10. Wisteria

When I go back to the house–I'm having a hard time calling it home just yet, when it hasn't had time to sink in–I end up collapsing on the soft couch and falling asleep. The stress of the last few days overwhelms me, and surrounded by the powdery, herbal scent of the house, I sink into one of those naps that leaves you waking hours later not entirely sure of where you are.

It's dark outside when I wake up, and the moon is full. The sky is clear and full of stars, the moon hanging heavy and round among them, and I think I hear a howl in the distance. It sends a shiver down my spine.

Witches know better than to mingle with shifters. As friends, it's occasionally possible depending on the shifter–groups like the one I used to go to in Seattle are a good example of that. But dating is out of the question, almost always. Were-creatures are the same, but worse.

For a witch, associating with a were-creature can be deadly. They are tied wholly to the moon, and there's a superstitious belief that witches, with our close ties to nature and the energy of the world around us, can control them. That we can stop, or force their shift, or harm them in other ways. There was a time, further back in history, when there was open enmity between us. Now in more modern civilization, the same laws about assault and murder apply to weres along with anyone else–but a witch meeting a were in a dark alley is a dangerous prospect.

Shifters are a less dangerous prospect–but they simply don't like us. They don't have quite the same level of superstition, but there's still a common belief that they can be controlled by us. That a shifter dating a witch might as well be the same thing as being a witch's pet–or her familiar. Every now and then, there's a shifter that doesn't mind that idea, or who is into it in more kinky ways. But the common wisdom is that shifters and witches don't mix–and shouldn't. It's an outdated–and just plain incorrect–belief, but it's pervaded our magical society to the point where it's almost unthinkable that a shifter and a witch would date, even if that shifter didn't believe they were in actual danger. It's just not done.

I'm not particularly worried about my safety here in Bayton. I'm sure there's weres here, but there's also probably plenty of witches. In order to live here side by side, I imagine there has to be an understanding.

Another howl echoes, far in the distance, and I feel another shiver. I get up from the couch, folding the knitted blanket I'd pulled over myself while I napped, and wander into the kitchen. I'd gotten a few groceries earlier on my way back to the house, and I get them out of the refrigerator–a pumpkin bisque that I can heat up, a pre-made grilled chicken salad. I'll have to actually stock the kitchen soon, but that's a problem for another day.

I have the same feeling, as I sit at the worn kitchen table and pick at my soup and salad, that I had in the shop today. I don't feel perfectly at home yet, but looking around, I can feel that it's possible. That as I settle in, this will begin to feel more and more like my home.

I'm glad that I found the nerve to pick up and move, that I didn't just let this all go. That I was brave enough to try. I feel cautiously optimistic that the shop won't fail–but even if it did, this house is mine. I could find other work in town, and still live here and be happier than I was before. And who knows what else might come, in time? For the first time, there's the real possibility that I might be able to find love in the future, if that's what I want.

Maybe even with someone as handsome as Eli.

The thought pops into my head unbidden, and I do my best to shove it away. Eli himself shouldn't even be on my radar, and as long as I'm thinking of anyone else in terms of a comparison to him, I shouldn't be thinking about it at all.

I don't even know what he is. It would be unforgivably rude to ask. For all I know, he might just be human. Nothing magical about him at all–except for that firm ass, and those muscled forearms, and his eyes–

Seriously?I shake my head, getting up to put my dishes in the sink. It's clearly been too long, if I'm still thinking about him like this. He's just a hot bartender. It's hardly the first time I've met one of those.

Despite the nap, I'm still tired. I decide not to fight it, going down the hall to unpack enough of my toiletries to take a hot shower. I'm happy to find out that the water pressure is good–better than in my old apartment–and I linger there for a while, washing my hair and letting myself soak in the feeling of being in a place that's mine.

I know it's going to take a while for it to really sink in–that I'm not renting this place, that it's not temporary, that I don't ever have to move if I don't want to or worry about rent going up so high that it prices me out or avoid painting a wall yellow because it will make the landlord mad. This house was my aunt's, and now it belongs to me, to keep some things as she left them and make other things my own. It's a feeling that I've never had before, and it makes my heart swell in my chest with happiness.

When the hot water finally starts to cool, I turn it off, stepping out and toweling dry. I leave my hair wet, slipping into a pair of soft sleep pants and a tank top, and pad down the hall to my bedroom. The moonlight is shining in through the curtains, and the howling from the woods is getting louder and more intense.

