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I wouldn't usually take the time to talk about myself for an audience, but it's come to my attention that I've already been... presented in a certain light to some of you. In a certain context, it's very easy to see me as a bad man. A scoundrel. A rapist, even. But if there is one thing I have learned in all my years, it is that everyone has a story behind their actions. I have come a long, long way to where I am now, and while I might not be able to ask your forgiveness for my actions, I should hope that a little context will allow at least... some understanding. And I've heard you lot enjoy your smutty tales anyway-- that's good. My story is... not a clean one.

A note, before I begin, however. Or maybe it is the proper beginning: the name is Petre. Not Petri or Peter, but Petre. Strictly speaking, the vowels are pronounced closer to "paydirt" than "pee tree" or "cedar." But if you pronounce it like Peter, I will tolerate it, as that's how the name evolved eventually. I was originally named in the region that would eventually come to be known as Romania, around the year 670 AD. This is where my story began.

I was a boy once. A human boy. I was very faithful and always listened to my mother and father. My father was a hard man. He worked with stone, and when he was done with it, the stone would do as it was told. So it was between him and I, as well. My mother was beautiful and kind, and the only time I had raised a hand against my fellow man was when I heard another boy imply she might be unfaithful. I always went to church, and I started helping my father with business as soon as I was able. The village folk accounted me a kind young man, and when Ileana and I began to smile at each other, everyone was happy for us.

Ileana was the tailor's daughter, and when she smiled, the world was a more beautiful place. Music seemed to drift on the wind, the sun shone radiantly no matter the season, and the very ground seemed lighter underfoot. I could not see how anyone could help but smile around her, and if she'd cared to, she could doubtless have chosen any other young man in the village, and he would have been all too happy to take her hand. In fact, a few of the villagers wished she had-- the only problem anyone had with the two of us getting married, once we were of a proper age, was that I was younger than her. Only by a few months, of course, but usually, women married fellows a year or two older. I was a hard-working lad, though, and I was sure I could take care of her.

Age, however, still proved to be the problem. We could not marry until we were both eighteen years old, though we knew from fifteen or so that there could be no other for either of us. I was not worried about losing her or any such thing, but being a growing young man, I found myself beset by certain... urges. Such urges as strike a man when he is becoming fully able to spawn and care for young ones. But I could not address these urges, as our holy book had very specific passages on when it was appropriate to touch a woman, and in what grounds one may sow one's seed. Being unquestioning in my faith, I restrained myself, though the burden seemed to grow heavier with every passing day.

Ileana confessed, in one of our few private moments together, that she had similar burdens. Quiet, embarrassed, but fervent in our desires, we devised a plan to relieve some of the pressure. We could not touch ourselves or each other, but the book made no mention of looking. After the sun went down and the labors of day were done with, supper had and the village slowly falling into the lull of sleep, I would slip away from my home and cross the village. One of Ileana's windows looked out onto the forest, and when I arrived, her window would be open. I would half-hide behind the nearest tree, and from there, I could see her, usually reading by a candle. The dog they kept in the living area would often have a fit when I arrived, and she would glance up. She would look at me only once. Then she would rise, and slowly undress. I still remember the way I tremored when first she slid out of her dress, the candlelight warm on her skin, tickling up her belly, across the curves of her breasts. My legs almost gave out, I shook so hard. But I stood in place, and watched as she bared herself before me, ever so slowly. I burned for her, burned so that I might catch fire at any moment from pure... desire. And when she finally slid into her delicate little slip and snuffed the light, my blood still seared in my veins, but I felt... satisfied, for a short time. And that was the best thing we had. She told me later that she could feel my eyes on her, and it excited her. So we did this every night, and every night, I had a few precious moments of rapture before bed. I wished only that that infernal dog would stop baying whenever I stopped by. Ileana loved him, however, so I tried my best to get along with it. My efforts, on that front, produced little.

