by Casey Morgan
I chuckle, kissing and licking her more, on her neck, face, and finally her pouty, pink lips. As I place a kiss here, I tap into my endless, shapeless well of magic. The same magic I use to transform myself, to shift into wolf form. Except this time, I use it to manipulate. I thrust my essence into Ava, filling her with my power. I imprint on her that I am her alpha, her leader and her mate. Asking her to accept me and let me in, I kiss her more.
She moans into my mouth. I press my teeth in and onto hers, biting her lips a little as I do. A bit of blood blooms, and I kiss that, too. I smile, running my hands over all of her body and pressing my cock, dripping with precum, into her thigh. As I do, I hear myself asking her what she needs. What she wants. Ava’s body quivers under me, as I plant some more kisses on her. These ones on her neck and shoulders. She opens her legs more, sliding her body to fit around mine and grinds her lower lips on the head of my cock. She is eager and hungry.
I chuckle softly and deeply. Excellent. It’s all going according to plan. Now to move that plan all the more ahead.
I ask her if she wants me to take her virginity. If she wants me to own her, totally and completely. She answers yes, in her dream-state, and out in the bedroom for me to hear. I eat up her consent the same way I ate up the sight of her form: eagerly and without apology. This is exactly what I need to survive and start a pack. This woman will bring me great joy.
I smile, and ask the final questions, “Do you know you are like me? Wolf and woman. Animal and human. Do you want to learn to become all that I am, all that I will ever be? Do you want to become one with the wolf?”
As I murmur this to her aloud, the statement worms its way into her dream fabric. She answers again in the affirmative. Her words are like a release to me, better than any orgasm I have had so far.
I take my rock, hard cock in my hand, my body above and surrounding hers. I curl my fingers around my length squeezing hard and begin to gently fondle her folds with my other hand. I move my mouth back up to her lips, while goading her to come by rubbing her clit. She moans and writhes under my touch, but I don’t stop. I want her to give me her deepest, dirtiest self.
I also feel myself climbing inextricably toward an orgasm, I hold back wanting my love to come first. While I rub her clit harder, I feel her breath hitch and she comes. Her breathing mirrors the pulse and throb of her pussy lips around my fingers. Seconds later, I let myself go. My dick throbs and then erupts, pushing shots of cum out and over her folds. My seed coats her lower lips and the tops of her thighs. The sight is delectable and perfect, and it causes more cum to flow from me. I bite my own lip, lost to my pleasure, as the waves of my orgasm hit me.
Luckily for me, in her sleep, Ava is a willing and eager participant. If she were awake, I wouldn’t be able to do any of this. She might be repulsed or scared. The human part of her would, anyway. The werewolf part, not so much. And luckily for me, that’s the part in control right now. That’s the part responding to me, reaching out for me again, growling for me to give her more.
To this I only kiss her cheeks, then her forehead. I grab tissues from the box on her bedside table and clean her up, before getting off the bed and heading toward his door. “You’ll have me all you want later, Ava,” I say speaking directly to the wolf inside her. “Sleep now.” Ava obediently stills her movement in bed.
“You’ll have more of me than you know what to do with.”
With these words, I wander out of her room and to the office where I’m supposed to be “sleeping.” It’s now almost dawn, and I’m forced to pretend I was here all night. That I got a good night’s rest, even though I didn’t, and I’ve never really needed to and never will.
I lie down on my bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. I lie on top of the sheets, allowing my head to sink into the pillow. I close my eyes and count down the minutes or hours remaining until Ava finally comes awake, and it’s time for us to head to the theater.
Closer to her destiny, and mine.
Chapter 9
Ava
Oh, fuck. I sit up in bed, gripping my head. My alarm clock on my phone’s just gone off at a little after nine a.m. My head is caught between sensations of “swimming” and “pounding.” I’m so fucking hung over. So fucking dizzy. I really am. Even the mere act of sitting up on my bed and finding that I’m still half clothed, makes my head spin. Man, I really need to watch how much I drink. One Timber Wolf next time, and no wine.
