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  Squinting, I thought I recognized a vague structure in the distance, maybe a quarter of a mile across an open field. I thought it must be Frank’s cabin—it was larger than I had expected, rustic, but not without charm. Private, embraced by pines and fallow fields, with a stream running nearby, I imagined spending weekends there with Frank, warm in his bed, with him snoring into my hair.

  Stifling a happy gasp, I started that way, realizing that victory was close at hand, but as I stepped out of the trees, someone grabbed me in the dark. I squealed in surprise and delight as that someone propelled me backwards until we reached a tree. Cradling the back of my head, his mouth found mine, biting, nibbling, licking, his goatee tickling my chin as he kissed me as if he meant to consume me. I immediately tasted my grandmother’s homemade wine in his mouth. I groaned at the taste of him, wild and sweet.

  “Caught you, my prey,” Frank said, and in the dark I felt the rumble of his voice in the solidness of his chest, the ripples of the muscles under his shirt.

  “You’re a good hunter, my wolf,” I told him as he stuck his tongue down my throat until I sighed and started clawing at his flannel shirt, practically ripping the buttons from it.

  “Are you certain you’re not the wolf?” he asked with a chuckle and tore savagely at the front of my blouse, ripping it at the seams as he dragged it and my coat off my shoulders. The cool night air made me shiver, made my nipples stand at rigid attention, even through the lace of my bra. He lowered his head and snagged a nipple through the fabric with his teeth, sucking and biting ever so gently. I arched up and up into the almost-pain, my bare back scratching against the tree. I whimpered and cried out as I felt myself come in a lunge against him, drenching my panties.

  He forced my legs apart and slid one giant hand up the inside of my thigh, finally snagging the edge of my lacy underpants and yanking them down, ripping them away. Then his fingers were right there, parting the dripping folds of my sex so his thumb could press hard against my clit, rub at it hard, pinch and tease the engorged little bud until I thought I would go mad with the sensation. I groaned and writhed against the tree he had me pinned to, his substantial erection jabbing into my belly.

  “God, you’re wet. And tight. Open your legs, Red,” he commanded me.

  I murmured a halfhearted protest against the roughness of his cheek.

  “I won, Red,” he reminded me. “You’re mine tonight.” He breathed roughly into my throat as he forced two of his fingers deep inside me with one rough jab. He turned them, curled them, and I would have shuddered and gone to my knees had he not been holding me upright. He was so rough, and yet not rough enough.

  He growled against my throat as he worked me wider, as he trained me to take him, finger-fucking me to ever higher layers of mindless delirium and desire. His teeth caught my jumpy skin over my pulse and I thought about how big they were, those teeth, how powerful he was, how he so easily bent others to his will, not just in the office, but everywhere. The thought made me want him all the more.

  He stopped just long enough to undo himself and work open a condom from his pocket. I rested against the tree, nervous about what he had for me, watching the pines and mountains against the backdrop of a star-filled sky unlike anything to be found in the city. It made the silhouettes of the distant mountains look like torn paper.

  “Red,” he said. “Look at me.”

  I looked down the rippling muscles of his lower belly to see his cock was thick and erect, swollen and a meaty bright pink with his need. He wore it well, perfectly proportioned to his large, powerful body. Though the hair on his head was peppered with silver, the warm, dark matting of fur on his chest and loins was perfectly black and sparkled in the moonlight. He stroked the swollen head of his erection against my exposed belly, leaving behind pearls of precum like he was marking me as his, as his mate. He growled as he dry humped me a few times, then slipped the sheath of the condom on, gripped my leg, and drew it up to the level of his hip. It made me painfully aware of what was about to happen.

  He covered one of my breasts, squeezing the exposed nipple hard even as he thrust upward, impaling me on that beautiful, faintly curved cock of his.

