Fiction World of Darkness: Attrition - There's Always One (Mature) [Fin]

[Owns-The-Night]

{18th July, 2011}

"Hey, Declan!"

I stopped working, the rake dangling from one hand as I watched Sue approach from across the lawn I'd just finished cleaning. The sun was playing down through the trees, warm asphalt mingling with flowers and grass in a disjointed melody of scent. I up-ended my rake and shoved it into my carry-bin as I waited for the woman to catch up with me.

Her brown eyes searched my face as she drew nearer, her gait slowing as she got within ten feet. As always, she smelled of cigarettes and the vodka she liked to mix with her orange juice during breaks. Most folks wouldn't notice - I do. She also smelled nervous. Most folks wouldn't notice.

I do.

"Hi Declan." She smiled uneasily, just like always, until her eyes looked into mine and she got the rabbit look, just like always. Sue's one of the campus security crew, and somehow always seems to draw the duty of talking to me. Perhaps it's because she's the newbie. Perhaps it's something else.

Most people avoid me because of how I make them feel, and that's fine: got nothing to say to them anyway. Some people though, like Sue, seek me out even though I give them the screaming heebie-jeebies. Something about me gets them crazy horny even though they want to run away. I call the look they get 'the rabbit look', because they sort of freeze and go very still, unable to look away. They're natural prey animals, even if they do walk on two legs. I'd find it funny if it wasn't so goddamn annoying.

She'd be a fun screw, for certain. She radiates that heated vibe that practically slaps me around the face with the message "Fuck me now." But I ain't looking for trouble. Sue's a divorcee with kids, and I ain't lookin' to be Daddy Wolf right now. And damned if I want to get slapped with the inevitable 'harassment' suit when she realises that little fact.

"Well?" I asked her, to jolt her out of her panic/fantasy/whatever. She jolted alright; her feet nearly left the ground before she collected her wits. I can tell she's soaking under her navy-blue pants and smirk a little, making her blush.

"The boss wants to see you." She said hurriedly, swaying a little towards me like she wants to say, or do, something else before backing away and practically running away, she was walking so fast. Off to diddle herself in the ladies room again, as though I don't know. Fantastic. I wondered what the fat piece of crap that ran the security and maintainance staff wanted from me so bad that he actually wanted me in his small office. Then I considered that his office smelt of urine and sweat.

I took my time walking over to the boss's office. I picked up some litter there, a cigarette butt here on my way. It's not much, as jobs go, but it's easy enough that I can concentrate on other shit while going through the motions. I saw a couple of frat boys smoking on some steps and looked at them as I passed. I looked at them long and hard, and made sure they knew I was doing it. They'd use the bin for those butts, I saw in their faces they would. They were even looking to make sure the bin was nearby.

I parked my little trolley outside the grounds offices and walked in. My boss was already sweating up a storm: whatever he wanted to say to me, he thought I wouldn't like it.

"Hi Declan. Umm... I'll come straight to the point. We need you to cover this weekend." I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe my ears.

"Jake's covering this weekend." I pictured throwing my boss through the small window of his office. The land-whale had no idea what a fuck-up this was.

"Jake just quit: got a job somewhere else." Fatso moved around behind his desk, as if he somehow knew I was contemplating his whimpers of pain. "Sorry Declan, but you're the next one up for a relief shift."

"I booked this weekend off." I stated flatly, a slight growl roughening my voice. "Find someone else."

He made what he thought was a placating gesture with his hands. It made me feel like breaking his pudgy fingers. Hot and sweet, the beast started uncoiling in my gut, and I closed my eyes for a moment as I fought back the urge to crush his skull like an egg between my jaws. Eugene Farquad was a fat shit who smelled of stale semen, liquor-sweat and fear, but he didn't deserve to die.

Barely.

"There is no-one else, Declan. Sorry, buddy. Look, you can have the following weekend off, and you can take off early too: have that Friday off. How's that?" He looked like he thought it was a sweet deal. It was a sweet deal. I bit back my anger and sighed slightly, shaking my head.

"Alright. I'll deal with it." Motherfucking Jake and his new job! I inwardly screamed as I turned and escaped from the funk of the office. Now I'd be stuck on the campus for the weekend.

