WEREWOLF ISLAND
by
Toby Wolfham
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham
All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
(For comments, inquiries, and communication)
Chapter 8
THE TIME
Six times six was the number of werewolves in total inhabiting the camp, and six of them had erections pointing straight up to the night sky. They jutted like soldiers saluting the highest divinity in all the land, a tribute to that celestial body that had become all-so synonymous with the beast-men that stalked London alleys and European forests, the body that the light of heaven illuminated at a certain time of day. The moon's white glow was ethereal when it rose up passed the trees, supported by a troupe of pinpricks which paled in comparison. The werewolf's cocks were symbolic in their reverence: splashing white against the black, stars in the night. Their depravity was virtuous.
Fingers dug into the dirt.
Panic welled.
God, no...
The avenging need to struggle and escape returned, flooding his veins and his brain with every actionable ambition possible as four werewolves held him down to the ground. The clod tasted like wine spilled, and Red spat as much of it out as he could, though it still caked it lips and mucked his teeth since the impact. They were forcing him down, holding his wrists, holding his ankles, pushing his face down, pulling his ass up.
After all the threats and promises, they were finally going to do it.
Eyes huge with combustible apprehension, Red fought like a calf being branded with a hot iron. No amount of will or determination would be enough to deter brute strength and pure disregard. They were going to break him in tonight, under the Blood-red Moon.
Poetic, perverted, the beasts were anything but well-read, having spent years with nothing to read, nothing to educate. Their brains and their sanity diluted to a soggy mush, a warped, unrefined mess. Why, then, was the matter of a time of day important? Surely they could have used him on-sight if it was their will to do so. Some feigned superstition brought on by fraying sanity may have been the only thing capable of stitching those broken threads together, as brittle as the structure was. And the formulaic mythology of full moons was the only anchorage they had on their very real condition. What was it--medical, mutant--something else?
These thoughts pulverised each other as they flooded Red's wild mind. Nothing made sense. What he heard, saw, felt, nothing correlated. It was as if all his senses were on matching poles of a magnet, constantly repulsing each other. Such a cyclone was impossible to pin down, so, inevitably a blur came, a complete obscurant to focus.
"Hold him!" A voice snarled
Womack. Of all the things he was certain of: Womack was behind him, and he was certain of nothing.
The big wolf stripped his cock repeatedly, rubbing in slick until it was good and hard. He groaned at the sight of Red's puckered, pink and unused hole, and he leaked for it, got wet in anticipation.
"You look so ready for it, boy," he panted. "Ready for it."
Red wasn't ready for it, or anything that involved a cock as thick as his wrist and as long as his forearm. He certainly wasn't. Ceaseless in his struggle--just keep kicking, keep moving--the one certainty, he bucked back and screamed his frustration. They were so strong, and he was being forced down like a breeding bitch awaiting the stud. He saw feet in front of him, the audience that had gathered all bore the same, elongated dream-like faces, ghosts in his peripheral vision. No escape. They were going to brutalise him for sport. Many of them sported hard-ons and took pleasure in his futile plight, grins that stretched were inhuman, while others simply watched and cheered on the main event as it unfolded live and in colour. Not only colour, but sparks kindled before his eyes as he felt something from behind, a tickle. Womack's hand brushed his thick finger up and down the crack of his ass, running he length. He clenched up, a natural response. The finger returned, wetter. Frantically he flailed--pointless--as the tip of his finger settled on the ridges, slipping over to nudge against his entrance.
"No... don't!" He begged. Begged: "no!"
Like a dog. He was going to fuck him like a dog. The oil-slicked finger he probed deeper, until the walls suctioned around it. So tight. So resistant. Despite what Red screamed, he knew that he wanted this. Who wouldn't? He was the biggest in the pack and they all looked upon him with envy! The human should be thanking him! At least he wet himself first. Ease the entry. It was getting hard to hold back. He stroked himself to full hardness mere inches from that small chink in the armour, too easy to just jerk himself to completion and shoot a hot mess on his backside. But no! He let go of his cock, breathed, slowed down, and pushed his finger in to the knuckle. It went in slow, but easy. The second finger was an endeavour he almost gave up on; the way he kept pushing out his fingers made it look like he didn't want this at all--the liar--so he slapped him across the cheeks. It made his whole body thrash from side to side. The other wolves had a hard time holding on to him from the second and third slaps, but after that, the pain had become so great, the bloody red welts across provided a distraction enough to add the second finger.
"Good boy," he said. "Nearly there..."
"No, stop! Fucking stop, please! God!"
Deaf to his cries, numb to his please, Womack sank the second finger in all the way. Now the tightness was almost unbearable. A crimson flare had flushed over his face and shoulders as strain and pressure yielded to impatience; he swiftly pulled the fingers out.
"Say please again," growled the wolf.
Red cried; Womack's scorching hot tip was pressed at the broken hole in place of those dirty digits. He could feel the difference, the spongy head, the heat. Nails dug into the flesh of his ass, and he screamed, unabashed. The volcanic trickle of blood seeped, and he wailed: "Please! Please!"
A guttural, sadistic growl swallowed any more words.
Just screams, just screams.
Screams as he dragged his nails--claws--in imperfect lines; screams as his cock perforated his body. Violated.
Searing pain. Agony. Red was being stabbed by fire, he was sure of it. And that only got worse as the werewolf continued his assault, slowly, and sliding inch after painful inch. He was being split in two.
How to cope with this kind of pain? What chance did he have? He couldn't enjoy it, that was out of the questions. His old fallback of memories and faces didn't work. All he could do was voice his agony, clouding himself in a desideratum nimbus of expression. Literally, he screamed out his pain. The worse it got, the louder he got. Eventually, they had to truly hear him, right? Mercy.
"Listen to him! He likes it!" Laughed the beast.
Cohorts hollered in the gloaming like hyenas, soaking in the atmosphere they so iconised: lust, brutality, and the night. It was everything they wanted all at once, and as the moon began to bloom a carmine hue, they became even more aggressive, more vulgar, more everything.
