Chapter One
PROFESSOR KANE
Only a few days before the full moon, my clear-polished nails are longer and sharper than usual, and I easily pry off several dots of red and purple paint from the hurriedly stapled pages of Ms. Anderson’s final paper.
I’d been generous and given Ms. Anderson a B- for her efforts.
It deserved a C. The paper was surface level in places and needlessly verbose to the point of distraction in others.
However, it was clear from her descriptions of werewolf transformations in film and television that she was enthusiastic about the topic.
The way she detailed the soft skin of full breasts torn and clawed away to reveal wild, angry fur— “...the wolf ravishes the maiden… a struggle performed on the woman, by the woman, that reveals her true, feral nature”, had been one of several sections that verged on the erotic.
As I reread the lines, blonde fur sprouts in small tufts on the back of my forearms, so pale and light, it can only be seen when the moonlight streaming in through the lecture hall window hits it at just the right angle.
Did Ms. Anderson know? It’s impossible.
I’d smelled the humanity, and lack of elevated life force, on her the moment she entered the lecture hall for my Thursday night class on the supernatural in modern media.
I inhaled her earthy scent along with the sweetness of her strawberry shampoo that always seemed to waft around her.
Ms. Anderson is human, there is no doubt in my mind, yet, after reading her work, I wonder if she knows I’m not.
She can’t.
I’m so careful to hide I’m a Strange, one of many types of supernatural creatures who inhabit the mundane human world.
On the nights around the full moon, I always take extra precautions and make sure to stay in my cabin a few hours away, where I can run and hunt and fuck without any human being the wiser.
Those long nights of transformation unleash the darkest parts of my sexuality—the desire to control and discipline, the need to feel my partners relax under my commands, even as I become more demanding and wild.
I’d been young and frightened the first time I felt my body go feral, but now, I do what I must to satisfy that part of myself discreetly.
Somehow, Ms. Anderson had managed to describe, albeit a bit clumsily, the link between a werewolf's transformation and our sexual needs so clearly, I reread her paper three times just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it..
It made no sense, and, despite myself, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips while I look over her final assignment.
She’s an odd girl. I shake my head, a few blonde curls managing to escape my tight, short ponytail, unable to rid myself of the grin. A messy, undisciplined, very distracting girl.
Every Thursday, Ms. Anderson raced into my class, late, and dressed in some outrageous, seemingly handmade, outfit.
Her looks must’ve made sense on her art school campus across town, but it was sharply out of place among the serious dark wood and gothic details of this university.
Her skirts got progressively shorter over the semester, and, as she bounced down the steps of my lecture hall towards the open seats at the front, I had to avert my gaze.
My eyesight is too sharp, my senses too strong, and it was all I could do to keep from staring at her pink cotton underwear as she took her seat.
Cherry print and lace trim…
Ms. Anderson is young, twenty-five. I looked it up.
Older than most of my students by a few years, but still so young.
She was in her final year of a bachelor’s of fine arts degree at the nearby Fine Art Conservatory—I researched that too.
She was taking my class as part of an intercollegiate curriculum exchange between the schools.
It wasn’t against any university rule to learn more about your students, but my curiosity pushed at my rules of professionalism. There was danger in learning more about this woman.
Ms. Anderson tested me.
She’d forget her books, forget her assignments, and show up with barely dried paint on her knees and in her wavy red hair, always apologizing.
I assumed she was looking for my approval; she seemed so eager for me to excuse her lateness, but she never changed her ways.
Then, there were her questions. So many questions, her hand seemed permanently stuck in the air.
When I called on her, she’d struggled to get the words out, her round cheeks flushing bright pink and her blue eyes darting to the floor. I was tempted to demand eye contact.
She should look at me.
I’d lean against my desk at the front of the lecture hall, long, black lacquered pointer stick in my hand, and I knew if I used it to hit my palm with just the right speed, the crack of it would force her eyes to me.
You want my answer, look me in the eyes, Ms. Anderson!
…or I could have her plant her hands on my desk, bent over, pink panties exposed, and use that wooden pointer on her wide, plump ass.
She’d have to look at me then.
My gums ache as fangs press from beneath the flesh, my nails suddenly lengthen and thicken into claws, tearing into the pages of Lucy’s paper, and I hiss.
I’m a forty-two year old werewolf, far past an adolescent were’s embarrassing lack of control, yet, here I am, panting like a newly turned pup at the first scent of blood.
It’s so close to the full moon… The last time I was able to properly release the wolf side of me was over a year ago…
I list out excuses. Before my on-again off-again vamp girlfriend became permanently off…
I had thought being with another Strange meant my passion for control and aggression would be understood, but like girlfriends before, we were too similar.
She was another academic whose desire for regime and control rivaled mine.
Neither of us found joy in bending to the other, and I’ve yet to find someone who truly sated my lust..
I slow my breathing, my claws retracting into nails, and with it, my fangs recede into my gums. I toss Ms. Anderson’s assignment into a cardboard box of papers at the side of my desk, next to the luggage I’m taking to the cabin.
There is a set of chains in one leather suitcase, just in case I ever fully lose control.
It’s never happened before, but, thinking of Ms. Anderson, my wolfish desires claw just beneath my skin.
In sections of her final work, Ms. Anderson didn’t dig deep enough into her chosen topic, pulling back just as she was so close to discovery, it made me itch to read it.
It’s apparent she’s unsure of herself, which seems at odds with the carefree artist I observed over the semester.
However, compared to her classmates, students who actually attended the university, her unique enthusiasm was appreciated; therefore, I rewarded her with a bump up from a C to a B-.
Not that it would’ve prevented her from graduating—I checked her file on that as well.
She has enough credits, whether she passes my class or not.
The delivery of her final paper, handed to me in person after an apparent issue with her computer, will, thankfully, be my last interaction with Ms. Anderson.
No more short skirts, no more scent of acrylic paints and strawberry shampoo filling the lecture hall, no more feeling like my wolf would rip out of my skin, just exactly as she had described in her paper, at the thought of my claw against her ass.
…again and again, my paw would land on her trembling skin, turning it from white to pink to red until she obeyed…
Fur grows beneath the textured weave of my tweed pants. My feet shift in my shoes, pressing on the leather oxfords, forcing them to contain the thick fur and padding as my feet begin to transform into paws.
The torment should be over, but my body still holds on to the wolf.
I shove the lid onto the box of now-useless papers and thrust it in the small storage closet at the back of the lecture hall.