THE TENDERNESS OF WOLVES Chapter 2
The following story contains sex acts between male teenagers where consent is somewhat ambiguous. While these situations can be really hot in a fantasy, they'd be absolutely dreadful in real life. This story is only a fantasy, and it's not meant to be taken seriously, or to be condoning the idea of forcing people to have sex. If such stories are not legal in your locale, well... you know what you're supposed to do.
There are also some elements that could be triggering for survivors of sexual abuse.
It's a werewolf story. People get killed. Flesh is eaten. If you don't like horror mixed in with your smut, go read Playgirl. If the idea of something primal and savage like a werewolf gets your juices flowing though... Read on. ;)
The Tenderness of Wolves is an awesome musical piece by Coil. This is where the title comes from.
Feedback and encouragement is welcome and appreciated. You can get a hold of me at queer_tribes@yahoo.ca.
Have fun! :)
Jules could not go home. Home hadn't felt safe in years. It was a place where he had to go for a reheated plate of food and for a bed in which to sleep, but he avoided it as much as he could. He would certainly not run back there the moment something bad happened to him. He could not bear the presence of his father.
So Jules walked in the October rain, huddled in his black hoodie. The sun was still up behind the veil of gray clouds, but it would set in a couple of hours. He would not have to head home until then. Staying out after dark would be pushing his luck. The actual odds of him becoming werewolf food were quite slim -- there were no more than a few murders by the beasts each week in the metropolis. Also his encounter with Conrad had left a numb feeling in the part of his brain that was supposed to fear the predatory creatures. But the militias that would patrol the neighborhood tended to recruit from the racist, thuggish type. These people could be trouble, and Jules had taken enough of a beating today already. His cheek was still swollen from the punch he'd taken to the face, although his ribs were getting better. They might not be cracked after all.
Marco Williams had had his sights on him for a while. He'd somehow gotten into his head that Jules had been checking him out in the locker rooms, and he'd threatened to break his face ever since. As if Jules went for the jock type. Williams and his friends probably just wanted an excuse to beat somebody up. Of course, they'd had to do it outside of school -- school security was extremely strict, armed police officers and all, and hallway scuffles were a thing of the past. When the boys cornered him, Jules had been pretty much ready to take the punches and wait for the beating to be over. He'd had his ass kicked before. It was a terribly shitty experience, but not the worst thing that could happen to him; it was just physical pain. But Conrad the werewolf had shown up, and death and carnage had ensued.
Conrad Blackstone had transferred to Maisonneuve Secondary School at the beginning of the previous school year. He'd fell right in with the local marginal crowd. He shared a few classes with Jules, and the Haitian boy had seen him a fair number of times smoking with his punk friends. Conrad constantly gave the impression of being detached from everything, or of being insanely bored out of his mind. He was obviously clever -- once he'd walked into biology class for an exam, reeking of weed, and had aced the damn thing, much to the teacher's dismay. He never raised his hand to answer a question, but whenever a teacher directly asked him something, he'd give a very accurate answer in as few words as possible. He read: when he was not hanging out with the school misfits, he spend a lot of time by himself at the school library. Jules had always found him alluring, if unapproachable.
Rumors abounded about Conrad Blackstone, but then rumors abounded about anyone who looked out of the ordinary at school, including big nerds like Jules. Some said he lived in a foster home. Some said his mother was a bigwig business player from one of the cities major civil engineering firms. Some said he could get you any drugs that you could think off. Some said he'd stabbed a boy a couple of years back and had moved to a new school after the incident -- another version of the rumor had it that it had been Conrad who had been stabbed. Of course, some of the kids whispered that Conrad Blackstone was secretly a werewolf, but then again, any local weirdo was regularly accused of being a werewolf.
A few people had tried to start trouble with Conrad. The punk would just blow them off. Jules had seen some people shove him in a locker once; the boy had shrugged and walked away. He'd placated Frank Wells once for pushing some of the 7th graders around. But he seemed very peculiar about his friendships, and would not do conversation with most people.
