Fur and Fangs Box Set

by Rae D. Magdon

  "Your turn," Isabeau says, and in a flash, she reverses our positions, tossing me onto my back. She's has some superhuman strength and speed going on, because with the way she's holding my wrists in one hand and fishing into my pants with the other, I'm not sure I'd win in a wrestling competition. Those curves must be hiding some serious muscle underneath.

  She doesn't waste time. Her fingers delve into the wiry hair between my legs until she finds my clit. Not that it's hard. It's already slick and swollen, and I howl when she hits it. I'm not quite sure how she tears my pants the rest of the way off without breaking contact, but I reckon they're in shreds somewhere on the floor. I don't care. After making her come, I need to also, and I'm way too turned on to be self-conscious anymore.

  Isabeau's fingers roll and pinch and flick, experimenting, but I can't even tell what I like best. It all feels so good. I open my legs and lift my hips, offering myself up for whatever she wants to do to me. Her lips glide along my skin, starting near my shoulders and moving down to my breasts. She spends some time there, sucking my nipples to hard points, and leaves a cool trail of saliva behind when she finally starts kissing along my abdomen.

  Her teeth skid along a sensitive patch of skin near my navel, and the tease sends more heavy pulses straight between my legs. I'm wet and hot and aching, and her fingers are the only thing bringing me any relief. That is, until she looks down into my eyes and whispers, "Inside?"

  I nod, and she slides two of them inside me. There's no resistance. I'm more than ready for her. I'm a whimpering mess as she switches her position and begins kissing up along one of my thighs. I tremble as her breath washes over me, and I give her what I hope is a pleading look.

  Her hazel eyes flash as she draws me into her mouth. It's wet, and her lips are sealed tight, and the sucking drives me absolutely insane. I can feel her fangs on either side of my clit, still not sinking, but there, and once more, the thought of her biting me crawls beneath my flushed skin until I'm breaking out in a fresh round of shudders.

  I come like a freight train, roaring just as loud. With Isabeau's fingers thrusting inside me and her teeth teasing the shaft of my clit and her tongue swirling in circles around the tip, I'm a wreck. A few tears leak from my eyes, simply because all the different feelings are so much to handle, but my face hurts from smiling.

  I give and give and give until I've got nothing left and Isabeau's face is dripping with me. She smiles too, fangs and all, and gives her fingers another nudge. I'd thought I was finished, but I start twitching again as she hits a place that sends stars shooting in front of my eyes.

  "God," I groan, hoarsely, as I tumble over again, and Isabeau just laughs.

  "Isabeau is fine. Or Izzy, if you want."

  "Izzy..." It suits her, I think as I finally return to the couch, but Isabeau does too. Izzy is the cheerful yellow, and Isabeau is the sophisticated red. She's both of those things, and they go perfectly together.

  We stare at each other, and I see the tenderness in her face, and even though it's too soon for me to call this floaty feeling love, I've definitely come down with a dangerous case of like. The moment's interrupted by a shrill buzzing noise. I wince, and Isabeau casts a glance toward my missing pants. As I suspected, they're ruined. Grunting, I sit up as best I can without dislodging her and reach for my phone, only just remembering to wipe my hand.

  I see a text from Colin—several, actually—and most of them are thumbs up and heart emojis. This one, however, asks: "How'd it go? Are you ok?"

  Isabeau smirks. "Tell your friend you're fine...and that you won't be coming home tonight."

  I grin back. "Good thing we're both nocturnal, because if I'm invited to stay, I ain't planning on letting you get much sleep."

  Chapter Two - Isabeau

  I LOVE NEW YORK City. I was born here, and on the day my eternity ends, I'll probably die (again) here. The sights, the sounds, the smells—New York is alive and energetic, and I've always been the type of person who thrives on energy.

  I love the glow of the lights at night, because I can look at them and see the beautiful colors without my sunglasses. I love the kiss of the wind on my face as it whips through the skyscraper tunnels, because it reminds me of flying even when I'm not. I love spotting another person dressed up in bright, bold patterns like the ones I wear and making eye contact, forming a brief connection. It feels like joy, like discovery, like inspiration. I'm convinced that places have auras just like people, and New York City's aura is a beautiful, bustling, constantly buzzing mess. At least, it's usually beautiful.

