Folks, this is nuts. Don't read it if you're under eighteen, sensitive, or have any taste. I'm warning you. And please note, all activities in this ridiculous story are consensual (hey - that word has sensual in it!). This story is M for Mature, but it should be I for Immature.

Not Your Average Wolf

Now that Renesmee Cullen is seventeen years old, she is allowed to go walking alone through the woods sometimes to take her grandmother a basket of treats. The biggest treat is Renesmee herself, as her grandmother adores her, but Grandmother Esme will be delighted with the flowers, both dried and fresh. She will coo over the pictures Renesmee has drawn for her and the card she has made, and she will ooh and aah over the ornaments that are gifts from Bella, Renesmee's mother, and Esme's daughter-in-law.

The woods are a mystery, deep and dark even on a bright day, and Renesmee is a study in red as she skips merrily along in the shadows. She has a penchant for the dramatic, and today she has chosen to be a celebration - no a resplendence of scarlet - dress, cape, tights, shoes and even panties. She's not in scarlet all over actually, but the rest is private, just now.

Humming as she strolls, she is unaware that she has a spectator.

Amber eyes watch her, and a wolf licks its lips as she passes. She looks rather tender. In particular, her breasts are perfectly sized, and a long tongue could make a sweeping pass from the base of one, over its nipple, and to the upper curve, in the flash of an eye. Unless of course, the owner of the tongue wanted to take things a little more slowly. In that case, the tongue would linger here and there, until her pretty pink nipples (and my word, they are pretty) tightened and tautened. That would be delightful, both for the licker and the lickee.

It's not often wolves have these types of inclinations, but this is no ordinary wolf. He has a secret. More than one, actually. I bet you can't guess any of them.

Wolves have a loping gait and they can run for hours without getting tired. That's not all they can do without getting tired - this particular wolf at any rate. Trotting alongside amongst the trees where she can't see him, he accompanies her for a while. But he was watching when Renesmee's mother bid her goodbye at the garden gate and he knows exactly where the girl is going. Understanding English is just one of the ways in which he is different to other wolves.

He bounds away from Renesmee, taking a shortcut he just happens to know, which is considerably quicker than the path the girl is taking.

He gets to her grandmother's house, and then does the trick he does. One of them, anyway. He turns into a human.

And, oh my giddy aunt, he's gorgeous (actually, it just so happens that Renesmee has a giddy aunt, although that's not part of the story).

He's very tall, and he's sort of a russet red, with coal black hair, and the slanted golden eyes of his wolf incarnation. He is also naked. There is a distinct resemblance to Michelangelo's David in terms of musculature, but he is more well-endowed, as the male member of the famous statue is considerably smaller than its thumb. You might even call it dainty. The corresponding appendage of the wolfman is exuberantly larger. I'll leave you with that image.

Before he transformed he had scented the air, and now he confidently steps over the threshold, knowing that nobody is home but Grandmother.

Grandmother is quite young - she adopted Bella's husband and was not biologically old enough at the time to be his mother. Well, she still isn't of course, though she looks, acts and feels youthful. She's in the kitchen singing and baking cookies for the visitor she is awaiting when the tall man bursts in.

A little scream issues forth from her, but he sweeps her up forcefully and carries her with no effort at all, out of the house, down a pathway, and to a barn. One of his big hands is across her mouth, to stop further outbursts. She struggles and whimpers, but he is exceptionally strong and her struggles are to no avail.

When he sets her down, she is flat on her back in the straw of the barn, and he pins her with his knees, while tearing at her dress. He gets strips of fabric, and proceeds to bind her.

"No-one can help you. You'll have to wait until I come back," he informs her. Her eyes widen as she hears him - he plans to leave her there, her wrists tied behind her and her feet bound, all by the cotton that clothed her? He is a beast. He winks at her alarmed eyes and racing heart.

"Oh, don't worry. I will be back," he assures her.

Once he has returned to the house, he has a plan. He overheard the mother say to the daughter that the grandmother had been ill, and he goes to the bedroom. Renesmee will look for her grandmother, and once she finds that Esme is not in the kitchen or living room, Renesmee will search.

The man who was a wolf climbs, bold as brass, into the huge, soft bed, and waits.

Before long, girlish tones float through the house, calling, "Esme! Esme! Where are you?"

Still he waits, hunched down low with the sheets and blankets pulled up.

