Werewolf Island

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham

© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(All comments, inquiries, and communication welcome, just drop an e-mail!)

Chapter 4

THE SLAVES

The slave quarters were pigsties, as to be expected: bamboo (or this island's equivalent) bars were crisscrossed and bound to vertical and horizontal walls fifteen feet high were unclimbable, topped with jagged stones that would cut and shred the flesh of those trying to escape. Straw or hay of unknown origin carpeted the floor but was far from clean, much of it dirty and smelling like waste, but it was more comfortable, more humane, in a joke of the word, underfoot. As for their placement in the camp, the slave quarters were placated out of immediate sight, in a dark and damp corner next to an unpleasant-smelling toilet tent: a patch of darkened dirt with a leather hood suspended by bars, flooded with shit and piss, where the werewolf men would go to the bathroom. It was a stark reminder that all who resided in the slave quarters were in fact, not guests, despite the formality of names: they were things, creatures fit to be tied and caged. They were pets.

"So. What do you think?" One slave asked the other.

"Are you kidding?" Sneered the redhead. "Love it. Haven't had quarters this nice since back home. Hell, if it beats the barracks, can't be all bad, can it?" Red joked, but the outlook was truly grim: an understatement.

Striker huffed: "Not what I was asking, but okay."

Much to their surprise, they were not the only two inside the slave area. There was another man: the quiet man, sitting in his corner, he had not yet said a word as the redhead and the blond were brought in more than half an hour ago. In the far corner he remained sat, his long brown hair clung over his eyes in wet lumps, hiding his face, hiding his shame. The man was shivering, despite the thickly clinging humidity, and his pale skin appeared clammy, even sticky from a distance--where the other two slaves preferred to be--he looked severely ill, and, given the hygiene of the place, it was not so much a surprise to them as it was to find another human alive.

Red paced the cells, his boots squelching atop the clustered muck.

Outside the bars, he saw the backs of several lodgings, and in the alleys between he saw some of the men walk, warriors carried weapons, workers carried tools and equipment. Leaning on the bars he tried to get their attention, thinking maybe he could talk his way out of there, maybe strike a bargain, but none so much as looked in their direction, further reinforcing the impression of their insignificance.

"We have to get out of here," Striker said.

Red turned to him, a skeptic smirk on his face. "And go where? Our planes are fucked, remember? Only way we can get em working again is by going back to the jungle to gather parts from mine and put em in yours. And I ain't even getting on to how we'd take off." He remembered the brutal crash, and the fact that his plane was strewn across a wide area, much of it lost to the trees. Striker's plane was in much better state, but there was no way it could get enough speed to gain lift when trees surrounded on every side.

"True," sighed Striker, hugging himself to his knees.

The village was entering mid-morning now that the excitement died down, and patrols entered active duty, marching around the entire village dutifully. There was twenty to thirty men in the entire encampment, and every one of these men had strength and speed that could outdo any mortal man with ease, which made the fortifications fairly impenetrable.

"I can't believe what that guy tried to make you do out there."

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Do you reckon these guys are really... you know?"

"What?" Said Red, not quite wanting to hear.

"Werewolves," Striker added.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Red turned away from he bars to resume his packing briefly. In his memories, he recalled, allowing them all to slot back into place while he squat next to Striker in a ready fashion. Their bindings had been removed, thankfully, but the rope burns at his wrists scarred. "I saw... something."

"What do you mean?"

"Last night, just after I came across your plane, searched the place..." Red cast a glance to the other prisoner. He hadn't moved since their arrival and he couldn't help but wonder.

Creeping footsteps pattered down the alley.

"Just when it started to get dark. I saw these guys in warpaint. Real fuckin' scary," he said, putting his fingers to his face, tracing the lines of how he remembered the white and black paint to have been smeared over their ghoulish long faces. "They looked like old Zulu warriors or something, all black and white, but I couldn't tell who they were, they were totally painted all over. I followed this kid--couldn't have been older than fifteen--and they ambushed me, shot something into my neck with a blow dart."

