Werewolf Summer

"The world is made up of two classes: the hunters, and the huntees."

-Robert Connell, "The Most Dangerous Game"

***

June:

Laren had one condition before renting the cabin: "I want to be absolutely alone for the entire summer," she said. "I can't stress enough how important it is that nobody be around."

The owner assured her over the phone that it was extremely remote, on 21 acres of undeveloped land in the mountains with miles of pine forests and dirt roads between it and the nearest neighbor.

"I can't stay there for more than a weekend without going stir-crazy," the woman said. "If you really want to be alone for ten weeks, it's the place."

Laren lay on her couch with the phone in hand, listening to the sound of traffic invading her apartment through the closed window. A neighbor's door closing echoed into her apartment. "You promise nobody else lives out there?" she said.

"Not unless you count the deer, the birds, and the coyotes."

She only had to think about it for a second. "I'll take it," Laren said.

She mailed a check the next day, and as soon as the school year ended she had full access to the cabin and all of the adjoining property. "You can get phone reception, but it's spotty," the owner said during their final call. "If you decide you need to hear a person's voice that is."

"It won't come up."

On Friday afternoon she made the drive, her Subaru packed with clothes, books, basic amenities, and enough food to hopefully last the month and keep shopping trips to the nearest town (24 miles northeast) at the barest possible minimum.

When she arrived, bouncing up the bumpy, unpaved mountain road after three hours on the highway, she found the key taped to the front porch railing, along with instructions on how to work the generator, a phone number for emergencies, and a few admonitions about the dangers of bears.

It was a wood-paneled cabin with a sloped roof, three rooms, and an antique icebox from 1931. The outhouse was 20 yards away. The generator worked but most of the bulbs in the house were bad, and those that weren't cast little illumination.

The plumbing groaned for 40 seconds before water appeared. The furniture came in two varieties: old and very old. In one spot, weeds had grown up through the floorboards near the back door. The entire place was dusty, spidery, creaky, and falling down.

Laren loved it.

Her suitcases contained only a few personal items, which she put out now. Then she laid her clothes out on the bed (six simple outfits) and waited for the fridge to cool down before stocking it, then stacked books from her summer reading list by the end table.

Pausing, she listened to the stillness outside: nothing but the bustle of the wind in the pines and the occasional bird. Quiet enough to imagine she was the only person in the world. The solitude was like a soft blanket draping itself over her shoulders.

She opened the back window to breathe it all in; no car smells, no asphalt, no crowds of sweaty people. Nothing but the woody smells of the forest and the mountains and—

Someone knocked on the door.

Laren stood straight up. The knock came again. Had the owner come to check on her, despite Laren's specific instructions not to? Was it some lost hiker asking for help? Was it even, perhaps, a woodpecker, taking a professional interest in the substance of the cabin?

But when she opened the door, it turned out to be a man. One about ten years younger than her, the kind of scruffy-faced college boy that roughly a third of her students would grow into someday, wearing jeans, a faded t-shirt, and an expression that suggested he was entirely too pleased with himself right now.

"Hey," he said, peering at her through the screen door. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

"Who the fuck are you?"

The kid raised his eyebrows. "Is that how they say hello wherever you're from?"

"This is private property," Laren said.

"I know. It's my property. I'm Randy Jones. You the new summer renter?"

Opening the screen, Laren stepped out into the gray-blue light of dusk (the sun set early up here in the mountains). The kid was leaning on the post with his hands shoved in his pockets, still looking much too satisfied. "Yes, I am, but I didn't know anyone else owned this place. Ms. Jones said—"

Randy cut her off. "'Ms. Jones,' right. Well, I'm Mr. Jones. Ms. Jones is my sister. She told me there was a lady renter, so I thought I'd come say hello. You know, welcome committee and all that."

He asked her name and then immediately mispronounced it. "Not 'Lauren,'" she corrected him. "Laren. Short for Larentia."

"What kind of name is that?"

"Old."

"Huh. Well, you gonna invite me in? It's my place, after all. Been in the family since it was built."