"Grandmother! There you are!" Renesmee declares, and from the sound of her voice, she is in the bedroom doorway.

"But what are you doing in bed? My mother said you had been poorly. Is there anything I can do for you? Get you a glass of water?"

"Come close my dear," the man croaks, altering his voice. He is a gifted mimic, and sounds as though he could just possibly be a woman who is a little under the weather.

His quarry approaches the bed and reaches tenderly to what she supposes is her grandmother's shoulder. Imagine her shock when a very fast, very large hand clasps her suddenly, with a grip of iron.

She gasps as he emerges from the bedclothes, a man with a naked upper body. She trembles as his eyes rake over her, paying special attention to her rosy lips and then descending as slowly as a loving caress over her throat and heaving chest. His eyes measure her waist and hips, and stare so hard at her belly and thighs she wonders if he has X-ray vision. She wonders if he can see what lies beneath the velvet of her full skirt.

"Wh - what do you want? Please don't hurt me," she whimpers.

"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you, not one little bit," he says, and he's so strong with his grip on her wrist that she can't twist away. Her dress has laces down the front holding the bodice together, and to her growing fear his other hand moves to undo the little bow, and starts to pull at the ribbons.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and she has no idea how beguiling she looks, all a-blush and flushing, her creamy pale decolletage heating with her apprehension. She can't still the racing of her pulse, and casts her eyes down, only to see his clever fingers slowly baring her to his scorching gaze.

"All in red, forest girl? Did you realize how enticing you'd be when you came out this morning?"

"Please," she whispers, as he pulls the two sides of her bodice apart. She is wearing a very plain white undergarment, sturdy, and not revealing in the slightest. It could hold up battleships, and her breasts are small and dainty as new apples deep inside it.

"Fuck," he groans, mesmerized by what he cannot see. He slips the dress from her shoulders, so that her arms are now immobilized within the sleeves.

That makes the rest of his activities so much easier.

She is stunned and silent as he slides a hand under her hem and moves it up to her knee, to her thigh and beyond. His stroking, questing fingers continue to ascend, and they curve over the soft silkiness of her behind. His breathing is now ragged, and his eyes completely wild. Where is the fabric obstacle he expected to encounter? After that straitjacket of a bra - where are her knickers?

As his hand continues to explore, he finds his answer. One tiny shred of ribbon is across her hip, and he follows it with his finger to find it meet another across the top of her buttocks, and the two combine to a single thread to plunge into the crevice leading...

"Christ! What are you wearing?" he demands, and pushes her skirt up as high as he can. A tiny red lace triangle nestling just between the tops of her thighs meets his eyes, and through the lace is a black curly network of fine hair.

"Show me," he murmurs urgently, pulling at her hips, pulling her closer, spreading her knees, staring between them. Oh my God, her dress is bunched up around her waist now, and below it the flimsy scarlet material covering her pubis narrows to a thin line that disappears to where he can't see.

"Will you touch me?" he asks hoarsely.

Renesmee wonders what he means, looking back at the huge man in front of her, at his face and shoulders and chest. The bed covers are at his hips, and as her eyes continue to move down him she's shocked. There is something lying vertically up his belly, beneath the blankets and the sheets, something straining at the bedcovers. She has heard a little about men, and how they are built, and what they are like, and she knows what this must be.

Even as she stares, he frees one of her arms from its constrictions and guides it to his torso, and beyond. He pushes her fingers until she is clasping the thing through the bedclothes, and he pulls her hand into a forward and backward motion, while his other hand reaches for her chest and kneads at one breast.

"Oh, Jesus, why am I messing around like this?" he mutters suddenly, and he tugs at the bra. Strong as it is, of WWII construction and built to withstand a siege, he is far stronger than any invaders its designers could have envisaged. He drags it from her, leaving pink smudges on her shoulders from the straps.

Immediately both of his hands are on her upper arms and he holds her still as his lips move to the red marks on her, his tongue flitting out to lick at them. He is still lapping at them when his hands move to her breasts. His palms are absurdly big in comparison, but he cups her and squeezes and she is paralyzed, too stunned to move, to back away, to flee. As she kneels there awkwardly and motionless, his mouth trails its wet way down, and he captures a nipple, his hand still cupped around the surrounding breast, squeezing with a rhythm that matches the racing of her heartbeat. Before she can cry out, the hands have stroked down to her hips, and he's pulled her across him with a strength that forbids resistance. The very centre of her is pressed against that part of him under the bedcovers, which she discovers to be hard as stone.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?" he pants to her. "Have you ever ridden a horse? You know when the horse starts trotting? You have to go up and down."

