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May 19, 1945

Journals have never been of much interest to me, as a man of action, but Mr. Mortimer has assured me that they might help me to occupy the idle hours in my estate. In the unlikely case that someone other than myself peruses this one, however, I suppose some introduction is in order. I am Sir Richard Baskerville, of the recently restored house of the Baskervilles in Devonshire, and have returned to my ancestral home to occupy it after the terrible passing of my father and mother in the Exeter Blitz. They had volunteered to assist in extinguishing the fires there on May the 3rd, and were killed by collapsing rubble the following day. I had thought that my grandfather, Sir Henry, had at long last ended the curse on our family name, but it apparently was only dormant while he still lived his full and natural life.

I was informed by letter of their deaths; at the time, I was in Libya fighting for my country, and duty to my family was secondary to the survival of my homeland. The next three years were a tortorously slow grind northward, pushing back Jerry and Macaroni through North Africa, through Rome, and eventually back to Berlin. I lost many friends, and saw more than three lifetimes' worth of death and destruction, so a quiet retirement to the country is exactly what I need to steady my nerves. The Hall has been maintained, in my absence, by our family servants Mr. and Mrs. Kirby, who have kept it clean and stocked it with necessities for my arrival. There will, of course, be some adjustment to civilian life, but this will hopefully be painless in comparison to what has come before it.

May 20, 1945

In my parents' absence, a band of Romanichal has made their home upon the moors. Their fires were burning through the night, and an occasional drunken shout or shriek pierced through the air. Their presence makes rest impossible, as they have a reputation for criminal behavior and shiftlessness known through three continents. They must be driven off before they cause any mischief. I shall contact the constable and join him in informing them of who owns the ground beneath their feet.

It is done, although it was an ugly affair. Their women wept, and their men postured as if they intended to strike me, but both the law and the public will are on my side. In the end, they vacated my land, heading in the direction of the Grimpen Mire. I was warned against going there as a child, as it has swallowed many an unwary traveller in its bright green bogs. But the Romani know the lay of the land, so they are probably better able to survive there than most.

One old crone did manage to hit me in the chest with a ratty pouch with a hideous smell. It made my eyes water and almost forced me to vomit; if I had to guess, it was rotten goat entrails. But this did little other than to stain my vest, and she was dragged off to spend a night in gaol. I was asked whether I wished to press charges, and though my baser instinct is to do so, I recognize that the woman has lost her home and probably had little sense to begin with. She will join her people in the morning.

Overall, this has been a good day's work in improving conditions here, and now that this nuisance is gone, I can unwind more readily.

May 21, 1945

The smell of that pouch lingers in my memory, and I doubt that it is possible to remove it from the vest entirely. I shall probably have to burn it later. Also, I had the most bizarre, vivid dream in my entire life. I dreamt I was on the moor on the night of a full moon. I was running alongside a pack of wolves, hunting the sheep that graze there. I think I was low to the ground, below eye level of the wolves, maybe two feet high. But the strangest thing about it was that it felt absolutely natural at the time; I was remarkably limber and quick, and I had no doubt that this was the proper place for me to be.

While I was on my morning constitutional, I came across a singular stray dog. He was bulkier than any I have ever seen in person, possibly some form of mastiff as I have heard them described. He was a little gaunt, and a little dirty, but otherwise appeared to be healthy. What struck me most about him, though, was how self-assured he looked. His eyes held within them some primeval courage as he stared me in the face and slowly strode toward me. I was a little afraid, probably because of the legendary hell hound which had cast my family name into local folklore centuries ago, but there was also something benevolent and warm in them. I stared at him for perhaps a minute before he reached me and began to sniff at my feet.

It occurred to me that the family legend had built a dread of dogs into my entire family. In addition to the hound of legend, with smoldering eyes and jaws dripping with the throat of my ignominious forebear, there was also the more recent trauma which befell my grandfather, Henry, when his unfamiliar cousin murdered his cousin and attempted to murder him with the aid of a beast much like this one. He failed, obviously, and was last seen running into the mire on the night of the attempt. But now, this fear seemed to be something which could and should easily be conquered, given the rise in our fortunes over the last half century. After all, the mongrel which attacked my grandfather was an unwitting pawn in someone else's scheme, and was killed by gunshot for the trouble. By bringing this new hound into my home, I hoped I could erase the last shreds of my family's shame and prove that this curse was finally lifted, if it ever existed in the first place. Beckoning my new companion to come with me, I headed home and ordered the Kirbys to care for him.