[Owns-The-Night]

{20th July, 2011}

*smack* *smack* *smack*

The solid thud of my fists hitting the practice bag is music to my ears, rising above the background noise of the UCLA gym. Ignoring the feeling of eyes on my back, I pretend that the 500lb swinging weight was my fat shit of a boss and step in to deliver a flurry of hard punishing body-blows. I dance back a step and finish with a left cross that set the bag swinging back a little harder. I don't wear gloves or wraps on my hands: it's better that way. Feinting with my right, I deliver another left cross right on the heels of the first.

*bam*

My hands bruise from the impacts, sure, but the bruising was healing as fast as it happened. All the pain really achieves is to make me hit harder, gritting my teeth and unloading everything I have into the sack of sand. I sway to the side, sweeping a vicious hook into the bag at neck height, then throw a right cross straight to the side of my imaginary opponent's jaw. I really wanted to get away for the weekend, to run free for a couple days. Sometimes city living feels like being caged. I launch a left, then another right, putting my whole weight into the punch, holding nothing back.

*BAM*

That one split the skin on my knuckles. I grin with savage satisfaction in the knowledge that, while my own blood might have been shed, that punch would have shattered an opponent's jaw like so much glass. I turn my attention to the wound, watching the skin knit back together with that half-tickle, half-sting sensation. In a matter of seconds it closes, and I lick the blood off my knuckles.

"Hey man." I turn around to face the kid who's been trying to get my attention for the last 5 minutes. It might be unfair of me to call him a kid: I've only got maybe 2 years or so on him. But by the time I was his age, I was through Ranger School and walking hills in goddamn Afghanistan. That tends to separate the men from the boys, in my world. I don't answer him with words, I just look at him as I wipe sweat off my face.

"Like, you've been on that bag for an hour, dude. Is it cool if I take a turn?" I just look at him for along moment, then move away, towelling down with one hand as I wave him to the bag. He moves in and starts working up his routine.

"Thanks. So, do you want to spar later? I was watching you work and you look pretty handy-" I cut him off. This shit always happens.

"I don't spar." That's what I say. Truth is, I can't spar. I'm useless in a practice environment. Put me in a real match and I'm fine, in sparring I'm concentrating so much on not hurting the other guy that I look like an idiot. And I don't like looking like an idiot, so sparring matches tend to take a semi-real turn very quickly. Me and my temper, tsk tsk. The kid doesn't seem to take the hint though.

"Hey, c'mon! What, do you think you're too good for me?" He's right there, but he's also pissing me off. I hate pushy types. Some of his buddies are wandering over to rubberneck, too. "You always come here and train alone, man. You need to get some ring experience, learn how it plays for real."

That does it. The stupid little shit has goaded me. I should be above this crap, but it's a challenge, even if Mr College-boy here rationalises it differently. I turn and silently charge him. He gives a startled cry and backs up, eyes widening as he realises that with the bag behind him, there's nowhere to go. But it's not him I'm really going for. I reach in and channel my anger out through the punch at the bag just beyond his shoulder.

There's a smack mingled with a ripping sound, and suddenly college boy is showered in sand from the big hole in the punch bag, an I've-just-shit-myself look on his face as his wide eyes stare from the hole to my face, inches from his own. I hold his gaze for a moment then repeat myself quietly, a hint of the Wolf in my voice.

"I. Don't. Spar."

His bladder lets go a little; the fear-stink in the air forcing me to bite back a growl. This time, he doesn't push the issue as I pull my hand out of the bag and walk away. The only sound in the gym is the hissing of sand falling as the other guys there stare after me. I break the silence with a whistled tune as I wander out to the showers.

Damn, but I feel better now.

[Owns-The-Night]

{26th July, 2011}

Around 1 am

The dealer cast a frightened look back over his shoulder, unable to penetrate the gloom under the trees to the side of the path he ran headlong down. "Omigodwhatthefuck?!" he panted, the adrenaline of fear keeping his feet moving. He stopped in a well-lit area, a crossing of several paths, and pulled his Glock out, whirling to look back the way he had come.