He holds her hips still and moves underneath her, and there is no point in her yelling, but on the other hand she can yell all she likes. She's in a little cottage in the middle of the woods. Sitting astride a naked man.

His grip on her is firm, but his movements beneath her are slow and persuasive. He rocks up - wait - would you call that rocking? It's more of an undulation. There's a little part of her, complicated and indescribable, that she touches sometimes, and she's not even sure what it looks like but that part of her is in contact with him now, in an insistent and delicious way. She has bare breasts, the remains of a dress around her middle, exposed thighs, and she feels naughty. She feels as though she doesn't have to take any responsibility for her actions, because she is the child here, and this man is the adult. He is making her do this. He is making her feel so wickedly good, watching her closely with narrow yellow eyes, black-fringed and deep. His lips are full, and they were sinful on her nipples - what would they feel like against hers? What would he do with his tongue if she pressed her open mouth to his?

She decides to find out.

Bending her head, she seeks his mouth with hers, and is rewarded by the feel of his lips opening to her. A groan comes from somewhere in his throat and she feels the vibration of it in her mouth. Letting her hips go his hands come up to her head, which he cradles tenderly, tilting it. His thumb slips into the corner of her mouth, parting her lips further, and then retreating as his tongue goes in there, soft and exploratory. It's so soft and sweet and new, she doesn't know how to respond.

At her hesitance, he pulls back and regards her.

"I can't do this," he demurs, to her surprise. "I thought I could, but I was wrong. You're barely out of childhood. You need romance, and lovely words, and patience and a safe place. Not what's happening here, and not now."

She pouts at him, because it was just getting really good, but he's adamant.

"I'm not going to take this any further. Let's get you tidied up."

He shifts her bra straps back up to her shoulders, and sorts the dress out too, with some expertise. His nimble fingers have no problem tightening her laces again. This is not what she expected.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asks.

"No, and I'm not going to either. Any more than I already have, that is. Let's have another kiss, and I'll be gone."

He rises to sitting, with her still astride him, and gives her a kiss even sweeter than the last. Then he grips her by the shoulders, and simply lifts her right off him. He rolls out of the bed, and she gets a good look at what she just narrowly escaped from. Gracious. Perhaps it's just as well that he stopped.

The wolf man leaves the bewildered girl sitting in her grandmother's bedroom, and looks through the house. He knows the woman has sons and there might be some clothes for him. In a hall cupboard he finds jeans and a t-shirt, and pulls them on. He's so big, the garments are very tight. In the state he's in, the jeans are downright uncomfortable.

Passing through the kitchen, he can smell that the cookies are ready and he pulls the oven tray out of the oven, and turns the dial so that the oven is off. Can't have the house catching fire, with that pretty little girl all flummoxed in there and alone.

Now, there is some business to attend to in the barn. He's only been gone fifteen minutes, and in he goes to find Esme lying in the straw, eyes closed. They flutter open at his approach, though he is silent.

"My husband will be here very soon, and he has a gun," she warns him, immediately.

"We'd better be quick then," he answers, and she begins to tremble.

Now, Esme is happily married to a wonderful man who worships her. He worships and respects her and treats her with extreme reverence and care and courtesy, and makes love to her frequently. He makes love to her frequently and shows her the utmost consideration and he always sees to it that she come first. That's just it. He always sees to it that she comes first.

Esme feels that passion is missing in her marriage. She wishes she could drive her husband wild with lust and desire and need and that he wouldn't stay so much in control during sex. She wishes he would lose his mind and fuck her in a frenzy and come helplessly all over the place, so that she could feel - well, just feel. Feel. He won't even let her suck his penis (she's not allowed to call it a cock) because he thinks that would be whorish and he thinks she's too good for that. She wishes that they could have sex without him holding back.

And now here she is on the floor, her husband is miles away, and a man so strong looking and handsome is standing tall in front of her and - is that? Ohmigod, it is - he seems to have a substantial erection.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asks breathlessly.

"What do you want me to do to you?" he says, and he kneels down.

