Highland Beasts 2: Demi-wolves.

A photomanipulation from a follower who wishes to keep his lupine nature anonymous.

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Musk | Feral Fuck | Romance

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Henry learns to live with his newly awakened inner Beast. His relationship with Andy deepens. Meanwhile, David suddenly departs the country. Rumors emerge of a change of government in Germany, and its dire implications for a distant member of the pack.

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Edinburgh, February, 1933.

“We need to have a little discussion about your . . . grooming.”

Henry shifted in his seat. Nostrils flaring, he drank in the pulpy odor of paper, the sticky blackness of ink, the buttery slickness of the leather chairs, the whiff of his boss’s shoe polish, the crispness of starched linen combined with the brushed wool of his herringbone suit. With each keen breath, the birthmark on the back of his neck chafed against his snug, starched collar. “What about it, sir?”

Mr. Wallace, his boss, unfolded his hands on the desk and stroked his chin. “A beard seems hardly appropriate for a gentleman of our profession, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Beard?” Henry stroked his own chin, where, rough as sandpaper, the barbs of his stubble bristled against his double cuffs. “But I just shaved this morning, sir.”

Mr. Wallace shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“I can bring my shaving things to the office, I suppose?” Henry didn’t at all like that idea. Ever since his transformation on Burns Night, the razor had grown into a hateful, burning thing against his cheeks, whose untamable scruff proved difficult to quell each morning. Along with his wisps of chest hair and hints of fur on the backs of his hands, and the sudden increase in his muscle tone beneath his suits—a strange attunement to his surroundings, and the panorama of smells that colored his every breath—indeed, ever since that night in the woods with Andrew and David, Henry found it difficult to be a biped creature at an office desk by day, these days. He adjusted his cuffs in his prim pinstripe suit jacket, thankful that his cufflinks were not silver. “I am terribly sorry, sir. I did not mean to tarnish our company’s sterling image.”

Surveying Henry’s appearance, Mr. Wallace nodded. “Ordinarily, you are one of the finest dressed of our draftsmen. Hence why the sudden . . . decline grew concerning.”

“Duly noted, sir.” With a nod, Henry paused for a moment. His thoughts began forming the beginning of a request. During his evening gymnasium visits with David and Andrew, Andrew had voiced an interest in getting to see the newly designed theatre that Henry’s firm had designed. The opening show was to be Macbeth. Henry, however, had been assigned to work that day, and, in light of already being on Mr. Wallace’s bad side, it seemed untoward to ask for another day off.

Shifting in his seat, Mr. Wallace noticed Henry’s expression. “Did you have something else on your mind, Mr. Thomas?”

“Yes, sir.” Why yes, thought Henry for an absurd moment: yes, our new theatre opens the same week as the full moon, and that means that I might not be able to make it into the office on a given day, due to my potentially changing into a ravenous bestial form. But Henry cleared his throat, opting for a more mundane explanation. “Next month is the opening of our theatre, as you know. A friend of mine has invited me to a dinner, to be followed by the opening performance.”

Mr. Wallace frowned. “You are aware, Mr. Thomas, that we will be starting work on the train terminal next?”

“That is to be our firm’s next project, yes.” Another pause. Henry studied his own reactions, the way his mind immediately wanted him to flee from conflict. Mr. Wallace was already poised to deny his request. Yet something in him—some hirsute, writhing thing—stirred, cock twitching, regarding the potential denial as a source of arousal, strength. No, the thing said. Don’t give in. Fight. Clearing his throat again, Henry translated his newfound defiance into more diplomatic words: “Sir, this theatre is our most ambitious project to date. I see no fault in requesting a moment’s celebration for such a celebrated and ornate edifice, hm?”

A scoff from Mr. Wallace. Settling back into his armchair, he glared out the window. “To think. You, a junior draftsman, rubbing elbows with your betters, and requesting a day off for it? What nerve.”

What nerve indeed, reflected Henry. But he stiffened his posture, squaring his shoulders with an insistent nod. How unlike him, this sudden display of assertion. Aggression, even. Ever the classicist and stoic, Henry remembered how many times Marcus Aurelius warned against attempting to influence outside events. Make peace with the world outside of your mind. Yet this felt different, this animalistic power unlocking itself within him. He locked eyes with Mr. Wallace, letting his request hang in the air between them, unchanged.