*The prey stops, trying to pierce the darkness with his feeble eyes, eyes that are so easily fooled. I wait until he looks away from the my location and then I move, silent despite my size, a ghost in the night. I circle him as he strains his eyes and ears for me. Foolish prey is still standing on the path and looking back the way he came. An errant breeze carries his scent to me and I bare fangs. He smells of fear and booze, but not drugs. That's good, drugs taste bad, make me feel sick.

And I'm hungry.*

Nothing moved under the trees but John Quesada, 'Johnny Q" to his buddies, wasn't reassured. He had been waiting to do business with the three vials of stuff in his pocket, only to get a weird 'somebody watching me' vibe. He'd just been getting to his feet when a freakin' HUGE dog (Wolf! That was a fucking WOLF!) had come padding out of the darkness on paws the size of his face with eyes like silver flame and a mouthful of the sharpest, cruellest cutlery Johnny had ever seen. He'd turned and run, fleet as he'd ever been and without paying any attention to where he was headed. UCLA campus was a big place, but he was bound to run into someone sooner or later on the paths criss-crossing the park-like grounds.

Now he tried to quiet his breathing and waited, the gun a reassuring weight in his hand. It was a big beast, but he was a human being. A few slugs into that thing should persuade it to go chase some other fucker. All was quiet. The wind rustled through the branches, making Johnny nervous as he imagined gleaming eyes behind every shifting shadow. A rustle came from his left and he whirled, bringing the Glock up.

It burst from the bushes as a snarling fury and Johnny screamed, or tried to, as it's rush carried him off the path and into the bushes on the other side. The wind knocked out of him, he felt a searingly hot pain in his gun arm and all he could manage was a breathless rasp as he saw the dark jet of his blood spray off into the darkness from the ruined stump of his elbow. Gazing in shock at the gold-tinged silver of his killer's eyes as the blood-flecked jaws gaped open once more, he opened his mouth and drew breath to cry out or pray his last...

But the only sound to be heard was a sickly crunching noise as the huge jaws clamped shut over Johnny Q's face and head, crushing it like an eggshell. The huge wolf kept the death grip for a moment more as the drug dealer's body twitched it's last, then let go of the ruin that had been a human head before scenting the air and listening.

There was no sound apart from the muffled noise of traffic and, somewhere distantly, a siren. Satisfied, Owns-The-Night returned his attention to his kill. Clawed paws clumsily but effectively tore off the man's garments. The gun would go into the sewers. The drugs and clothing would go into the main incinerator.

Along with any leftovers.

[Owns-The-Night]

{27th July, 2011}

Lunchtime

My cousin told me about a year ago that the Change was kinda like a second puberty. She was right in a lot of ways. There's the strange urges, the sproutin' hair in unusual places, the mood swings, the feeling that no-one around you understands... Heh. At least there's no zits or breaking voice this time around. It's the same in another way, too, which occurs to me as I'm sitting under my favorite tree on the UCLA lawns and watching the world go by while I eat my ham on rye.

I'm noticing girls a whole lot more.

Not that I was oblivious to them before, understand. I did my share of fumbling around on a dark couch at parties in high school; had a girlfriend before the 'Stan. She came to visit me once in the V.A. Hospital. Didn't come back, and wrote me a 'Dear John' letter. Wonder why? I guess I didn't help matters much by getting angry and cussing her out. Truth is, I just wanted to drive her off. I was dealing with too much shit right then, and she didn't need to get any of that crazy on her.

Well, at least I got a letter.

So yeah, girls aren't a new thing for me to be interested in. But now I find myself noticing them a lot more, and noticing a lot more about them. Senses help there. I can hear, see and smell better than I used to. Especially smell.

You see where this is going?

It's not exactly what you think. I don't just smell the Female and that's it, bada-bing, end of story. The nose is like a second set of eyes to me when I catch a person's scent. I can smell if they're ill or what they ate recently. I can smell if they go to the bathrooms to purge, which is common here in good ol' LA for the more image-conscious girls. I can smell if they're high on something or sneaking smokes while pretending to quit. And yeah, I can smell changes in their body chemistry that indicate strong emotions like fear or arousal, too. Being a Vargr means the whole world hits you in the nose even when on two legs. On four legs it's the same, but more so. Much more. I can smell happiness or sadness or pain. I can even smell well-hidden disease or illness if it affects the body's secretions at all, which is pretty much a given.