Trayack knew the patrols of the guards well, well enough that he had the opportunity to approach the slave quarters unseen at this time of day. His schedule for hunting meant he had but a short while until someone knew he was missing. Quietly, he kept to a darkened corner of a shack, away from sight of the slaves, and so that he had a good view of the one walkway where he may be seen from the rest of the pack.

"Good god..."

"It was like poison, I swear. Burned like hell. If he hadn't shown up and tore into `em, I might be dead now. I passed out, so I don't even know who or how..."

He was there.

Once the young man had had a taste of the red-haired human in the jungle, he could smell him anywhere. He knew when he had been brought to the pack by Fenn, and when Womack surveyed him before the chief had a chance to. He knew Womack was up to something (he always was) and he could not bear to let him have his way with him until he got there first. Call it sibling rivalry.

He listened to his voice, like molten honey.

"I mean, I can't tell because the thing they shot me with made me delirious, I must have been seeing things, because god what I saw--what saved me--was not human."

"What do you mean?"

Red licked his lips, tried to formulate an answer with his hands, twining his fingers together. Carefully, he considered, not wanting to outright say what he saw was accepted in his brain as fact (because he couldn't) but not wanting to keep it bottled up, either.

He shook his head, defeated by conflict: "I don't know."

Striker looked away, towards the Quiet Man. "So, neither side sounds preferable."

"I gotta get Dusk outta here."

"You mean he's still alive?" Striker asked, head turned sharply to him.

Red nodded. "Yeah, but he's hurt. I say we find a way out of here... make a break for it, get back to him then together we grab what we can from the crash site and get to your plane and do the repairs."

"But what about Katana?"

"Shit," spat Red, letting himself sit completely, head reclined back against the bars.

"We haven't seen him since they took him away."

"Alright. First, we get Katana out of here--hey!"

Striker spun around; Red's head was turned in the direction of the space behind the cages, towards the darkened alleys that led between the various structures. He was frowning significantly eyes locked on to a space. He followed his eyes with his, and saw what he was looking at just as the boy came out from the shadows.

"How long have you been there, kid?"

"Since they brought you," he said, quietly, but without hesitation.

Red and Striker stood in unison, and shared matching looks that were exact in agreement: he seems different. For a start, he was younger (couldn't have been much older that eighteen), and that meant he was inexperienced, and may be vulnerable to some extent, although the word vulnerable likely didn't exist pithing the pack. He was the kind of youth who was potentially idealistic, and for the fact that he was listening, and not reprimanding them in anyway was a good start. Someone who's mind was still his own. He approached them sheepishly, downplaying his interest. A friendly approach could just be the way out they needed.

"What's your name?" Was the first thing asked, by Red.

"Trayack," he said, stopping just out of arms reach of the men.

"Trayack. That's an unusual name."

"It's my pack name. We all have pack names when we..."

"It's okay," Red said, softly, as if he was talking to someone much younger. He beckoned him closer. "I am Rusty, and this is Hugh."

A slight clearing of a throat interrupted. "Call me Striker."

"Can you help us? We're not supposed to be here... we have friends, families..."

"We all did, at one point," said Trayack, looking down.

Red eased off his approach, a sympathetic gleam crossed his eyes.

"Why, how long have you been here?" Striker asked, stepping in.

Trayack shrugged. "Don't remember. None of us remember one it happens."

"When what happens? Come on, lad, we need answers."

"Striker, back off," hushed Red.

"But--"

Striker backed off, and caught sight of the entranced way the youngster was looking at them--especially Red--and let him work.

"Come here," Red charmed. "I'm not gonna hurt you, promise."

Trayack approached, carefully. One step, then another, wider. He stopped close enough to feel Red's breath mingle with his own, and he struggled from that point on, to breathe. When Red reached out, gently, and stroked the back of his hand to his face, caressed, he nearly melted on the spot, but settled to a shiver instead.

