The Liar
#1 of A Werewolf's Touch
Once upon a time, there was a throne. It sat proudly, supported by intricate lions, so real their golden forms could lunge out and at the unworthy who dared to tread too close. The velvetty fabric that composed its seat was a deep lavender, and the armrests were gilded with pure gold, encrusted with precisely identical fragments of amethyst. On it sat an aged woman, gaunt and pale of complexion, face drooping to testify to her years. Her chin rested upon her hand, her neck frail enough to lead one to believe that her arm was the only support. Her other hand sat impatiently at her armrest, fingers tapping at the auric armrest. Overall, she had a look of enervation, awaiting that very important guest.
An intimidating gate swung open, the wood nearly battering against the stone walls as it gave entrance. Low and behold, a guest came forth, ushered in by a pair of guards, bowing gracefully in the presence of the elder woman. The visitor was a delicate princess, no more than eighteen years of age. A light teal dress hanged on her figure and a cloth belt clung to her waist. She was no pauper; the attire was of fabrics much more valuable than any mere commoner of the day could afford. The teen sat herself on a dinky wooden chair before the mighty queen. The aged royalty's miserable half-frown became a light smirk. This was the moment she had waited for, so very long. The gruff men shut the door behind the lady, and marched away.
"Good day, your Highness." Said the princess, hands at her waist.
The queen took a breath, and again looked towards the subordinate. "We need not exchange pleasantries. I believe you are aware of our purpose here, yes?"
The princess nodded submissively, and responded. "Yes... we are to resolve our nations' differences..."
The princess was silent for a few moments, but then commented, shifting in her seat. "...in times past, there were obstacles to peace... namely my own mother and father... but I am certain that now is the time for a renewal of our relations."
Gently, the elder gave her own nod. Her expression was stern, and it had to be. "I am pleased that you came about to this decision, Adela. It is in the best interests of not just our peoples, but the entire continent. The loss of your dear family plagues me as much as it does you, but this is an opportunity for progress."
Adela sighed. She pondered on... about the past. There was once a time of closeness between not just the nations, but the royal families. So very close; they were once kin. Adela could recall the times as a child, when she and her parents held luxurious banquets with the Castrillian royal family. To this day, she never knew exactly why a rift tore the royals apart. Mirabel was like an aunt to her. She taught the younger Adela much about the world, about etiquette, about values. The loss of her mentor stung her almost as the death of her parents did, even ten years later. How Adela wished, nay, begged for things to be different. This war destroyed enough that was dear to her, and it was time to end it. The cost being irrelevant.
The princess was about to spout tears, recalling the still recent tragedies. Hardly ever had she dealt with the loss of a loved one, and never so major. Before she could mope, she also remembered where she was. She was before the presence of the one that could help her. Adela had to remain positive. Everything will be better.
Mirabel detected the young lady's distress. She had to intervene. "You seem worried. Perhaps we could have a pleasant chat before we complicate the situation with the peace talks? It could be just as we used to..."
Adela nodded. The prospect was soothing to her; she might be able to learn about what truly happened between them... and she hadn't yet expressed to anyone how she felt about being mandatorily pronounced queen, at such a young age. "Well, then have a seat on my lap. Get comfortable."
The princess obeyed. Though one would say she was too old to straddle someone's lap, the newly pronounced queen did just that. The responsibility placed on her had already grew tiresome; she longed for the warm, motherly embraces she had often received as a child. Maybe Adela just wasn't as mature as she wanted herself to be. She mounted herself on the older woman's left knee, laying back and allowing her back to touch the woman's chest. This was indeed much more comfortable than the chair. The elder placed her chin on top of the girl's right shoulder, and embraced the budding woman with both of her fragile arms. "Can we... turn everything to how it used to be, Aunt Mirabel? I missed it all, including you."
The aged woman nuzzled against the grown girl, to comfort her. "Of course. It could be just you and I. It doesn't have to stop at a treaty. I could help you rule, help you lead. I know how stressful all of this can be... but I can make it much better." Mirabel sighed onto the girl's cheek. She lied. Nothing could ever be the same.
Adela tried to smile. Maybe this was just what she was looking for; help. "Really?" Asked the young queen, wanting reassurance. "Yes, my dear."
Mirabel embraced the petite girl more tightly. Which didn't amount to much, the woman was rather sickly, after all. "You look gorgeous today, darling. I haven't seen you in ages, to be honest. What a fine woman you've become..."
The older queen gingerly stroked the youthful girl on her abdomen, circularly and sensually. The girl closed her eyes. She wanted to relax, to let her worries melt away. One of Mirabel's hands delved downwards, sliding softly against the girl's thin dress, to her clothed thigh. It rubbed tenderly against the inner thigh, the girl not minding the harmless massage. This continued for a few minutes; the young queen lying back and against the one who embraced her, her hand at the left armrest. The older lady meanwhile held her with the arm that wasn't massaging her, the arm wrapped around just under the breast, perking them upwards. Her grip became tighter, unusually tight. Adela's legs parted gradually as the palm stroked inwards, and towards her hips. The girl rarely felt this way before. She perceived a warmth, an immense heat building between her loins. Adela was a virgin. It had been but a few years since she exited puberty. This feeling, this arousal was barred from a woman of her class at such a relatively young age. She was never taught how to satisfy this urge.