Counting her breaths to help keep her temper, Laren said, "Mr. Jones, I rented this cabin with the promise of privacy. It's nice of you check on me, but I have to ask that you not do it ever again."

He nodded in a way she could tell meant he hadn't listened at all. "Okay. But since it's your first night why don't I help you out a little? I can make dinner? The stoves in these old places are tricky."

"No."

"I'm a good cook."

"I really would prefer to be alone. Now."

Randy seemed to consider her words for longer than should have been necessary, then finally shrugged again and stood briefly upright before assuming a kind of standing slouch that somehow brought him just as low to the ground as his previous posture.

"All right," he said. "I guess I'll see you around. I'm staying right on the other side of the hill. That makes us neighbors. For the whole summer."

Laren had been reaching for the door. Now she missed it and almost planted face first into the frame. "

Excuse me?" she said. "I was told—"

"Yeah, no neighbors. That's usually how it is. But this summer I'm staying in the second cabin. I guess Sis forgot to mention that? Probably because I forgot to mention it to her. Kind of a spur of the moment decision. That's me: I like to live spontaneously. Go with the flow."

Counting to ten silently, Laren gripped the porch railing. "Well. As a good landlord, I assume you'll respect my privacy. It's very important that I be by myself ALL summer. Very, very important."

"You cooking meth in there or something?"

"No Mr. Jones."

"How'd you get the whole summer off work?"

"I'm a teacher."

"Oh yeah? I'm a student."

"I can tell."

"Summer vacation. No more pencils, no more books. Right on."

He looked about to say more but Laren ducked inside and shut the door in his face. Fading daylight filled the windows; she listened to the crunch of Randy Jones' footsteps crossing the short knoll that separated their two cabins, kicking his way through the needles and vacant pinecones. When she was sure he was gone she finally exhaled.

The cabin no longer looked as inviting as it had a few minutes ago. Her sense of ease was like a deflated balloon, crumpled at her feet. Turning the front door lock, she found that it was broken, spinning in her hand like a propeller out of control.

"Well shit," she said, to no one at all.

***

She'd known there was a second cabin, of course. But the owner (co-owner, as it now turned out...) said no one had stayed there in years. "Oh that little asshole," Sis said now over the phone.

("Sis" turned out to actually be her name, short for Cecilia.)

"Look, I'm sorry. I had no idea he'd be there."

"Neither did I," said Laren, making her voice as forcefully cheery as possible as she paced the cabin, staying toward the back where her phone had reception.

"I'll talk to him, okay?" Sis said. "He'll leave as soon as he gets bored. I promise he won't ruin your summer. Anyway, he's really not so bad once you get to know him."

"I insist on taking you word for it," Laren said, and hung up.

The sun had fully set by now, which meant she was behind schedule. She wondered whether she should change her plans, since she'd counted on no one being around tonight...but no, there was nothing to do except go ahead with everything anyway, even if Randy Jones had spoiled her mood.

First, dinner. The stove, as Randy had promised, was tricky, but fortunately she didn't need to use it for very long. She cooked her steak blue (60 seconds on a side), opened a bottle of La Linda cabernet 2014, and ate the very rare meat in front of the fireplace, letting the juices flow with each bite.

By the time she finished the wine the fire burned low and the forest outside was alive with the million sounds of night. When she sensed it was time, she went out. It was an overcast night and the clouds blocked the sky, but that was all right for now. She got as far as the nearest trees before stopping to remove all of her clothes, tying them into a bundle and using her belt to hang them from a low branch. She even kicked off her boots.

Normally the prickly forest floor would have been murder on her bare feet, but tonight the earth seemed downy soft. Night birds and scurrying creatures chattered around her. The wings of countless bats fluttered overhead. Bigger animals had come this way too, judging from the smell of the forest.

It wasn't wise to be out here alone at night, but Laren wasn't scared of much except for people. Although sometimes she scared herself.

Walking southwest, she followed the scent of fresh water until she came to a place where a stream forked and rushed over the rocks, babbling in a million inhuman voices. This was a good spot, she decided, and then let her hair down. The night air kissed her skin while the smell of the fresh stream teased her nostrils.

