A Call from the Heart

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“Are you sure it’s safe to be going out this late, Dr Dunstan?”

The concern in the voice stopped the man who turned and faced his Housekeeper. Verena had been nursemaid and nanny in his childhood and now the matronly, grey-haired woman kept his house. He smiled reassuringly at her.

“If I cannot be back by dark, I will keep well away from danger,” he replied.

Verena smiled sadly at the determined man before her. She could scarcely believe it was over thirty five years since Dunstan had been born. He was now a doctor, like his father before him, but neither of his parents was alive to see it. Both had died over ten years earlier during a plague that that ravaged the town. It was luck, or fate, Dunstan had been away studying and she had gone to visit her sister that had saved them.

Dunstan had grown into a fine man, tall and broad like his father and inheriting his mother’s fair hair and ocean-blue eyes. A light-blond goatee beard adorned an expressive, sensual mouth. He was liked and respected in his home town and popular with his patients. His practice was both successful and busy. There had been a call for him to visit a pregnant woman, heavy with her first child, on the outskirts of town. Even with his horse, Dunstan might not get home before darkness fell.

This night of all nights.

The eve of All Saints’ Day.

Allhallows Eve.

“You will take care?” Although phrased as a question, the tone brokered no argument.

“I will, Verena. If I am not back before dark, lock the house and I will return before daybreak.”

“I understand, Doctor,” Verena nodded. Impetuously she gave him a hug that was returned with equal affection. “Be safe,” she whispered, as he disappeared through the door.

****

Dunstan growled as he trudged through the thick foliage. The mother-to-be was now fine, but it had taken much longer than he had anticipated. He would never get back home before dark. He left his horse tethered inside the forest that encircled half of the town and sought shelter from the oncoming storm he could feel in the air. He stopped, suddenly certain the sound of voices had carried to him. Glancing in the direction the moon would rise that night, but not espying its light, Dunstan veered from his course.

Now that he could hear the voices, he felt anger rise within him.

“Please, I am innocent, I did not touch Morton’s cow. You must believe me, please.”

The sound of flesh on flesh made Dunstan’s jaw clench and he hastened forward.

“Silence, Nosferatu,” came a harsh, uncultured voice. “Your kind is as bad as those that feed on us. Well, no more. We will leave you tied here for the sun to take care of.”

“But it will take days for me to die,” the first voice sobbed. “And I have done nothing except spurn your unwanted advances, Morton.”

Dunstan stopped to peer at the scene before him and felt his stomach roil. A half-naked youth was tied to a tree, his face and chest bearing the bruises that spoke of his ill-treatment. His trousers were also torn, revealing the skin at his hip and a wisp of the hair at his groin. Dunstan recognised Ranald as the captive, as well as Morton and two of his cronies. Drawing himself to his full height, he strode forward and demanded angrily:

“Just what do you think you are doing?” He purposely directed his question at the weakest of the group, Morton’s men; Rodney and Owen. “Do you want to hang?”

“No, sir, Dr Dunstan, sir,” Rodney spoke quickly. “But Master Morton here says it was Ranald as killed his cow and we need to take care of him if no one else will.”

“Ranald has lived peacefully amongst us for the last month, what would possess him to act so out of character? Moreover,” he continued, not allowing anyone to answer. “As I and the town’s Mayor can attest, Morton’s cow did not have blood drained from it. It was savaged by some form of fell beast that fed on its flesh.”

Rodney and Owen turned surprised eyes on Morton.

“What does it matter how the cow died?” Morton snarled. He shoved his long, dark hair away from his face to glower menacingly at Dunstan. “He’s Nosferatu.”

“And he rejected you, so you take perverted revenge. No one deserves to suffer as Ranald would. He would die of thirst slowly and painfully. If you do not all leave instantly I will report you to Edmund and, as town Mayor, he can confiscate all your possessions to compensate Ranald for your mistreatment of him.”

“You tricked us, Master Morton,” Owen rumbled. “We’ll not be punished because of something between you and the boy.”

Dunstan gave a silent sigh of relief as Owen turned and Rodney went with him, their mutual grumblings fading. He glanced quickly at Ranald. As their eyes met for the first time, Dunstan felt a sudden jolt throughout his body. It was as though he was seeing someone he had known all his life. He gave himself a mental shake. He still had Morton to deal with.

“You’ll be sorry, Dunstan,” Morton hissed sibilantly. güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri “You’ll get yours.”