My skin prickles in an odd way, and I feel a tug in my chest–almost a longing to go out and run with them. It's a weird thing to feel–I'm not a shifter, could never be one, and have never wished that I was. I could be a were, if a really bad accident happened to me or I survived an attack, but that's not something to wish for.

Another howl, deep and languorous , rises above the rest. A flicker of heat stirs in my belly, spreading outwards, not entirely unlike what I felt when I was at the bar. It softens my limbs, pooling between my legs with an ache that makes me let out a soft whimper.

My cheeks flush–but at least this time I'm in the privacy of my own bedroom, and not in a public bar. I can feel my nipples stiffening against the thin fabric of my tank top, the friction suddenly distinctly pleasurable, and I reach up absently, rubbing my nipple through the shirt.

A jolt of pleasure flashes through me, directly between my legs, taking my breath away at the unusual sensitivity.. I whimper again, and the heat between my thighs intensifies as I hear the howl again, louder this time.

They're not coming this way, are they?That doesn't make any sense–from the rumors I heard whispered around as I was in town, the shifters and weres keep to the woods for the full moon. But the thought sends another throb of aching need through me, and I retreat to the bed, my lungs suddenly tight.

It's exactly the way I felt at the bar. Is this whole town full of pheromones? I wonder for a moment, as I sit on the edge of the bed, if there's something to that. If the high population of shifters means that during the full moon, there's something quite literally in the air. But surely Penelope would have warned me about that.

Maybe that's not something you bring up to your boss, who you just met.After all, that would be as good as admitting that she feels the same thing when the full moon rolls around. Not really something you want to discuss at work.

A part of me wants to resist it. It feels strange and overwhelming, almost as if something outside of my control is manipulating my arousal. I don't know how I feel about that. What I did in the bar was something that I've never done before–that I've never even imagined doing. But I was so overcome with need that I couldn't help myself.

At least here, I'm in the privacy of my own room.

It makes it harder to resist. If I'd been caught out in public like this again, I wouldn't have wanted to repeat what happened before. But there's no one to see me here, or hear, or smell–

The last thought feels as if it thrums through every nerve in my body, like a finger over a guitar string. The thought of being heard, tasted, smelled by creatures attuned to such a thing sends a ripple of pleasure through me that's so strong it takes my breath away for a moment. My gaze flicks towards the box of my personal belongings that I still haven't unpacked, and I feel myself clench at the thought of the toy inside.

Another howl, prickling across my skin and tearing another small whimper from my lips. I could swear they're getting closer, and I bite my lip, my hand pinching at my nipple as I arch my back.

I've heard stories about shifters. How they can control their shift partway, lengthening claws and teeth while still mostly in their human form, a longer, lapping tongue to give all the pleasure that an ordinary human man could never manage. I've never fantasized about any of that–never been the kind of girl who found the idea of things strange or monstrous arousing. For a witch, my sexual desires have always been almost embarrassingly vanilla.

But something has changed. The thought of a long tongue curling around my nipple, lapping it to a stiff peak as sharp teeth press against my soft skin, claws skating down the expanse of my stomach, makes me moan. My hips arch upwards, and I squirm on the bed, feeling my control rapidly fraying.

What does it matter? No one will know. I can fantasize about anything I want here, in my own home, and it will be my secret.

There's nothing to be embarrassed about here. Nothing to hide.

Feeling almost like I'm in a dream, I get up and cross the room to the box of my things, digging through it until I find the toy I'm looking for. My fingers wrap around the silicone cock, and I have a sudden, almost visceral craving for something thicker. My toy is an ordinary size, enough to bring pleasure but not enough to make it difficult to take–usually, I don't even need lube for it. But my body throbs with a sudden, hollow ache, my skin hot and tight, my mind frantic with the idea of a cock so thick that it would almost hurt to take it, one that would be nearly too much.

It's almost enough to make me want to dig my heels in again, to fight the oncoming surge of lust, but I'm too far gone. I retreat to the bed, the howls and yelps from the woods a continuous chorus now as I fall back onto the bed, tugging my tank top up above my breasts and kicking my pants off into a heap on the floor.

"Oh my god." My voice is a shocked whisper when I set the toy to one side and slide my fingers between my folds, testing my arousal. I'm even more slick and hot than I was in the bar, thick arousal soaking the space between my legs without even having been touched, and when I skate the tip of my finger over my swollen clit it feels so exquisitely good that I let out a sob.