Mr. Wallace seemed puzzled at first, before his expression washed over into something resembling a begrudging acceptance. “Very well, Mr. Thomas. Take the day.”

Measuring his tone, Henry tried not to seem too eager. “Thank you, sir.”

*

Small changes like that seemed to accompany every turn of his routine. The keener smells. The way that he cut himself with his razor that morning, only to find that the wound sealed itself in an instant. It raised chills in him, the regeneration, the curious spectacle answered by a twinge of pain from his birthmark. Constant reminders that this was all real.

David had given Henry one of the books from his library, a handwritten journal penned by one of David’s lupine ancestors. The memoir said that, as a full moon wolf, Henry would be gifted with the power to heal his own wounds: regeneration of any cut or bruise, save by silver. David and Andrew’s phase was the waning gibbous, which gifted them with unnatural strength. That phase had passed Burns Night, just last week, when Henry saw and felt the change himself, awakened by a ritual that David had performed to call forth the beast in Henry out of what would have been his ordinary turn. Incontrovertible. Irresistible, this sign that Henry was not quite human anymore.

And now, this week, the moon dwindled past its last quarter phase. Henry counted the nights: soon the moon would winnow away to a crescent, then vanish in the new, then it would begin its slow swell. In a few weeks, Henry knew the moon would creep each evening towards the full, the sliver of shadow vanishing along the disc.

Even in his waking hours he could feel it, the Beast, hovering in the thin veil of the unknown, or skulking just outside of the edge of his vision. Always in the periphery, prowling, always there. It was awake now, and Henry knew its time had to be near.

“Study this book,” David had said a few days ago, when Henry left David’s country home. “And purchase an almanac. Be sure to mark your calendar and keep time carefully. Although yours is the full moon, it is difficult to tell which of the nights it will happen. It all depends on whichever fullness the moon assumed the night you were born.”

So, the very next day, Henry purchased an almanac and began ransacking the pages. He scrutinized the week that the theatre would open. Which day had he requested off? He found himself consulting the book every hour, his eyes studying the spires of the urban horizon out the window, wondering when it would happen. And what were these stirrings he felt, whenever he gazed out at the brick and mortar canyons of Edinburgh’s districts—a yearning for a place of damp wood and moss, for galloping on all fours. Hardly suitable behavior for a gentleman. Mr. Wallace’s words, his mocking tone, rang in Henry’s ears.

Frowning at his drafting table, he gazed down at his wrist. Once again he found himself pressing the tip of his pen knife into a vein. Once again, he drew a drop of blood. And, once again, the wound mended itself with eerie speed, leaving his skin unblemished beneath the hairs of his wrist, thicker than he remembered.

*

It was an evening during the week of the new moon. The noises of the trolley assaulted his ears, the mingled stenches of so many humans crammed into a confined space. Leafing through the almanac, Henry scented a now-familiar musk. Tall and powerful, armored in his sharp suit and hat and overcoat and gloves, Mr. David McAlister took a seat across from Henry. He paid Henry a nod, but his eyes scanned every corner of the trolley, nostrils gathering the air with each breath.

With a loud flap, David spread open a newspaper, perusing the headlines. Henry caught sight of the International Affairs section. “Germany: President Hindenburg to appoint Hitler.” Turning to this section, David passed his eyes over the article, his brow furrowing with worry.

But for Henry, the static pinpricks of nervousness came from a different source. He riffled through the almanac in his gloved hands, knowing full well what the dates and numbers meant, the arid columns of numbers that promised—yet failed—to prognosticate the change. Yet now—strange, comforting, the nervous energy tempered for just a moment—somehow he felt a bond that leapt the distance over the aisle, like an imaginary cord linking the birthmark on the back of his neck to the birthmark he knew to be on the back of David’s. They were packmates, a different tribe from all of these humans. David gave up his seat to a lady, and grabbed one of the handles next to Henry. Once the trolley swung to a stop, David handed Henry a card. Then, patting Henry on the shoulder, he took his leave.

David McAlister, Financier. Henry turned the card over. Written in David’s swift, precise script–evidently, written before he got on the trolley–were the words “It will happen in the coming weeks. Please know that you have a standing invitation at my home whenever you need to escape the city.”

