Date: Wed, 19 Jul 2023 07:36:22 +0100
From: Toby Wolfham <tobywolfham@gmail.com>
Subject: Werewolf Island / Chapter 6

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham


© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.


Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(All comments, inquiries, and communication welcome, just drop an
e-mail!)






Chapter 6

THE FEAST





Trayack had seen it all.


From his hole in the shack wall he saw his older brother take the
redheaded man with abandon. He used his mouth like it was his for the
taking. In doing so, the boy wolf was bubbling over with venom for his
kin, and enamour for the humans and their impossible plight.


While they were all gathered in the square, Trayack heard the chaos of
violence. He had known it for much of his life. At times, when the moon
was just right, he dreamed of things passed; of a mother, and a time when
he had another name--when they all had--that life was over now, gone like
the day. Did he yearn to know the life he used to have? No. He yearned
for a better life, symptomatic of the old life. The humans, he saw, were
keys to something different. There was a jealousy there: envious for his
kin's strength and ability to just take what they wanted;


"What are you doing here, young-blood?"


The hand that pulled him back by the hair had been surprising, but
familiar at the same time, and quickly he came to shriek out. His dick
was still in his hands.


"Put that thing away if you're gonna hide here."


"I--I'm sorry," he began to stutter where he lay.


The male frowned, then leaned down and lifted Trayack to his feet with
sublime ease, his muscular frame shone in the scant light of the weapons
shed, his stern expression, however, shone less brightly. "Don't
apologise. I asked you what you're doing hiding in here?"


Even though the young hunter was less in every way in comparison, he was
only an inch or two shorter; he had grown a lot in the last year,
impressing the tribe enough to the point where he had been barely
recognisable from the little boy he once was, running around getting in
everyone's way. Including his. He looked down.


The male lifted his chin to make him meet his eyes.


"Nobody wants me around," he said, teary-eyed. "Ever since I changed.
I thought they'd like me more. Now everyone just pushes me around like
I'm nothing."


"Maybe if you'd stop throwing yourself at every wolf here..." the man
rolled his eyes and walked away, towards a long wooden table in the
centre of the dark room. It was laden with newly-crafted weapons, spears
and bows, and he began to lift one of them for inspection.


He followed and stood opposite the table. "I can't help it! Gorr... I
just need it, so bad!"


"You're young. Hormones going crazy. It'll get better."


"It won't! I want it all the time, but no-one will give it me."


"Yeah, and I won't either, so stop asking. Why are you here?"


Trayack sauntered away and sat on a stack of hay in the corner, legs
spread. His erection started to die down. Sheepishly, he sighed: "
Because my brother is out there... probably fucking the humans."


"Ah, and you thought you'd hide... because?"


Gorr was amused; he had known Trayack since he had been but a pup, still
unable to make his complete transfigurement into animal. He had changed a
lot in recent years and he was no longer needed as companionship or
apprentice. Even so, he would find the boy in the stock shed whenever he
reverted to childish needs. Despite his gruffness, Gorr had a fondness
for the youth, but he needn't know that fact. He tried to be supportive,
but his hormonal changes were often unbearable; the boy was in heat
constantly, it seemed. It was this startling shift in personality that
drove a rift between them.


"When are you gonna breed me?" Further he spread his legs, exposing a
hairless light pink hole that winked underneath his  smooth genitals at
the Herculean male.


"You're scared," surmised Gorr, deftly ignoring his allure. "You
don't like seeing what you'll be like one day, huh?"


"They're like monsters..." he shuddered


"They are monsters, young-blood, and so are we."


"But I'm not like that," he said, a hint of sadness. "And you're
not."


"Aren't I?"


"No. Otherwise you'd be out there with them, wouldn't you?"


"I suppose you got me there, but there's a reason I'm not out there. I
hate that stuff."


"No-one hates it, it's natural to us."


Gorr shrugged. His work at the weapons bench began. He took a self-made
hammer, a sharp stone lashed with vine to a strong piece of wood, and
started to hammer a shape out of a flat rock, then went to chisel away at
it.


"Aren't you curious about the humans?"


"Nope," he said, flatly.


"I am," said the boy, leaning forward in daydream. "I think they're
wonderful, Gorr, especially Red one. He's nice. He says he'll... never
mind."


"You've been talking to them?" He raised a brow, then scoffed.
"Naughty, you know your rent allowed to fraternise. He say anything
interesting?"


"Never mind," he replied sharply. "I should never have told
you--forget I said anything."


Gorr stopped his work and wiped substantial sweat from his brow with the
back of his dirty hand. He was a handsome wolf; six foot, thereabouts,
and sporting a messy slicked back shock of chestnut hair, matted with
flecks of black at the temples. He was broad but less so than Womack, and
kept to himself most of the time, a loner. Trayack liked that about him;
he could hide here and rarely would people come because Gorr was
something of an outsider, they did not presume he and the youngster had
any sort of relationship. It was an unlikely prospect that even if he
would divulge any sensitive information to him in the heat of the moment,
for example, that he would care enough about the welfare of the humans to
betray him and spill what he knew to the elder, but even so, he he swore
himself to secrecy, even before this godlike exemplar. So masculine, the
portrait of it, wearing an animal skin around his hips. How Trayack's
mouth watered at the hint of his thick cock, dangling just below the
lower hem. He could not stop his staring. Often, he would come to the
fantasy of being filled, pleasuring himself in the haystacks until his
dry orgasm would shake his young body brittle.


"Here, I know what you really want," said Gorr with a resigned sigh.


Trayack perked up, imagined some underlying tone, and automatically began
to spread his legs, breathless and desperate, expecting--hoping against
hope--that he would just take him, finally, after months of begging since
he had come of age. Use him like the filthy dog in heat that he was.
Having his needs ignored by the others for so long, he could not wait to
be bred, have that fucking indelible itch inside soothed, and by one so
peerless! He closed his eyes, rocked his hips eagerly. It was time, he
told himself with overflowing volatility, blinded by it.


The weapon-smith merely gently sighed, and turned his back. To a caged
area, he walked to, at the side of the workshop where he alone had access
to.


As much as he loathed to vacate the idea, what Gorr had in his hands was
exactly what he needed, perhaps more so that what lay under his
loincloths.


On hip lap, Gorr tossed the leather straps and pouches, all one unit,
that he had been dying, trying, to get his hands on; the equipment belt
that the human, Red had come in wearing, containing various useful tools
with which he could use to escape.


"Gorr, how--?" Gorr must have known his plan all along.


"--I saw you sneaking around earlier, figured this was what you
wanted."


Still in shock, Trayack stared at the belt, felt the manufacturing of it.
He had not seen such craftsmanship before. The leather they worked with
was not so smooth, so tempered. They simply hadn't the variation in
wildlife, the expertise, they had in abundance, but this was something
they could not fashion even if all the capable hands on the island worked
together. They truly did come from another world. As he turned the belt
over in his hands, admiring the stitching and the pockets in wonder,
something flashed before his eyes.


"And this..." said Gorr, a dully shining blade.


"What is that? A knife?"


