Shifters, Beasts, and Monsters (5 page)

The girls stood on
either side of him at the mouth of the cave, silent but for the slurping of the
wolf girl as she devoured the wolf man’s cock. Aylen leaned in to kiss him, and
the bristles of his stubble tickled her cheek as she licked his tongue. He
pulled away, turning to kiss Emily, and Aylen looked on jealously as he pushed
his tongue between the white girl’s lips.

Aylen fell to her knees
and pushed her head between his warm thigh and the wolf girl. The sound of her
mouth working his cock drove her into a frenzy, and she buried her fingers in
her pussy as she took the wolf’s heavy, cum filled balls in her mouth.

Aylen tasted the sharp,
tangy musk of the alpha’s sweat, mingled with the dripping juices of all three
girls. The thought of his balls pounding against the pussies of all three of
them excited her, and not for the first time she wished she had a cock of her
own to pierce a girl. She wished she had a dangling pair of testicles full to the
brim with hot cum to spray into her conquests.

Her excitement reached a
peak, and she couldn’t help herself from pushing the wolf girl from his penis
to claim it for herself. She closed her lips over his shaft, amazed at the heat
of it. She didn’t expect it to feel so hard in her mouth, nor so hot. She’d
never tasted anything more delicious; not even Emily’s sweet, soft pussy.

Aylen pushed her lips
down the firm shaft, drawing more and more of the enormous cock into her mouth.
It seemed as if it would never end, but as she worried she was about to gag she
felt her lips touch the base. Almost immediately the alpha came, spurting his
seemingly endless supply of cum deep into Aylen’s waiting throat. She swallowed
involuntarily, but still her mouth filled almost to bursting with the delicious
cream. Drips fell from her lips and ran down her chin, and she felt the wolf
girl lick what she found from her face.

For the first time in
minutes Aylen opened her eyes to see Emily’s face before her. The girl bit her
lip in anticipation, and Aylen slowly pulled her head back from the wolf’s
dripping, still spurting cock.

With one hand she
gripped the wet, throbbing penis and ran it up and down the shaft. With the
other she reached for the back of Emily’s head and pulled her lips towards
hers. At the last moment, just before they kissed, Aylen raised her head above
Emily’s and opened her mouth, dripping a heavy load off hot cum and saliva from
her mouth into Emily’s. Emily moaned with pleasure through a mouthful of hot cream.

The wolf girl quickly
pounced, hungrily licking Emily’s face and pushing her tongue between her lips.
At the alpha’s feet the three fought for his cum, and within moments all three
shone in the moonlight as their faces dripped with the juice.

Aylen lay on her belly,
her head resting on Emily’s cum covered breasts while the wolf girl licked the
white girl’s face. The alpha stalked around them, surveying his property and
satisfied by what he saw.

Suddenly Aylen felt the
alpha grip her wrist, and with no apparent effort she was lifted to her feet.
The other two quickly followed, and all three looks groggily towards the alpha
as if waiting for instructions.

The alpha looked the
three girls up and down, all three gleaming with still wet cum and red and tender
from the alpha’s deliciously rough fucking. He turned to the cave mouth and
licked his lips. His mouth opened, and for the first time he spoke something
other than a howl.

‘Now, my girls,’ he
said, his voice deep and powerful. ‘We will go to see mother.’

The wolf girl pricked
her ears, and she smiled at the two humans.

‘the night is not yet
over, and if you are to join the pack there is something you should know. Come
now, be swift,’ he boomed, striding out of the cave. ‘it is time you learned
who we truly are.’

To be concluded...

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by

Linda Barlow

Are maidens still sacrificed to sea monsters? Kate
discovers a Scottish village where they take the ancient legends seriously. And
a sexy modern Highland laird who likes his sacrificial treats bound to a rock.

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Chapter One

Ross stood on the ancient
battlements of Mallochbirn Castle, looking out over the churning waters of the
sea. The day was stormy and warmer than usual. Humid. The skies were leaden and
heavy with rain. His eyes searched the rocks, the crags, the distant headlands,
and, most of all, the rough, white-capped waters surrounding his tiny island in
northwest Scotland. “Come to me,” he murmured, over and over. “I summon thee.
Come.”

The words were spoken without
his volition. Oh, he knew he spoke them, and understood their meaning, but it
wasn’t his rational mind that had driven him up into the tower and out to the
crenellated battlements. He spent most of the year resisting all thought of the
ancient legends of Mallochbirn. Yet here he was, following the dictates of the
tale, like many a fool before him.

 How many generations of his
family had stood here, on the worn stone, sending their souls out of their
body, restlessly questing, seeking something they yearned for but could not
name?
He glanced up at the great stone dragon, symbol of Mallochbirn
and his family, carved in weather-smoothed basalt atop the highest tower. His
dragon. His doom.

A sleepy sea gull flew in,
cawing. Ross locked eyes with the creature, which wheeled and flew away, fast. “Not
you.” He watched the bird as it became smaller and smaller. Soon it was nothing
more than a speck on the horizon.