No mercy was forthcoming. Vehemently Red refused to look directly at them, so as to subvert their attempts to undermine him. They were masturbating, he was sure of that. Everywhere he looked, there were bodies lurking, blurred in the shadows, looking more like demons than ever; ears were longer, teeth were more noticeable, and the hair looked thicker and more abundant. He couldn't look at them, he couldn't. If he didn't look, they didn't exist, and that meant this wasn't really happening. All he had to do was close his eyes.
Red's hole slowly began to give in to his jagged efforts. Easing in was never going to be easy, but the change was coming on his body, and his restless blood gave him restless needs.
He needed to fuck, and he needed it now!
They were half human now. Their minds were more inclined to change more than their bodies, until they lost all sense of reason and intelligence. It always happened slow, so that when it did happen, they didn't even realise it. Nighttime was when the virus took root and began to sprout. Not all of them changed all at once; some did, some didn't. It all depended on an individuals state. Sexual appetite increased the chances of complete physical reconstruction. So did the smell of blood. These were the catalysts. Moonshine always affected them, and was a prime motivator--a provider--the embrace of the wolf. It was not a comfortable change, but it happened over a period where if their bodies were too weak or exhausted to complete it, it simply stopped where it reached its limit.
Womack could resist transfiguration better than most. But inch by inch his control was slipping.
Alphas had almost total mastery of themselves, and could shift at will, when night came. Lesser ranking wolves with a lower threshold for control might shift at every full moon, but here, on the island, they had fostered a climate of restraint, and none of the denizens every truly lost it. Those that did, and had no say over whether they changed or not, were deemed unworthy, and weak-willed--lost beyond reason and the power to return to the humanoid shape--and were disposed of.
But this night, the special circumstance, the full moon--red--cast a different spell over them. Their bodies were caught between the two configurations, like a board game missing pieces, inserting random pieces that didn't fit, didn't match, while worked in theory, looked out of place. It was noticeable. It was unspeakable.
"Fuck him! Fuck him!" Snarled a male.
"Breed his guts," howled another.
They were increasingly monstrous in both physical proportions and vocal tones, their speech altering with each syllable in to something scratchier and harder to discern. At times, it sounded as if there were two voices coming from each gaping yaw, doing battle and coming out sounding like grating metal on flesh. Neither voice, neither body seemed concerned who would win in this skirmish, because two were in fact one. It didn't matter. The human form had its capabilities and use of mental abilities, while the monster side had physical and sensory enhancements tenfold. Many of them preferred their beast-selves, but they were usually the ones who lose control first. It was a skill, an art.
The rape of Red plowed on, and every thrust, grunt and cry brought the massive wolf closer to filling him with his infections seed.
Oh, he fully intended to breed him, fill him up to the brim until he was gushing with come, it was the only way to be certain his body had taken it all. To him it was a certified way to spread the gift of the wolf blood to him. And he would be his.
Red had lost all sense of time. The world spun as he was pounded into the ground, eyes lifeless and glassy as they stared vacantly on into the unknown. His face was pressed to the dirt with a hand huger than normal, fingers spindlier, clawed, and hairier. It was too much for words. No more screams came, just voiceless cries, open-mouthed, mute, drool poured out from the corner and pooled at his cheek, glueing the grime to him as another act of degradation. The pain subsided, but in bursts, when Womack was his roughest, and the rolling of blood down his crack brought pain anew as a new depth was torn out of him. Taking it seemed like the only thing he could do now, impaled on his cock. An unconsciousness fell upon him many times during the violent rape, the only mercy he might have had was to be snatched away as he was viciously roused again by the uninhibited ferocity. Every time he thought he felt the comfort of desolation, he heard a shout and felt a bestial cock stab his insides with renewed vigour and he was awake. His body shuddered as he cried, no longer caring if it made him look weak, or pitiful, he wanted them to know, he wanted them to understand that they'd finally broken him.
Womack spurted his load in a magniloquent inhuman bellow that rattled the trees and brought dust up from the ground, victorious. He pumped into him again and again, endlessly piston-like his hips machined back and forth. His claws maintained the grip as he thrust in to the hilt one final, brutal time. Every drop he made sure was milked from his balls efficiently. Every drop, potent and rich, was spilled into his worthless human bowels.
Something changed after that.
When Red finally gained consciousness after a time, he was being dragged to his feet, his body limp.
"Congratulations, boy," Womack gloated.
"What for?" Red drawled.
"You didn't die."
Didn't he? He felt like death, like a dripping, filled-up heap that was only worthy of being thrown into the fire. His body ached inside and out, and the constant leaking from between his legs was the offending article that made him remember to never forget what just happened.
They pulled him to the altar, to the crowd around the altar. Grinning faces barely human anymore, barely anything anymore; Red couldn't say what they were and he wasn't sure if he could even placate the fairytale creature to these monstrous, half-human mutants.
Grunts and shouts of pleasure were abundant.
It was then that Red looked at them, at what they were doing.
The bowl which sat atop the plinth was no longer empty. They were stood there, fists flying back and forth over shafts of erect flesh. They were masturbating--all of them--some of them jerked themselves, others each other. All were giving their seed to the ritual, all of them donating what they could to whatever midnight god awaited. Generously perverse, they came in the bowl over and over. The freshly fucked human was made to watch, made to know what was happening. It was a scene that only fuelled his detachment from reality, all a hazy undertaking that would slip his mind as soon as better, more believable happenings took place.
Spurt after spurt darted into the ornate receptacle, accompanied by the ever-jubilant shouts of red-blooded solace. Soon, after dashing much come into the bowl it was almost full to the brim, with the notable exception of overachieving splashes reaching up the sides and running down the altar in copious gobs. It mattered little whether every drop was contained within. What was important was that every capable body added their strength to the mixture, a potion of vitality, thick and viscous, whitish-yellow and differing in visible texture in places. Womack scraped the head of his cock against the edge of the vessel to allow the last withering ooze to complete the top layer of the formula and then he stepped back with a disheveled, deathless self-satisfaction. This was what it was all about.
"Your turn," he said.
