by Ann Mayburn
Had that guy been my mate? I could tell by his glittering gold eyes he was for sure a hyena shifter. And if he was my mate, why had he taken off? Did I know him? I mean, I thought my mates had to be like—directly exposed to my hormones for a while, so I’d have to know him, right? But I couldn’t think of who he, or she, could be. My mind was still trying to make sense of that one. I mean, I just couldn’t imagine any women I knew as men. And today was the first time I’d ever even seen another hyena. It was probably just some random coincidence that I was putting wayyyyy too much faith in. Like seeing miracles everywhere because I desperately wanted to believe.
The man who had defended me from the drunken guy hadn’t looked familiar, but then again, he kind of did. And his voice was so sexy, with the faintest hint of an accent, like smooth fur brushing over my body. Speaking of bodies, his had been tight and ripply with muscles in a way I’d never appreciated before. He wasn’t huge and barrel chested like Ted, but lean and very broad shouldered like an Olympic swimmer. And his skin was beautiful, a perfect deep brown, flawless and shining with good health. I wished once again that I’d gotten a chance to touch more of it. To rub my face against his neck and just soak him in.
Giving up the fight, I grabbed my shirt and took a deep inhalation of the fabric from where I’d been pressed against him. Old me would have only been able to detect a hint of his cologne, but to new me the fabric was saturated by his scent. It was weird, ‘cause I hadn’t even really noticed it until I got home. Then again, the world was constantly drowning me in smells so I wasn’t surprised I missed it. When I was in public I’d kind of learned to…dampen my senses so I didn’t go crazy from receiving too much mental input at once.
But now that I was home, and could easily separate the smells around me, my shirt gave off the rich musk of his scent like a boiling pot of potpourris.
I took a deep inhalation and pleasure centers all over my body lit up like someone had flipped a switch. I was like a little kid who had just discovered chocolate, greedy for every bit of it I could get. My eyes closed of their own accord and I stiffened as my arm brushed over my nipples. A tingling zing seemed to spark from them, and I swore that spark traveled straight down my torso to my clit. The little bundle of nerves became more sensitive, and I moaned when I purposely ran my arm over my breasts again.
The house was quiet, only the tick of the clock and the hum of the air conditioner providing any sound. In the silence, my breathing grew louder as I lightly pinched first one nipple, then the other. My shirt was draped around my neck, so I was drawing in deep breaths of his scent with every huff. It was as if his taste coated my mouth, and my moans grew louder as I started to really explore my breasts. They were so, so soft, and heavy as I squeezed them. I discovered I liked the feeling of my nails running over my hard nipples, and pinches firm enough just to feel an edge of pain.
It was funny, pain and sexual pleasure were almost parallel sensations, like two sides of the same coin. If someone asked me to describe the sensation most similar to intense sexual need, I would have to say pain. Both overrode your other senses and made you focus entirely on your body, but for different reasons.
The throbbing between my thighs was growing stronger and I felt slick down there. Curious, I stopped teasing my nipples with one hand and slid it down my belly. I liked the way my skin felt beneath my fingers, satiny soft and feminine. I wondered what my mates would think of me, and I wondered what that mystery man would do if he dipped his fingers into my panties.
My hips arched of their own accord as I slid my fingers between my slippery pussy lips, a cry of sheer passion spilling from me. In my mind it was the stranger’s dark, long fingers that were petting my sex, his thumb brushing over my clit. Spreading my legs wide, I wrenched my panties over to the side, overcome by the primal need to come. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason…all I could do was feel and it was glorious. The pressure of my fingers circling on my clit had me rocking into my hand. I buried my face in his scent, and suddenly I imagined a second set of hands touching me, pale hands. The woman who had been with the mystery man, Nadia, joined in my fantasy. Instead of cooling my desire, I only burned hotter at how wild it would be to have two people touching me at once.