Dunstan waited for the other man to leave before rushing forward to begin untying the captive young man. He had known of Ranald’s existence and briefly seen the exquisitely beautiful man, but never eye to eye. Dunstan recognised the feeling of attraction, but there was more, something deeper he did not understand.

“Thank you, Dr Dunstan,” Ranald whispered as one hand came almost free, then his eyes widened on a sight behind his benefactor and he cried desperately. “Behind you!”

The warning came too late and Ranald felt ill at the sickening crunch of wood on bone as the branch wielded by Morton connected with Dunstan’s skull. He could only pray the doctor was neither dead nor would be permanently damaged by the ferocity of the blow.

“There’s no way I’m leaving this night without having surfeit of your body, Nosferatu,” Morton grinned evilly, tossing the branch aside.

As cruel hands began to tear at the remnants of his clothing, Ranald tried desperately to resist. His kind were stronger than humans, but not to the same extent as his more deadly Vampire brethren. He sobbed with pain and sorrow as more hard blows to his unprotected stomach and groin robbed him of strength and breath. He had already spent some time in Morton’s clutches and had not fed which weakened him further. He knew he would not be able to fully free the hand Dunstan had partially untied nor would he be able to stop his would-be rapist taking that which he had sworn only to give to his life-mate. He was untouched and the thought of his impending ravishment had tears sliding down his cheeks.

One of his legs was taken in a hard grip and forced around Morton’s waist; the other man’s breath fetid as he gripped tightly to Ranald’s hair and crushed his mouth against his captive. Ranald could feel the evidence of Morton’s arousal pressing against his buttocks.

“Please do not do this. I beg you,” he husked, his voice rough with tears.

“I’ve dreamt of having you,” Morton laughed coldly. “There’s not a man alive as could stop me now.”

Ranald eyes closed as he felt Morton push forward. They flew open again at a shriek of fear and snarl of fury. Ranald could hear the sounds of the life-or-death struggle that was taking place behind him, but was unable to turn enough to see. He concentrated instead on freeing his hand. As the limb became loose from its bindings the shrieks turned into gurgles and then silence descended. Ranald shivered as he strained to free his still-tied hand. Then he stopped and stared.

It was not a man who had saved him. Instead a werewolf, whose gold and caramel fur glinted in the moonlight, stood before him. Even if Ranald had been unable to see that Dunstan’s body had vanished from where it lay, he would still recognise the man within the beast. He gave a nervous smile, unsure of just how much the Lycanthrope would understand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He watched as the beast cocked his head from side to side like a confused puppy. Then the werewolf stepped closer, nose twitching as he scented Ranald. Ranald shivered again as hot breath caressed his throat then across his chest. He gasped as he realised the direction of the werewolf’s curiosity. A cold nose nuzzled against his groin and he groaned as he reacted.

“Dunstan, please, not here, not like this,” he pleaded.

The wolf-man had eliminated the threat to what he already considered as his mate. Now he was uncertain of how to proceed. The young male was shy, uncertain and yet a beguiling scent called to him and he began to follow its trail down luminescent skin to its origin. He heard a voice but although he could make no sense of the sounds, its tone caught his attention. He rose from where he crouched at his mate’s sex and peered at the beautiful visage.

“Please, Dunstan. Let us leave this place. It is not safe here,” Ranald coaxed. He reached to caress the furred face.

The Lycanthrope growled as he scented Ranald’s blood. He gripped the hand stroking him and nuzzled the bloodied wrist before licking to help it heal. The taste of his mate was as a song in his soul. He realised the other limb was restrained and, with a slash of powerful claws, effortlessly ripped away the rope binding his mate. He whined his distress as the other male immediately scooped up the discarded clothing and began to leave him.

“We must go, Dunstan,” Ranald said, picking up the man’s clothing and heading away from the clearing. A sad sound had him turn back and he gave a smile as he saw the werewolf standing forlornly, looking like a lost puppy. “Oh, Dunstan,” he husked. “I am not leaving you.” He moved to the other man and rubbed his body against warm fur to a sound remarkably like a purr from his relieved mate. “Come with me.” He clasped a hirsute hand and they ran.

Finally satisfied there was enough distance between them and where they had güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri left Morton’s remains, Ranald slowed to a stop. He glanced around, the darkness no bar to his preternatural eyes. He spied a soft, grassy mound within a thicket and led his lover-to-be towards it. He, too, could feel the imminent storm, but that would not stop them.