Red's feet were glued to the spot, unresponsive to the plague of orders he was being ravaged by. The hand pushed him. Pushed him through the throngs to the fore, and in his fever he actually let them. The fight had not yet left him, but it had been severely weakened.
"Drink.
"Drink deep and endure."
"I..." Red's return to reality slammed down on him like a sledgehammer as more fixtures of this darkly lit haven glittered before his eyes: the altar and its crucible; the werewolves that surrounded him and it; the burning blaze that blocked off any escape route; the hellish sting, the ceaseless provocation that throbbed in his anus and inside him. They rent done yet. Oh no. They intended to cement this humiliation. Womack pitched him forward until he almost over-tumbled into the fire.
"I said drink."
"Drink or die," said Red, under his breath, though he was certain he had been heard. Drink or die; die or drink? There was a bowlful of the semen of three dozen werewolves laid out before him--his feast--and the order was to drink. "Die or drink."
Womack smirked. "You are learning. But have you learned enough?"
Red suspected the answer would be unheard regardless. It was the wolf's intention to break him, over and over. The first time, he got through relatively unscathed. This time, however, he was close to crushed; the degradation felt like shit caked to his insides, eating away at him, rotting every muscle and fibre that kept him strong. He wanted to cripple his will, so that he would always be subservient, like the others, to a male who deemed himself better than them all; king of the hill. Red doubted that he was infallible, contrary to how he appeared, but suffering defeat at his hands constantly tore at his confidence, brick by brick. He had no intention of fighting the beast, without hyperbole, he would not stand a chance in hell, and he would likely be slaughtered for his insurrection effort. And then who would lead the others to safety? Yes, he had learned not to fight that which was un-defeatable, but as Womack had asked: had he learned enough? Could he drink it?
The sloppy mess frothed as if excited as his eyes peered into the bowl, conscious of his presence, it was ready to breed a second life into his skin.
"I can't," he said, conclusively. He stepped back, away from the congealed repast, a new determination on his tongue.
Womack snuffled. He knew damn well what he would say. "You need another lesson, boy? Another filling? Because we can do this. Or you can return to your cage and you will never see your friends in the same flesh again."
Normally threats to his allies rang true, they resonated. Here and now, he was fatigued with that old diatribe; he was not as powerful as he thought he was, and his friends (specifically Striker) had powerful allies that easily rivalled the pretender. Things had changed and Womack would bring no harm to them without harming himself. No longer could he spew these idle threats realistically, so Red was content in standing his ground. Womack would get his way in the end, he always did, but Red was smart; if he was always going to lose, then the least he could do was appeal to his other, baser senses, since they seemed to exist in prevalence. He smirked and looked away.
"Really. Maybe it'd be easier if I just sucked you off again. Wouldn't you like that?"
Womack cracked, almost laughed. "You already have enough seed of mine in your body. I made sure of that. Now, you must complete it. Drink it all like a good boy and I might reward you later."
"Why? What the hell is it gonna do to me?"
"What do you think? You think all this is for fun? Pitiful.
"Just like with a woman, she falls pregnant with a man's seed; a man will fall pregnant in a different way to ours. You will attain our gift. This is not an offer, it is a demand."
"You need me," Red said, cinching the upper hand. "In other words, yours dying out here and want strong men to fill out your numbers."
Womack approached and jammed a huge digit in his chest. "Do not worry about or numbers, you worthless hole, just as easily we can gather more from the skies, should we ask for them."
The come was seeping out of his ass and down his legs once more, warmed by the body heat it disgusted him to no end. Willingly, he would never put more of it inside him knowing that it was likely already too late. He was as good as infected with whatever virus that had afflicted these men. Drinking a bowlful would be a final straw he never wanted to reach. Enough was enough. "No," he said, sharply. "I've done enough. I don't want to be one of you. I'm not one of you. Fuck me all you like, I'd sooner kill myself. I'm a human. And I like it."
Just then, Womack's patience boiled over. He grabbed Red around the throat and throttled him. Easily he brought him to his knees.
As Red choked and gasped for breath that never came, he witnessed something flutter under his rapidly blinking eyes. Stars came, but also shapes that were obsequious, sliding their way in increasing volumes. Colours of reds and yellows assaulted him, and blood began to pump with fury through his veins. Something was happening to him as he was being pushed to the brink, and a new strength began to flicker on and off, infusing his muscles with an additional phantasmic counterpart. He could feel the beast inside him.
Jeering snorts and urgent yowls permeated the circle; the werewolves rushed forth with a hive-mind. They seized the vessel of come and rushed the heavy repository with a dozen hands to the confusion.
The fight, the angry werewolf choked Red with fury like no other, appalling enough pressure the break a neck and was only stopped from doing so by the fingers of his so-called brothers.
"Please, stop," said one.
"We need him to live," said another.
"He will live... he will live, even if death will be at his heels all his life, he will. So help me... bring it."
They brought it as Womack severed the death-grip. The vessel. Its contents sloshed about and almost dribbled out before they got it to the captive human. By now, the consciousness returned to Red in a slurring, jerking way. Through his eyes, he saw the huge bowl before his eyes, being lowered towards him by several strong hands, and then felt then hands still around his neck. Panicked, he attempted escape, only to find the hands reliant their ease once more. Wide-eyed, he gripped at the fingers around his throat, desperate to avoid the incoming slurry that was being tilted towards him. Lips tight, he felt them being prised open by other fingers, dirty and exploratory, they opened his mouth as wide as humanly possible until there was a crack in his jaw and he winced.
"Pour it," commanded Womack. "Feed our boy while the red is still high."
