Highland Beasts 3: Gilded Cages.
- Southern Suitor
- Jun 15
- 9 min read
Musk | Ripped Formalwear | Entrapment & Peril
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In this episode, we cutscene to a German werewolf who is a distant relative of David & Henry's Scottish pack. Stefan flirts with the wrong guy, and ends up getting in over his head. For this episode, I chose to stage it more like an Indiana Jones action movie, but with all of the erotic parts heightened for effect: not so much emphasis on the fucking this time, but more emphasis on the emergence of the Beast, the eroticism of torn clothing. Enjoy.
Cologne, February 1933.
Extracting his pocket watch from his waistcoat, Stefan checked the time, then clicked the instrument shut. It was Stefan’s phase tonight. He would have to leave this art exhibition soon.
Marble and meat, groaned the Beast within him. Stefan steadied himself with a deep breath, his meaty pectorals filling out the starched front of his formal shirt, tightening the platinum studs. Rocking back and forth on the balls and heels of his sheer socked feet, Stefan tucked his hands into his pockets, opera pumps polished to a mirror gleam against the marble floor. His bodybuilder physique cut an imposing figure here in this gallery of the museum, attired in a tie and tails trimmed to perfection to flatter his frame. He stood with his mountainous trapezius muscles bent back, chest spread out in a posture of relaxed pride, every seam of his eveningwear riding over his physique like a glove as he admired the godlike Italian sculptures before him.
They were a collection of studies newly shipped in from Italy, commissioned by Mussolini for the Stadio dei Marmi. Eyes wandering over the contoured musculature of each statue, Stefan recalled the presentation delivered at the start of the evening’s reception: Mussolini initiated a contest for sculptors from all over Italy to represent all aspects of sport and virility. Even though these studies did not make the final cut, Stefan had to admit that he enjoyed seeing the sculptors at work, modernizing their own versions of Roman and Greek forebears. All athletes, brought from the depths of the stone to mighty perfection. Even the proportions of the statues’ joints looked thicker, tougher than the classical models, veins of marble threaded to remind Stefan of the vascularity of the builders he lifted with. (The veins that feed me, growled the Beast within.) All towering dedications to virility. And Stefan’s own manhood twitched in response to such brazen homoerotic display.
The moon will be rising soon, said the Beast within him. I know, Stefan thought back. Soon. We must placate the humans first.
Soon, growled the Beast. Do not keep me waiting.
“You look like one of them,” said a voice.
Stefan caught the scent before turning to meet the gaze of the speaker. He could smell the speaker’s lust as he cast his glance up and down. A tall Italian gentleman, solidly built from what Stefan could tell. The fellow’s tux was of a sharper and more forward cut than Stefan’s. Italian tailoring, after all. Bald, clean-shaven, pale with brown eyes, the gentleman looked athletic. Handsome, too.
Take him, lowed the Beast within. We will plow him in the woods. Meaty little primate that he is. We’ll show him true strength—
“Carlo.” The man extended a handshake, which Stefan returned with a powerful grip. “Carlo Ricci.”
“Stefan Arnold.” As Stefan took in Carlo’s physique—hints of sculpted arms, a firm chest, massive calves adding a subtle, powerful curve to the satin stripes of Carlo’s tuxedo trousers—Stefan couldn’t help but lick his lips.
“Like I said, you look like one of them. The sculptures,” repeated Carlo. Emulating Stefan’s posture, Carlo slipped his hands into his pocket, drawing open the folds of his tuxedo jacket to allow the proud tent of his trousers to protrude. An advertisement.
“Thank you. I have been lifting weights for nearly two decades now. When I’m not selling paintings, that is.” This happened frequently in the world of art collectors, gentleman admirers who caught sight of Stefan’s body, the hint of Stefan’s beefy build filling out his tailoring. With a wink, Stefan twitched one of his pectorals, just to watch Carlo’s intake of breath at the display. Oh yes, said the Beast. Strong as he is, this human is helpless against you. We’ll pound him to bits—Swallowing back the Beast’s lusts, Stefan plucked the starched ring of his detachable collar. “Ricci . . . I recognize the name. You must be one of the managers of the exhibition, yes?”