As I drew closer to full age, we both grew excited. Ileana talked often about our future, and she found a small shack that we could live in cheaply to get away from my parents. She would often fantasize about our future together and talk about little things, like how she would furnish the place. She said she wanted to bring the dog, though, and she encouraged me to get to know it better. I can't say why, but I always had a terrible way with animals, and that dog was the worst. As soon as he caught scent of me, he'd snarl and fold his ears. I couldn't even try to pet him for fear of losing a hand. But Ileana was sure it would just take time. She was sure of many things.

I will never know whether the way she smiled simply enchanted my heart, or if she really did hold power over the very mood of the earth. I didn't know at the time, but Ileana had her own holy book that she read in secret, full of things forbidden to the common man. Ileana was a witch, and I would surmise she was both powerful and ambitious. I do not know if or when she had planned to tell me of this, but I learned the truth of it all only in the most roundabout way.

A few weeks before I turned eighteen, Ileana's dog fell ill. The doctor couldn't reckon a cause, and Ileana worried. She told me secretly that she had fed him a certain medicine, but it must not have been right. I asked why she'd fed it to him, and she would only say that she thought it would make him stronger, to guard our home. I didn't see how the dog could possibly need to be stronger-- he was already a great beast of a dog. But he seemed to be dying now, and quietly, I was glad to see him going.

A few days later, my ill will turned on me. For a few nights I had had blessed silence as I watched my love bare herself to me, though for all my burning need, she seemed subdued. Worried, likely. That night, however, the dog suddenly began to cry out. It did not merely bark-- it coughed up terrible sounds, roars and howls. Ileana dressed hurriedly and went to the door, but when she opened it, the dog burst past. In that moment, in the flash of candlelight before it bounded through the window, I beheld a monster. Its jaw hung wide open, bristling with teeth that bled down his lips. Its body was deformed with muscles and strained sinew. And its eyes... Golden eyes, flaring like two suns, slit by black arrows. They filled my vision as the monster leapt on me.

I can only account for my survival by saying that a man, primed with desire for his mate, is in an ideal state to destroy anything that stands in his way. My blood already ran hot, every muscle in my body was aching for the lunge. Perhaps it was the frustration, or perhaps it was simply my hate for that damned creature, but I fought. I fought like a madman, and for all its clawing and biting, I buried my crudely shaped fists under its ribs and my knees in its sides, and when I managed to find a stick, I beat the thing until it fled into the woods. I thought myself quite the hero for the moment I remained conscious.

The doctor said I'd be in bed for weeks. The wedding would have to be postponed-- and, for that matter, there were a few murmurs as to whether or not it should happen at all. Nobody asked me right out just what I had been doing behind the tailor's house at that hour to be attacked, and with the bizarre turn of events with the creature, there were plenty of other things to talk about, but there were murmurs. People wondering if it might be better for Ileana to find a man of better character after all. I was humiliated.

And to make matters worse, I seemed to have taken ill from the attack. The doctor couldn't quite say if it was just a fever, but he gave me a few bitter drinks and advised me to sleep as much as I could. On the night of my birthday, when I should have been down at the tavern celebrating with my friends, I was stuck in bed, sweating and moaning and dreaming of strange things. My mother stayed with me for a few hours, and I tried to put on a good face, but I could barely even see her. After I finally convinced her to go to bed, I fell into a terrible dream.

I dreamt that I was lost in a strange forest. Around me, countless demons and foreigners swarmed in the darkness, always creeping up in the corner of my eye, and retreating when I looked. Wherever I turned my back, they approached, ready to consume me. I ran-- the bush tried to slow me, but I tore it apart. The branches buffeted me, and I broke them and threw them aside. A demon rose before me, but I was full of fury, and it fell under my hands. The others screeched and fled.

I raced through the wood, and at some point, I realized I was a beast myself. My hands were clawed and furred, my body strange and powerful. I was strong. Strong enough to destroy anything in my way. Strong enough to destroy anything that came between me and what I wanted. And in that moment, I thought of Ileana.