"See?" He said, softly. "If I was gonna hurt you, wouldn't I have tried?"

Beguiled by the man's technique at seduction, the wide-eyed youth brought his own thin hand to the bars. His fingers twitched, just as they had when he had been moments away from stretching them around his member. He tried to shake those lustful thoughts and resolved to touch his face in return, brushing fingertips across ginger stubble and over the rough bumps where bruises were forming.

"I did this," he whispered guiltily.

Red gently laughed. "No. They did this. And I'll be fine. But my friend out there lost in the jungle--I'm sure you heard--he won't be unless we can sneak away and get him."

"I did this," he repeated like a mantra, then dropped his hand, and his eyes.

Removing his hand, Red respectfully smiled. "Did you hear me? Are you okay? You look pale."

He nodded.

"Look, can you help us?" Came Striker, at Red's side, clutching the bars with a degree less calm than he.

Trayack backed away a full stride from the moustached man.

"Easy," calmed Red, touching his chest. "The more we can charm him, the more likely he'll be to help us. Get it?"

"I get it, but..." he sighed, heavily. "Theres only so much time, Rusty. If we don't hurry... who knows?"

With a mutual severity, Red nodded. "I know.

"Trayack," he turned to face him. "Please. You're the only one we've met here so far, that seems even vaguely agreeable. If you don't want to get in trouble, I understand, but if there's anything you can do, even if its just to slip us a spoon so we can dig out of here, then we'll take it, and no-one needs to know. You can trust me on that. We wouldn't tell a soul, right Striker?"

"No," assured Striker; gave Red a disapproving expression. "But if you can help us, Trayack, I would hope for something better than a spoon. And there's the small matter of Katana--"

"--That's right," sprung in Red. He came at the bars again, just barely restraining himself from rattling the wood. "Our other friend is here, but they... they hurt him, real bad, and took him away. We need to know if he's alright, please."

"Where is he?"

Cautiously, he looked around him. No-one was coming, but he could hear footsteps all around. He leaned in close to the bars and inclined his head to a long, very rough-looking tent between two shacks. "He's at the infirmary. He'll live."

"Thank you," breathed Striker in relief.

"I must go now..." he said, and started to leave.

Red took hold of his hand though the thick cage. He held on to him, not harshly, but tenderly. "Hang on a sec..."

The boy looked at theirs hands, together, and flushed, he could barely contain the excitement flushing through his nubile body, and urgently he slipped out of the hold before his erection made itself clear. He turned his back, but he did not leave.

"Can you get me my equipment belt?"

Trayack said nothing, as bubbles in brain and groin collided.

Red knew what he was doing to the boy; the way his skin loosely became a pinkish hue at any eye contact or when he shied away from a touch, but he would use it to his advantage if necessary. He smiled at him from his position, pressed his face between them. His head was much too big to fit through the gap but it was just enough to grant his new friend a wink.

"I'll let you kiss me if you want," he said darkly, almost daring.

Trayack's bottom lip quivered and he looked away, rubbing his arms. "I can get you the belt," he said, finally. "And I can talk to your hurt friend."

"God, thank you so much..."

"Wait, there's more," he whispered, more panicked. "Soon, they'll come for you... they're not going to kill you but you will have to do everything they say, or they will kill you."

"What?"

"It's a rite of passage. If you're both good enough, they'll let you live and train you to be one of us."

Striker looked like he was about to say something.

Fast, Trayack stopped him. "If you get through tonight, then they'll all be tired... I can come here then and let you out and we can rescue your friends--"

"--what are they gonna do?"

"Don't ask--just do--its the only way."

Red blinked and considered. "So you'll help us?"

"Yes," he said, sharply. "But you have to take me with you. I they find out I helped you escape, they'll kill me... please, you have to."

"Okay, alright. It's a deal."

"Hang on a minute--"

"--Striker."

"I have to go, I have to go," said Trayack with extreme urgency; panic overcoming his nerves, he started to back away, eyes darting in all direction.