Gingerly, I stand up and then wander over to a dresser where I have my brushes, combs, perfume and other necessities. I stare at myself in the mirror noticing how awful my skin looks, how pale, like I’m still exhausted after a full night’s sleep. As I glare at myself, I’m overcome by images from my dream. I see myself being kissed and caressed by Cole. I see him sticking his hands down my pants and me grinding my pussy helplessly, and hungrily against his fingers, while I’m begging and growling for more. I want more touch and more release. I blush, look down and away from the mirror, just in time to see my eyes and cheeks brighten with this.
Is it just me, or do my eyes look brighter? Icier in their color?
Before I can find my glasses and confirm or deny my mini hallucination, it disappears. As does some of my headache and nausea. But it’s replaced by something else, a consuming, electric sense for Cole. I know where he is and that he’s waiting for me to come out of my room and face the day. With this in my mind and heart, I hurry through my morning routine. I shower, change clothes, and quickly open my bedroom door on the rest of my day.
The moment I do, I see him waiting. Sure, he tries to make it look like he’s just now wandering out of his room in response to hearing me move around, but I know somehow that he’s been waiting for a while. Calculating out the right time to reveal himself to me, as he’s just done.
The moment my eyes meet his, I’m overwhelmed again by the hot and salacious imagery from my dream as it floods into my brain and takes on more color and sound than just a moment ago. I hear myself groaning and screaming for him. Grinding against his open hand until I come hard and fast in it, despite my internal objections. My fear of being lost in another and controlled by someone else.
I blush and turn my eyes away from him.
He seems not to notice or pretends not to. After this he greets me good morning. His tone is easy, careless.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
There’s an edge of mischievousness to this, like he knows somehow, about my dreams. About what a wild night I had, and how drunk and hungover I’m feeling.
I grit my jaw, trying to still my stomach from its desire to roll. I feel super queasy.
“Yeah.”
I don’t dare meet his eyes, and instead hustle into the kitchen to grab some coffee and a bit of breakfast, while I contemplate how in the hell I’m going to be able to be around him today, and for at least sixteen hours, with all of this graphic content in my head.
“Slept fine.” Under these words, I grab my coffee cup, and my cappuccino/espresso maker desperately. “You?”
Cole comes in right behind me, everything about him unconcerned and without any stress or hesitation.
“Wonderfully,” he answers. “Slept better than I have in ages, Ava.”
Again, I sense more in his words. I sense that perhaps “sleeping” wasn’t entirely what made last night the best in ages for him. I don’t speak to it at all, however.
My mind is quickly overrun by a mashup of images from my masturbation last night, and the following dream. Images of me being taken by him totally and completely. Filled to the brim, until there’s no more room in my inexperienced but hungry pussy. Cole’s massive, hard cock satisfies me; it crams me full of ridges and textures designed to drive me wild as they scrape against my pussy walls.
I blush, finally answering him. “Good I’m glad…”
Suddenly I’m not facing the espresso maker anymore with my cups of coffee. I’m facing Cole, looking up into his amber eyes. And all because he’s spun me around to
face him, all without somehow spilling a single drop of coffee.
“…You slept so well,” I finish, as he takes his cup of coffee from my tender, shivering fingers. He doesn’t take a sip out of it. He just looks at me over the steaming cup. I swear I see a bit of extra light enter his already bright, unearthly eyes.
“I did.” I hear the smile in his voice from inside the coffee cup. “I hope your rest was just as rejuvenating. Just as transforming as mine was,” he says with a wink.
The word transforming sets my blood on fire. It sets my skin feeling like a flickering candle, and my groin feeling like the feeder for that fire.
God help me, I think suddenly feeling all too helpless in Cole’s energy. Without your protection, I don’t think I’m going to last five minutes at work with him there, let alone sixteen entire hours!