*

The moon increased to a crescent, then grew to its first quarter. The anticipation lingered with each moonrise each night, as the moon swelled to its gibbous state. Any night now. For several nights surrounding the opening date, the almanac predicted unhelpful figures: 96% full, or 97%, or 98%. How full would be full enough? Riffling through the almanac with his gloved fingers, Henry waited for the trolley to drop him off at the health club.

The moment he stepped through the gymnasium doors, Henry’s nostrils caught the musk of Andrew Ramsey, David’s packmate, his physique lithe and powerful in his sleeveless vest. He gave Andy a nod of greeting, while Andy—pectorals heaving, filling out the nipple-tented fabric of his sleeveless vest—guided a barbell off his chest, the whole motion smooth, unhurried, studied over a thousand repetitions.

Something in Andy’s scent gave Henry the hint that their animal lust for one another was not yet consummated. And that strange, stirring sensation revealed itself within him once more: one way or another, it would have its way. It felt both like a thing apart from and apart of him, this new nature awakening night be night, requiring him to assert his will, demanding satisfaction. Indeed, not content to stay his human stoic course—what if he gave in to his desires, and abandoned the pretense of controlling them? A rank and raunchy odor now hovered beneath Andy’s now familiar musk, and something about the odor made Henry realize, or know, that Andy felt the same way. So Henry approached the front desk. “Pardon me, but I do believe that the Turkish Bath is in need of some maintenance.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” The attendant gave Henry a quizzical look. “We have received no complaints from any of our other patrons.”

“Let me be more specific, then.” Henry cleared his throat, producing a few pound notes from his wallet. The Beast would be satisfied, at any cost. “I believe that the Turkish Bath is in need of a bit of maintenance. Might I do you a favor and hang the ‘Out of Service’ sign on the door?”

Puzzled, the attendant looked around, before extending a surreptitious hand to collect the bills off the counter. Producing the “Out of Service” sign from a drawer, the attendant slid the sign across to Henry. “Of course, sir.”

With a confident stride down the hall, Henry planted the “Out of Service” sign on the bath door, then proceeded to the locker room, where he changed out of his pinstripe suit and into his Henley and sports trousers.

Settling into his routine, Henry plied the rowing machine.

Finding a moment’s rest amidst his work with the barbells, Andrew approached Henry, shoulders slinking in a relaxed gait, contours of his biceps tense from exertion. “Excited about next week?”

“I requested the next day off, yes.” Stroke after stroke, Henry huffed away at the rowing machine. “It will be a wonderful evening.”

“I’m really looking forward to it.” Hooking a thumb in, Andy tugged his trousers an inch down, revealing the band of his briefs. He lowered his voice: “It will be about time for your phase of the moon, won’t it?”

“Perhaps. Didn’t David say that it depended on when I was born?”

“It does, yes. He and I are in the same phase, but we still . . . change, a day or two apart.”

“So even if it’s the full moon, it’s unpredictable.”

“It’s always that way. Fickle.” With a smirk, Andy thumbed a button of the fly of his trousers as he watched Henry work the machine. “Sneaks up on you by surprise, even when you think you have it planned out.”

“I must admit,” breathed Henry as he eyed Andy’s crotch between strokes, “I’m a bit impatient. I want it to happen.”

Nudging against the pleated tweed trousers, Andy’s cock pitched a tent there. Andy traced his knuckle along the ridge of fabric, which made no concealment of his arousal. “You seem to have gotten adept at the rowing machine. I think it’s high time we started you with a new bit of training, don’t you?”

“Beg your pardon?” Henry glanced around, hoping nobody noticed the stirring arousal in his trousers as he set down the handles of the rowing machine. “I—eh—don’t think I see myself taking up boxing anytime soon.”

“We’ll work you up to it.” Andrew clapped Henry’s shoulder with a smirk. “A new routine will do you good. Have you tried medicine balls before?”

They were like stones, Henry thought, as Andrew hurled one of the hefty things in Henry’s direction, expecting Henry to amble and catch the weights before throwing them back. Even with his newfound muscle tone, the effort drained and stung every fiber of Henry’s arms. To think: these were the lightweight ones. After about twenty minutes, Henry collapsed on a bench, his trousers and henley drenched.

“You seem to be working up a sweat there,” remarked Andrew with a smirk, curls of his chest fur tumbling over the hem of his vest. “Perhaps it’s time for a trip to the Turkish bath?”

