I’m a wolf. My name is unimportant, you wouldn’t know me. I’m not famous,  I’ve never been convicted of any crimes, I’m hardly even that known in my own town.

What is important is what I’m doing. Right now, I’m crouched in the bushes outside of a house pretty far into the sticks, couple of miles out past the train tracks. Small, although I’m sure the owners would say it’s ‘cozy’. Looks clean enough, but the white paneling is beaten pretty bad; the people inside probably lack either the time or money to replace it. 

I have a pair of binoculars with me, and I’m peeking through a small window on the bottom floor. I can see her in there. A pink cat, one Katie Stevenson. She’s sleeping now, even though it’s only half past eight. Must not’ve slept well last night.

I’ve been keeping tabs on this girl for about a week or so. I didn’t pick her for any reason in particular, she just happened to be who I chose. Maybe the pink fur drew me to her. Pink is a very unusual colour for a cat, but I’ve never seen her dye it, so I assume it’s natural.

Katie doesn’t live a particularly eventful life. She’s something of a homebody, only leaving her house to go to work, pick up groceries, or go on the occasional walk. She doesn’t have any friends, from what I’ve seen, or at least she hasn’t met with any of them. Loners like that are my favourite.

I lean forward a bit, adjusting the focus on my binoculars. I can see her little whiskers twitching as she breathes out. Does she snore? I’m not close enough to tell, and it’d be too risky to go up to the window to listen. She lives with her parents, and if they saw me, they might call the police.

Such a young girl, can’t be a day over nineteen. A girl her age ought to be going to college, but I don’t think her family is rich enough to pay for her expenses, so she’s taken up work full time as a waiter at a little diner off the highway.

It’s a shame, to be honest. A girl like her deserves better. I’ve seen what she does in her spare time, she’s an intelligent sort. Reads poetry, has very interesting and eclectic music tastes. Jazz, spoken word stuff, electronic. You name it, she’s probably listened to at least a little bit of it.

Rummaging through my backpack, I take out my camera. It’s a high end one, big digital type with optical zoom. I think they called it a DSLR, but I don’t particularly care about that, all I care is that it does what it’s supposed to do. I raise the viewfinder to my eye and zoom in, pointing it at her face through the window.

Click. A bit too dark, you can only make out the shine of the moon on her wet little nose. I fiddle around with the exposure settings and try again. Far better, I can see her face now. She looks beautiful. I want to feel that soft, downy fur between my fingers, pet her head and watch those little ears flick.

Excitement burns in my chest, and I force myself to keep my breathing steady, but it’s a challenge. God, she makes me feel so fiery, and I haven’t even talked to her. Haven’t even come within five feet of her. I pull the camera back up and take another shot of her room, this time the wall opposite the window.

The camera screen shows a dim image of a poster, a new addition to her room. It’s got a picture of five men, crouched on the pavement, with some jagged looking font beneath. Some new band she’s become fond of, no doubt. I can’t read what it says, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find out who they are with a little Internet research later.

Unfortunately, there’s not much else I can do, with her being asleep. Ordinarily, I’d be crouched out here for hours, taking pictures of what she’s doing, writing down notes, the works. But her being asleep throws a bit of a wrench into that whole plan.

Still, watching her sleep is better than nothing. I set the camera back into my bag and grab the binoculars again, looking at her face. A growl forces its way out of me despite my best attempts to suppress it, my mind filled with fantasies of what I’d do to her.

I’d take her out to a restaurant, a real fancy place, not that dingy roadside pit she works at. Some place with atmosphere, a place a girl like her deserves. I’d buy her anything she wants, a real full course meal, and I’d pay for it all. A gentleman never splits the bill, after all.

I’d take her back to my place, so we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else in the house. We’d go back up to my bedroom, and I’d watch her undress. A glimpse of her pink belly as she pulls off her dress, followed by so much more. Her whole body open to me, waiting, inviting. Pushing her back onto the bed, I’d trail kisses up her chest and neck, posed on all fours on top of her.

