12 comments/ 28699 views/ 17 favorites Ill Met By Moonlight By: Hubee I stand in the shadows at the edge of the wood. The road to the bridge is near but I wait, watching, making sure. I have been crossing this bridge for years (I snort aloud when I think about just how many) and on nights like this I am always cautious. The ancient stone arch spans a narrow gorge, which is, at this time of year, filled with impatient water. The river that carved this deep cleft is in spate - swollen with snowmelt. One hundred feet below the bridge the river continues its age old war against the rocks. The sounds of this battle, for all the world like animal bellows and growls, echo from the chasm. Despite thousands of years of this contention, of numberless floods, the rocks are still jagged fangs and the water churns against them into white foam. I have heard told that these sharp stones, combined with the growling of the water, are given as a rationalization for the old name of this crossing place - 'The Wolf's Teeth'. But if you were to pry into the folk memory of those who live nearby you would get another – truer - explanation; one that I could confirm - if any dared to ask me. My desire is to cross the bridge alone, without meeting anyone, especially at the height of the arch, where the carriageway narrows. This need to avoid meeting others, to be apart, has been strong in me for a long time now. But it is especially powerful tonight. A combination of the weather, my over-active senses and the moon - especially the moon - makes me doubly wary. The noise of the river masks all other sounds, so I must rely on other senses than my hearing – but I am fortunate in that regard. The breeze that has partially blown away the clouds, revealing the moon, is blowing into my face and carrying with it a message - there is someone on the bridge. The wind brings still more still information to me. I can detect that the 'someone' is female – as well as being young and scared. But I cannot afford to tarry too much longer. Earlier in the evening I sensed I was being followed and have been trying to put distance between my pursuers and myself. Bitter experience has taught me to trust my senses. I am confident I know who hunts me and know how persistent they can be I know of some poor souls who believe, despite any evidence to the contrary, that they are unfairly persecuted. In my case I know this is true and have a distressing amount of proof that I am not subject to any delusion. I am persecuted. In fact it would be more accurate to say; I am hunted. Eventually I conclude that the woman is alone, that any threat from her is less than that which comes hurrying, implacably, behind me. I wait until the wind-tattered clouds hide the moon again and step from the darkness on to the road. Even in the darkness I feel exposed, the hairs all over my body prickle as I lope towards the bridge. I pride myself on my ability to move silently, but I can take no credit for getting close to the woman before she sees me. The night is dark, the river noisy - and she obviously has other things on her mind. I am five paces away before she notices me, reacting with a start. It would appear that this is not a good time or place for her to be startled – sitting as she is with one leg either side of the parapet of the bridge. She spares me only the briefest glance despite the shock my silent approach must have produced. Barely looking at me she begins to stammer 'D....don...don't try to stop me!' There is determination in her voice but the overtones of fear are stronger. From the glances she is casting downwards I sense it is the drop she contemplates rather than my presence, which is the source of her fear. This is a pleasant change from the usual reaction to my appearance. But whilst I can see the girl clearly to her I must seem like only a vague shadow in the gloom. She begins again, 'You can't sto.......' Annoyed that she believes she understands my intentions. I raise my hand and snarl at her. 'I'm not going to try!' This unexpected response stops her foolish mouth as quickly as if I had slapped her face. I lower my hand and study the woman - the girl. She doesn't appear to be mad - just dishevelled, frightened and determined. It seems I have interrupted a suicide She stops glancing down and looks at me properly for the first time and gasps. Ignoring her reaction I continue to study her, taking in a mass of dark, tangled curls surmounting a pretty face. She appears to be about eighteen, no more than twenty. Her full, well-shaped lips are trembling and her eyes radiate a mixture of despair, but also petition. Her clothes are of good quality, albeit torn and dirty. Her boots (or at least the one I can see) are well made - but clumped with mud. It takes no genius to conclude that she has walked, or run, to this place - apparently anxious to die. 'I'm not going to try and stop you.' I repeat. 'In fact, I want to watch you jump.' Again the effect of my words is like a blow. But this time I see anger flare in her blue eyes, in reaction to my callousness, after which I raise my evaluation of her appearance from 'pretty' to 'lovely'. I also take time to notice that those good quality clothes are well filled with shapely female flesh. This though makes me remember how long it has been since I lasted mated. Too long! She gasps in shock and begins to try and marshal her words to respond, but I cut her short. 'You want to die? The get on with it I say. Why should it matter to you if I should want to observe your passing? If I were to guess at your pathetic motives, I imagine you might desire a witness to pass on the details of your death.' I felt my anger rising despite myself. 'I am sure in your morbid imaginings you imagine that the folk about here will be agog with interest to hear of your tragic demise. Do you picture troubadours keen to hear every word before composing, "the Lament of the Lady of the Bridge", or some such maudlin twaddle?' I laugh when I see the shock in her face. 'You will, no doubt, want them to tell the world of the cruel man who "ruined" your reputation I am guessing?' I see her face fall and laugh again, knowing my random jibe has hit close to the mark. But my laughter is full of anger and disdain. 'You poor, pathetic fool!' I bark. 'Do you think anyone cares what happens to you? Do you imagine your loved ones gathered in mourning at your graveside? As a suicide you'll likely be buried at a crossroads, un-shriven and alone, leaving your soul to wander........' A gob of spit in my face stops my tirade. I see her eyes flashing fire as she shouts. 'You evil............cur, you.........dog!' she shouts in my face, searching for more harmful words, not knowing any worse. But she cannot realise how the words she has chosen do wound. It appears that there is life yet in this girl who wants to die. At the same time as I wipe her saliva from my cheek the clouds begin to part and the night brightens. The moonlight spills across the stones and seems to gather around the enraged girl. The iron-tight grip I usually keep on my 'Rage' begins to slip. I feel muscles tense and ripple under my coat, my fingertips tingle. To her it must appear that I grow, towering even further over her. I speak slowly, conscious that my mouth suddenly feels over-crowded with teeth. My voice come outs like a rumbling growl. 'You RRReally shhhouldn't have done that......GGGirl.' As I speak I start to unbuckle my belt and undo the fly buttons. I watch her mouth open in shock as I push my trousers down around my thighs, thighs that ripple and bulge with new, heavy muscle. Over the years - the many, many years - I have worked at holding sway over my 'Rage' and the changes it brings. Even when the moon is full, when control is hardest, I can usually manage. But I know that there are times when nothing can stop it. I also know that when it comes, if it comes, I won't be able to manage buttons and buckles 'What are...are you doing? The girl stammers as she watches me. I ignore her as I feel the Rage flare within me to greater and greater heights, filling me. My veins feel as if fire flows in them in place of blood. The moonlight continues to stream more strongly through the rent clouds. In the growing brightness she begins to see me properly, fully, for the first time. If she had been scared before, then she now scales new heights of terror. Realisation strikes her and she begins to babble, choking on her words 'You...you're him.........it! You're..............' 'SAY IT!' I roar at her. 'YES! I am the werewolf. I am Skinwalker. The stories your Grandmother told you, to scare you when you werrre a child, the ones that you never believed – they arrre all trrue. I am legend made flesh!' I see that her lovely eyes are full of tears as she cringes away. I can feel the uncontrollable changes taking place and she must be able to see them also – and know her fate. I can feel my hair, my pelt, growing across my body. I rotate my head and feel vertebrae crunch as they change alignment. At my centre I feel heat - as if a glowing forge is being fanned in my belly. I feel the strength and the stamina I know that my newly changed body gives me. But most of all I feel ALIVE, in a way I never do in my human form. I am ready now, adrenalin charged; ready to flee, fight or fuck. My teeth elongate to the point where the long canines overlap my bottom lip and I smile at the girl – now that there is no other way I can smile - wolfishly. But, in amazement, this sight does not cause the last of her reason to flee. She swings her leg off the bridge edge and stands up straight before me, still trembling like a leaf, still terrified to her wits end – but not beyond. He voice is shaky, but clear as she speaks. Shocked into silence by her self-possession I listen. 