And the red was high, Red saw, looking up at the moon far above. How he wished to be there, walking on the surface of that astronomical sphere; anywhere was better than his island prison, where his abusers persisted in their foul torture. The moon shimmered the more he looked at it, tis unnatural red colour was at its zenith, bright as could be, getting angrier by the moment. It seemed to call to Red, and formed an unspoken bond. It'll be alright, it said. The pain will be temporary. Now the voice in his head was meshing with it, and others, real and unreal: a kaleidoscope of oration. They were all in agreement: he did not need to worry; drinking the seed of the wolf, while potent, was for the best, and if he could not avoid it, then surely it must be a destiny that presented itself. Rarely ever did souls realise their destiny; the reason they existed. Everything happens for a reason, good or bad, these harmonic proclamations whispered. He may not like it, but then, maybe this was supposed to happen; a key to the lock of his reason for being. Eyes still, calm, he closed them, and let whatever happen, happen. If he couldn't change it, then maybe he wasn't supposed to. On that thought the slimy fluid trickled into his mouth, an implacable mixture of flavours and textures, neither disgusting nor delightful. He tasted strawberries one moment and bleach the next. Desiring it to be over with as fast as possible, he tried to feign swallowing, letting his throat bob up and down while letting the gross substance seep down his stubbled chin in a gooey muck. They wouldn't allow it. His head was tipped back, all the way back, and the bowl was inclined exactly so that it wouldn't miss as the stream of thick white filled his mouth.
Red wanted to spit it out or choke to death.
Why were they exacting upon him these twisted defilements? To make him one of them. That was the greater portion of the picture he had yet to see. Carefully, while his nose did the work of breathing, his mind formulated the pros and cons of the occurrence should he allow it to happen rather than just let them murder him body and soul. Ridding those old voices was the most important thing, even his own had to be swept under the rug while selfishness and logic was cast aside. Empathy was a human emotion he didn't know these werewolves could truly inhibit.
The negatives weighed heavier than the earth on his conscience: he would become a monster, shunned from decent society to be forced to live with these things he'd call his own kind. He would lose himself. None of them that he had seen so far--barring the youngest--had real memories of their human selves. They were described as if they were telling a story, no real emotion. Their old lives, families, achievements were all thrown to the wind. Essentially, the human side was dead. Something else resided in their old bodies: a creature that lived to kill and fuck, to rip asunder bodies of men, and to take pleasure in it. Sadistic, soulless. How could anyone ever want to be that? Red was a slave. But at least he was still human. These beasts were slaves, too, to their own lusts and nothing more. It controlled them. As much as they liked to proclaim themselves superior and powerful, in reality they were as much in chains as he was.
The positives, Red thought tactically. He gained incredible strength, more than any human should physically posses; speed, agility, the jungle out there would be his playground and he would fear nought. The blood that coursed through his veins, his DNA, and his brain, would become something else. Never again would he suffer illness or disease, all flaws would be pissed away like they should be. He would be stronger, and he could help guide the pack to open their minds to the idea of life beyond the island, perhaps even prepare future generations for integration with the human world again, to live in peace and to provide cures for human ailments that he no longer would be afflicted by. He would be a miracle if he could return home.
But was the chance of progress worth the sacrifice of his humanity?
Red was forced to swallow before he choked. He could taste the conglomeration more deeply than ever, it seemed to be absorbed rather than simply swallowed; the tastes--the essences--were being soaked into him, though him, in a myriad ways the human body should never experience. Even with his eyes closed, he could see them. He could see their faces, laughing, jeering; he could see their heartbeats echo in their chests, thudding with excitement; he could feel the burn in their loins, their arousal and need, lustful creatures without remorse. It slid down his throat so thickly that it was near-solid rather than liquid, the compilation of come was a hideous example of Red's swallowing of the truth: time had ran out.
Load after load was gulped down against his will, with each full mouth automatically sliding, sliding down. There was so much. Endlessly he was being filled by it. He was crying, not tears of joy, but tears of mourning. Mourning for himself, for the soul he was losing thanks to this unholy union, Red imagined himself being lowered deeper into the ground with the weight of it all; with every drop that went down, so did he, into the depths of hades where no doubt, he would be welcomed as a depraved, sick beast that would worship at the devil's feet--a dog--there to serve the master of hell.
Red wasn't a religious man. He didn't believe in god or the devil, but he believed in good, and he believed in evil. There was no such thing as an irredeemable man. There was always the hope that he would retain his sanity and his mind, if destiny procured it. So, he swallowed and swallowed, until the din of their exultations were washed away in the ringing in his ears, the blackness in his eyes. How he wanted to see a glimmer in that black, a shining speck of hope that lurked in the deepest recesses just waiting to be unchained.
"What the hell did they do to him?"
"He'll live. Let it go."
"I can't. I should have stepped in and done something."
The man at Striker's back came, clutching at his neck in both a warm and warning way. He sniffed. Blond on blond, his smell was not like his own as Tserra inhaled the scents of his naked body. "Did I say you could do that?"
Striker froze and shook his head. "Well, no. But..."
"No buts. They will kill you, my pretty. Make no fucking mistake about that. Nobody interrupts this. Not even me."
"Why aren't you out there?"
"Because there's only room for one alpha."
"And that's him?" Striker shuddered.
"Yes, and now that he's had his way with your friend Red out there, the chances are high that he's gonna throw him away and let someone else have him."
"What? What was all this for then?"
"Ownership? Nah. Womack gets bored easy. And believe me, as much as I've had loved to have had a go at him, too, Womack is possessive as hell. At least until he's shot a nice big load into them."
They were stood inside the tent, and as Tserra peered outside, he glanced upon the scene: the crowd lifting the unconscious redhead onto their shoulders. He was shiny with sweat and looked paler than normal. Tserra wondered if the implantation hadn't taken, and they were carrying out a dead man rather than a new wolf, but this speculation was laid to rest as he saw the flutter of Red's eyes in dream-state. Grinning, he turned back inside and closed the flaps.
Striker tried to edge around the bulky alpha but he wouldn't allow it. Instead he had to be content to stay there where he was told.
"Trust me: you don't wanna see what they did to him."
Striker swallowed. Perhaps he was right about that.