  "Hey, baby," a voice calls from behind me. "Why don't you turn that fat ass around and walk by again?" Several chuckles follow and my shoulders tense.

  I have three options. One, keep walking and pretend I didn't hear. Two, turn around and start shouting about how this creep's father should have raised him better. However, I decide to take option three. I glance over my shoulder.

  A beefy white man in a stained wifebeater is standing on the bottom step of a stoop just off the sidewalk, lingering in the doorway with a small group of similarly disheveled ‘friends’. His thinning hair is greasy, and his gut sticks out from beneath his shirt.

  "What's with the frown, mama? Why don't you give me a smile?"

  I shoot the catcaller my biggest, most brilliant grin.

  His pale face goes ashen when he notices my fangs. He backs up, wide-eyed, almost bumping into his companions. They look as shocked as he does, and I can’t keep from laughing. As soon as I run my tongue over my teeth, they scramble away like scared rabbits, crashing into other groups on the sidewalk.

  I almost never take pride in frightening people, but catcallers are my weakness. I can't resist turning something disgusting into a story to laugh about later. Not to mention maybe they'll think twice before bothering some other girl without sharp teeth. I continue down the sidewalk, the spring back in my step.

  One block away, I reach my office: a two-story building with brightly colored windows and very little parking space. It had been a brownstone once upon a time, but the front does a good enough job of pretending to be a business now.

  I’m about to open the door when I hear a soft 'whoosh' from somewhere above my head. I turn in time to see a small figure swoop down and land on the steps behind me. It's a cupid, only three feet tall, with a rosy androgynous face, flowing golden hair, and a pair of fluffy white wings poking out of their back. They're holding a large bouquet of sunflowers mixed with white daisies that almost tips them over with its weight.

  I gasp in delight—both because the flowers are beautiful, and because they match my dress. I’ve got on a soft white A-line with asymmetrical splashes of cheerful yellow across it. "How beautiful! Are those for me?"

  "Are you Isabeau LaCour?" Despite the cupid's cheerful appearance—at least, what I can see of it behind the enormous bouquet—they're speaking in the dreariest monotone I've ever heard.

  "That's me."

  The cupid thrusts out the bouquet in a wobbly motion. "Here."

  "Thank you.” I take the flowers, curling a protective arm around them.

  "Hmph. Sign here." They shove a handheld scanner at me next, and I balance the flowers on my hip as I sign the screen. No sooner have I finished scribbling than they're off, soaring back into the grey evening sky. Their abrupt departure doesn't dim the grin that's broken out across my face, though. Even without reading the card, I know who the flowers are from.

  Riley. It’s only been one day since she left my apartment with an adorable blush and a murmured promise to be in touch, but this isn’t at all what I was expecting. I must admit, though, flowers are much sweeter than a text. She’s obviously put some thought into this, and it’s working. She certainly has my attention.

  I brace the bouquet on my shoulder and open the door, only to bump into someone else. The pink foil around the flowers crinkles as we collide, and I step back, full of apologies. "Elyse? Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you—"

  "How coul
d you, over that mess?"

  I peer around the sunflowers to see Elyse's face. Her eyes are narrowed, but she’s wearing a thin smirk, the only sort of smile I can usually get out of her. She’s not the type of sorceress who does a lot of cackling. Her sense of humor runs much drier, and she looks very plain, as New Yorkers go: dark curly hair not so different from mine and a pair of bookish glasses. I’ve tried before to get her to wear brighter colors, with limited success. She looks about thirty, even though she’s actually several decades older.

  “It’s not a mess,” I say, sliding past Elyse and into the office. “They're a gift.”

  “Kind of a bummer of a gift.” She takes the flowers from me and sets them on the edge of the nearest table. The front room has several, all in rows, with two computers stationed at each one. “I know you like bright, shiny things, but these are kind of rude.”

  I take my sunglasses off and clip them onto the front of my dress. Fluorescent lighting doesn’t bother my eyes the way natural sunlight does. “How are flowers rude?”