'I came to this bridge to d...die. Now it seems it will not be by my own hand. But I am still ready to die.' Her resignation is touching and pathetic in almost equal measures, but I do not interrupt – my fires are banked momentarily. 'Perhaps this is better?' she continues. 'You taunted me that a suicide goes to hell, which I knew, although it did not deter me from my resolve. Death at your......hands, would not be suicide, would it?' Then, amazingly in the circumstances, she smiles at me. My lips curl back from my teeth and I see her flinch. Enunciating carefully, wanting to make myself clear with a mouth that is no longer shaped for words, I speak. 'Arrre you awarrre of the fate of a werrwolvesh victim girrrl? Therre are worrsh fates than the Hell your prieshts prratle about.' 'Worse? Nothing could be worse than my fate now?' In a blazing instant the heat, the fire, the RAGE is back. 'You pathetic, self pitying, FOOL!' I roar, my voice surmounting the noise of the torrent to echo in the gorge below. 'How DARE you speak to me of your fate? You, so young, with every reason to live, are able to die when you choose - and so easily. Whilst I, old beyond the mere count of years, I who deserves death more than any being, must endure a life I can bear no longer.' My breath sobs in my throat when I stop. I see the girl, hand raised to her mouth, staring at me. Quieter now, but still tense with anger, I tell her. 'You cannot imagine what is to watch those few who did love and trust me, who knew me as a man, watch them grow old and perish while you still live. What it is like when everyone else who remains trembles at the mention of your name and wishes for nothing but your death. To know what it is to be hunted, HUNTED, by those who wish to make it happen. To have nothing to look forward to but the fear and hatred of every man and know that there is no release, no escape – EVER!' In her eyes I see the welter of emotion my words have generated. She holds her hand up to me, in supplication? To calm my anger? Or perhaps to signal surrender? She whispers, still audible above the torrent, 'I want you to know.....when granny told me; you are right she told me stories of the Skinwalker; when she told me the legend of the werew....told me about... you, I wasn't scared. I felt only sorrow for him, I knew, even as a little girl, that he....that you must be very lonely.' As the import of her words sink in a gap in the cloud opens and fully reveals my old enemy - the moon - full and serene. The bridge, the girl and I are lit, as if by spotlight. I feel almost the last bonds of my humanity slip away. The moon, and my jumbled emotions are the trigger. But these emotions are not anger - the usual cause of the change. But I am now too much the beast to unravel and understand human emotions. 'YOU PITIED ME?!' I scream as I feel the last changes happen, beyond my control. My spine knots as my tail sprouts. My fingertips contract and the nails lengthen, razor sharp talons glinting. My cock changes and swells, growing larger at the same time as engorging. Fully metamorphosised, I throw my head back and howl. But that word is insufficient to describe this noise. The sound shakes the hills and rattles the heavens. And in the race-memory of every human is the ineradicable memory of the meaning of this cry: YOU ARE PREY! From somewhere down the valley I seem to hear echoes of my howl. The girl swoons back against the edge of the bridge and I grab at her. My hands, my paws are clumsy and the newly revealed claws slice away her dress, from hem to neck, as if it were made of paper. Revealed, her plump, snow-white breasts seem to glow in the moonlight, crowned by rosy nipples. The remnants of her dress fall around her feet and I survey my mate. The beast is in charge now. I flip her round as easily as if she weighed nothing, until her head hangs over the bridge edge. A few strokes of my claws shred her underclothes, carving stripes in her buttocks and leaving trails of blood. The scent of blood and the sight of her exposed, unprotected cunt excites me to full erection. My canine prick, already swollen to prodigious size, emerges, pink and pointed from its sheath, squirting semen constantly as I jab the head between her thighs. A tiny part of my mind, the last part that is still human, is screaming – 'Stop'. My transformed cock is larger than any human member, the head already the size of an apple. That small voice speaks because it believes the girl will be split in half – but the beast cares not. The wild, abandoned mating urge is overwhelming; nothing will deny it. My hips thrust frantically forward until the tip of my cock finds a purchase amongst the folds of her labia. With another howl (exultant this time) I drive my cock into her insensible body and feel her tear. Hymen, skin or muscle? It is of no concern to me. I hear her groan, the pain of my savage intrusion bringing her back to consciousness. The screams of her tortured senses and nerves begin connecting with her returning awareness. The realisation of what is happening to her floods her mind and I hear her moan, then wail in terror and pain. This is not human lovemaking. This is animal, bestial mating – dog and bitch. I have no concern for the girl's pleasure, there is no finesse. My only concern is to fill her with my seed – to breed her. My hips hammer forward and each shove forces a bit more of my shaft into her abused cunt. I yelp with the effort of each shove. My breath rasps in my throat and my tongue lolls, dripping hot saliva on her heaving back. The mixed smells of blood and semen flood my nostrils and spur me to greater efforts. The girl shudders below me as I take her. I grab her hair and haul her head back, then lower my mouth to lick her neck. My inhumanly long tongue rasps across her pale skin and I hear her gasp; but not in shock or fear – this is a different sound. Inflamed, I open my jaws wide before burying my teeth into the flesh between her neck and shoulder. Growling constantly, I am panting now, through my nostrils, for the breath I need to continue the remorseless assault. This bitch will not get away from me until I am well and truly finished with her. But even in the height of my animal passion, some spark of humanity remains intact. I make sure not to find a vein with my teeth. Doing so would condemn her to my fate. In my years I have subtracted many humans from their total, but I swore long years ago, never to add to the population of my kind. The taste of her blood is thick and delicious in my mouth. My hot breath bathes the girl's neck, as my cock pistons into her limp body. My hairy haunches slap against her buttocks with constant, rapid concussions. Then I almost loose my grip on her neck in surprise as, no longer limp, I feel her move. I growl louder in menacing warning, thinking she is trying to escape or otherwise prevent me from taking what is mine. Then I notice her groans have become moans and feel the muscles of her stretched and abused vagina squeezing my inhuman shaft. As my pelvis comes forward again I feel her hips come back to meet my thrust. The last, the thickest, the final stubborn half inch of my immense wolf cock disappears into her sex and I hear her wail. My cock head must be battering against her womb. But no longer do her cries betray distress. This is a different sound, the sound of a woman fulfilled, satisfied. I have never heard this before when mating and the uniqueness is extraordinarily exciting. I slow my thrusting as I feel the knot in my cock swell. Fresh moaning and panting tell that the girl can obviously feel it as well. Before, whilst mating in wolf form the woman has always been a victim, not a partner. When the female is usually catatonic with terror or screaming constantly, it is sex in a form that only an animal can enjoy. I stop thrusting altogether and pull back slightly to test that we are fully 'knotted'. My experiment proves that we are – and produces fresh groans of pleasure. For the girl it must feel like having a clenched fist pulled from within her very core, but she seems to enjoy the sensation. My heightened sense of smell can detect her excitement now, amongst the welter of other scents – blood, semen and sweat. And now that I am paying attention I can deduce something else from how she smells. She is ovulating – truly 'in heat'. The beast retreats enough for the man to feel shame. Yet, despite everything, she is enjoying this? Standing on the tips of my toes (my claws) for extra purchase I ram my entire length back into her receptive hole, so hard that we nearly go over the edge of the bridge together. Once, twice and a third time – the new and delicious slickness eases the passage of my member into her hot, fertile centre. In response I feel her body writhe beneath me before she wails like a tortured soul descending into Hell's fires. I feel her culmination ripple through her like a wave through water. Her muscles clamp and cling to every inch of my length until there is not the slightest chance that I will not join her in this mutual release. I howl again, joyously, savagely as my balls