The screams that pierced through the cheers had rattled the blond human to his core and he had jolted upright, only to have his face pressed back down to the hay as Tserra bombarded him for a third exhausting time that night. Three times the wolf had fucked him in that tent in one day and Striker was opened like a can of beans. He felt disgusting--a slut--as his friends were being violated and beaten to a pulp, he was here screaming stifled moans into his palm, on the edge of ecstasy. Barely five minutes had passed since he'd last railed him on the hard ground, and he was cautious; anything he said or did seemed to set off the horny wolf and he could not take anymore, unable to keep up. His stamina was unreal. The face that Tserra morphed into every time he orgasms and shot his load into his hand or on Striker's body had become less terrifying, and quickly it reverted back to the usual handsome human guise that he seduced him with over and over.
Tserra approached and he gripped Striker's hips.
"Please," he implored. "I need to go out there, and--"
"--ah-ha," Tserra clamped a sticky hand over his mouth. "You don't need to do anything unless I tell you to, got that?" He waited for a nod, the affirming sign of reverence.
Striker nodded reluctantly. He had to help him, he was in trouble, and somehow he could not help but place some of the blame on himself. They should have stuck together, they should have defended each other. Was their reliance on humanity fading already? Had he lost hope to the extent that they just stopped fighting, for freedom and each other? Above all, Red kept his eye on the horizon, Striker told himself that he had to do the same, as easy as it was to fall for this way of life.
"There will be a gamble--a game," said Tserra, backing Striker back over to where they had bed down twice in the space of an hour. "--your friend, Red, will be bought, so to speak, by any one of our pack before bedtime. That way, whoever buys him will be able to help him adjust to our ways. And he'll get his share of good cock that way; only the best are allowed to apprentice a new-blood, you see
"No time at all he'll be his own wolf, and who knows he might even rise up to be an alpha himself! Take on that big son of a bitch."
Horrorstruck, Striker backed away, peeled away the fingers. "What? We aren't property. You can't just buy a person!"
"Thats where you're wrong, Strikey. You see, you are property. You, belong to me. Do you forget whose name you just screamed? I am so insulted. The only difference is: I didn't have to spend anything on you, not a cent, a penny, or whatever. You were as free as they come, and you came very freely."
Striker looked away. He didn't like being talked like this. Even so, he was aware of the reality, but some small part of him had hoped that Tserra's feelings on the matter were different, promises of protection and sex aside, the alpha thought little else of him beside ownership. Was this a personal trait, or a cultural one?
"Tonight, there might not be any hunt. The boys ate a lot, and drank more than they fucking needed, really..."
The human glanced at the cup on the floor by the entrance to the tent.
Tserra had been drinking on and off since the feast began, occasionally nipping out to refill between fucks. It made him rampant, horny, to see all of those sweaty bodies that he knew he could best in a fist fight; it filled him ridiculous amounts of confidence. Confidence, which he then used on Striker repeatedly. Never once, however, did he lose himself so completely as to fill him with his essence--the difference between an alpha and not--even drunken, even reckless, he was in control. He laid down on the floor, some of that control slipping. Sobriety would come to him in short time, but until then, he was happy to keep drinking.
"Striker..." he yawned. "Get your ass out there, bring me more wine. Then you can come here and ride me 'til I can't take it."
As insulting as the treatment was, Striker caught a hint of something in his orders, a sympathy, thinly veiled. It was an order, regardless, but in his time spent with Tserra, he knew the wolf to be somewhat unpredictable. He liked to play tricks. Was this another trick? One minute telling him to stay, the next telling him to leave. Puzzled, cautious, he took his time.
"Wine. More, are you serious?" He stood there, hands on hips, cock swinging.
Tserra looked up at him, face blank to emotion. "Do I ever mix my words? Now go."
Striker needed no second plight, he turned and reached for the tent when his master's voice came again at his back.
"But... if you aren't back in the space of five minutes..."
He shuddered. There was detectable threat in his tone.
"Then I will come out there and drag you to the square. The whole town can watch me claim you. Got it? Good. Now go. And hurry."
Striker went with all haste, for he knew that the werewolf's anger was as yet untapped and begged for release. Perhaps that was it. He vented all his rage through rough sex and lots of it. Some of the wolves, like Womack were constantly in a rage, fighting, doing harm in amounts untold. Tserra was the opposite. Although certainly capable of great violence, he worked out all his tensions through his impressive manhood which constantly jutted up from between his legs like the mast flagpole of the species.
Outside the tent, the night was in full blood.
First duty was finding where they'd put his friends, and then he would return to Tserra with his damned wine.
The party had dwindled but with no human in tow, they drank anew and beat the same drum that had accompanied their march to the presentation ceremony; every wolf in the town had seen the slaves were what they were, naked, vulnerable, yet strong and useful should they be willing to spend for them. That was what this night was about. A show.
Shaking his head, Striker skirted the perimeter of the dwellings, the barracks and infirmary and peered in. There didn't appear to be anyone there. Katana was the only one, laid on his back staring at the tented ceiling. The infirmary tent was of medium length and had an entrance either side. A few beds (if they could be so described) but he had been lashed to one of these strange wooden platforms--a grid--by vines and rope, preventing easy escape.
"Striker?" He said when he noticed his arrived.
"Yes," he said, quietly coming to his side. He looked better than before. "God you need to be more careful. Keep it up and--"
"--I know," he asserted, looking away, a sheen of guilt in his eyes.
"I need to find Red. We can't get away without him. Do you know where they might have taken him?"
Katana shook his head, swallowed the lump of bitter regret.
"Alright, its okay," he reassure, touching his battered chest. Despite his beatings, he was in movable condition and still looked strong enough to walk on his own should they find Red. He hated to leave him strapped down like this. Carefully he began to loosen some of his bindings.
"What're you doing?"
"Well, it will speed things along until we come back for you, presuming I can find Red. This way we won't waste time fumbling with knots, will we.
Just, whatever you do--"
"--don't do anything crazy like let on that you can get away? I already know, Striker. I'm dumb but not that dumb." There was a soft smile on his face.
Striker leaned in and kissed on him the head.
"Hey man, knock it off," he laughed. "Told you I don't play that way."
"Oh shut up. Okay, these have more slack to them. I need you to keep playing possum until we come for you. Can you do that?"
Of course he could. "Yeah."