  “Sunflowers,” Elyse clarifies, with extra emphasis. “For a vampire. Aside from the whole ‘sun can kill you’ thing if your skin care regimen slips, they starve all the other plants, hence the name. And you just so happen to be interested in a slightly different kind of lifeblood. So, I repeat, kind of rude.”

  I chuckle. Riley probably hadn't thought that part through. "I'm sure she picked them because of the color."

  "She? Not a secret admirer, then." That catches Elyse's interest. She leans on the table next to the flowers, cupping one between her fingers. "I haven't heard you talk about a 'she' in the twenty years I've known you. Tell me more. A best friend needs to know."

  It’s true. I don’t date seriously…for good reason. I’ve been burned before, and with an eternity to get over my last relationship, it’s not like I’m pressed for time.

  “And when my best friend needs to know, I’ll tell her.”

  Elyse sighs and shakes her head. “There’s no need to be rude just because your new admirer was. I’m looking out for you. Where did you meet this person? How old is she? What’s her name? Her address? I’ll put them in my phone—”

  She reaches for her pocket, but I stop her. "It’s really not that serious yet.”

  “Izzy…”

  “Fine,” I sigh, “I met her on the train, younger than me, Riley, and I don’t know. She hasn’t invited me.”

  “Congratulations,” Elyse drawls. “You’ve managed to answer all my questions without really telling me anything useful. Come on, can you blame me for wanting to know more about this girl? Strangers on the train don’t give out flowers…unless they’re part of some cult, I guess. What is she, a nymph?”

  “Werewolf, actually.”

  “Interesting. Werewolves picking sunflowers.” Elyse heads toward our offices, which are side by side on the first floor. They had been bedrooms at one time or another, and Elyse still occasionally uses hers as such. There’s a mezuzah on the doorframe since, as she claims, she ‘practically lives there’, and I know for a fact she stashes a pillow and breakfast bars under her desk.

  I stay back and start turning on computers. Soon, the room is humming softly. There are twenty in all, mostly PCs with a few Macs off to one side for specialized use. Personally, I prefer the latter, although Elyse disagrees with me.

  “So, this werewolf, this mysterious new ‘she’—” Elyse’s voice drifts toward me through her open office door, and I can hear her rattling around her desk for something. “Did she ask you out, or did you ask her?”

  It’s a simple question, but I flounder for an answer anyway. My face flushes with the slightest tinge of warmth. It’s a surprising reaction, since I haven’t eaten in a while, and I don’t have much blood to waste on things like blushing.

  “She spoke to me first.”

  “Ah, I see. But you went for it, didn’t you? What am I saying? Of course, you did.”

  I smile, remembering. I’ve had strangers stare at me on trains before—sometimes with admiration, sometimes with fear—but none like Riley.

  “She couldn’t take her eyes off me. It was flattering for once.”

  “So, what made you pick her, anyway?” Elyse pokes her head back through the door, a spare power supply and a bundle of multicolored cords in her arms. “There are plenty of dogs in the pound. Why is this one so special?”

  That’s a really good question, one I’m not sure I have an answer to. It’s true that I’ve had other opportunities. I’ve had a handful of one-night stands over the past twenty years…not many, but enough to know I have options.

  “She told me she liked my smile,” I say at last, shrugging helplessly. “No one had ever said that to me before, and it was just so genuine. It wasn’t, like, a line or anything. I had enough of those with...I had enough of those before.”

  Elyse doesn’t hound me about my hesitation. “And? Did you share heated stares? Scoot closer to each other between stops? Kiss over the turnstiles? Give me something!”

  “And we had a nice time.”

  Nice doesn’t begin to cover it. Nice doesn’t explain how tender Riley’s eyes were, how hungry her hands had been, or how warm and delicious she’d smelled when I tucked my nose into her throat.

  “You schtupped her, didn’t you?”

  It’s a statement, not a question. My eyes widen in surprise. “I…I didn’t say...”

  Elyse grins. “Your fangs, Izzy.”