Gross, huh?

Actually, it ain't. Surprisingly. What it is is overwhelming at first. See, there's a whole bunch of primitive responses to those scents that my beast-side has. Like wanting to attack or assert dominance over the source of the fear-stink, which is a problem, because I radiate 'dont fuck with' and I tend to make dudes uneasy as a result. And with women...

With women, I tend to make them uneasy too. But in a different way. Pheromones, let's call it. Under the last century or so of female emancipation, under the previous ten thousand years of civilised thought and social structuring, there's an animal part in all human beings. I push on that button, hard, just by being around. Most of the time it gives me a lot of personal space, usually when I'm pissed or want to be alone. Sometimes, like when I'm calmer and more laid-back it makes me a babe-magnet. No, really, I ain't just blowin' my own horn here. Women dig the dangerous guys, and though I say it myself you don't get much more dangerous in theory than yours truly. Of course, they don't know what I really am, but there's a part of them that gets drawn to me just the same. Moths to the flame, or at least they would be if I was a real asshole.

Yeah, I know which 'part' you're thinking about. You're not far wrong, but get your head out of the sewer, dude, seriously.

Take these girls near me right now. They're sittin' on the nearby lawn, a small cluster of friends, chilling out, studying and eating lunch while gassin' about classes, guys and what they did over the weekend. I can hear them clearly enough. Smell them too, which is pleasant. Faint perfume, clean hair, and scent of Female on the breeze. Maybe it's an alpha male instinct or some shit, but I like women more than I like guys. No, I ain't a caveman. I'm a freakin' wolf on two legs, wiseass. Most guys react to me either with fear or with some dominance bullshit like they're trying to prove they ain't scared, whether it's subtle and civilised or a straight up getting in my face. Anyway... these girls.

Yeah, they're shooting me looks now and then as I loaf under my tree, my sandwich long finished and my hands tucked behind my head as I take a catnap. Wolf-nap. Whatever. My eyes are closed and I'm relaxing in the warm sunlight before going to take care of the football pitch. I can tell they're snatching glances at me because, every now and then, one's voice will hush and they'll say something before the rest break out into giggling. Of course, I can hear what they're saying, but there's worse ways to spend a lunchtime than listening in on what the ladies really think of your shoulders, abs, eyes or voice. Yeah, I'm a regular narcissist. Shame on me, right? Well, you'd do it too. Being a movie monster ain't all bad.

Best thing that ever happened to me.

[Owns-The-Night]

{28th July, 2011}

"...so I'm stuck there this weekend, not that there's anything much to do right now. They just need a gopher on-site to keep shit straight, y'know? And my boss could do it himself, but the fat tub of shit likes to cruise West and pick up hookers. The whole thing just makes me mad." Yeah, that's the sound of me bitching. The guy listening is the pshrink that the V.A. has me see as part of my rehab. Anger management issues: funny, ain't it?

Still the dude used to be a Colonel in the Air Force, and he donates his time with cases like me. So I figure that the least I can do is talk about whatever pisses me off so he can feel like he's getting somewhere. I know how to manage my anger: I find some motherfucker doing something against the laws of nature and common decency, then make the rest of their life as short as possible. Of course, that's not something any pshrink would recommend, especially the part about eating them.

Doctors. Always givin' dietary advice. Go figure.

"Well Declan, seems to me that you're looking at the glass as half empty again, my friend." The shrink leans forward a little, looking serious.

"How do you mean, doc?" I decide to bite the bait. I actually like this guy, so I give him his time to shine with the Dr Phil thing.

"You mentioned a party. Maybe you should go." I snort, looking the shrink in the eye.

"Yeah, right. I can drink beer and watch a bunch of kids who never had to grow up act like assholes. Then I can get turned down by every woman there, listen to people laughing at me behind my back, get some stupid fuckin' law student in my face and eventually go postal with the nearest blunt instrument." I fold my arms across my chest, the endorphin rush from my workout fading away somewhat. The doc shakes his head, but stops short of being patronising. Smart guy.