Then, I’d wrap my hands around her throat, and squeeze down while I watched the life slowly drain from her eyes.

I let out a howl in the excitement, and I can feel myself throbbing against the inside of my jeans. Immediately, I realise my mistake, and I hide myself inside the bush as best I can. A light flicks on in the second floor of the house, and I can see the silhouette of someone looking outside. My heart jumps into my throat, but I keep quiet and still. Panic will solve nothing.

Thankfully, it’s too dark for them to see me, and eventually the window goes dark. I keep hunched down for another minute or so, just in case they’re trying to fake me out, before slowly making my way back to the treeline. Once I reach it, I break into a sprint, and I’m back out onto the street. My body’s filled with adrenaline, but I quash it down as best I can, steadying my breathing. I’m saving it for her.

About thirty minutes later, I arrive back at my place. It’s even smaller than Katie’s, barely more than a shack right on the edge of where the town turns into endless farmland, but it was cheap and available on short notice. It’s adequate enough for my needs, at any rate. I head through the front door into my living room. 

It’s spotless, and for the most part barren, furnished with only a peeling leather couch and a shitty plywood coffee table. I could buy more things, clutter it up with gaudy decorations that’ll just get knocked over and broken, but I’ve never seen the need. People only buy things like that to impress visitors, make them think that they’re cultured, that they have a deep inner life. I don’t have any such pretensions.

After fishing out my camera, I dump my backpack next to the front door so I’ll be able to use it on tomorrow night’s stakeout and make my way through the door on the left into my bedroom. It’s just as spartan as my living room, only having a bed and a dresser with my laptop lying on top.

I grab it and sit on the edge of my bed, plugging a cable dangling out the side into my camera. The laptop’s far worse quality than the camera, some used brick of grey plastic I got online for cheap, but it’s durable and fills my needs well. After it’s finished its painfully slow boot up, I click my way through the file explorer and copy the pictures I’ve taken tonight onto my hard drive.

While the computer hums away, writing data, I flick through the old photos that I’ve taken on previous trips. One’s of Katie getting dressed, naked aside from a shirt covering her face. It’s not one of my favourites, because I like to see her eyes, but I can’t bring myself to delete a single image of her. They’re all precious, irreplaceable.

I click through to another one. This one is of her looking out of the very window that I look at her through every night, staring up at a bird on a telephone wire. She looks sad, but more importantly, it’s a perfect shot of her throat. You can see the tendons running up along her neck into her head, the little tuft of fur on her chin.

Her dad nicknamed her Billygoat for that tuft. He calls her that most every day, whenever he goes to bed. Goodnight, Billygoat. The idea of making him watch while I pulled every tooth out of her jaw with a pair of pliers comes to my mind unbidden, imaginary screams bouncing around my mind.

I take a few deep breaths, but it’s about as effective at calming me as it was when I was out in the bushes. It’s so hard to keep level when I think about these things. Jaw clenched, I ram a fist into the bed, claws catching on the blanket.

Not good enough. Tossing the laptop aside, I stand up and make my way over to the kitchen, jerking open the cutlery drawer and grabbing a steak knife. Over the sink, I can see the moon hanging in the sky, full and bright. Screaming as loud as I can, I run the serrated edge through my tightly clenched fist, feeling it rip its way through the flesh of my palm. Blood drips onto the tile floor.

It hurts. I throw the knife across the room and it bounces off the wall, skitters across the floor and comes to a stop under the fridge. Still screaming, though now with a throat clenched in pain instead of frustration, I stagger over to the kitchen island. I slam my footpaw into the drawers, over and over, not managing to break the thick wood but leaving plenty of dents.

The pain shooting through my foot and hand is a mere fraction of what I’m going to make Katie feel, but it’s enough to give me an erection. I tug down my pants and wrap my hand, wound still weeping, around my cock. A steady stream of pain wracks my palm, the wound widening and deepening from my tight grip, but that only serves to make me even harder.