“I am.” Carlo’s eyes targeted Stefan’s tenting phallus. “When we heard of Herr Hitler’s recent appointment, we thought we should celebrate by sending this collection over. An expression of good will from Il Duce . . . and mutual . . . might.”
“Might and athleticism, yes.” Oh, he’s reeking with lust, growled the Beast. Like frigid drops of rain, pinpricks raced across Stefan’s body. He could tell that the hairs were sprouting already. He ordinarily kept himself clean shaven and bald—carefully groomed, just like this Carlo fellow in front of him—his hairline having begun to recede years ago. But the razor was useless against his true pelt, the transformation dawning slowly on him. Stefan’s cock drooled in his trousers, at full obscene attention now. Let me have him. I want him. You want him. We’ll show him a good time.
But as Stefan took his hand out of his pocket, his now hairy knuckles brushed against the impression of his pocket watch in his waistcoat. With all his human strength he could no sooner hold back the Beast than hold back the sway of the tide—the tidal pull, coaxing him away from the shore of humanity. The moon was climbing to the horizon. He would have to make his exit soon.
Carlo regarded Stefan with an air of puzzlement. “Forgive me, but have you shaved recently?”
“Oh, I am a day or two out from my next session,” explained Stefan, trying not to stumble over the human syllables, his canines starting to grow sharp. “I am an art dealer, see, but I also maintain my physique to pose for life drawing lessons at the academy. So I must frequently keep myself shaven, yes.”
Stepping in, Carlo lowered his voice. “You clearly have an admiration for . . . fine, masculine bodies. Both yours, and others. I am staying with a baron outside of the city. He is an eccentric of sorts, an antiquarian, something of an occult hobbyist. But he has a collection of sculptures that I think you would admire. Surely you can . . . join me, after this reception?”
Yes, hissed the Beast within. Step into his car and wolf out right then and there. Tear the machine apart. But Stefan steadied himself with another breath, drawing a card from his pocket. Stefan felt drops of sweat welling from his pores, icy sweat pouring down his latissimi—firmer, broader, the wingspan of a powerlifter now widening to something not intended to fit into human clothing, tugging at the side seams of his shirt, drawing the fabric taut across his nipples, now stippled with fur.
“That would be lovely, but not tonight.” Stefan handed Carlo the card. As soon as Carlo took it, Stefan withdrew his hand, mindful that the back of his hand now looked much hairier and meatier than before, cufflinks and starched cuffs tightening around the wrists of his distending arms. “Call on me tomorrow. I leave for Leipzig in the morning. Perhaps we could arrange something in the future, another exhibition, another month?”
A flinch in Carlo’s gaze. A sour note in his scent. This was not the answer Carlo looked for. With a stiff nod, he studied the card. “Of course. Enjoy your evening.”
“And you, as well.” Stefan stepped away, sheer-socked heel skipping out of his opera pump, stud twisting to keep his shirt closed across his chest. “Excuse me.”
*
But even in the woods, Stefan scented him. Carlo must have thought he was following at a safe distance, but the Beast—senses keener now in the darkness of the park outside of the museum—the Beast could detect this lustful human a mile away.
This was not the first time Stefan had had to shake off an admirer. As an art dealer, Stefan inhabited a world peopled by men who lusted after his body, the fine sculpture of musculature that he maintained with a religious fervor. Barbells, clubs, medicine balls—daily, even when traveling—coupled with a carnivorous diet that kept his inner Beast plenty satisfied. Almost satisfied, the Beast corrected. Never quite satisfied with cooked meat, prepared for humans. And, ever since being awakened by his packleader Max years ago, he’d made a point of locating a tailor in every city he visited, keeping his wardrobe in peak condition to match his body underneath.
