“Can I help you?”

 “Get out of my town.”

 “Look around. I’m packing.”

 “Don’t even think of coming back. You’ll be sorry.”

 “Can you at least explain the reason for such incivility?”

 “You know the reason well.”

 “To be honest, no, I don’t.”

 “You slept with Bert.”

 “So what?”

 “You know what!”

 “Does Bert have problems with that? Something he cannot tell me on his own?”

 “I have problems with that!”

 “Is it like this with every girl Bert bangs? You throw them out of the town?”

 “Listen, you. Don’t you dare to be smart with me. I know who you are. I know what you are.”

 “Do you indeed? Pray tell me. I love hearing about myself.”

***

I see relaxation as a matter of utmost importance. Getting out of familiar routine. Seeing new places. Meeting new people. Getting to know them. Acquiring pleasant memories. Writing my own book of adventures. 

The GO bus disappears behind the curve of the road, leaving me alone at a miniscule bus stop surrounded by unkempt fruit trees and sunlit grasses. I hoist my backpack on my shoulder, and  start walking. 

I have no particular destination in mind. There is an Airbnb here somewhere, a small flat I rented for the long weekend, the key hidden under the doormat. I’m not looking for the house right now. A place to stay in the unknown town is important, but it takes the back seat compared to entertainment. I didn’t come here to be bored.

The reign of wild grass around me is coming to an end, giving way to spacious houses with huge lawns, unthinkable in big cities. I stride by them, making mental notes of all the little paths a dog-sized animal could use to move around at dusk without getting noticed. The place looks very promising. My mood brightens by the second.

The street leads me to a wide avenue, which in turn brings me to a city park, full of dog walkers, parents with babies and students eating ice cream. I buy myself a cone and sit down on a rusty bench. The park air has a tinge of burnt coffee to it. The ice cream is cold and sweet on my tongue. That’s one of the charms of the smaller towns: the family-owned food businesses.  

A pack of dogs, accompanied by two dog walkers, is striding down the park lane towards my bench. The walkers, a man and a woman, are talking to each other animatedly, while the dogs are busy pulling in different directions. There are eight dogs in total, five led by the guy, another three by the lady. All animals are in excellent shape, and only a couple of them are small. One should possess quite a strength to successfully manage such an ample stock of four-legged bolters. I take a closer look. Am I that lucky?

The man is not very tall, but strikingly well-built. His white T-shirt clings to his wide shoulders, the short sleeves giving a good show of the nice biceps. The model of tight jeans he is wearing rarely looks good on men, but in this particular case they work, stressing the muscular legs and making the owner taller. The young man’s black hair is a chaos of messy curls, his black eyes are soft like those of a puppy, his smile is arresting. A pretty boy.  

When the dogs and their walkers level with my bench, I fart. Not too strongly, but enough for the dogs to notice and to pull the leash. Dogs are often attracted to the smells humans find indecent. Dogs… and other beasts.

The young man casts a quick glance in my direction, mostly to make sure the dogs did not cause me discomfort. I use this moment to lick at my ice cream in a manner that can only be called provocative. I am not looking him in the eyes, not yet. It’s too early for that. 

He reddens, the white skin of his cheeks literally turning scarlet. He tugs the curious dogs away from me and I smile. Quick of reactions, quick of emotions. He is all I hoped he would be. Good.

***

Bert loves his town. It has everything to make one feel at home: small streets and sudden ravines, busy malls and small coffee shops, intricate flowerbeds and funny statues, pedestrian crossings that resemble drunken zebras and garbage bins that look like pieces of art. He knows this little place, every nook and cranny, and he cannot imagine living anywhere else. 

As far as he can remember, Bert prefers a simple life. Let others have big names and big careers; he is completely content being what he is. He doesn’t have to worry about what to eat and where to sleep. He has mates who are more than family. He has this town, big enough for all of them, but small enough to keep potential intruders disinterested.