It’s quick, sloppy work, and soon I’m shooting my load onto the tile floor into a puddle of my own blood. Hardly enough to satisfy me fully, but enough to let me go to sleep and dream of Katie.

---

The next night, I’m back out there outside her window, hand bandaged and with a slight limp from the previous night’s festivities. It’s half past eight, just like every night, when it’s just dark enough to conceal my presence.

This time, however, she’s not in bed yet. I can see her pulling on that green polyester jacket she likes to wear, a pair of headphones tethering her ears to her pocket. She’s going out for a walk.

Giddiness rises in my chest, and I bounce slightly on my heels, rustling the leaves of the bush I’ve hidden myself in. Katie’s a fan of night walks, something you’d hardly be able to get away with in the city, but safe enough out here in the more rural parts. So she thinks, anyway.

She walks out the door leading to the hallway, and I freeze, keeping as still as possible. A few moments later, she’s pushing out the front door, turning around to lock it behind her. Always the cautious type. Once she’s done with that, she walks out to the road and starts heading east along the left side.

I wait half a minute or so to make sure there’s a bit of distance between us and slip out of the bush, trailing about fifteen feet behind her. It seems close, almost dangerous, but it’s fine. I know exactly how far out she goes on this road, so I’ll know exactly when to duck aside while she turns around and heads back.

Keeping in line with her as best as possible, I follow, staring at the back of her head. She’s got little bangs back there, adorable. My lips peel back slightly from my teeth, but I manage to keep myself from growling, although I know I must look like a predatory beast. My hands clench and unclench at my sides, over and over.

Then, it happens. Perhaps I was a little louder than I expected, perhaps it’s nothing more than a fluke, but she looks over her shoulder. I can see her eyes widen for a split second before her head whips back around, staring straight ahead, a little jolt going throughout her body. Her tail that was slowly flitting about behind her is now shock still.

She definitely saw me. There’s no way she didn’t see me, but she isn’t running, only walking a touch faster without daring another glance behind her. She’s afraid that if she looks at me again, I’ll strike, or maybe she thinks that if she doesn’t look at me that I’ll go away.

I don’t have many options if I don’t want to be discovered. There aren’t a lot of wolves in this town, and if she describes me to anyone, I’ll be the first person they investigate. It’s a shame, really, I’d have liked to keep watching her for another couple of weeks before making my move. Dipping a hand into my pocket, my fingers wrap around a length of fabric, and I pull it all the way out. It’s a sock, end knotted, with a chunk of brick inside.

Sprinting forward, I start whirling around the sock around, building up speed. She can hear my paws smacking against the pavement, and she starts to turn to face me, but it’s too late. I swing the end of the sock at the side of her head, and the brick collides right behind her jawbone. Bone cracks and she lets out a sharp shriek, which is cut short as she collapses onto the road, the side of her skull thudding against the pavement.

Thankfully, I prepared for this. Glancing up both ends of the street to make sure that nobody’s around that might’ve heard, I drag her unconscious body into the trees running along the roadside, then shrug off my backpack. Digging around in the bottom of the bag, I find what I’m looking for, a couple lengths of rope. It only takes me a minute or so to have her wrists lashed together, then her ankles.

Drool drips out of the corners of my mouth as I stare at her bound form. God, she’s so beautiful, so fragile. I hope I haven’t hurt her too badly just yet. Touching a claw to the side of her head where the brick hit, I feel something hot and wet, and my paw comes back soaked with red. She lets out a slight moan at the contact, shifting beneath me, but still thoroughly insensate.

The sight excites me, but my desires will have to wait until I get her somewhere less public. Hoisting her off of the ground, I throw her over my shoulder, and turn to walk further into the forest. The road’s too risky, too much chance of being seen. Better to cut through the woods.