It came suddenly: in a jerking leap forward, the boy mashed lips against Red's, smooth and silk against rough and broken. One could hardly define it a kiss--not like the one he'd stole earlier, anyway--but it was marred with cruciality, like it may be his only chance.

Red was unsure what happened before it ended and he saw the boy running off back into the sparsely arranged darkness. He was neither aroused nor proud of himself for tricking him, but at least now, he believed he had a foothold on the situation: a chance.

Sensitivity brought Striker to a perturbed quiet, and respectfully hold his tongue to allow his friend this period for self-thought and reflection. He laid a hand on his shoulder after the period was over and spoke with an impressed tongue: "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That the lad, uh... swings that way."

He shrugged. "Just a feeling."

And that was the truth: a feeling. There was no real way to explain how he came to know that the boy held an attraction to him or even their own gender, but it was a fair assumption--all things considering--albeit a lucky one.

"They're all like that here," came a harsh, husky voice, suddenly.

So suddenly, it made Red and Striker, alike, jump.

The heavily-accented speaker came from behind them, to the corner of the cell from the until-now still tongue of their fellow prisoner. His voice was cracked from disuse, and when he raised his eyes to peer through the curtain of matted hair in front of them, he glared. They stared at him, unsure of this new character, as the accent had been unidentifiable from those few words alone. Even so, he was a fellow man, and a captive, and the empathic assumption won over initial suspicion.

"Stranger talks?" Striker blinked.

"Of course," scoffed the man. "I was biding my time."

Red didn't like the sound of this. "What's your name?"

The man hesitated.

With such hesitancy, and that accent, Red approached with a vastly aggressive pace; he pointed. "I asked you your name. Give it."

Surprised by Red's attacking approach, Striker looked between the two men; his friend, and the snarling man and grasped the situation: the man was the enemy.

"Dmitri," spat he.

Vindicated, Red backed down. "So, not even you are safe? Guess we can rule you out of being responsible foe getting us trapped here, eh? Sonofabitch."

When Red looked at this man, all he could see were how many of his friends he'd shot down, how many comrades that had lost their lives to that cowardly and deceptive surprise assault. So many lives ruined. And now here he was: a representative of death and betrayal of humanity. "I should kick your teeth out," he hissed and lurched forth, only to be stopped by Striker's easy objectivity.

"It's alright, Rusty; looks like someone beat you to it, there."

Red looked on, and saw that through a sickly smile on the man, many of his front teeth were missing. Although it helped little to dissuade his irrational hate, a lamentable speckle of commiseration tainted him. He couldn't attack this man who had already been beaten so bad that he hadn't even the teeth to so much as bite back. It was like kicking a lame hound; pathetic, trivial. It would make him feel better, but then, he would rather not waste his energy. "Looks like someone gave you a bit of rough--and you're not dead?--shame."

"Mock me all you like," he slurred. "By tonight, both of you will find it hard to walk after."

"Sounds fun," quipped Striker, still trying to cool the situation.

"Yes. And by tomorrow... you will wish for death to take you."

"Well, personally, I think you're both being dramatic. For one, they haven't hurt us that badly. So, whatever you did to piss them off, I don't intend to make the same mistakes. And Red, we're all in the same boat here... well, cage. We aren't in uniform. Allies by circumstance. I say we help each other."

"Like hell," Red sneered.

"Fine. But we might not have a choice."

In agreement, begrudgingly, Red bit his bottom lip and nodded straight.

And a difficult peace treaty was then issued amongst the three men present, unwritten but readable on their faces: Red was angry, but slowly he cooled into a generous tolerance; Striker was tense and uneasy, watching the other pilot with mounting interest; Dmitri's black eyes gleamed weakly as he sized up the enemy.

"I heard what he said..." he whispered.

Aware, Red had a sudden urge to look behind them, outside the cages to where Trayack had been. Hadn't he said someone was coming for them? Dmitry may not have said his name out loud, but Red knew of who he spoke. The bastard had heard everything and had them over a barrel, no doubt. He decided to humour him for now, for sake of the treaty.