But it turned out that Blackstone was the real deal, a honest to goodness flesh-eating werewolf. One of the Enemy, one of humankind's predators. The world had gone to shit through the past decade, and it was thanks to Conrad and his ilk. The global paranoia, the militias, the CCTVs, the Internet surveillance, the police raids, the national DNA database -- all of these things had happened because werewolves came out of nowhere in North America and Europe, ten years ago. It had made September 11, 2001 and the ensuing "War on Terror" feel like a trivial diversion.
First, it had started with people disappearing and half-eaten corpses that kept turning up all over the place, mainly in large cities. The police had attempted to cover up the "half-eaten" part, but the sordid details of the murders quickly surfaced nonetheless. Authorities struggled to come up with "rational" explanations that convinced no one. An epidemic of rabid dog attacks. A cannibalistic serial killer who had inspired copycats. Satanist cults entertained by crazy young people with no moral compasses. A terrorist ploy by Al-Qaeda. Yet this was unlike anything that had happened before. It was an unexplainable plague of death that had struck the First World that had little rhyme nor reason -- and it was intensifying. The disappearances and the deaths became more common, more widespread.
Then a few weeks later, videos started emerging on the Internet. Many were blurry and of poor quality, filmed at night, chance sightings from far away. Yet they showed the creatures, humanoid beasts that walked on two legs. Many people called it a hoax, but many others began to believe the tales of werewolf sightings. YouTube pulled the videos at the request of the U.S. Government, who claimed that they were disrespectful of the murder victims.
Then more disturbing videos started circulating, this time through peer-to-peer networks. It showed the monsters up, close, and personal. The movies looked like they had been shot by the werewolves themselves. Sometimes it was just the beasts showing off. Sometimes they were devouring a victim. Sometimes the victim was being eaten alive.
In a world that had grown accustomed to seeing CGI monsters in Hollywood flicks, these videos had an unnerving quality, lacking the fake slickness and perfection of computer-rendered graphics. The creatures' motions had a natural, understated simplicity. The dark fur, the wolf-like predatory eyes, the threatening jaws -- they simply looked like those of real animals, if 600-pound bipedal carnivores could be counted as "real". Yet, Jules had found nothing more disturbing than the noises the monsters and their prey made in the videos. The growls, the barks, and the heavy panting sounds were unlike that of any living creature he had ever heard -- deep, massive, vicious. And the poor souls being eaten alive... It is not possible to fake such a horror. You know the true terror of death when you behold it with your very eyes and ears.
Then after the videos, there had been the London incident. After that, the world no longer needed convincing. Werewolves were real, the moved about in perfect human guise, and they feasted on the flesh of the unwary. Humankind once again had a serious predator, and people freaked the fuck out.
Yet Conrad Blackstone, a werewolf, had rescued Jules from a savage beating -- slaughtering his assailants in the process -- had dragged him to an abandoned warehouse, and had touched him in intimate and unspeakable ways, stopping short of actually raping him. Then he had offered to go to the movies with him tomorrow night. Jules felt like he was the butt of a very sordid joke. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to cleanse the filth from his body, to wash every bit that Blackstone had taken and defiled. Still, more than anything, he wanted to forget that he had never felt so alive as those frightening moments where his body had been pressed against that of a werewolf who had been trying very, very hard to take him to heights of sexual ecstasy. Jules then envied his brother Jacob for his faith in God and for his ability to find succor in prayer. Jules had stopped believing a long time ago.
Jules had been walking along Theodore street. The sidewalk was bordered with maple trees, their leaves embellished by the bright colors of autumn. The rain had stopped. He had passed many apartment buildings, each facade displaying a unique ornament of whirling and snaking outdoor stairways with black wrought-iron railings, a staple of Montreal's eccentric residential architecture. He had come to a halt in front of a very familiar building, the home of his childhood friend, Hector.
He hadn't talked to Hector in a long time.
