Ladies, this is only an excerpt. I’m sort of testing the waters. The dots indicate the jump in the text. Part travel diary, part werewolf erotica, this is for all the woman out there who love to travel alone and claim promiscuity as a birthright. I personally adore being dominated (only) in bed, so that’s what you’ll find here. No apologies. Do leave me feedback and share if you like it ! I hope you enjoy this.
– Much Love, Msbeehv
… Fuck, it’s raining and I can’t even go back to my room because I have to make my way across an open courtyard. This is very unexciting. If only I could look up and see that he’s strolled into the dining room, and he’s across the room, sipping tea, and looking intensely handsome. He’s got dark brown hair, and as a man with a cabin in the woods he can wear it a little long, just falling beyond his ears. He’s got to have the stubble, He simply does. He’s too far away to get a good look at his eyes. I could try but it would come off lovelorn and I don’t do lovelorn. I’m not coy but I can’t do inane batting of eyelashes. It’s got to be brazen but say “you’re just another one, you’ve got my attention right now”. (That’s a lot to put into a smallish face, permanently obscured by hair falling into it).
Okay, wait the rain seems to have let up I’m going to make a dash for it. Also this is the few hours there’s any power in the place and I need to make sure my phone gets charged. Nope … no it hasn’t. I’m just going to continue describing him, then. Why would I leave right now? Silly me.
He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt that casually hints at a body that if you wanted some wood chopped for a post-coital bonfire could do easily or if you needed to be flung on your back and kissed with maddening accuracy, he’s your man. It’s the shoulders. Broad in a believable I’ve got muscles because I lift stuff sort of way not the I spend half my life pumping iron for nauseating Tinder profile pictures way. The forearms and hands are extremely important if you’re the kind that loves being pinned under a heaving mass of manliness who wants nothing more than to take you roughly but also knows how much you’re liking it.
Okay so I did make a dash for it, slipped and fell most inelegantly on my backside dangerously close to the top of the stairs. Apart from venturing into only partially visible forest trails this is the most heart stopping thing I’ve done so far. The power situation in the rooms is erratic at best. I’ve given up on the lights fearing an epileptic fit from their flashing on and off every few seconds. I hope my phone manages to charge, otherwise I will be feared dead by some friends and family. I am writing this by candle light. Apparently all my trips from now on are going to be vaguely Harry Potter themed (my tent in Sattal had a fancier bathroom than I have at home and a dressing table). No, not the dammed werewolf though. He’s a wolf-man who can switch form at will rather than wait on the full moon because it’s hell of a lot more convenient, not to mention a lot more useful. This is not a bloody Twilight thing either, Lycanthropy at will has always existed, mythically. For example the Hounds of Hell are said to be women and men who could turn themselves into wolves and follow witches into the mouth of hell itself to bring back the harvest they’d stolen. Hopefully, my wolf-man doesn’t make trips into the netherworld. Though, what he does in his own time is his business.
His eyes? Let’s go there. As changeable as the Himalayan skies. Too soppy? Look into eyes like that. Your vagina will do funny things. Well, mine does. I shouldn’t speak for yours, I agree.
… my wolf-man has been absent from these pages for a while now. The wretched rain has stopped. Imagine I go wandering off again looking for a sunny spot to read and he finally, like a moment in a (wet) dream, does walk into the clearing. He says hello, asks if I’m alone. I make some wisecrack about my travelling companion being invisible because they’re too shy. He offers to ignore them and focus on me. I find that favourable and agree. We talk, I’ve got Terry Pratchett’s Reaper Man. He loves him too. Tells me how broken he was when Pratchett died. We fall to talking about beloved authors dying, how all the celebrities we adore are beautiful, old people and they all will be dying one by one. I tell him about my morning’s escapade. I want to know more about him. It appears he lives in the city and spends as long he can in the mountains. He agrees that this is easier or at least cheaper to do in Himachal, but that he like me was intrigued by the idea of Binsar. He also tells me all about how dramatically the forest changes in the night, that he’s gone for walks after dark into jungle trails. “Can I come along?” I blurt out in excitement before I can really think it through. Unpleasant memories of Kenneth Anderson stories vie with fanciful visions of a thrilling night in the forest ending in cabin-in-the-woods sex. His expression is difficult to read. It is part merriment, part curiosity, and no small amount of flirting. There’s something about the way he holds himself that is irkingly impossible to describe. Self- assured doesn’t quite cut it. Something else, something more … biological, if that makes any sense? Maybe he noticed my uncertainty, he chuckles quietly and says that it should be reasonably safe. The fuck does that mean? Oh well, he’s gorgeous. People have died for worse. I’m beginning to feel cold, but I don’t want to leave. He’s talking, planning probably. I an incredibly distracted. He is sitting very close. I am gazing at parts of him and imaging it without the clothes. I have the distinct impression he’s perfectly aware of the effect he’s having and is returning the compliment. Considering the amount of time I’ve spent scrambling around the mountainside in a semi-drizzle I’m concerned at the moment that he has the advantage. I want to kiss this man right now, do I really have to wait through a daring night in the forest for it? I suppose so. I resign myself to waiting. Maybe the adrenaline rush will add to the steaminess of the sex later. There is definitely going to be sex later. You don’t just go running off into the jungle in the night with someone agonizingly good looking and not try to get in his pants. Those pants look like they’d be perfectly sublime getting into.