"A weapon. From the human world, called a combat knife." He held it in
front of himself a while. Secretly he had kept it aside, knowing
full-well that Womack or one of the others would have claimed it for
themselves if they could. "I cleaned it, gave it a polish with a chisel,
and here you go."


Trayack leaned in and was about to take the weapon from him when it was
recalled suddenly, a frown on Gorr's face.


"Now, this is no toy, young-blood. I know you know the difference."


"I know." He said, insulted. "I know what a knife is... I hunt all the
time."


"Then pray you do not know what it is like to be hunted. If you help the
humans, your father and brother won't be too pleased."


"I don't care about them," he sneered and rose, pulling up his
loincloth over his hips. "At least the humans don't want to hurt me."


"You're no longer a pup, so I know my warnings will fall on a man's
ears, and I trust that you have the brain of a man as well. Use those
ears and that brain, and may whatever path you choose be guided by them,
and not be blinded by a stubborn need of rebellion. Your father may be
old but he's no fool, and will not suffer you leaving us in their
favour. Womack is dangerous. You don't want to get too far over his bad
side."


"What about you?" He asked, suddenly.


Gorr stopped and scratched his head.


Trayack waited with anticipation as he hid the retrieved human items
amongst the hay to be taken later. He still wanted Gorr to fuck him raw,
but using his now-man heart, he saw a litter side to his need to be close
to him, a brighter truth. Would he tell him that he would hate to see him
go, and that he'd miss the kid he sat on his lap all those years ago as
they watched and counted the birds? Probably not, but he knew he would,
even if he was, in his own words a monster. Even monsters had emotions.


"If you're asking if I'm going to try to stop you... don't."


Trayack frowned. "What do you mean?"


Gorr shook his head, returned to his woodcrafting table fixing a broken
bow and carving shafts for new arrows. "I won't try to stop you,
that's all. Be on your way now, you've kept me from my work long
enough."


If Trayack didn't know better, he'd say that his mentor was hiding
tears with his back turned to him, but he did know, and he knew that that
was certainly not what he was doing. Gorr did not cry, he did not laugh,
and he did not waste time with love. He was a wolf with a heart as hard
as the wood he carved with. Even so, even if he did not say it, Trayack
knew that Gorr loved him, it was an unspoken bond, and struggle as he
did, he kept his tongue from blurting the pointless.


"What are you staring at?" Gorr asked, not even needing to turn to know
that the youth was still standing there.


Trayack shrugged. "You could come with us, if you want. You would know
what to do better than I would."


"You are a man now," he said, to the point as he stared down the shaft
of an arrow. "Men do not need guidance from anyone. If it is your wish
to go off and leave us, then let no one stop you.


"There may be a world out there, but it is no world I have any interest
in returning to. I am not a human any longer, and neither are you,
Trayack. We do not belong with them. I very much doubt you will be
accepted amongst them, even if you do find some way to escape--which I
doubt--and you know why we must stay."


"Because they made us, I know, but I don't care. I long for a world
outside of here! How can you not?"


Gorr turned and smiled. "Who says I don't?"


Trayack had no answer to that.


"Run along," he said, fondly, ruffling his hair. "Be it on your head,
that's all I have to say."


"I know," said Trayack, some time later, even though he was sure the
strong male was no longer listening as he went about his work like he
always did, blocking out the happenings of things outside his proximity.


Gorr did not want to know. It was a simple to think that he did not care,
but it would be a mistake; Gorr cared too much. He cared about not only
his insular realm, but all the realms around him. The camp, within which
he was safe, and the deadly jungle that surrounded them. But as they were
safe from the world, the world would also be safe from them. It not only
protected them, it contained them, and the threat they posed.


Trayack left the weapons shed aware of that, and inside him a moral
battle began: the battle of selfish vs. selfless. Should he follow his
heart and run free and wild to the wind with his new human friends? Would
he thrive in their world, or destroy it? Or, should he remain with his
own kind where familiarity bred contempt? But where a constant, ceaseless
routine way of living procured their survival and ensured their
existence? The latter was what his brain told him. There was no progress
in this way of life. It was simple, straightforward, and they were going
nowhere.

For now, the risk outweighed the reason, excitement devoured monotony; he
was a young wolf with a heart for adventure!

And adventure he sought.


Through the balmy morning, the majority of the pack who were not on
direct guard duty at the gates or on the lookout points, or out hunting
in the deep jungle, remained stationed at the guttery: a stock of
carcasses--product of hunters--retrieved by gatherers. Animal corpses
were stacked head to hoof, tail to horn, in a bloody pyramid at the back
of a heat-stinking tent. The reek of fresh meat made the beasts' mouths
water, and the lucky ones who had outclassed his peers, or taken the most
kills, would get to gut the bodies, overseen by the Butcher, Yals, a
brute of a man that many of the lycans followed like the flies that
hovered over the meat itself.


In the middle of the floor, he pitched the freshly gutted remains of a
creature: a hybrid of a cow and a goat, a Gowat, the most meat-laden of
the herbivore species that were commonly bred in captivity by the
werewolves, but a scarce few still could be found nestled in the hills
with their kin. In the pack, they were fiercely protective of their meat
factory, guarding it well, and awarding severe punishment to those who
interrupted their mating or birth. Presently, six remained penned inside
a wooden frame, and fed with grass and leaves collected by the gatherers.


Werewolves preferred to hunt, however, and were smart enough to realise
that if they had hunted them all to extinction there would be no more to
suckle on. It was Gogach's father's restrictions on the killing of them
that prevented their complete desolation, and gave the pack enough to
share the year round. But it was too easy--much too easy--to walk into
the pens and cut a throat, and so the bloody meat fell stale on their
tongues. It was the thrill of the chase that got their blood flowing, and
instilled in the kill, a sweeter stronger taste that was worth savouring.


As Yals stripped the skin from the sinews and muscle, in strode Tserra, a
brawny adult werewolf with a clean-shaven face and long dirty blond hair
about his shoulders, which around he also had slung the bleeding body of
a medium-sized cervine. Tserra dumped the dead creature on top of Yals'
work with a cocksure smirk.


"Another one for the pile."


"How about you lend a hand, Tserra, seems most of my usuals are off
visiting those new things at the other side of town."


"New slaves?" His pointed ears perked in interest. "Sorry I missed it.
Any worth a good fuck?"


Yals shrugged. "How the fuck should I know? I've been slaving here
forever to get this done, while they have their fun. And where have you
been anyway? You were sent out three days ago, and this is all you come
back with? Womack will have your face nailed to a wall."


Tserra arrogantly kicked one rotted Gowat aside and used it as a
footstool to another his seat. His bare feet were dirty and his
fingernails were thick with dirt and shit as he stated picking his teeth
with a sliver of wood. His hands, alike, were sticky with fresh blood.
"Been out hunting, Yals. Where do you think?"


Yals growled. "Have you been sampling? Today! With the Night of Feasts!
You know I cannot afford to have even a shred of flesh wasted, especially
not on you."


"Relax," he drawled. "I left another fifteen of these fuckers outside
the gate. We've more than enough for tonight."


"On the..." Yals' face turned beet-red. "You left them outside? You
dumb fuck, do you have any idea how brave the Ghosts get this time of
year, when they know how much stock we bring in?"