Jules hesitated. He gently massaged his injured cheek with his fingertips. Then he set a foot on the first step of the flight of stairs, then stepped up, and up, and up, the wooden boards resonating whenever the sole of his heavy boots would strike them. Soon he was facing the door to the second-floor apartment. He took a deep breath, and rang. Seconds trudged by. He then heard footsteps coming from inside, and the door opened. The freckled face of Hector appeared.
"Jules? What are you doing here?"
His eyes darted sideways, noticing Jules swollen cheek.
"Shit, what happened to your face? Come inside, man, come inside."
"Are you alone at home?"
"Yeah. Mom and Dad aren't back from work yet."
They walked into the kitchen. It was far more messy than what Jules was used to. Dirty dishes littered the counters, and a half-eaten plate of food was sitting on the table. Hector's mom had always seemed like a cleanliness freak, it was a unusual spectacle.
"Sit down, man. I'll get some ice for your face. What happened?"
As Hector walked away from him towards the freezer, he couldn't help notice how tight his friend's jeans were, and how they showcased his very round butt. Jules swallowed, causing a bit of numb pain to his cheek.
"I... I got beat up a bit."
"Who? Who did that?"
"I didn't know them", lied Jules. "I think they wanted to mug me, but some guy chased them away."
In his mind, he heard once again the gut-churning crunch of Marco Williams' neck snapping. His hand trembled.
Hector handed him a Ziploc bag full of ice, wrapped in a dirty dishcloth. Jules pressed it against his face, feeling the coolness soothe his cheek. Hector sat down at the table.
"There's something you're not telling me. I've known you long enough to know that you're a shitty liar, Jules Rodrigue."
Jules looked down at the table, letting his gaze wander to the leftover mashed potatoes in the plate. If he could tell someone about what had happened, or at least some of it, it was Hector. Hector even knew about Jules' father, and the things he had done to Jules.
"It was Marco Williams and two of his friends. They tried to beat me up. And then..."
Jules' voice cracked.
"And then... Oh God..."
He broke into tears, his breathing wracked by painful sobs. He held his face between his hands, unable to face the world.
"What happened?"
"There's... Oh God... A werewolf showed up. He killed them all. Maybe they're still up there in the alley. I don't know. I ran away."
It was technically not a lie. He had tried to run. But he couldn't bring himself to mention the part where the wolf had snatched him, and what Conrad had done to him in the aftermath of the attack. It was not something he could share, not even with Hector.
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know", sniffed Jules.
"Man, do you want clean clothes? I don't know how to tell you that, but you smell like piss."
Jules lowered his head, shame once again wrapping its fingers around his throat.
"I... I pissed myself when that happened."
"Man, go use the shower, I'll get you some clothes."
"Thanks..."
Jules stood up, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He let out a deep sigh. His entire body was sore, and all energy had left him. He longed to fall asleep, and perhaps never wake up. He took off his clothes, leaving them into an untidy pile on the floor. He stepped into the tub; it was quite dirty, surrounded by a heavy ring of grayish crass. He pulled the shower curtain, and turned on the water faucet. He adjusted the water, making sure it was as hot as he could bear without scalding himself, and then he turned on the shower. He grabbed the bar of soap and started scrubbing himself. He heard the bathroom door open.
"I'm not looking, man. I'm just putting the clean clothes on top of the dryer. You can put your dirty clothes in the washer when you're done, I'll start a load and clean them."
"Okay."
He heard Hector leave the room. Jules closed his eyes. He knew part of him wanted Hector to strip naked and step under the shower with him, to hold him and comfort him. But that wouldn't happen, and he had to make an effort to chase away these thoughts. He had been in love with Hector, once. He had found the courage to tell Hector about his feelings, last winter. It had spoiled their friendship. They had both decided that it was probably better if they stopped hanging out for a while. Hector had not been mean about it. He simply did not feel the same, and it had become too hard to see each other while Jules was trying to get over his feelings. So they'd gone their separate ways, and Jules had more or less been friendless ever since.
It was all his father's fault. If it hadn't been for what his father had done to him, he would probably be a normal boy who'd be attracted to normal girls. The thought that the sex that Jules craved was the same than the sex his father kept forcing on him made him sick in the stomach.
