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The snow circled Jonathan's form in great white clouds, obscuring his vision and tickling his skin. But the cold, he couldn't feel. The trees loomed tall and dark, warping and shifting even as he lay still. No escape, even outside of that wretched prison of a castle. His heart pounded with fear and the adrenaline of running, but he had halted now, and the need to keep moving had all but ceased. Lying on his back, slumped against a great, gnarled tree, he ran his fingers through the snow. It felt dry. It was as pale as the moon.
The wolf, when it approached, was as pale as the moon. Elderly in appearance but powerful in gait; nails as overgrown as its shaggy coat, yet not for a single moment appearing less than regal. White teeth stood out even whiter through the thick blizzard and against ancient, black gums. The beast prowled into the clearing. The two of them were alone.
Jonathan met its intelligent, red eyes.
The closer they grew to each other, the harder Jonathan's heart began to beat. He felt like the trees were folding, crushing his body in as the snowstorm filled his lungs. But he wasn't going to die. He knew that he wasn't going to die.
The moment that the wolf was upon him, the world quieted. The mighty body dwarfed him, bracketed him. Shielded him from everything that ever wished to cause harm. The trees stood upright, scolded and denied. The snow and the wind that carried it were too afraid to make a sound. No, only the wolf was permitted to hurt him. That he knew, the possessive sensation thrumming deep within him like the final chord of a newly-remembered melody. It grew and grew until the feeling was cacophonous, sending great waves through his body from the roots of his hair to the very tips of his toes. It had his cock twitching eagerly until the wolf made its move.
It hung its head low to nose at Jonathan's neck, drawing a soft sound of anticipation from the pliant solicitor. His heart was racing. Was it even beating anymore? He couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. Dead or alive, he belonged to the wolf; and only the wolf was allowed to kill him this way. The nose was cold—he could feel that. Cold and wet, leaving small tracks of glistening skin wherever it brushed. Jonathan raised a hand to stroke slowly along the bristly muzzle as the wolf licked a broad stripe up his neck. The tongue was hot, scorchingly hot, red and drooling. Jonathan was nearing the point of red and drooling too, cheeks burning and liquid pooling quickly in his mouth.
His clothing was gone. He remembered the claws tearing it to ribbons, revealing each new strip of nude skin like a child opening a present on Christmas morning, but he never saw it. His breathing came ragged and heavy as he waited, reduced to nothing but his cotton undergarments, and even those were torn somewhat in the legs. The beast's tongue drew paths across his nudity, lapping in the basins of his collarbones and tracing the hard shape of his sternum between piqued nipples.
The solicitor moaned, feeling feverish and half mad, wanting so desperately for more tongue, more touch, more, more, more. With a maw at his chest, the hound's large head was at perfect level for Jonathan to tangle his fingers within the mane of fur about its neck. It was coarse but oh so thick, perfect to become lost in. He buried his face in the top of its head until his world was nothing but white and the scratch of a rough coat; warmth and the sounds of hot panting; the smell of dirt and the scent of wet, canine musk. Beneath all of the insulation, the skin felt frightfully cold.
"Please," Jonathan gasped, hips pressing whorishly up into the wolf's underbelly. "Please." He couldn't articulate it. He didn't need to articulate it. Not with the way his cock was stiff and straining, tenting his underwear to a point beyond obscene. He couldn't help the stab of needy disappointment when the creature parted from him, fingers then closing on nothing but air. Then it was upon him again in the spot he needed most, and he couldn't do anything but wail.
The wolf lapped and mouthed at his sex through soiled cotton and Jonathan could not imagine a greater feeling existing. His eyes rolled back into his head, lids fluttering, mouth agape and drooling. His moans and pleas and whimpers and begs spilt like fresh blood, and the tongue drank its fill of him. Then the teeth were tearing him apart; no, tearing his underwear to shreds. But he could hardly stop and think about it because those slobbering jaws were around him and his head was spinning like a merry-go-round. The long, dexterous tongue swirled about his superheated flesh, teeth scraping dangerously and sending sparks of adrenaline fizzling up Jonathan's spine. He bucked madly, feeling the beast growl around him. The vibrations had him quaking and whining like a wanton.
