Photo by Andre Taissin on Unsplash with edits by Vivian Blake

Serialized Erotica | Reverse Harem | Werewolf | Mating | Gangbang |

Cabin Fever — Part 4

A woman takes shelter with a pack of hot, passionate werewolves on the night of the full moon.

Part 4: Hunted.

Catch up on previous parts here:

[embed]Cabin Fever - An Erotic Werewolf Gangbang Romance During a blizzard, a woman takes shelter with a pack of hot, passionate werewolves on the night of the full moon…medium.com

Elena counts her breaths in the silence, her eyes wide as they peek over her pillow to stare at the crackling firewood, listening for any sign of movement.

She’d heard a door open upstairs just a moment ago, hadn’t she? She’s sure of it.

Her toes curl in the soft blankets, her entire body flooded with nervous energy. There’s a cloying smell in the cabin — something masculine and heady and musky, and it makes her mouth water.

She huddles on the couch, feeling exposed and underdressed. Earlier, she’d shucked off her snow pants and long-underwear — they were too scratchy, too uncomfortable. It seemed much easier to sleep in just a t-shirt and panties. She’d set an alarm for herself, hoping to wake up extra early so that she’d have a chance to put her clothes back on before she gave any of the guys an eyeful. But now she’s regretting her decision, feeling a little too vulnerable, a little too defenseless.

Elena draws her bare knees closer to her chest, hugging them protectively.

There’s a creak from somewhere above, followed by the sound of shuffling. One footstep, and then another.

The hair on the back of Elena’s neck rises, goosebumps sprouting up like a full-body warning system. If she thinks too hard about it, she has the distinct feeling that she’s being hunted.

It’s nothing but her overactive imagination. Right? Maybe one of the werewolves is heading to the bathroom or something.

But then —

Elena stiffens when she hears it. Someone — or some thing — is quietly padding down the staircase, slinking into the room like a beast on the prowl, a shadow with a watchful gaze.

Breath wedged firmly in her throat, Elena squeezes her eyes shut like that’ll somehow save her; it’s the logic of little kids hiding from the monsters under their beds, hoping that if they hold still for long enough, they’ll be spared.

It doesn’t matter that these monsters are mind-numbingly attractive — they’re still monsters, and Elena feels like she’s nothing more than a scared, helpless creature, waiting for hungry claws and incisors to descend upon her and tear her apart.

A long moment passes. When nothing happens, Elena dares to open her eyes again. The fire crackles innocently back at her, the living room unchanged.

No one has pounced on her. No one is ripping her throat out or tearing her clothes off.

An unusual feeling sits like lead in Elena’s stomach, a little like fear and a little like curiosity. Whatever it is, it makes her want to kick her legs out with restless energy.

Heart still stuttering in her chest, she sits up warily, clutching her pillow like a shield, peering over the couch and into the darkness of the open kitchen beyond.

It takes a while for her eyes to adjust, but then she sees it: a figure hunched over by the sink, broad shoulders contracting and relaxing in a barely-controlled rhythm.

Firelight catches on eyes that are watching her from beneath tousled fringe — two glowing embers, staring straight at her and piercing her right to her core.

The creature speaks, the low rasp of his voice tugging at something deep in her gut. “Did I wake you?”

With a jolt, Elena recognizes him as Wes — the man from earlier who’d given her such a flirty little grin before he’d headed upstairs.

Any trace of that lighthearted flirt seems completely absent now. Wes looks so serious, his attention unwavering as he waits for her to speak.

“N-no,” Elena eventually manages, her mouth unfairly dry. Wes has grown taller since she last saw him, his shoulders impossibly broad. It’s easy to imagine him eating her up. “I hadn’t gone to sleep yet. How is the — um.” Another shiver wracks her as she inhales too deeply. Why does Wes smell so good?

She takes in another breath — this one through her mouth — and tries again: “How’s the transformation going?” She looks him up and down, a little terrified of the answer but unable to stop herself from asking. “Has it… um, started yet?”

Wes inclines his head slightly, his voice tight. “Yes, it’s started.”

Elena tries to swallow, though her throat is beyond parched at this point. It’s the Mojave desert in there — all the moisture seems to have gone elsewhere.

Her panties are honestly getting a bit uncomfortable. Elena shifts on the couch, surreptitiously squeezing her knees together.

Wes takes in an abrupt breath, his eyes widening as her stares at her. The sudden shift in mood makes Elena sit up straighter, unease tickling at her neck.

“Are you alright?” she asks, barely a whisper. His knuckles look ghostly white where they grip the counter, clenching so hard that the cheap laminate creaks under his hand.

Is he in pain? Is he about to be consumed with rage? Werewolf transformations aren’t exactly something she’s familiar with — it’s the sort of thing she’s heard about on the nightly news. She certainly never expected to witness it in person.

“I’m just… thirsty,” he hedges, though she could honestly say the same about herself. Despite the chilly air in the cabin, Wes is shirtless, his pajama pants slung low on his hips, toned abdomen flexing with each of his strained breaths.

It’s… pleasant to look at, that’s for sure.

A little dazed, Elena watches with rapt attention as Wes drags a hand through his hair, mussing it up even further. The firelight is casting him in muted colors and flickering shadows, all sharp angles and taut muscles that stand out in stark relief. He brings a glass up to his mouth, his throat working prettily as he takes deep gulps of water.

It takes her a second, but it’s hard to ignore once it occurs to her: “You don’t look like an animal,” she blurts, graceless as ever. “You still look so human.”

Wes finishes his water and lets out a deep rumbling chuckle, licking his wet lips. Elena hugs her pillow a little closer, silently cursing her loose tongue. Is she trying to get herself eaten?

“You’ve never been around a werewolf before, I take it?”