Quick to take his leave, spooked by the sound of something stirring outside, Striker left for the back exit but before he did so, made sure that Katana was okay--he wasn't--but he needed to take one more look at him, in his state, condition. He fled before the werewolf stumbled into the tent, no time to interfere, he just hoped that the unpredictable man would be true to his word for once.
Of course, Striker needn't be so worried.
Katana knew how to handle himself, even if he had more than enough injuries and a missing eye to show for it. He was still alive, still feisty, and he would continue being so until his last breath. Once Striker finally ducked away, he turned his head back to the front of the tent where the werewolf Vestra had come in.
"Vestra, buddy... about time," snarked Katana. "Was about to come looking for you."
The same baldheaded werewolf that frequently paraded the streets of the camp came back for a second go. Like the others, he had consumed quantities of alcohol and when he came into he infirmary, there was a notable stumble. It brought a smile to Katana's face. The fucking idiot. He couldn't even walk properly. This was going to go well. But he told himself, reminded of the importance of his compliance; no more fights, just good behaviour. Then, when these freaks realised, they would all be long gone.
"Shut up. Service."
Service. Katana knew what that meant. The brute was at his side, with his veiny prick throbbing. He should have known. The only thing Vestra ever wanted from him was his mouth. Tied down like he was, he couldn't exactly say no, the bastard would make him do it regardless. It hurt to move. His hands and feet were bound to each other and stretched out tight. With great difficulty he could raise his arms or legs in minute degrees but not to any useful extent, while he could lift his head and move it with ease, and even raise his shoulders, but anything else was stopped by the ropes. It was with his shoulders up that he tilted his head to the side to service the greedy wolf next to him.
Lips had to stretch out almost comically but once the meaty head went passed his lips the werewolf automatically moved closer. Thankfully, he hadn't grown since the last time and the drink still running fast through his systems his erection was blessedly pliant. Glad that no-one was to see him doing this, he craned and bobbed, slurping all the way. The more noise the better; Vestra liked sloppy blowjobs, and the sooner he could get him off the sooner he could get him out of the tent so he could get some rest before shit went down.
Katana knew the mechanics of it. He'd gotten more than a few from girls over the years, and perhaps even a few clandestine why-nots while in the airforce, but giving them was something was a different machine that needed different oil. It wasn't difficult, however, and after doing it once, he was pretty sure he could master it (not that he wanted to) with less whining. It was a tactic. The werewolves hoped to crush their morale by inundating them with these depraved sex acts, but Katana, although flighty, was not fool enough to fall for it. It was easy for him, and wasn't nearly as disgusting as he might've thought. All he had to do was move his head up and down and he could do that pretty well now. A few strokes from his lips and the drunk werewolf was moaning quietly. Katana didn't care to look up at him to assess his reaction; just keep going and spit; that was his rule.
The binds were tight and kept either of them from getting too close. Finally, frustrated, the big werewolf changed the scene.
Katana remained calm, but was not entirely surprised as the naked beast climbed on top of him. The wooden frame atop which he was bound was made of very strong materials. Even so, it creaked as he moved on top of it like an old bed frame.
"Again..." growled the wolf.
With Vestra parked in an instead squat just above his face, Katana could smell the sweat from him like never before, the musk coming from his cock and balls made him want to heave but again he shot into action. Suctioning on to him, Katana had greater access at this angle, where Vestra hung his cock in his face like it was a lure to a fish. He took the bait and sucked fast. He wanted him to spurt. Come on you big dumb idiot, he said in his head, determined to bring him down in a heap of collapsing triumph.
The heat was boiling, indeterminate degrees clung to them both; Vestra's back glowed in the dim torchlight of the infirmary as he grabbed the back of Katana's head and started to roll his hips back and forth.
He was growling, on the brink.
This was great.
All Katana had to do was lay there and let him do all the work.
When he insisted on breaking for air, the wolf pulled his head back earnestly and fucked his throat rough.
"Fuck," he he choked, dribbled, drooled and gasped, but kept at it while the binds bit into his wrists and ankles.
Again he plunged into his mouth, now rich with saliva and pre, it splashed back around his cock this time and all over Katana's face. There he sat, lurching forward on his toes and rammed his hips, rammed his cock hard to the back of his throat. The injured slave continued to make noise, and that was what drove him to the edge, lust overpowering drunkenness at this point, otherwise such a difficult manoeuvre would have left him sprawling on the floor. Of course Katana considered finishing what Striker had started and untie himself--he could have--and kicked the male back, but that would only lead to greater problems down the line. All he wanted to do was get the fucker to spew before he began to get too used to it.
"Good," he moaned, like a caveman, monosyllables. "Good."
He was sweating, arching, arching and sweating. Fucking his face in slow unsteady rhythms as the sweat continued to pour down his bare back.
Katana was determinate in his methods; never once thinking about the indignity or the pain his tortured body was under.
Just come, just come.
Every effort he exuded was directed towards that one goal; every flick of his tongue, or twist of his head sent his target into uncontrollable shivers. More, more, he doubled his efforts, forgoing strain, he pummelled it, and the two met in a combined effort until finally the wolf gave in, surrendered to the beast's desire. The fucking slowed to a still, and Vestra came in staggered bursts, bucking hard in and out enough to make the human choke one more time. Katana refused to swallow. That was the one thing he would not do. Closing off his throat was nigh impossible with the monster slamming his inches down it in repetitive final blows into he pooling salt and spit, but somehow he resisted, and brought up the bile from his stomach to eradicate it. Vestra extracted his swollen member from out of his mouth and shambled from the table-bed to the floor. Distinctly disoriented, he swayed and stumbled. Katana made no secret, meanwhile of his distaste for the glop in his mouth and spat persistently, because he knew, that exposure to the wolf's sperm had untold effects on his body. Whispers of how the werewolves became what they are was heard through a partnering of both assumption and conclusions. It wasn't airborne, it was blood-borne, and that meant that they could transfer their twisted disease by a varied means, one being sharing of their tainted body fluids. Katana, for one, would much rather be turned against his will, by a claw-strike across his chest or a bite, not by sucking cock after cock. It was the spiritless surrender that would have shamed him more than the act itself. He would go down fighting if he could.