"You know I know," he said, calm. He spat a wad of something black and
thick and stood; there was a gash on his side, where a slight flaying of
his ribcage had given way to bone shining through white. "They nicked me
pretty bad last night--got Daed, too--though I came back alive."


"Lucky for some!" Yals scoffed in disbelief. "We could use an extra
pair of hands. If you're just gonna sit there, you might as well grab
a--"


Without even letting the big man finish his sentence, Tserra was casually
waltzing towards the open again, out of the stench of the guttery before
his stomach growled beyond distraction.


"--Another time, maybe," he said, and ignored the shouts and calls of
the ageing butcher and his blood-drenched aloft fists. "I've just made
other plans."


The butcher could continue the enviable task of shredding skin and sawing
bone for the great and mighty feast that was only hours away. Tserra
required a rest after his days-long hunt and scavenge, and most of all,
he required a hot bath to scrub the scum away. After all, he couldn't
show up to a dinner he provided in his current state. He headed towards
the slave quarter, a languid spring in his step.

He hummed, sang:


"Off to town to borrow a slave,

Let's hope he will behave.


Wishing me lots of luck,

And a nice wet hole to fuck."


Joviality became him and could not be waned by the prosaic of daily
werewolf life. There were the guards, high on lookouts, spears pointed
higher than their cocks; the stokers, feeding the fire of the fine
phallus whatever they could; muscle strutted around much like himself but
unlike he--or so he believed--did so with a lack of style that he
radiated. He avoided going to close to the alpha's hut, not out of fear
of the old man, or even reverence, but because Womack may have been
nearby. They never failed to clash. Womack had too much vanity and often
they would come into conflict, rivalry. It was just his luck that Tserra
had no designs on the throne like the bullish Womack did, otherwise they
might have killed each other. He was a rogue, out for himself, and right
now, the rogue himself wanted nothing more than the hedonistic pamper and
pleasure of a bath and a little company. By song, he made this facet of
himself obvious.


Tserra had yet to greet the new slaves who had been collected, but if the
arrivals of years passed were any example, he'd be lucky for a
bucktoothed mutt with decaying skin and shattered bones.


A few familiar faces tried to talk him into assisting them with the
festivities, but he had little care for anything but the food (which
he'd filled up on before he brought back the fifteen of the original
seventeen cervines), which would be served just before dark.


Before he arrived at the cells, he could smell there was something
different about this batch. They smelled stronger, more equipped.


Up to something.


Three of them were deep in chatter when he arrived, turning two of the
three heads, one of which--red--smelled like Womack.


"So," jeered Tserra. "I'm guessing the dumb fuck claimed you already,
Red? I can smell his cock on your breath from here."


At the bars, the red man glanced away.


It was all the answer he needed. "Not denying it, then? Good." He
sniffed again. The sickly-looking man in the corner gave off the most
noticeable odour that wasn't relating to sex. "You smell off," he said
with a distasteful shrug, then recanted. "If I was drunk, maybe...


"Never mind, I'll take that one." He appointed the only one out of the
four who did not have the stink of someone's rampant juices or of
illness and was pleased when his choice looked at him.


He looked surprised. Panicked. Tasty.


"What. You never been called to action? Get a move on."


"Excuse me?" Said the slave. The gall!


"Shh," interrupted the redhead. He came to the Blond's side and stared
fierce, straight at him. "You don't have to do anything."


"He doesn't have to, but he will," yawned Tserra.


The other of the three joined them.


Their voices dropped to little tiny whispers.


"You have other plans?" He asked, cocking his head to the side; he
heard everything they whispered. "I can hear you, you know...werewolf
ears."


Why they were surprised by this, he found funny; like they had no
reception at all of how superior they were as a race. Humans clearly had
a long way to go. A long trek through the unlimited deserts of ignorance
and self-aggrandising might one day yield. But until then, they were
simply holes to be filled.


When three out of the four worthy slaves approached the bars, they seemed
to size him up. Interesting, he thought, like they had a choice? He had
already made his choice, and he wanted the one with the moustache who
looked like he enjoyed sipping as opposed to guzzling, and fainted at the
sight of blood. He admitted that Red was certainly very handsome, but the
idea of having anything that Womack had stuck his cock into just did not
leave a pleasant taste on his tongue. He saw himself as something better
than that, even if he was essentially left the scraps on the table, they
were untouched, and he liked to get his stain on things, not touch what
others had marked. He was an alpha, and they marked their territory. Just
to be sure, he observed the final human, and sniggered.


"Whoa, one-eye," he said, stepping back. "Looks like he's had a hand
in you, too, eh? Unfortunate."


"The fuck did you say?" The Asian growled.


"Easy, Nippon, I didn't mean anything by it, I just feel your pain...
not literally, but you know... you're lucky he didn't take anything
else.


"Now, is the pretty one gonna come?"


"No, he isn't," said Red, matter of factly.


"Might be my imagination, but I don't think I was talking to you," he
said, eyes scanning over him nevertheless. "Normally, I don't like used
merchandise, but if you keep up the good work, I might be convinced to
let you ride me."


"Pass," he snorted and stood back.


"Don't know what you're missing, beautiful."


"Get out of here, dirtbag," snarled the one-eye.


Tserra sniffed and shook his head, feign of sadness. He then looked to
the object of his interest, forsaking his guard dogs. The blond one stood
ground and looked at him with a flakey resilience. Breakable.


"I'm not leaving until that one, there, comes with me for a bit. Two
hours, tops. Not asking too much am I?"


"What are you asking, exactly?" The blond asked.


"Oh, nothing--"


"--Striker..."


"I'll go, it's fine," said Striker.


Something was exchanged between Striker and the redhead, then. They
weren't words, they were looks. Definitive looks. It confirmed that they
were up to something. Later, he decided he would search him all over to
make sure he wasn't hiding something potentially harmful to him and
pulled the lever. The front wall on the cages slid upwards, coming apart
from the other three walls, lifted by a pulley system and weighted by a
huge boulder that was suspended by ropes. It presented an opening.


None of the slaves came rushing out, which meant they had become at least
a little tame to the ways of the pack, and Tserra beckoned for the blond
one to step beyond the confines of the cells. To his delight, he came,
allowing the cage wall to be dropped back into its secure position. The
others remained behind.


"Good boys," he smirked.


"Striker," called the redhead. "Be careful."


Striker looked back and nodded. "I will."


"They worry about you, no doubt," said Tserra as he led the way through
the alleys. "Nice of them but no need. I'll treat you good--real
good--you'll be going back telling every one of your little chums how
nice I was to you."


"Well, that remains to be seen," he said, suspicion built in his eyes.


"Are all humans this difficult?"


"No," said Striker, light-toned. "Just the ones who're being held
prisoner against their wills and used like objects to pleasure monsters
so they can go on living."


Tserra laughed. "Well! I'm sure you'll all be a lot of fun tonight
then!"