The werewolf could smell his mate’s growing arousal as they slowed to a walk and then sat together. He gave a low whine as his mate drew him close.

“This is not the place or the way I envisioned my first time,” Ranald sighed. “But I know I have found that for which I left the safety of my home and family to find. I heard your call, Dunstan, the call from your heart and I have answered it. Make us one and bind us forever. Even if you cannot understand my words, I know you feel the same as I. The wolf mates for life and you would not act so if you did not wish to be bound to me. Take me, Dunstan.” He lay down, spreading his legs as the first flashes of lightening split the sky.

The wolf-man’s head had cocked from side-to-side as he listened to the musical sounds his mate made. The invitation to couple was unmistakable and yet the beast hesitated. There was desire for him which set his flesh afire, but there was something else…an anxiety that caused him to whine softly. He snuffled delicately at his mate as thunder rumbled distantly. He trailed down satin-smooth skin to his mate’s sex. He nosed at the velvety sac and then lower again as he pushed slim legs out and back. He scented his lover’s most private entrance and then *knew*what disturbed the beautiful one. He threw his head back and howled as thunder clapped loudly overhead. His yearning was answered. This was *his* mate. *His*. For him and him alone.

Ranald watched as the beast scented him. He did not expect a gentle coupling. He was surprised the werewolf did not attempt to mount him immediately. He could sense and smell the creature’s desire. The sensation of the creature’s moist breath across his skin had his sex hardening and when the shaggy head dropped to scent him intimately, Ranald moaned softly. Then his mate was howling and Ranald blinked. Did the Lycan understand it was his first time? He smiled shyly as the male crouched over him, the cerulean orbs regarding him with a tumult of emotion. He pulled the werewolf to him, rubbing his skin across the furred visage and nibbling gently at lips that framed deadly teeth.

The gentle, loving touches sent a frisson through the Lycan’s form. He responded with equal tenderness, not wanting to bring anything but pleasure to the entrancing creature. He licked down the ivory column of his mate’s neck, pausing to bite carefully, wanting only to mark, not tear. The gasp and wriggle aroused the wolf-man further. He barely noticed the fat drops of rain that began to fall, his senses focused on the beguiling being writhing beneath him. His tongue traversed the smooth chest, pausing to nip with exquisite precision on the pebbled nubs. This time his mate gave a pleasured cry, holding his head at the breast he laved with rasping licks.

Ranald was grateful for the occasional drops of rain that meandered their way through the leafy canopy above him. He was certain that without their cooling influence he would surely ignite. His skin seemed on fire with desire for the werewolf that so lovingly and erotically was learning every inch of his body. He cried out Dunstan’s name as the talented tongue licked his manhood. He felt it taken into the ravenous maw and his hips began an instinctive rise and fall. A strong hand stilled him and the aching rod was licked from root to tip once more. The head was singled out for prolonged attention as the Lycan drank Ranald’s pre-come greedily.

Ranald thrashed, moaning his need, his hands tangling in his lover’s mane as he hurtled towards release. The pressure on his hips vanished and he thrust up as he came, his seed flooding the mouth that swallowed noisily around the flesh it still held. He called Dunstan’s name again and again as he was milked of his crème to lie sated and boneless in a languid afterglow. He whimpered softly as his lover moved lower between his spread thighs. He shuffled a little to ensure he was exposed to his mate, encouraging the final union.

The werewolf reluctantly left his mate’s sex, but knew there were more tastes and textures yet to savour. His mate’s hidden portal was revealed to him and his nostrils flared. Eyes closed, he followed the alluring scent, moving forward until his nose was buried in it. His tongue slid out to lick, adding a new taste to scent. Instantly addicted, craving more, he thrust his tongue forward again and again.

A low moan reached his ears and he relished the pleasured sound. Soft panting, gentle moans and impassioned groans enmeshed together with a rapidly increasing heartbeat to create an intoxicating melody that fed the fire of arousal within him. His hands roamed over heated güvenilir bahis şirketleri flesh, some soft, some hard, to discover fragrant fur and smooth skin. The different textures made him excited in a way unknown before. Finally, he opened his eyes. He stared ravenously at the opening to his mate’s intimacy, wet and slick with his saliva.