"I took your cookies out, by the way. They're not going to burn. They smelled really good. Was that cinnamon and nutmeg you used?" and his hand is snaking up her calf.

She trembles with dread, knowing what he will find. She has sheer, sexy underwear on, because despite her husband's lack of fervor, she is a very sexual creature, and she wears provocative underwear just to remind herself of that fact. This man is going to get the wrong impression. He's going to think she's a wanton. Would she wear provocative underwear for any other reason?

Both his hands are sliding up her skirt now, and he pushes the hem to her hips and parts her thighs, her ankles still tied.

"Holy shit," he breathes, at the sight that greets him. Her panties are sheer all right, and with her legs spread so wide he can see everything. She squirms, embarrassed at this exposure, but he holds her down and bends his head and puts his mouth on her, over the transparent microfiber of her panties. His mouth is so, so hot. She has lain there for fifteen minutes wondering what he will do, and he has come back in and is licking her.

Her hips push up, involuntarily, and she surrenders to the sensation. He slips his hands under her, takes a buttock in each of them, and holds her up to his mouth like a bowl of miso soup.

God, if her husband were to come home and find her like this...sensuously arching up to some random man who walked through her door...

The wolf man stops suddenly, and looks up at her, quirking an eyebrow.

"It just occurred to me I haven't aquainted myself with your tits yet," he remarks, and she is almost far gone enough to plead with him to stay where he is, she wants to buck against him and wants him to keep going, but he's stopped. Her husband always keeps going. He's so polite.

This man unbuttons her blouse carefully, as her husband does, but he pushes it aside roughly, and both eyebrows raise. Why is he looking at her like that? Oh, right. She's wearing her slut bra. It's cut so low, so dangerously low, that her nipples actually stick out over the top of the tiny cup, and they're tingling and hard. Her husband only saw it once and disapproved of it, but this man abandons her pussy altogether and makes for her breasts like there's no tomorrow. He swoops on one, and she forgets about the discomfort of having her hands behind her back and revels in the sensation of him sucking and mouthing at her chest. Oh God, she's a bad person. An intruder breaks in, ties her up, sucks on her tits and she enjoys it? She's damned, for sure.

"Jesus," he moans, letting her nipple go for a second. His hips have been grinding rudely and urgently into her and she has been responding.

"If I untie you, will you run away?" he pants, and there's not the slightest chance she's running, she's too aroused. She shakes her head mutely.

"Turn over," he commands, and it's awkward for her, so he has to help. He frees her hands, then reaches down for her ankles, deftly undoing the ties there as well. Flipping her back over, he moves inbetween her legs, and undoes his zipper, pulling his dick out and pushing his jeans halfway down his thighs. Right in front of her, he wraps his hand around himself and strokes, watching her eyes. Her husband never does this. Her husband takes his trousers off and folds them before he comes to bed because he is never so impatient for her that he would be untidy, and he would no more pleasure himself in front of her than he would put a kitten in a microwave. This man is unbearably sexy.

He leans over, propping himself on one arm, and positions his cock where the thin film of her panties still covers her.

The moment of truth. Is he going to do this? Is she? He's poised above her, and his fingers reach for the fabric.

"You are so fucking wet," he breathes, and she knows it. He is going to do her, and while she's not going to give him a verbal assent, she's not going to fight.

He pushes in and growls.

"I'd like to make this good for you, but I don't think I'm going to have the time," he says, and he sits back on his heels, pulling hard on her hips, and yanking her up onto his thighs. Hunched over her, he fucks far harder and far faster than her husband ever has.

Tipped uncomfortably upwards, shoulders on the ground, there's no possible way she could come. There's no contact with her clit at all. His eyes move from her breasts as they jiggle around, wobbling like two jellies with the force of his thrusting, to her mound and slit, where his pumping cock is sinking into her and re-emerging at a pace that's almost punishing. Desperately, she reaches a hand between her thighs but he bats it away, saying, "No you don't, you'll spoil the view... I want to watch my cock going in and out of you ... your lips are opening for me...I'm so fucking hard for you...you're coating my cock, you're making me glisten...it's a shame you can't see this, it looks so good..."

Her husband never talks dirty.