He wanted to be consumed—wholly consumed. He wanted the beast to devour him, swallow his prick and then follow it with his nude, pliant form. He wanted to be torn to shreds, drunk, eaten, supper. He was drunk as he reached his climax, seed spilling into the beast’s awaiting throat. He felt it work to swallow around him before retreating from his form. Only then did he take notice of the flash of red waiting for him between the wolf’s hind legs.
Jonathan was still hungry.
It was quite the massive thing, now fully unsheathed. As red as the creature’s feasting tongue and proportional to the animal’s size—which was already nearer to that of a pony than a dog. He scrambled up and, as if hypnotised, could not stop himself from taking it in hand. He stroked the bestial cock from engorged base to tapered tip, thighs shaking at the feel of it twitching in his hands. The vibrant colour of it contrasted so beautifully with the creature’s charcoal-grey coat. Had it always been that colour? He paid special attention to the knot of it, wanting nothing more than to feel it swell inside of him, locking their forms together. Mated.
The solicitor’s face regained its deep, ruddy tone as he moved back from the wolf. He turned to lie prone and then lifted his hips into the air in supplication to this feral beauty. His heart thudded in his chest where it was pushed against the ground. The wolf clambered upon him, tongue lolling as it breathed in great pants. Its forelegs wrapped around his torso, crushing his chest as it growled into his ear. Jonathan glanced once more at the blazing Hellfire between the powerful legs. And then it was shooting through him with a howl.
It was massive, tearing him apart from the inside out, but fit so perfectly that it did not hurt. He felt so utterly full, so complete. As if he were made to be here in this very moment, mounted by this monster of the forest, pushed down and loved. The knot hammered against his entrance as the beast sped up, rocking the helpless Englishman back and forth mercilessly and whining musically into his ear. Jonathan Harker was not going to see Heaven, but it didn't matter now that he had felt something far better.
He moaned and gasped as the beast took what it wanted of him. Life quickly became nothing, nothing but flashes of colour and sensation. Spots danced in his vision, heat burned beneath his skin, and he was melting. Melting into something beyond gas or liquid, something unattainable. Bliss. Euphoria. And only the wolf could give it. The raven-black muzzle came once again to his neck. Had it always been that colour? Coat so healthy and nourished, as thick as anything and as soft as an angel's wings? The teeth clamped around his neck, and he gasped at the sensation. It could have torn him apart like a paper doll, left him as nothing but a puddle of viscera and a stew of bones—but it did not. It only growled, hold possessive, as it ravaged its mate in the thick, white forest.
He felt that tongue again. Inside of his head. Lapping at the soup of his brain; all of his thoughts, all of his memories. Like sparks of colours that did not exist, shapes with infinite sides. His soul, in his head, eating. Devouring him. Everything delicious, everything solid. Jonathan Harker was a puddle of feeling and nothing more, no longer with solid form or thought. A familiar baritone voice whispered, "Mine." He must have came, and that must have been consumed too. The only thing to cling to was the feeling of that bulbous, swollen knot forcing inside of him, open, as an ocean spilt into his body and tore whatever remained apart.
***
Jonathan Harker awoke with a whimper.
His head was muddled with sleep and dream, and it took him a few moments of dumb twitching to evaluate his situation. He was sticky, aching, splayed out in a way he had not fallen asleep in, sheets in a tangle and body buzzing with warmth. One look confirmed his worst fear, that he had in fact made quite the mess of himself in his sleep—sticky with more than just sweat! Oh Lord, oh Mina. And he'd thought that his dreams had been queer before reaching the castle...
Beyond his window, the sun was setting. And so he sighed and stood from his bed, neck throbbing and muscles weak. He washed, and he dressed, and he entered the dining room to, for once, find the Count waiting for him. He looked as young as ever. Old. Younger.
He asked, "Some coffee, my friend?"
Jonathan met those intelligent, red eyes. They did not belie a wicked mirth.
"Please."