"And what was that?"

Dmitri grinned a knowing toothless grin. "His plan will not work."

"What do you know?" Red asked, approaching.

"At night, they become monsters."

"Please!" Striker threw up his arms. "I was taken yesterday, I saw no monsters..."

"That is because you were unconscious," he chuckled, mockingly. "They caught you and your Jap friend and rushed you here before night. Then they locked you in the cells, like they did me the night before, and pulled leathers over you in case you saw them change. But I've been here longer... I've heard them.

"This ginger fool was captured later. He knows."

"Wait--how long have you been here?"

Dmitry moved (the first sign of life in his broken body yet), and waggled a finger. "I am your enemy, this is true. But I am not an airman. I was the captain of a team of fishermen--"

"--fishermen?"

"Spies," said Red, arms crossed, unimpressed. "They come in by submarine, usually, a day before and stake out the waters."

"We landed on the beach here before the battle commenced."

Red shook his head and squat down in the opposite corner. He didn't particularly want to hear how the enemy subverted their intelligence so easily, but since there was no stopping his story, he settled in to hear it.

"When we arrived, it was night. We were dragged off-course by a current and most of our systems failed us. It was then that I realised we had drifted too close to the Bermuda Triangle. We were warned, but...

"We were dressed in black scuba... left our five-man vessel just off the coast and swam the way to the beach. We didn't have a choice, it was the only land that we could see. We thought it was a sign from god," he laughed bitterly. "Little did we know."

"Just get on with it, Shakespeare," said Red. "I think I hear them talking about us."

Striker joined Red by the cage to look through. Down the alley towards the slave quarters, a small gathering of three had formed. They were discussing something in muffled voices but could not be properly deciphered at distance. They allowed Dmitri to continue his story with a growing tension that wrung every tighter around their necks, like a noose. It was like waiting on death row.

"When we landed, we thought we were the luckiest. There were other wreckages there, bits of boats, planes... we thought the drift should have killed us, but now, I wish it had.

"For a few hours all was okay, we ate tropical fruit and laughed, drinking vodka from reserves that had washed up--untouched!--then we went into the jungle. Our man, Piotr went off by himself and he never returned. After we heard noises like a hundred dogs, stitched together, and being torn apart... horrible sounds."

"I think I know what you're talking about," said Red, coldly.

His eyes were still focused on the lycans nearby, but he could see them, and could see their muscles, the way their bodies moved; unnatural, something more.

"Something started picking us off. I found Vladimir dead. He had been torn limb from limb. Then we found Piotr... he had been shot full of poison darts."

"Sounds familiar."

"Three of us were left--Victor, Herman, and myself--It was rich in black and I wanted Herman not to light the flares, but he wouldn't listen. When he lit them, there was a face, a monster...

"It was like an enormous... wolf! But with the body combined with that of a man. I only saw him for a second, but in that time, he just opened his massive jaws and--snap!--took Herman's head off in one bite... there was a fountain of blood spraying... he ran around headless like an idiot before falling. After that, the chaos began."

"Jesus," breathed Striker in disbelief. "How much vodka did you find on the beach?"

"Not enough."

"He's telling the truth," confirmed Red. "As much as that pains me to fuckin' say." He turned around and looked at the blond. "I told you, I'd been shot with something--a venom, right?--but hearing this asshole's story... I don't think that it was all a hallucination after all. In fact, it kinda makes sense.

"Werewolves," he scoffed. "Go figure."

"No, it can't be. There's gotta be some explanation."

Dmitri only laughed to himself.

"Why did they capture you then, if they killed all your crew?"

Dmitri shrugged. "Perhaps I am simply the biggest."

"Biggest?" Striker queried, not following.

"So far," he grinned. "I understand. They may look and sound like humans, but they are animals, complete. And animals only do three things: fighting, feeding, and fucking."

