Night of the Bearwolf
I
A shrill cry pierced the languid air. Miss Adelaine's face turned a shade of grey, her usual dainty hand clawed at her mouth. One slender finger extended towards the woods. The gaslights of Beresfield illuminated the treeline. Clear of the woods slumped a stout, hairy man. His eyes were sullen. His thick legs buckled under his weight. Between his legs, dangled a semi-firm penis dripping semen from its foreskin. He was completely naked. To the right of his chest were three bloody gashes. The man set one faltering foot forward and fell flat to the dirt, his eyes closing before he hit the floor. Now illuminated, his dark grey hair and short beard were enough to identify him. It was Father Dominic, the local priest.
“Are you certain it was him?” I adjusted the pipe in my mouth while my young assistant scribbled his notes.
“Yes, Mr Basil,” Constable Ellis continued. “Though he was half a mile away, I could tap his profile at any distance.”
"Is that all you remember?”
"That's all. We delivered Fra back to the friars' infirmary to convalesce."
"What of the beast?"
"Not found nothing. The whole village took to the woods, torches in hand, and found not a branch broken nor soil disturbed."
"And when you questioned the priest, he had no recollection of any events leading up to the incident?"
"Mr Basil," his eyes were somber and his voice lowered, "it seems the good Fra went to Hanwell and lost his return ticket."
I considered the constable to be a truthful man. His recounts of that night seemed, horrible though they may be, etched in his memory. I trusted my associate had recorded the lawman’s events as recounted and set my sights on other leads. Apart from his ungraceful nature, Edmund was a most apt assistant. His clumsiness stemmed from immaturity. 24 years of age and 5'7" with a stocky build. His blonde hair and beard rounded a soft, kind face. His abdomen was beginning to resemble my own. I had gone from fiddling with my dark moustache to resting my hands on the shelf of my belly as of late. Having a single inch more height to show for the 8-year age gap, and wealth more inches in the waist.
Since that night, the residents dared not venture out after dark. Whatever cruel fate befell Father Dominic that evening left him incapable of speaking. He remained cloistered in a small cell at the far side of the friary. His silence stoked the rumours of a monster. The township stirred with tales of clandestine encounters and secret meetings. They whispered of affairs so grave they would summon God's retribution. In spite of these murmurings, we found it difficult finding anyone who would speak with us. Percival, the village florist, was not shy to use his mouth. He was also not particular about the company he kept. Edmund and I were queer company enough it seemed.
"Mmmm... Father... was with a man... mm... nnmn the woods," his mouth was full, his lips enveloping my cock in long slow strokes.
We had observed that Beresfield men were more comfortable speaking in our room. We had booked a single bedroom above the old Baxter Tavern for our stay. Tonight, Edmund sat in the corner recording notes. His pink bare feet poked out the bottom of his white union suit and his cock peeped between two closed buttons.
"Do you know whom?" I grabbed the florist’s red hair and pushed down. After some resistance, I released my grip.
"I've... no clue," he breathed.
His mouth felt warm and wet. I knew his tongue, regardless of its extraordinary talent, could hold one focus. I let go of his head.
Our florist spoke with a loosened tongue, "The man was corpulent. No, instead he was robust. He had a beard. He was completely bare except for some body hair.” Percival leaned in, “mmmm… his member was circumcised.”
I had an instant to consider what he divulged before the florist renewed his attention to my member. His slow restrained motions were intoxicating. I couldn't hold it any longer. I felt my member pulse with each emission down the florist's throat. We waited in silence as he lapped the last drops before sending him back home to his wife.
“A man with bearish looks?” Edmund queried afterwards.
I feared this description should apply to several Beresfield residents. This could be our dear florist or any of the two dozen men who owned family businesses in the village.