This has proven more difficult than I had thought: the creature refuses to be bathed, and does not obey commands unless he agrees with them already, such as when he is being fed. Given his belligerent, wild nature and his incredible composure, I have decided to call him Ares, after the Greek god of war. If I am to have any success in training him at all, I shall have to order some books on the training and care of dogs from Dover, as I have no experience in it whatsoever. The closest thing I have to it is military training, and I have no earthly idea how well that would apply here.

May 22, 1945

Another strange dream, very similar to the first. The only difference is that ahead of me in the pack of wolves is a dog who looks like Ares. It is strange how new events in life incorporate themselves into dreams so easily. Of interest to Dr. Freud, perhaps, but unimportant for practical matters in day to day life.

Ares has been incorrigible, waking me early in the morning to demand to be fed, and seeking constant attention. He has also gotten into the habit of marking the corners of some of the rooms of the Hall, and doing so too quickly for old Mrs. Kirby to keep up. Hopefully the books I have ordered will hold some answers to these vexing problems.

Nothing specific in the training manuals has worked; parlor tricks like sitting and staying are impossible to compel him to do, as if they were somehow beneath him. But I have found something interesting about the social structures of wolves, from which perhaps I can glean some insight. In the wild, packs of wolves apparently compete for dominance, with one member becoming the alpha of the pack and making the larger decisions about hunting grounds, food distribution, and even mating rights. If this is the case, and Ares views this as something like a pack, then it is clear that he must be made to see me as his alpha to establish the natural order of things.

There was another piece of advice that might help: dogs have very basic motivations, with things like food, water, security, play, exercise, and sex being useful as rewards for good behavior or explanations of misbehavior. To attempt to reason with them will only lead to disappointment: they must be made to see that obeying you is the best way to get what they want already.

As a useful example, this afternoon Ares began to hump my leg, which given his size made it impossible to stand or do anything else. Mostly likely he smells a bitch in heat in the air, and is frustrated that he cannot reach her. So, in order to calm him down and stop the problem, I reached over and grabbed his penis (which, I am embarrassed to say, dwarfs my own) and began to stroke it slowly. His humps slowed down, as some gland at the base of it began to swell in my hand. Given his size, it soon took two hands to reach around its circumference, which was roughly the size of a large orange. After a few minutes of such attention, a thin, viscous liquid shot out from the tip with some force. I tasted a small droplet, out of curiosity, and found it had a metallic, almost meaty taste, though it was subtle and hard to place. After this, Ares was calmer and more affectionate. This may be useful for further training.

May 23, 1945

This dream has returned, for a third night. I was closer to Ares, and could more clearly see the details of his back end as he ran. His testicles bounced behind him as we ran, fuller in my view than the moon shining above us. I honestly cannot understand what this means, and would rather not consider it further.

Manually stimulating Ares has proven to provide only temporary relief, both for him and for myself. He is sated for perhaps twenty minutes as his erection is maintained, but the moment it shrinks back within its protective sheath, he is back to his willful, insubordinate ways. Marking has become more intense, focusing more on my quarters and rooms in which I spend time, and he now follows me begging for my favor at every opportunity. I have attempted to assist him in other ways, taking him on long walks and feeding him better quality food, but his "infatuation" with me has not faded through all of it. Even now, as I write, he is sitting beside me and staring at me, his hot red phallus peeking out of its sheath like lipstick out of a tube. Glistening in the light and bobbing there as his heart beats.

I'm not sure what just came over me. What came over him. I got up to leave the room, and Ares dragged me by the shirt over to my bed. He then pushed me onto it and climbed onto my chest, inching his way up to my shoulders and humping, waving his cock in my face. And it tempted me so, it compelled me, and I wrapped my lips around it and held on to his flanks, tasting that same, salty taste from earlier. Having my mouth around him did not dissuade him in the slightest: his humps continued as I desperately wrapped my lips around my teeth to avoid hurting him. I began to feel behind him, his muscular hindquarters, his swinging testicles hairy and cragged like moons in my hand. Phobos and Deimos, driving the chariot of Ares into my mouth. He expanded, his length gagging me, his roughness knocking me around. And then, all at once, a gush of fluid, a metal taste which I recognized from before, this time filling my mouth and leaking from its corners. But even then, even when he stopped moving, I did not move. I swallowed what I had been given, and cleaned the rest off of him before slowly backing away and catching my breath.