contract, my urethra expands and I empty myself into my lover. My ejaculations in wolf form last far longer than any man – and the emissions are far greater in quantity. Jet after jet of canine semen floods her depths. With the knot of my cock blocking her like a cork in a bottle there is no escape for this hot flood. In this way the dog-wolf ensures his mate is impregnated. It must almost feel to her as if she is being filled from inside, swelling with my inhuman seed. The intensity of my climax causes my vision to fade for a moment. Only deep, racking, sobbing breaths keep me conscious. And in that instant of release and recovery my Rage is gone. Faster and more painfully than ever before, the changes in my body reverse. The pain makes me cry out – but is a scream not a howl. My prick shrinks, in several senses, sliding out of her ravaged, swollen sex – releasing a flood of our intermingled fluids. I can hear it splashing on the flagstones of the bridge. Ill-Met by Moonlight "Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania." W.Shakespeare, A Midummernight's Dream, Act II, Scene 1 (Dedicated to the memory of Arthur Machen [1863-1947], although he would never, NEVER, have written a story like this.) * At age 79, Arthur Benjamin, a retired chemist, was an over-weight, diabetic widower on the wrong side of his first heart attack. He also had a classic case of erectile dysfunction, probably as a consequence of his medical problems. Since the death of his wife six years previously, he had not tried to have a sexual relationship with a woman, whether a friendly encounter or with a professional. For several years he had contented himself with masturbation, usually while watching one of the several XXX VCR tapes he had acquired, but recently he had encountered increasing difficulty in achieving orgasm. He often read the newspaper advertisements for massage parlors, and was occasionally tempted to visit one of them. The thought of lying naked on a table while a woman, more or less undraped herself, massaged and pummeled his body, concluding with a "hand job", was intensely exciting. But an active imagination concerning the possible fraudulent use of his credit card, or stealing his identity, combined with a very real hypochondria, had so far kept him away. This difficulty was not a topic he dared discuss with his few male friends, of whom a few were, like himself, widowed. Unexpectedly, one day, one of them, Bill Withers, told him about a vacation retreat in the Adirondacks at the edge of Lake Tetrahedron where couples and singles, both men and women, gathered for fun and games. Although nothing was said about it in the brochure Bill showed him, apparently almost all of the attendees were writers or would-be writers. Arthur had never written anything other than project proposals and reports, but he thought he might like to try his hand at short fiction, something along the lines of the pulp fiction he had devoured as a boy. Bill had already signed up, and without saying anything explicit, it was clear that he was anticipating a couple or three romantic encounters in the two weeks. Arthur had no such dreams, but at the least, he could enjoy the mountain scenery, do some walking, perhaps write a page or two, and enjoy good food and drink with convivial company as described in the brochure. Arthur was not find of driving, so he gratefully accepted Bill's invitation to go in Bill's car. The ride up was pleasant. Arthur was bringing his laptop computer, and he found himself anticipating writing on it in a sylvan glade. He was disappointed to find that the brochure's description of the accommodations was mostly copywriter's hyperbole. In reality they were at best a degree or two above those of a Motel 6. And the food was much closer to a high-school cafeteria than to a gourmet restaurant. There was no assigned seating in the dining room, and there were not many changes after the first night. Bill quickly managed to get a seat at a table with four or five women of varying ages and degrees of pulchritude, while Arthur found himself at a table with two couples. One of the women talked ceaselessly throughout the meal, but said little. One of the men was deaf, and mumbled constantly, but whether to himself or to his companions, Arthur never found out. The camp was managed by a middle-aged couple, Mr. and Mrs. Albert Holland. Mrs. Holland did almost all of the work with little assistance from Albert, except when heavy lifting was needed. Mostly Albert sat on a porch swing, smoking an ever-present pipe, eager to talk with anyone who sat on the porch. Somewhat to his surprise, Arthur found chatting with Al (as he preferred to be called) to be quite pleasant, especially about Adirondack mountain lore. Once Arthur asked whether there were legends about fairies hiding in the bushes. "Fairies!" Al chuckled. "Not on your life, Mister." (Al never learned anyone's name; they were all "Mister" or "Missus.") "The only place there are fairies in these parts is in children's books. But we do have elves!" "Elves?" said Arthur. "You mean little creatures with pointed ears dressed in green and brown who go around stealing milk from cows, that sort of thing?" "No, no!" said Al. "That's story book stuff, too. Have you read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings? Do you remember the elves described in that book? Tall, handsome men, lithe, beautiful women—that's the kind of elves we have in these mountains. Except for one difference: Our elves are all female, no male elves, ever," "No males?" Arthur queried. "Then how do they reproduce?" "Dunno. Of course people say these elves are very, very long-lived, so maybe they don't need to reproduce." "Have you ever seen even one of these elvish women?" Arthur asked? "Nope—and don't want to, either, I'll tell you, Anybody 'round here will tell you, having anything to do with them is bad luck any time, an' that goes triple on moonlit nights. Ol' Johnson down the road apiece, he apparently met up with some of them two years ago, on a night when the full moon was out, an' he ain't never been the same since. Believe me, you couldn't get me to walk out in them woods on a moonlit night for all the tea in China." Arthur tried to get more information out of Al, who changed the subject and stubbornly refused to say anything more about elves. On the fourth day of Bill and Arthur's stay, an unexpected newcomer showed up. Her name was Lola Lilychild. She was a tall, statuesque woman with a head of flaming red hair, that shade of coppery red hair that is seldom seen other than in Titian paintings. By good fortune at dinner that evening, she seated herself at Arthur's table. She was wearing a sheer tight-fitting low-cut blouse out of which popped a magnificent pair of mammary glands. The other guests at table hardly seemed to notice her, but Arthur could barely keep his eyes off her, especially when she occasionally leaned over the table to reach for the bread basket or the butter, revealing an enchanting vista of a dark canyon between two white mounds. He desperately but unsuccessfully tried to engage her in conversation. She would look at him, smile briefly, but her replies were monosyllables, mostly yes's or no's. After dinner he gathered the courage to ask her to go for a walk with him, which she politely declined, saying she wanted to unpack her suitcase. And with that, she went into the women's bathroom. Arthur thought of waiting for her to emerge and then at least try to walk with her to her cabin, but after a long wait, he gave up and went to his cabin. To his intense disappointment, she did not appear at either lunch or dinner. Feeling depressed Arthur wandered around morosely after dinner. He knew that he ought to go back to his cabin and do a little writing, but there was a gorgeous full moon shining, so on a whim, he decided to walk at least part way around the lake. At first this was easy, because the well-worn path showed clearly in the moonlight. But soon afterwards this path led through a grove of tall trees which blotted out the moon. Fearful of falling in the dark with no help nearby, he started to turn back when suddenly he noticed a light just ahead of him on the path. As he stared at it, it rotated as if to indicate, follow me. Puzzled, as he stood still trying to make up his mind, the light's movement became more agitated. Finally, he thought, What the hell!, and went after it. Once in a while he stopped, sometimes trying to determine was where he was, and sometimes thinking of turning back. At these times, the light would start its rotating "Follow me" motion. Intrigued, Arthur went along with it. After some fifteen or so minutes, the trees thinned out, and Arthur was able to make out the path. He noticed a well-worn set of tire tracks, set wider apart than would have been made by a car, more like those of a large motor home. Even in the semi-darkness, he was able to see that this vehicle left a distinctive herringbone-like track. And then not far off, he saw the vehicle itself, which was indeed a large motor home. As he approached it, a door in its middle opened and a tall woman came out and walked toward him, her arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. She was sporting a ring with a gorgeous reddish stone that sparkled when it caught a moonbeam. As she came closer, he saw that she had ash blond hair gleaming in the moonlight. They met and she wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, saying, "Welcome, Arthur! Lola and I had been hoping you would come for a visit." On closer examination, Arthur saw that for all her erect frame and prominent bosom, the wrinkles around her eyes revealed her age as being at least sixty, and maybe even older. At first Arthur was unable to speak, but then he managed to gasp, "Lola! I thought she lived in one of the cabins at the camp." He didn't add that he had thought Lola was pretty much unaware of his existence. The tall woman continued, "My name is Lillian, usually shortened to Lily." And then, as if reading his mind, "Oh yes, Lola was very much aware of you, Arthur. Apparently you were so busy staring at her you could barely eat your dinner." Arthur blushed at this because it was so true he could not possibly deny it. "Don't be ashamed, Arthur. After all, you're only a human male. And believe it or not, Lola and I were hoping you'd come by." "You're joking!" Arthur said, although he dearly hoped that this was true. "Oh yes, it's true enough, dear Arthur. And Lola and I want to make a deal with you." "A deal? What kind of deal?" "Please don't laugh when I tell you, but the truth of the matter is that Lola has led a very sheltered life and has been raised by women only. Although she has seen lots of pictures in books, she wants to see at first hand what male anatomy is like. And we both believe that you would like a closer look at her chest. So we would like to make an exchange, so to speak." Arthur started to mumble something, but Lily went on, "Come now, Arthur. You know you can't deny it—you have thought of little else since you first saw Lola last night, and I'll wager that you fantasized about her breasts as you were going to sleep last night." "But, but... how do you know this?" "What matter? Come now—do we have an arrangement?" And without waiting for an answer, she took Arthur by the hand as if he were a child and led him to the doorway where she had emerged earlier. It took Arthur's eyes a few minutes to adjust to the bright interior after being in the dark for the past half-hour. He was surprised see how spacious the interior was. He was in a good-sized bedroom whose main feature was a large bed on which Lola was sitting. There were several closets along the walls, and behind him, he could see the fixtures of a bathroom. Besides Lola and Lillian, there were several other youngish women. "Okay, Arthur. You go first," Lily announced. Arthur dutifully unzipped his pants and pulled his penis out. "Oh put that worm back!" Lily exclaimed. "C'mon now. Don't delay. Drop your pants and your panties or whatever you're wearing under them." Poor Arthur! For all his fantasizing and dreaming, he was shy and even a trifle prudish. But when Lily started towards him, indicating that she was about to take matters into her own hands, he did as he was ordered, until he was standing bare from the waist down, shivering not so much from the cold as from nervousness. And to make matters worse, his penis had shrunk to the point where it was almost entire buried in his scrotum "Hmph! Let's face it, Arthur dear—you're not much of a specimen, are you?" Lily laughed. "Well, let's see if we can give you some encouragement. Lola, take off your top." With no hesitation, Lola, who had been slouching on the bed, sat up straight, and, with her arms crossed across her body, slowly started to lift the edges of her tank top. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled it up, revealing first the bottoms, then the middle, and finally all of her gorgeous endowment. When her arms were fully raised above her head, her breasts were white hemispheres with a red dot in the middle of each. And as she lowered her arms, her breasts sank until they were perfect pears. Arthur gasped. Never had he seen such beauty and so close, too. (The women in his collection of porno and sex-instruction films were almost all rather flat-chested.) "Go ahead, you can touch them if you want," Lily said. And Arthur did so, and was gratified not only by the sensation, but also by the sight of Lola's nipples becoming erect as he massaged them. While Arthur was lost in ecstasy, Lily had advanced next to him and pulled gently at his penis. It had by now swelled to perhaps twice its length and girth, but as Lily bent it up and down, it remained soft and flexible. "Oh dear, poor Arthur. Your manhood has become infantile." Poor Arthur! Although intellectually he knew that his failure to achieve a stiff erection was a physiological matter out of his control, and was not something to be ashamed of. Had not a presidential candidate admitted to the same problem on national television? Nevertheless he felt demeaned by Lily's deprecating comments. "Just wait a minute, Lily. It will get bigger. And I'm sure if one of your attendants would give it a kiss, or maybe even suck on it, it will stiffen up." "Suck on it!" Lily exploded. "What a disgusting thought!" And with that, she gave Arthur a backhanded slap across his check, so hard that her ring slashed his cheek open. Arthur felt blood trickling down his chin, and screamed out, "What the hell have you done, you bitch!" "Tsk, tsk, such bad language," Lily laughed. Lily let go of his penis, and produced first an alcohol swab which stung as she wiped his bleeding cheek, and then what looked like a styptic pencil over the cut, which immediately stopped bleeding She rubbed his penis again, but it did not respond, so said, "Well, girls, I do believe that Arthur here needs a treatment. Go to it." Arthur had no idea what the "treatment" was to be, but instinctively realized that he did not want one. He released Lola's breasts, and bent over to pull up his clothing. Just as was about in position to raise his underpants, the young women who had been standing behind him moved to either side of him, and he felt bands of plastic being placed around his upper arms. These bands tightened until Arthur was screaming with the pain, at which they were loosened just a trifle. The women pulled on the bands so as to keep him bent over. One of the women bent over him and spread apart the cheeks of his buttocks. He felt a wet, cool jelly being pushed into his anus; he realized that it was a so-called personal lubricant. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a blue plastic instrument, which he recognized as a prostate tickler. He felt it being inserted into his anus. He tried to constrict the opening but it was futile. The instrument was gently pushed as far as it would go without rupturing tissue, and then it was slowly turned back and forth. It was not entirely unpleasant, and Arthur relaxed somewhat. And suddenly he felt an orgasm such as he had never ever had in all his married life. The most intense pleasure momentarily filled his entire body; it made him forget his surroundings, his anger, his discomfort, everything. And at the same time he felt his penis emitting a huge volume of semen. By craning his neck he saw that Lily had caught the entire discharge in what looked like a giant syringe. The woman behind him carefully removed the prostate tickler, and he was allowed to stand up. At the same time, Lily inserted the plunger into the syringe and approached Lola. Arthur had concentrated so much on Lola's breasts that he had failed to notice that she was totally naked. "Spread your legs, dear Lola," Lily said. As Lola obeyed, Arthur saw that her genitals were completely bare, not a trace of pubic hair anywhere. Lily gently pushed open Lola's labia ("the lips that do not speak," Arthur recalled from a sex manual) and then inserted the syringe. She slowly pushed the plunger home, waited a moment, and then withdrew the syringe. Arthur never saw how it was disposed of. At the same time He suddenly was overcome by an intense need to urinate. Lily, who had the uncanny ability to read his mind, sensed his discomfort. "Need to pee, do we!" she laughed as she spoke the vulgar word. "Go right there and relieve yourself. Come out when you are dressed." Arthur obeyed, and soon afterwards, emerged unsteadily, still shaken by his experience. "Arthur, dear boy, you need a refreshing drink," Lily announced as she poured a greenish liquid into a glass which she held out to him. "Er, no thanks, I don't need anything, just some fresh air, that's all." Not saying a word, Lily nodded to three of the women standing near him. Two of them clasped him tightly around his sore arms, while the third forced open his mouth and poured the draught into it. It had a sweetish, somewhat astringent taste, and he swallowed it without further resistance. