Lacmere University – Chapter 8: An Enthusiastic Walk [4.8k Words]
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Lacmere University – Chapter 8: An Enthusiastic Walk [4.8k Words]
'Brian! I have never seen sunlight before, Brian! Thank you! Thank you so much!' Bobbi said with pure, innocent joy.
Resting on top of me, wagging her tail hard enough that her skirt flared up as much as it could, given her expanded hips and… other expanded things.
Round, jiggly, rotund things.
"Brian! Come! Look, look!" she says.
And I try not to sigh.
Which, honestly? It's a great improvement over what I thought I would be doing just a few minutes ago, with a werewolf pining me to the cold stone floor of one of the library's private study rooms.
Or, well, maybe not an improvement.
Just… different.
"Brian! You're not looking, Brian!"
The urge to sigh grows stronger, and I paper as sincere a smile as I can on my face before I look at Bobbi and whatever it is that she wants to show me this time.
Hopefully, it's not a squirrel. Don't misunderstand; I don't have anything against squirrels. I'm not bigoted against our Sciuridae neighbors or resentful of their constant incursions on the grassy fields that surround the cafeteria. Really.
Some of my best friends are squirrels—
"Brian!" Bobbi yells as she runs back the way she came, crossing the hiking trail that goes around the northern edge of Lacmere's lake before darting right into the forest to my left, the oh-so-important thing she wanted to show me apparently forgotten.
Which means she may have terrorized a squirrel into early hibernation.
Again.
I hope this doesn't end up with me canceled on squirrel Twitter.
And, come to think of it, given my recent discovery that werewolves are freaking real, I'll add an addendum to this earnest hope of mine: I hope that squirrel Twitter is not an actual thing. I mean, Ratatoskr is about the only squirrel-related myth I know about, and he was a messenger of the gods.
Of Norse gods.
…
I really, really hope those are not a thing—
"Brian!" the cheerful, mildly grating voice calls out from between trees thick enough that I lost sight of her as soon as she dashed between them, and, really, it's not like I don't enjoy looking at Bobbi luxuriating in her first taste of daylight, but…
But I'm trying not to enjoy it too much.
There are a couple of reasons for that. First and foremost is that Roberta and I never did finish our talk about what me doing things with Bobbi would mean, seeing as the third party involved in the subject decided to cut the conversation short by… manifesting hours before the time Roberta was sure she would.
Given that's twice in a row that Bobbi has done that, maybe we should start taking into account how unreliable Roberta is with a watch and calendar.
Or whatever it is that would make Bobbi come before sunset.
Before the moon rises.
… If this is stress-related, finals are going to be hilarious.
Anyway, yeah, first and foremost is the issue of informed consent when it comes to multiple persons more or less sharing the same body and at least a large part of their subconscious. The second crucial factor as to why I'm trying very hard not to stare at Bobbi?
"Hi, Brian!" she says as she darts between trees, shooting a bright, fanged smile my way before she disappears once again.
On all fours.
On. All. Fours.
Look, I'm a weak man. A feeble man. An Internet-addled man who has spent entirely too much time debating where the furry line lies and whether or not animal-eared girls even count. I'm a man who's quickly reconsidering a lot of the things he took for granted, to the point of assuming that a German librarian with Turkish ancestry must be a dark elf just because she looks younger than she should. A man who's not only having to deal with magic being real but with animal-eared girls being equally real and about as amorous as they used to be when they fell for my charms with the same inevitability as the used Kleenex fell into my wastebasket a few minutes later, when I was faced with the sad reality that catgirls aren't…
Well, real.
'How ironic,' my inner Palpatine wants to declare before I remember that I most definitely don't have an inner Palpatine, seeing as my most cunning plan for how to spend an evening with an uncomfortably attractive werewolf is to take her for walksies.
So, as a weak and not quite cunning man? Watching a girl filled to the brim with enthusiastic joy and the sheer delight of physicality, running through the forest with supernaturally tightened clothes, her energetically wagging tail lifting her skirt high enough that Roberta's taste in lingerie (black, lacy, and with shining satin) is no longer the enticing mystery it used to be and has now become a far more thrilling revelation…
…
What was I talking about?
"There's a stream! I've never seen sunlight glitter off a stream! It's so pretty, Brian!" she says, looking up at me, her hips swaying side to side to the tune of an enthusiastic tail before she turns around, and I get a reminder of Roberta's magnificent—taste! Taste in underwear!
… That seemed like the chaste and sensible alternative to my original thought.
… It still does.
Before I can come up with a PG idea to mask my earlier impression with, Bobbi darts off, pausing between two tall oaks to look back at me over her shoulder and raised skirt before her smile impossibly widens, and she runs back to where, presumably, she's found a pretty stream.
I close my eyes, try not to whine in sheer frustrated libido, fail at thinking pure thoughts, and remember what it is that I definitely should keep in mind:
Bobbi can smell my arousal.
That, in itself, is not particularly remarkable. I myself got kind of a… boost to my olfactory capabilities the first time I got a girl in the backseat of Dad's uncharacteristically nonsensical idea of what a proper birthday gift is. I… I remember sweaty hands clutching my pants as Anna bit her lip, and this isn't helping.
Okay.
Deep breaths.
Just… remember your last competition in high school, Brian. Remember your hand shaking as you tried to appear calm and didn't fool anyone. You had passed the poule, Dad was standing by the piste with a reassuring smile, the direct elimination bout about to start as soon as the referee dropped his hand with as much finality as Patrick ever does, and…
Yeah.
That's my libido done with. Thankfully, I don't have a defeat fetish.