  The first hard thrust knocked the breath from my throat, I was so unprepared. It had been so long, and Ben had been nothing to write home about anatomically. But Frank was huge and almost frighteningly aggressive. He groaned, sank his fingernails into my ass cheek, and pushed up high inside me so I cried out in surprise and delight and discomfort. The night sky felt so primal…as huge and wild and unstoppable as the man mating me. He grunted and growled into the side of my neck, his breath hot and fast as he fucked me hard, going steady and deep. Each thrust lifted me briefly off my feet and scraped my back up the tree with the sheer force of his penetration, his need.

  He fucked me a few times without coming before pulling out and dragging me to my knees on the leaf-littered ground with him. The sky looked jagged with light, and the moonlight brushed us in places but didn’t reveal any of my lover’s identifying features, which made it all more exciting to mate with him this way. I smelled his arousal, his sweet male scent, felt the silken pressure of his muscles moving over me, the softness of his furry chest. I thought of his story about his ancestor the werewolf as he embraced me from behind. His fingernails glided over my breasts and belly, leaving faint marks. His mouth sucked at the side of my neck. His hard, hot, beautiful cock pressed against my lower back. I moaned and leaned against his chest, wanting him to fuck me again, giving myself to him in a way I had never given myself to anyone before.

  His hands trailed down my back and I felt his silken wet tongue follow soon after. I caught my breath even as I felt that tongue, hot and fast, following the crack of my ass. His tongue found me at my core and I shuddered in a seizure of pure pleasure. His tongue flittered over both my holes before delving into my pussy. I wriggled and went down on all fours, giving him my opening.

  “Oh,” I said, gripping some roots in the earth for purchase and concentrating on the feeling of his hot, strong tongue lapping at me. He loved it, kissed it, as he had kissed my mouth. Then he pushed me down so my breasts and chin were pressed to the earth but my ass was still elevated, still his.

  My heart started racing at the vulnerability of the position he had put me in. He mounted me from behind while simultaneously holding me down. He ran a hand up my belly and pinched my nipples. I moaned as his cock rubbed deliciously against my crack. It felt so good to have him there, to have a beautiful man desire me. He growled, “Let me fuck you, Red. Let me fuck you and fill you until you’re mine.”

  Then he raised a hand and unexpectedly slapped me soundly across the ass. I screeched in surprise and delight as the vibration of his blow echoed through my body and made my cunt spasm as I ejaculated juices down the inside of my legs.

  “God, that’s sexy,” he said as he embraced me, testing the extreme wetness between my legs with his fingers. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever known who could do that, Red.”

  I spread my legs further as I submitted to him, begging him to take me, my breathing so rapid I was afraid I might start hyperventilating. He pinned my shoulders as he once more sheathed his impressive cock easily inside my slippery opening. Then he was in deep, deeper than Ben had ever been, ball’s deep, the burning heat of his body holding me still as he pleasured himself inside my body. I groaned as I came a second time, that first hard thrust of his cock ripping another shuddering orgasm out of me. He groaned in approval, his voice a growling vibration in my hair as he bit at strands of it.

  “God, you’re fucking amazing,” he said, and for the first time in my life, I felt really sexy.

  I needed more, and I pushed off the ground, pushed him back with his cock still lodged inside of me, and then rocked forward, partially unsheathing myself before thrusting backward and impaling myself fully once more. He moaned with delight as I fucked him a few times like that, letting me have him, letting me “handle him” as he had called it. T
hen, overcome with the violence of his own lust, he grabbed my hips, his fingers digging almost painfully deep into my flesh, and started working my pussy. I tried to move, but he moaned in disapproval and slapped me a second time, hard, hard enough to make me scream, and I learned the error of my ways.

  I was the prize tonight. Tomorrow night things would be different. But tonight I let him have me.

  After that, he held me still, motionless, and started fucking me furiously with a series of fierce, punishing jabs, battering into me, growling the whole time, his teeth nipping at the back of my neck until I cried out at the intensity of it. He filled me to capacity and I screamed incoherently at the sheer, raw pleasure of being fucked and used this way to sate the appetite of this enormous beast.

  “Jesus…I fucking love you, Red,” he managed through the grunting labor of his work.