Striker stopped, only to be unexpectedly collared: a leather band was
solidly strapped around his neck, taking him by surprise. His eyes
widened in shock, and his throat he tried to free from the near-choking
restrictions. It had come out of nowhere. So quick and well-timed, that
when he deciphered what had just happened, he was being tugged along, a
leather leash connected through a loop in the collar, to the hand of the
big werewolf leading him. Like a dog. It was humiliating, and as he was
being paraded through the village like that underdressed and dehumanised,
his face was redder than he felt it had ever been. The beasts were
staring. They were staring and they were laughing. One or two of them
formed obscene gestures as they walked by, while a few others mercifully
ignored it, which in some ways was worse, as Striker did not want to
believe that this was normality from now on. It did not phase them, when
clearly, if this was a civilised society (which it was not) it should
have.


"What happens tonight?" He asked desperate to take his mind off of the
cavernous degradation that swelled.


"The feast, Strikey," he said, already learning his name and spinning
his own variant--his own claim--on it. "If you haven't been told...
then, I'm guessing you're not supposed to know.


"So, it will be my great pleasure to tell you."


Striker was surprised and stumbled slightly.


"Tonight--well--in a couple of hours now, I guess. The whole village
will gather around the fire and tell scary stories about werewolves and
vampires, and demons in the jungle, etc. etc. it'll be a good laugh, if
you can manage to suck down a gallon of alcohol, first. If not, it can be
rather boring."


Striker blinked. "No, seriously?"


"Of course, not." He tugged him harder. "You're a slow one, even if
you look pretty. Guess that doesn't mean your brain is, huh?"


Pretty? Striker had been called many things, but--


--"Faster, Strikey. I wanna get some alone time with you before the
party begins."


Striker swallowed. He didn't like the sound of that--any of that--not
the feast, the party, and especially not the alone time. Despite the
male's overall attractiveness (and he was, no point in denying) he had
no interest in spending what time he had being somebody's game. "What
is this party all about, then?"


They stopped. The fire smouldered, giving off clouds of smoke when new
kindling was added by the men doing their usual chores. Tserra waited
until they had left to go collect more firewood scattered around before
pulling his new pet towards it. There was no-one in the immediate
vicinity. Now, they could talk. But first, he got behind his slave and
nudged him into action.


"See over there? Those shelves at the side of the kitchen tent? Go grab
me a bowl, yeah? And fill it with sticks--yeah, you heard me--go, before
I decide I'm bored and hungry."


Confused, Striker did as he was asked, hurriedly going over to a section
of tents that had coming from it, the most horrendous smells known to
man. The blond doubled-over and almost threw up what little he had
managed to eat from heir proffered hands. He heard laughter, and was
spurred to completing the task. Why, he wondered, was he not refusing
like Red would, or spitting in his face like Katana? Never before had he
thought himself an easily-led person, but there he was: fetching a
crudely carven bowl from a crudely carven shelf, and holding it in his
hands. He actually looked along the ground for twigs and sticks, refuse
from the fire. I am a good slave, he thought with irony.

"Oi, not those sticks, you stick!" Tserra shouted.


Like a deer in the headlights, Striker looked over at the undignified man
(who he may well have described as a hunk, under less strenuous
circumstances, in the past), who did not look as fearsome as first
impressions gave.

"Fire sticks!"


Striker frowned. "You want me to... get those sticks? From the fire."


"Yes," he said slowly, as if talking to a child. "I want you to get
the burning sticks and put them in the bowl there. Make sure they have a
good burn going, then I want you to carry it--not too close, now; don't
want you to burn that pretty face of yours off, do we?--and follow me. I
have a surprise for you."


Enough surprises, thought Striker, whose nerves had been jangled beyond
repair.


The task of removing burning sticks from a huge bonfire was an
intimidating one, but Striker bit down on his reservations and squatted
down to reach for the ones that were already far away from the core of
the heat. He could feel it on his face. It wasn't as intense as it could
have been, thankfully, but all the while, as he filled what looked to be
a small barrel than a bowl, he was terrified. So easily could he have
been kicked forward into the flames. As close as he was, it was no large
leap of the imagination to see the flames licking at his face, peeling
away the un-chafed surface to melt to the bone underneath. He heard
himself scream. And the crackle and spit of fire made him jump away from
the frightening fantasy.


"Come here," sighed Tserra.


Ashamed by the jump that he did when the man knelt down next to him, he
stared blankly at him for several moments before the relief set in: he
wasn't going to shove him into the fire; he wasn't on the menu tonight,
and he really should relax.


"Going too slow, fur face," said Tserra.


Before he knew it, Tserra had filled the bowl. He was amazed, and
astonished that he was able to reach into the fire itself and yank out
great handfuls of burning wood without so much as a whimper. If he tried
that, he would surely have an arm engulfed in flames. However, on him,
the flames lightly danced over the hairs on his arm, and seemed to caress
the muscularity of it before they fizzed out.

"Come on. Time for that surprise."


Yanked to his feet by him, Striker began to think he rather liked the
male, in some bizarre and abstract way. He was certainly fierce, but
unlike some of the others, was not inclined to resort to extreme violence
at the slightest infraction. There was a sense of humour glittering about
him, and the fact that he was so strong, and so fiercely confident, he
wanted to be closer to him. It was a good idea, as he figured few of the
lycans would do anything to him while he had that collar and leash around
his neck. There was a feeling there, not exactly safe, but something.


"Bet you haven't seen half of here yet," said Tserra, walking to the
eastern wall of the encampment. There, there was a single guard; a limber
beta that halted their access to a gate.


Striker would never have known there was another gate in the walls. If it
was a way out, he was keen to see more, and he would relay all of what he
saw to Red when he no doubt returned. While fascinated by the wordless
exchange between his keeper and the gatekeeper, Striker winced at the
burning of his fingers holding the bowl of sticks, and frantically danced
about as a means of pain transference.


Tserra intimidated the guard with looks alone, which he always did, and
onwards through the gated pathway he led, all the while holding control
of his slave. They walked along a thin dirt trail bordered with not only
fences, but flowers and plant-life. Tserra would have imagined it would
be quite scenic, if he cared about such a thing. But he had no patience
to let the human admire when there was a much more handsome panorama laid
out before him.


A rock-pool, it seemed. Striker was dumbfounded by the discovery. So
close to a prison of flesh and death lay something of such natural
beauty. It was at the top of an easy climb where the pool lay, surrounded
by rock. Within a crevice of the mountainside it resided,  in its own
secret nook of high rock. There once was a waterfall overhead, Striker
determined by the height and the way the rocky wall smoothed in a perfect
groove. Now there was just a trickle of the falls remaining, tumbling
peacefully into the miniature lake below. From the pool, several small
streams led off in unknown veins across the land.


"Move it," said Tserra, pulling at his leash. "Baths aren't for
staring, they're for using. Let's go."


"Baths?" He said, not quite able to picture it.


Then, the big blond male shucked his leathers and kicked them aside. He
turned to Striker and deftly undid his collar.

Striker nearly dropped the bowl, which was quickly taken from him
instead, and he clung at his sore throat. The red marks would last for
days. When he adjusted himself to something akin to freedom, his eyes
went directly to him, who was walking away, naked ass on display as he
carried the flames. He was proud of himself, it seemed, and he looked
beyond good. Striker was not in a mood to admire. Not even as Tserra toed
the water.


Was he going to swim? Ridiculous animal!