The clouds broke and she turned her face to the beautiful blue-white moon, round and full and glittering like a million diamonds in the sky. Moonlight bathed her tumbling hair and her upturned face, lighting the roundness of her shoulders and the lean, strong sinews of her arms as she threw them over her head, turning her blue in the darkness, from the tips of her toes all the way up her toned legs, and even to the small patch of hair at the crown of her thighs.

Everywhere the light touched Laren felt tingly and wonderful, and she spun around to feel it on the back of her too. A Strawberry Moon, she thought. That's what they called it in June. What a delicious phrase. And with that, she started to change.

It came slow at first: a pinch here, a tweak there. And then a sensation like she was slipping into the world's softest and best fitting robe, one that stuck as close as her own skin.

Here and there it hurt too, but it was a good pain, like the feeling of finally relaxing a sore muscle. She'd been sore for four straight weeks, day after day, watching the moon and waiting for the one night when at last she could really be herself again.

Sharp nails pushed out of her hands (that is to say, her paws), and her teeth suddenly became too long and too sharp for her mouth, so that her entire face and skull had to stretch and extend to make room for them.

Her limbs reshaped themselves so that it was soon much more comfortable to crouch on all fours. When she took a few experimental steps a long, bushy tail swayed in the brush behind her. She arched her back in relief.

Laren—or the part of Laren that remained aware—went to the stream and lowered her lupine head, lapping up the cold, clear water and shaking the spilled drops off of her pelt. It was a beautiful night, and everywhere she turned there were new sounds and new smells, all of them swirling this way and that, like a painting in the air.

Lifting her snout, she sniffed. When she found what she was looking for she sprinted off, four legs churning while her lean muscles coiled, crashing through the blue-black night forest. The scent of a red fox led her on, one that was bleeding from a fight or a fall; the smell of its blood was tangy and sharp in her nose.

She could have caught up in minutes but instead she held back, letting the prey get a little bit ahead and then running to catch up, only to fall back again so that it could build another lead. The fox could smell her too but it couldn't lose her no matter how hard it tried, and Laren gained on it little by little.

The plan was to run it into exhaustion before closing in, but then something changed: There were new odors now, and new noises, and something else coming at her prey from the other direction.

Putting on speed she burst through the brush, coming to a place where a short hill broke over the stream: A pack of coyotes had caught the fox and even now encircled the fallen animal. All three of them rounded on Laren at once, backs arched and muzzles snarling, moonlight glinting off of the spittle on their fangs.

Ah, Laren thought. This just became even more fun.

The pack outnumbered her, but she was bigger and smarter and had little to fear. She bounded right into the middle of them and they all pounced at once, and for a second everyone fell into a pile of snarling fury.

Laren slashed left and right with her sharp nails, and whenever anything came too close she bit and snapped. She suffered bites and scratches, and bits of the prickly forest floor stuck in her coat, but it was nothing she'd feel in the morning. After a minute's scrap the pack backed away. One limped. Laren tasted blood.

Eager for more, she lunged, but all three broke and ran. She considered chasing them, but why bother? There was more where that came from. Giddy and victorious, she threw her head back and howled to the watching moon. In her mind, it howled back.

After eating part of the fox she ran through the forest again with blood smeared on her coat, following a million wild scents, sometimes chasing and sometimes being chased. She howled, screamed, snarled, ate, drank, fought, and gamboled, full of savage joy and virtuous violence.

Hours passed like this, and then the winds changed and the sky colored and the stars winked out one by one like extinguished candles and she knew that the moon and she had only a little time left. Slowly, like a child dawdling on the way to its first day of school, Laren trotted back toward the cabin.

A hundred insignificant injuries left her sore, and she would wake up tomorrow exhausted and rung-out, but that was the price of a good time. She was back to walking on two legs as she left the forest, stiff and slow as her pelt rolled off of her.

Fumbling with the cabin door, she pushed it in, getting only a few feet before finding a rug and curling up on it, naked and scabby and trailing pine needles and dirt. The door hung open behind her, but she didn't care. She'd clean up tomorrow. Right now, sleep hung off each of her eyelids like a thousand pound weight. Just sleep, she thought...