She’s surprisingly still for most of the trip, only letting out little mews and twitching, and I really hope that I haven’t damaged her. Having her is pointless if she’s stuck in a coma. My paws grip harder around her legs, my claws sliding out and poking into her calf. I hardly notice until she starts squirming, and I see the little holes I’ve dug in the fabric of her pants.

It doesn’t take a whole lot longer to reach my house, the woods providing a surprisingly fast shortcut compared to the road. Slipping in through the back so that I can’t be seen by any cars, I bump open the back door with a shoulder and make my way inside.

From there, it’s straight down into my basement. It’s about what you’d expect, cold concrete floor, a single light bulb, and a whole lot of open space. The only real fixtures down here are a folding chair and my workbench, surface scattered with the tools of my trade. Utility knives, hammers, clamps and grips, a bolt gun, the works.

The table isn’t my first stop, though. Just a little to the side of it, nearer to the center of the basement, there’s a pipe running along the ceiling. I think it connects to the plumbing or heat or something, but all I really care about is that it’s sturdy, can hold a lot of weight. Danging from it is a steel chain, a manacle set on either side. Heavy, iron, like something straight out of the middle ages.

First thing’s first, I take a knife off of the table and cut the ropes binding Katie’s hands together. The ones around her ankles stay, because I don’t have anything better to secure her lower body with. I doubt she’ll have the strength necessary to hurt me when she’s dangling from the pipe, though. Not enough leverage, and she’s never been the athletic type.

Grabbing Katie’s wrist, I hoist her arm up into the air. She squirms a little and lets out a little moan of discomfort, but she doesn’t seem to be close to regaining consciousness. That’ll do for now, I wouldn’t want her to be awake just yet. I clamp one of the manacles around her wrist, then the other, leaving her danging in the air with her paws only just able to scrape the ground.

With her properly restrained, there’s not much left to do but wait. Thankfully, I have a lovely view to pass the time. I pull over the folding chair and set it up in front of her, dropping down onto it and leaning back while I stare at her. It’s the little things that really grab my attention, the way her body sways ever so slightly, or the blood trickling through the fur behind her jaw and down along her neck.

It takes about half an hour before her eyes start to flicker open. I sit there patiently while she slowly comes around, head raising up from her chest as she gives me a groggy stare. Giving my warmest smile, I continue to sit there, not making any sudden moves while she looks around and starts to put together the situation she’s in.

“Wha—” she starts to say, but trails off into a pained hiss, shoulders scrunching up and chain clanking as she tries to lower one of her hands to her face. The jaw injury must be pretty painful, definitely a fracture at the very least, but there doesn’t seem to have been any severe brain damage. That’s a good sign. She looks back at me, tears starting to gather in her pretty green eyes, and tries to talk despite the agony that must be shooting through her jaw. “Where…?”

“You’re in my basement.” I don’t see any reason to dance around the issue. She’s in my power now, and there’s no point in lying to her if she’s not going to be able to run away anyways. Her eyes widen, that earlier grogginess dissipating into fear. Standing up slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, I approach her.

Despite my efforts, though, she shrinks back from me. As much as she can suspended by her wrists, at any rate. I want to smile, but I restrain the urge, wanting to maintain a stoic front for the time being. The way I intimidate her without even trying, with my presence alone, feels so satisfying. Anticipation for how she’ll react when I really get started fills me.

My hand strokes across her cheek, the one opposite from her wound, and she cringes at my touch. Her face is exactly as soft as I hoped it would be, and lightly scented with some sort of shampoo. Fruity, some kind of berry. There’s something else there, too, something pheromonal that I don’t smell so much as sense. Fear. This time, I can’t restrain a smirk, and I lock eyes with her.

“You like poetry?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question. I already know that she likes poetry, I’ve seen the collections on her bookshelf. Shakespeare, Poe, Goethe. More that I couldn’t recognize and didn’t have time to study. Her taste floats above the common folk, a noble in an age of peasants. A rose, to be poetic, and one which I will enjoy plucking the petals from.

