Molly had ended up staying at the library until closing, though she didn't mean to. She'd become engrossed in a coffee table book featuring pictures of European architecture through the ages and had lost track of time. She'd only come back to the real world after the librarian had pointedly told her the place was closing in ten minutes.
It doesn't matter in any event. Molly would rather be anywhere but home with her domineering mother, even though Mother will be in a rage that she'd stayed out so late. She doesn't even care about Molly, really, she just likes to have her there to fetch and carry and listen while she complains. Molly wishes for the millionth time in her life that her father had taken her when he'd left when she was a baby.
So now Molly walks home through the park. There is a full moon so she can see easily enough, though the wind is fierce and cold. She wraps her oversized red hoodie tight around her small frame and tries to hurry. Even though Molly is twenty, no one ever believes her when she tells them. She is short and slight and has the face of a twelve year old. Life is really not fair.
She doesn't see her attackers until they are right on top of her, and then she only gets a vague impression of several men surrounding her, before a chemical-smelling cloth is put over her nose. The next thing Molly knows, she is waking up underneath a spotlight. She cannot see anything outside the overbright cone of light, and the only thing inside it is her and a circle of concrete floor. She sits up, her head still foggy from the drug, feeling more confusion than fear. Then she hears a growl.
It is a low rumble, like thunder, decidedly not human, and Molly's reaction is curious. Her heart thumps against her ribs, but not entirely in fear. There is a bit of that, but mostly she feels...excitement. Unexpectedly, a few more lights come on overhead, expanding her puddle of visibility, and she jumps and yelps, startled. The growl ceases as if flipped off by a switch. She doesn't think it was, though. Something in her knows that whatever made that sound is still outside the light, watching. Waiting.
Her eyes are drawn to the direction she last heard the sound, held there. She can't look down, away. She doesn't want to. Finally, there are scuffling sounds, and a clacking against the concrete floor as it steps into the light, and Molly's breath freezes in her lungs. No, not human, but not animal either. Molly stands, face it, trembling more from shock than fear.
"You are real," she whispers. "You are a werewolf."
He, and he is definitely male, stands taller than most humans, well over seven feet. His head is entirely canine, a wolf's head, with the triangular ears that stand up, and a muzzle full of sharp, deadly-looking teeth. His eyes, though, there is something in them that is intelligent. Perhaps not human, but more than animal. He watches her with amber eyes as intently as she is watching him.
From his neck to his waist, he is more human, though he is covered in fur that ranges from silvery charcoal on his back to pale grey on his stomach. His shoulders are human, though, and his chest and arms. He has hands, though the fingers are slightly bent and tipped with sharp claws rather than nails. Below the waist, he is a mix. He stands upright, but his legs are sort of canine, with thick, flat thighs that taper to narrow calves and knees that bend forward rather than back. He has feet, though, again with claws that clack against the concrete as he moves. She can also see a tail swing into view every now and again.
The werewolf's cock juts forth from his body, red and unsheathed. It's enormous, heavy, hard. Molly has had a lover, a teacher in high school that would take her into his office and pump into her, sweating and huffing. She'd entered the relationship willingly, but never saw the point in repeating the experience. Still, that man is her only point of comparison and he comes up...short. The sight of the werewolf's erect phallus causes her body to tighten, and a slickness and warmth gather at the apex of her thighs. If she stopped to consider this, it would surprise her. Molly almost never becomes aroused.
They stand there like that, for a breathless eternity, staring at each other, examining each other. The Were breaks the frozen moment first, grabbing her, and he moves so fast Molly hasn't registered the motion until he's on her. He forces her to her hands and knees, and Molly's mind reels. Is he going to mount her, fuck her? She can't imagine it, something that magnificent wanting to have sex with her. No, mate with her. She is plain and small and decidedly not sexy.
The Were doesn't rip off her overalls, though. Holding her down by a clawed hand at the back of her neck, he crouches beside her, rather than behind. She feels that enormous erection brush her ribcage and moans, but he seems to take no notice. Still holding her in place with a grip so strong she could never hope to break it, the Were leans down to her backside. He sniffs her, sniffs her crotch! For some reason, this causes her breath to become short and jerky, causes her womb to throb with need. The Were smells the heightened arousal on her, he must, because he growls again, but this time she could swear it was in masculine pride.