Wanting more… needing more… he brought his mouth back to his mate’s body, licking and nuzzling. He heard a whimper, the sound of need penetrating the sensual haze clouding his mind. He leant his head against a now rain and sweat damp, quivering thigh, licking it as he panted harshly. Briefly he leant over the writhing form as if seeking permission, his indigo eyes aflame with want, need and love. They met orbs of scorching sienna that held the same emotions.

“Yes, Dunstan,” Ranald moaned. “Yes.”

A feral look glinted in the wolf-man’s eyes. With a growl, he moved back down the luminescent, rain-wet body, stopping to lick and nip, marking his mate. By the time he reached Ranald’s groin once more, his lover was writhing and pleading, caught up in the fire now racing through his own body. The Lycan howled his joy before pulling apart the satiny globes, his tongue tasting once more before plunging into Ranald’s body again and again.

Everything else ceased to exist. The two males were enveloped in each other, in the sensations coursing through their bodies. The rain, the cold, the hard ground were all forgotten and Ranald felt no pain when his mate finally entered him, one thigh held out to open the slighter man even more. The bigger male instinctively held him down and Ranald let the waves of pleasure cascade over him. The wolf-man thrust into his body again and again enjoying the push into Ranald’s tight sheath.

Ranald moaned as the Lycan changed his angle and brushed across his sweet spot. At the mercy of the stimulation, the Nosferatu felt his excitement mount with each stroke of the long, thick flesh inside him. His own renewed, straining arousal rolled across his belly, the slight friction against the sensitive head making him yearn for a more firm touch.

A fierce grin lighted the Lycan’s face at the cries of pleasure from his mate’s lips. Releasing his grip on the trim thigh, the wolf-man grasped his lover’s engorged shaft. In response his mate lifted his buttocks, grinding wantonly on the rod that impaled him. The werewolf withdrew until only the thick, blunt head of his staff was sheathed. He roughly pumped the arousal in his hand and thrust in a series of short, sharp jabs, relentlessly ramming his mate’s hidden jewel. Dunstan howled as Ranald moaned and writhed, rocking his hips trying to envelop more of the pleasure-giving hardness whilst pushing his own into his mate’s furred fist.

The werewolf watched avidly as Ranald threw his head back, screaming at the intense pleasure. The Lycan howled again when the Nosferatu’s slender shaft pulsed in his hand and a stream of pearlescent cream jetted forth. The thick, warm fluid spattered Ranald’s smooth chest and spilled over the wolf-man’s fingers. As the slighter male rode out the wave of consuming bliss, nearly passing out as his release tore through him, the werewolf eagerly licked his fingers clean. He then blanketed the slighter form with his body to clean the sweet nectar from satin, moon-kissed skin. The sensation of his furred torso against his mate’s sensitised skin was almost too much for the Nosferatu to bear and Dunstan reacted to the soft whimper. A brush of his face against Ranald’s and his weight shifted.

The wolf-man flipped Ranald easily onto his belly. Quickly re-sheathing, the Lycan pushed into the tight passage until his full length was once more snugly ensconced. Now the beast was oblivious to all but his overwhelming need to sink his aching manhood into his mate as deeply as possible and claim him for his own. The second climax had relaxed the smaller male to the extent that the Lycan could thrust as he needed. In a growing frenzy of need and desire the big male drove into clinging heat, knowing instinctively, in every cell, that here he would find all that he needed in this world. Releasing his seed into the irresistible creature writhing under him was more than just desirable it was crucial, it was their ultimate bonding. Finally, the pleasure caught up with him and he threw back his head and bayed his release to the heavens as his seed erupted in a devastating climax.

Drifting, Ranald dimly heard the werewolf’s roar of completion and the sensation of teeth latching onto his neck as liquid heat filled him. Ranald smiled at the werewolf’s exhaustion as he panted heavily in his ear. Hot drops of saliva fell on the back of his neck and the bruising hold on his flanks lightened. He felt the wolf-man’s weight shift. The Nosferatu moaned when his mate’s fur rubbed against the insides of his thighs and then a supple tongue was licking sensitive skin. He relaxed fully and let the Lycan give him a thorough cleansing. He was rolled once more to gaze into the anxious orbs of his new life-mate. He caressed the furred visage tenderly.

“Sleep with me, my love,” he murmured. He settled the big head on his chest, smiling at the way the bigger male tried to wrap around him. With a contented sigh, he let himself drift once more.

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