After asking Vestra for water (lots of it), Katana was given haphazardly, washing out his mouth before the jug was removed and the bored werewolf departed, ruminating in whispers about needing to be somewhere else. An important event tonight. He waited a while, made sure that he was alone and that the dying embers of unacknowledged arousal petered out before doing what he did next.
Successfully he freed one foot, and then one hand from he twines that held him tight. "Yes!" He applauded, then wound himself back up into the knots convincingly enough that anyone who came to check on him would see nothing had changed and laid back down. "Striker, I could fucking kiss you, man... let's get the hell off this island."
The pleasure had been unreal.
Plunging deep into the redhead's hole, unimaginable to the masses how hot inside he had been, how tight. And oh, yes, his inner walls had milked him well and milked him dry. The solid grip of his insides against his cock was what had made the wait worth it. He had fucked him raw, made him cry, made him scream, and then flooded his guts with enough come to ensure his infection, and he was very proud of himself. Chest out, cock jutting, he marched through the camp to his father's hut with a small parade of his allies, because now was the time and the time was now.
Gogack knew he was coming, of this there was no doubt.
There had been animosity between the father and son for years. Womack had changed so much in the course of a single cycle that the old man barely recognised him anymore. He had lost the ability to reason and had given in to the beast in a way he himself had come close to many times. There was no turning back for Womack, however. As much as Gogack loathed to admit it, his son was an animal--more so than anyone else--and that meant that he lacked the basic humanity that was requisite to truly be accepted. If Gogack had been younger, stronger, he could have repressed the coming mutiny, but now it was too late, and more fool to him, he had seen it coming many times but was remiss to act.
He heard Womack approaching the door some time before he had, and the intrusion without alerting did not surprise him.
The old man was sitting in his throne--the same throne he had sat on outside--which had been brought inside after the speech had been made. The nonsense talk about the fallen and the future appealed not a bit to Womack, and the pale expression on his face as he had entered only increased his disdain for that type of prattle.
"Father!" He announced.
Gogack looked up.
He was much weaker now, Womack saw. Humans might have had sympathy on him, his decaying state, but not he, not them. "You are slowing us down, old man."
"Son..."
"All your talk of survival, and you forget the golden rule."
Gogack sighed, weary.
"The weak must not hold back the pack. They must be left behind, their parts used up so that the rest of us can go on. Do you not think so?"
It was a dire situation: having to admit one's own weakness. Even as it had become so blatantly obvious, Gogack was still stronger than most humans, and his age was only in the skin. His mind was still as strong as ever and he was more than capable of leading the pack. If not for his dying body, and for the rampant tiredness that ran in his bones, he could have. Now, he was faced with the overwhelming probability that he was no longer fit to rule. That he was slowing down progress. And for all his talk of it! How dare he procure such hypocrisy?
"Did you enjoy humiliating that human out there?"
"Who cares about humiliation? Survival is what I ensured! You did nothing... just sat here a useless old man while I swelled our ranks. By the next moon, he'll be one of us. And then we'll turn the others in the same way. Because of me, we'll be strong enough to keep those ghosts away. They won't dare touch us again. What do you do? Give speeches... ha!"
"I give more than speeches," said Gogack, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I give messages, plans for the future. You have no such plan. Just making more wolves is not all that counts. It is important, yes, but how you do things... son, you need to think about the good of the pack."
"The good of the pack..." Womack smirked. He crossed his arms. There were two others behind him, with two more outside. No matter what the words were, or how they were exchanged, Womack would not bend to them and show his own weakness for his father's fight. He would prove his dominance, and his willingness to lead with a cold efficiency over the fallible emotion. "Your goodness only serves failure. We could have wiped them out by now--we should have--killed them all for what they did to Kiiron and Caul... they roll in their graves! Under me, never again shall we lose a man in this way! We will prosper!"
"You serve only yourself, my boy," said the old man. "You may have these wolves in your hands but soon you will come to revolt, just as I have. No way of leadership is purely wrong or purely right; always there will be naysayers, it takes guts to sit on a throne and make decisions."
"I have guts!" Womack spat.
No more tarrying.
It was then that the son had reached his limit of talk, the reviled talk that his father was so fond of. Womack was a wolf of action! How dare he sit there, calm, whilst death walked at him, marched at him without hooded cowl? He marched over to him, and was on top of him in an instant.
The gleaming faces of the coconspirators in this betrayal flashed briefly over Womack's shoulders, while his son's face, snarling and ruddy, bore down on him was a rage unheard of. His face changed, to show the true monster he had become, the nature of the beast without its mask.
Womack had him now.
The former chief grasped at the claws but could not stop them from entering his body in time, the strength insurmountable, the brutality unfurnished. Pain was limited. He was lifted from his throne with ease, his aged body was off the floor by a foot, impaled on the hand, which plunged deeper into his stomach. All the was to the elbow he was in, and in a thrust he had his arm through him all the way, with his clawed hand wringing its distended fingers, coated with gore out the other side.
Gogack struggled, gripping with pale cold hands at the one that shook him about. Never did he think that it would happen this way. A knife in the back, a twist of the neck, perhaps, but to endure such coldhearted treatment went beyond his head. The wound was mortal, of that he was certain, and it was driving constantly. He would be dead within moments.
Within moments, years of resentment and weakening resolve would see this man he had called father but a crippled waste of flesh. Oh, how he relished this moment! To watch his father twist and writhe in agony was a just punishment for such judgmental decisions; why should the pack become slow and lazy just because he had? It was very much time to move on from the witless empathies that he had begun to develop in later years. The ruthless edge he once had was one, now passed on to his son, his son, now who butchered him in his own seat of power. It was an irony that was lost on the beast as he continued to savage his worthless body. It took him many moments to die. A werewolf, even an old one, did not die easily, and the bloodless, although significant, was not enough spillage for Womack. He wanted more. He wanted every drop drained from him, to leave his twitching corpse in a pool of the very substance he forgot what made them, was something he craved. The sound of the blood pouring out from him and on to the ground was arousing. Womack growled in an encroaching lust he could not escape and finally, as his father's urgent and final movements ceased, his body going lip in his arms, he dropped him. The resulting splatter burst from the pool and painted the inside walls of the small hut, not just blood: life.