He enjoys striding down the streets, rain or shine, but this weekend it feels almost festive. Never before has he met so many pretty girls in one walk. One is a blond beauty with skin so fair it almost glared in the sun. Another a redhead with green eyes as bright and mischievous as a cat’s. Yet another has a splendid mane of raven-black hair, soft, fine and silky.

A peculiar feeling raises in his chest. Bert first attributes it to the girls. Some of the beauties smile at him, which is… well… exhilarating. But then he walks into the back alley where no pretty faces are to be expected, and yet the sensation lingers. Is someone watching him? Bert looks around carefully. There is no one in sight, just closed doors and barred windows. Then again, he doesn’t sense danger. He doesn’t feel anything but excitement, in fact. It is a riddle, and it is fun.

Next time he sees Angela, he tells her about the strange sensation. She doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Every one of their packmates has their silly moments once in a while. They are all still young, still learning about the triggers that can change a wolf’s mood. A new house, a new route, a new smell… especially the smell.  

“Be sure to tell Kurt,” Angela reminds him. “You know how paranoid he is.”

Kurt is the fiercest in their lot, and the oldest. He is also the broodiest. On good days he just goes about his business, doing rounds or picking up jobs at shops. In the evenings, he rarely participates in the boisterous play of the pack. This is probably for the best. Such fight would bear too high a risk of Kurt killing one of the youngsters accidentally, simply due to his sheer physical strength. 

Sometimes (usually after a generous amount of beer) Kurt starts talking about the dangers of the world. If he’s to be believed, life out there is brutal and the life expectancy is not very high. He speaks of vampires and sorcerers, of bloody rituals and soul sacrifices. It is better than any thriller one could watch in the movie theater. Kurt knows how to make your blood freeze in your veins.

“Bert,” Angela calls, snapping him out of his reverie. “Isn’t it the same squirrel we saw back in the park?”

She points at a small black animal rummaging through the food leftovers next to an overturned garbage bin. It looks exactly like dozens of other squirrels around the town, but Bert knows what his packmate means. The shape of the ears, the size of the tail, the look in the black eyes, everything is somewhat familiar. It’s like a stranger you meet when exiting a corner store. You may never even register them, but if you stumble into them anew within five minutes, you have a good chance of recognising them.

Bert thought of that green-eyed girl he met next to the milk shop. He wouldn’t mind stumbling into her again.

“Didn’t you say there was a bird following you the other day?” Angela asks. 

“I said I didn’t know,” Bert replies. “All I know is that I have this peculiar feeling. The bird was just there when I first noticed the sensation. It flew away soon after.”

“Let’s walk on,” the girl suggests. “And see if the squirrel follows suit.”

They make their way to the end of the alley. Before turning the corner, they glance back. The squirrel is still at the bin, preoccupied with some delicious morsel it has found. As they watch, it finishes eating and scurries away. 

“Maybe not the same one,” Angela shrugs.

Bert nods. Squirrels don’t usually follow wolves. No more than birds do. Or, alas, pretty girls. 

Still, it’s good to be immersed into the feeling of adventure. 

***

Sex can be complicated. It invokes expectations. It creates ties.

The people of my kind see lovemaking as a transaction. A favour to be given in exchange for something else of equal value. Sex for the sake of sex makes them uneasy. Intercourse has a reputation of a powerful tool, and this perception tints any joy it can bring. 

More mundane men see sex as my obligation. This never ceases to amaze me. Many of the males I’ve met genuinely believed that by agreeing to dine with them I promised to become their plaything for the night. Somehow the mere fact that I was wearing a lowcut dress was interpreted as my readiness to fulfil their every desire. Don’t get me wrong. In many cases I openly invited sex. But it was supposed to be for pleasure. For mutual pleasure, not just a dream-fulfiller for the man. 

I like sex for what it is. The union of two passions, however temporary. The imperious tug of the primordial instinct. The thrill of getting closer. The exhilaration of the first touch, and the warm avalanche of the touches that follow. Who cares about names, ages, jobs? What matters is joy. No questions asked. No follow ups required. No strings attached. 