And just like that, I was there-- outside her window. In that sacred place where my love and desire for her had always met their tumultuous peaks. Such is the way of dreams, after all, to bring you to where you most wished to be. Her window, though, was dark. The shutters were closed, awash in moonlight. Poor obstacles to my power. I knew I could have her now-- nobody would stop us. Nobody could. The boards fell away, and I was inside. She was sitting in bed, eyes wide, brilliant in the moonlight. Her door burst open-- the demons wanted to stop me. The very idea was laughable. I slew the intruder, gathered up my dear Ileana, and fled out the window before more could come.

It was still night, but the moon was bright as the sun, and I could see the demons coming. They screeched and bellowed, but when I ran, the world opened before me, and the demons disappeared behind me. I ran and ran, clutching my beautiful, precious Ileana close as the trees flew by. I found a quiet place, sheltered from the cool of night and the eyes of the world, where even the moonlight only just trickled in. I laid her down, and she was panting, staring wide-eyed. I might have been quite worked up myself after the close escape, but seeing her like that in only her sweat-sodden, see-through shift, her breasts rolling with her breath... My thoughts turned quickly.

I could smell her. I'd known her scent for a long time, from little whiffs carried on the wind, from a few guilty moments of intimacy. But now, it was strong, like I was bathing in the very essence of her. All the world was vivid and amazing, but this only made her, the most beautiful thing in the world, all the more fascinating. I reached for her, and she shied back. My own hand surprised me-- it was that of a beast, even now. But I was no beast-- I had nothing but love for her. I had only to be careful. I smiled as I tore her slip from her body-- my claws passed through the fabric as though waving away a puff of smoke. And then she was naked, her body slick with sweat.

That's the image that has always haunted me. Her body, laid out before me on a mat of the scraps of her clothing, her skin kissed by moonlight. Her legs were drawn together, one knee up as though to protect her most precious spot, though the moonlight still revealed much. The glow pooled in the gentle dip of her belly, and little spots of it gleamed on each breast, growing into little splashes as her goosebumps caught the light. She was half-propped up on her elbows, looking up at me with that... shock. Her lips were parted as though to speak, frozen like that, as if beckoning me to come and interrupt her thoughts with a kiss. Her eyes, though... I could not see the fear as I was. I saw only my own need: eighteen years of loneliness and restrained desire, all those burning nights of revelling in the agony of self-denial, promising myself this moment, branding my soul with the belief that it would all be worth it. She personified every desire I had ever had for the body of another in one supple, pale, gently quivering form.

Her skin was unimaginably soft under those rough paws of mine, yielding readily to the slightest touch. Smooth and surprisingly warm. She was shaking, but I held her firmly in roving, needy hands as I pressed onto her. The first time I touched a woman's breast. The first time I squeezed a woman's rear. The first time I felt the slick heat of flesh under the grinding of my rod. She was my precious mate, and I was desperately in need. I was inexperienced, but my body was already jerking, trying to rut at her, stabbing at her skin and leaving kisses of the fluids of arousal. I had to draw back-- further than I expected. My claws were slowly digging into her hips by the time I found that first precious touch of heat on my very tip. I humped blindly, like an incompatible animal, until that flesh bloomed around me suddenly, and my hips drove in as she screamed.

Straining against her limit, I was perhaps half-buried inside her. In that moment, every hair on my body bristled, and I underwent an immense wave of... fulfillment. Gnashing my teeth and snarling over her, I reveled in the tightness of her deflowered body for one moment, cast afloat on a cloud of its own fury. I flexed inside her, and I needed more. And I crashed down on her.

Wood cracked and splintered up under my toeclaws as I hauled in against the floor to pound her, tearing at her insides with the most insatiable weapon nature and magic together could give me, twelve inches of furious, untiring dog cock. I needed more-- I needed the full sum of everything her body could offer. My hands jerked her hips up against every stroke, hauling her ass a hint off the floor before it was slammed down against it purely under the force of my dick ramming at the gate of her womb. She was a virgin, but even she couldn't hold up to that-- she was slowly straining open. And the more I felt that taut ring deform and stretch around the very tip of my weapon, the harder I slammed against it. It was agonizing for me-- like force-feeding my dick through a wedding band. I can scarcely imagine how it was for her. But I lodged my head inside her womb, throbbing and spitting all over the insides of her most precious chamber, and the rest was soon to follow.