II
The days elapsed without a fresh incident. Our interrogations halted. The lack of novel information caused our invitations to our single bedroom to die down. Quiet evenings browsing records revealed more and more about the township. Many of its residents descended from the founders, Baxter and Elizabeth Beres. Mr Beres, whose large statue overlooked the courtyard, appeared tall and confident. His long hair draped chiselled abs and broad shoulders. At the statue’s mounting read the words “hic oppidum nostrum aædificabimus/We will build our town here.” Apart from the owner of the teashop and the baker, the villagers were not remarkably tall or fit. The townsmen had inherited a stocky physique and hairy body.
It was a cold morning, in the middle hour of dawn, when we woke to the sound of people clamouring. Edmund, who had once slumbered, now threw my arm off his person and donned the first pair of trousers in reach. I was quick to follow suit.
"There's been another attack," one of the rushing townsfolk cried.
We pushed past the throng to an opening in front of the Beres memorial. At its base, the local butcher lay collapsed, his body splayed across the steps. He was unclad, and his bare bottocks lay exposed to the frigid winter air. Squashed beneath his weight, his scrotum pressed against the hard stone steps. In the direction of the statue, the gentleman’s hands lay collapsed at its plinth. On his shoulders were three familiar gashes. His back rose and fell with deep breaths. In a combined effort, the townspeople hoisted him to a bench where his wife sat distraught. After some time, he roused.
"Are you sure you don't remember?" I persisted.
"I don't recall,” the butcher replied. Having his nethers exposed to the village had left him abased.
"Gerard, you went out to get the cat,” his wife prompted.
“Does that ring bells?”
"I... I don't... remember. I saw Snow in the garden, and then… I remembered the moon. I’m so… so sorry.”
"It's okay, honey. Snow will come back home."
"Did you see anyone else out?"
"No, not a soul. Perhaps Tom... the baker,” Gerard spoke in a low mutter.
It was clear this answer, alongside the present denouement, had touched a nerve in Ms Briar.
"You might want to question that Mary Ann yourself! He's not from around here ya know,” she exclaimed, “he doesn't have Beresfield blood!"
This did not square well with my impression of the young baker. He was not a trouble-loving gentleman. It was not surprising that his thickset body and short beard matched the rumour mill. He was, in spite of his large stature and natural suavity, still an outsider.
III
The wind shook autumn leaves from their trees. The heavy pear blooms, with their clustering stars, tussled to and fro in the bright moonlight. It was an unexceptional night for Tom, the Beresfield baker. He paced about foraging the fresh herbs and vegetables from the woods. His victims, mallow and sheep sorrel, lay pressed between cotton sheets in a baker’s basket. He wore only a nightshirt and boots. The warm evening wind swept up underneath the thin cloth and the tepid air brushed his exposed glans. It was there, in a clearing, that the baker recognised Dominic. The handsome friar stood dazed and naked.
Tom stepped forward with arm outstretched. Without saying a word the friar pounced upon him, ripping the nightshirt from his plump pink body. Tom withdrew. He had never felt such raw lust before. Large, passionate fingers clawed at his chest. Tom, now bent over, clung to a tree as the man entered his hole. The combination of preejaculate and loose foreskin felt slick and soft inside him. The priest pounded at his prostate in a wild frenzy. Tom moaned in pleasure. With a loud huff, the holy man flooded Tom's insides with warm semen. Tom's legs faltered as, without warning, the priest popped free of his hole. A rope of semen hung from the priest's sheath as he swung around and stumbled in the direction of the village. Tom shouted his appreciation and strode home hoping to go unnoticed.
“You're circumcised?” I probed Tom.
He laughed, “you are acute. Yes, I am one of the few in town.”
“What about the other night?”
“I still pick herbs from the woods. I hadn't met with the butcher that night, if that's indeed what you're asking.”
“And you didn't think to tell people your story?”
“Dom is a good man and he has his needs. I couldn’t tell my story without its coming out.”
“You said he was in a ‘daze’?”
“I scarce know how to put my story into words that would be a credible image of what I saw. His eyes were cloudy and his stature felt larger. He had broad hands and his nails looked like the black claws of some beast. His body hair was thicker and coarser. In place of lewd conversation, he growled and huffed,” Tom’s stern eyes met my own. “His cock was bigger than I'd ever seen before.”