Rubbing against my clit even harder now, I grit my teeth, my neck arching back as my torso lifted from the couch cushions. Goddess, it was good, so good I couldn’t stand it. With a scream I blasted apart as my first ever orgasm tore through me, my entire body shaking and shivering as I continued to cry out. Wetness coated my inner thighs, and I pressed one finger inside of myself, moaning and grunting as I could feel my pussy clamping down on me. As the orgasm left me, I stroked my finger in and out of my body.
Turning on my stomach, I kept my eyes closed as I lay my face on the shirt, the fleeting contentment from my release slowly turning to delicious tension again. Adding another finger, I arched my hips up as I wound my hand under me, giving myself better access. I imagined the mystery man and woman standing across the room, their unique scents filling me with pleasure. With my other hand I tweaked my nipples, each pinch making my sex clasp hard. It was both a frustrating and utterly delicious sensation, and I wanted more. Soon I was fingering myself to another orgasm, then another. After the fourth one I was sweaty and exhausted, but the craving for sex had dimmed somewhat.
Dragging the blanket from the back of the couch down over me, I vowed to worry about my sudden onslaught of nymphomania tomorrow.
The next morning was a little better. When I woke, I was so ashamed of my descent into hedonism the night before that I didn’t touch my old shirt at all, or even go near it. Hell, I couldn’t even look at my couch without blushing. While it had felt amazing at the time, I still felt weirdly empty and needy. There was no way I was riding in a car with Jerry like this, he’d no doubt smell the yearning for sex on me and that would be totally embarrassing. After going my whole life without desire, I realized I’d kinda glamorized the notion of what sex was all about. At its very basic core, sex was our bodies urge to procreate, to breed. While the orgasms I gave myself were great, they didn’t touch the basic impulse to have a big cock inside of me.
My thoughts were scattered and distracted. And my mind kept circling back around to thinking about sex. About orgasms, about the feeling of my fingers on my pussy. It was like I had no control over my own mind, and my newly discovered hormones were totally running the show. I almost texted Diana to ask her if being so horny was normal, but I could just imagine what she’d have to say in return and decided against it. According to all the romantic movies I’d watched over the years, the overwhelming drive to find a mate was the force that compelled people to go out and hook up at bars, to get married, to have babies.
When I thought of babies my mind went to my dream. Once again, I dreamed of the beautiful, mocha skinned little girl with my eyes. This time she’d been around four years old, and we were having a big family birthday party for her. I was pregnant, and I could still recall the intense maternal love I’d felt for both my child running around with a big group of kids, and the baby growing inside of me. A man had come up behind me, a man who’d smelled like blueberry muffins, and he’d wrapped me up in his arms. His big hands had rested over my baby bump, and he’d whispered something about loving his cinnamon girl and his little sweet bun.
Fighting the flow of the crowd, I made my way from the train to the Metro, wondering once again if I should move closer to the city so I didn’t have to deal with this shit every day. People seemed too close, like they were invading my personal space and getting all up in my face. I mean they were. Rush hour in D.C. was no joke and room was limited, but I had no patience with them. In an effort to distract myself during the fifteen-minute ride, I took out my phone and read the news. Or at least I tried to. The air was thick with different scents, and my nose couldn’t quite separate them all.
Plus, someone at the back of the car kept clearing his super phlegmy throat. It was weird how I could isolate sound
s from the background noise, but I heard his quiet hacking all the way on the other side of the subway car. It was like something would catch my subconscious’ attention and my ears would filter out everything but that sound. An old woman’s low-pitched voice, the rasp of a tissue being pulled from a crinkly wrapper, someone scratching their head, etc. And I was beginning to get really good at judging where a sound was coming from. Figuring sounds out became a mental game for me, and I could picture the subway car in my head and how many steps it would take to reach the sound source. If I took five, big running strides I could easily leap on the tissue user and subdue them.
Wait, subdue them?
Then, I realized with horror, what I was doing while listening to the crowd.
I was stalking the weak and elderly humans.