I allow my wry smile to come out and step between the trees, the carpet of fallen leaves and green ferns crunching beneath shoes that I didn't choose for traipsing through the woods, thoughtlessly assuming that today would be another day for Bobbi and me to spend locked in the library, though maybe not nestling and cuddling over a pile of fallen books.
That's something I should have Roberta—nope. Not going down that route again.
Not while trying very hard not to entice the werewolf who can smell my arousal.
The sun is low, and the tree trunks are tinted orange, long shadows alternating with bright rays filtered through thin branches and leaves that started falling almost two months ago. So far north from where I grew up that it should be cold enough for me to keep wearing the jacket tied around my waist, but sun-warmed air seems to be trapped beneath the canopy of a forest that feels far more ancient than the castle on the other side of the lake, behind the cathedral-like library I just smuggled Bobbi out of.
And there she is.
On all fours, her hips raised, her forearms and hands on the smooth, round stones by the side of the burbling stream, her enthusiasm finally abated as she just looks at the rippling surface of water flowing right under her nose with a look of open, childlike wonder that makes something in my chest clench.
"It's like fire…" she murmurs, maybe for me, as she looks at the dappled motes of red and amber light that she doesn't realize also fall down her wild mane.
I take a deep breath, looking at her and trying to see Bobbi and not…
Somebody else.
This… this is the kind of scene where something has to happen. A falling leaf, a cracking twig… it doesn't matter. Just… something to intrude on the tableau. To break the enchantment. Something that will make me look away from her or make her look away from the stream. Something that will just…
That won't make me carefully step forward over crackling leaves until I'm by her side and kneel down to see the world she's seeing for the first time.
With me by her side.
"Thank you," she says with a bright smile that has a hint of drowsy enjoyment on it before she drops further down and turns to lie on her side, her head naturally falling on my lap, making me adjust so she's as comfortable as she can be before I start petting her hair, running my fingers through jagged locks, carefully untangling them as I feel the warmth of the grey skin beneath the black fur of the hackles covering her nape and shoulders.
She sighs, her tail lazily thumping against the forest floor, disturbing dry oak leaves, and I thoughtlessly tease her soft, furry ear, making her giggle as her smile broadens and her eyes meet mine to show me unfiltered, raw affection that I don't know how to answer to before she turns back to stare at the setting sun flowing down the stream.
I… I keep petting her. Feeling her softness. Her warmth.
And…
Dogs are unfair.
Dogs are purer than us. They show their fangs when they are angered and jump at you when they are happy. Dogs, at their most deceptive, pretend to feel guilt and keep checking on how you react until they think they have appeased you and can go back to licking you, begging you to play with them, to soothe them and shower them with pets, treats, and whatever way you have to show them the love that they never hesitate to overwhelm you with.
Dogs are better than us.
Or, at least, they are better than me.
And Bobbi… she's not a dog. Not really. Not even like an intelligent dog. She knows too much and understands too much.
But… there's an innocence in her, a purity, that no adult I've ever known holds. Not even Dad.
So.
That's the third reason:
I don't want to hurt Bobbi.
Because she says she likes me. She very much acts like she does. She's enamored with my scent, and I had to be very stern at her so she wouldn't tear my clothes off.
And she is attractive. She's a fantasy made flesh. She is… Roberta is already stunning enough, fulfilling far too many of my teenage fantasies just by being… her. But Bobbi has another kind of charm.
And I would be a terrible man if I took advantage of her.
I keep petting her, and the sun sets behind the frozen peak of the mountain in front of us, the towering slope of green and red forest that mixes conifers and scattered oaks among other trees that I didn't learn from Dad on all those hiking and camping trips we took when he taught me the name of the stars.
The sky right above us is already dark, a wide circle of that particular shade of midnight blue that looks like a hole torn through the heavens as it's surrounded by rings of purple and red when I lower my sight toward the horizon broken by the hills and mountains surrounding Lacmere.
Some stars show.
And, behind us, when I turn slowly and carefully not to disturb Bobbi from her contemplation of the last traces of sunlight she'll see until Roberta yet again fails to predict when her other self will show up…
There's the moon.
Almost invisible, mottled white with diffuse borders that fade into the sky around it as it rises above the walls of the castle.
Bobbi tenses on my lap, her breathing suddenly ragged, harder, and I'm reminded that, as much as we are an enigma to dogs with our unfathomable, bizarre rules, with all our inexplicable bursts of anger or disappointment… we also fail to understand them often enough.
"It's all right," I whisper, my hand pressing on the side of her head as she fails to suppress the shivers running down her body. "It's all right, Bobbi. I am here."
She whines, a wordless and guttural sound that makes cold drip down my back.
But I promised Roberta, didn't I? That I would never fear her.
So I lean down and gather the tall, strong, statuesque woman in my thin arms, thankful for once that I'm stronger than I look as I lift her up to rest her face against my chest and my cheek against the crown of her head, almost letting out an inappropriate chuckle when her twitching ears tickle my nose.
"It's all right," I repeat. "Whatever it is… it will be all right."
She turns in my arms, amber eyes blazing brighter than the fading traces of sunlight, her mouth open as she gasps with heated air rolling down the long tongue poking between her lower canines, and—
I'm on the ground, dry leaves and needles exploding away from me, clawed hands on my shoulders, a black mane falling around me, melting into the black sky…
And amber, glowing eyes lid as black lips push against mine.
Something… I…
I want to push her away.
I am holding her.
Her chest flattens against mine as it did this morning shortly before she left me alone with Roberta atop a pile of library fines or criminal charges; her thighs surround my body, and her body rests on mine.
And she…
She just… kisses me. Softly, sweetly, about as innocent as a first love or a childhood promise.