You may imagine the general complexion, from that moment, of our nights. I stirred ‘til I don’t know what hour. Tom had checked into a room at Baxter’s Pub. He remained in our bed to keep my assistant safe. For this, I was grateful. After some deliberation, we agreed we would visit the same clearing in the woods. We would go at night to detect for clues. A few nights later, our baker guided us from his cottage through trees to where he had last met the priest. In the gloom, the clearing appeared bright. The shadows from foliage suffocated the moonlight. The algid mist drifted over exposed roots and broke the otherwise tepid air. In the centre of the clearing was a small tuft of pink wild grass that grew tall and slender.
“This is where we were.” Tom adjusted his pants, his hardening crotch a sign of an accurate recollection.
We paced there observing our surroundings. Apart from some large footprints, the rest of the area was unremarkable. The undergrowth russelled. Quiet noises pointed to the innocent stirrings of nocturnal creatures. As I had come to this conclusion, I detected a heavy step from beyond the clearing. My hand instinctively tightened around my flintlock. I squeezed its worn ivory grip. I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Then, I saw it. Something glistened, catching the light from the canopy that danced above. Beyond the clearing were two round eyes. The shrouded figure, indiscernible, stood there in the unsettling dark.
It was not tall, but possessed a brutal, almost cubic solidity. Stocky was too gentle a word. The man was a mass of shoulders and a thick, unyielding belly that seemed rooted to the very earth. His naked body draped in a muddy cloak. What remained of his long john, hung tattered from his waist in little strings. His cock, exposed to the elements, curved to its side. His foreskin, what little I could discern in the gloom, hung loose. I concluded, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that he had been watching us all along. He began to move, a slow, deliberate shift of his weight that somehow conveyed an unnerving speed. In an instant he was upon us.
“You need to get out of town!” he screeched at us.
We immediately recognised him as Wilfred, the pants-less mendicant.
Our shirtcocking friend led us back to his tent when a warm fire raged. It was there that he recounted the tale of Baxter Beres, the village founder.
IV
Mr Beres stepped out of the wagon onto unfamiliar soil. He was a chubby man, even in the fifteen hundreds and his height reached an unremarkable 5’4”. His accent, though hard to discern, was recognisable to the destitute. He was, however, an optimistic man.
Upon unloading his wife's belongings onto this new soil he declared “we will build our pub here!”
“With what material?” his wife, Elizabeth, interjected.
“With the stones and wood around…”
“...and the patrons, where would they be?”
“They'll flock to us when they see how great our bar is!”
Several months had passed, but not one single visitor. Elizabeth was no fool. It was her physical labour, not that of her husband's, that built the bar. She had scars on her hands from laying its foundation, erecting its walls and fastening its roof. Elizabeth was loyal to Baxter Beres through dreams and superstition. Every full moon, she would throw bird bones and whisper to the stars. As she dozed, she foresaw he would have a village full of descendants. It was in the midst of a summer storm that they had their first visitors. The young couple were both butchers on their way through the forest. Having noticed the light, they sought a warm ale. Elizabeth, seeing an opportunity, poured them a special lager. After a few sips, they had resolved to build their butchery next to the pub.
The next visitors were an engineer and her husband, an architect. The couple talked of pavements and public spaces and Elizabeth poured them a drink. After several pints, the conversation moved to village planning. Before long, the morning light had crept in from the high windows and bounced off their empty glasses. In a drunken stupor, they announced they would stay and plan the village.
Within the year, Beresfield was teeming with residents. Handsome pebblestone roads lined the foundation of the new church. Small steps traced the flower shop, patisserie and tea shop in the north. Long roads wound towards the dental clinic and doctor's office in the south. Baxter's Pub had become the centre of commerce for the village. No night was complete without a pint of Baxter Lager poured by the brewmaster herself. Elizabeth’s husband, though the pub was his idea, disappeared at the thought of hard work. As the years progressed, the villagers bore children to carry their family businesses. Elizabeth, now late in her childbearing years, had become tired of brewing beers. One night, while they both lay in bed, she approached the subject of having children.