Yes, Stefan could smell the lust wafting off Carlo. His attempt to defer Carlo’s advances only inflated the handsome man’s desires. Carlo’s frustration, his human anticipation just fuming off his athletic frame. Stefan hoped he’d be able to take a turn off the path and throw Carlo off the trail.
Stefan clicked open his pocket watch. Seven minutes. He could feel it already, the change coming. With each intake of breath, the studs of his formal shirt grew tighter, curls of dark brown fur bristling between the figure 8 gaps between each fine silver fixture. His opera cloak concealed it, but he knew that any onlooker would have questions, his sharp stubble bristling against his collar, the studs of his collar digging at his Adam’s apple and the back of his thickening neck alike.
But he knew, too, in this park in Cologne, there was a bend of the walkway where he’d be able to jump the rail to a ravine down below. There, in partial seclusion, he’d be able to shed his cloak, shed his evening finery quickly. He’d wolfed out here before. He would have to do so soon in order to avoid destroying his clothes altogether. And he’d have to do it quietly, to evade the attention of this young man pursuing him through the park.
Hunt him down, growled the Beast within him. Show this little human lover a good time.
Too risky, Stefan thought back. Soon, he told the Beast, spotting the railing up ahead. Opera pumps clicking on the pavement, he quickened his pace. Soon I will let you through.
Soon it won’t matter, answered the Beast back. The Moon is almost right. Soon, you’ll have no choice.
No time to glance over his shoulder, Stefan stepped up on the railing, then hopped clear over, his whole powerful form clearing the hurdle with a smooth, feral motion. Weightless for a moment in the air, he landed, the ball of one sheer-socked foot sinking into the pine needles of the thicket down below. He had lost one of his opera pumps as he hopped the railing above him—no time to recollect it.
His sturdy frame absorbed the shock of the ten-foot drop easily. Already he could feel his joints cracking, the pulse of pain from his birthmark searing down his spine. He would have to hurry. Unfastening the opera cloak, he cast aside the satin-lined covering. It tumbled from his broad shoulders like a velvet curtain, swaddling into the leafy floor as he doffed his top hat. He had not bothered with his gloves, aware now that his hands and knuckles had outgrown them, fingernails curling into claws. Already his wrists had outpaced his cufflinks, arms growing too long and bulky for his sleeves. Off with the cufflinks—two tugs undid the bowtie, followed by two deft pops of the studs digging into his bulging neck, his starched collar soon tossed aside. He’d done this before, disrobing himself in public after these evening art exhibitions, always perilous, a shadow away from human sight. Wriggling with frustration, he managed to peel one sleeve of his tuxedo jacket away—a shoulder seam of his fine shirt rending over the hairy mountain of his deltoid.
Yes. The growl of the Beast vibrated his vocal chords. They were becoming one now. I’ll destroy these puny human coverings.
Nothing that the tailor can’t manage, Stefan thought back. He had to buy himself enough time—just enough time—to wriggle out of his eveningwear. The studs of his shirt gave way with an easy tug, one button-hole of his waistcoat ripping across the forested canyon of his abdominals before he shrugged off his braces, peeling the shirt and the other sleeve of his jacket away. The ridge of his pectorals had surged so far out from his body that he couldn’t even see his lower half, and his raging cock was already swelling, trying to find its way above the waist of his trousers, one seam of his satin stripes ripping as his thighs fought the constriction to expand.
Staggering, top-heavy and off-balance now that his spine had begun its burning, horrible growth into a boarlike dire shape, Stefan wrenched his trousers off his legs. Sometimes he had enough time to fold and hang his formalwear on a branch, but not tonight—kicking off his trousers, almost free—his palm—now hardened into a paw pad—the moment his palm, touched the ground, the change accelerated, the Beast bursting forth from its inner confines, hardening his robust human musculature into prodigious sinews harder than iron, coiled with power. Arms elongated to match his legs, his calves now the size of tree trunks shredding his socks. His hosiery was the last article he wore, but it was too late—
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