Doubled over in exhaustion, Henry nodded his head. Between breaths, he managed a few words. “Why . . . must you and David . . . do . . . this . . . such difficult . . . training?”

“Keeps the Beast satisfied,” purred Andy, plucking at the fly of his trousers once more.

“Or pacified,” huffed Henry as he heaved himself off the bench.

Leading his exhausted friend down the hall, Andy stopped in his tracks, quirking an eyebrow at the sign hanging on the Turkish Bath door. “Out of service?”

Having caught his breath, Henry placed a finger over his lips, opening the door to admit Andy. “I thought we might need a bit of privacy this time.”

Just as Andy was about to let out a knowing chuckle, Henry reached down to the scoop of Andy’s sleeveless vest, pulled him into the steamroom, and shut the door, clicking the latch into place. No sooner done, Henry felt Andy’s fingertips wander down to his waistband. “I see you planned this little encounter, then?”

“You put me through my paces,” replied Henry with a growl as he peeled Andy’s vest up his sweltering torso. “And I found myself eager to finish what we started the other week.”

Andy peeled off his vest, tossing it to the floor. Beneath the scruff of his navel, the fine channels of musculature between Andy’s abdominals reminded Henry of Greek sculpture. Classical? No—thicker, bolder. Hellenistic, Henry decided, admiring the slick contours of powerful, marmoreal slabs. The dense brown curls of Andy’s chest hair made no concealment of his pectorals, now gleaming with sweat from the bath.

“You seem to have forgotten a towel.” Andy hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Henry’s trousers. Possessive, coy.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing one.” Locking lips with Andy, Henry sank his tongue into a deep kiss, breaking off just long enough to let Andy peel his henley off, before resuming his locking of lips, his hands roaming over every firm and mighty contour of Andy’s sweat-slicked musculature. The man was indeed built like a mastiff, his size and tone hinting at the kind of beast his being hid within. Hungry for more, Henry thrust his hands down Andy’s trousers, eager to free what he might find there—

“Whoa, easy down there, man.” Andy gave Henry a playful lick of his nose before unbuttoning his trousers. “I’ll let him out for you. Just give me a moment.”

“Sorry,” growled Henry, laying sloppy kisses down the side of Andy’s neck. Radiating pleasure down his nerves at the back of his neck, his birthmark pulsed with his heartbeats. “I’m not usually this . . . lascivious.”

“It is only natural,” remarked Andy as the buttons of his trousers surrendered one by one, his mighty cock inches from springing forth. “Your natural appetites will grow more difficult to resist, as the Beast takes hold.”

Henry felt his vocal cords vibrate in a growl. Unbidden, a natural response to viewing the object of his desires. Impatient, he wrenched apart the buttons of his trousers, his cock raging against the elastic confines. “I don’t know how you and David stay off one another. I’ve been—just—”

“Ravenous?” Andy wrapped his hand around Henry’s shaft the moment it sprang out. “Oh, trust me. So have I.”

Henry seized his lover in a fierce kiss, shucking his trousers halfway down his thighs, groping Andy’s glutes.

“You know,” mused Andy as he arched his hips forward, allowing Henry to peel his briefs down his thighs—cock full erect, bobbing out of the elastic band— “This Friday, David will be heading over to Germany.”

Acknowledging the statement with a grunt, Henry seized Andy’s cock with his lips, growling and drooling. Writhing and restless deep within him, the his bestial nature burned with lust, just like the birthmark on the back of his neck.

“Meaning—” Andy continued amidst a moan of pleasure—his human nature attempting to grasp on to human words, while his bestial nature stirred so close to the surface of his being— “on whichever night the change takes hold of you—you’ll need to shelter at my place, instead of his.”

Lapping up a long line of scruff from Andy’s bush to his navel, Henry growled, fumbling to release his own cock from his trousers. “Can we save all this planning for later? I’m . . . hungry.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Andy. Wrapping his arms around Henry’s neck, Andy caressed Henry’s back, toying with Henry’s henley. He broke into a smirk, bouncing the firm mounds of his pectorals. “Such an eager young pup.”

*

Clicking and closing his pocket watch, Henry counted the stops on the Trolley. David was not there this time. He had been anticipating it all day, the moment clocked out of work. Now, on the ride home, the anticipation took a new object. He would have about an hour to wash and attire himself for the evening.