“Why on earth would you want those?” Baxter exclaimed.
“I dreamt about it,” she replied.
“...I can't have children anyway.”
“How could you know that?”
“I’ve drunk more ’n hundred beers and swimmers don' work after that,” he rolled over onto his side. “I read it in some book somewhere.”
Elizabeth didn't know if he was being serious or facetious. She rolled her back towards him and dozed off. The next evening, Elizabeth decided to leave the pub in the hands of her barkeep and take the night off. With her husband missing again, she settled into bed early. Muffled cries penetrated the silence and woke Elizabeth from her slumber. They were coming from the kitchen downstairs. She sideled out of bed and inched towards the bedroom door, arm outstretched. The doorknob creaked as she rotated it. Her hand trembled. She stepped down the stairs. A growing dread gripped Elizabeth’s heart. Her heartbeat felt so loud she could hardly make out the noise below. There in the dark of the kitchen stood her husband. His silhouette rocked back and forth against the kitchen bench. On the bench lay a person, completely unclad, lit by the moonlight coming in from the window. It was the florist's wife. Her bare legs wrapped tight around Baxter's hips. Her breasts bounced with each thrust.
“Spill inside me again!” she moaned.
“Fuck,” he made one final thrust and obliged her demand.
Elizabeth, whose fear dissipated, took two breaths before slinking back up the stairs. Over the next month, she continued to hear her husband with other villagers. The following Monday, he entertained the doctor's wife. That Thursday, it was the florist. On one occasion, she heard him, the engineer and the architect together.
In the midst of winter, only one type of wild grass grew. As the morning mist rolled in from the hills, Elizabeth ventured out of the village towards the woods. There, in a nearby clearing she harvested dark grain from a long pink grass and set to work brewing a new lager. Within a day, she placed a pony of rose-gold lager in front of her husband and said, “taste it!”
As her husband drank, she cursed his bloodline.
“May any Beres man who breaks his vow become ravenous and unsatisfied at the full moon.
May he tap around in the dark looking for company.
May he grow claws capable of swiping right through the largest of men.
May he woof like a dog.
May his penis swell large, his testes engorge, his hair thicken, and his eyes redden.
All this should fall upon him lest he find a consenting, infertile hole or the sun’s rays relieve him of his spell.”
Upon Mr Beres’ last sips, he fell into a deep sleep and passed away. Seeing her husband's resemblance throughout the village caused Elizabeth's heart to break. She wandered into the forest and was never seen again. Over time, the residents of Beresfield had forgotten what had happened.
…
The story had held us, round the fire, breathless. The obvious remark was that it was gruesome, as, many a monster tale should be. In spite of this, it managed to rouse my colleague's loins as it did my own. I eyed Edmund's trousers and uttered no comment.
It was this observation that drew me, later in the evening, to an abrupt conclusion.
"We can stop the bearwolves," I exclaimed.
V
The mist clung to the cobbled streets of Beresfield like a shroud and strangled the warm light of the gas lamps. The full moon that night appeared ghostly in the sky and the village felt robbed of its usual colour. The townsfolk had prepared. Three weeks earlier, they shook the grains from pink grass in the forest clearing and brewed them. Now within the cellar lay three barrels of Baxter's Lager. Locked away above the tavern, waited Friar Dominic and Gerard, the butcher. The townswomen barricaded themselves in their homes. The men collected lamps and weapons.
“We’re ready,” Tom looked optimistic. “I'll take this lot down to the medical quarter.”
His colossal physique disappeared into the dense mist. The fog’s damp tendrils snaked around short unkempt tufts of blonde hair. Behind him followed a dozen men with lamps.
Edmund nodded his head in my direction and led a dozen men towards the tea shop, furthest north of the village. Constable Ellis, Percival and I had agreed to remain behind and patrol the pub.