Another howl, louder this time, echoes through the trees, and it feels as if my entire body reacts to it. I snatch the toy in my other hand instinctively, my thighs spreading wide as I thrust the toy into myself hard, two fingers of my other hand feverishly rolling over my clit. Like a woman possessed, I can't seem to slow down–one hand fucking myself relentlessly with the faux cock while the other rolls my clit mercilessly beneath my fingertips. I need to come desperately, and I can feel myself clenching rhythmically around the toy, which feels too small despite the snug fit of it.

More. I need more.My hips buck upwards, everything in me craving more stimulation, more friction, more stretch. I want to be fucked, to be filled, to be ravaged in the way that only something beastly and primal could manage. My mind fills with the images of a large, ferocious man leaning over me, pinning me to the bed as strong thighs hold mine open, strong hands tipped with claws holding my arms down. The man is nameless, faceless, but his mouth is hot and hard on mine, sharp teeth nipping at my mouth and neck as his too-big cock stretches my soaked pussy, thrusting into me with a ferocity to match my own desire, a need that only taking what we both want can satisfy.

My entire body tightens, a helpless, keening moan falling from my lips at the thought of it. I can feel myself hovering on the edge, the punishing pace of my hands working between my thighs still not enough–and then the image of the faceless shifter changes, and becomes just a man.

But not any man. Eli, naked above me, tanned and muscular, his body rippling like a god's as he fucks me, the corded muscle of his arms standing out as he braces himself above me, hips grinding against mine. I imagine the scrape of his stubble against my throat as he kisses and nips his way down, that raspy, drawling voice moaning my name as he thickens inside of me–

The orgasm tears through me before I'm prepared. It's as if I can feel the symphony of howls, nipping and scratching along my nerves, giving the pleasure an edge that brings tears to my eyes as I fuck myself onto the toy, rubbing my clit so hard that I'll be sore tomorrow. Every muscle in my body is wound tight, my back arched, my mouth opened on a cry of ecstasy that doesn't end–because the orgasm doesn't.

I keep coming. Wave after wave of pleasure, a release that leaves me boneless, but I can't stop. I can't stop thrusting the toy into myself, can't stop rubbing my swollen, oversensitive clit, because it feels so fucking good. Better than it did in the bar. Better than touching myself has ever felt. Better than any sex I've ever had in my life.

I don't want it to stop. I want to keep coming, to drown in the pleasure, and I can feel how wet I am, my hand and toy and the blanket beneath me soaked with it. But I just want it to keep going.

I have no idea how long I orgasm for. I no longer know if I still hear the howls, or if they're echoing in my head, but the cries of the shifters go on, and my wails of pleasure rise to meet them, my body caught in a rictus of bliss that continues until I slump against the bed. I'm too exhausted to keep fucking myself with the toy, but I hold it inside of myself, my other hand still rubbing against my clit as I turn my head into the pillow and moan.

At last, it stops. Another ripple of pleasure passes through me, making me whimper and twitch, and then the release ebbs. I can barely move at first, and then when I can, I wince as I slip the toy out of myself. Thank god it wasn't bigger, is the first thing I think, feeling the soreness between my legs. And then, a moment later–

Is sex with a shifter better than that? Is there some creature that can make sex feel that good?

I still don't understand what happened. I don't know enough about shifters or weres or any kind of creature like that to know if there's a connection. I've heard myths about some fey capable of creating such excruciating pleasure that a mortal would bind themselves to them for it to continue, doing anything they want in exchange–but I've never met a fey that I know of. I briefly wonder, as I lie there and catch my breath, if I was somehow hexed. But I haven't met enough people here for me to have upset anyone enough for that. Penelope is the only other witch I know here–and I don't believe for a second she would have hexed me.

Eli?If he were a witch, he might have done it, as revenge for me turning him down. But I didn't get the impression from him that he's anything like that. He was disappointed, I think–but he didn't press me. He didn't seem to me like the kind of man who would hurt a woman for telling him no.

I feel a creeping flush rising up my neck. In the aftermath, the distant howls and yelps and yowling of the shifters sounds like just that–the distant sound of beasts in a forest. What came over me feels very much like a fever dream–like the incident in the bar but far more intense, and the embarrassment of it threatens to make me roll into a ball and wish to disappear all over again.

I might have, if I weren't so exhausted. But it sweeps over me in an inexorable tide, blurring my thoughts and dragging me under before I have time to be let the feelings sink in, and I'm asleep before I know it.

Mercifully, my sleep is without dreams.