And then, before I can decide how I feel about it, her lips break away from mine, and she bows her head down to press her brow against my own as she smiles with closed eyes, turning into both dream and dreamer.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
There's no more sunlight. Only night surrounds us as I am in the woods that the wolf has claimed with nothing to guide me but the names of the stars above and lessons that my father failed to teach me.
"Always," I answer, impulsive and stupid.
Her eyes blaze open, pools of amber drawing me in as she smiles as pure and bright as the sun she's now missing, and she dives down to nuzzle my jugular with her nose, the claws on my shoulders seeming to draw away as her fingers trail down my arms before she hugs me tightly enough that I try not to show her any discomfort at her excessive display of strength.
Because Bobbi is also stronger than she looks.
And she already looked strong enough to start with.
"Brian?" she says with childlike shyness.
"Yes?" I answer with a dry throat and far too many moral dilemmas.
"Can I suck your cock now?"
I blink.
Then I immediately lament being a fencer rather than a practitioner of Brazilian jujutsu—all right, no, that's a lie, nobody should be that comfortable with having random sweaty crotches trust at their face unless they get paid for—anyway! I lament my lack of wrestling training as I desperately try to push Bobbi away without my hands falling on the multiple instances of excessive Bobbiness pressed all around me.
"Let! Go!" I argue in defense of my chastity.
"What? Why?! You're all nice, and didn't shave, and, and—you want me! You smell like you want me! Why don't you let me show you—"
"Bobbi," I say with a tone that has her go immediately rigid after the many, many times I had to use it yesterday.
She looks at me with her chin tucked down to her cleavage—collarbone. Her eyes are upturned, and she tries to look like she doesn't understand what she did wrong but is nonetheless horribly remorseful about it, so would I please stop acting so upset and rub her belly?
… Note to self: never, ever allow the image of Bobbi asking me for belly rubs to distract me from a scolding in progress.
"Stop. That," I growl.
"But why?" she asks, stubbornly clinging to me, her warm, soft breasts flattened against my chest, her hug even tighter than before.
"Because I said so!" I say, finally understanding some of Mom's tactics.
"But… you didn't shave…" she says, making sure I see her pout despondently before she looks away from me, and her ear once again tickles my nose.
So I nip it.
"Gah?!" she doesn't quite protest, her arms spasming around me as her whole body seizes and her breasts—her breasts act like breasts naturally do when an excessively well-endowed woman with inadequate support shivers.
My left eyelids twitch, and I press my lips together harder, trying not to get a mouthful of soft fur all over my tongue without relinquishing my prey—prize.
Ah, wait, that last one isn't any better. My catch? My prisoner? My—this isn't working.
Stupid brain, stupid hormones, stupid busty werewolves, stupid sexy librarians without half-moon glasses, stupid mostly male fencing club with no dating opportunities because Robin has that whole 'I'll definitely shoot you' aura and I'm not secure enough in my masculinity to go for that—
"Briaaaaaaan…" a voice coming from atop me says as I realize that I'm now moving my jaw side to side, my lips rubbing along the tip of Bobbi's captive ear as her voice turns into a mewl that is almost a protest except for the way that her weight on me undulates from her hips to her belly and then to her chest, not speeding up but going harder, rubbing, making me all too aware of the soft flesh and hard muscle, and how one turns into the other as waves of motion mirror the gasps and moans of a woman taller than I am losing strength with each renewed cycle of grinding, yearning movement, and…
Her arms slack around me.
Her hips fall down on mine.
And a surging fire inside of me makes me pull my arms out of her grip and hold her, my forearms trapping her lower back against me, making it impossible for her to keep undulating until she tries to writhe, to rub her hardened nipples against my chest.
I push with my pelvis against her, my uncomfortably hard cock trying to tear my pants to get at the warmth and wetness seeping past my underwear from above, and I close my eyes, trying to block her scent, her touch, her everything before I lose control.
She yelps, another shudder tugging her ear out of my possessive bite before I chase her head and recapture it, the whine turning into a gasp and all but forcing me to push with my hips again.
And again.
Until she loses her balance and falls on her side, and I push yet again against her yielding softness for her to allow me to keep turning the two of us.
Until she's below me.
Until amber eyes stare up into mine, as wide as my own, her gasps as rapid and loud as my thundering heartbeat. Until her legs lift from the ground and wrap around my hips, my hands traveling up her shuddering back to press flat against her shoulder blades as I try not to ravage her. Not to abandon myself to the sheer burst of desire that makes me acutely aware of how precarious the knot that Roberta tied her blouse into is, the white, ruffled cotton that underlines Bobbi's bust and strains with every jiggle or deep breath.
I push myself up on my knees and elbows, but I only manage to drag Bobbi's hips up with me as her thighs tighten and the pressure between our sexes grows.
"Bobbi…" I say through gritted teeth and half-closed eyes.
"Brian, Brian…" she says, her glowing eyes lidded behind grey skin.
"Bobbi, stop," I say, once again resorting to that tone, only for Bobbi to arch her back and push her shoulders deeper into the carpet of dry foliage, her chest rising up to offer her trembling softness to me.
"I… I want you. And you want me. Please, Brian, please."
I lower my head and take a deep breath off the side of her neck, with Bobbi immediately licking around and into my ear, a rhythmic sound distracting me until I realize it's the whisper of her tail sweeping across the forest ground.
"I want you," I whisper into an ear atop her head that twitches as soon as the words register.
"Then—"
"I want you bad. I want to grab your tail and pull you against my hips. I want to bite down on your neck with my chest resting on your back, every thrust of my cock driving you lower until your face pushes down on the ground and you look deliriously at me over the spiked fur on your shoulders, as mad with desire as I am, as you make me. I want to make you howl, Bobbi. I want you to sing to the moon how I make you feel when I'm inside you. I want you to cum around my cock until you can no longer take it, until you beg me to stop because it's too intense, only for me to make you discover that you can take it, that you will take it. That you will beg me for more."