Those noises I was attracted to? They all belonged to the ill or old individuals, the feeblest members of the herd. My hyena had snuck up and taken over more control than I’d been aware of at first. She seemed edgy, agitated, and was forcing me to catalog my environment like a predator, not a human.
It wasn’t until we reached the second stop that I noticed Mr. Creepy Hands in his black wool coat get into the same car as me. We were separated by a ton of people, but I swore I could feel his presence sliding along my nerves like electric sparks. I stared at my phone like it held the secrets of the universe, trying to completely ignore the pale, dull red-haired man staring at me. Part of me wanted to turn my back on him, to pretend I didn’t even notice him, but the thought of not knowing where he was set me on edge. My animal spirit must have agreed, because I had to hide a growl beneath a fake cough.
Shit, I had to get control of myself.
A few conversations floated through the air around me, but I heard a woman make a sound of protest that drew my attention. Mr. Creepy Hands was breaking his pattern. Usually a silent observer, he was now making his way to me in his perfectly black wool coat and bright red tie. He ignored the woman, and the man he shoved out of his way as he focused on me. For a second, shadows seemed to flicker in his gaze, and his thin lips crooked in a chilling smile. I was frozen in fear, watching him get closer, my heart pounding in my chest now.
The train had started to slow, and without thinking I turned to run the moment the doors opened. Before I could take a step, a disgustingly cold and clammy hand grasped my wrist, making me yelp in fear and disgust. Pressed this close, I should have been able to catch his scent, but he didn’t have any smell. The sound jostled the people around me, and I managed to rip my wrist away from the sickening grasp.
I knew without having to look that Mr. Creepy Hands had touched me. The skin of my wrist burned, but I ignored the pain as my fight or flight instinct kicked in and I shoved my way out of the subway car then burst into a run. And I don’t mean a jog, I flat out sprinted as fast as I could, my backpack slamming against me as I sucked in huge breaths of air. My muscles warmed, then burned while I put as much distance between myself and the train as possible. It wasn’t until a stinging stitch sank into my side that I stopped running, my breath coming out in a pained wheeze.
Leaning against the deep brown stone building to my right, I looked back the way I came, my hands braced on my knees. I didn’t see any sign of Mr. Creepy Hands and I trembled with relief. I accidentally brushed the wrist he’d grabbed against the fabric of my pants, wanting to sob as I stared at a very visible red mark. Almost like a burn in the shape of his fingers.
What the hell?
I held my hand up into the sunlight, willing the mark to fade away, but it didn’t and there was no mistaking the shape of the burn.
People gave me curious looks, but I pretended not to notice as I stood up and tried to gain control of my breathing. Having a freaking out crying panic attack right now wouldn’t be good. Hell, they might call the guys in the big white van with restraints on me. The fear of public humiliation centered me more than anything else, and helped me gain control of myself.
Okay, there was a logical explanation for what happened. I mean, strange men don’t just go around touching and burning people. At the very least it would have made the news, so that meant Mr. Creepy Hands was a magic species, but what kind? My first inclination was to say a witch, but that didn’t seem right. My hyena, who was still shivering in fear and rage, wanted me to arm myself, then hunt him down and kill him.
The scent of tobacco briefly filled the air around me as a woman smoking a cigarette walked past, the butt clamped firmly between her deep red lips as she talked on the phone.
I tried to appear casual as I once again struggled for control with my hyena. Though she was scared, she was also driven to find the man that had burned us. He…I think he offended her somehow, but that wasn’t right. Say what you would, animals and people think differently and sometimes there was no translation for what she was trying to tell me. I only knew that if I saw Mr. Creepy Hands again I’d probably pee myself in fear.
My hyena was disgusted with my lack of valor, but she was just going to have to deal with it.
My thighs were shaking, and I let out an internal groan as I realized where I was. In my freaky panic attack, and that’s what it had to be, I’d run in the opposite direction of the museum. Way-way down the National Mall, as the public green was known, sat the brownstone building I was supposed to be at right now. Even if I jogged it would still take at least fifteen minutes.