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The sunlight pouring through his open window awakened Arthur. He felt thoroughly refreshed as if after a full night's sleep. His recollections of last night's incidents now seemed a dream, a wet dream, although he had not had one since age ten. But search as hard as he could, he could not find absolutely even the slightest trace of any emission in the bedclothes. He stretched out his arms to get out of bed, and winced at the pain. He looked at his upper arms, and saw large black and blue bands around each of them. He got out of bed and walked to the wall mirror, and saw the traces of the cut made by Lily's ring. As he was dressing, he noticed with great surprise that his two pairs of shoes were shining like new, and that they both had new heels and soles. He dressed quickly and went to the dining hall for breakfast, and was relieved not to see Lola there. He was surprisingly hungry and ate much more than was good for him. Feeling full and cheerful, he sought out Al Holland, who sat smoking his pipe in his usual place on the porch swing. "Say Al, I didn't see Lola at breakfast this morning. Have any idea where she might be?" "Who?" Al asked, removing his pipe to stare at Arthur. "Lola, you remember her, she was the lovely red head at dinner last night." Al replaced his pipe, took a puff, and then answered, "A red head, huh? A tall gal with big boobs?" "Yes, yes, that's the one." Al looked at Arthur for a long while before replying. "Say, mister, what have you been smoking, or drinking? There weren't no redhead like that at dinner last night or any other night." "There weren't, er, wasn't, huh," Arthur persisted. "Then how did you know her description? I never said anything about her height or her boobs, either." "Well, I heard about her a year or two back from one of the fellers. But you look here, mister. If you see that witch again, you turn around and run away real quick, you hear. You'll get nothing but trouble messing with her." And with that, Al picked himself up and walked away. For the rest of Arthur's stay at the camp, whenever he came across Al, the owner suddenly remembered an unfinished errand and walked away. That afternoon, Arthur decided that he had to look at the spot at the edge of the lake where he had encountered the motor home the previous night. In less than fifteen minutes' quick walking, he found the unmistakable imprint of the tires with the herringbone pattern. They were in deep ruts, but the ruts themselves were overflowing with grass and some wild flowers. Clearly they had not been disturbed for two years or more. Deeply perplexed, Arthur walked back to the camp. He stayed the remainder of the two weeks because Bill was having a hell of a good time, with a different bed mate almost every night. Ill-Met by Moonlight Arthur could not get the memory of his encounter with Lily and Lola out of his mind, so he tried to achieve catharsis by writing up his adventure as a short story, which later he submitted without success to many magazines, under the pseudonym of...O. M. Nemo THE END Ill Met by Moonlight Notice – I don't own any of the rights to Skyrim. That honor belongs to Bethesda. Serana, It's time for us to part ways. Not permanently, I'd imagine, but there are some things that fated warriors are meant to do alone. I let my new friend know that I'll be back at the castle should I be needed, but I kind of doubt that I'll be needed immediately. I've been trapped in that sarcophagus for hundreds of years, and Skyrim is a very different place than it used to be. Because of this, I'm going to do a little sight-seeing. As a Daughter of Cold Harbor, I know that I look a little different than mortal people. My eyes glow an catlike amber yellow wreathed in black, though if I stay out in the sun it isn't as noticeable. Unfortunately, this requires me to be out in the sunlight as I mingle with the populace. Some ignorant vampires refer to the living as cattle, but I think that's a heartless way of looking at things. What's the sense of referring to them as beasts, when my own people skulk around in hidden shadows? Not that I really skulk. A Daughter of Cold Harbor doesn't skulk, but she does keep a low profile. After a bit of mingling I learn that I'm in Whiterun. It's a pretty enough town with a grand keep. I try to imagine a dragon being held in bondage there, its godlike wrath and strength chained by the tools of men. In my travels I've seen them flying about the mountains and over the open lands, assisting my new doom-fated friend to defeat one. Once its soul had been consumed and its bones lay bare in the moonlight, I caressed my fingertips over its ancient skull and pitied it. This creature had a name once, and its fury and cruelty may not have ultimately been its choice. Certainly I've been made to do questionable things in the service of my particular daedric prince. By the time the sun is setting I've seen all of this city that I desire to. At the stables just outside the city walls I set out on the road leading west, passing by the ruin of a watch tower. A large skeleton lingers there at its base, left unburied and visible for the mockery of mortals to rejoice that their champion brought it down. Beyond that stands an ominous fort, with sentries prowling the parapets. I make it a point to remain unseen, traveling overland and leaving the road. A bitingly cold wind begins to blow, carrying stinging drops of rain. Lighting flashes across the dark sky, the cloud cover obscuring the stars. I could continue to travel, but to do so in such conditions is inconvenient and uncomfortable, so I begin to look for a shelter. Soon enough I find a small hillock of upthrust rock, with a dark cleft buried within it. A faint glow seeps out – likely bandits or some other band of degenerates that no one will miss. Maybe I can feed from a few of them before I claim the shelter for my own tonight. Once I slip into the dry warmth of the interior I can immediately smell the vermin reek of lesser vampires. Death clings to them strongly, barely making them more than draugr. Their hungers rule what's left of their common sense, leaving them stupid and feral in many cases. My hand moves to the elven dagger at my hip. I shouldn't need any other weapons to destroy these creatures. Yet I hear the sounds of struggling and battle, of screams and shrieks. Something has entered the cave before me. Perhaps this champion will succumb to my blade instead and provide me with a meal. I cannot feed from the lesser creatures here. The first room I enter is grandiose but crude – a crypt sunk into the floor with stairs leading up to coffins stood up on their ends. Likely the vermin think themselves very stylish waking up in such a fashion, though the garbage littering the floor makes it plain that they have no sense of cleanliness. Cages meant for mortals hang from the ceiling, though they stand empty. Perhaps the hunting hasn't been so good of late, and that is not a pleasant thought. Starvation only inflames their powers, leaving them disgusting husks with far too much access to magics they can't handle. While I quietly make my way over a floor littered with skeletal remains, bloody rags, and empty wine bottles, I notice a goods chest beneath a glowing torch. The vessel is locked, without any sign of attempted entry. Odd. Does this chest belong to the vermin, or those they appropriated the cave from? It really doesn't matter, but whatever the case all parties in here aren't interested in wealth. This battle raging further in is about something else. One of the stairs leads up to a sarcophagus with a false back, and I walk through a narrow stone passageway that leads downwards towards a more finished living space. The stink of vermin is strongest here, and I presume that this is where they lurk most of the time. Smears of blood glisten on the floor and the walls, and the sounds of struggle cease just as I reach the mouth of the room. Torches glow, revealing another mortal cage, along with tables and chairs, and beds lining the wall. The bodies of the fallen creatures lay mangled on the floor, their flesh mutilated. And then I hear it, the wet panting, and the slow thud of large feet stalking over the blood-soaked wooden planking. I smell it even before I see the lupine silhouette cast upon the wall ahead of its large, black body – a werewolf. I've not run into one of these before, and I haven't as much faith in my dagger as I did moments ago. Instead, I stay on the side of caution and change my shape to that of the Vampire Lord, a taller, demonic looking sea green monstrosity with wings, talons, and daedra-gifted power. The magic of my transformation sends my typical clothing and supplies to another realm, and perhaps Molag Bal himself is looking through my possessions and having a laugh at my trinkets. Now I wear barely more than a belt with strips of cloth, with my now long hair bound in a braid behind my hunched back where a pair of batlike wings sprout. My feet, now quite similar in shape to the werewolf feasting on the fallen vampiric bodies, presses into the cold puddles of blood, black talons clicking on the floor and shifting the wolf's triangular ears back towards me. It lifts its savage, snarling head and roars at me, and I screech back at it, wings flaring as I thrust a glowing pulse of magic at its body. The monster's life force feeds me slightly, and I can hear it growl in protest at the feeling of being leeched. It doesn't like the insult I've paid it and it launches itself towards me. I meet it in the center of the room, our large bodies crashing together as teeth and talons rip at one another. This creature is strong and unafraid, though it doesn't handle frustration well. When it thinks it's gotten me pinned within its hairy arms I turn into a flock of bats and fly away, coalescing back into a proper shape to strike it in the back and legs. Outside the storm rages, and huge peels of thunder rumble the earth. I don't know how long it is that we fight, but to my dismay it becomes clear that we're both evenly matched. Even with all my tricks, this beast cannot be dropped quickly. It's infernally durable. I'm in a great deal of pain, and I know it is too, and rather than risk giving an opening that may result in my destruction, I become a flock