Her mouth falls open, her lidded eyes widen, and her fingers close around my shirt until the points of her claws tease my back with all the danger they pose, even as white fangs glimmer with moonlight under me.
I growl.
She lunges up, going for my lips.
And I pull back.
She blinks at me, as confused as I am frustrated, and then her lips tremble, and her eyes lower like I've just taken away…
Well, it's pretty obvious how she looks, isn't it?
"Why are you so mean?" she says.
And I, my wit already burned out after delving far too deep into all the lessons I've learned in front of a computer with Internet access and no parental filter, reply:
"Because."
"But why?"
"Bobbi… I'm trying to tell you that… that wanting things is not always enough."
"But you… I… You smell like… I… Is it about puppies? Because I—"
"Nope. I refuse. Don't ever refer to our hypothetical and most definitely highly speculative offspring as 'puppies.' Dear God, I don't know what's worse, the mental image or how sexualized the term is. For fuck's sake, Bobbi, I'm not even out of college—"
"Roberta takes the pill!"
"What?"
"She does! Since she met you! So, no puppies! See? There are no problems with you filling me up and then shooting all of your—"
"I just told you it's not about what I want!"
"Then what is it about?! If you want me, and I want you, and Roberta wants you to rut me into the ground—"
"Roberta does not—I haven't talked with Roberta about this yet. Could you at least wait for a single day? I just… I don't…"
I shut up, trying to convey something without words to the girl below me, who only looks back at me with bewildered confusion before she tilts her head and experimentally grinds her satin black panties along the outline of my shaft.
… I hate my life.
"Enough."
"You're hard and holding me?" she says, blinking in utterly fake innocence.
"Because if I don't hold you, you're going to tear my clothes off me—"
"Oh, what a great idea! You're so smart, Brian!"
"Wha—Bobbi, don't," I say as sharp claws tug my shirt tighter between them and against my back, her biceps standing out more clearly beneath grey skin that looks almost black in the nighttime.
"Maybe if you feel all of me, you'll stop being silly and—"
She stops, going completely still, not a single muscle moving.
And, no matter how I look at her, she doesn't look back.
"What is it—"
"Shhh!" she hisses, her eyes closing and her lips tightening into a severe line.
Then her nostrils open, and her eyes move behind her eyelids as if searching for the source of whatever scent she's picked up.
I don't move.
At all.
I feel the urge to let her down and look around me, but today has been nothing if not a lesson in how to hold back poorly thought urges, so I remain as still as I can even with Bobbi's lower body hanging from her grip on my hips, and I wait.
In silence.
Which, given the rushing hormones still clashing against the half-formed thoughts in my head, is quite an achievement.
Because as elaborate as what I said to Bobbi was? It wasn't wrong. It was… Part of the truth.
And, apparently, I'm enough of a moron that not even the very clear hint of danger can get those clamoring thoughts out of my head no matter how hard I try to guess what it is that Bobbi has caught the scent of, and then one of those crammed thoughts manages to make itself heard with a very grim reminder:
Roberta's confession.
The hurriedly written note that she didn't intend for me to read, in which she said how she sometimes wakes up in the middle of this very forest.
With strips of flesh between her teeth and blood in her hands.
Bobbi's brow furrows, her nostrils beating open and closed, and, finally, she reacts in a way other than blind eye movements and irregular breathing, and her hands close into tight fists that make her claws tear the back of my shirt apart with a sound that seems to echo in the forest at night.
Then her legs open, and her hands go from my back to my chest, her inhuman strength fully displayed when a single shove of hers sends me up to my feet with enough energy left over that I am forced to stumble back until I crash against the trunk of an oak.
Glowing, amber eyes look straight at me with none of the exuberant joy or raw desire they have held almost every time I've seen them.
"Run," she warns.
And, with a flurry of movement, she's on all fours, her tail held completely straight up, moving side to side in something too slow to call it a wag. Her lips pull back, the black skin making it all but impossible to miss the white fangs that grow apart when a low growl comes out of her with a sound so… so primal that I can't help but press harder against the tree behind me as something from the time before words existed makes itself understood.
And then comes the answer.
A dog. A black dog, tall enough to reach my shoulders, crawls past two oaks into this small clearing by the side of Bobbi's stream. Its tail is horizontal, the ears flat against a head as big as my chest, and… and the eyes blaze in red light like a dying ember.
It growls.
It is… lower than Bobbi's growl, but it fills the air like it is all around us. Like the trapped warm air of an autumn afternoon that only now I realize has grown chill enough that my torn, sweat-soaked shirt sticks to my skin and makes me shiver.
"Brian," Bobbi calls out with the same tone as before.
"I'm not leaving you. I promised," I say out of a stupid impulse that I should've learned to hold back after what I claimed just moments ago.
Her tail drops for a single moment into a relaxed arc, and she turns her head to look at me—
The black dog leaps.
"Bobbi!" I call out.
But she doesn't hear me.
===========================
So, here we get to witness one of dog's greatest failures in their role as man's best friend:
They're terrible cockblockers.
Seriously, I know that the bed bouncing looks like fun, but this is not fun for the whole family—and I'm going to stop right now, where the implications are merely horribly gross rather than mind-scarring.
Seriously. And if you close the door? Then you have to put up with scratching and whining through the entire time, because what are boundaries? Can you eat them? Damn it, Tap, there are reasons why people blast music at the top of—okay, change of subject.
…
Gotta love cliffhangers, don't we?
Anyway! The next chapter is already up at the usual place, and I'm trying to get back to a predictable schedule of some kind, so it will make its way here in two weeks. No need for the pitchforks. It's not like I've brought out the Frankenstein's girl already.