Inches disappeared between her lips, and her womb stretched into the shape of my cockhead. Her insides flowed with the power of my thrusts and draws, dragging down and compressing as I drew, bloating out around me as I barreled in. My thighs crushed against hers, my knees levering at the floor as I pushed her wide apart in every way, my snarls rolling by her ear. I had found my delicious, precious hole, my bitchcunt, and no matter how tight it was, I was going to fuck it to satisfaction. No matter how she screamed.

Just when I'd finally gotten a rhythm going again after getting the problem of her cervix out of the way, though, something else started slowing me down. The flesh near the base of my rod was swelling, dragging at her lips and straining them wide before I could slip free again. She was shaking and crying out every time, and it was getting hard just to work it into her again-- to hilt every last inch where it belonged. I snarled and howled in frustration, but at the same time, it felt sinfully good just to shove that knot in. So I slowed into deep, deliberate, unstoppable shoves and drags, relishing each cruel hilting as she stretched just a little wider to accept me, then jerking out of her clinging hole with a huff to start again. My muscles started to quiver and burn, and when her body hauled up half off the floor, suspended on my knot, I knew I was done-- I fell into grinding at her, my breath hot and short in my throat as the sensations welled in me. And at last, another first: I came.

I felt my balls drag heavily up her beaten crotch with the first flex, my shaft swelling and straining that pitiful cervix just a little wider a fraction of an instant before my first shot drilled into her womb. She gave a guttural sound --it just might have been a moan-- as her womb bloated with my payload. I pumped and pumped into her, claws digging into her back as I snarled and roared and finally howled, my hips grinding her ass against the floor with shove after shove as I buried my seed in her contorted sex.

That was the first time I had sex. That was the first time I even experienced release-- balls deep in a girl that would have been hard pressed to take someone half my size. Blood was smearing on the floorboards already, in traces here and there. But the night was far from over.

When my howls fell to pants and my balls slowly, reluctantly eased to a stop against her, I found that I was quite stuck. When I tried to draw, her lips clung to me and her hips drew up off the floor. When I tried to rise, her entire body came up after me, and she cried out desperately, begging me in a tongue I couldn't understand. So I set down again, and I shivered at the way her insides churned around me, even now. I took a firm hold of her, and started to grind.

There was barely room to move back and forth, but if I rolled my hips, I could rub around her insides and work out just a little. It was odd, but stimulating, and I set to abusing her stretched cunt, working my dick around inside her. With time, as I felt the familiar stirrings in my blood, the knot began to ease. I pried it out of her with a long drag, pinning her in place, and she cried out sharply and sighed in relief in turn as rivulets of seed washed out around me, now that she was unplugged. I drew, seed almost pouring out about my shaft, and I slammed in again-- ramming my knot inside her once more. She was crying, I think, as I started to pull out again. I was panting, my tongue lolling out as I reclaimed my pleasure hole.

The floor grew slick with pooling semen as I worked it out of her in gushes only to pour more in, and eventually I gave up on grasping at any other surface in favor of clutching to her body, shoving down her hips as I drove up into her sex. The sound of my cum-soaked sack slapping against her gave tempo to her cries and tear-choked moans and my ever-invasive growls. At some point, finally, I jerked free of her pussy and my juices poured out of her in a thick, goopy flood as her womb slowly deflated. That was when I found her other hole.

I had thrown her on her belly, letting her wallow in the puddle of seed I had created and baring her perforated back and luscious hindquarters before I mounted her again. Her legs were closed, but I didn't even slow-- I shoved my tip, sloppy with seed, down between those cheeks and right into her ass. The fresh tightness perplexed me a moment, as did her sudden, fresh screams, her head whipping up, but I knew what I liked. I ground in, and in, and in, fast as the tight grip of that abruptly stretched ring would allow. There was no cervix here-- only the soft, resisting walls of flesh that bent out of the way as I barreled deeper. I allowed myself a deep, luxurious snarl in my belly as I ground my hips in against her cheeks, satisfied that I had found myself something wonderful.