of bats and head back up the stone passage. I have just enough strength to coalesce once more within one of the sarcophagi, my shape shrinking back down into the young, beautiful body I typically have. The one I was born with, that is. Looking out from the crack of the casket's lid, I can see the werewolf drag itself on all fours up to this room. It's breathing is labored, and blood drips from its mouth. Yet as I watch, the black fur recedes, revealing a Nord woman with reddish brown hair and green stripes of war paint over her face. It's a beautiful face. For some reason I was expecting something covered in scars. Leather armor covers her torso while leaving her limbs mostly bare, and she remains on her hands and knees, sweaty and smeared in blood. "Demon, I will find you. And then I'll kill and eat you" she rasps, her mouth pulling into a hateful sneer. "I come into this cave, looking for shelter only to find you slaughtering vampires. You are the murderer here" I intone. Of course I meant to kill the vermin too, but she doesn't need to know that. "Filth! Reveal yourself if you aren't a coward! We will finish this now." Her voice is deep and intense. Do all werewolves sound like this? It's not unpleasant. I know that she's weak enough to be enthralled, and everything in my mind tells me to do it. It would be a kindness. I'd be saving her life. If I don't do it I'll have to slay her. But to take such a forceful spirit and dull it forever to serve at my whims? It would be like making a rock out of a soul gem. I can't do it. The woman unsteadily makes it to her feet, determined to finish her task even if her eyes know that this might be the end. Would Sovengard await someone like her, or would Hircine take her in as a faithful hound? "You're ready to collapse" I call out to her. "As am I." The woman frowns and coughs, spitting a bloody wad of saliva down to the dusty floor. "What of it?" The door to my shelter creaks as I nudge it open a little more, my own fingers aching and covered with blood. "Can we call a truce? Until we're healed properly. And then you can do your best to slaughter me just like you wanted to." I peek out of the coffin to see her standing at the bottom of the stone steps, her eyes narrowed. "I will slaughter you" she grumbles, but I know from her body language that she can't even make it up the stairs. "I'm sure you will" I say, trying to make this an actual conversation. I really don't want to kill her at all. "What's your name? What name shall I give to the bards when I vanquish you?" I really shouldn't goad a werewolf, but I can't help it. It's fun. "Bitch..." she snarls. I tsk. "Really? That's the name that will live on in legend? The mighty warrior...Bitch." I open the casket a little more and take a seat at the bottom of it, leaning back against the moldy padding of the interior as I let her get a good look at me. See? The woman huffs. "My name is Aela the Huntress" she announces, and I nod. "That's a lovely name. Fitting for such a lovely woman. The bards will have much to sing about". Really, she's very pretty. The woman groans and takes a seat on the steps, always keeping an eye on me. No worries, I'm not moving for a long while. I turn my head to listen to the storm howling outside. "And you? Vampire...do you maggots even have names?" "I'm not like them." I can't really hide my disgust. It's like comparing altmer to falmer. I know which one I'd rather bed. "Clearly..." she growls, nudging a wine bottle with her foot. "You still haven't answered my question." "I'm Serana. It's not a pleasure to meet you, though under different circumstances it might have been." There's a moment of silence, the snapping crackle of the burning torches loud in this cavernous space. Eventually she says "I was not expecting a creature like you to have a name so..." "Human?" I offer. "Pleasant." Oh, well, that's nice of her. I smile and incline my head. "In most cases I'm very pleasant and well-mannered. Are you?" "No." "I can imagine. Though that's a snappy little outfit you have on. Do you moonlight as a dancer? I'm assuming men still pay for..." "Would you kindly shut up?" she grumbles, getting unsteadily to her feet to examine the floor for something. Wine bottles are all picked up, examined, and discarded, and I can see her getting more and more irritated until she hauls herself back up to the stone passage to head back to the room with the wooden planks. Upon her back I notice a bow and quiver. I'll have to be careful to avoid annoying her so much that I'm shot before she's well enough to battle me again. I'd hate to ruin that for her. Soon I grow bored of sitting in a moldy coffin and listening to the rumble of the storm outside, so with a groan I head down the stairs, then up the other stairs to the passage. Aela is looking around the bodies, all of them with their hearts already devoured from their chest. And she called me a monster. It isn't that I don't eat mortal flesh – I just do it with a bit more class. "What are you looking for?" "Water" she snaps, then sits on one of the cots that escaped the whirlwind of destruction. "What, to drink?" It's been ages since I've had water that I've almost forgotten what it's for. "Yes, idiot. And to wash. It isn't good to be covered with such a potent stink." I can't really disagree with her. Most of the gore on her is from the vermin, who don't always maintain the best hygiene. In a shadowy corner I find a cast iron pot and haul it over to a portion of this room with a rocky floor. It's not hard to find kindling...everywhere...and I gather up some and tuck it around the base of the pot. A torch offers its fire to get the small blaze going, and into the pot I shoot a bolt of ice, summoned with my hand. Another one is enough to fill it, which is good given that I'm too tired to conjure any more of them. Both chunks of ice slowly begin to melt and drip into the bottom of the pot, and I hear the cot squeak as Aela slowly gets up and walks over to my setup. "Why would you bother?" she asks, clearly confused. I blink. "Don't...you want to get better? To destroy me?" Honestly, wasn't she just going on about that? Aela looks at me as if I'm diseased, and then finds a small metal cup to pull out melted water to wash herself with. I just watch, curious, and as she unfastens her armor she smirks. "Have you never seen a woman naked before?" "Well..." I'd so rather not get into a recounting of the ritual that made me a vampire. I really didn't want to get to know my mother like that. "...yes and no. Didn't I see you naked? As a werewolf?" "I had on a pelt of fur. It was different." She turns her back to me and begins scrubbing at her skin to get the smears of red off, leaving tanned, fit flesh to glisten in the firelight. I suppose I'm not all that clean either, but I think I'll save my bathing for later. Though...I don't know. I guess taking off the wrist gauntlets, robe, corset and boots would be good. To clean them, of course. We sit by the fire to keep warm, and while it might seem odd that I'm doing so, it should probably be mentioned that I don't really need warmth. Or air. But I like having such things. It gives a semblance of being mortal again, which had it's positives as well as negatives. I've found some cleanish rags (read, not too blood-soaked) to wipe the travel dirt and blood from my leathers, and I'm doing this with my back against the stone wall when I see Aela staring at me. Her eyes are reflective like a dog's or, I suppose, a wolf's, and she just won't stop looking at me. "What?" I ask, feeling uneasy. "You really aren't like the creatures I killed. What vampire cares about its armor?" I suppose you could call this armor, maybe. "I do. I've not lost my reason. Those...things you killed. And ate, I might add..." I say, gesturing at her with my rag "...contracted a disease, and it rotted their mind. I...well. I'm different. I'm very old." Aela grunts. "How old?" I narrow my eyes. "That's a rude thing to ask." She smirks a little. "I'm a rude person. One doesn't make it to the inner circle of the Companions by being nice." "Wait, the Companions?" I ask. She nods, and I close my eyes, hearkening back to a conversation I had with my doom-fated friend. "You just got a new leader of the Companions, didn't you?" Aela's smile fades. "Yes. A young blood." I tilt my head. "Also known by a few as the Dragonborn?" That makes her blink. "You know the Dragonborn?" "Well of course. We've been traveling together for a few weeks now." I shrug my shoulders, and continue to rub out a stain from my boots. "We parted ways tonight in Whiterun, and I decided to explore a little before heading back our base of operations, in Fort Dawnguard." Aela clearly needs a minute to process this. "So...if I am to understand this correctly...you are the traveling companion of the head of the Companions, and you are both involved with the Dawnguard. Vampire hunters. And yet you're a vampire..." I sigh. "It's a long story, Aela. But...yes. I don't want to hurt anyone, or spread a plague over the world. I just want to live in peace with my powers, and put a stop to these feral...things...terrorizing everyone else." She frowns and looks at the fire. "So why did you attack me?" she finally asks, confused. "I've never seen a werewolf before. I didn't know if you had sense. And you were killing other vampires; I was worried that I was next." "All you had to do was say something." "Really? And that would have