Jules took hold of his dick, and started milking it. He pictured a black girl with big tits and wide, dark nipples, like he'd seen in porn on the Net. Then she was on all-four and he was looking at her from behind, her brown pussy lips showing, inviting some stud to mount her. Jules was hardly a stud, just some scrawny faggot nerd who was an open invitation for beatings. His dick was hard from all the stroking -- it always responded to sexual stimulation, whether Jules was aroused or not, even if the touch was unwanted. Jules almost loathed how easily his erections manifested. The woman in his mind's eye was wiggling her ass and moaning with desire. It was a bit gross. He started picturing Hector kissing him instead, blessing his lips with soft, loving pecks. A warm tingle flowed through his crotch. He imagined himself running his hand through Hector's soft, long red hair. Hector pulled back slightly, and give a wicked smile that hinted at very dirty
thoughts.
"Lick it. Lick the blood of your enemies. I killed them for you."
He licked Hector's lips, and his friend pushed his mouth against him, overtaking him with a deep, passionate kiss. Jules tried to ignore the hint of shame in his gut. He squeezed his thickness a bit harder. He liked to masturbate with slow, deliberate strokes. Some boys might quicken their pace when they neared orgasm, but Jules would make his embrace firmer, favoring strength over speed. Fast, hurried, frantic strokes were the way his father would steal an orgasm from him. Jules wanted his masturbation sessions to be as unlike his father's touch as possible.
He made Hector reach for his dick in his mind, but the touch was just like Conrad's aggressive and purposeful gropes, each tug meant to appreciate how girthy his tool was. Hector pushed him against an imaginary wall and went to his knees. He took a hold of his Jules' butt cheeks and he squeezed them brutally, his fingers hungry for his flesh. He pulled Jules forward to swallow his dick and the Haitian boy remembered the feeling of his cock sliding along the insides of the werewolf's mouth. He was seeing Conrad now, bobbing his head along his dick as he sucked with passion. Jules heard the slurpy, awkward noises of sex, and it turned him on even more -- he was close.
Jules gave his member a deep squeeze. He squeezed again. And again. Conrad or Hector -- he didn't care anymore which one -- had turned him around and was lapping hungrily at his hole. Jules came the very moment his imaginary lover buried his face between his ass cheeks. For the most delicious couple of seconds, his mind went blank -- all the mattered was the powerful spurts of cum that his dick was emitting. Then conscious thought resurfaced, although he was still enjoying the throes of his orgasm. His seed had hit the wall of the bathtub. His fingers were sticky with thick, white goo -- the water from the shower had washed away most of what was actually liquid about his semen, leaving only the more solid chunks. The image of Hector was gone, but the memory of Conrad's touch lingered. He'd just made himself blow his load thinking of his sex with the werewolf.
"I'm so fucked up", whimpered Jules.
He chocked on a sob, as the water from the shower started to grow cold.
Jules walked out of the bathroom wearing the clothes that Hector had left him. While both teenagers had a similar build, the jeans were much tighter than the cut to which Jules was used, and he only rarely put on button-up shirts. Still, Hector's fragrance lingered on the clothing and made it pleasant to wear.
The red-headed boy was waiting for him at the kitchen table. He was typing on his phone, texting somebody.
"Feeling better?"
"Don't smell like piss anymore."
"That's an improvement."
Hector put down his phone.
"Do you want more ice?"
"No, I'm fine. It looks worse than it feels."
Jules sat down.
"Listen, Hector... I know things have been weird ever since... Well, ever since I told you...
"It's okay, Jules. I'm over it."
Hector kept his gaze on his phone screen, scrolling through messages. He did not look at Jules.
"I don't really want to go home tonight, do you mind if I spend the night here?"
"I don't think that's a good idea, Jules."
"Oh."
Jules already regretted asking. When he came here, he'd hoped that maybe things were better. They weren't.
"It's not what you think, Jules."
"Nah, it's okay. I understand."
