Lush Panther

Mom.  Always like this strip

I was a peasant girl in a medieval style town, and I was in an arranged marriage with some guy of a slightly higher status. I didn’t like him much; he was cute, but far too into rules and etiquette, which I found dull. He didn’t seem to like me much either - in fact, he barely even spoke to me.

In our town (which looked kind of like a skyrim town) there had been several murders recently, and it was ill-advised to go out after dark. One night, I couldn’t sleep and went to look for my husband but he wasn’t home. I ventured out of our little house to look for him, and heard a noise from a side street. I went to investigate (of course) and accross the cobbles, between two sloping houses, I could just make out a huge shape. It straightened up as I watched, and as my eyes adjusted I realised what it was: a monstrous black werewolf, holding in it’s hand the body of a dead man.

The corpse hit the floor, and I had a strange feeling. I knew somehow that the werewolf wasn’t the serial killer, but instead, the man he’d just killed was. I also knew, without a doubt, that the werewolf was my husband.

The werewolf growled as I walked closer, but all I could think was how wrong I’d been. My husband wasn’t dull or boring at all.

“It’s you,” I said confidently, and he stopped mid snarl. His eyes widened.

“You knew?”

I shook my head, feeling my body respond to his low voice. “Not until just now.”

“And you aren’t afraid?”

My reply was cut off by a shout at the other end of the street. Some townsfolk had come accross the scene, and all they could see was a werewolf looming over a corpse.

“Help,” someone yelled. “Somebody stop him!”

“He’s killed again!”

Doors of houses started to open, and my werewolf shot me a desperate look.

“Go,” I hissed, and he nodded.

I tried to keep up as we ran through the darkened streets. The people chasing us were making such a noise, it wasn’t all that hard to evade them. My werewolf helped me climb and run, and eventually we got to an old barn on the outskirts of town, where everything seemed quiet.

He turned to me, his chest heaving. He was really huge: his fur was long and shaggy, black as pitch, and I could see how sharp his teeth were as he tried to catch his breath.

I didn’t say anything else - I just threw myself at him. I grabbed a fistful of the fur on his chest and yanked him towards me, standing on tiptoes to reach his mouth.

It seemed like he wanted it as much as I did. His mouth opened eagerly, but it was awkward on mine, his jaw moving in a way I wasn’t used to. It didn’t matter - I messily pushed my tongue in his mouth, feeling his teeth, the ridges on his palate, all while his own tongue twisted and curled against mine.

It began to rain, and he shoved me up against the barn door. He lifted me easily and I wrapped my legs around him - it made him go crazy, and he pawed at me like a ferocious beast, growling and snarling as he draged his tongue along my neck.

We had this perfect, heated moment together, but it ended too soon when we heard the townsfolk starting to get too close to our hiding spot.

My husband told me to stay there; he said it was him that they wanted, and he could draw them away easier if he knew I was safe.

I agreed, and he said he’d come back for me as soon as he could. I watched him go, replaying our tryst in my mind.

Morning came. I’d spent the whole night waiting, thinking about him, but he hadn’t come back. I walked back into town, wondering if he’d returned to our house, but before I even got there I realized what must have happened.

In the town square, in the middle of a group of jubilant townsfolk, was a decapitated werewolf’s head on a stick.