stopped you from, oh, I don't know, slaughtering me and pulling my heart from my chest to eat it?" We glower at each other for a moment, and then Aela says quietly "The Dragonborn smells strangely. I've never wanted to bring it up." I lift my brows. "I think it's a rash." We glance at each other, and then we start to snicker. Don't misunderstand me – the Dragonborn is brave and accomplished, but not a frequent bather. Living in one's armor should only be taken to a very definite extreme before adventures should be strictly outdoors and in the open air at all times. Preferably with a breeze. "Aela, would it be a great deal of trouble to ask that we not fight each other to the death? I really don't want to hurt you, or be hurt by you, any more tonight." I plead with my eyes. I mean, honestly, if I were at my best I could take her without a problem. Maybe. But now it just seems like too much trouble to keep testing our strength. She picks at her tooth with a fingernail, taking her time to think about it. "I suppose...you're an asset to the Dawnguard and to the Dragonborn. Fine. Once the storm abates and the sun rises we'll part ways, and I'll tell of our glorious struggle in this cave." She sounds so entirely officious, and I set my things aside, resting my hands in my lap. "Aela, seriously...don't you ever relax?" "I relax. Frequently. I spar with the other companions, and I hunt down bandits and undead creatures when I feel like it." I don't think she gets the point. "No, I mean...that all sounds like work." Aela frowns. "I don't..." Her head turns to the side, and she mumbles "I don't like singing or dancing." "What about, well...keeping pleasurable company?" Since when have I become so prudish? I suppose being celibate for a few centuries will do that. It's at this moment that I realize that I've really and truly been celibate for several centuries. My god, I hope it all still works down there. The woman lifts a brow. "That is private." "Yeah, well...maybe you should keep pleasurable private company a lot more often than you do now. You are far too uptight." "I'm a mercenary and a werewolf. We aren't a relaxed and easy-going people" she says with a little smile. Yet she shrugs and sighs. "But I see your point. I'm...pent up. Using my strength isn't always satisfactory. But honestly, even among Nords, it's not common to want to bed a woman who can snap your arm off. And who frequently wants to." I flick a bit of grit from my leather pants, shrugging lightly as I say "Have you considered looking for a woman?" Aela laughs, though there's an edge to it that's self-deprecating. "Oh yes. That has not always turned out so successfully. The women of Whiterun aren't interested in such things. Not even that Imperial blacksmith." "Oh, I think I saw her during my stay there. She's a very handsome sort of woman. Good with a hammer." The werewolf just gives me a look. "Yes, I know. I can only imagine what those hands are capable of. Sadly though, she's devotedly married to her business partner, the lucky man." Her eyes travel over me slowly, and I lift a brow this time, resting my folded arms on my knees. After a while, she says "You're a little like her, but far more refined." Ill Met by Moonlight "And willing to tear into you." Oh gods, why did I just say that? Aela's eyes widen, and I lift my hands in a placating sort of gesture. "No, no, that came out wrong!" I watch as she gets to her feet, her body, still naked, now dry and fit in the firelight as she walks over to me. Act casual. Act casual. You almost just killed this gorgeous woman, so stop saying stupid things. I keep looking at the fire and not at her, until her hand cups my chin and guides my head back so that I can look up at her. As my lips part I'm painfully aware of how the tips of my fangs are showing, and how my eyes glow. Yet she doesn't seem to care about these things as she studies me like a piece of artwork or a finely-made weapon. "I think it came out just fine" she purrs. My legs stretch out on the floor ahead of me as she straddles my lap slowly. Her bare ass presses to the warm leather of my pants, and her fingers begin to unlace the blood-red tunic that I'm still wearing up top. With her so near, I lean back on one hand as I almost push her away with the other. It's been a while, what? Don't judge me. I'm nervous. More and more of my grave-pale skin becomes visible, until she pulls the tunic up and over my head. It leaves me bare to the waist, my nipples already hard. I feel suddenly shy to be looked at so exposed, and I really shouldn't. As I said, I've been made to do some pretty awful things in the service of Molag Bal, but that was all so long ago it's like a dream. Aela's body is warm in my lap, and her hands travel over my chest and stomach wonderingly as if she didn't expect a vampire to not be repulsive. Her own body has a few light scars upon it, but nothing that looks crippling or unsightly. And then my eyes move up to her neck, to the spot just beneath her jaw where I can see and feel and smell and even hear her pulse beating strongest. My stomach clenches, and I want to feed. I need to. Without thinking about it I lean forward, my lips tingling and parting as I kiss at her collarbone, my free hand sliding to her lower back to hold her close to me. Aela's body shifts and warms up against me, her hands moving to my shoulders as her hips press against my stomach. I can smell her desire and her need, and even as I kiss my way up to her neck my hand slides down from her lower back to grasp at her ass cheek, squeezing it. "You may only have a small amount. Any more than that would be unwise." Her voice thrums through me, and I just nod silently before latching on with my teeth. She doesn't flinch, not even when I pull my teeth away and suck at the two puncture wounds. With my face nestled in beneath her jaw and neck, I pull in mouthfuls of hot, vivacious blood. It hits my system like nothing I've ever tasted before, and I begin to shiver before she pulls me away by the hair. "Enough." My tongue and teeth are sanguine, and I struggle to get to the source of such blessed vitae but to no avail. Aela's strength has returned, and she won't let me near her neck again. I feel better, her blood going to work to help repair the aches and pains and hidden damage inflicted upon me. What it also does is make my body realize how starving it is to be with another person. Instead of struggling to get to her neck, I lower my head and try to press my mouth to her naked breast. This she allows, gasping as I slide my tongue over the hard bud of her nipple. Her scent becomes stronger on the warm air, her stomach tensing as her hands grip at my shoulders. "Lie down..." she breathes, guiding me away from her chest. I frown, confused, and she adds "...and remove your pants." I do as commanded, pulling my trousers off until I'm completely naked along with her. I lie on my back, and she lies down next to me, though she's oriented the opposite way with her head facing my stomach. Then she shifts forward, parting my legs and using my thigh as a pillow so that...she...can... "Oh gods, yes..." I groan, arching my back and gripping at the hips in front of me. Her mouth is hot and eager, her tongue sliding everywhere that it should. My upper leg shifts to give her room, and her own upper leg does the same as I pull closer to her. Her own sex is glistening and heated, and I've barely begun sliding my tongue over it before she shudders. My celibacy is officially over, and I bury my face in between her muscular legs. My mouth licks and sucks and nibbles at everything it can find. I even suckle on two fingers and slide them into her, wanting to pleasure her and fill her. The woman squirms and writhes, moaning into my own flesh. At one point she gasps as I just brush the tip of a fang over her clit, making her shudder and nearly cum. Her head lifts from my thigh, and she gasps "Do you need to breathe?" A bit of an odd question. "No" I murmur against her inner thigh. No sooner have I said this than I find myself on my back with her hips above my face. All is dark and hot and sweet as she rides my mouth forcefully. With my hands on her hips I can feel how tense and close she is, her body moving in the way it needs to so that she can find her climax. Apparently this involves sliding herself my lower lip and teeth, because as soon as she finds that angle it only takes a few moments more. Her cry of bliss almost sounds anguished and strained, and I can imagine that her dry spell has worn on her. I mean, it's nothing like mine, but at least I was asleep for most of it. Hot, molten nectar slides onto my lips and tongue, and I swallow it all, liking her flavor. My system might not be happy having this in my stomach, but this is worth it. When she moves, I'm almost blinded by the firelight. My hands lift to cover my eyes, my thighs rubbing together desperately. She dismounts and moves nearby, and soon I feel her strong hands at my inner thighs, parting my legs. I try to sit up but she just pushes me back down, and I look up at the ceiling. And then my back arches sharply and I moan like a whore as a pair of fingers enter me and her hot mouth finds my pearl and adores it. My hands fly to her auburn hair, gripping it as my hips writhe against her face. My thighs quiver, my stomach tenses, my everything tenses, and then my climax bursts from me like thunder. My cry is a wail, plaintive and desperate as my