It's only a matter of minutes before the man pulls out with a groan, and grabs his penis, his hand encircling it and pulling with a motion that is jerky and has lost all regular timing. He lets out a grunt as he points the head of it straight at her chest. Strings of white liquid spurt from the tip forcefully, one, two, three, and a couple more follow in a dribble. The first three have landed between her breasts.

He takes her hips again and lets them down gently onto the straw underneath her, shuffling his knees back a couple of inches, then leans over her, eyes wicked, supporting himself on one arm. She is absolutely appalled when the fingertips of his other hand touch the ejaculate on her and spread it to her breast. He actually rubs it around her nipple, then bends to her and kisses her on the lips, as he plays with her breast.

"Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, that was kind of in a hurry, but you did say your husband would be home soon, and I have no wish to be caught by an angry man and shot," he says against her mouth, almost seeming to be laughing.

Esme is too delirious to care.

He pulls his clothes back on and helps to her to her feet. She's a little unsteady, having never been so quickly and soundly fucked. God, he's long and lean, the t-shirt too tight, the narrow jeans showing his taut thighs off to perfection. When he turns around, walking away, and she sees his ass she feels decidedly faint.

But he's gone. In the barn, with a chicken here and there, and a quiet, country feel to the air, Esme stands hair-tossed, nude, and alive from head to toe. Is that how you get to hell?

All of a sudden she remembers she was expecting a guest, and she'd better pull herself together and see if her adored Renesmee has arrived yet. She'd better not allow herself to think about what just hapenned until much later, when she is alone.

In the kitchen, Renesmee is sitting on a stool, eating cookies. She's flushed. Why, so is Esme.

"What a warm day!" they exclaim to each other at the same time.

And the man who is also a wolf sets out along the forest path, back the way he came. His long human legs move as smoothly and gracefully as his wolf legs do. He can eat miles and still grin his charming grin, without being affected in the least by his exertions. He could traverse hills and vales and slip through trees like a - well - a forest native. So he does.

His destination is not so very far, and it doesn't take him long to get there. Now... what form should he take? Which is the best to get him through the door? Probably not the wolf. Even if the person he is about to call on likes dogs, his wolf form is twice the size of any dog she will have seen before.

So human incarnation it is.

Knock knock.

Bella Swan opens the door and peeps out, looking surprised, the word, "Nessie?" on her lips.

"Hi there, I'm from the Dial-A-Handyman agency - we received a call from this house for a service? How can I help?" he says, tall, dark and devastating.

"Er, there must be some mistake," she answers.

"I don't think so. Do you have anything that needs drilling?"

He doesn't appear to be carrying a drill, but he does have a tool.

"Nailing? Screwing? Hammering? Fitting? Joining?" he continues. His one tool can do all that.

He's stepping forward as he speaks, and Bella is backing from him, which is allowing him into her house. She barely even knows she's doing it.

Unlike Esme, Bella doesn't get formulaic, though loving sex from a uxorious husband. Bella's husband has been in South America for months. Bella doesn't get any sex. Bella is letting this huge, handsome man walk all the way into her living room and back her up against the arm of the sofa. She has to stop there or she'll tumble over backwards. She tumbles over backwards anyway, and her flailing feet tangle in his legs somehow, and he falls on top of her.

Good Lord! Her breath is expelled with a grunt. He's really heavy. Like, really heavy. Scorching color tints her cheeks as he pushes himself up on his arms and drawls, "Well, this isn't the type of request we usually get, but I'm sure I can accommodate you."

Bella is gulping, and isn't sure she can quite formulate a reply. He's so very close, and she can even smell him. Her heart has fluttered all the way up to her larynx, or else she'd tell him to get the hell off her. She really would!

"And Miss?" he adds. "Since this type of house call isn't on our Operating Schedule there'll be no charge."

She's trying to give him a stern stare but she ends up going cross-eyed as his head dips towards her. There's barely time to register that his lips are just luscious before they're on hers. Luscious all right, as well as hot, and wet, and open. It's not a getting-to-know-you, polite first kiss. It's the sort of kiss you give someone you're just about to get naked with. How did this happen, exactly? One minute she's answering a knock at the door, the next minute she's on her back with a tongue in her mouth as well as her own. Her own is kind of half out, actually. It's kind of curling around his, and sneaking into his mouth. Wayward tongue, come back! Nope.

