THE WOLFPACK @Copyright Maureen, 1999, slightly revised in April 2000. All rights reserved under the Bourne Convention, except permission granted for free electronic distribution and archiving if *nothing* is altered in any way. We shapeshift. My body stretches, breasts shrinking and dividing into eight smaller mammae. My arms become long, straight front legs as I drop onto four paws. We’re all in wolf form now, milling around, the hunt about to begin. My mate, Blackfur, is at my side. His human name is irrelevant now, unimportant. Even before I shapeshifted, the hairs stood on the back of my neck, and I wanted to howl. I wanted to run on four legs across the grass, across endless miles, under the white full moon. But equally strong is the urge to hunt, to glut my savage lust in warm-blooded prey. Scents bloom in my nose as I finish the Change: the faint dark earthy odor of soil, the bitter-aromatic tang of distant pines scattered through the forest . . . and the meaty, rich, full-bodied scent of human prey, wreathing the footsteps in the snow. The scent is exhilarating, intoxicating. Someone lifts their head and howls, and the irresistible urge seizes the rest of us. We all sound together, lifting our heads to the dark sky, our voices weaving together in a chorus of joy and lust. Let the quarry hear it. Let him know we’re on our way. The smell of fear adds spice to the meat. Eager, I leap forward, moving into a long-legged, tireless, powerful lope, signaling the start of the hunt. Then Blackfur is beside me, his fur black as night, bounding into the trees. The others fall into place behind us, tails up, ears lifted, noses twitching. * * * * * Behind me, a hell’s chorus rises. The sound is meant to terrify, and it does: I can feel my heart pounding in my throat. I force the terror down, keeping my pace to an even long- distance lope. The primitive chorus behind me falls silent, dying away into low, crooning moans, then silence, leaving only the sound of my footfalls. I have no idea where safety lies, or whether I can reach it in time; I force the thought out of my mind so I can concentrate on flight. I’m wearing only my jacket, shirt and jeans; the running keeps me warm, even sweating. Somewhere in the darkness behind me, I know, lupine four- legged shapes have ceased howling and begun their pursuit. * * * * * There’s no sensation in the human world quite like it: bounding tirelessly, almost effortlessly across the earth, legs pumping, seeming almost to fly past the dark tree trunks. Who’s in the lead changes as we hurtle forward, a slow shuffling of places as we run together through the forest, but we all stay close together as a cohesive pack. We’ll all share in the kill. The quarry has been given an hour’s free run. There’s always the chance that he might make it to a road, a house -- escape. But it’s only a small one, and he doesn’t know this land as we do, we whose hunting ground it is. No victim has ever escaped us before. His trail lies warm and reeking on the forest floor, a signpost even stronger to us than the human tracks, and we follow it eagerly. It smells of a mingling of masculine musk and human sweat, tinged with the sweet-sour scent of fear and -- can it be? -- a faint hint of sexual pheromones. That smell sends shivers of arousal up and down my spine and drives strength into my legs as I bound through the forest. How delicious to abandon myself to the urge to hunt, to run down the prey without mercy. I know the rest of the pack shares in that delight, is in the grip of that instinct. Beside me, Blackfur’s smell is of that same primal joy. We bound easily up a steep wooded slope that bears his tracks, our back legs giving us all the power we need. How much harder it must have been for him, on two legs, to struggle up this ridge. I wish I could have seen him do it, sensed his determination, his desperation, knowing all the while it’s hopeless. His scent here smells of fear kept rigidly under control. I stop to push my snout into one track, trying to catch as much as I can of that delicious smell, before the danger of falling behind makes me speed up again. * * * * * I stagger, then regain my stride at the bottom of the slope. I’m in the open now, running across a grassy plain. I can’t help but look back, and then I see them pour out of the trees like a swarm of demons -- leaping dark forms, too many to count. Even as my heart leaps into my throat and I turn to concentrate on running, the bestial choir sounds behind me, a mixture of eager yelps and howls. * * * * * As we descend the slope and leave the tree cover, we catch the first sight of our prey! He’s only a few hundred yards away, looking back at us. A howl of delight and longing forces its way out of my throat as I bound, sliding at every step, in twenty-foot leaps. He turns away and puts on a spurt of speed, a last-ditch attempt to outrun us. It’s useless, of course: no human can outrun a wolf. As I reach the bottom of the slope and hit level ground, my mouth floods with saliva, as if I were running down a deer and about to sink my teeth in. He’s lost the rhythm of his running in that panic flight, but he can’t keep it up long. Will he try until he collapses in exhaustion, or will he turn to sell himself as dearly as he can? As we draw near him, I slow down, Blackfur slows down, so do the others, so as not to simply overrun him. That would be too easy. In the end, he neither turns nor collapses in terror. Instead, he drops back to that long-distance lope he’s been using thus far, regaining his stride. I feel admiration; he realizes that he’s going to be caught in any case, but has decided that he will keep running for as long as his body will let him. I fall into step behind him, keeping my place in the pursuing pack, eyeing his long, lean pumping legs. * * * * * They slow down, matching strides with me. The bastards are dragging it out for the sheer pleasure of watching me run. I feel a curious sensation of helplessness, partly pain -- and, oddly, partly arousal. I don’t pause to analyze it; I concentrate on my running, breathing through a partly open mouth. That concession to panic cost me dearly in terms of wind. Behind me, I can hear the steady soft thuds of dozens of paws as they bound after me, only thirty feet away now. As I run, I check the distance out of the corner of my eye, and the realization hits me that they’re not quite keeping pace, but drawing slowly closer. Twenty feet now . . . The plain goes on and on without end as my legs move mechanically, keeping the rhythm. I’m still