"They're coming," said Red, urgently, resuming his pacing around the cells. From down the alley, he heard the three approaching, and their footsteps were getting louder.

"Remember what the lad said," reminded Striker, somehow remaining calm. "Do anything they say--"

"--and I said his plan will fail," interrupted Dmitri, rising to his feet, shakily, with a pained chortle. "They roam the jungles at night, you will never reach your friend alive."

"Oh, and what do you suggest?" Red exclaimed, hushing his voice.

"I have a plan. But I need your help."

Fire spiralled and licked around the base of the huge phallus at the centre of the obscene village, and around that there grew a gathering of them: men of various colours and kith--werewolves--with a common expression of silent volubility; they needn't talk; words were not the archetype of communication for them. The spoke more through motion--action--smells and scents, and facial variation more than they did with their tongues. It was their way. They were stood in a semi-circle around the huge blaze, with everyone present--even Womack, the chief's son, had returned from jungle patrols empty-handed--clad in their ceremonial loin-skins and hair-feathers, there hovered over them an atmosphere electric.

A quiet cheer amongst the more unruly members erupted when the four humans were brought in, each in various states of disarray.

The redhead was first. He was the one they were most eager to see. In all the generations of men ever to have lived on the island, they had never seen one with hair quite as fiery as his. It elicited a curiosity--a fascination--in them that started at their grins and could not be quelled by his ruthless pride or serpentine tongue. Regardless, his subdued entrance, escorted by only one, he did not put up the fight they had hoped, and so the volume was downplayed.

The blond man struggled a little at being manhandled, but he was otherwise much like the redhead, only carrying a demure countenance. He looked around as he was paraded; at the inescapable walls and the number of warriors, then at the fire and mammoth cock. He was, then, showing signs of nervousness, the façade of nobility faltered and peeled away revealing layers of discomfort and worry.

Third out, the black-haired man, put up the most fight, despite his already significant injuries. Their mouths watered at the sight of his one empty eye socket--punishment for rebellion--he should have been broken, should have begged them like a puppy for mercy, but still he showed a lot more life and vigour. That was good. It meant he was not done, and he would put on a show quite different than the others. His handicap pained him, it was clear, wrapped only in bandages around his head, and that brought not small amount of satisfaction: they tasted his pain already.

Most disappointing was the fourth and final member of the quartet: the disheveled and emaciated man who had arrived before the others. Too drunk to comprehend when he arrived, they had had fun tossing him around like a plaything, slapping his face, biting the tender flesh of his backside and thighs, they had had their fill of him, and he would no doubt be disposed of before too long, his resistance too weakened to suffer life as one of them. Even so, his disposal was not assured; only Gogack could make that actuality.

The chief was not yet present, but his throne had been placed before the fire in good view of the festivities. From his bone and wood seat he could overwatch everything.

The four were weary and tired, thrust into a nightmare none of them asked for, as with all nightmares. They saw the faces of men superior and while they should have quaked in fear at their might, they observed them as something else.

"Monsters," whispered the blond one.

Red said nothing; his eyes met those piercing orbs of the impressive figure of Womack and froze.

Womack stifled a smirk for as long as he was able. He had his arms over his chest and thrust it out by way of demonstrating his physical self. He was the strongest the village had, save for a couple of men that exceeded the normal. Those men, however strong, were caught in the trap of excess, for their increased mass meant their agility was next to none by comparison. Womack considered himself the perfect balance of all: muscle, speed, skill, and intellect. And he was ready, in his own vivid imagination, to be the alpha of the pack.

"Bring them," Womack ordered.

And so they were brought, made to stand in a row. They once again faced the fire, with the entire pack's scrutiny at their backs. The son surveyed them greedily, their potential, and their capabilities. Unlike the father, this one could see them as scum, at the same time he saw their usefulness. Gogack had become too soft with age; he barely left his quarters anymore. Certainly, he was not suitable to sit in the alpha's throne. No matter, once he proved himself to these humans and claimed the ones he deemed worthy, the throne would be his before the moon emerged in its superlative power. Of course, the red one appealed to him the most; he had such a smart mouth, and as much as he would like to beat him into submission, the idea of making him beg for his cock sounded the most suitable. Oh, yes. He would have him beg for it before the night.