“I see you’ve been on something of a 1940s kick lately. You know George Leite?” She just stares at me, muscles tensed so hard she’s shaking. I continue regardless. “He was friends with Harry Partch. I know you listen to Harry Partch, he’s used some of Leite’s work in his music.”

Reaching over to my workbench, I grab a thin, yellowed magazine. It’s an original Circle, volume one, third issue. A little something I picked up online which I had some interesting ideas for, maybe as a kind of bait, but using it now is better than letting it go to waste.

“I want to read you a poem. It’s called Lover.” I flick through the pages until I find what I’m looking for, then clear my throat and begin to read.

“So now lost and turn blood into night, into dark.”

“It means the dearest and most burned is alone in the night, in the black tarn.”

“If you see the mad horse and he shows a yearning fear,” I say, then pause. Inhaling deeply, I straighten my back, relaxing my diaphragm. I’m going for a deep, rich sound.

“Black. Stamp. Cuddle. Close. It is almost time to shout!” Voice booming, I take a step towards her. My words reverberate off the concrete walls and bounce all over the room, like I’m everywhere at once. It sounds powerful, forceful.

“It is almost time to scream! It is dark. Blood boils. Lost, dark. Blood boils. Lost!” Moving up close, I run my hand along her side, trailing down to her hip and lingering there on the slight bump of her pelvic bone. “Beauty,” I whisper, just loud enough for her to hear.

She’s staring at me, smiling, but something’s wrong. It’s strained, the corners of her mouth trembling, her nose flaring with mad, panicked breaths. It’s a lie. She’s afraid of me, and she’s playing along because she doesn’t want me to hurt her.

It’s adorable, if you think about it. She thinks that I care for her, that I’m some sort of obsessive lover, that I won’t hurt her if she can appeal to me in just the right way. She thinks that she’s more than just a piece of meat to me, something pleasant to tear into and rip apart. Letting her believe her little ploy’s worked, I smile back at her, touching my nose against hers gently while staring into her eyes.

“Who do you think you are?” I snarl, suddenly turning from the picture of calm into an angry beast. She screams, the sound piercing right into my skull and making me stagger back clutching my ears. A scream slips out of my own mouth, and I lash out in a frantic punch, catching her right in the gut. Something that instinctive and unplanned doesn’t have that much power behind it, but it’s more than enough to shut her up, her shriek cut short by a dry heave.

Watching her there, jerking and shuddering as she tries to control the urge to vomit, something rises within me. It’s a feeling I’m more than familiar with, that urge to kill, to enact your will on another and prove your superiority. While I was hoping that I’d be able to put it off a little more, play with her a little longer, that feeling won’t permit anything but immediate, brutal action.

My fist slams into her again, this time premeditated, with good foot placement and full force. My knuckles pound painfully against her sternum, and I can feel it bow under my blow, nearly snapping under the impact. Her breath is forced out of her in a wheeze, and when she breathes in to replace it, she’s hardly able to get any air through the heaving sobs that are wracking her body.

It feels good. It feels so gratifying to watch her body struggling to recover from my assault, a physical sign of my dominance over her. A frantic energy like I’ve been hooked up to a car battery pounds through my veins, and I need more of this, need to do more to her. My claws slip out, and I rake them across her rib cage, tearing right through the fabric of her clothes into the flesh of her breasts.

The gashes aren’t too deep, hardly enough to break the skin, but more than enough to have blood welling up in the pink fur and dribbling down into the cotton covering it. Drool drips from my lips, a deep hunger coming unbidden to my mind at the sight. Countless years ago, this would be considered normal. A predator like myself would sate himself on weaker animals like the one before me. A couple thousand years of civilization can’t get rid of those instincts, no matter how many laws there are against it.