Then the rutting began. With every stroke, the juices under her squelched and splattered outward as her body dragged up off the floor and flopped down again, her insides mashed down and out of the way under my tool. I was throbbing constantly inside her, almost unable to belief how deliciously tight her grip was on me-- the tighter she drew, convulsively strangling my cock in some vain attempt to expel it or slow her reaming, the thicker I swelled inside her, and the harder I rammed in. I loved the way her cheeks flattened against my hips, and the way her cunt spouted seed against my heavy sack every time it slapped down against it. Something about the sight, when her cheeks mashed far apart around my swollen knot, and her ring stretched and stretched into a taut band around the full girth of it, something about the ear-splitting screams and the way she quivered around me, it was eating away at me as it filled me. The reasons were forgotten. The lust, the joy of exertion, the need to unload, was everything. I drove her ass to the ground impaled on my rod, and I only paused for a delicious, slow grind about her bowels before I was desperately drawing for a fresh skewering. There was nothing anymore but my dick and her swollen, stretched, speed-spewing ass. Her flesh was my exquisite luxury. Her screams were becoming the constant background noise to my ecstasy. Her blood became the dull pink swirls in the seed pooling around her, and pouring out of her.

I don't know how I produced so much-- I must have been literally generating it by the liter on the spot, but every time I came, it just flooded her until she was swollen and could hardly breathe, and it was still never enough. Eventually, maybe because she had blacked out or something, maybe because I'd managed to stretch her ass to some obscene degree when I kept yanking my knot out and jamming it back in between her cheeks again, somehow I fucked her asshole loose, to the point that the juices pouring out of her at any moment made the rutting boring. I promptly pulled out, flipped her on her back again, and stuffed her cunt. I'd been delighted to find her womb had managed to tighten up by then-- I must have spent an hour destroying it before I got bored and flipped her over again.

I don't know how many times I flipped her, and counting how many times I came in her ragged, bleeding body would be nigh impossible. I just know that as she grew looser, her every modicum of resistance broken in flesh and spirit both, I had to fuck her harder to sate my hungers. I dug my claws into anywhere I could find that gave a good enough hold and hauled back on her as I plowed in. And when that gave way, I found another spot. I kept going. My balls were never emptied, but always pumping, it seemed.

In the darkest part of the night, when even the moon was weary and wandering off to find rest, when the air bit with cold, my hips slowed at long last. I still had more-- I was still hungry to fuck my sweet Ileana. But I couldn't. There wasn't much left to fuck. When I finally stopped, blinking down at the mess before me in the dark, I could only muster one reaction: my stomach growled.

When the cold light of earliest morning began to seep across the sky, I was bounding through the woods, licking at my chops, my cock flopping up against my belly, still soaked with fluids and hungry for more. I was on the hunt. This was the beginning of my story-- the terrible, blood-soaked story of the Dog.

I cannot deny that, in the events of that evening, I was a monster. A horrendous, remorseless monster. And it was not until much later that I managed to piece together what had happened in the village back in those fateful days of my youth. Ileana, perhaps by some mixture of pure folly and divine intervention, had botched her potion of immortal strength and instead accidentally invented one of the earliest forms of lycanthropy.

On the night of my birthday, my parents and a slew of villagers were slaughtered. The village was harrowed with attack after attack in the days to follow, and was eventually abandoned. The people dispersed to other villages, but their general sentiment was that their town had been destroyed by the unwholesome lusts of a boy that had entertained desires above his station. They say the demons had plucked him right out of his bed to carry him off to hell, and the better for it. The fate of the beautiful girl he'd lusted after had been uncertain until a few days after the attack, when a farmer from the next town over found his barn befouled with gore and spilt seed.

This is how my life began. This is how I lost my virginity. This is what it is to be the lycan: born in the blood of your loved ones, remembering nothing but how exquisite it felt. I ask you, before you judge me, to imagine waking, suddenly, to such bitter memories as these. To imagine living as I have lived.