The feeling of something prodding her in the ribs came only a few hours later. Laren rolled over and snarled, then rubbed her eyes until the world came into focus; bleary white light illuminated the cabin, and andy Jones stood over her with an expression of mingled disbelief and intrigue.

"Um, good morning?" he said.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Laren said, sitting up. Still half dreaming, she didn't bother to cover herself.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Randy said.

"How dare you come into my cabin? Get the hell out!"

His expression shifted to include concern in its ambivalent mix. Clearing his throat, Randy spoke slowly and succinctly:

"Laren. This isn't your cabin. It's mine."

She blinked. She stared. She made him repeat what he'd said even more slowly, putting extra emphasis on each syllable. Finally, it sank in.

Looking around, she saw that she was in a place almost but not quite identical to her own cabin, but full of belongings that were clearly not hers. She also looked at the open door and the trail of debris she'd tracked in, and then finally at her own nude body, curled up on the rug where she'd slept a few fitful hours.

Randy clutched his coffee cup in one hand and the cinch on his bathrobe with the other. His face suggested he was discovering new definitions of the word "patience" that he'd previously never even suspected existed.

Laren sighed. Then she put her face in her hands.

"Well shit," she said.

***

July:

"Not like that," Laren said. "From behind."

And she turned over, rising up onto her hands and knees and pressing her ass against the bulge showing through Randy's briefs. She rubbed against it a few times, but it was hardly necessary; one of the only things she could count on him for was to be as hard as a nail with a few minutes notice whenever necessary.

"I've never met a chick who loved doggy style as much as you do," he said, taking two handfuls of her behind and squeezing. Although he liked to play mountain man his hands were soft and pink; Laren liked the way they felt running along her naked curves, like being stroked by the soft pelt of an animal.

"Don't call it that," she said over her shoulder. "And don't call me a chick. ...in fact, you should probably stop talking at all."

"Yes ma'am," said Randy, squeezing harder while she worked her ass around and around in a circle against him, swiveling her hips.

"Except that for that," she added. "That you can say anytime."

The bed in his cabin was small, with barely enough room for even one person. Laren grabbed hold of the headboard—there were now marks on the wall behind it from banging it again and again multiple times a day over the last four weeks—and gripped it tight as she could.

Arching her back, she spread herself open a little bit wider as Randy slipped the tip of his cock out of his underwear and pressed it against her from behind. She felt the tip throb against the soft skin of her cunt, and almost immediately the tiny cabin filled with the hot, wet smell of arousal. It made all of the hairs on Laren's body stand up.

He wanted to put it all in at once but she coaxed him to go slower and give her just one bit at a time, letting her savor the delicious feeling as the tight, warm confines of her body squeezed and massaged it on the way in. The tender ache she'd been feeling grew into a rough throb.

Laren rolled her eyes back and growled, gripping the headboard tighter and putting another notch in the wall as he pushed the rest of the way in and rocked her forward. "Mmmph," she said. "There you go lover boy."

Her ass pressed tight against his young, smooth body as he pushed into her, and the tension left her in a stream as her shoulders and knees loosened up and allowed him to ride her back and forth, pulling back on her hips and sliding her onto him with a little bit more force each time, thrusting harder and deeper and making a hot pulsing feeling blossom in her insides.

Randy slipped his hands underneath take her breasts in two handfuls, squeezing until she moaned, bit her lip to stop it, and then couldn't hold it any longer and moaned again, finally smothering the cry by burying her face in the bed's single pillow and screaming until her throat ached. Randy's tight body rode up and down behind her, and the salt smell of his sweat made her mouth water.

"Keep doing it like that," she said in between grunts, letting go of the headboard and pressing her palms flat to the wall for more leverage. Her nails scrabbled at the paneling and left fresh white marks there. She braced herself against it with everything she had and then threw her head back when Randy thrust up into her again and again.

A fiery ball of animal pleasure started in her midsection and pushed its way toward her hips, where she knew in a minute it would overflow and spill out onto everything. She tried again to encourage him but it was harder to talk now, so she just formed the words with her lips in a silent but frantic whisper that grew the closer she got...