"Strip," he ordered, standing before Red.

Red cocked his head, a look of confusion. He was well-aware of the lycan's provocative nature, and degree of lustful antics, but the nature of their relationship would not be marred so easily by prior agreement; to yield so easily would raise suspicion. "Excuse me?"

That earned a hearty laugh from packmen.

Womack smacked him across the face--not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough to reopen his cuts--and he swayed on his feet for a moment, but, surprising even him, he stayed grounded. That only aroused him more. Now, Womack did laugh. "Strip. Or die."

Red scoffed: "Might offer me dinner first," he said, being down to unlace his boots. He gave his co-captives a sideways glance; first left, then right, and they began to abide.

Shucking off his soiled jacket, Striker then bent to do the same, placing his jacket in a neat folded pile behind him. This earned some disbelieving chuckles around the circle. The others undressed slowly, given their greater injury and circumstance. Katana, however sluggish, showed fierce determination--spite--in his every action, refusing completely to cry out, though he suffered greatly at the hands of these beasts: he would not allow them the satisfaction of a scream. Not again. They'd already taken their fill.

In his infinite jest, Red took his time, chucking one boot aimlessly aside while making eye contact with the chief's contemptible son. He wanted him to know that this was not a big deal. He would strip naked in front of two dozen pairs of eyes and like Katana, would not give them the satisfaction; they would have to take it from him. A second boot was tossed in the other direction and then his pale fingers went to his belt.

Womack looked down, then back up.

It brought him a grin; he knew the bully was enjoying this, at least a little, and not just because it was humiliating, but because somewhere, base carnal desires lurked under that thin veil, poorly disguised by subjugation. It would be sweet to make him sweat. Small revenges where possible, were all he could take.

"You like this, yeah?" He taunted.

A guttural growl broke from within Womack's throat; he should thrash the boy to a pulp, let him know where his teasing will get him, but he was rooted to the spot while his traitorous eyes pitched from eyes to fingers, to crotch, to eyes again. "I will enjoy breaking you."

Red sniffed. "Sure." And dropped his pants around his ankles.

There were audible murmurs from the crowd, some indistinct hoots, and others stifled impressed chuckles.

Womack's eyes went straight down, as did his usually stubborn jaw.

Red's pallid cock was a thick white club dangling between his legs, weighty, and with foreskin that just barely stretched around the meaty red head. A small thatch of trimmed wiry pubes garnished the base, while neat, but sizeable balls were taut. He didn't cover himself, and stepped out of his pants with a smugness that no doubt infuriated his would-be tormentor. The pants were tugged off and kicked aside haphazardly. From behind more than a few eyes fed their indulgences.

"This is ridiculous," hissed Katana. He needed help taking his jacket and shirt off over his head.

"Just do it," whispered Striker to his ear, hoping that none heard, and that the rumour of these men being more than their outer bodies would suggest was exaggeration and fantasy. Because if they had heard, they would have caught his warning tone and all would be lost. It had been difficult helping him take off his clothes without hurting him, so he tried to make it fast.

Katana needn't be reminded of the werewolves' volatile nature, his eye still beat and pulsed and agonised that reminder enough for him. For the most part he refused Striker's help. To be undressed like he were a helpless child was an indignity he would not suffer.

At the other side, Dmitri was unclothed the fastest, but his performance belied earnestness. He staggered, swayed, and faltered, and for his efforts, very little was to show: his ribs shone through his fatless chest and in the crackling firelight he looked gaunter than ever. Stood next to the faultless freckled form of Red, he looked severely inferior, ready to drop, with the light accenting every bone under his withered muscle.