There was a sad look on Hector's face.
"I think you should head back. It will be dark soon. You want me to walk you home?"
"Don't bother. I'll be fine on my own."
"I... I'll bring your clothes at school tomorrow."
"Yeah. Sure."
Jules stood up. He grabbed his coat and put it on.
"See ya tomorrow, Hector."
"Take care, Jules."
Jules turned around, walked to the door, and left. He took a deep breath of the crisp, cold Montreal air. It reeked of fermentation; drafts from a local distillery sometimes made it all the way to the residential neighborhood. He pulled up his hood and headed down the stairs. He was glad he'd seen Hector again. Despite all that had gone down between the two of them, he still found his presence comforting. Yet he'd hoped that maybe they were over all that had happened. They weren't.
Jules started making his way back to the apartment where his father, Jacob, and he lived. He'd faced his Dad before, and he could face him again. Hopefully, his father wouldn't try anything tonight. Most nights, he didn't. Most nights.
What would he do about Conrad? The werewolf was a problem that would not go away. They went to the same school, they saw each other almost every day. Maybe Jules should call the police -- that's what they said on the posters, after all. "Report all suspicious people. Your vigilance can save a human life." But Conrad had warned him against such a course of action. Werewolves usually lived in packs -- he would probably tell other wolves about their meeting, and they might come after him if he blew Conrad's cover. Also, to be frank, Jules had little trust for the police.
He passed a storefront that displayed anti-werewolf paraphernalia. Silver blades and bullets. Testing kits that could supposedly reveal whether a person was a wolf in human guise or not by analyzing their body fluids. Vials of aconite root extract -- wolfsbane, a deadly poison. The claims surrounding most of these items were false, the fruit of superstition. Silver was an invention from werewolf Hollywood movies. Testing kits did not work -- werewolves were undetectable in human form. Wolfsbane, however, could be effective, if unreliable. At least, that's what Jacob's friend, Matthew, had said -- his father was a police officer working with one of the anti-werewolf brigades. Jules wondered why the police didn't make that information public. It was all rumors, and unreliable information found on the Internet.
For a moment, Jules wished that he had a bit of money. Maybe he should start carrying a knife coated with aconite extract. He wondered how the day would have unfolded if he'd had such a weapon with him. Maybe it would have gotten him killed very stupidly -- they say that it's people carrying guns who are most likely to end up being shot. Anyway, the issue was moot. Jules and his family were poor. He couldn't even afford a cellphone. There was no way that he could purchase a knife or wolfsbane.
Also, Conrad had not hurt him, not really. But he'd taken advantage of the situation and the encounter had terrified Jules, even if he had done his best to hold his ground in the end. Conrad Blackstone had murdered those boys without a second thought. He could easily have scared them off, but he went straight for the kill instead. The werewolf was dangerous and deadly, there was no doubt about that. But why had he behaved the way he did? Why did he seemed intent of protecting a human? A human like Jules?
Jules was reluctant to admit that he was curious. He felt that somehow, Conrad would win if he chose to see him tomorrow. He didn't like being manipulated. But did he even have a choice? Who knew what the wolf boy would do if Jules turned him down.
And there was the unspoken factor in the equation.
Jules closed his eyes. He remembered how hard it had been to not look at Conrad naked. The werewolf had said the he could smell how much Jules had wanted him. Was that why he'd acted this way, taking such license with Jules? Also Jules could not deny the truth: there had been pleasure there. Not just physical pleasure. He was used to his body's reactions when his father touched him - there was a pleasure of the body, but everything else about those moments was a tempest of disgust and shame. With Conrad, it had been different: buried under the fear and the powerlessness, there had been lust.
This rekindled the guilt within Jules. He lusted over a murderous half-beast, half-man, who had used him sexually while he was still covered with the gore from his previous killings.
If Jules had any dignity, he would tell Conrad to leave him alone, consequences be damned. Then why did he hesitate so much over what to do?
Jules started walking again. It would be dark soon. Tomorrow would be another difficult day.
TO BE CONTINUED.