Looking for some means to escape, he saw nothing but the vertical rock
face that surrounded him. There was no way to scale the steeps without
equipment of some kind. To his recollection, the supplies bag that had
been in his possession before being captured, had been ransacked. But Red
had rudimentary climbing equipment; ropes, hooks, etc. in his fabled
equipment pouches that he had yet to regain possession of, courtesy of
the boy. Could they (assuming control of said tools) possibly escape by
climbing this hollow in the mountain?

"Hey! What're you staring for, tomorrow? Get the fuck over here."


Striker staggered.


"Your master, Tserra requires attention."


Attention. Right. Deep breath. He could do that. If it meant he could get
a closer look at this possible escape route, then he would walk into the
mouth of hell itself.


Hell, as it turned out, was far away from this minute paradise.


The werewolf had waded waist-deep in the cool blue, and revelled in the
invigorating chill. He sighed pleasurably and turned to look at the slave
who had come all this way with him. Such promise, such diligence, he
beckoned him over.


"You're gonna give me a bath," he said.


Striker floundered. "I... excuse me?"


"Be grateful that I'm not asking to feed me, now watch."


Striker did indeed watch as commanded from his safe position at the edge
of the pool where he denied himself entry despite the dirt clinging to
him. The male placed the bowl he held into the water, and with no great
surprise to Striker, it floated. The wide brim and depth of it meant that
the simple device did neither sink nor let in water. It was a primitive
but operational means to heat the water in a small area around it.


"Well, what are you waiting for? Get in here. Or, do I have to drag you?
Because there's plenty of time for that." He gave a sly grin.


It was that grin that amplified Striker's nerves, and he decided without
a doubt that it was for the best that he just do as he was told.
Carefully, he stepped in the water. Immediately it came to covering up to
his ankles, and with some degree of anxiousness he pulled down his
underwear and scrambled to repeat the action. It earned a laugh from the
werewolf but Striker paid him no heed and pushed onwards. Due to the
natural heat of the jungle, the water was almost warm. He had expected an
icy clutch of cold to swarm his legs and when it didn't, he was
deflated. The place was so hot, and a break from ti would have been more
than welcome. Even so, it he did not turn his nose up at it, secretly
enjoying the sensation. Guilt caught up with him was as he waded up
passed his knees, as slowly as he could (anything to delay the challenge
of bathing the male), to wash away the enjoyment. He should not enjoy
this. That is what he told himself, while thoughts of his friends locked
up in a sewage pit trespassed and prodded.


"Boy, you are slow. Good thing I like you," said the wolf.


In an instant he had flung his head under the water and came back. His
dirty blond tresses were soaked and running fluid down his back. Already
the flecks of dirt were sliding from his body in thin brown streaks, but
it was not enough.


"Hurry up," he said as he plunged a finger nearly knuckle-deep inside
his ear.


Striker grimaced. The man was both disgusting and alluring. He surely
needed a bath, but should he dare to get that close? There was no guards
out here, and no spectators. If he washed him, what would be the
downside? Sluggishly he scooped his hands into the water where the warmth
bled in and lowered it over his chest. He stood there like a tree trunk,
solid and unmoved.


"Is that it?" He grinned, wolf teeth on wolf man.


Striker flinched as Tserra lashed out. He had expected cruelty, but
instead got a guiding hand almost described as kind. He took hold of his
hands, both of them, and pulled them uncomfortably close to his body.
When both of his palms were laid flat on Tserra's moderately hairy
chest, he got the idea. And he accepted it.


Tserra sighed and closed his eyes.


What was stopping Striker from taking one of the flaming sticks laying so
close by and piercing it through his chest? What stopped him? It was an
agonising question that plays through and through on repeat as repeatedly
his hands moved on their own accord; smoothing over the defined pectorals
of hard muscle and scarred skin to scrub away the clandestine dirt. He
couldn't believe he was doing this. Surreal and indecent, he continued,
applying a practical approach before something else took hold, something
more base and primal, something unforgivable. Hands moved over the
shoulders.


"Turn around," he said. "Please."


Scoffing, Tserra did so. "At least you're willing. The last slaves were
useless. Tasted good over an open fire though."


He wasn't kidding, surmised Striker with a cold reminder: this was not
some erotic scene, as much as he tried to will it so; he was dealing with
someone using caveman mentality, and he doubted very much that he would
have any misgivings about dashing his brains out on the rocks should he
gain too much freedom. It was darkly grounding.


"Don't be afraid," he said.


Easy for you, thought Striker, halfway through washing his back.


"Get in there deep... ahh, yeah, that's good..."


Striker closed his eyes. He was terrified. Knuckles dug under the ridges
of his spine and worked out more than a little frustration.

Then, he turned around.


Striker gawked and stepped back.


Tserra grinned and sloshed forward.


The beast's erect cock was sticking up out of the water just passed the
tip, obvious to even the furthest eyes. He was hard and standing there
staring at him with that predatory gaze he'd seen from so many of the
others. Sure, he had an idea of why he wanted him out here but the
realisation dawned with an unreal fusion of chills and heat at the same
time.


"What?" Tserra let out a short guffaw. "Think you're done?"


"I..." Striker had nothing. He looked down.


They made eye contact. It was lingering and electric, and Striker hated
himself. He looked around; no-one was there, no-one looking. Then he
looked back at the male, standing there full of broadness and arrogance,
hands on hips, teeth for days, cock for weeks, and he gave in.


"What do you want me to do?" He asked, a resigning billow of surrender
lurked over him.


"Already told you, Strikey."


And so he did. With such little effort the wolf could turn him inside
out; his spirited playfulness drove something out in Striker, albeit
dormant. A reasonable mind would not take sexual gratification. An
intelligent person could not get in that state where appropriateness
meshed with reason: the jury stipulated that this was the enemy, and the
enemy should not turn him on. He told himself that, again and again as he
washed his stomach, his arms, and then moved on to his hair. There was a
silence over them, a heat, and he was certain they both felt it.


"You're a good boy, aren't you?" He said.


And Striker breathed.


Tserra was behind him, hot hands on his shoulders.


The grip was strong but not painful.


"Good boys deserve treats, I think. And you're been... good enough. Do
you think you deserve one?

Striker had his eyes shut tight. He nodded.


"Better than your Red friend, or that mouthy Chinese piece," he said,
so close. "I think you may be the best pet I've ever had. So obedient,
so willing..."


Teeth scraped lightly over his shoulder and Striker found it hard to keep
silent. Biting his lip helped, but not enough. Hands were on his hips
from behind. Wet hands on wet hips, a slippery slide of closeness. He was
encroaching on dangerous turf. Perhaps it was the danger that was such a
lure, perhaps it was the tension, or perhaps it was the crippling truth
that Striker hadn't been fucked in months; whichever it was, it withered
his resistance to s droplet.


"God..." moaned Striker, quietly.


"But you gotta be clean first, don't you? Clean boys get clean joys."


Striker nodded, near urgently. "...yes."


"Let's just sort you out then."