not anywhere near the end of my strength, for what it’s worth. The distance has narrowed to ten feet. And then one wolf draws up beside me, not right next to me but a few body- lengths away, flanking me on my right side. I glance at it out of the corner of my eye: it’s a female, her coat a gloriously thick silvery gray in the moonlight. Her tongue lolls out of her parted jaws in silent laughter as she lopes beside me. I redouble my concentration, trying to leave her behind without breaking out of my even stride, but she keeps pace with mocking ease. Another wolf, a male black as night, moves up into position on the left, bracketing me. They could have me now . . . but they simply keep me flanked, loping alongside as I run. * * * * * Blackfur matches us stride for stride as we run together, the rest of the pack strung out behind. This is the first close look I’ve had at our victim in motion. It’s a pleasure to watch him run; he’s in superb shape. His stride is measured, controlled, his breathing only beginning to get harsh, coming in regular puffs. He’ll last a long time. I exult in my own easy stride, so much more efficient than his. He really has no hope of getting away; I could close the distance, leap on him and knock him down at any moment. He knows it, too, yet he continues to run. I eye his body, as much of it as I can distinguish beneath the trousers and the jacket. Long legs, a body slender yet strong. I want to take him now, rip off his clothing with my teeth . . . but I wait, playing out the game. Delayed pleasures are the sweetest. That masculine scent is muskier and stronger than ever now, promising unspoken pleasures at the end of the hunt. * * * * * The werewolves pace me on either side, hemming me in. I can’t swerve to right or left. Ahead I can now see more forest. If I can reach it in time . . . then what? They’ve pursued me through miles of forest already. Maybe a fallen stick, anything? Maybe I can get my back to a tree. The two lead wolves pace me like guardian dogs from Hell, their round yellow eyes fixed on me as they lope. I can hear the others behind me, still no more than ten feet away. My wind is starting to run out. I’m breathing in harsher, deeper gasps, my legs feeling heavy and numb. The forest draws closer, closer . . . And something catches my foot, a rock. I stumble, falling hard to hands and knees in the dirt. They’re on me at once, the black male seizing the left sleeve of my jacket and yanking with unbelievable strength. I sprawl, yanked off-balance, and then another pair of jaws seizes my right sleeve -- the silver wolf. They pull together, and the sudden tautness of my jacket nearly strangles me before it gives way with the sound of tearing fabric. I manage to struggle to hands and knees, turning my head to see the entire right sleeve dangling from the jaws of the silvery female wolf. Her eyes burn themselves into my mind, alight with eagerness, excitement, triumph. Then they bore in on me again, their jaws fastening, knocking me over again as they peel the jacket off me in strips. My throat will be next, I think -- and then they leap away, freeing me to fight my way to my feet and run again, wearing only my shirt, trousers and boots. I expected the rest of the pack to leap on me, but the monsters are still playing. They fall into place to pace me again as I run into the trees, eyes roving the ground for any sign of a weapon, with no success. I’m losing strength fast. * * * * * He’s a strong one. He’s sweating heavily, yet only now is he beginning to tire. His jacket was positively soaked in his lovely manly scent. I wanted to chew on that torn-off sleeve, roll on it; I hated having to drop it to the ground and run on. Instead, I concentrate on keeping stride beside him, eyeing that magnificent body that will soon be mine, wondering where I’ll begin to peel the rest of his clothes from it. The hip? The buttocks, moving temptingly with every stride? His scent, so thick I can almost chew it, lures me on. I can feel my vulva moisten under my tail. He’s nearly out of strength, the lesser endurance of the two-legged form telling on him. He’ll slow to the speed of our trot soon. I can hear him gasping for breath. The tree trunks flash by. There’s less grass here, more bare earth. I watch Blackfur as he matches him stride for stride. Soon now . . . any moment now . . . He does, covering that short distance in two leaps, knocking the quarry’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The man rolls, trying to get his feet under him, but already Blackfur has the sleeve of the shirt in his teeth and is ripping. I lunge, stretching my jaws to grab a fold of fabric over his back. Then I jerk backwards, hearing the cloth “rrriiippp!” He tries to struggle, bringing his arms up to defend himself, but in moments the shirt has been stripped from his upper body, leaving him naked to the waist. His smell grows more powerful, full of fear, desperation, male pheromones, spicy sweat. We all close in to finish the job, shredding his jeans and yanking them away. Amid the swirling bodies and thrashing limbs, I spot Moonsinger backing away from him, one boot dangling from her jaws. In moments it’s all over, and pale steam rises from his naked body as he rolls to his side to try to get up, his clothes torn rags on the forest floor. I feel my tail wagging fiercely in anticipation. We have him. Blackfur’s penis is already out of its dark sheath, quivering, his eyes alight with excitement. He is a precision machine, gauging his moment: when the man rolls to his belly and rises to hands and knees, he makes his move, rearing up in a blur of speed to mount him from behind. The victim cries out in mingled pain and surprise as he feels the nudge of Blackfur’s penis, throwing his head back. He tries to crawl out from underneath, roll over, anything to throw him off, but Blackfur is too heavy and powerful -- and much too experienced. He pins him down with his weight and the grip of his forepaws. The quarry stops struggling, accepting the inevitable, his head hanging as he pants for breath, the last of his strength spent. We mill eagerly around them, watching. I pad in beside them, and shapeshift to my human form. My nipples are already stiff and I can feel the dampness between my legs as I kneel beside them, guiding Blackfur’s sex as he enters him, and I can’t help but notice that our quarry, too, has an erection. After Blackfur is finished, I’ll have him, and then the rest will take their turn. Direct comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com