As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xanah. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!
'Brian! I have never seen sunlight before, Brian! Thank you! Thank you so much!' Bobbi said with pure, innocent joy.
Resting on top of me, wagging her tail hard enough that her skirt flared up as much as it could, given her expanded hips and… other expanded things.
Round, jiggly, rotund things.
"Brian! Come! Look, look!" she says.
And I try not to sigh.
Which, honestly? It's a great improvement over what I thought I would be doing just a few minutes ago, with a werewolf pining me to the cold stone floor of one of the library's private study rooms.
Or, well, maybe not an improvement.
Just… different.
"Brian! You're not looking, Brian!"
The urge to sigh grows stronger, and I paper as sincere a smile as I can on my face before I look at Bobbi and whatever it is that she wants to show me this time.
Hopefully, it's not a squirrel. Don't misunderstand; I don't have anything against squirrels. I'm not bigoted against our Sciuridae neighbors or resentful of their constant incursions on the grassy fields that surround the cafeteria. Really.
Some of my best friends are squirrels—
"Brian!" Bobbi yells as she runs back the way she came, crossing the hiking trail that goes around the northern edge of Lacmere's lake before darting right into the forest to my left, the oh-so-important thing she wanted to show me apparently forgotten.
Which means she may have terrorized a squirrel into early hibernation.
Again.
I hope this doesn't end up with me canceled on squirrel Twitter.
And, come to think of it, given my recent discovery that werewolves are freaking real, I'll add an addendum to this earnest hope of mine: I hope that squirrel Twitter is not an actual thing. I mean, Ratatoskr is about the only squirrel-related myth I know about, and he was a messenger of the gods.
Of Norse gods.
…
I really, really hope those are not a thing—
"Brian!" the cheerful, mildly grating voice calls out from between trees thick enough that I lost sight of her as soon as she dashed between them, and, really, it's not like I don't enjoy looking at Bobbi luxuriating in her first taste of daylight, but…
But I'm trying not to enjoy it too much.
There are a couple of reasons for that. First and foremost is that Roberta and I never did finish our talk about what me doing things with Bobbi would mean, seeing as the third party involved in the subject decided to cut the conversation short by… manifesting hours before the time Roberta was sure she would.
Given that's twice in a row that Bobbi has done that, maybe we should start taking into account how unreliable Roberta is with a watch and calendar.
Or whatever it is that would make Bobbi come before sunset.
Before the moon rises.
… If this is stress-related, finals are going to be hilarious.
Anyway, yeah, first and foremost is the issue of informed consent when it comes to multiple persons more or less sharing the same body and at least a large part of their subconscious. The second crucial factor as to why I'm trying very hard not to stare at Bobbi?
"Hi, Brian!" she says as she darts between trees, shooting a bright, fanged smile my way before she disappears once again.
On all fours.
On. All. Fours.
Look, I'm a weak man. A feeble man. An Internet-addled man who has spent entirely too much time debating where the furry line lies and whether or not animal-eared girls even count. I'm a man who's quickly reconsidering a lot of the things he took for granted, to the point of assuming that a German librarian with Turkish ancestry must be a dark elf just because she looks younger than she should. A man who's not only having to deal with magic being real but with animal-eared girls being equally real and about as amorous as they used to be when they fell for my charms with the same inevitability as the used Kleenex fell into my wastebasket a few minutes later, when I was faced with the sad reality that catgirls aren't…
Well, real.
'How ironic,' my inner Palpatine wants to declare before I remember that I most definitely don't have an inner Palpatine, seeing as my most cunning plan for how to spend an evening with an uncomfortably attractive werewolf is to take her for walksies.
So, as a weak and not quite cunning man? Watching a girl filled to the brim with enthusiastic joy and the sheer delight of physicality, running through the forest with supernaturally tightened clothes, her energetically wagging tail lifting her skirt high enough that Roberta's taste in lingerie (black, lacy, and with shining satin) is no longer the enticing mystery it used to be and has now become a far more thrilling revelation…
…
What was I talking about?
"There's a stream! I've never seen sunlight glitter off a stream! It's so pretty, Brian!" she says, looking up at me, her hips swaying side to side to the tune of an enthusiastic tail before she turns around, and I get a reminder of Roberta's magnificent—taste! Taste in underwear!
… That seemed like the chaste and sensible alternative to my original thought.
… It still does.
Before I can come up with a PG idea to mask my earlier impression with, Bobbi darts off, pausing between two tall oaks to look back at me over her shoulder and raised skirt before her smile impossibly widens, and she runs back to where, presumably, she's found a pretty stream.
I close my eyes, try not to whine in sheer frustrated libido, fail at thinking pure thoughts, and remember what it is that I definitely should keep in mind:
Bobbi can smell my arousal.
That, in itself, is not particularly remarkable. I myself got kind of a… boost to my olfactory capabilities the first time I got a girl in the backseat of Dad's uncharacteristically nonsensical idea of what a proper birthday gift is. I… I remember sweaty hands clutching my pants as Anna bit her lip, and this isn't helping.
Okay.
Deep breaths.
Just… remember your last competition in high school, Brian. Remember your hand shaking as you tried to appear calm and didn't fool anyone. You had passed the poule, Dad was standing by the piste with a reassuring smile, the direct elimination bout about to start as soon as the referee dropped his hand with as much finality as Patrick ever does, and…
Yeah.
That's my libido done with. Thankfully, I don't have a defeat fetish.
I allow my wry smile to come out and step between the trees, the carpet of fallen leaves and green ferns crunching beneath shoes that I didn't choose for traipsing through the woods, thoughtlessly assuming that today would be another day for Bobbi and me to spend locked in the library, though maybe not nestling and cuddling over a pile of fallen books.