  I wanted to tell him that I loved him too but an orgasm stole my breath away and left me chanting, “Oh, oh, oh!” as my body was rocked by his violent thrusts. Finally, with a final, sharp lunge, he shivered as he came with me, bucking and thrusting in the throes of his own orgasm, and we collapsed to the earth together, warm and sated in each other’s arms.

  I shivered in the afterglow of our love, our mating, and he curled himself around me, still inside me. He breathed hoarsely in my hair, kissed the back of my neck and his little bite marks there. For the first time, I thought of how cold and hard the ground was, and how his cabin was only a few hundred feet away, but I didn’t want to move.

  And anyway, my wolf wouldn’t let me.

  * * *

  THE BEAUTY OF THE BEAST

  By Alex Crossman

  For as long as I could remember, I’d love animals. As a kid I had collected hundreds of books about them, I had a ton of stuffed animals, and going to the zoo with my dad had been the highlight of my week. I loved the gorillas and the elephants like all the other kids, but the big cats were always my favorite. I used to watch them paw back and forth in their too-small cages, feeling sorry for them, wondering what they were thinking. So it really wasn’t that big of a surprise to my parents when I told them I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up—not just a pet vet, but an exotic animal vet.

  That was back in my dreamier days. The reality of it was, in a place like Pine Barrens, Texas, (as big as the sky and as empty as all get-out) there wasn’t much of a call for an exotic animal vet, though everyone and his uncle did have a horse. After I graduated college, I got practical, went into equine veterinary medicine and opened up a country practice just outside town with my colleague, college-buddy and lover, Dr. Beau Wilkins.

  Our arrangement didn’t last long. We were two young men sharing a business and a bedroom. In a small town like Pine Barrens, that made every tongue wag more than all the dogs at the Westminster Dog Show combined, and Texas wasn’t the best place in the world to be gay in. Eventually Beau found himself a practice down in Houston and a lady friend to act as his beard so his friends and family would feel happier and more secure with his life choices.

  For the first time in my life, I felt lonely, isolated, and vaguely ashamed of myself. As a result, I started filling the emptiness in my life with work. I put myself on call 24/7, and even filled in for the other vets in the area when they were indisposed and couldn’t handle an emergency. So I wasn’t terribly surprised when Dr. Fields, the vet one town over, called me early one morning to ask me if I would go out to the Richter place for him and see to the owner’s exotic cats. Fields said he’d wrecked his back while delivering a breached foal the day before and was going to be laid up for a few more days.

  “No problem, Dr. Fields,” I said into my cell phone while I stood in a corral beside a colicky mare and slowly pumped the air out of her stomach with a garden hose.

  “You just need to pick up a sample for the lab, take a look at the cats, and call me back with your assessment. You don’t need to get any closer than that, Ben.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, getting excited about my work for the first time in seemingly forever. I finished up with the mare and turned her back over to her owner. My heart was knocking in my chest something fierce.

  The Richter place was up in a very secluded section of Pine Barrens. The owner, Karl Richter, was some retired hotshot Vegas entertainer who’d bought a hundred-acre luxury ranch to house his big cats. The cats, as far as I was aware, were just as retired as their owner, though he had brought a pair of ligers down to the state fair about four years ago. I’d seen the giant, shaggy lion/tiger hybrids from a distance as I walked the fairgrounds to the petting zoo where I was giving away a 4H prize, but when I went back to see them up close, they were gone and the guy in charge of the exhibit had said that the owner had pitched a fit about some reporter from the local newspaper scaring his cats by taking too many pictures.

  I drove out to the Richter ranch with butterflies in my stomach. I was finally going to be able to see the cats close up.

  When I reached the big wrought iron fence with the call box out front, I stopped, rolled down the window of my pickup, and pushed the CALL button. “This is Dr. Ben Bellerose. I’m here to see Richter’s cats.”

  It took almost five minutes for anyone to answer. I looked at my watch. It was well past five o’clock and some angry-looking storm clouds were moving across the prairie. One of the southwest’s infamous summer washouts was hot on my heels and I hoped Richter, or whoever was in charge of the grounds, hurried the hell up.