That’s why I’m looking for very specific bed companions. The creatures whose physique is an eye candy, whose stamina is virtually inexhaustible, whose head is easily overruled by their heart. I don’t want my partners dominating or scheming when they are with me. I want them to be focused on me, and on love.  

One-night stands are my motto. Sextourism is my thing.

***

Bert is lying on his stomach, his tongue dangling between his fangs, his breath heavy. The girl is swimming in the lake, naked. He never sees her full body, only glimpses of it here and there: her bare shoulders when she stops moving to brush her wet hair off her face, her tits when she turns to swim on her back, her white bum when she dives. If anything, this makes the process of watching her even more exhilarating. 

The girl is gorgeous. Bert never thought he would meet someone who would resemble his dream woman so closely. Her skin is so white - not tanned, not even freckled. Her hair is the darkest dark, thick like wolf fur. Her eyes are the brightest green, so sparkling it makes him wonder if they would gleam in the night.

Bert already knows she is a guest in the town. She is here only for the long weekend. This fuels his interest, turning it into all-consuming passion. He pretty much drops all his regular duties. He uses every chance to go and look at the girl more. His mates are not too happy about the arrangement, but mostly they decide to wait it out. Kurt is the only one who is truly displeased. Usually, the alpha’s anger is a good enough reason for Bert to backtrack. Not this time. The girl is leaving soon. Bert might never see her again. He wants to enjoy the little time he has.

The girl is now swimming back to the pier, her lovely face peaceful and relaxed. As she is getting closer, Bert retreats back into the alder thickets. He doesn’t want to frighten her, and who wouldn’t be startled by a wolf watching them from the bushes?   

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

He now cannot see her at all. Her frantic yelp comes as a surprise, as does the strong, powerful smell of blood. Bert pricks his ears. Something happened. Her agitated voice comes to him through the bushes (“Oh my god, oh my god”), but he is hesitant about leaning out for a better look. Instead, he crawls back even more, until she cannot possibly spot him. Then he jumps on his feet and runs headlong towards his nearest stash of clothes. 

He is back in five minutes, this time in his human form. The girl is still at the lake, the metallic smell of her blood strong in the air. Bert walks through the clearing to the shore doing his best to look nonchalant. He is probably failing. Blood is the smell no one of his kind could stay indifferent to.

The girl is sitting at the end of the pier. She is draped in a towel, her clothes still a neat pile next to her. The girl is examining a long bloodied gash on her right foot. When Bert shows up, she raises her head, looking both hopeful and alarmed. 

“Are you alright, Miss?” he says, trying to master his quivering voice into politeness. “Do you need help?”

She hesitates. She is alone and wounded in a remote location, now in the company of a stranger. For a moment, the girl looks so vulnerable Bert has to stifle the impulse to run to her and lick her all over as if she were a cub. He is standing there like an idiot, searching for other ways to offer his assistance, when the girl speaks. 

“Yes please,” she says. “Would you be so kind?” 

Grateful, he moves to the wooden platform. The girl picks up the roll of her neatly-folded clothes. Bert half expects her to ask him to turn away, to give her time to change. She doesn’t, probably afraid of exposing herself even more than she already did.

Bert helps her up. Her skin is white like a bleached bone, smooth, and cool to the touch. The ends of her black tresses tickle his arms, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. Bert inhales, trying to do it discreetly. Her smell is something to remember.

“My name is Bert, by the way,” he tells her, to make her feel safer. “What’s yours?”

The girl opens her mouth to answer, but yelps again as she tries to step on her wounded foot. Bert walks her down the pier and onto the sand, but then the shore ends and the clearing starts. The first twisted root makes the girl trip and cry out in frustration and pain.

“Do you live far from here?” Bert asks.

He knows exactly where she lives.  

“Not far away.” The girl sighs. “With two normal legs, that is. It’s going to be a long walk.”

“Allow me to make it shorter.”

She looks at him again, her green eyes worried, her pale lips so delicate and inviting it makes him swallow. Carefully, he leans forward, sliding one of his arms behind her waist and placing another under her knees. Her towel is still wet from the lake water, but her skin is warm now.   