That's something I should have Roberta—nope. Not going down that route again.
Not while trying very hard not to entice the werewolf who can smell my arousal.
The sun is low, and the tree trunks are tinted orange, long shadows alternating with bright rays filtered through thin branches and leaves that started falling almost two months ago. So far north from where I grew up that it should be cold enough for me to keep wearing the jacket tied around my waist, but sun-warmed air seems to be trapped beneath the canopy of a forest that feels far more ancient than the castle on the other side of the lake, behind the cathedral-like library I just smuggled Bobbi out of.
And there she is.
On all fours, her hips raised, her forearms and hands on the smooth, round stones by the side of the burbling stream, her enthusiasm finally abated as she just looks at the rippling surface of water flowing right under her nose with a look of open, childlike wonder that makes something in my chest clench.
"It's like fire…" she murmurs, maybe for me, as she looks at the dappled motes of red and amber light that she doesn't realize also fall down her wild mane.
I take a deep breath, looking at her and trying to see Bobbi and not…
Somebody else.
This… this is the kind of scene where something has to happen. A falling leaf, a cracking twig… it doesn't matter. Just… something to intrude on the tableau. To break the enchantment. Something that will make me look away from her or make her look away from the stream. Something that will just…
That won't make me carefully step forward over crackling leaves until I'm by her side and kneel down to see the world she's seeing for the first time.
With me by her side.
"Thank you," she says with a bright smile that has a hint of drowsy enjoyment on it before she drops further down and turns to lie on her side, her head naturally falling on my lap, making me adjust so she's as comfortable as she can be before I start petting her hair, running my fingers through jagged locks, carefully untangling them as I feel the warmth of the grey skin beneath the black fur of the hackles covering her nape and shoulders.
She sighs, her tail lazily thumping against the forest floor, disturbing dry oak leaves, and I thoughtlessly tease her soft, furry ear, making her giggle as her smile broadens and her eyes meet mine to show me unfiltered, raw affection that I don't know how to answer to before she turns back to stare at the setting sun flowing down the stream.
I… I keep petting her. Feeling her softness. Her warmth.
And…
Dogs are unfair.
Dogs are purer than us. They show their fangs when they are angered and jump at you when they are happy. Dogs, at their most deceptive, pretend to feel guilt and keep checking on how you react until they think they have appeased you and can go back to licking you, begging you to play with them, to soothe them and shower them with pets, treats, and whatever way you have to show them the love that they never hesitate to overwhelm you with.
Dogs are better than us.
Or, at least, they are better than me.
And Bobbi… she's not a dog. Not really. Not even like an intelligent dog. She knows too much and understands too much.
But… there's an innocence in her, a purity, that no adult I've ever known holds. Not even Dad.
So.
That's the third reason:
I don't want to hurt Bobbi.
Because she says she likes me. She very much acts like she does. She's enamored with my scent, and I had to be very stern at her so she wouldn't tear my clothes off.
And she is attractive. She's a fantasy made flesh. She is… Roberta is already stunning enough, fulfilling far too many of my teenage fantasies just by being… her. But Bobbi has another kind of charm.
And I would be a terrible man if I took advantage of her.
I keep petting her, and the sun sets behind the frozen peak of the mountain in front of us, the towering slope of green and red forest that mixes conifers and scattered oaks among other trees that I didn't learn from Dad on all those hiking and camping trips we took when he taught me the name of the stars.
The sky right above us is already dark, a wide circle of that particular shade of midnight blue that looks like a hole torn through the heavens as it's surrounded by rings of purple and red when I lower my sight toward the horizon broken by the hills and mountains surrounding Lacmere.
Some stars show.
And, behind us, when I turn slowly and carefully not to disturb Bobbi from her contemplation of the last traces of sunlight she'll see until Roberta yet again fails to predict when her other self will show up…
There's the moon.
Almost invisible, mottled white with diffuse borders that fade into the sky around it as it rises above the walls of the castle.
Bobbi tenses on my lap, her breathing suddenly ragged, harder, and I'm reminded that, as much as we are an enigma to dogs with our unfathomable, bizarre rules, with all our inexplicable bursts of anger or disappointment… we also fail to understand them often enough.
"It's all right," I whisper, my hand pressing on the side of her head as she fails to suppress the shivers running down her body. "It's all right, Bobbi. I am here."
She whines, a wordless and guttural sound that makes cold drip down my back.
But I promised Roberta, didn't I? That I would never fear her.
So I lean down and gather the tall, strong, statuesque woman in my thin arms, thankful for once that I'm stronger than I look as I lift her up to rest her face against my chest and my cheek against the crown of her head, almost letting out an inappropriate chuckle when her twitching ears tickle my nose.
"It's all right," I repeat. "Whatever it is… it will be all right."
She turns in my arms, amber eyes blazing brighter than the fading traces of sunlight, her mouth open as she gasps with heated air rolling down the long tongue poking between her lower canines, and—
I'm on the ground, dry leaves and needles exploding away from me, clawed hands on my shoulders, a black mane falling around me, melting into the black sky…
And amber, glowing eyes lid as black lips push against mine.
Something… I…
I want to push her away.
I am holding her.
Her chest flattens against mine as it did this morning shortly before she left me alone with Roberta atop a pile of library fines or criminal charges; her thighs surround my body, and her body rests on mine.
And she…
She just… kisses me. Softly, sweetly, about as innocent as a first love or a childhood promise.
And then, before I can decide how I feel about it, her lips break away from mine, and she bows her head down to press her brow against my own as she smiles with closed eyes, turning into both dream and dreamer.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
There's no more sunlight. Only night surrounds us as I am in the woods that the wolf has claimed with nothing to guide me but the names of the stars above and lessons that my father failed to teach me.