Half-conscious, Striker cursed this creature's powers of persuasion.
Such a deft artisan he yielded with no slick at all, a spinning top in
his hands already wound up and ready to spring. He threw an arm back over
his head, caught the back of Tserra's head in ruthless transit to his
neck. The heat of his mouth was enthralling, teasing, testing. He wanted
to tell him fuck it, bite me. Make it hurt. But that subservient little
voice in his head, that minute insect that crawled amongst his ego unseen
had a bite as strong as a vice, and when the rubber wore thin enough he
could feel its tickle indisputable.


Tserra groomed his slave well, and he did not put up one aorta of
disinclination. "Such a good boy," he repeated endlessly, whispered
into his ear with wet insistence.


They were both wet now. Both clean.


The heat died in the trough long ago but Striker cared not a little as
his master leashlessly led him to bolder horizons; the edge of sanctuary.
He wanted to please this man, and the hate for that need was slowly
cooling, like the water that the pooled in.


"...'snot strictly allowed before the feast, but..." he slurred in his
ear. "I fancy breeding you."


Striker's breath caught in his throat, captive.


"Would you like that? I bet you would."


What was there to deny? His right to use him as he pleased? Striker had
long ago dropped the pretence of sexual lucidity, and reached his zenith
before most, so there was no argument: he was attracted to the male form
in its plethora of guises and had accepted that. What he had difficulty
accepting was the situation itself--the right or wrong--the moral
compass, which, unblemished should have never allowed him to come this
far. However, in the attainment of want, the compass was more cracked
than ever. There was no repairing it, and he could not set it in any
other direction other than the one it had set for him by chance. And this
was it.


"Just... go slow."


Much to Striker's surprise (and satisfaction), Tserra did go slow.


They finished up in the pool and stepped out wet and somewhat awkward;
Striker was in a state of delirium and disbelief. He couldn't believe
that he was about to do this, and so easily! To allow a  so-called
werewolf the right to his body as a means of pleasure, it was unseemly.
At the same time, why should he deny it? His body wanted this as badly as
he was sure Tserra had wanted it. All men, cooped up like birds in a
cage, a sexual inclination--if not preferred--was bound to develop, and
as familiarity bred contempt, so must the new be bred, to break the
tedium. So, then, if that was all this was ever going to be, then let it
be. It would do no harm.


Tserra the lycan led him back through the dirt trails and through the
gates back into the village.


With wary eyes, Striker was on the lookout for anything out of the
ordinary, anyone who might look at him like he was dirt under a
fingernail. There was none of it here.


Something was going on, though.


By the fire, lycans were preparing the area, placing down a large leather
carpet of sorts, the same kind with which they used as tenting, and
various implements around, as well as feathers and hay. It was almost
like they were preparing a dinner table not he ground.


The feast, of course!


Still an unknown to him, he looked out for his friend, Red, who as
appointed leader of their merry band, would need to know before it
happened. He was nowhere in sight, and so he hoped he would be able to
return to the slave cage before whatever was to happen happened.


As Striker was to discover, Tserra had his own tent, which was
convenient, made of the same type of stitched-together leathers as the
ones that had been laid out. It was in a state of disrepair but
reasonably large and was layered with flattened feathers.


"Alphas get their own quarters. Lucky us."


"Alpha. What does that mean?"


"Tut tut. Slaves shouldn't ask questions, but... I guess, for you, I can
make an exception. You are special, after all.


"An alpha--me--is stronger, smarter, faster... you name it, than the
average dog-faced boy. We dominate, we rule, and most importantly--good
to remember--we fuck the best."


Striker nodded. He would remember.


The alpha was certainly in charge presently, tearing open the tent's
initial front entrance and walking in. Nobody questioned him or stopped
him, so far. Striker was in awe of that. He reckoned that Tserra could
slay Womack in a battle to the death with some effort. As tantalising as
that idea was, he tried not to think about it. He wasn't about to
manipulate him into such a severe risk.


"In we go, then," he said, cheerfully.


Striker followed. It was very humid inside, with not much space. There
was a few flies circling the air and the stink of fetid meat clung to the
walls. Unpleasant as it was, it was better than the slave quarters and
there was more privacy here, which he appreciated. To his surprise,
Tserra wasted no time in flopping on to his back, and let all fall out on
display. Striker went wide-eyed for a moment before he closed the tent
behind them.


He was here now, no turning back. The boyish grin on Tserra's face was
as arousing as it was endearing; he was laid there with not a stitch on,
legs splayed somewhat and hands behind his head.


Idly, Striker bent down to get on to his knees.


"What else does an alpha do?" He asked.


Tserra's grin faded to a heavy-lidded smirk.


"Come here and you'll find out."


"Not like that," he quickly said, and then regretted it. "I... I mean,
what is the difference? Really."


He sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "If you want the short
version..."


"Sure," replied Striker. He sat down beside him.


"There are alphas and betas. Alphas--like me--are superior. You know?
Betas are usually younger, weaker. More susceptible to being told what to
do by the likes of me. Usually we get along fine without labels, but some
of us do prefer to display our dominance."


"I don't doubt that."


"There are five alphas here on this island, Strikey.


"Myself. I'm the fucking best. I'm the master hunter. That asshole
Womack, who thinks he's some kind of god-coming, is also a hunter, I
don't fucking know. Nobody likes him but betas because he pushes
everyone around. Not the kind of fella who makes friends, more... makes
them do what he wants and them chucks them on the fire--no joke--rub him
the wrong way and you'll find out!"


"I'd rather not."


"Then there's old Gogack..."


"The chief? Alpha?"


"Yeah, now you're getting it. He's the oldest, and therefore entitled
to the role of chief, who usually makes all the important decisions."


"He doesn't look all that powerful to me."


"No, he isn't. He used to be. But now that he's gone passed that sort
of stage; Womack usually performs all of his duties. It's only a matter
of time before he's on our plates."


"God..." Striker felt sick.


"Oh, don't worry... you won't get to eat him. Only high rakers. No
slaves."


Striker had never felt more lucky to be a slave.


"Gorr is an alpha, too, but he doesn't like to show it. A weird fella,
him. Keeps to himself. He has a shed at the other side of the village
tending to weapons and crafting them. He has a lot of skill but he's a
quiet guy. Never really know what he's thinking."


Striker nodded.


"Everyone else: betas."


He followed. It was basic hierarchy, where the strongest ruled and the
subordinates were at-heel. "That means I'm..."


"...at the very bottom of the ladder, my boy, but at least you're at the
bottom of my ladder. That makes you important. Us alphas, you see... we
like to claim things for ourselves. You don't get that with betas. They
might order you around or have you bend over for `em occasionally but
none would lay claim to you like this. They're afraid of the likes of
me, ya see."


"I suppose that makes me lucky."


"The luckiest." Tserra reached over and cupped his cheek.


It was an odd feeling. Warm, but not necessarily emotionally driven.
Striker wanted the safety that this male offered.


He dared to ask: "Who's the other alpha?"


"Oh, him..." he sighed and fell away suddenly.


Striker frowned, gave him a moment.


"Silas."


He shook his head. "Tserra, who is Silas?"


Tserra scoffed. "The baddest of the bad. Biggest of the big. He was a
real legend. Cock for the ages!"


"Good to know," he sighed. Of course it went right down to that.


"Some say he was the first. Others say we've been here for centuries
and he was just one of many. Mostly bullshit rumour. But he... was a bit
different."