“You don’t have to…” she protests.

“It’s no trouble,” he assures her. “Just tell me where to go.”

She points. He starts moving. Having her in his arms is tantalizing. The girl hugs him a little for a better hold, and her touch makes something melt inside him. He barely stops himself from kissing her neck. Her pink ear is pretty much begging to be traced with his tongue. And - could it be? - his nose is telling him that the girl might be aroused as well.

He wants this walk to never end. But he can already see the house the girl is staying at. Maybe she’d invite him in for tea. Or to treat her injured foot. It would definitely need treating. Bert could tell her he had first aid experience. It wouldn’t even be a lie. 

Bert lowers the girl on the ground at the porch. The door is unlocked, but even so, opening the storm door proves a struggle for the girl. She has to lean heavily on the wall to keep upright. 

Behind the entrance, there is a staircase. The girl looks at it and sighs. She then turns to Bert and gives him a forced smile.

“Thank you for your…” she starts.

“Do you want me to help you up the stairs?” he asks quickly.

Her smile blossoms. Without waiting for her nod, Bert sweeps her into his arms again. As they move upstairs, the girl looks him straight in the face. He nearly stumbles. Her green eyes do gleam in the dim light of the passage.

The fact she is wearing a flimsy towel doesn’t help at all. When Bert brings her into the loft and lowers her on the sofa, the end of it comes undone, exposing the milky flesh of her side and hip. Bert lets out a ragged breath. He knows the girl couldn’t miss the hungry expression he must have on his face. 

She doesn’t say anything. She just fumbles with the towel, restoring the end of it to its proper place, and sits up. 

“What’s your name?” Bert asks again. He cannot think of anything better to say. 

“Moss,” she replies. “My mom was a biologist,” she adds, almost apologetically.

“It’s a nice name,” he says hastily. “Goes well with your eyes.”

The girl gives him a small smile.

“That’s what my mom always said.”

She pulls up her right foot, examining the gash. It looks red and swollen, but Bert sees no real reasons for concern. On him, it would heal in minutes. On a human, it would probably take a week or two. He touches the skin near the wound gingerly. It’s warm, but not hot.

“Could you give me my bag?” the girl asks, pointing at her backpack by the wall. “I should have some supplies…” She stops mid-word. “Sorry, I forgot. You were heading somewhere when we met. You already helped me a lot. I don’t want to hold you here any longer.”

“No, no,” he says hurriedly and probably too eagerly. “I have no pressing plans. I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”

He brings her the bag. The girl dives into it and reemerges with a tube of salve. Kneeling on the carpet, Bert treats the injured foot and bandages it. The girl lets him do it, grimacing slightly when the pressure gets uncomfortable. When he is done, he picks up the tube from the floor and turns to give it to her.

She is still looking at her bandaged foot, leaning forward slightly. Even with the towel over her torso, Bert can see the hollow between her breasts. He can make out the breasts themselves, the top of them visible, the rest sweet to imagine. Would her nipples be pink or pale? Big or small?  

He realizes the girl is looking at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks the same way it was rushing to his cock just a moment ago. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of a creep.” He inhales deeply. “It’s just… you’re very pretty and… and I probably should be getting the fuck out of here for spooking a nice girl I’ve just met.”

“I don’t want you to get the fuck out,” the girl says.  She pauses. “Is it a bad thing?”

“No,” he breathes out, intoxicated by the prospects her words offer.  

“Your name is Bert, right?” the girl asks.

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you, Bert.”

She stretches out her hand. He takes it, intending to shake it, but instead brings it to his lips and kisses it.

***

The feeling of his lips on my skin makes me close my eyes in joy and anticipation. I love these turning points, these momentary instances when things become obsolete. The room disappears, the world disappears, the past disappears. Only we remain, the two lustful creatures who crave each other’s touch. 

The boy makes a soft greedy sound and kisses my hand again, this time in the wrist, unable to stop, unable to let go. I use this chance to do what I longed to do since I first saw him. I lean closer and enmesh the fingers of my other hand into his thick black curls. 