I am beginning to feel extremely cold now. Some parts of me are getting quite warm though so I tell my body to shut up and compromise. I promise it a night of ravishing which would make everybody concerned happy and it grudgingly agrees to stop trying to draw my attention to the temperature. R— appears to have noticed because he reaches out and touches my arm to point out the goose bumps. Obviously, this doesn’t really help. He asks if I want to get out of the cold and getting lithely to his feet, offers me his hand. I am torn between categorically refusing chivalry and wanting to feel those strong hands. As always, idealism falls prey to desire. I take the proffered hand. It is strong. He pulls me effortlessly to my feet and I can only hope fervently that my face isn’t wearing the same stupid grin my vagina is. I decide not to let go, neither does he seem concerned with freeing his hand. This feels so easy, walking back to the rest house, holding hands with someone I’ve spoken to for scarcely an hour. He draws my attention to a bird. It is a mountain jay. I tell him all about my early introductions to bird books, that it is a shame I left off, I tell him about Manjuvallai, thatha’s bird books, the way he can hear a bird call and give you details ranging from plumage to eating habits to personality (yes birds have those), about the column he wrote for the Young World as ‘letters’ to me, the favoured grandchild and illustrated it. I repeat my favourite one about the talking mynah. R— loves it all. He says it’s incredible meeting someone who had newspaper columns written to her as a child. I go on about that little village at the foot of the Western Ghats, summer afternoons spent reading under mango trees, walks along the dam, discovering wild mangoes, how different they are from their hybrid counterparts. This is the first he’s hearing of it, so I tell him how their skin is a bright, waxy green, their flesh extremely fibrous, about Teddy the dog who looked like Sirius Black in animagus form, how clever she was at catching snakes and how one finally took her life. He asks if my grandparents still lived there. Not exactly, I say, that paattiamma had died, but thatha continues to live there, the farm has fallen into disrepair. I can never forget the bougainvilla. We talk about death and losing people. To me, who never saw her body or her grave her death is incomprehensible. One day, the voice on the phone just stopped. He’s silent for a while. He’s felt something similar, but before he can elaborate we’re at the rest house gates. He comes in with me. He finds trails for the guides who work here so he’s quite welcome. He’s turned down offers to be a paid guide, himself. It would be few hours of easy money, but like me, he hates the bawling crowds. He only lets the rest house know about the easier, shorter trails and keeps tougher, wilder trails into the jungle secret. It’s for the best, I agree. I’d picked up a rain-sodden empty biscuit packet earlier in the day, and I wasn’t pleased about the crowds even showing up at these pristine forest lands.
… why a wolf-man, you ask? Why this particular fetish? I don’t want bestiality, I don’t want to have sex with his werewolf form, but I like the idea of someone who can do that. I think that sex with a man like that would be raw carnal pleasure. He would be rough in bed. In the bed alone, I like being overpowered. He has to earn it, mind. Show me pure physical strength. He does just that, that night in the little house he’s rented in a village inside the forest reserve itself. We sit together in the candle light. There is no power inside the reserve, beyond nine o’clock. It’s raining outside. Mountain thunderstorms at night are quite a sight. Over cups of tea, more stories have been exchanged. I can’t keep my hands off him any longer. We’re sitting so close to each other, he already has his arm around me. I reach up and kiss him. His reaction is like a reflex, almost instinct. He has been waiting for this. I can feel every muscle in his body tighten. In the flurry of activity that follows, I barely register landing on the bed. I am intent mainly on removing his jeans. I want to lay eyes on his dick, and it is a sight to behold. All seven and a half inches of it (I measured it later. He was most amused.) I also haven’t registered losing most of my clothes except my lingerie. He has his shirt on, half the buttons open, over a chest that is solid as rock. I am half sitting only for minutes after that. His kisses are fierce to say the least, on my mouth, my throat, his stubble making my skin tingle and heightening desire a hundred times over. He kisses my breasts, my navel, with ferocity. It’s like sex with the very storm outside and then I cry out as a wave of pleasure floods my senses. His lips and tongue are between my legs. I feel like I may pull his hair out in fistfuls. I can hardly differentiate between the wetness of his tongue and the wetness of my vagina. One tiny part of my brain is managing to be thankful for the thunder and rain, drowning out the volume of my moans. He is coming up again. My arms are pinned down. This is nothing like the quiet strength with which he’d held my hand. This is barely human. He regards me for a few seconds, laughing softly as I blink away water from my eyes. I wriggle a little. I want to reach up, kiss him, feel every inch of his body on mine, but he holds me down. I do not want to be teased. I make an admirable if spectacularly useless attempt to get up. “Stop struggling”, he says. It is a guttural whisper that explodes in the pit of my stomach. He slowly lowers his body onto mine. We kiss. Not as speedily, but just as fiercely. He lets my hands go as his own drift over me. I explore every bit of him I can reach. Taut muscles move beneath skin and coarse body hair on his chest and stomach. His back is smoother. I can feel some hair, and thin scars. I make a mental note to look at them later in more detail. Since I can barely move, I clench his arse and guide his dick into me. He doesn’t really need the indication. The lapse in momentum was only fleeting. His kisses quicken. He half raises himself, deposits a quick succession of love bites on my stomach, closes his fingers around mine and pushes himself in. Each thrust is ecstatic. He won’t let me do anything. As his thrusts go deeper and faster, I want to feel his skin on mine, his rough chest hair against my smooth skin. I arch my back towards him, he gets it, lets go of my hand, holds my back and half lifts me towards him. I touch his shoulders, his forearms.
Without warning he pulls out, and flips me over. His hands move from my back to my lower stomach, to hold me in place. His mouth closes around my ears, my neck, shoulders. He kisses my back all the way down before pushing himself into me again. This time the ferocity is unmatched. I am so aware of his penis, the girth and feel of it, more than anything else. He moans too, his grip around my waist tightens. The sheer depth and tone of his moans set of another series of explosions in my stomach and brain …