The waves rolled in, breaking
and hurling their salt spray high on the rocks into which the old fortress was
anchored. Ross felt the waters, into them, under them. Plenty of life there,
but not the life he sought. Nothing stirred except the pounding and churning of
water upon ancient rock.

A loud crack of thunder
jolted him.
Idiot
, he said to himself. He stood there for some time
longer, buffeted by the wind, watching the storm sweep in from the sea. Jagged
bolts of lightning lit up the sky, and the air sizzled with the power of the
raging elements. He knew he ought to go inside instead of making himself a
target for the lightning, but some defiant spirit kept him there, absorbing
Nature’s ferocity.

His vision, sharper than
usual, caught an unusual movement on the causeway that led to the island. The
gravel roadway there had an inch or two of surf breaking over it. The tide was receding,
but the winds had whipped up waves, and causeway wouldn’t be safe until the water
backed off completely. He leaned forward over the retaining wall, trying to get
a better look. No cars were allowed on the island. What idiot was attempting to
drive over?

Nobody local would even dream
of doing such a thing. Particularly on this day of the year—the morning
of Midsummer’s Eve. It must be someone who did not belong on the island or in
the village. A stranger. But this was a place where strangers were not allowed.

Ross stalked into the tower
and down the long, winding staircase that led to the main part of the castle. He
wished someone had installed an elevator. Maybe it was time for a few more renovations
around here.

He caught the intruder
getting out of the car on the narrow stony beach where the end of the causeway
met the rocks of the island. The dark-clad figure was considerably shorter than
Ross was, but not until he slipped silently behind and applied the edge of a
fine Scots dirk to a slender throat did he realize the intruder was female.

She tensed sharply, but did
not panic. “Whoa,” she said.

“Foolish to be disregarding
all the signs,” Ross said. He was trying to stay loose, ready for anything. The
intruder was clad in light clothing suitable for a cool summer in northern
Scotland. His dirk was probably unnecessary, but he wasn’t fool enough to
underestimate her because of her sex. “If you were to drown, no one would be
surprised.”

“A slashed throat would be
investigated,” said the intruder—American, by her accent.

“You’d be surprised at the
injuries than can be inflicted by some of the razor-sharp rocks hereabouts. Who
are you?”

“My name’s Catriona Beaton. People
call me Kate. And you are?”

“Angry. Trying not to be
careless with this blade, but no guarantees. I’d advise you to remain still,
like a mouse.” He patted her down efficiently with one hand and found nothing.
Except some very appealing curves.

“Hey, I’m harmless,” she
protested.

Ross turned her loose with a
shove and sheathed his blade.

She straightened and rubbed
her neck. Ross estimated her to be somewhere in her twenties, with dark hair,
regular features, and a strong, fit body. The young woman’s dark hair was swept
up in an intricate style with little wisps of curl framing her features. One
lock, though, had escaped its confinement to drift haplessly down the side of
her throat. Her eyes were the light, clear green of sun-drenched tropical seas.
They were rimmed with dark, soft lashes and arched with feathery eyebrows to
which he would love to touch the tip of his tongue. She had a stubborn chin and
distinctly kissable lips. Those lips were arched up in a smile.

“Are you the owner of this
place? Mr. Malloch?”

“This place and most of the
surrounding land, yes. You’re trespassing.”

“Sorry about that. I was
hoping to meet the laird.” She was gazing curiously at the knife he had
sheathed in a leather casing on his belt. “So you always wear a sword? Isn’t
that a little anachronistic?”

“It’s a dirk. It’s useful for
confronting gatecrashers. You’re lucky your car wasn’t swept out to sea. What
you did is not only forbidden, but also dangerous.”

“Forbidden?”

“No cars are allowed on the
island. That’s one reason why the causeway isn’t paved.” He gestured to the
stony dirt road that was becoming visible as the surf continued to retreat. The
local vicar’s orange cat was prowling near the water line, looking impatient.
He must have crossed to the island at low tide and gotten stranded here. He fussed
over that cat occasionally, which he probably shouldn’t do, since it encouraged
him to visit.

“There aren’t many cars in
the village, either,” he added. “We don’t like to pollute our pristine sliver
of Scotland with modern chemical fumes.”

“I noticed. The whole village
seems anachronistic,” she said cheerfully. “Or have I stepped through a time
warp into the past?”

She had an engaging smile and
a pleasant way about her. He had to school himself to resist her charm. “Why
are you here?”

“I’ve come to speak to the
laird. I emailed, but received no reply. Is email another of the modern
conveniences you disdain, Mr. Malloch?”

She was clearly guessing, but
he decided not to deny his identity. “I’m not receiving guests. The tide is
falling, so it should be safe enough for you to turn your car around and return
to wherever you came from.”

“I came all the way from
Boston. You know—far off in the New World?” She grinned at him.

“Why? What do you want here?
Few people in the States have ever heard of this place.”

“I know. It’s amazing how
quiet you’ve kept it. Why is that?”

“Why did you say you were
here? Who do you work for?”

“No one. I’m a writer, doing
some research.”

He was skeptical. “I thought
research was conducted on the internet these days.”