Shit, I was going to be so late.
I called my boss Dr. Greg, and he told me to take my time, and that if I didn’t feel better to stay home for a few more days and not push myself. Technically, my doctors had given me two more weeks off, but I didn’t need it while I did need my paycheck. Plus, there was a lot of competition for my job. I didn’t want to give them any reason to fire me.
Thankfully the line at security for the museum wasn’t very long, but the moment Judy looked at me she paled.
“Dear sweet Mother’s flaming tits, get over here, Synthia. Right now.”
Startled, I watched as she slipped on a pair of silver gloves from her belt, all joking gone from her expression. Around us people started to whisper, and another guard turned his full attention to Judy, but she waved him off. She grasped my elbow and took me over to a large, white marble bowl filled with water tucked away in an alcove. When she plunged my wrist into the bowl, a sulfurous stink rose into the air that had everyone nearby coughing and gagging.
“What the hell!” I grunted as a sharp pain seared my wrist.
Sweat beaded Judy’s brow, and her dark eyes were wide as she turned to me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. What’s going on?”
“Who touched your arm and gave you that mark?”
Swallowing hard, I hoped I didn’t look as scared as I felt. “I don’t know. He’s just some guy I see on the Metro once in a while.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Tall, pale and I guess average. He always wears a black wool coat, black suit, and red tie with a silver tie-tac shaped like a leaf.” I noticed Judy grabbing at her pentagram, shock clear on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“What color hair does he have?”
“Uh—red. He’s got those super light eyelashes that only true redheads have.”
She relaxed a little bit, some of the pink returning to her cheeks. “You seen him more than once?”
“Yeah.”
“How many times?”
“Um—I’m not sure. He’s been around for a couple months now.”
“A couple months? Mercy mercy.” Her gaze darted all over me as if she was trying to find something. “But he never touched you before this?”
I shook my head. “No, he touched me once before, I think. Back when I was…” I looked around the room. “You know. Not how I am now.”
“Little girl, it’s a miracle you’re alive.” Looking nervous for the first time since I’d met her, Judy took a white towel and dried my hand off while whispering, “If you see that man again, you run as fast and far as you can
. Got me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not here, too many ears, but if he is what I think he is, we’re all in trouble,” she muttered as she darted a glance at the other guards. “Had a dream last night, didn’t know it was about you, but now I’m starting to understand.”
“Um—okay.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” she patted my hand. “I’ll take care of this. You’re a good egg, always have been, but you’re still a baby. That thing, can’t even call it a he, would eat you up and spit you out.”
“You are making no sense.”
“I know,” she replied then stepped out of my way, the pentagram around her neck gleaming. “But don’t you fret, we’ll take care of you. You’re good to go. Make sure you wait for Jerry for a ride home, ya hear me? That boy may act like a big’ol marshmallow, but his animal spirit is nothin’ you want to mess with. One of my toughest bear shifter guards has a crush on him, so find out if he’s single, okay?”
“Okaaaaayyyy,” I replied, drawing out the word. “See you later.”
I was getting tired of being totally confused, which now seemed to be my usual state.
As I walked through the doors of the museum for the first time in weeks, I let out a low sigh of contentment. I loved the feel of the massive, stately building and took a deep breath of the heavily filtered and cleaned air that somehow still managed to have a faint scent of age. America was a young country, but there were some buildings where you could just feel the years of experiences absorbed by the stones. This was one of those places.
With my now enhanced senses I could also pick up unfamiliar scent-emotions. That was the best way I could think to describe it. I was smelling something, but it evoked an emotion rather than a smell. In the museum’s case it was what I thought was the smell of knowledge. Of people brainstorming. Weird. My sensitive eyes picked out new details in my surroundings and I had to keep myself focused on getting to work, rather than wandering around. I hadn’t been out of my house much since the attack, and I found my new perceptions a bit overwhelming.