I paced around the building feeling restless. The sound of owls bleating and hooting gave the night an eerie calm. Even the nocturnal animals felt comfortable vocalising. I rounded the front corner of the pub and there in the edge of my peripheral stood a menacing figure. It slumped forward obscuring its features. Its eyes were deep red. What appeared at first to be a dark skull atop its head was now a custodian helmet and silver badge. Of the positive identity of the monster I would assure myself as soon as my courage found me again. I transferred my eyes straight to Percival, who, at that moment, was about ten yards away. My heart had stood still for an instant with the terror of the question whether he too would see this monster. I held my breath while I waited for a cry from him, or some sudden innocent sign of alarm. I waited, but nothing came.
“Percival?” I strained to get the word out.
He huffed out a soft woof and looked at me with ferocious fervour. My legs felt leaden and unresponsive. Edmund and Tom emerged from the fog, sprinting from an unseen assailant.
“Mr Basil,” Edmund called out. “...the whole village!”
The appearance of two dozen monstrous villagers brought chills down my neck. I spun on my heel, the fallen leaves crunching under my boots, and bounded towards the Baxter. With a large thud, the three of us slammed our bodies against the large wooden doors. We had landed on all fours on the floor of the pub. A primal instinct, a desperate urge for self-preservation, seized me. I forced the doors closed and turned the lock.
“It won't hold them,” I slid my trousers off and began unbuttoning my waistcoat. “You should both escape while you can.”
“We won't leave you,” Edmund was wide-eyed and teary.
Edmund’s glance darted from me to Tom. The baker was already half dressed. He pulled the second sock from his large feet and folded it on the bar counter. Edmund unfastened his belt and loosened his derbies. Tom hoisted himself over the bar counter. His large endowment and heavy testes swung as he shifted his weight from one colossal thigh to the next. Once on the other side, he bent out of view and emerged with a canister of coconut butter. He scooped some up with his right hand, with a swift swing of his left hand tossed it to Edmund who caught it and stared.
“Let me help you with that,” I dipped two fingers into the creamy substance. Bending Edmund over, I massaged them into his hole. With another scoop of coconut butter, I probed my own hole making sure it was slick. The doors of the pub swung open. In the doorway stood several large figures. Amongst them were Hubert the mailman, Charlie who ran the tea shop, and Doctor Mitchell. At the very front stood Percival, whom if not for his bright orange hair, I would not recognise. His manhood had swelled to twice its usual size. Cowper’s fluid oozed from his characteristic Beres foreskin. There was a yell from behind me. Our two captives had escaped their prisons and dragged Tom towards the barrel room. A large man with black beard and hair lifted Edmund off his feet and slammed him face-down into a table. He moaned as the man entered him. On another table, I positioned myself on my back and held my legs up. Percival, now in a lustful craze, stepped towards me. He grabbed his 10 inch cock in his large, terrifying hands and lined it up with my slicked hole. The florist looked down at me as, in one steady movement, he inched his entire shaft inside me.
As his hips began to trust back and forth, I could feel his red pubes press against my thighs. His demeanor, though menacing, made me feel safe. I grabbed hold of his tattered apron and held his torso close to soften the pounding. His rhythm quickened and his breaths became shorter. He was demolishing my prostate. He let out a huff as he coated my insides with his warm secretion. After one last shudder, he exited my hole, took two steps and fell to the ground into a deep sleep.
Before I could stand, the mailman held me by the waist and flipped me onto all fours. His large mushroom head popped inside my puckered hole. I gasped. My sphincter muscles had time to regain their strength. They squeezed tight against his shaft as it sank inside me. Before my eyes, my gentle assistant assumed the same position. He winced as Constable Ellis pounded his body. The look on his face traversed in and out of ecstasy. Catching a moment of lucidity, I mouthed “I'm sorry.”