“Help!” Her yell is loud and shrill, louder than I would’ve expected from how she was gasping for breath just a few moments ago, but it take me off-guard like it did before. It just makes me angrier, angry that she would try to defy me, that she honestly thinks I’m so stupid that I would put her somewhere that her screams would be heard.

Roughly grabbing her chin with one hand, I look her in the eyes. She tries to jerk out of my grip, but she’s weak, she’s nothing, her neck is hardly able to budge my hand an inch. Staring at her, I can see the thoughts behind those eyes. ‘I’m going to die here.’ ‘Why is he doing this?’ ‘Please, help me.’ I hope that she can see what I’m thinking, too.

My fingers slip a little further up her jaw, and they start pressing into the wound I made there. Blood streams freely from it, any scabbing that might’ve formed there rapidly undone by my claws, and I can feel the slight crack in the bone there. The way it shifts under the pressure, like a snapped piece of wood. Just an object that can be fixed, or can be broken further.

She tries to yell, my other hand clamps her muzzle shut, leaving it to reverberate in her throat. It’s a strange, satisfying sound, one that I want to hear more of. I press harder into her wound, and she makes the sound again, louder this time. Taking my hands away from her head, I bring my fingers up to my mouth, licking away the blood that’s covered them. Copper, and the acid tang of adrenaline, panic.

My pupils narrow at the taste, that primal aspect that’s been driving my actions kicked into overdrive at the taste of prey. Grabbing a hammer from the workbench, I swing as hard as I can at her torso. I’m not aiming for anything in particular, I just need to strike her, to feel her body give way beneath me.

It winds up slamming into her collarbone, and it snaps immediately, weak as the rest of her. She lets out an ear-piercing wail that’s louder and sharper than anything that’s come out of her before, and I need her to stop. Dropping the hammer onto the concrete, I slam my fist into her stomach again, as hard as I can muster.

Her screaming is cut short with a wet gurgle, and she hunches forward as a stream of vomit forces its way out of her mouth, splattering over her front and getting onto my arm fur. Streaks of red are mixed in with the chunks of partially digested food, but I only give it a passing glance before turning back to my workbench. My hands are shaking, and I knock all sorts of tools onto the floor as I swipe around the rough wooden surface for what I’m looking for.

The cold metal of the captive bolt pistol brushes across my fingertips, and I snatch it up, turning back towards Katie. Her body is starting to shake in what looks almost like a seizure, tears dripping from her eyes, but she’s not sobbing anymore. Only quiet whimpers escape her now, along with strange gurgling, groaning noises.

“Pray,” I bark, jamming the end of the gun up against her forehead. She doesn’t even try to look up, and doesn’t speak, either. My foot slams into her shin, and she jerks slightly, letting out a yip.

“Pray.” This time, she reacts, trying to clear her throat but only succeeding in dribbling some crimson tinged sputum onto her breasts. Something that almost sounds like a word escapes her, but it’s cut off by a wet, noisy cough.

“Dear God,” she mumbles. I don’t wait for her to finish, it’s enough to know that she’s awake. Squeezing the trigger on the pistol, the spring inside unwinds and sends the bolt inside slamming into her skull with a crack. Her whole body jerks powerfully once before she slumps forward, unconscious.

Of course, she’s probably not dead. The captive bolt pistol is only intended to incapacitate animals before slaughter, not kill them outright. Her brain is probably little more than a pile of mush at this point, but she might be able to survive. That won’t suffice.

Lunging forward, I sink my teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, teeth forcing their way through the wiry cords of muscle there. Blood spurts out of severed veins across my tongue and mouth, and that only drives me to bite harder, increasing the pressure until I can feel her trachea start to buckle and then snap under my jaws.

Shaking my head wildly, I can feel tendons rip and cartilage pop under my onslaught, practically the only thing keeping her head tethered to her body being her spine. My hand slips under her shirt and presses up against the left side of her rib cage, feeling for a heart beat there. It’s pulse is frantic, but as the wet warmth of her blood sprays out through her neck, I can feel it slowing down more and more until it’s just a faint murmur. Then, nothing.