"Always," I answer, impulsive and stupid.
Her eyes blaze open, pools of amber drawing me in as she smiles as pure and bright as the sun she's now missing, and she dives down to nuzzle my jugular with her nose, the claws on my shoulders seeming to draw away as her fingers trail down my arms before she hugs me tightly enough that I try not to show her any discomfort at her excessive display of strength.
Because Bobbi is also stronger than she looks.
And she already looked strong enough to start with.
"Brian?" she says with childlike shyness.
"Yes?" I answer with a dry throat and far too many moral dilemmas.
"Can I suck your cock now?"
I blink.
Then I immediately lament being a fencer rather than a practitioner of Brazilian jujutsu—all right, no, that's a lie, nobody should be that comfortable with having random sweaty crotches trust at their face unless they get paid for—anyway! I lament my lack of wrestling training as I desperately try to push Bobbi away without my hands falling on the multiple instances of excessive Bobbiness pressed all around me.
"Let! Go!" I argue in defense of my chastity.
"What? Why?! You're all nice, and didn't shave, and, and—you want me! You smell like you want me! Why don't you let me show you—"
"Bobbi," I say with a tone that has her go immediately rigid after the many, many times I had to use it yesterday.
She looks at me with her chin tucked down to her cleavage—collarbone. Her eyes are upturned, and she tries to look like she doesn't understand what she did wrong but is nonetheless horribly remorseful about it, so would I please stop acting so upset and rub her belly?
… Note to self: never, ever allow the image of Bobbi asking me for belly rubs to distract me from a scolding in progress.
"Stop. That," I growl.
"But why?" she asks, stubbornly clinging to me, her warm, soft breasts flattened against my chest, her hug even tighter than before.
"Because I said so!" I say, finally understanding some of Mom's tactics.
"But… you didn't shave…" she says, making sure I see her pout despondently before she looks away from me, and her ear once again tickles my nose.
So I nip it.
"Gah?!" she doesn't quite protest, her arms spasming around me as her whole body seizes and her breasts—her breasts act like breasts naturally do when an excessively well-endowed woman with inadequate support shivers.
My left eyelids twitch, and I press my lips together harder, trying not to get a mouthful of soft fur all over my tongue without relinquishing my prey—prize.
Ah, wait, that last one isn't any better. My catch? My prisoner? My—this isn't working.
Stupid brain, stupid hormones, stupid busty werewolves, stupid sexy librarians without half-moon glasses, stupid mostly male fencing club with no dating opportunities because Robin has that whole 'I'll definitely shoot you' aura and I'm not secure enough in my masculinity to go for that—
"Briaaaaaaan…" a voice coming from atop me says as I realize that I'm now moving my jaw side to side, my lips rubbing along the tip of Bobbi's captive ear as her voice turns into a mewl that is almost a protest except for the way that her weight on me undulates from her hips to her belly and then to her chest, not speeding up but going harder, rubbing, making me all too aware of the soft flesh and hard muscle, and how one turns into the other as waves of motion mirror the gasps and moans of a woman taller than I am losing strength with each renewed cycle of grinding, yearning movement, and…
Her arms slack around me.
Her hips fall down on mine.
And a surging fire inside of me makes me pull my arms out of her grip and hold her, my forearms trapping her lower back against me, making it impossible for her to keep undulating until she tries to writhe, to rub her hardened nipples against my chest.
I push with my pelvis against her, my uncomfortably hard cock trying to tear my pants to get at the warmth and wetness seeping past my underwear from above, and I close my eyes, trying to block her scent, her touch, her everything before I lose control.
She yelps, another shudder tugging her ear out of my possessive bite before I chase her head and recapture it, the whine turning into a gasp and all but forcing me to push with my hips again.
And again.
Until she loses her balance and falls on her side, and I push yet again against her yielding softness for her to allow me to keep turning the two of us.
Until she's below me.
Until amber eyes stare up into mine, as wide as my own, her gasps as rapid and loud as my thundering heartbeat. Until her legs lift from the ground and wrap around my hips, my hands traveling up her shuddering back to press flat against her shoulder blades as I try not to ravage her. Not to abandon myself to the sheer burst of desire that makes me acutely aware of how precarious the knot that Roberta tied her blouse into is, the white, ruffled cotton that underlines Bobbi's bust and strains with every jiggle or deep breath.
I push myself up on my knees and elbows, but I only manage to drag Bobbi's hips up with me as her thighs tighten and the pressure between our sexes grows.
"Bobbi…" I say through gritted teeth and half-closed eyes.
"Brian, Brian…" she says, her glowing eyes lidded behind grey skin.
"Bobbi, stop," I say, once again resorting to that tone, only for Bobbi to arch her back and push her shoulders deeper into the carpet of dry foliage, her chest rising up to offer her trembling softness to me.
"I… I want you. And you want me. Please, Brian, please."
I lower my head and take a deep breath off the side of her neck, with Bobbi immediately licking around and into my ear, a rhythmic sound distracting me until I realize it's the whisper of her tail sweeping across the forest ground.
"I want you," I whisper into an ear atop her head that twitches as soon as the words register.
"Then—"
"I want you bad. I want to grab your tail and pull you against my hips. I want to bite down on your neck with my chest resting on your back, every thrust of my cock driving you lower until your face pushes down on the ground and you look deliriously at me over the spiked fur on your shoulders, as mad with desire as I am, as you make me. I want to make you howl, Bobbi. I want you to sing to the moon how I make you feel when I'm inside you. I want you to cum around my cock until you can no longer take it, until you beg me to stop because it's too intense, only for me to make you discover that you can take it, that you will take it. That you will beg me for more."