Ever-cosmopolitan, Striker stood as proud as his friend, but with less arrogance. His cock had less girth but length-wise it was close to matching, though now was surely not the time to measure. Still, he couldn't help but look aside. A part of him understood what they were all staring at--Rusty was quite something to look at, he had to admit. Before he realised, he tore his eyes away and coughed, standing to attention like a soldier at inspection.

Once all four were completely naked, Womack began they survey.

He walked back and forth in front of the humans; eyes roaming over every inch. So far, only the three would suffice. The Russian had deteriorated quickly upon arrival--a disappointment--but of the five from his landing, he was the only one salvageable. If he had known what would soon be crash-landing on their island only hours later, he would not have wasted the time leaving even one alive and slaughtered them all. But as it happened, the man had potential--as an example--he approached him.

Dmitri was amused by this, but he could not bring himself to react.

"You have been here longer. Tell me: what do you think we're going to do to you?"

He shrugged. "I do not know. You tell me."

Womack smirked. "Yeah," and moved on.

Katana's perpetual frown betrayed his rigid outer strength; he was falling apart, struggling to keep up the front.

"Would you like to spit on me again?"

Katana shook his head furiously.

Womack nodded, cast an unimpressed gape at his dozing cock and stepped back to Striker. He had a decent one, good enough, he reckoned, and just to prove he was in charge, he reached out, at first pressing the tips of four fingers to the underside of the blond's shaven sac. He shuddered, but did not step back. Interesting. He smoothed his fingers over the crease in his balls and the way to the groove where they ended and the base of his cock began. The poor thing almost yelped as he stroked the underside of his cock from root to tip, then he just turned away.

Smooth--and responsive--a bonus.

It affected Red, to see this man--who was his problem--playing dirty, groping his friend just to rile him up, but he stood firm, bit his tongue and stared straight ahead.

How did you like that, now? Womack was about to say as he stepped in front of the valiant redhead. Barely noticeable, in fact (though he did see something) was the slightest shake. Red was not happy.

Come closer, you bastard, I dare you...

And he did. Womack crossed the line, the lure of his building rage too much to resist. Bordering on seduction he growled in his ear, luridly stared him up and down. Heat was stemming from his skin, perfect, pronounced heat. He put out his hands but did not touch; he just wanted to feel the heat change and take pleasure in the moment. Womack leaned in, allowed his lips to brush his ear. "I know what you are doing," he purred.

Red said nothing, bit harder.

"You think I do not know. You may fool everyone else with this... show, but not I. Oh, I shall have you last. You shall watch. And you will enjoy watching.

"There is a game to it all, you know. And you will lose."

"Don't count on it."

The electricity sparked between their lips, so close, that static broke out over Red's tongue; an indescribable urge to lean forward and bite into him. He resisted. Closed his eyes. Breathed. When he opened his eyes, Womack was gone.

He looked around. Many of the men were in various states of either amusement or arousal: those amused shuffled, smirked and chuckled, occasionally jabbing a friend with an elbow; those aroused made little effort to hide their erections, or semi-erections, even stroked them under their loincloths. It was a debauched affair, and it was something Red preferred was at his back so he didn't have to see, but as they started to close in on them, so did the panic.

Surely they weren't all going to...

"Hey!" Striker complained. He was pushed down on his hands and knees, Womack behind him, doing so with him as he pleased.

"I think your friend secretly enjoys this," he mocked, shoving the blond's face down in the dirt, then rising. "Stay down there. All of you... down."

Tentatively, the three got down on the knees, and bent forward, exposing themselves to the waiting pack who breathed and lurched and stroked in an ever-decreasing circle. Katana gave the most trouble, but he fell just as Striker had, with a swift effort from the soon-to-be alpha dog.

"Get off..."

"What's going on?" Red gruffly shuffled on the spot.

Womack was back standing there.

From his position on the floor, Red was the first to see the beast of a man unlace the leather cloth concealing his manhood, and he gawked open-mouthed as the cloth was flung aside revealing his daunting, huge cock.

"Time to finish what we started," he sneered. "Crawl."