All she can do is shake her head, her whole body tensing as Wes leaves the kitchen, approaching the couch with a slow, meandering gait. He moves languidly, circling closer — a predator closing in on cornered prey, fully confident that all escape-routes have been blocked.

“We’re not dogs, you know.”

“S-sorry,” she squeaks in apology. “I didn’t mean — ”

Wes looms over her now, his gaze dropping from her eyes and trailing down to her lips, her neck, her collarbones, lower, lower.

Elena is suddenly expressly aware of how loose her shirt is, the gaping neckline hanging low and leaving little to the imagination, one shoulder bare and exposed.

“Even transformed, we’re definitely still men,” Wes murmurs, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. “We just gain certain qualities. Certain… urges.”

Elena shivers, pinned beneath his avid stare.

“U-urges?”

He’s coming in for the kill, but Elena’s survival instincts seem to be failing her.

Her brain feels entirely useless, her thoughts scrambled with lust. And all just because the monster who’s about to eat her is hot. If she were in her right mind, she’d be laughing at herself.

Wes closes in, his hand reaching toward her, and all she can think is: There are probably worse fates than being gobbled up by a dreamboat like him.

His fingers dance along the top of the couch, his short, blunt nails — perfectly innocent, perfectly human — tracing little mindless loops around the paisley upholstery.

“Urges to touch,” he clarifies, his words low and sultry, like he’s savoring each one on his tongue. “Urges to taste. Urges to mate.”

This triggers a full-body shudder within her — a visceral, uncontrolled response that makes her cling even tighter to her pillow-shield, pressing it hard to her chest. She shifts her hips, wriggling a bit on the cushion as she tries to relieve her increasing discomfort.

His head quirks to one side, a smile curling his lip. “Are you alright? You seem a little… agitated.”

The way his voice rasps on the last word — the way his smile turns into an unmistakable smirk — it’s obvious that he knows exactly what’s bothering her.

Her cheeks heat up at being caught so easily. There’s an insistent, pulsing throb of arousal between her legs, but she hadn’t exactly meant to advertise it so blatantly. Her panties are soaked through, and the last thing she wants is for him to see the wet spot she’s inevitably leaving on the couch.

“I’m — I’m fine,” she stutters, trying to look anywhere but at him, wishing she weren’t so aware of how thick his arms were, the sharp jut of his collarbone, the beautiful hollows of his cheeks, lit only by the crackling embers in the fireplace.

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, misreading her distress. “I know how to control myself.”

“Oh. That’s…. good,” she says, barely meaning it. Her imagination is running away from her, bombarding her with distracting images of Wes ripping the pillow from her arms and climbing over the back of the couch, rutting into her until she sees stars.

But he doesn’t do any of that. All he does is let out a shuddery breath, his shoulders flexing as he digs his fingers into the couch hard enough that she can hear a thread in the cushion snap.

He leans in a bit, honey in his voice. “What are you thinking about?”

It’s dizzying to have him so close. Elena’s instincts are screaming at her, vague and incomprehensible. She has the strongest itch to just… toss her pillow aside, roll onto her stomach, spread her legs — something, anything to help calm the growing heat in her belly.

“Uhm,” is all she manages to get out, her eyes fixed on his lips. His thick, plush lips, pulled back into the slightest hint of amusement, and she can’t help but wonder if the transformation has sharpened his teeth — can’t help but wonder if it would hurt if he sunk those teeth into the flesh of her bare shoulder, the sensitive skin of her neck. If those teeth would catch on the threadbare cotton of her t-shirt and rip it as he tugged it off of her chest, tearing through the fabric like tissue paper.

He’s so attractive that it’s downright upsetting. Elena can’t even remember what his question was.

“Did, ah… are you going back to bed soon?” she asks inanely, trying to readjust her sitting position without making it obvious that she’s grinding herself against the couch, hoping to relieve some of the discomfort currently plaguing her.

There’s an intensity to her arousal that she doesn’t know what to do with, a type of neediness that she’s never experienced before. There’s something about this cabin, this weather, those insanely ripped biceps flexing mere inches away from her bugged-out eyeballs — it’s making her feel unsteady, like she’ll fall apart soon if she doesn’t address the unbearable tension building up inside of her.

Wes’ gaze drops back to her lips. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to leave?”

“Um, I — I don’t — I don’t know?” If she’s perfectly honest with herself, what she wants is for Wes to do unspeakable things to her. She wants him to get on top of her and tug her panties right off, wants him to spread her legs and mount her and show her what it’s like to mate with a werewolf.

It’s a dangerous fantasy — especially when the object of her attraction is within kissing distance.

All she can do is hope that Wes goes upstairs soon. It’s already taking an insane amount of effort to keep herself from shoving her hands down her underwear.

The second he leaves, she plans to stick as many fingers inside herself as possible. Sure, she’s a guest in this house, staying in a communal room with a bunch of barely-contained sex beasts hanging out one floor above, but needs must.

Under normal circumstances, Elena would describe herself as a fairly reasonable, private person. Level-headed and risk-averse.

But, well… there’s a first time for everything. Wes isn’t even doing anything and already she’s more turned on than she’s ever been in her life.

She wonders if werewolf pheromones have this effect on everybody, or if she’s just unlucky.

I only need to hang on until he leaves the room.

Wes doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he licks his lips and walks around the edge of the couch, his nostrils flaring as he gets closer.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his next words make her stomach drop. “You know I can smell how wet you are, right?”

Elena’s spine goes ramrod straight at the low gravel of his voice, the sultry authority of it making her mouth water.

There’s a werewolf crowding into her space, his pupils dilated and his breathing ragged. And apparently he can smell her arousal?

Oh god, she’s so fucked.

Thank you for reading! Things are going to get extra spicy in part 5. 👀🌶️

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Part 5 available here!