Her mouth falls open, her lidded eyes widen, and her fingers close around my shirt until the points of her claws tease my back with all the danger they pose, even as white fangs glimmer with moonlight under me.
I growl.
She lunges up, going for my lips.
And I pull back.
She blinks at me, as confused as I am frustrated, and then her lips tremble, and her eyes lower like I've just taken away…
Well, it's pretty obvious how she looks, isn't it?
"Why are you so mean?" she says.
And I, my wit already burned out after delving far too deep into all the lessons I've learned in front of a computer with Internet access and no parental filter, reply:
"Because."
"But why?"
"Bobbi… I'm trying to tell you that… that wanting things is not always enough."
"But you… I… You smell like… I… Is it about puppies? Because I—"
"Nope. I refuse. Don't ever refer to our hypothetical and most definitely highly speculative offspring as 'puppies.' Dear God, I don't know what's worse, the mental image or how sexualized the term is. For fuck's sake, Bobbi, I'm not even out of college—"
"Roberta takes the pill!"
"What?"
"She does! Since she met you! So, no puppies! See? There are no problems with you filling me up and then shooting all of your—"
"I just told you it's not about what I want!"
"Then what is it about?! If you want me, and I want you, and Roberta wants you to rut me into the ground—"
"Roberta does not—I haven't talked with Roberta about this yet. Could you at least wait for a single day? I just… I don't…"
I shut up, trying to convey something without words to the girl below me, who only looks back at me with bewildered confusion before she tilts her head and experimentally grinds her satin black panties along the outline of my shaft.
… I hate my life.
"Enough."
"You're hard and holding me?" she says, blinking in utterly fake innocence.
"Because if I don't hold you, you're going to tear my clothes off me—"
"Oh, what a great idea! You're so smart, Brian!"
"Wha—Bobbi, don't," I say as sharp claws tug my shirt tighter between them and against my back, her biceps standing out more clearly beneath grey skin that looks almost black in the nighttime.
"Maybe if you feel all of me, you'll stop being silly and—"
She stops, going completely still, not a single muscle moving.
And, no matter how I look at her, she doesn't look back.
"What is it—"
"Shhh!" she hisses, her eyes closing and her lips tightening into a severe line.
Then her nostrils open, and her eyes move behind her eyelids as if searching for the source of whatever scent she's picked up.
I don't move.
At all.
I feel the urge to let her down and look around me, but today has been nothing if not a lesson in how to hold back poorly thought urges, so I remain as still as I can even with Bobbi's lower body hanging from her grip on my hips, and I wait.
In silence.
Which, given the rushing hormones still clashing against the half-formed thoughts in my head, is quite an achievement.
Because as elaborate as what I said to Bobbi was? It wasn't wrong. It was… Part of the truth.
And, apparently, I'm enough of a moron that not even the very clear hint of danger can get those clamoring thoughts out of my head no matter how hard I try to guess what it is that Bobbi has caught the scent of, and then one of those crammed thoughts manages to make itself heard with a very grim reminder:
Roberta's confession.
The hurriedly written note that she didn't intend for me to read, in which she said how she sometimes wakes up in the middle of this very forest.
With strips of flesh between her teeth and blood in her hands.
Bobbi's brow furrows, her nostrils beating open and closed, and, finally, she reacts in a way other than blind eye movements and irregular breathing, and her hands close into tight fists that make her claws tear the back of my shirt apart with a sound that seems to echo in the forest at night.
Then her legs open, and her hands go from my back to my chest, her inhuman strength fully displayed when a single shove of hers sends me up to my feet with enough energy left over that I am forced to stumble back until I crash against the trunk of an oak.
Glowing, amber eyes look straight at me with none of the exuberant joy or raw desire they have held almost every time I've seen them.
"Run," she warns.
And, with a flurry of movement, she's on all fours, her tail held completely straight up, moving side to side in something too slow to call it a wag. Her lips pull back, the black skin making it all but impossible to miss the white fangs that grow apart when a low growl comes out of her with a sound so… so primal that I can't help but press harder against the tree behind me as something from the time before words existed makes itself understood.
And then comes the answer.
A dog. A black dog, tall enough to reach my shoulders, crawls past two oaks into this small clearing by the side of Bobbi's stream. Its tail is horizontal, the ears flat against a head as big as my chest, and… and the eyes blaze in red light like a dying ember.
It growls.
It is… lower than Bobbi's growl, but it fills the air like it is all around us. Like the trapped warm air of an autumn afternoon that only now I realize has grown chill enough that my torn, sweat-soaked shirt sticks to my skin and makes me shiver.
"Brian," Bobbi calls out with the same tone as before.
"I'm not leaving you. I promised," I say out of a stupid impulse that I should've learned to hold back after what I claimed just moments ago.
Her tail drops for a single moment into a relaxed arc, and she turns her head to look at me—
The black dog leaps.
"Bobbi!" I call out.
But she doesn't hear me.
===========================
So, here we get to witness one of dog's greatest failures in their role as man's best friend:
They're terrible cockblockers.
Seriously, I know that the bed bouncing looks like fun, but this is not fun for the whole family—and I'm going to stop right now, where the implications are merely horribly gross rather than mind-scarring.
Seriously. And if you close the door? Then you have to put up with scratching and whining through the entire time, because what are boundaries? Can you eat them? Damn it, Tap, there are reasons why people blast music at the top of—okay, change of subject.
…
Gotta love cliffhangers, don't we?
Anyway! The next chapter is already up at the usual place, and I'm trying to get back to a predictable schedule of some kind, so it will make its way here in two weeks. No need for the pitchforks. It's not like I've brought out the Frankenstein's girl already.
As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xanah. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!