nerves thrill with fire and shock and threaten to tear me apart into particles of matter. I can't stay still, but Aela is strong enough to hold me down, clearly feeling that her own release was so good that I deserve two. Or perhaps she just wanted to force that second, mind-shattering orgasm from me just for the hell of it. I honestly don't care. She only allows me to rest when she decides that enough's enough, and we both catch our breath (well, she needs to, I don't breathe) amidst this horrible, gory scene. The bodies are still there, still torn open. We haven't done a thing with them. I start to wonder about myself, and whether this kind of setting actually aroused me. Maybe. I'll have to consider this later. Shortly after we get dressed and head back out to the main room by the crevice exit. The sound of the storm has ceased, and wan daylight is starting to filter in. I pull up my hood as we head out and stand in the dawn-lit plain, the cool feel of the damp breeze tousling our hair. Aela and I prepare to part ways, and I say "So, you Companions stay in Whiterun?" She nods and starts to walk back, calling over her shoulder. "If you have need of me, I can always be found there." I grin and call after her "Will you commission great songs in my honor?" The woman laughs and calls "They will be the bawdiest of heroic tales ever told. You can count on it." Now that's something fitting for a Daughter of Cold Harbor. Ill Met By Moonlight Then a metaphorical flood washes over me at that same instant. Shame burns into my very core when I think of, when I see, what I have done. In the past I have done many unspeakable things in wolf form and never once questioned myself about them afterwards. If I ever thought about it at all my rationalisation was literally, 'tis the nature of the beast'. But now I feel all too human emotions regarding my actions. Overwhelmed by these unfamiliar sensations I lower my head and find myself crying. The sensation of a hand stroking my cheek brings my head up and opens my eyes in wonder. The girl stands in front of me, naked, ravaged. The emotions betrayed by her flushed face are impossible for me to read. 'Why do you weep?' she asks me, softly. My only answer is more sobbing. How can she be so 'human' after the animal assault I have just subjected her to? 'Hush' she whispers, stroking my face until my despair abates. Still unable to speak I can only stare into her startlingly blue eyes. 'What is your name?' she asks me. I am doubly confused by her question. At first I can only wonder why she should care to know. Then I am stunned to realise I have to search my memory to recall it. Have I really been the lonely 'Skinwalker' for so long that I must rack my mind to recall this fact? Has it been so long since loving parents gave me that name, since family and friends called me by it? I lower my head again. After the longest instant I mutter hoarsely, 'Fergus.' I hand under my chin raises my face until I am gazing at her again. 'And my name is Susan.' To my utter astonishment I see a tremulous smile quiver on her lips. 'You have to know something.' She tells me. 'You are wrong. I never "pitied" you when I heard your story. I thought you must be so lonely and, as an orphan, in my immature thoughts, I imagined we had some sort of kinship. I used to dream that if we met, we could make each other less alone.' I see the smile slip from her face and the despair rises in me again. I reply 'And so we do meet. And I make your dream a nightmare.' I laugh harshly at the irony. She looks at me closely, then at the moon. 'Could you help yourself, just now, when you......when you.....did that?' I shake my head 'Then do not berate yourself, Fergus.' She stops. 'You might have noticed I didn't totally hate what you did to me.' Stunned I see a dazzling, half embarrassed, half self-conscious smile flash across her face. I find myself smiling back at her. Then amazement is piled on top of astonishment when she reaches out her hand and strokes my deflated cock. 'In fact, now that you are human and you "can help yourself", perhaps you would like to "help yourself" again?' I feel my groin tingle and blood flood my prick. I cannot believe that this is happening. As if my body if controlled by another mind I slowly lean forward to kiss her. But even as I do I worry that she will scream, twist away and try to run. But she does none of these things and I find myself kissing her tear-stained, salt-tasting cheeks. When our tongues entwine and couple in a sensuous dance, I hear myself moaning in her mouth and she responds in kind, her hands linking behind my head, pulling me closer to her. My cock is already fully erect and it presses against her thigh as I cup her breast and stroke her hardening nipple, making her back arch. She twists her hips, opening her legs, pressing against my hardness until I feel my cock-head pressing against the centre of her heat. In this instant I have never felt more human. I pull away from our kiss so that I can gaze at her once more. In my eyes she sees the question I cannot bring myself to ask; knows that answer I want – that I need more than I need air, food or life. I see her nod and then she leans forward to nuzzle my ear and whisper the sweetest redemption I shall ever receive. 'Yes.' In a tender instant I shift my hips and my shaft parts her lips and slides into her welcoming wetness. 'Yes' I hear her say in my ear, 'Yes!' she repeats, more urgently. 'YES!' she cries in aching joy as we are fully joined. Urged on by her words I draw back and surge into her again, her body meeting mine as I do. We move in harmony together. I am not taking, she is not giving We kiss again – passionately yet gently - as we continue to move in concert, merging, melding, joining. Each increase in pace is anticipated and appreciated. We both know the destination we want to reach and are in a hurry to arrive, yet want to make the journey last forever. But nothing this good can last, as much as we both might want it to. After a brief eternity I feel her readiness matching mine. Like a huge wave towering over the shore before crashing down we climax together. Now it is her turn to tear me with her nails and bite my neck as she shudders and moans and I cry out – released in every sense. My orgasm, instead of draining me, revitalises me. My skin tingles and I realise that now, only now, do I feel truly alive. Not in wolf form as I previously though, but at this instant – when I am finally, fully human. Her tenderness, her humanity, her love, have ransomed a lost soul I smile down at her, and she returns my smile. This moment I would wish to press in amber and keep for eternity. But it is only that moment – and it passes. From down the valley I hear howling and know I was mistaken earlier when I thought I heard echoes. My hunters are close – and they are using my 'cousins' to track me. My mind races as I think of how to save....save what is good. Susan is obviously thinking and making plans as well. She looks at me, scared but brave. 'Go!' she hisses. 'You can out run them, as a wolf. They don't want me – they want you. Come back for me when you can.' Then she pauses, suddenly looking and sounding hesitant. 'If you want to come back for me that is?' I almost laugh. Stroking her cheek I whisper, 'There is nothing I would prefer more than to come back for you. But you saved me when I was lost and it is now my turn to do that for you.' 'Go, please. Just go!' she cries, but I shake my head. I know my hunters. Superstitious peasants who know that my head, displayed in the town square, will make them rich men. But if I leave Susan they will find her, the dogs will find her. 'I cannot run and leave you.' I explain, looking at the wounds I have left on her body, feeling some of my self-loathing returning. 'When they see you they will believe you are my victim. They will also believe, ignorant as they are, that I will have infected you with my disease. They will use their precious silver bullets on you, just to be safe.' I see her eyes fill with tears as she recognises the truth in my words. 'Besides' I add, suddenly feeling tired. 'I am done with running like an animal.' Closer now, the dogs howl and whine. They well and truly have my scent now and I can make out the shouts of their handlers, trying to restrain them. I can even see faint glints of light from the torches they carry. I straighten my shoulders and remember that I should button my trousers. Susan realises what I intend to do and begins to cry, silently, clutching my arm. In counterpoint to her previous glad affirmatives she can only murmur, 'No, no, no.' I take her face between my hands and kiss her lips once more. 'Go, across the bridge. Wait for me till morning at the church a mile beyond.' I tell her this, to give her hope. We all need hope. 'As a wolf I can stop them.' I tell her. I do not tell her that now that she has made wholly human, I intend never to return to my animal form. I kiss her one last time and tear myself from her lips. Before she can try to prevent me I stride down the road, towards the lights, the cries and the howling – promising myself I will not look back. 'Fergus?!' Without stopping I half turn, unable to keep my promise to myself. 'What shall I do if you don't come back?' she cries. 'Do what neither of us wanted to do before this night Susan; live.' I turn away and increase my pace. As I do, I shout over my shoulder. 'Live Susan! Live for both of us.'