  Then a course, unfriendly voice said, “Where’s Dr. Fields?”

  “He threw his back out yesterday and I’m his replacement. Look, we’re getting some serious rains tonight. Can I just collect the samples and go?”

  There was a tense pause, then the icy voice said, “Drive down and around to the enclosures. I’ll be waiting at Building A.”

  The gate slid open and I followed a long, paved road through some hilly prairieland until a house that looked a little like a scaled-down version of the Taj Mahal suddenly appeared. It looked eerily like a mausoleum, cupolas and all, and was completely out of place on the Texas prairie, but who am I to judge what rich eccentrics did with their money? We had a number of A-list actors who owned similarly diverse homes not far from Pine Barrens. Hell, Brangelina had a ranch about ten miles east of here.

  I followed the road around the house to what looked like a compound made up of several smaller buildings. The entire compound was surrounded by yet another sturdy wrought iron fence and a gate that automatically slid back as I drove up in my old, battered pickup. After I was in, I parked at the nearest building, the one I assumed was Building A (though it bore no indication that it was) and got out.

  Wind, smelling bitterly of heavy rains, assaulted my senses and blew my sports coat over my head. Sweat from the lack of air conditioning in my Ford made my tough work jeans stick to my legs and ass. Heat, pressure and rain—I had a feeling it was going to be a bad storm tonight. I picked up my heavy med bag and went over to the door, but before I could knock, someone opened it. “Come in,” said that cold, steely voice I’d heard at the gate.

  “Wind’s kicking up,” I said as I slipped inside a dark, professionally-outfitted clinic obviously used to house and care for the big cats. I noted the gigantic stainless steel examination table, the humongous canine scale, and racks and racks of medication and all manner of apparatuses, everything you’d need if you were maintaining the health of a collection of exotic animals.

  The lights were dim, but I could tell the man who’d let me in was big, with a fit, geometric body. He wore a dark, plush jacket that I couldn’t help but wonder was a smoking jacket, like in a Sherlock Holmes novel, and his blond hair looked gelled back in a queue. I turned to shake his hand in greeting—because my mama always told me to be cordial, even to rude strangers and city folk—but the man immediately pulled away and glared at me in the dark. He had a severe face and sharp cheekbones, though he kept one side turned away from me as if I were somehow beneath his contempt. I thought he
would have been handsome, striking even, were he not scowling so hard or acting like such a dick.

  “Forgive me. I don’t shake hands,” he said, and I noticed he spoke with a vague, decade’s-old German accent.

  A part of me wanted to be a smart-ass and answer, “Yes, mein Fuhrer!” but good sense prevailed and instead I said, “I promise I don’t have any commutable diseases.”

  “I’m sure,” he answered in an exasperated tone. “But you work with animals and I don’t want to accidently expose the cats to something they have little defense against. They have enough to deal with at present.” He turned and led me to a door at the opposite side of the room, navigating the darkness of the room expertly.

  Repressing a grumble, I followed. I was clumsier, and when I barked my skin on an unidentifiable crate, I swore and finally reached for the light switch on the wall. When the lights came on in the clinic, Mr. Karl Richter turned, his hand on the doorknob, and glared at me as if I’d assaulted him.

  I saw the scars on his face, and it was nothing like you see on TV or in movies. It was far, far worse, and on the whole left side of his face, the side that he’d been keeping turned away from me. It was obvious a big cat had been at him, had torn the flesh from his face on that side. Good plastic surgeons had pieced his face back together, but even a “Dr. 90210” couldn’t have fixed this properly, not from an attack that had likely degloved one whole side of the man’s face.

  But the worst part was, the other side, the untouched side, was perfectly smooth and shockingly handsome. I felt an unreasonable spike of anger for whatever creature had done this to Mr. Richter. He smirked, making the mangled edges of his scars writhe in a frightening way. “You looked shock. Good. We’ve gotten that out of the way. Now come see the cats.”