There's a woman who lives on her own at the edge of town, in a little house tucked away from the world. She's a nice lady, nice in the kind of way that makes adults smile back and kids quietly role their eyes.
From what her neighbors can gather, she's amicably divorced from her husband and she's got two daughters who are "away." Wise people know that "away" can mean all sorts of things, but it's polite to assume that she's talking about one decent-enough college or another, a place for nice young girls to grow up and become nice young ladies.
She doesn't get a lot of visitors, but she's quick to let people know that just because she's alone doesn't mean she's lonely. She keeps herself busy enough, in and out of town; why, she could spent all day working in her garden
(the man at the local garden store notices her hovering by the monkshood seeds for unreasonably long periods of time, but she never takes any).
"And besides, my girls visit me all the time," she says. It's hard not to feel a bit of pity at that--after all, no one ever sees any sign of her daughters around the house.
The woman has a box of old photographs in her living room and sometimes she'll take them out to show them off. They appear to be images of two young women, not too different from the portraits hung on the walls, lying dead in one position after another.
"My daughters made these for school," she explains. "My little artists--they have me keep their things here for safekeeping. They get flustered when I brag, but I can't myself, you know?"
Yes, her guests do know. They never stay for long.
On warm nights, the woman sits outside in her rocking chair and moves back and forth to the music, humming a low tune. In the shadows beyond the trees, she can see eyes winking at her, sharp teeth flashing. From a distance, one might think she has dogs in your backyard, or coyotes. Wolves, maybe, but there aren't a lot of wolves around here.
If she squints, she can sometimes make out two muscular bodies weaving together in the dark, slow and sinuous. Paws rustle against the grass, snouts twist, tails thump-thump-thump just out of time.
The woman will go and grab some cold meat from her freezer, heat it up a bit, toss it onto her porch. "Play nice, girls," she'll call before heading inside.
She knows that they much prefer the fresh-and-bloody bite of deer, dogs, the occasional man, but she can't keep herself from checking up on them. Besides, it's always gone in the morning; they never were as picky eaters as they'd like to pretend.
The woman always leaves her back door open when she heads inside, always. People catch her doing it and frown--it's a pretty isolated place, but she can never be too careful. She laughs and tells them she's got the world's best security system.
She goes upstairs and she closes her eyes and quite often, she sleeps the whole night through. It's fine, really. Her babies need their space and she was always ready for them to grow up and fly away, even if it didn't happen quite how she expected.
Besides, she knows they'll come back. They always come back, especially in the colder months when they really just want a nice warm place to snuggle. And she'll always be waiting.
Usually, her first warning is the click of claws against the tile, the thud of a tail shutting the door, the creak of wooden boards against strange weights. She opens her eyes in the dark as they come closer, closer, tails thumping against the walls--she's learned to put everything up high, out of her way.
They come to her door and don't stop. Why would they? She's left it open enough for them to just saunter right through, same way they did when they needed her to cuddle them at night.
She feels their bodies climb onto her bed, their heat, their fierce doggy breaths on her face. "What have I told you about brushing your teeth?" she'll mumble, but she smiles. She's always smiling.
They don't like her moving much, so determined to do everything themselves, but when they start nudging at her pajamas she'll find herself wriggling in response anyway, doing her best to get them off. One of them, usually the slightly bigger one with the reddish fur, will huff and nudge at her to lie back down.
"Fine, missy," the woman huffs, slumping against the sheets. She shivers as she feels more of her bare skin touch the air, although even on cold nights she's quickly warmed by the furnace-blast of their breath, the sandpaper scrape of their tongues.
They don't bathe her the way cats do, but they do snuffle and explore with the proprietary air of canines, shivering and wriggling over skin. The air in her lungs hitches as they snuggle along her breasts and thighs--along with other places she didn't even think were erogenous, like the knobs of her spine or the curve of her stomach.
It's hard to feel shame right now. After all, they know this body inside and out, quite literally--they were made here, after all, one nine-month grind after the other. This is where they came from and this is their home, their place of heat and blood and safety.
They feel good here, and they want to make her feel good. Is that really so terrible?
All too soon she's squirming, panting, feeling dampness gather between her legs. She's never been so off guard by anyone the way her wolves do, stirring into a forth without even using their hands.
Their nostrils flare at the smell and it excites them, sends them nuzzling and grinding against each other. They shoot her little smirks with razor teeth, the faintest traces of red gleaming along their jaws.
"Girls," the woman moans, shaking, and finally, they take pity on her. One nudges in between her legs while the other moves between her breasts, licking and lapping like she's searching for the last few traces of milk.
She feels the first hot plunge of a tongue and oh. Her husband tried his best so man, but this--this is special. She grinds down on muzzle without thinking, a hair's breadth away from those deadly, deadly teeth.
Of course, they're careful not to actually puncture her--she's not exactly old, but she's no spring chicken, and they don't know what a turn would do. They move in an elegant dance, careful like they are when they're hunting their prey.
They're so careful, her sweet little girls, so good, like they haven't been since they were small. Only they're also grown-up and confident enough to choose to be good to her, rather than simply obeying or lashing out. She loves them so much and she's proud of them it hurts.
"Fuck," she sobs, even though she's always lecturing herself about cursing in front of the children. "Fuck, fuck." 
They alternate between different parts of her body, tormenting and teasing hers with highs that never quite crest and lows that bring her crashing down. They nuzzle each other over her head, pressing misshapen faces together as drool drips onto her face.
The woman loves it. How can she not? Her girls are here, with her, and even if they've forgotten how to love her any other way, she still has them. No one's fighting, no one's bleeding, they're just making each other feel good, feel safe. It's all she ever asked for.
"My babies," she whispers, and a muzzle presses against her as another gives a vicious flick against her cunt. She sobs, back arching, shuddering and flailing as that terrible tongue keeps going and going, as she breaks again and again. They rock with her as she sputters and heaves, fur a soothing pressure against her skin.
Eventually, of course, they have to let her stop. She's no spring chicken, after all. They lick her clean so gently, such good girls, taking care of their mother, tugging on the messy sheets and hauling in a clean one she's left for them.
Then they move to the floor, on the soft, plush rug that she keeps setting out for them no matter how messed up it gets. She pulls back, gives them space to breathe, to love each other in the safety of her room.
She falls asleep to them moaning into each other's mouths, scratching each other raw with claws, growing and spitting and panting and sighing. She falls asleep to their tails and feet thumping wildly as they sob in ecstasy, and it's the most wonderful collection of noises she's ever heard.
Usually, when she wakes up they're gone, leaving only a few tufts of hair and a faint smell hanging around the room. But if she's lucky, the rare day will come when she finds two smooth, pale bodies curled up on the floor instead, red hair and black hair tangled into the same loose mess.
They'll whine the way they always have when she wakes them up and fishes the clothes she keeps for them out of her closet, but they'll follow her downstairs anyway, if only because she's promised a nice raw, tasty breakfast. The three of them will eat as the sun rises and even if the girls' ears twitch from screams in the distance, the woman can still be confident there won't be any more hunting for today.