit. She pushes the loofah deeper and harder against herself until she begins to feel the shudder of climax begin.
When it’s over she clamps her legs together and rocks back and forth, savoring the remaining traces of her orgasm. Tears fill her eyes and spill over. But she isn’t sad. Far from it.
* * *
Despite a cup of chamomile tea earlier in the evening, Claire turns over and over fitfully in her bed. Angrily she hugs a pillow to her chest and punches it in the middle then drops her head into the impression. She worms her way deeper into the blankets and comforter, bouncing a little, trying to settle herself. Damn it, tea—put me to sleep.
Eventually she senses the pendulum swing of approaching slumber and she eases into sleep. But her dreams come restless and erotic.
She is in a dungeon cell with torches set in the wall as the only light. She is nude and her splayed limbs are chained and anchored to a damp wall. She tests the strength of the restraints by tugging her wrists and ankles. She is securely manacled. As she writhes her back bumps against the rough wall sending traceries of pain up her spine.
Despite her imprisonment she feels arousal flare deep within her groin, juices trickling down her thighs. She looks down at her open rosy cunt and longs for something—someone—to touch it, caress it, lick it. She releases a long and mournful groan ending in sobbing whimpers.
She hears the scrape of a heavy door opening. She wriggles in the restraints in hopeful anticipation.
Ian l’Argent moves toward her from the dark. He is nude, with an oily sheen of sweat from head to toe. His thick cock begins to rise as he studies her with his amber eyes. She mouths, “Why?” but he doesn’t answer, only continues to stare. He moves to face her and nuzzles her neck, sniffing along her collarbone. As he does this his right hand palms her belly and slides down to her groin, tickles her pubic hairs and traces an index finger to press against her clitoris.
Claire gasps and moans, bucking her hips against Ian’s hand and he slips the finger into her, then another and another. When he removes his fingers from her cunt he sucks them, a lopsided satisfied gr
in on his face, staring at her. “Yours is the perfect taste,” he says. “I’m thirsty for it and I shall have my fill.”
He kneels before her and opens his mouth wide upon her. Claire feels his tongue along the ruffle of her labia, feels his lips kiss and suck her vulva. She sees her vaginal juices trickle hot down Ian’s cheeks as he drinks. The orgasm builds until it explodes through her pelvis and she cries out brokenly.
But he’s not done. Ian’s cock has lengthened and arced upward, ready for her. He teases her cunt with the glistening tip first, touching then retreating, touching again. Finally he guides his stiffened prick into her and begins to slowly rock her against the wall. As he does this his tongue leaves moist trails along the globe of each breast, pausing to suck a nipple to hardness.
The thrusts come quicker and Ian pumps his buttocks higher and he grips her hips and pulls her against him, harder. They climax together, crying out in unison. This orgasm is more intense than the first and she feels another building as Ian continues to push himself against her. She climaxes multiple times and her cries become weaker with each one. Ian’s semen mixes with her own private nectar, dripping from her open thighs to the stone floor.
Ian withdraws his cock from her, but his penis is not fully flaccid. Claire eyes the organ hungrily. “Release me,” she says defiantly. “Let me go.”
Ian shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “We’re far from finished. Or, I should say, you are far from finished.”
As Ian says this several men appear behind him, all as nude as he is. “My ancestors,” he says. “They’re here for you.”
Claire takes in great gulps of air, feels her belly ripple with the effort. Her cunt begins to tingle and pulse, waiting to accept the line of erect phalluses.
One man pushes his cock into her, another fondles her breasts and another kneels beneath her and strokes her anus with his tongue. When the first man unmounts her the one fondling her breasts takes the other’s place, thrusting in his stead. The man beneath her traces his tongue around the thrusting penis, laps at her swollen labia.