His moans of pleasure alleviated my concerns. The constable pushed Edmund's face down and his heavy thrusting quaked the table. I stared mesmerized by his tiny entrance taking this large man.
“Fuck, he's got a thick one,” my apprentice exclaimed.
He said it so sexily that my cock pulsed on the edge of orgasm as I took another warm load into my body. Before the mailman could doze off, Charlie, the owner of the local tea shop, hoisted me off the table. He was by far the largest of the villagers. He was 6’5” and muscular even before the full moon. His broad hands gripped the underside of my thighs. He lifted me until the back of my head touched his thick auburn beard.
In steady movements he stroked me up and down his mammoth appendage. I felt I could pass out from my insides stretching. His cock kneaded my prostate each time it entered my body. I couldn’t take it any more. Without a single stroke, my cock exploded. Strings of semen flicked forward as Charlie continued to bounce me on his cock. Edmund squinted to shield his eyes. I sprayed my assistant and the surrounding furniture with droplets of cum.
My insides felt a deluge of warm fluids. The giant pulled out of my gaping hole letting its contents spill all over the pub floor. He lowered me down onto the table.
As the fourth man thrust inside me, I lost track of myself and time.
VI
The light had crept in through the high windows of the tavern. Several docile bodies lay on the wooden floors. Edmund lay spread stomach-down over a table. His arms hung forward off the edge. On his face he wore a smile of deep satisfaction. He titled his head at me, face coated in semen, and spoke.
“I still haven't cum yet. Could you… fuck me?” His voice cracked with exhaustion, “but… please be gentle.”
It was the first time he had asked me. Edmund positioned himself on his back. Holding the soles of his soft feet together close to my chest, I sank my member into his delicate, pink hole. He didn't need lube. His hole was already full of semen. My average cock paled in comparison to those of the bearwolves he'd been taking all night. Even so, there was sexiness in his looseness. His hole felt warm and slippery, caressing my cock as it slid in and out. Edmund was silent.
“Everything okay, buddy?” I checked in.
“Everything's perfect,” he stroked his cock as I thrust deep and slow.
In a brief blissful moment we both climaxed. His thin cum shot over his chest and belly. Out of one of the rooms stumbled Tom with Constable Ellis on his shoulder. The constable had woken from his slumber and returned to his usual appearance. Tom had managed to find a pair of ill-fitting long johns. Its waistcord clung desperately to the top curve of his girthy cock. Ellis had not gotten the opportunity to dress. His flaccid uncut cock dangled below a tuft of brown pubes. The floor felt sticky with sweat and semen. The constable, walking with drunken stupor, moved towards the bar. He was careful not to disturb the naked rabble. He picked up a glass and sought to fill it with special lager.
“No,” Edmund's eyes were sanguine, “it will kill them.”
“There might be another way,” Tom suggested.
Epilogue
My own scruples would not allow us to leave them there without an answer to the village's denouement. As such, with the help of our young baker friend, we devised a solution. It would allow the community to live out their placid days unperturbed. After some goodbyes, Edmund and I took the first carriage out of Beresfield. We travelled towards the city to report our findings to the Inspector General.
"So you're telling me that the town locks portly male residents up with the baker in a tavern every full moon?" Inspector General Garth looked confused.
"That is correct, sir,” I replied.
"...and this baker allows them to screw him until they are all cured for the night?"
"Correct, sir.”
"...and the residents all know about this and treat the baker like family?"
"That is also correct, sir. Tom is his name, sir.”
"Sounds like a success!”
The Inspector General seemed satisfied with our efforts. It was many months later when we received our first letter from Beresfield. Tom wrote 3 pages. In the letter, he expressed his fondness for our company. He detailed his new bread recipe made from colourful wild grains. He reported the town had a new fondness for ales. On the last page, he wrote of how the male Beresfeld residents wake in the tavern the dawn after a full moon. They would congregate out in the courtyard with beer in hand. By midday, the whole village would join in the festivities. They’ll sing in bacchanalian fervour and dance where the statue of Baxter Beres once stood.