  I prod them with my tongue. They’ve extended a few centimeters, and it takes an effort of will to draw them back. Sometimes, they have a mind of their own. I heave a sigh. “I’ll get some juice.”

  “This conversation isn’t over, Isabeau LaCour. Only temporarily delayed. More questions are coming. It’s for your own good, you know.”

  I sigh. I can’t really blame Elyse for being concerned about me. She’s big on dating safety, and she’s the reason I reminded Riley to text her friend the evening before.

  On the way to my office, and the convenient mini-fridge within, I pass the flowers again. Though I’ve decided to leave them out in the open for all my students to enjoy, I notice on closer inspection that I’ve forgotten the card tucked into the bouquet. I open it and smile when I see a few lopsided lines of scratchy handwriting. Apparently, penmanship isn’t one of Riley’s talents.

  Isabeau,

  Thank you for a beautiful time last night. Hope you like the flowers. The color reminds me of you. I’ll probably be too chicken to text you first, so I hope you’ll text me.

  Riley

  I lower the card, but it’s too late. Elyse has already read it over my shoulder.

  “This Riley is smooth.”

  “‘Smooth’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” I chuckle. I can still recall Riley’s desperate, croaked ‘Hi’ when I was about to get off the train for the third time.

  Elyse isn’t convinced. “She’s expressing herself while giving you space to make the next move. Sounds pretty smooth to me.”

  A little of my good mood fades. I enjoyed thinking about Riley a lot more before the word ‘smooth’ was involved. My previous girlfriend, Natasha, was smooth, and that didn’t exactly work out in my favor. I force a smile, try to shake the shadow off.

  “But you just said she wasn’t smooth—”

  “I said she chose a weird gift. One doesn’t preclude the other. And hey…it got your attention. That’s rare.”

  “Which is why you’re putting me through the wringer,” I interrupt.

  “Calm down. I’m not trying to ruin your meet-cute. I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt again. You don’t always have the best judgment.”

  I can’t deny that. Elyse has known me long enough to become totally intimate with my flaws, including my previous poor taste in women.

  “Class starts in a few minutes,” I say, trying to end the conversation. If I don’t stop her, Elyse will circle on and on. “I’ll have to text her later.”

  “Correctio
n: I’m going to make sure you text her later,” Elyse says.

  I give her a confused look. “I honestly can’t tell whether you’re excited for me or worried for me.”

  “Both, always. You know it’s my mission to find you the perfect girlfriend.”

  I swallow. “Who said anything about a girlfriend? We had sex. She gave me flowers. That’s all.”

  Elyse shrugs. “Those are potentially girlfriend or pre-girlfriend activities. Oh, crap.” Her eyes have drifted over to the clock, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m saved by the minute hand. “Go get juiced up. You’ll need the boost when our kids get here.”

  Our students are anything but kids. In fact, many of them are older than we are, despite our unnaturally long lifespans. But somehow, when Elyse says it, it’s charming instead of awkward. “Fine,” I say, hurrying off. I don’t want to give her the chance to get started again, even if her meddling is good-natured.

  “Just don’t forget—this conversation is to be continued later! And you’re going to text her!”

  ***

  'Later' doesn't come as soon as I'd like. I spend the next several hours wandering from computer to computer, leaning over to help my students whenever they have questions about Elyse's instructions—and there are a lot of questions.

  I've got a witch waving her mouse around like a wand, a cranky vampire muttering something about how things were simpler when Roosevelt (the first one, I suspect) was president, and a faerie typing some very inappropriate words into the Google search bar.

  "You need to keep the mouse on the pad like this, Agatha, see?" I say to the witch, trying to deal with one problem at a time. "If you lift it up, it won't work."

  "Why not?" Agatha protests. "I'm pointing where I want it to go."

  "The sensor needs to stay in contact with a flat surface," I tell her as patiently as I can. "Just give it a try."

  She huffs but puts the mouse back on the pad before she accidentally hits one of her neighbors. Next up is Eolande. She's got 'Leprechaun Gangbangs' pulled up in Google's image search, and I have to side-eye her in order to keep a straight face. I'm half-convinced she's doing this just to mess with me.