I stay there for a moment, jaws clenched around the mangled mass of flesh that was once her neck, and only then do I notice something. The feeling of denim grinding against my crotch, uncomfortable. Yanking down my jeans, my shaft spills out, already completely emerged from my sheath and dripping precum.

Still guided solely by instinct, my next choice of action is clear. Growling like a born again wolf, I rip away Katie’s pants, exposing her crotch. It’s wet, soaked with urine. She must’ve soiled herself at some point during the violence. The scent only drives me to move faster, fuels my desire to ravage her beautiful, still warm body.

Pressing my cock up against her, I grind against her slippery fur, smearing her with my freely flowing fluids while simultaneously coating myself in her waste. My claws rake across her arms, making deep gouges in her flesh, cutting right down to the muscle. I can see the yellow of subcutaneous fat glistening in there, before it’s quickly obscured by blood.

Letting out a howl, I shove myself into her waiting hole, feeling flesh rapidly parting and ripping to make way for me. A hymen, she was a virgin. My howl shifts into a wild cackle, and I grip tightly around her to keep from falling over as I’m gripped with laughter.

“I’m your first!” I scream, thrusting my hips up into her, feeling the tip of my dick bash up against her womb. Her head dangles limply from what remains of her neck, dead eyes gazing listlessly off into the distance. It bobs and sways with every motion I make, and I want to rip it off, crush her skull under my foot, but the feeling of her clamping down around me is too good to leave.

I start moving my hips even harder, bashing up into her, feeling my balls slap up against her. It’s not enough, I need to make my mark on her, rip her, tear her apart. My jaws snap out and bite into her shoulder, tearing out a chunk of flesh. I chew it, and it’s warm and fibrous, with a slight gooey texture from the fat there. Gamey, appropriately enough.

Screaming, I slam my fist into her ribs, feeling the bones there splinter and crack under my knuckles. I swing again and again, and it starts to collapse under my assault, little spurts of blood spraying out of her neck with every strike. My scream shifts into laughter, then back again, cycling over and over as I gradually demolish her.

Every blow reverberates throughout her carcass, and I can feel her jerking around my shaft, muscles clenching. Some parts of her must live yet, reacting involuntarily as I violate her body.

My knot is starting to swell up in all the excitement, pounding against her raw and bleeding vulva, and I start growling again. The need to knot her, to fill her with my seed. Why? To breed? No, just to use her, just to make her my own. My claws scrape aimlessly at her flesh, tearing into whatever they happen to catch. Strips of polyester and cotton hang from her tattered clothes, stained with red, her body crisscrossed with countless cuts and gashes.

Pushing forward, I force my knot inside of her cunt, and it inflates immediately. Locked groin to groin, I let out yet another howl as my balls tense up against my body, shooting ropes of cum into her womb. My fists pound weakly against her caved in chest as I ride out the throes of my orgasm, her thoroughly shattered ribs grinding against each other as I do so.

Eventually, I come down from my high. I try to yank myself out of her, but her vagina clings to me like a snake constricting its prey. No matter. Reaching down, I slip two fingers into either side of her hole and rip it open, a grisly tearing sound filling the air. Even more blood gushes out of her, and as I tug myself free, it’s followed by a gush of semen.

Stepping back, I admire my handiwork. Katie’s body is thoroughly mangled, her chest looks like it’s been dragged through a mile of broken glass, and her head is still dangling at an odd angle with that blank expression and those clouded eyes. 

I slump down into my chair and just stare at her dangling there, dripping all manner of fluids onto the floor. I’m going to have to take a shower before all the gunk dries in my fur, not to mention dispose of the body and get out of town as soon as possible, but for now I push that all to the back of my mind and just sit back and bask in the afterglow.

After all, it’s hardly the first time I’ve done this, and it certainly won’t be the last.