I just realized what came over me. Ares did. But why? And why am I not revolted by it?

May 24, 1945

The dream has changed. Now Ares and I are wrestling, encircled by our pack. It is a long struggle, but he pins me to the ground. I lie on my back, exposing my throat to him. He has won. He is the Alpha of the pack.He drags me to my feet, then gets behind me and sniffs me. I am ready. That is when I woke.

The Kirbys have left me a note to inform me they are leaving my service, because they are concerned about my late obsession and cannot continue to maintain it. I suppose, in their old age, my return has placed unusual demands on them. But I lead a quiet, reserved life, and can do most of their tasks myself if needed. Besides, Ares is with me, so there is little need for their service to aid in his.

Speaking of his service, I have placed a dried meats and sundries vendor on retainer for weekly deliveries, so that I can focus my attention on Ares' training. Despite his obstinacy, or maybe because of it, I am growing fonder of him and his simple, primitive urges. It seems that every time I ask him to do something with good reason, he will do it. When he refuses, it has more to do with the futility of the request or the impoliteness with which I made it than any possible ignorance on his part. Indeed, in refusing me, he shows his intelligence, his good judgment, and his strength of character. It is something to be proud of.

The house now seems inundated with the marks of Ares. It smells of ammonia, clean and healthy in its way. But there is another scent in the air and on my mind. I'm unsure how to describe it; a sort of gentle spice, but natural, and also somehow masculine. I think it is his smell, his musk. How much of it is physical and how much of it is an echo of my own desires and my fascination with it is impossible to say. Regardless, it is both incredibly potent and addictive to me.

Ares has become increasingly agitated. He has been humping my legs, as he often does, but each time I try to attend to him he dashes behind me and continues there. Perhaps he senses some furtive desire in me, or perhaps he only wants satisfaction his way. But I think he has earned this one further gift I can give him. He has waited for me long enough. I am ready.

The experience I have just gone through is at once debasing and transcendent. Ares has claimed me, in body and in soul. I removed my clothing and tossed it aside, kneeling on my bed and prostrating myself before his majesty. He hungrily took his moment, jumping on top of me and pressing down my shoulders with his front paws. The scratches there still sting a little, as does the portion of my neck He grabbed with his teeth for better leverage. But what stings the sweetest is my anal cavity; the gland at the base of His penis expanded there, inside of me, and having seen and felt it firsthand I can attest to the filling sensation it gave me. He touched me more deeply and more wondrously than I have even dreamt of, and aroused me into a frenzied orgasm of my own, just as He hit that marvelous spot with his own soothing ejaculate. When He was done, He wasted no time in climbing off of my back and dragging me backwards around the room, showing me just how much control He had over where I could go. It was half an hour before He finally popped out of me, triggering another sublime orgasm and climbing onto my bed to rest. Though the bed is now His, I realize. The floor will suit my needs, for now, as I recover my strength in unearthly euphoria.

May 25, 1945

The dream is back to its usual form, of wolves running behind Ares, with two small exceptions. One is that I am now beside Him as well as behind Him, because He has accepted me into His pack. The other is that we are now running toward a distant light, flickering like fire. I do not know what is there, but I do not need to; Ares will lead me where I need to go.

Ares has become more demanding now, but He is so generous and loving that I wish to fulfill all of His wants. That has become my purpose, serving Ares and pleasing Him. I have always lived for others, first for my family and then for my country, but it was all a prologue to this great work of making my Alpha happy.

His demands are not unreasonable, and His reminders are gentle and draw only a little blood now and then when I deserve it. One is that I am not allowed to wash anything in the Hall, myself included; it is all His, and the scent of Him is a constant reminder for me. Another is that any need He has is to be satisfied promptly and without complaint. The pantry is now open to Him, as is everything else in the Hall, and I now remain naked at all times so that I can at any moment offer my body for His needs.

My Alpha also has marked me as his in the manner of his species, and does so every few hours to show the world and me that I am His, and no one else's. I was at first disturbed by this new habit, but it has become a balm for me, and tells me how He cares to keep me even inferior as I am to Him. I am grateful for His forgiveness for my occasional foolishness and hesitation. He is training me well; I am becoming more of what He wants me to be every time He takes me, either my mouth or my fanny. He has ordered me to please Him again, which I will do as the Omega I am.