“You can get lots of
documents online, but for some material you still have to visit libraries. And
the only way to talk to people is to get out there and meet them. Besides, this
part of Scotland is home for me, in a way. My family originated here. I’m
trying to trace my ancestors.”

“I don’t think there are any Beatons
in this village.”

“My grandmother’s name was Buchanan
and my grandfather was a Graham. There was a MacFarlane in the mix, too. It’s
all a bit vague.”

Her entire story sounded
vague to him. Anybody could make up a few Scottish names.

“Are you Mr. Malloch? Mr. Ross
Malloch, the laird of these lands?”

“Aye, that I am. What do you
want with me?”

“Well, actually, I’ve come
about a dragon.”

Ross tensed. “A dragon,” he
repeated, injecting as much disdain into the word as he could muster.

“Right. Big, scaly,
fire-breathing. You know the type. Have any large flying creatures incinerated
anyone lately?”

He managed a laugh. “Are you
writing a fantasy novel?”

“A book on folk tales,
actually. You’d be amazed at how many there are, especially in the British
Isles. It’s a folklore treasure trove.” She paused, looking at Ross as if
sizing him up. Or maybe checking him out. “Most of the villages and towns with magical
or mystical legends are proud of them. Such stories tend to bring in the
tourists.”

“We don’t encourage tourists
here.”

 “That’s the odd thing about
this area—there’s no Dragon’s Inn or Firebreathers pub. No website
dedicated to re-telling the old legends. No ballads to commemorate the heroes,
assuming there were any. In my experience, that’s unusual. Most people are proud
of their dragons. Why aren’t you?”

“No idea. Maybe this dragon
of yours gobbled up all the balladeers, innkeepers, publicans, heroes, and
website developers who knew about him, thus preserving his anonymity.” He
paused. “If the legends don’t exist, what are you doing here?”

“The legends do exist. Great
stories—very imaginative. Heroic battles, virgin sacrifices, the dragons
punished by the gods for their destructiveness. My favorite has the hero driving
the dragon from the skies and extinguishing his fires in the sea. But the beast
turned into a sea dragon and stole the hero’s lover away to a watery lair deep
under some island fortress.” She looked up at Mallochbirn Keep. “Rather like
this place.”

This woman was going to be
trouble.
Perhaps it was true that her forebears were from this
area, or she wouldn’t know these stories. As far as he knew, they weren’t
written down anywhere.

 “Sounds as if you stopped by
the pub for some of our fine single malt before heading over here.”

She gave him a big grin. It
was all too appealing, and he felt something move inside him. This was all he
needed on Midsummer’s Eve—an attractive woman stimulating all the
emotions that he was trying to keep contained.

She lifted a hand to her hair, which was blowing in
the brisk wind. The thunderstorm must have moved off, though, since the sky was
brighter. It looked as if the sun might even break through. Kate Beaton
attempted to knot her thick hair atop her head, but long silky strands kept
escaping. Laughing at her futile efforts, she abandoned the attempt, and loosed
her glorious hair. Ross imagined it flowing over his bare chest and tangling in
his fingers while he fucked her.

Lust rose with a clamoring din. Looking into her eyes
he felt his consciousness slide and his awareness deepen. Something that was
sleeping stirred. It
perked up its head
and took a good hard look.
He flashed back to the high tower at Mallochbirn
where he’d stood on the ancient battlements looking out to sea. Had it been she
whom he’d been summoning? Was that why she was here?

For centuries, the Mallochs had been known as the
dragons of Mallochbirn, and dragon lore pervaded the region. The original Mallochbirn
Dragon had been the traditional flying, fire-breathing variety, but somewhere
down the centuries, the creature had been banished from the skies to the seas.
By tradition, the sea dragon was bound to the lord. In some versions of the tale,
the lord of Mallochbirn actually
was
the creature—half man, half beast,
shifting back and forth at unpredictable intervals.

Particularly on Midsummer’s Eve.

Family legend held that in every generation, the Laird
of the Isle must take a mate, produce an heir, and bind the dragon to its
future master. And so it had happened, for too many centuries to count. The
direct line of descent had never been broken. If an heir was not lawfully
begotten in the marriage bed, the lords of Mallochbirn had never hesitated to
legitimize their bastards. Supposedly, the dragon’s drive to beget an heir on
whichever woman could produce one was far too powerful to resist.

Ross could not deny that for the past few weeks he had
been feeling a strong compulsion to find himself a woman for something more
than the occasional fuck. And as he looked down at the lovely female standing
opposite him, something deep in the heart of him hissed:
This one. I want
this one.

He was oddly transfixed by her mouth. And her scent—it
was light, heathery, and incredibly alluring. Once again he felt the beast
inside him stir, more insistently now. His muscles hardened to stone and his
jaw clenched as he resisted. What he felt was very focused.
She is for me.
Take her.
I want her.

She was young—not more than early twenties, he
guessed. A bit young for a thirty-year-old reprobate like him.

They tend to come that way. Brides. Young.

Brides?! What the hell was he thinking?