Striker listened intently; anything he could discover about them, he
would ream for important clues and details, especially if it helped them
get a break from the island.


"He wasn't as... human-looking, ya know. We can change. Full-moon, I
think you're smart enough to know the details. But he... he was always
sort of... half. He had the claws, the teeth, the eyes. He could have been
chief, but as it turned out..." he drifted off, his eyes clouded over.


Striker waited, never taking his eyes of the handsome male or his ear off
of his blunt mouth.


"Anyway, he's probably Ghost food now.


"And pretty-boy... do not call me Tserra. It is my name, yes, but you can
call me master. Or alpha, or god, whichever makes me look better in front
of the asshole, Womack."


"I will." He smiled.


Tserra grinned. "Now what the fuck are you waiting for? Present
yourself. I'm going to make the whole town know that I am back."


Striker's breath withered, no longer strong and easy. The idea of
screaming the wolf's name should not have had any certifiable effect but
there was no denying, he was turned on. "I'm sorry..." said Striker.
"I think I'm very quiet."


"You won't be."


Tserra's boasting was no disposable comment, he was sure, and as he
slowly got down on his knees between his legs, he thought of all the men
he'd done this before, with in and out of the airforce; all the
nameless, faceless souls who had come his way, lonely, lurking for a
little company in the shadows. Secrecy was sometimes his stock and trade.
He was not keen to share his sexual proclivity with the world, least of
all his brave comrades who had gone through hell after only a day in
captivity. Poor Red and Katana, being forced against their will. Greatly
he felt for them, and their immense internal struggles that switched
their brains into doing things they wouldn't normally do. It was a very
strong survival instinct. They were brave men and he would not let them
down, even if that meant giving himself as they had. The difference,
however, was that they had gone again their will; Striker was not doing
this because he was being forced, although he surely would have been
tossed aside as they had had he refused Tserra's obvious efforts.
Striker was doing this because he wanted to do this. Because there was
nothing wrong with taking a little pleasure out of the infernal.


Striker wanted this, as he had wanted to be in Red's place--should have
been--when they had been so harshly treated, and he wanted very much to
be on his hands and knees with his lips enveloping a thick, beautiful
cock.


Of course, the blond wasn't doing what he was supposed to, but this was
nice. Tserra, the werewolf allowed himself to lean back, eyes closed. His
mouth was talented, and surrounded him in a hot wet ring that swiftly
descending his persistent erection. Refrain held him from grabbing the
back of his head and plunging deep; he wanted Striker to prove to him
that he wanted this. His word was one things action was another, and more
often than not action did speak volumes louder.


Striker sucked him down, little by little, enjoying the burn as his lips
stretched to new and exciting diameters. Suddenly he was grateful that
the male had washed himself, when his jaw clicked and the hedonistic rod
was slid down, down.


He tried not to gag, but it had been a while.


"Fuck, good boy..." he keened.


Encouraged he allowed his throat to expand and swallow, and at that it
was as though he had been doing to a lifetime it came so easy. Bobbing
his head up and down, expert hands stroked the base, and eagerly the man
shuffled delightedly.


"If I knew you were this eager, I wouldn't have wasted time and just
fucked you in the cells."


Striker mewled like a cat at milk and he worked his shaft, barely able to
get his fingers to meet around the circumference. This was a slice of
heaven he shouldn't have a had, a cheat to the rules, and he never
wanted it more than he did in this little private tent inside the
confines of the most dangerous place on earth. He hoped that he could
make him come like this, just spew his load down his gullet so he could
let it end at this simplistic joy rather than advance to a level that
might be harder to turn back from, but his keeper was a man who knew not
how to end things where there was more to be had.


He commanded Striker to open his eyes, to look at him.


There was no innocence behind those eyes, just a disease worsening: want,
need. He wanted every inch of him and he needed it. Tserra congratulated
himself on choosing the slave perfect for him, a slave who truly took his
trade seriously.


The sucking went on for four minutes but it was a celestial experience
for both; Striker used every trick, every flick of his tongue and
clockwise-counter-clockwise masturbation technique he knew to unlock just
the right amount of moans and thrashing. It was an art; every man had a
different trigger that really sent them passed the point of no return,
and Tserra had a lot of points that he really responded to. A ridge just
under the male's cut foreskin closed in on sounds that were heard not
only by those outside roaming the village but those across the way, as
well. Striker took pride in that. He took pride in how hard his hair was
tugged, telling him to stop, and how the gentle scrape of his teeth
against the head made him squirm and get a heavy slap for it; he took
pride in knowing that this was not a battle he was going to lose easily.
He loved it all.


"Enough, bend over," he growled.


Striker's mouth was filled to bursting with thick ropes of pre-come and
saliva on which he lavished marvellously. His pupils were blown to three
times their size and he came at his cock once more, hungry for it, needy.
He stopped him.


"No," he said. "I tell you what to do, you do it. Understand now?"


Striker nodded frantically and said he did before that hand that clutched
his jaw got any tighter, convinced that the male would and could kill him
if he continued to be insolent. But a look into his eyes revealed a glint
of brightness, humour, and he relaxed--briefly--before doing as he was
told.


It had been so long since he had been fucked, but on his hands and knees
he came to wait, the familiar anticipation began to crystallise and the
natural tendency to roll his hips back and seek out what he needed
returned with abandon.


Tserra greased up his cock with a wad of spit in his palm.


The sounds of slippery skin moving back and forth was almost too much to
take. He groaned.


"Impatient."


"Please..."


"Who am I to refuse?" Tserra remarked and slowly pressed the head of
his burning hot cock between his spread ass.


Striker reacted with joy and agony alike; he just wanted him to impale
him raw and make good on his word, instead he teased, sliding himself up
and down, gliding with slickness. The heat was unbearable, a scorching
strut probing his hole, aware exactly where the entry point was but still
taking his time, driving him to the point of wretchedness: he begged.


"Now..." he whimpered. "I'm ready, I want it."


"Oh, I know," bragged the werewolf.


With that, all mercy melted; he pierced him open.


There was a scream, stifled by a hand, and then moans choked on fingers.
Tears stung his eyes near as bad as the cock did his insides. He was
crying, whining--whining, crying--both eager to leave and yearning for
more, the conflict prevented him from attempting either in earnest. Want
it, he did, and the pain from just the tip of the spearhead widening and
stretching was rhapsodic.


Tserra had not felt a hole so perfectly shaped to his length in such a
long time. The way it swallowed him inch by inch and airtight, was
nothing short of nirvana, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more, he
wanted--much like any of his lustful brethren--to dominate, to crush, to
kill, to fuck his prey into waves and spasms of epicurism, and to destroy
with unsparing accuracy. They would both reach the highest vertexes in
this tiny tent on the ground. They would be soaring without restrictions.


Striker felt them all. Every pulsating inch had finally reached that
undulating core deep within, scratching at the walls. It was just a
brush, just a touch, and the cock retreated leaving his hole wide and
open for it again. The second thrust was harder than the first, with much
less focus; now that the initial brick in the wall had been pushed
through, it all fell away bit by bit, with increasing ease.