This makes him look me in the face. This time, there is no shyness in his eyes. My towel drops and he doesn’t even blink. He knows he is wanted. His nose must have told him that. 

The boy goes for my lips. The kiss is juicy. His caresses are juicier still. One of his hands slides to the nape of my neck, another one lands on my breast, making me moan hungrily. When we tear apart for a quick breath, I bit his lip playfully. He smiles at me, and I feel aroused just by the sight of it. It would feel even better, if not for his stupid clothes.

I help the boy out of his T-shirt and pants. I’m not surprised at the absence of underwear. Werewolves rarely bother with clothes above the one that make them socially presentable.

Now that we are naked and ready, the sofa becomes a bit narrow for the kind of exercise I have in mind. I disentangle myself from my partner, quite reluctantly, grab his hand and nod towards the laundry room. The boy is a bit surprised, but he follows my lead. I know the angle I want right now, and the washing machine is just the right height for that. Anyway, beds are overrated. 

I am always very picky about the Airbnb I choose. I make sure there are no close neighbours, and the hosts don't live in the same house. I test the sturdiness of beds, bunks, armchairs, balcony rocking chairs, tables and cupboards. I check the staircases, the bathtub and the attic. I have a history of leaving broken furniture in my wake. The hosts are pissed at first, but I pay handsomely. 

Presently, I mount the washer. A moment later, the boy is in me, pressing into me with all the strength and determination I love about his kind. Will the first time be hectic and fast, or prolonged and savory? It’s always a gamble. Werewolves are not famous for their self-control in the moments of passion. But some do struggle to retain some mindfulness, and such cases are a treat. It means I really got their dream right.

The boy lasts. In between the thrusts, he pants out my name. His breath is hot on my skin, his body is shining with sweat. I give myself away to the sweetness of the moment. Initially, I was going to turn the washer on (yes, I can do it with my eyes closed), to add some vibration. But there is no need. Everything is perfect as it is. 

He comes, too early for me, of course. I let the disappointment show. And sure enough, the boy is eager to please me and to show his prowess. Werewolves don’t need much to recuperate before taking a second shot.  

This time, we go wild around the flat. We pile plush pillows on top of the wingback armchair, to make it suit our needs better. We experiment on the edge of the bed, and then around it, ruining one of the hickory nightstands. We have fun on the stairs, its somewhat bushy carpeting adding to the roughness of the play. It always thrills me how different surfaces can contribute to the overall sensation. 

The boy is breathing heavily, his eyes closed, his mind and soul entirely focused on beating into me. I doubt that he remembers where he is. He definitely doesn’t remember to keep up appearances. He doesn’t go into full transformation – that actually requires conscious effort – but small changes do show. When he showers my neck with kisses, I can feel his fangs glancing on my skin. When he cries out my name, his voice has a rumbling undertone to it which sends pleasant shivers down my spine. His claws leave deep scratches on my lower back. It brings more pleasure than pain. I don’t care about minor injuries. I heal fast. It’s probably for the best that my foot is bandaged. Less chance for him to notice the complete absence of the wound that brought us together.

By midnight, we both are quite famished. I have food in the fridge: pre-cut fruit, cherry tomatoes, lots of deli meats and mini pastries. No make-ahead dinners, though, not even a frozen pizza that can be prepared in ten minutes. Cooking together leads to talking, and this can be awkward. Feeding each other morsels of smoked meat or pieces of pineapple has all the charm of interaction over food with none of its clumsiness.

After all the experiments with the edibles, it’s only natural for us to move to the bathroom. It’s now more about relaxation than passion. Huge fluffy towels, delicate glow of candles, gentle foam, dark water smelling of fog and autumn leaves - oh, I know what fragrances make a werewolf’s head spin. The boy is laying on his back, his arms wrapped possessively around me, his fingers caressing my back. He is sated, and so am I. At last.

He leaves at dawn. By that time, he is ravenously hungry. Cold cuts and fruit are all nice and dandy, but they are not enough to balance the energy the young man has spent this night. 