It's not in the least comfortable to be half up, half down on a sofa, legs splayed and hair somehow everywhere. But it's quite a distraction when you're getting the most penetrating kiss you have ever had. The kissing even continues when strong hands slip underneath you and shunt you along, and narrow hips settle between your thighs, and wordless mutterings that sound like pleasure are groaned into your neck.

You (the reader, I mean. Yes, you) may have already figured out that if Bella's husband is Esme's son, he's also Esme's husband's son. Esme's husband brought his boy up to be gentle and considerate with women, and while he is an ardent lover - or he was, when he lived in the same country - he wouldn't lie on top of Bella and crush the living air out of her and he wouldn't open his mouth to her neck and take a good, hard bite.

That's what this man is doing, and Bella can't even say, "Stop! My husband will be home soon!" because he wouldn't be home for days even if she called him right now this minute and said it was an emergency. She can't say anything, because her sense of smell has discovered the skin under his ear, and her tongue just has to make sure that what her nose tells her is true. His throat is salty and sweaty and slides under her tongue. And it leads down. His skin is just begging for her mouth, but his t-shirt stops her progress, thankfully.

Before she has the time to get too grateful he heaves himself up and peels the t-shirt off. Under his arms there is inky dark hair, but across his chest there is none. Not even on his nipples. 'Help,' she thinks weakly. Her husband is very pale with reddish brown hair scattered across him. This man is - what is he? He is shifting and wriggling and lifting her as though she weighs no more than a child, and he's lying along the sofa cushions and has pulled her across his hips. Across his groin. Across his - oh yes, that's definitely an erection.

Dutiful wives wouldn't dream of doing this, would they? Bella is a dutiful wife, but she has dreamed, she has dreamed. She has kept her waking dreams to thoughts of her husband, but it has to be said in her sleeping dreams her traitorous subconscious has sometimes come up with a shadowy, indistinct character who may or may not slip into her house barely invited and caress her until she doesn't remember her own name. Her surname, that is.

The man has busied himself fondling her hips and waist, and is moving his hands upwards, over her top. Upwards to her breasts, which are, incidentally, quite something. His hands engulf her completely and she sees his mouth drop open as his fingers move on her. He is enjoying it as much as she is. His tongue peeps out and moistens his lips even as his fingers lift her hem and slide seeking under it. No bra meets his searching fingers, just pink, soft, deserted housewife who hasn't been touched for months. Immediately his head comes up and his mouth is loving her, a nipple caught securely between his lips and lightly tugged into his warm mouth.

Bella is a woman, not a girl, and doesn't need teasing and coaxing and warming up and preparation. She needs action. Barely believing her own daring she reaches for the top button on his pants, then the one beneath and the one beneath, until they're all popped free. He has no underwear.

And as far as standard issue equipment goes, there is nothing standard about his. Well, Bella has only seen one other penis in her life, so she hasn't much to compare this one to. The one she's familiar with is actually really lovely as far as penises go, but imagine the most splendid one you've ever seen, and then imagine one twice as splendid. That still doesn't come close.

The man's splendid penis has a homing device and is pointing directly to where it wants to be. It's very straight, if you're looking at it front on, but in profile it has a slight upwards curve, as if it's happy. Whatever happens when he enters her with that marvel, it's going to feel incredible.

Right now, she's wearing jeans, so access is out of the question, and it's something that has to be addressed right away. His hands reach to her waistband and undoes things just as quickly as her hands did his. A mostly sensible woman, she is wearing mostly sensible underwear. At first they appear to be practical and sober navy panties, but as his fingertips slip smoothly up over her her ass to shimmy the jeans off he discovers rows of perky little ruffles.

He smiles, and has to turn her over to look. She's blushing furiously, and colors even more when when he cups her cheeks with appreciative hands. A sudden sharp pain tells her he has either pinched or nipped her. When he bends his head and the tiny pain comes again she knows he did it with his teeth. She frowns sharply over her shoulder at him, but he isn't in the least repentant, though he flips her back over.

"Here?" he asks, his fingers stroking lightly over the fine extra cotton layer between her legs. Does he mean here as in where he is touching her, or here as in on the sofa? She doesn't know quite what he can feel down there, if anything much at all, because her arousal is in no way as prominent as his. But he's in the right general place, that's for sure. Oh yes. He applies a little more pressure, seeking, and she gives away that he's found what he's looking for by arching up involuntarily. She hears a whimper. Did someone let the dog in? Apparently they did, although she doesn't have a dog. She does now, if she only knew it. She has a dog who wants to lick her up one side and back down the other.