"Listen to me, Declan. These kids aren't much younger than you, and there's bound to be other 'adults' there. You should go: try to mingle. You keep yourself too isolated, and you'll get worse not better. If you start to feel you're getting out of control, then leave. It's not a prison, it's a party, for Christ's sake." That's what I like about this doc, he's a straight talker. I try to shrug it off, of course, but he makes some sense.

"Okay, okay." I say, unfolding my arms and holding my hands up in surrender. "I'll go, Doc. But I'm not anticipating any huge breakthroughs." He just smiles and makes a note on his pad.

"Don't have expectations, Declan. Most of your problem is caused by the assumptions you make about people and how they see you. You're in permanent defensive mode, and the first thing you need to do is break loose of that. You box, right?" He knows damn well that I do, so I sense a point coming as I nod. "Well, at the moment you're all covered up and afraid to open up enough to get your own punches in. Can't win the fight that way, soldier."

Well, that makes a hell of a lot more sense to me, and I nod slowly in agreement.

"Okay, that I can understand, doc. Thanks for breaking it into small words for me." He just smiles and shakes his head, making another note.

"You're not stupid, Declan. You've just been through a lot: stuff that most people wouldn't handle as well. That sort of thing tends to skew ones perspective a bit. You think you're in a war with life out there: well, you won't win by hiding from it. Try taking that view next time you feel like brushing away contact from others."

I agree, both outwardly and inwardly, and shake the doc's hand as he calls the session to a close. As I head out, I feel better. Focused. I have something to concentrate on, a mantra to use when the talkin' monkeys start to get to me.

(( Want to know what happens when a Vargr lets his hair down? Read Boot-Scooting Bogey for the answer to this and other burning questions.))

[Owns-The-Night]

{30th July, 2011}

My good mood isn't really lasting well. I'm still mad about having to work the weekend, still got waaay too much nervous energy to burn off. I feel itchy, like my fur is under my skin trying to push it's way out. Fuck Farquad and his fucking scheduling. It's 5am on a Saturday morning and I'm at work. Saturdays are short, at least, but the bitch is that you have to start early. And I've got to use the riding mower. The fucking riding mower that barely works, stinks and is noisy as hell.

Fuck the riding mower too.

I collect the keys from the locker and head down to Fuckwad's office to get the to-do list, grumbling internally the whole way. A familiar scent tickles my nose and jolts me out of my internal grump as I round the corner, knowing who's gonna be there. Sue. Freshly showered after her night-shift, hair damp, and dressed in faded jeans, tee, and jacket. She's pretending to read the staff notices and checking her watch like she's waiting for a taxi or something, and as she catches sight of me and hormones flood the air, it's pretty fucking obvious who she's really waiting for.

"Morning, Declan." she manages to say without stammering, blushing or looking at my feet. Give the woman a cookie. Okay, that's mean of me, but Zombie Jesus, people! If you act like prey, you'll be treated like prey. And Sue, with her curves and her soft brown eyes and the way she shuffles her feet as I approach, is prey. Not all prey is of the dinner kind.

Now yours truly doesn't consider himself a sexual predator. Yes, I like girls. Yes, since my Change especially I've been known to pickup chicks in bars and fuck like minks. But I never make any pretense it's about anything other than sex and a little consensual intimacy. Trust me, being a werewolf means that you really don't want to let Pauline from Accounts at Bumfuck Brothers Ltd to get any further than skin-deep. So no, I don't call them back, mostly. I don't need the complication, and they sure as hell don't need to know more about the (ruggedly handsome) guy with whom they just had a night of feverish, prolonged and sweaty banging.

Yup, I'm a sweetheart alright.

Sue is a whole other matter. We work in the same place, and bumping into her again is guaranteed. Having sex with her will do nothing but complicate shit. I nod to her and unlock Fuckwad's office.

"Uh... I was wondering if perhaps you... That's to say, we could..."

Holy shit. She's actually asking me out. As the door swings open, carrying the fresh air of the hallway into the soundproofed funk of Fuckwad's office, I stare at the neat, tidy desk with a piece of paper in the middle of the blotter, at the computer that I'd swear the fat piece of shit only surfs porn on when he's supposed to be requisitioning me a new riding mower. And a terrible idea suggests itself to me.

"I mean, we're both grownups, right? I just thought we could go get a drink..."

