WARNING: I would rate this story at a HIGH R. Violence, sex, creepiness.
His voice is low and rough, that almost-growl that has always drawn me in, winding and filling the small office. The lights are bright and they should be distracting, should make it more difficult to concentrate on him and on his quiet orders, but my attention is drawn away. He orders me to look only into his eyes, to concentrate only on the feeling of the chair beneath my hands, the cushions soft and velvety beneath my fingers. His features become sharper and more wild as he reminds me that I am not a man, these awkward limbs are not mine, my skin is not pale and fragile but thick and soft, lush with black fur.
He tells me that it is hard for me to speak, and I whisper that it is very hard. He reminds me that this is because I am a wolf. Wolves do not speak, their language is in the way they move. Again, he tells me that it is hard for me to speak, and this time when my lips move, nothing escapes but a quiet whine. Instead I nod my head, never tearing my eyes from his, and he smiles fiercely down at me.
Old reminders, designed to drag me down deeper into a trance. My senses prickle, the smells and the sounds in the room are exaggerated, until I am conscious of the way his heart beats, the way air hisses in and out of his mouth, the way cloth rustles as he shifts in his chair, leaning closer without touching me. There is a familiar stirring, a feeling of loyalty and adoration that was one of the first things dragged to the surface, a desire to follow his words exactly and make him happy. I need to keep his voice soft and that smile on his face, I must not let him grow angry.
The trance never kicks in. The line is not that clear. It is slower; I slowly begin to lose my grasp on the human language, the words he speak no longer make sense on their own, I can barely get a grasp on the meaning behind them. His tone becomes more important, I must focus on it instead of the soft syllables that fill the room around us. Deeper and deeper, I can still form thoughts but they slip away the moment they’re brought into completion. Deeper still, the meaning of his words is lost and I can only attempt to read his facial features, follow the implied orders in his voice.
I am draped out on the couch, long black limbs sprawled out beside me, sharp ears perked to catch every nuance. He has trained me well. The order to sit drags me up into the proper position, hind legs tucked beneath me and paws propped neatly before me. The order to lay down brings me across the floor to sprawl out at his feet, panting and peering up at him. Another order is lost on me, I can only whine at the expression of displeasure that comes to his face; one foot nudges against my side as he repeats it more firmly, and this time it registers. I roll over obediently.
For a moment, our eyes are separated and a triggered feeling of despair and concern washes over me. When he is out of my line of sight, I have no way of knowing if he is real or not, it is impossible to be sure that he is still there, and my heart aches. I settle quickly back into a sitting position and my head swivels, fur bunching and shifted against my neck, as I search for him. Our eyes lock again, he smiles approvingly down at me, and that pained, hopeless feeling fades back into adoration.
Slowly he rises to stand, I twist my head up and back so that I can watch him move, so that I can be sure he does not leave; but he whispers a quiet order and I obey, frozen in place, very still. I can still see him out of the corner of my eye, but he is slowly slipping away, behind me, warm hands smoothing against the soft fur of my throat and down my spine. Then murmurs something quiet behind me, and the world goes askew.
The dream he conjures up is of a thick forest, vivid yellows and dark greens, the faintest filter of light escaping through the leaves above us. He is a wolf as well, soft greys with vibrant yellow eyes, and we are curled in the undergrowth, pressed close against one another. It is warm and soft, that feeling of loyalty and adoration well up within me again. The urge to obey his orders.
I am overwhelmed by a need to have him closer against me; I can feel his stomach, warm and soft against my back, his nose cold against the side of my neck, the leaves shivering in the wind around us. My desire for nearness turns to a desire for penetration. I want those long, curved fangs in his mouth break my skin; I want to feel the blossom of pain that he has taught me to cherish.
Then I can feel it. My flesh rends and tears, blood wells hot against the back of my neck and clots in black fur, turning it sticky and stiff, so that it clings to my throat and to my shoulders. I know that this is the most wonderful sensation I have ever experienced, I realize that whenever he does this to me - even the slightest scraping of teeth against the back of my neck, that tender spot at the nape - he will be granting me something wonderful. The passion will overwhelm me, this wolf's state of mind will replace common sense. I will lose control.
The forest goes dark around me, a light coming back into focus, nearly blinding me. I am back in the warm reds and browns of his office, sprawled out at his feet with strong hands caressing through the fur at the back of my neck. I whine, I whimper. I want that moment back, I want him to press in close and sink teeth into me again, but he does not.
Instead he tells me I am no longer a wolf but a too-tall young man, gangly and awkward: that I always have been. It is wrenching to return to my body, to lose the ease and the grace of that sleek form. My senses seem to dim again, and while I still know that he is breathing, that his heart beats, that the room smells faintly of stale cigarettes, I no longer am overwhelmed by it.
His feral grin has returned. He sinks down to the floor behind me, lips just brushing against the back of my neck as he leads me slowly back out of the trance, voice rumbling in his throat. It has an edge to it, something hungry and shuddering. Our sessions always leave him wanting, he likes me best when I obey, and I like to obey, I need to make him happy. I can't let him get angry.
I have recovered enough to speak, to move - but before I have the time to do anything, his teeth are scraping against the back of my neck, and the world gives out around me, I'm dragged down into feral passions and we move to satisfy our fierce