I drink down my coffee, hoping the magical elixir will fortify me against what is now turning out to be an already-stressful morning. Erotic, sure, but still stressful.
God help me. I’ll consider myself lucky if I don’t end up impaled on his cock somewhere in between the sets and the background lighting.
The edge of that thought spirals down into my core, and though I have no words for it, I know I’ve just fucked myself for the rest of the day. And before he’s even had time to stuff me to my rafters.
***
The ensuing workday at the theater is exactly the slice of hell I was expecting it to be. I thought I was going to have trouble with desire anytime I was near Cole, which is totally what happens. When I feel his presence near me or smell his subtle cologne, my pussy gets wet and I ache for him. My mind wanders and all I can think about is him taking my virginity.
Unable to work, I decide to try to avoid him. I find ways to give him a wide berth in the main theater hall, and in some of the passages surrounding it, but to no avail. Everywhere I move, everywhere I go, Cole seems to be there.
He’s always walking up on me, or trailing behind me, coming at me from the sides, though he tries to pass it off like a happy accident, like a twist of fate, though I know it isn’t, and so does he. I can see by the wicked, hungry grin he wears every time he’s near me. I can see it in the way his amber eyes glow. In the way his face animates into expression after expression of gleeful predation, every time we lock eyes. But that’s not the worst of it.
The worst of it is what happens after we come in contact with one another. After he locks eyes with me, or somehow manages to graze his fingers on my skin. I’m immediately and violently overcome by images and daydreams. In some, he’s taking me deeply, ruining my virgin pussy with hard thrusts. In others, he has his tongue on my lower lips, licking my folds until I cry out for him to fuck me. In my mind, I’m begging to be with him.
As I do this in my imagination, my own heart squeezes in the real world. My lungs feel like they’re collapsing, and I must rush into my office to clear my head. Desire persists, no matter what I try to force myself to focus on. No matter what I try to bring my attention to, the images of Cole fucking me keep playing in my head.
So, I start to work on my play. Rewrites come into my mind, like a movie and I see my characters come to life in my imagination. “The Wolf Who Saved Christmas”, has so much in it about the love between the werewolves and how that love is tested by their urge to help mankind.
In the movie of my mind, Cole and I become the main characters, the two werewolves Dora and Edward. In the scene I’m writing, Edward has just expressed his disappointment in Dora; his disgust that she let their prey go, deliberately disobeying his orders as her alpha. I watch myself as Dora sob. Something I’m about to do in real life as well, but I quickly clamp down on.
I sit myself at my desk upstairs in the theater, grabbing for paper. As much as I don’t want to see or feel any of this, my creative spirit starts telling me it’ll make for good, gripping dialogue, and I should write it down. These lines will cause good emotional pain and suffering for my audience and for my actors, who need to be putting more of themselves into their roles.
Though it’ll be more of me that’s going in it than them. I have this thought somewhere in between trying to write things down on the page and having that page blur out to more of the film playing in my head. More images flash of me holding on to Cole for dear life and begging him to let me stay and how he can have me here and now. I struggle to get my dress off, and his suit as well.
As I do so, I feel fear and arousal, temptation and trepidation, knowing that being without him means death. Dora truly feels like she did the right thing by the thief. She/I want to have my own mind and not just be ruled by my husband, my mate. But this disobedience means the drawing of my last breath, even as I’m yearning to live freely and express my wolf self.
Silly girl. It’s what I’m hearing Cole call me as I’m trying in vain to get him to have sex with me. To let me fuck him and get him to remember how much I mean to him. In the woods, in our home, before our love is lost forever. But he’s not having it. Not until I admit I was wrong to disobey him.
I write this all down, writing through the tears in my eyes. Tears that find their way down onto the page, liquefying the ink and stealing grace and dignity from my pen, as well as from my heart. I break down and start to cry at this point, as I’m writing down everything in my imagination.