Sue is in full swing now as I step into Farquad's office. It smells like him - fat and unwashed and with jizz on his hands. Fucker. I turn and look at Sue, giving her the appearance I'm listening when in truth I'm only half-listening. The other half is thinking.

One issue with being a Vargr is the impulse control. When you piss your dog off, or it gets bored, or it wants to assert dominance, it'll chew your shit up or take a dump in your shoes. That's canine behaviour. At least a dozen rich sorority and frat kids who like to fuck with 'the help' have found that the paintwork on their wheels has been on the receiving end of a nice hose-down, or have stepped out of their apartment right into a steamroller some 'dog' left on their doorstep. One even found that the Armani jeans they'd hung over their railing had been spattered with... uh... byproducts from the same 'dog'. Animals don't fuck around when they're discontented, and tend to be visceral about expressing it.

Right now, I'm REAL discontented with Farquad. And Sue, for a change, doesn't smell like vodka and too-strong perfume. And the idea that I got a second ago grows into a plan. One way or the other, I win. Either Sue leaves me alone, or I get even with Farquad. Maybe even both.

"So, what do you think?" Sue finishes nervously, standing in the doorway. I smile a little and step towards her, right up in her personal space. I can hear the breath catch in her throat, smell her musk as she juices up. She's prey, alright.

"Honestly?" I ask, sliding my hands onto her hips. Sue whimpers deep in her throat, an animal sound of frantic lust as her body jerks in response to my touch. I lean down close, my mouth by her ear as I breath in her scent. "I think it's a lot of trouble to go to, when we could just fuck right here." She moans softly as I say 'fuck' and I know, I just know, that she's going for this. I take another breath, letting her hear as I let the air out with a sigh that plays warm breath over her neck. My voice is a low, soft growl in her ear. "You smell good without the perfume and booze, Sue. It suits you."

"S-suits me?" she stammers, then moans again as I slip my hands down and round to her ass. I draw her into the office and shut the door.

She's too busy sliding her hands under my shirt to care.

[Owns-The-Night]

I've never had angry-sex before.

You know the type I mean? The sex where one, or both people is mad, frustrated and horny as hell. You and the other participant are fucking, not just for fun, but to spit in some third party's eye. Sometimes it's some dude's girlfriend who knows that sleeping with you will be the worst possible thing she can do to him. Sometimes it's like make-up sex, but without the making up. You and her just go from yelling to ripping each other's clothes off.

And sometimes, it's because you can think of no better way to annoy the fat turd who controls your paycheck than making his office smell of pussy and sweat rather than it's usual fug of failure.

Sue might not be angry, but she's definitely frustrated. She just about sucks my face off while trying to get my t-shirt over my head. I fumble the lock on the door, then give her my full attention, breaking the liplock enough to get my shirt over my head. She starts gnawing on my damn shoulder and fumbling with my zipper. Fuck! From prey to bitch in heat in roughly ten seconds - I'm impressed. Oh, and for anyone here who doesn't like the word 'bitch'? Fuck you. I'm allowed to use it. My cousin is a bitch. My momma was a bitch, so I've heard. So when *I* use it, it's a fucking compliment. Got it?

Good.

So anyway, I'm starting to wonder how long it's been for Sue. Judging from how soaking wet her panties are when I slide my hand down there, I'd say long. When I slip a finger up inside her, she shivers and tightens around me, her arms grabbing hold like I'm a life-preserver as she lets out a little cry. Oh yeah, it's been a while for her.

We move pretty fast - time's tickin' and we both know what we want. Two shakes of a lamb's tail and she's naked and sitting back on Fuckwad's desk, with yours truly sitting in the 'big mans' chair and doing things with my tongue that have good ol' Sue biting down hard on her wadded-up shirt to stop from moaning and crying. It's hot in here, the AC is off and I can tell that Eugene is going to be sitting where I am on Monday morning and smelling what I'm smelling right now. Sue's skin is slick with perspiration and practically has a heat-shimmer coming off it. Normally, she's plainly-pretty. But when a woman's grabbing your hair and making deep, throaty noises in their chest, her hips and body rolling with the tremors going through her?

Well, that's about as beautiful as they get, if you're asking me.