A new dollop of spit clung stubbornly to Tserra's tongue before finally
falling down to the sacred space. It hit Striker's back and rolled down
his spine as did the sweat in a trickling river. He shuddered his
pleasure as it slid down the trail and was effectively pushed inside his
body with ease. Smooth and slick he watched with growing intensity and
wonder. He started to get faster, and harder, greedy to sate his hunger
for the little sounds he could entice from his companion. The essential
bitten-back whines; they were so flavourful. With each, a new roughness
came into play.


Striker was being fucked well by the beast, and he adored it, the
smacking of his ass against his hips, the lack of anything comfortable to
rest his head; he enjoyed biting down on his knuckles with his face
pressed forcibly to the dirt and letting him hammer away at his hole with
uninhibited authority. It was undignified, something that so often he
utmost repelled, but here, he was free to divulge in his sickest need to
be debased and used, and no-one was any the wiser, save for the few
shuffled feet that passed by the shady corner that nestled Tserra's
advantageous domicile. He used him just like he had always wanted to be
used, while at the same time, in equal measure, uttered phrases of
encouragement, of praise: exaltation and exultation all in one. His own
cock was rock hard, beating against the floor like a drum to its own
frantic rhythm, untempered by tempo, undone. Finally, the leakage from
his own could bare no more, just one, two strokes and he was shooting in
his palm a sticky mess that was a jubilant explosion of forestation and
fears built up. It   coated his fingers and dribbled thickly.


Tserra wasn't done, and pumped into him in rampant short bursts until
his skin reddened by the effort and the veins in his forehead looked fit
to bursting. He pushed Striker down, flat, and gutted him with each final
callous jolt. Close, he knew, too close. But could he stop himself, show
restraint before the final act? The answer came before he could truly
consider it; with a roar he yanked his cock from his body in a tide of
slippery muscle just before the climax could wrack his body with unbroken
pleasure.


Each spurt from his monster cock relentlessly spewed effortlessly over
his back like sparks from a fire, with many of the hot loads finding
places of individual pride against his white skin, in his hair; he was
painted with it, marked, stained and owned.


After the deed was done, the sweaty mass of flesh disentangled from each
other, but Striker remained on his front, eyes glassy in the afterglow.


He felt the come on his skin. Drying, not just in sticky heaps but in
something else. On him, it spread, it metastasised.


Too stricken to do anything about this phenomenon, he laid there
oblivious until everything returned to a state of balance. He had just
partaken in sex so far from the straight and narrow that his world span
before his eyes and he had trouble keeping consciousness until he felt a
dampness smear away the not fluid spilled over him. Unperturbed but
curious, he rose to look back at the man. Something about him had
changed. A quiet devotion. The discovery that it was in fact not a cloth
at all, but his rough tongue lapping at the seepage, he frowned, only to
be coaxed into another murmur of absolute utopia. Tserra continued his
cleaning of him with due diligence, dipping his lengthy organ into the
grooves of his muscular buttocks, and down, down. He gasped, on-edge,
until the tongue eventually receded back into its mouth. It's semi-human
jaws.


"Too much for ya?" Grinned the beast, truly.


Wild-eyed, Striker was too disturbed to flee, too frightened to look upon
that beautiful jaw and chiseled features resemble something more
contorted, something more horrible. His eyes, he decided, must have been
playing tricks on him, deriving his lust-clouded brain into thinking that
he saw something that could not have possibly been. When he opened his
eyes again after half a minute of blackness, wherein the shape of the
monster-man had been burned into his imagination, instilling paranoia and
terror, he saw nothing out of the ordinary at all. A breath of relief.


"Don't worry, I'm not gonna bite your head off..." he said, and bowed,
seemingly in reverence.


Striker gasped and threw his own head back as the tongue returned in
triumph, seeking his own cock and balls, the juices he'd expelled. He
suckled on his softening head, and looked up at him with eyes that he
could not possibly recognise in even his nightmares.


"God..." he whimpered, shaking his head in disbelief.


He could bite off his cock, if and when he wanted. Nothing could stop
him.


The animal teeth. Oh, god!


But he wasn't going to do something as sick and twisted as that. They
drew blood, yes, tiny pinpricks--harmless (but he need not know
that)--that drew cries even more alluring than the taste, and they were
more than enough, enough to remind him. Tserra was exactly what he
proclaimed to be, and he should not get too comfortable about their cozy
arrangement. He was in charge, and he took what he wanted, when he
wanted, no interim. Naturally, he had enjoyed filling him with his cock,
and even at the moment of orgasm, when his human body had started to
convulse in ways unthought of by human mind, he had the forethought just
in time to pull out. And he thought Striker might be grateful. Instead,
he looked like he would scream if not for that pesky thick stupid lump of
a thing called a tongue that he had. His own, he circled twice around
Striker's rapidly slackening dick with ease and slurped up his seed with
avarice. A monster? Maybe he was, and maybe he liked it.


Striker's breath still hadn't returned when Tserra's mouth opened and
his cock was let free of that deadly clamp.


A pang of sympathy. "Poor lamb," he cooed, and cupped his cheek in his
hand. "Didn't mean to scare you."


The hand, he realised, had scared him more than the intent of it. The
elongated fingers--cartoonish--hairy and gifted with claws no man wanted
near them, he pulled them back just in hope that the black void of
abhorrence in the boy's eyes would go away soon. He had slurped up every
drop of both his own, and Striker's semen. That was all he really
wanted, wasn't it? It should have been. That, a good fuck, and a joke
played. Still, he didn't like being looked at like that. Not by one he
had no intention of dragging to the guttery like a Gowan corpse.


Human fingers returned, just as human teeth, human tongue and eyes did,
and then his mind ceased the thoughts of blood. The hunger had been fed
for now.


For now he was content to watch the face of horror subside. What else was
he supposed to do? Where would he run, into the camp of death just
outside the tent? No, all he could do was sit and watch and wait, and
when it was over, and Tserra resembled what he had been before the
consummation, he shuddered.


"Good god, that..."


Tserra smiled. "Get used to it."


Striker knew he would never get used to such a dire face, the face of
death lurking under the skin waiting to break free and swallow him whole,
but the words were of a timbre that eased his mind a little. Monsters
that intended to gobble him up did not make a habit of entertaining him
before it did the deed. Tserra did not intend to kill him, at least not
yet. What troubled him now, was the important question: what about later?


"What do you mean, get used to it?"


"Get your leash," he said. "Bet your friends are hard at work getting
everything ready for tonight. Trust me, you don't wanna miss it. It's
gonna be a hell of a party."


The man said nothing, merely looked down, away, and rummaged through the
nest of straw for the remains of his soiled underwear that had suffered
too much to be salvaged. He tucked them away under the den and found his
collar. Hot-faced he sat there in his knees while he tried to clean
himself up.


The werewolf attached the leather collar.


His overpowering presence made him quiver uncontrollably.


"Oh, yeah... guess I told you lots of things, but haven't said much
about the feast, have I?"


Striker shook his head as the collar tightened around his throat.


"Just don't run. That's all you need to know."


Striker wished he hadn't asked.


"Just don't fucking run, and you'll live to see tomorrow. And we all
would want that. Especially me."