I like how he goes away with just a goodbye kiss. No promises, no aspirations to meet up later. He is probably thinking he’d come back the moment he is done with his breakfast. I know it won’t happen. He wouldn’t want to prolong the relationship that has no future.

What we have instead are the memories worth keeping.

***

The air inside the small house still reeks of sex. Kurt hates the smell. Not because it’s bad. It’s exciting, actually. Alluring. Inviting. Tempting. 

...Annoying.

“You are a witch,” Kurt snarls at the girl. “I’ve heard of others of your kind. I was watching you. You charmed him. You enticed him. You put a spell on him to make him sleep with you.”

“Oh?” The girl looks mildly amused. “You think Bert is unable to get a girl unless she puts a spell on him?”

“Don’t you try to trick me!” he growls. “I’m not stupid. Bert talked about you. He talked and I listened. All these girls he’d met… it was you! You showed yourself to him in different forms. You were checking what gives him the kicks! You sent your servants to stalk him, squirrels and birds.”

The girl shrugs.

“I needed to know his routine. A werewolf is rarely alone. I do not appreciate an audience when I’m having sex.”

“Aha!” Kurt says triumphantly. “I knew I could make you own up to it. You are not even denying having servants!”

“I still don’t understand,” says the girl, “what got your knickers in a knot. Your friend got a night of wild lovemaking. What’s your problem? Are you jealous?”

Kurt cannot take it anymore. He grabs her shoulder.

“Listen, bitch. He is not my friend. He is my packmate. If you think you can mess with his head and get away with it…”

She puts her cool palm on his wrist, gently, carefully.

“But I didn’t,” she says softly. “I could, for sure. But I chose not to.”

She smiles into his gloomy face. 

“Of course I watched him for a bit, at first. Of course I took steps to figure out what he likes. But the sex was genuine. I don’t force my lovers. I don’t need to.” 

“I don’t believe you!” Kurt growls. “If you could find a man by normal means, you wouldn’t come here looking for werewolves!”

“You bet I would,” she replies, a bit loftily. “I’ve tried human men. They are a joke. No one is more passionate, visceral and powerful than a werewolf in your bed.”

‘Shut up!”

He squeezes her shoulder. For a moment, the girl grimaces in pain. But she doesn’t shriek. That surprises him. The pressure should have been enough.

“Actually,” the girl says coldly, “it’s you who should shut up. Think about it. If everything you said about me is true - if I am a witch capable of turning a brutal fighter into a lustful lover - where does it put you?”

“What do you mean?”

The girl sighs.

“I can see you’re angry. I know you can barely stop yourself from clawing me apart.”

Kurt grins ferociously.

“You’re finally clueing in.”

“I am indeed”, the girl nods. “But you aren’t. Yes, you are able to shred me to pieces. And I, as we just established, can simply snap my fingers to make you kneel and beg for my touch.”

The pressure of her palm on his wrist becomes stronger.

“Are you ready to bet,” she whispers, leaning closer, her eyes sparkling, “who gets there first?”

A growl comes up his throat, a thunderous, animal noise of fury. Black fur bursts through the skin on his large arms, black claws shoot out of his fingers. But before Kurt can grab the girl’s other shoulder, before he can even move, he feels his red rage morphing into something else entirely, something powerful, breathtaking and irresistible like a torrent of a mountain river. 

The overwhelming sensation of her closeness. The warmth of her body. The smell, her smell down there, worth killing for, worth dying for. He inhales, greedily, yearningly, he slumps forward, feeling his knees giving way...

The lustful haze dissipates abruptly, leaving anger in its wake, paired with an acute sense of danger. Kurt stares at the girl. 

She is calm. Her brown eyes meet his without trepidation. Her gaze isn’t daring him to keep going; it isn’t pleading him to stop, either.

Kurt knows an enemy when he sees one. He also knows a battle that he cannot win. Not alone. Not unprepared.  

“Get out,” the witch says.

And he complies.