Chloe had to chuckle at the irony... Angers. Perhaps the absurd stream of consciousness of it all took the long way around to actually making sense, considering her reason for being in the small French town. But, looking out at the idyllic view of the town square beneath her window, it was impossible for her to imagine any possible motivation for naming this storybook hamlet, Angers.
Angers, France. A hotbed of werewolf lore. In the middle-ages, suspected "werewolves" were hunted just as those accused of witchcraft. Paranoia and superstition ran rampant, and fear of the occult, or what we now refer to as "the supernatural", was a part of every day life.
Chloe knew that this was the perfect place to gain inspiration as she penned her book on the subject of lycanthropy: the transformation of man to wolf. She knew, if published, that the book would have a cult following at best, but she had always had a fascination with the notion of werewolves. She intended to find out as much as she could. She knew there had to be local legends and stories to be found in a small town like this that she'd never uncover with a simple internet search.
Chloe knew her true fascination was unnatural - the fascination that she would never be able to include in her book. Many an afternoon had been spent in daydreams... not about the bloody horror most would expect to follow, nipping at the heels of any werewolf worth his salt, but about the pack itself: a wolf running in the night, stopping short to emit bone-chilling howls at the sky before savagely taking his mate -- mounting and then knotting her in the cold heavenly spotlight of that clichéd full moon.
Chloe could fully envision the wolf partially reverting to his human self, so that the natural balance of a biped could rut the massive animal cock into his bitch's hungry hole. The bitch, in a perpetual state of heat, knows that she is expected to submit to the whims of her mates cock constantly. She dances back and forth between her wolf form and her near human form -- a tight blanket of soft downy hair covering her magically delicious body ... soft tufts of hair frame her snarling, snapping, yelping mini-snout as her cunt is once again taken by her alpha master's cock.
Chloe had done several drawings of what she'd imagined this hot, half-human bitch would look like: those soft tufts at the chin dissolving into a thin coat of hair that covers a purring throat... running down to encircle breasts, but leaving the hard, aroused peaks exposed to lapping tongues and snapping teeth... the coat meeting under her breasts to collect in a V toward her navel and then flaring out again slightly as it approaches her needy fuckhole... covering her legs but leaving her inner thighs and pussylips almost completely hairless, as if nature was previously aware of what would be the bitch's need to feel all of that painfully massive cock as deeply as possible.
The bitch knows that pain is part of the mating process. A big part. And each remembrance of the pain experienced makes her juices run in anticipation of the next satisfying rut. Isn't this also ironic: complete satisfaction that still always leaves a need for more?
This is what Chloe imagines. And, if pressed, this is what Chloe fantasizes she is... in the night when her fingers fill her own hot hole, and she imagines the kind of beastly fucking she's always wanted but has never been able to find in the human world. She dreams of being this bitch. And she dreams of being taken as savagely as she knows this bitch needs to be taken.
With a start, Chloe realized that she'd done it again -- fallen into this perverse reverie of hers when she should be unpacking, settling in and finding some dinner. She also knows she should be getting some preliminary work done, but jetlag is quickly catching up with her, and she knew she'd be lucky to get to dinner at all before passing out for the night.
Hanging up only a few easily-wrinkled dresses and tossing her lingerie in a convenient drawer, Chloe dialed the number for room service and ordered a light supper. Changing into her nearly sheer nightgown, she prepared to fall into bed as soon as her dinner arrived and she'd taken a few bites.
Hearing an abrupt clang behind her, Chloe swirled, revealing most of her thighs to an enormous man. He was standing next to a cart that held her dinner, and he was leaning against her doorframe as though he owned the place. Sure he could see through her gown, she made an attempt at nonchalance as she folded her arms in front of her breasts, irritated at her hard nipples.
Before she could open her mouth to scold this rude stranger for not knocking before entering her room, he raised his nose into the air, and he took a whiff.
How completely bizarre, Chloe thinks.
"I will thank you for bringing up my tray, but not for letting yourself into my room without permission. Now please leave, or I will report you to the manager." Chloe tried to impress this man with her most intimidating tone. She sees red when all he does is smirk at her. He doesn't move an inch.
"Please feel free to extend your most heartfelt criticism," he breathes at her in the most unique French accent she'd ever heard. Somehow there is almost a hint of an eastern European influence in his voice... in France? "It will save me time in trying to get downstairs to answer the phone. I am the manager. And the owner. And the cook for that matter. And I'm not surprised you didn't hear me knock... with a body like yours, I would be constantly distracted by myself as well whenever I was as close to being naked as you are, mon cherie."