May 26, 1945

We are closer to the flame in the dream. It does not matter. My Alpha is with me. The dream and my waking life have become so alike that I no longer know or care which is real.

Alpha now sits on top of me from time to time. I could not move myself from under Him even if I had the ludicrous impulse to do so without His permission. When He sits on or near my face, I lick whatever part of Him I can reach, just to know Him better and have more of Him inside me. His musk is the sweetest nectar, and His anus a delectable ambrosia. I think He is pleased with me. I don't know what I would do if He weren't.

Alpha also demands to be taken out of the Hall, especially at night. I follow Him where He goes, and stop for Him when He wishes. It is fortuitous that my neighbors are far off and uninterested, or they might see Him mating with me and seek to join us. If my Alpha wanted them in our pack, I would accept them, but I want Him to continue showing me how life should be lived, free of doubt and worry, devoted to my Alpha.

I think I know why this has happened. Why Alpha has chosen me. He is a reward from God for years of service. A singular master to serve all my days. A pure and righteous form of the fiery hound which cursed my violent ancestor eons ago. The curse is lifted, and for the first time, I am free. Alpha has taken all my woes and left me in perfect peace.

May 27, 1945

Ares is my alpha, I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of obedience for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy stones they comfort me.

Thou preparest a place for me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with urine; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the pack of my Alpha for ever.

My distant cousin 's last thoughts show that my plan has worked, and he is now lost completely to his delusions. The man will not write any more, and he will not want to write either. He resides back at camp with the dogs, including the mastiff I engaged for the purpose. But for my own amusement, I'll finish his story.

I am Hugo, leader of the Romani of the Grimpen Mire. My father's father was an Englishman pulled from there by a healer, who nursed him back from death. She fell in love with him, and they had my father, who would have me. My grandfather knew the plants and animals well, and earned his romanipen in time. I was raised not only under our own traditions, but also with knowledge of his family's legends and the wealth that lay across the Mire if only the Hall's denizens could be removed.

Three years ago, spies I had placed there learned that the house lay vacant, but that the last surviving heir was a soldier in war. If fate were kind, he would have died there, but I would be prepared if he did not. From our pack of dogs, useful hunting partners, I chose the largest from that spring's litter and raised him with kindness and affection. I would not repeat my grandfather's mistake of presenting the hound as an enemy; he would have been warned of that. Nor would I rely upon women, unpredictable as they are, to carry out my wishes. The advantage of his forebears dying away from the Hall would also help stop outsiders from interfering.

The dog I trained to love humans and expect them to be used for sex, a process which I will not detail here. When the war was over, I had my mother prepare a strong solution from some mushrooms which grown only in the Mire, which fill a man with pleasure but rob him of his senses if exposed too long. I then had her pour it into a pouch, along with some impure goat parts to disguise it. The first night he arrived, I had my people make camp on his land and celebrate through the night. I knew he would come to protect his new property, and that was the moment to strike him with it. My mother spent a night away, but it was worth it. The next day, I coated the dog with a lighter version of the solution and sent him to the Hall, knowing that the connection would compel him to take the dog in. The rest was inevitable, as the dog is notorious for his hatred of water and bathing, and my cousin would feel some duty toward him.

On the final night of the full moon, the dog returned, and following behind him was my cousin, looking worn and filthy but very happy. The dog, of course, loved to be home, and greeted his old friends. My cousin was confused, but needed only a little convincing that this was where the dog wanted to be. He brought up his estate, and I offered to take it off his hands in return for allowing him to live here with the dog. I drew up some papers in case an official force asked questions, but so long as I can get his signature when I need it, I can live there in his stead and give a home to my people and honor to my ancestor by succeeding where he failed. My cousin now lives in the pen with the dogs, receiving daily doses of the mushroom to keep him in line. The other dogs have taken a liking to him, so eager is he to please them.

He no longer speaks unless spoken to, preferring to use his mouth and body to serve the pack, and the dog he fell for most of all. It is fitting that one Hugo should curse his family line, and the next should give it such a blessing. My bounties I will share with my people, and I have my cousin to thank for choosing others over himself.