And what else do dogs do?

(A momentary sidetrack now. Please forgive me, but I want to explain something)

While they were courting, Bella felt her husband was somewhat cold towards her. He resisted all her attempts at intimacy, and even made her feel a little slutty for desiring him. Since getting a ring on her finger and exchanging vows, he has proved a passionate and thrilling lover, but there is something she has heard of, and read of, and thought of, that he absolutely will not do, because he thinks it's lewd and impersonal. He has told her that it's animalistic, and bestial, and when he makes love to her, he will only do so as long as they face one another, front to front. This thing she so dirtily wonders about during her sinful fantasies is called "doggy-style", and it demands that she have her back to him during the act of love. But it's never going to happen. Or is it?

There's a desk in the living room, an elegant article which her husband has explained is French Provincial, or something, with cabriole legs, and a scalloped apron (whatever that is). It's white and gold. There's a mirror behind it. The mirror has never seen anything like this before - as the lady of the house is now being led to the desk and being made to stand facing it with her hands upon its surface, as a man moves to stand behind her, peeling down her knickers over her ass cheeks while he nuzzles at her neck, watching them both. From what you can see in the reflection, the pretty lady could be fully clothed. Actually though, she's bare from the hips down, and one of the man's hands is coming forwards, softly around her lightly curved belly to hold her steady as his other hand slips over her derriere and between her thighs.

"Spread your legs," he whispers. The woman in the mirror watches as Bella wordlessly complies.

"Stand on your toes," he whispers. What on earth is he going to do?

"Bend forward a little," he whispers. He must have bent his knees a little, because his reflection behind her seems lower.

Then she feels it, she feels him. He has his hand on his cock and the head of it is between her labia, seeking the way in.

"You're going to have to help me out a little here," he murmurs, eyes holding hers in the mirror, and her mouth pops open in an astonished "Oh," as she bends more, spreads more, tilts her pelvis, and then pushes back. He's there, he's right there, he's right there. It's stretching and filling and initially awkward, and she has never felt this depth or this angle before. She could just about die. She thinks she might. Is her will up to date? She can only think coherent thoughts until he starts moving, because once he's moving her brain has left the planet. His hands move to pull off her top and hold her bouncing tits; his hands trail over her abdomen and he plays with her clit, but best of all, his hands take her by the hips to hold her stationary as he pumps, and he is muttering, "This is what you look like when you're fucked. Are you watching us? Look at you." A bloom spreads down her throat and across her breasts. She never knew. Meanwhile, his mouth is at her neck, at her ear, at her throat, and sometimes his head is thrown back and his mouth is just open, panting and grunting.

He fucks her until her knees give out, then he moves her to the corner of the couch and bends her over it, with one of her legs hooked up over the arm. Still behind her, he fucks her until she's giddy.

"This is going to kill me. I have to come," he groans finally. "Get on your hands and knees. Oh, Jesus you're beautiful. You are the most beautiful shape, you're exquisite. I can't even tell you how beautiful you are..."

She's on the cushions, hands and knees, like an animal. He's behind her. He's in her.

"Can you come like this?"

Fingers at her clit, he tries so hard, but she can feel him gathering force. Like a volcano, he's going to blow. His balls slap against her, and she can feel an answering force, called urgently by his fingers and by the relentless slide inside her, the place he keeps hitting. She was panting and whimpering, now she starts to keen. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop."

It hits her first, and he shouts at how hard she clenches down on him. While the waves crash he keeps going, and when she drops her head, spent, she feels him pulling out, and then wet warmth shoots onto her back, trickling down the side of her waist.

"Stay there, honey, while I clean you up," he urges, and bunches up the t-shirt he'd discarded on the floor, using it to wipe her. He's as gentle as can be now, sitting back down on the sofa smiling, pulling her to kneel across him, curling strands of her long hair around his fingers and pressing fluttering kisses against her still unsteady heartbeat.

"Well, that was nice, and so's this," he murmurs.

She's prepared to allow herself a few more minutes of forgetting to remember that she has a husband to whom she pledged faithfulness, and she sighs, eyes closing, as she's enfolded into a hug against the broad copper chest.