Then, unexpected.
Gogack choked to life once more.
How could that be?
Womack growled.
"Son..." he wheezed out.
"Pitiful," said Womack.
Gogack finally died after a splutter, the thudding of his limbs splaying out was the ultimate toll. It rang a bell, a bell of change.
A minute of silence.
"Throw him on the fire."
And his body was dragged away, with Womack walking out in lead.
Perhaps the most surprising result of this murder--the uncertainty--the mocking teeth of warning at his neck. What now? For so long he had wondered and he had waited. When the time for those ran out, he took action. Dreamed of what it would be like. Masturbated over the power he imagined. Now those fantasies were over and reality was here, it did not settle quite as easily as they had come. He needed to think, think and be alone. But first, the burning.
There was commotion.
The pack, full up on food and drink, were pliable but wounded by the death. Those who did not agree with Gogack's solitary way, were unmoved and were content to sit this one out in their festivities. Those, however, that held the chief alpha in high regard reacted with disbelief.
Bipartisan, Gorr sauntered with some surprise.
"This..."
"Is what should have happened long ago," said Womack, appearing just as the body of his father was being dragged down the steps.
Gorr shook his head, his dark hair fell about in curtains, hiding the shock in his glazed eyes. The alpha was not easily shaken, and by this he shouldn't have been (he knew what was coming) but something about seeing the dead body of someone he had a respect for was disarming. Still, he had the weapons he needed. A shove of Womack's bloody chest told him exactly what he meant.
Womack laughed. "You're angry... now, but in a few days--"
"--in a few days, what?"
"In a few days..." Womack not only stood his ground, but he approached Gorr, standing toe-to-toe with him in a challenge of combat, should he choose to accent such a death wish. "All will be right. I will lead us to a golden age, my friend. And you will wish you never doubted me."
"Conceited..."
"You will see..."
Womack turned, just in time to see the deed done: his father's barely cold corpse being thrown into the fire. It was hypnotic enough for everything else to melt away instead. For a moment he was a child again. And then he remembered exactly who he was. He didn't care that he was dead, and why should he? It was bound to happen eventually. Long ago he had lost respect for this once-great man. What was burning up before his eyes, catching fire, was but a stranger, mired in decay.
"My father died long ago," he said, to himself, but caring not if they all heard. "What I did was mercy.
Gorr sighed in dismay and ran a hand through his hair.
Womack watched, entranced as his father's dead, white eyes, rolled in his direction accusingly. His skin started to blacken and flake away, fizzle into nothingness. Every fibre of flesh, hair, began to drift upwards, caught in the up-blaze. A part of him likened the image to heavenward daydreams; his father being finally at peace, human and wolf separated. But inside, he knew that was far too late. There was no heaven for him or himself. All they were in the end was dust and bone. Dust, bone, and smoke.
"You will see."
Flesh became detached from the bone and muscle withered. The hole in his guts flared with a fire brighter than its own as if in acknowledgement, burning away of his guilt, the evidence. The burning of his father took far longer than his killing, but he took less pleasure in it. The body was empty now, no screams, no fun.
"Womack."
Gogack's clothing and hair had been scorched from every inch from him. A bald, shrivelled, naked corpse. How pathetic.
Are you proud of me now, father? Would you still beat me with your hand and your words? No, of course you wouldn't. You wouldn't be proud of me. You never were, and you never will be. I hope you suffered. I will enjoy your throne, father. I will make it everything it should be, everything you were too weak to make it.
"Womack." Gorr sounded.
Then still you will never be proud of me. But that's fine. I don't care. I will make this island mine. Slay the ghosts and anyone else who gets in my way. Then you would still turn your nose up. Oh, how I wish I could watch you burn for eternity, but you are already down to the bone. Blackened bones.
Womack came out of his trance at the touch of a hand to his shoulder.
Gorr was always cold, gruff, and he certainly didn't need his hand or his warmth now.
"Don't touch me," he spat and turned away.
Gorr said nothing and touched him no further.
"I need no sympathy from a woodsman."
Woodsman? Gorr was more than than (and he knew it) but at this moment he decided to give the sullen beast his time, his space, and walked away, rather than incur his wrath. There would be no fight between them, no bad blood, for Gorr had the power and knowledge of understanding. His father had died many years ago, and even now through transformation, he still pictured the outline of his face. There was no eyes, no nose, but there was an outline, and he burned that image into his brain, as the flesh of Womack's father burned between them.
"Be gone," said Womack, long after Gorr had took his leave. Perhaps it was Gogack to whom he was speaking? Or maybe it was to himself.
Watching the corpse crisp into nonexistence, Womack steeled his self-confidence. He was gone now, by his own hand, nothing to do about it now. All he had to do was accept it. Easy done.
The lesser wolves who opposed this shocking revolt; betas, omegas, came at him in outrage. They were easily dealt with. His concern laid with the future. For all of his father's speeches, the what now had leaked into his brain with a new resonance. It was a question he had not anticipated, for he always thought he would just instinctively know what to do when the time finally came. Not so. When the time had come, all he knew was a sense of mild sorrow. No thoughts, no plans. So, he drank.
He drank all he could drink.
Gallons, if possible, was soaked into him. He didn't care. It was a celebration, was it not? It was a funeral, too, was it not?
As he burned in the night, Gogack saw his son's face, suppressed guilt, and mourned for him as he was overwhelmed and engulfed. Werewolves do not die easy, and for him, it was not an easy death.
"It's over," said the new chief alpha.
Those that gathered around him adorned him with their attentions, be it congratulatory or otherwise. Wine flowed now in place of blood. The party of conspirators drank in the revelry, expectant of a bright future; no longer would they dwell in solitary existence. They would be daring, they would be brave! And so they celebrated. Those that were hesitant to accept such a change, however, retired to the barracks to be mired in the swamp of uncertainty.