Adela's breathing heavied. Mirabel's hands started to feel more rough, and her body warmer. Both of the older lady's hands slid down, and tugged at the girl's dress. They lifted the loose garment, far above her knees. Adela could now feel the rough, padded hands caressing her bare thighs, claws that at first were not there, now dragging against her supple flesh. She dared not look. She knew, deep inside, that this desire was a wrong one, but intended to savor it. Adela's head lolled back, and she uttered a groan. Those odd, clawed hands approached the pleasurable spot between her thighs; her womanhood. The young girl palmed one of the older female's hands with one of her own. It indeed felt strange. She didn't feel those bony, cold hands that touched her as she straddled the woman's lap. Instead, she felt the fuller hands of a younger lady, though tipped with claws and covered in a fine fur. Before she could ponder more about how increasingly... perverted this sort of touch felt, a fuzzed hand yanked down her undergarment.
Her first instinct was a blush. Immediately she perceived the padded hand palming against her moist, warmer nethers. A dry, feral tongue lapped against her right shoulder, the roughness sending a shiver up her spine. Adela was confused not just by what she felt, but by what was touching her. She sunk in her seat. She wanted to escape, to flee this wonderful torture. Then the creature spread the lips of her slit. The young woman cringed, moaning as she felt a rush of cool air against her virgin entrance. The fuzzy hand kept the slit spread with its index and ring finger, the middlemost finger stroking just between the spread labia. Then the digit plunged. It slid slowly into the confined entrance, taking utmost care as the dangerously clawed end speared forth, its fur tickling the young woman from within. Adela gasped, and couldn't help but stare downwards. She saw two feminine arms, fur covering the entire arms and not just the fingers, the hair similar to that of a timber wolf, transitioning from dark near the creature's shoulders, to white approaching the fingers. Adela gasped even louder. Mirabel, her own "aunt", was... a werewolf.
Adela could hardly believe it. Werewolves were considered a mere myth, a long forgotten one at that. Even the townspeople whom most feared them had lost all recollection. Adela knew only of these creatures through colorful tomes of lore and legend. And yet, a member of the royal family, one she cherished so much... was... a cursed creature. Adela quickly twitched in shock, before one of the arms again wrapped tightly around her. She could not move, the once sickly woman possessing the strength of what she estimated to be multiple men. The young queen wanted to faint. This was clearly a hallucination. But before she could gather her thoughts, again her desire overwhelmed her. Mirabel began to finger her, the odd digit pistoning into her, satisfying the raging heat the poor girl had, with a rush of pleasure. Adela would have screamed had her thoughts not become cloudy, and her heart filled with something she hadn't felt before: lust.
The young woman climaxed within moments. The quivering walls tightened against the thin finger, which withdrew. Adela finally made a sound, but it was a moan. Her back arched, and her body twitched many times over. She felt the uncontrollable clenches and contractions within her, her hips giving a few bucks to relieve the tension. Then she fell quiet, and collapsed against the wolven creature that supported her. Adela felt dizzy, her undergarment below her knees and the lips of her recently defiled womanhood pressed against the fuzzy creature's dress as she continued to sit on what used to be her "auntie's" knee. The werewolf took her moistened finger and sneaked it into the young girl's mouth, coaxing her into having a taste. It was sweet, and the girl savored it. Mirabel rocked the young queen on her knee, still giving her a firm hug with one of her arms. Adela was still perplexed, sitting there exhausted. Then, she felt a bite on the shoulder.
Vicious fangs sunk into the tender section of her flesh which the beast had been slurping at. Adela screamed in pain and horror, but there was no response. The experience was unreal, she looked over her shoulder and saw the werewolf. Her eyes were shut, as if she was enjoying herself, fangs bared and sunk deep into her shoulder. She saw little resemblance between the creature's face and that of her once dear aunt. The teeth were then tugged out, letting a gush of her own, sanguine fluid flow. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but she felt no pain from the bleeding. Instead, she watched as the feral, feminine creature opened her eyes and lapped at the streams of blood. There was still that scraping feel with each drag of the muscle against her shoulder, scooping away the life of the young queen with every lick. The wound wasn't large enough to kill her, and neither was it at her jugular. Adela felt a surge of consciousness, and began to kick and scream her way out of the wolf's clutches. By some manner of miracle, she escaped from her grasp, and turned around to face the creature who was likely to give pursuit.
Mirabel wasn't there. Instead, there was a humanoid, wolf-like creature dressed in her exact same, flowing lavender gown. It had the same coppery eyes, but in it there was no fear, none of the warm, honey color. There was simply a hunger, which she saw in both its eyes, and on the lips, a starving expression. The werewolf was larger than her aunt, both in height and in width. It had lips stained with blood. Slowly, the frightened girl backed away, and against the wooden gate to the throne room. In a voice hauntingly similar to the once old queen, it called out. "Why must you escape?"
Adela wanted to scream, but it wouldn't do her any good. Instead, she tried to blindly reach for the door knob.
Mirabel gave a sigh, still harmlessly at her seat. "It could be just as you wanted. Just you and I."
The young queen was finally starting to feel the painful sting of her wound. "I don't want to be a twisted fiend! You betrayed me!"
The werewolf was starting to become irritated. "Admit it. You loved that sensation, the pleasure I gave you. Only I could give you that."
Adela gave no response. Despite her pain, she managed to swing open the door, and flee. Mirabel gave no chase. Adela was doomed. Soon she would feel the torment, the true agony. Then she would come back.