"I should go," the man says, before she has to tell him the same thing, and he stands. He doesn't bother with the t-shirt (it has damp spots) but pulls the jeans on, towering above her where she sits, boneless.

There's no need to say anything else, and what would you say anyway? Bye now, fuck you very much?

Outside the house the man who was a wolf becomes a wolf again, his nose and chin lengthening into a muzzle, a bushy pennant of a tail sprouting from his behind, and his hands reaching to the ground just in time to become paws. The carriage of his head is more upright than your average wolf, as though a gene or two from a prize-winning german shepherd has been blended in there somewhere, or as if he's just actually a little more self-aware and proud than your average wolf. He melts into shadows, padding silently, tongue lolling with the warmness of the late afternoon, and he contemplates the days vigors.

The grandmother will never tell anybody about the man who attacked and molested her in the barn, because to do so would certainly expose her infidelity. The mother will never tell about the man who accosted and coerced her in her own home, because to do so would certainly expose her infidelity. And the girl will never tell, because she quite liked him, and she wouldn't want her father and grandfather to go hunting him with a big gun.

And the manwolf? He liked them all, but he particularly liked the girl. She was pretty and bold, and he wants to ask her out on a date. You can't reasonably date someone while gratifying the unmet sexual needs of their mother and grandmother. It's not nice, so the activities with the mother and the grandmother are never to be repeated.

As far as the girl goes, he'll take it slow. He'll do nothing but kiss her for the first few weeks, and he won't steal any bases. She's a sensuous little thing and it will test his discipline, but it will do him good, and a few weeks' abstinence will make him feel new again. New for her.

And since he knows where she lives, it's the easiest thing in the world to be casually around, and to run into her one morning entirely by "accident".

"You!" she exclaims in astonishment and the saucy little miss knows exactly who he is (well, not really, she doesn't, but she recalls the circumstances of their meeting) and she remembers that he didn't take her when he could have, and she is both flattered and piqued.

They talk, and they talk and his hands stay resolutely in his pockets, and they meet "accidently" on other occasions, always in a public place, and it's not long before she says one afternoon, "My family are having a party. Would you like to come?"

Oh yes, he would like to come, but not to her family's party. The right time, and the right place, he'll come all right. He'll come all night.

"I'd love to attend," he answers.

And there they all are when he arrives, her extended family, crowded around the one jewel in the family crown, their adored Renesmee. If any of the men suspect that he has touched her, they'll tear him apart. He wouldn't be easily torn apart, but the fight wouldn't be pleasant.

Renesmee makes the introductions, and he is regarded warily by a father, two uncles, and a grandfather. Really, the father and grandfather should be shaking the wolfman's hand again and again. Since they returned from their trips, the two husbands have found their wives horny, experimental and assertive. Quite wild and delicious, too. The two husbands have had their lights fucked out, repeatedly. In the post-coital stupor that has lasted weeks they try to muster frowns at him, but he can look back at them guilt-free, and with the noblest of intentions. By now he knows he wants to marry Renesmee, and be with her for always.

Then two aunties are face-to-face with him, and they're cautious, too. Yes, it's nice that Nessie has a boyfriend, yes, Christ he's handsome, yes, all right, if Nessie's happy they're happy, and will he be at all the family gatherings? Because Christ he's handsome.

Then the mother and the grandmother.

"Bella, Esme, this is Jacob," Renesmee enthuses, all unaware.

It's another hot day. Bella and Esme both flush, squirming inwardly and assailed by memories. They can't exchange knowing glances, because neither knows about the other. Each of them thinks though, that darling Renesmee is one lucky, lucky girl.

"How nice to meet you," they both nod.

"My pleasure," says Jacob, sincerely.

.

.

.

Ridiculous, I warned you. This story doesn't bear scrutiny, I know that. He didn't use any protection, I know. (Somehow I wasn't prepared to write that a wolf went running around in the forest night and day with condoms tied to his leg). I just wanted to write what might happen after the big bad wolf "gobbled" (snigger) the grandmother, and then "gobbled" (snigger) the girl - wouldn't he go straight around and "gobble" (snigger) the mother too?

And you know where she says, "Why Grandmother, what big eyes you have?" and the wolf says, "All the better to see you with my dear"? What if the girl said. "Why Grandmother, what a big dick you have?" and the "grandmother" said, "All the better to f**k you with my dear." (snigger)

I am a twelve year old boy. No I'm not.