The whole time, Henry’s mind wheeled in calculations. “96% full.” That’s what the almanac said about the moon this night. Would this be it, then? Tomorrow was 98%. Did that mean that tomorrow had a higher chance than tonight? Yesterday, Henry had taken a trip to the library to consult almanacs from past years. On the night of his birth, the moon had been at 97% full. So did that mean that he was going to skip this phase? Or that it would happen tomorrow, perhaps? He was grateful he had asked for the day off work. He was grateful to have Andy there to keep watch over him. Prowling behind the ever-thinning veil at the corners of his vision, the Beast loomed ever closer.

He remembered the pain of it, his first transformation. His birthmark grazed against the starched band of his collar, thrumming with an echo of that livid, flaming sting that lit his spine on fire. Muscle, sinew, and bone cracking, tearing and knitting themselves back together into something horrific and new. That uncanny state of being both in his body and apart from it, detached and dislodged, as though his soul were free-floating, cast upon the frigid moonlight, witnessing the writhing of his body down below.

He unlocked his apartment, flung down his briefcase, and began undoing the buttons of his three-piece pinstripe suit. Off came the detachable collar, the cufflinks, the tie and pin. One by one these articles found their place on his valet before he opened his wardrobe to dust off the shoulders of his formal kit. He had yet to take up David’s offer to have his kilt and Prince Charley remade—wrecked, reduced to tatters by his Burns Night transformation—so he opted for trews instead. These he paired with an Argyll jacket and a three-button, low-gorged waistcoat whose black velvet matched the peak lapels.

Of course, the practical part of Henry’s nature suggested that perhaps tonight was not the ideal evening to be attired in fine formalwear at the theatre. But the wild thing within him seemed to crave a challenge. It would be too easy for him to simply strip naked in the woods and await the right moment. There had to be . . . some barrier, some obstacle to overcome. Some remnant of human civilization to be demolished, the monster’s sign of victory. Yes, that was how Henry rationalized it, producing each of his formal garments from their cedar hangers in the wardrobe. Even as he went about the familiar motions of laying out his finery to dress himself, he felt as though his human self was in command of something yet to emerge.

He skipped the vest and briefs. Andy had advised him to do that on the nights and days surrounding the event, reducing the layers that would need shedding before the transformation. The crisp formal shirt felt a little snugger than he recalled, fine fabric settling around his toned shoulders, his frame a hair broader than the last time he wore it. The studs of the detachable collar locked around his neck, bowtie requiring some adjustment to circle the distance. Each stud of his shirt front locked in place, concealing the scruff of his firm chest. Perhaps they would burst open by the end of the evening, allowing him an easier escape from such sartorial confines.

Henry stretched the socks over his feet, noticing how hairy they now had become, the fine hosiery tracing the contours of his calves and ankles. The further Henry stretched them, the more translucent they became, the subtle weave resembling a jacquard pattern. Ordinarily he could get away with such diaphanous hosiery because his legs didn't have much hair on them, but today every hair of his legs showed through. By the time Henry finished stretching them to the point below his knee, the socks had grown so sheer and shiny that they looked quite nearly invisible.

The trews were next. They had been done in his family tartan, just like his kilt that he had torn through the previous month. Felt a bit strange to equip such garments without an intervening layer of underwear, but he had to admit that his cock and balls welcomed the folding cradle of tartan wool hugging his body. Instead of braces, the trews were to be worn with a thick belt embossed in Celtic knots. This belt replaced what would have been the cumberbund of ordinary British dress, the waistcoat and high-trimmed jacket concealing the heavy leather.

The final touch was his opera cape. It was February, after all. Perhaps that satin-lined garment would come in handy, in case he proved less than presentable to human company. Just as he swished the cape around his shoulders, he heard a knock at the door to his apartment. Slipping his sheer-socked feet into his velvet lined opera pumps, he collected his hat and gloves and stepped to the front door, where a chauffeur nodded, offering a card in an envelope. Henry opened it, and recognized Andy’s handwriting:

Pack an extra suit. I’ll have my man Moseley here on call for the evening, just in case we need to make a speedy departure from the theatre.

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Highland Beasts 2 (werewolves, tuxedos, muscle growth, clothing destruction, romance, occult historical fantasy).