Figuring she's had enough fun (not that it's been crap times for me, either), I stand up and pull her off the desk, removing the gag enough for another round of tonsil-hockey as she pants, her hands going around Little Dec and pulling me forward. I've got other plans, though. Sue squeaks a little as I turn her round and bend her forwards, the squeak becoming a throaty moan as she feels me up against her pussy. Ten seconds after I'm in her, I've had to jam the gag back in.

She's squirming on the end of my dick like a landed fish, tits mashed into Eugene's keyboard as I grip her hips and fuck her hard. I'm not being tender or loving here - not sadistic either, mind you - I'm trying to fuck, not make love. Sue certainly isn't complaining - the one time I slow down enough to remove her gag and check on her, she gives me the half-time review in a whooping, gaspy voice:

"Ohfuckinggod-DON'T STOPPPP!"

And now a word from our sponsor, I guess.

I shove the gag back in and her head onto Farquad's out tray, her juices flowing over me, the desk and onto the cheap-ass carpet. She's screaming now, muffled squeals and moans that sound like an incoming howitzer round. Me? Oh, I'm enjoying it too, never fear. She's practically sucking me in down there. Not that I'm unaccustomed to passionate responses, but every girl is different. And, though it might surprise you to hear me say it, special. What's special about them mainly being that, for a time, they're sharing my life.

Ain't I romantic? So anyway, the denouement.

It's been about an hour now since I bent Sue over the desk, and she's fucked-out. I already came once, pulling out and decorating her back and ass, then just shoved back in before she could react, at which point she didn't care anymore. Now she's just laying splayed out on the desk, arms to the sides, making weak grunts and moaning noises now. I've removed the shirt, letting the poor woman breath clearer now there's less risk of piercing wails. She shivers again as another orgasm hits her, and I feel that it's time to finish this inimate tete-a-tete off in style. I speed up my pace some and, feeling near, pull out again.

Sue gasps as she feels me leaving her to the accompaniment of a wet sucking sound. We're both thoroughly drenched in sweat and sex now, and I add to the moisture as I decorate Sue's back once more, some of it reaching her hair there at the back. She doesn't react at all, just laying there with little moaning intakes of breath as cum and sweat roll over her skin. I step back and, picking up her shirt, wipe myself down before dropping it on her back.

"Thanks Sue. I needed that." I tell her as I pull my shorts and jeans back on. Making sure to add insult to injury, I pat her ass companionably. She's still insensible, managing a 'mmmh' sound. Ahh well. I can check back in with her after my shower. "You can keep my shirt - yours is a little used, and I have a spare in my locker." I say over my shoulder as I head for the door. I stop there and look back at her for a moment. She's not sniffling or crying - hell, she's not even slid off the desk yet. Time will tell whether or not she's over me now, but for her sake I hope she is. No future for her with me. No future for most normal girls, unless I want to spend my life lying to someone I'm supposed to love. Not gonna happen. Briefly, I wonder about my dad: how the hell did HE manage having a Vargr for a wife? My uncle didn't talk much about him, just about my mom, and nothing about her secret life. I only found out she was Wolfkin from a fucking cousin I never met till two years ago, how about that?

Sue's managed to prop herself up on her hands and is looking at me oddly. Fucked if I can read her expression, and the room smells of sex too strongly to judge her scent. But she doesn't seem angry, which is weird and worrying. Angry I could handle. I nod to her and step out of the room, closing the door behind me. I'll check back again after I'm cleaned off.

As I head down to the staff showers and locker area I grin to myself. Good sex is always an upper, and when Fuckwad comes to work on Monday he'll find his office has been improved, scent-wise. The thought of that smell ripening over a July weekend makes me feel like laughing. Do I feel bad about using Sue? Not really. She used me too. She got something out of the exchange, if not the romantic date she'd pictured in her late-night fantasies. And if she's not over me, if she wants to make trouble for me, then I'll just have to deal with it. I never go through my day expecting to smooth out every hump and bump.

There's always one boss who fucks with you.

There's always one guy who wants to pull dominance shit.

There's always one person trespassing on your turf.

There's always one moment in the day that's perfect for relaxing. Use it.

There's always one guy who has good advice. Take it.

There's always one unexpected opportunity. Jump on it.

After all, there might only be one.