In my mind, I start to see Dora alone on the London streets, cut off from her pack since Edward threw her out. She is captured. Pistols are being drawn as the city guard arrives. They threaten her, and I see ropes being put around her. She’s trying to escape, changing form from a woman to a wolf and then back. Much like the wolf outside the bar the other night. The one who disappeared.
Futilely, I wipe at my cheeks. The tears streaking down them. What the fuck? What the fuck is happening to me? Why am I crying over my own play? Why is this suddenly reaching me so much? My shoulders and ribs become wracked with pain and sorrow.
I grip my sheets of paper, willing them to be a flimsy Oracle. Willing them to make me understand why my thoughts are suddenly haunted. They give me nothing, except more imagery. More fuel for the story I’m already too far into to stop telling. Dutifully, I commit it to the fibers of the paper like it’s my skin or my soul, instead.
For hours, I sit in my office writing feverishly. I don’t know for how many, and it doesn’t matter. All I know is that, the more I sit writing, spending page after page getting down everything that I’m seeing and feeling, it stops being a series of visions; a smattering of feelings and starts being an experience. One that winds me up tighter and tighter, with each passing second, each bleeding minute, and each grinding hour.
When I’m finally done, when my visions finally evaporate, and I’m left there alone with my hollow, numb self, I take my stacks of paper with me. As I look them over, I realize I’ve written—rewritten the entire ending arc of the play—into something more tragic, yet somehow more redeeming than the original ever could be.
I wander out of my office, making the decision there and then to have my actors run through this new scene. This version of events, never mind the fact that they’ve spent the last weeks and months memorizing something else. Now that this has been penned by me, I want nothing short of this. And I want it delivered with every bit of emotion, every scrap of shattered soul left to glisten and shine for the audience, as it should.
Chapter 10
Ava
From my office, it’s a quick and mindless trip down to the stage and it seems I’ve arrived there just on time. As I come through the large doors, I spot Sarah there, along with Cole and the two major actors in my play. They are just taking to the stage under Sarah’s direction.
“Okay you guys,” she says, as I slip the rest of the way in and start making my way down the dimly-lit aisle toward the stage, “we’re going to run over the last part of the second act. The part that leads up the climax. We’re going to make sure you guys know exactly what you’re doing, since you’re both a little rusty. And a little nervous aroun
d certain lines you need to be delivering with no fear at all.”
Continuing my journey toward the stage, I become acutely aware of Cole. His energy seems to have permeated everything. For reasons I don’t fully understand, the energy angers and excites me at the same time. I find it demanding, but also irresistible. I walk closer to the stage, to where Cole is standing. He shifts from foot to foot, twitches, as if he feels me in the room with him but is just deciding not to turn around. He decides not to grace me with his gaze. He wants to just to play with me, just to tease me.
To my surprise, a soft moan escapes my throat and I feel my voice still vibrating around in my soul, in my gut, in a deep, dark, wild place. A place that isn’t sure what it wants more: to be as far away from Cole as humanly possible or be so close to him that there is no difference, no space left between us anymore.
I continue walking forward, watching him shift his weight again. I watch his muscles tense in his neck and his shoulders. He definitely knows I’m in the room right now, walking right behind him. He knows it all, and he’s not bothering to turn around or acknowledge me in any way.
Finally, I reach the edge of the stage, causing both Sarah and Cole to notice me. Cole just gives me this heavily-lidded look. The barest edge of a smirk, as if to say, Am I driving you crazy yet? Is something bothering you?
I scowl at him, not caring that I’m showing my teeth. Cole returns the favor, quickly showing me his white, sharp, perfect teeth, before flipping his lip down over them again, and giving me another smirk.
“Hey there, Ava,” Sarah says.
Sarah speaking breaks up our tension, sexual or otherwise.
“Great timing, we were just about to go over the last half of the play.” Her eyes go down to the pile of papers I’m clutching in my hand, the newly-inked version of the play. “Notes?” she asks.
“Revisions,” I say.
