A Wolf And His Man - 13. Consent

They lay in bed with the weekly digest newspaper, Oli on his back against the pillows, Boris lying crosswise on the bed with one pillow tucked up under his chest as he read to the wolf. The magazine had arrived that morning, and Oli hadn’t had a chance to read it, so he listened with half an ear as Boris practiced his vocabulary and read him the happier stories from the previous weeks news.

“So it turns out this couple who got married actually met when they were kids. They made sandcastles on a beach together, but neither of them remembered it until they found a family photo from her parents,” Boris smiled and rubbed his hand through Oli’s belly-fur, “that’s cute isn’t it? I think it’s cute.” He browsed across the page for a bit. “So this woman had… lock- locked… in syndrome thing, for like thirty years? What is that?”

Oli pulled a face, and froze.

“What?”

Oli rolled over and looked at the article; he grinned, then rolled back over and blinked in an approximation of Morse code. Boris frowned at the article.

“She could only blink? That’s awful… but apparently she took exams and got a degree online,” Boris blinked, “can I do that?”

By blinking? Oli wagged his tail, but he nodded, and nuzzled Boris’s hand. The idea that Boris wanted to further himself and catch up on some of his missed out education made him squirmingly happy.

They worked their way through other articles: a photographer who had put ancient statues in awful scanty clothing, a mountain bike instructor banned from teaching in France for apparently inexplicable reasons, a crystal meth addict who had managed to call the police to report that the product she’d bought wasn’t up to standard and then been instantaneously arrested, a man who had plastic surgery to look like a Ken doll, and a report that dogs could indeed feel jealousy, which came as no surprise to either of them. By the time they reached the correspondence, Boris was blinking long and heavily, his head drooping onto his arms. Oli took the magazine between his teeth and dropped it onto the floor.

Boris rearranged the pillows in a daze. Oli was pulled against him in a one armed hug as the young man dragged the covers over them, and Oli snuggled up against him as Boris became the ‘big spoon’ in their hug. He nuzzled automatically into the back of Oli’s head, breathing against his fur, and all Oli could think about was the sensation of Boris’s heartbeat against his shoulder. Oli was exhausted from the change, but at least his burnt paw no longer really hurt, and he could think of no better place to be than all cuddled up with Boris in his bed. The young man said that he loved him and the sound of the words, whispered again into Oli’s fur as they fell asleep, made him feel warm and squirmy inside.

He’d never felt that way before.

When Oli next woke it was pitch black, the middle of the night, and he was still tired. He rolled over onto his belly and watched Boris. He looked healthier than he had that first time, certainly cleaner, though another trip to the barber in Kemp town wouldn’t go amiss, and his body was no longer quite so gaunt. Three weeks of good food had put a thin layer of flesh on his wiry musculature, and now, lying on his back and unconscious, Oli was drawn to the softness in him, the gentle curves of his chest and belly. He put his head on his paws, and whined unconsciously.

“’s OK, I’m awake.” Boris’s hand walked across the mattress towards him and Oli instantly nosed under his palm: not being in physical contact with the young man was worse than almost anything else. “For a moment I woke up and I thought I was back outside, on the streets.” His fingers moved in Oli’s fur with much more purpose. “I’m so happy I’m here with you.”

“Wrow,” Oli purred in agreement. The idea of Boris out on the streets, even on a calm summer night like the one outside, made Oli shiver in fear. He nuzzled at Boris’s skin, trying to tell the young man that he loved him without words. When he looked up, he found Boris smiling down at him, and Boris’s erection bobbing over his abdomen. Oli swallowed audibly.

“Um…” Boris was blushing, biting his lower lip and looking completely beautiful and very sexy. Oli squirmed, because pressing his own hardness into the mattress wasn’t terribly comfortable. “Can I? I mean… do I have to go to the bathroom?” Boris sounded rather put off at the thought, “I wanted to watch you… I don’t suppose you want to watch me?”

Oli whimpered. It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever been asked, and also one of the most embarrassing. He loved the young man lying in his bed: loved him… wanted him… desired him. He wanted to hold Boris’s hand and kiss him in public, tell anyone who would listen that this was his boyfriend, the man he wanted to spend his life with. And he couldn’t do any of that. Boris had wanted to watch him, achieve a voyeuristic sense of intimacy, and Oli had said no because for all the things in his mind and memory too loud and horrible to let him enjoy himself. But Boris had no such hang ups; he wanted to enjoy himself, he wanted Oli to watch, and boy did Oli want to watch. Hardly darling to believe himself, Oli nosed at Boris’s hand encouragingly.

Boris put one hand in Oli’s fur, the other around his pulsing member and groaned his pleasure. Oli lay with his face inches from the action, torn between watching Boris’s fingers and watching the shapes Boris’s lips made in desire. Every staggered breath and damp sound made the wolf thick with lust, made him happy that the man he loved wanted to share this private moment with him, and as Oli held the yellow gaze as his companion reached climax, he was equal parts in love, in lust, and jealous of Boris’s ability to complete the act. Boris groaned his name and lay panting on the bed to recover the ability to walk. When he returned from cleaning himself up and kissed Oli goodnight, all that the wolf could wonder was how he might find a way to join Boris in his pleasure.

*

“You know the way right?” Boris’s nose twitched as he stood on the stile to get a better view. “I swear we’ve already been past here.”

Oli rolled his eyes and slipped under the five bar galvanised steel gate. For a man who spent roughly three quarters of his life as a wolf, Boris had very little sense of direction. He was a city wolf, and to him, all fields full of sheep looked pretty much the same. The lack of scent trails didn’t help much, because apart from his recent visit with Buddy, Oli hadn’t been home in a few months, and he hadn’t come over the fields since the first snow had fallen before Christmas. There might have been a mess of coloured trails around the fields out the back of the house, but as soon as they had gone more than a mile, those had all disappeared. Now the landscape smelt golden, yellow, green and brown, tainted with salt from the sea nearby, and fluffy with the thick scent of sheep and spring lambs. All the beasts were weaned now, fat and soft and trimming up the summer grass as quick as it could grow. Oli would never even dream of stealing a lamb, he preferred his cooked with mint jelly and mashed potatoes, but that didn’t stop his stomach from grumbling as they walked.

“I said you should have had second breakfast,” Boris pulled up the hem of his shirt and patted his lean stomach, “I’ve mastered the whole pancake thing now.”

Oli frowned. Boris’s mastery of the pancake was still up for debate, and the inside of his kitchen was splattered with little tiny droplets of batter. Watching Boris cook was fun, because his only concession to personal safety was to put on boxers, and he smiled a lot and talked nonsense. There had been a few cooking shows on their television rota for the last month, and Boris had picked up verbal habits from the chefs involved. It was adorably endearing.

They stopped after a couple of hours to sit on a weather-worn wooden bench and look at the view. For miles and miles, there was nothing but rolling green fields, rolling golden fields of oats, and bright patches of yellow rape flowers. Boris fed Oli the last of the treats from his bag and stared out at it all.

“It’s huge, and beautiful,” he jumped up on the bench to spin around and give himself a three hundred and sixty degree view along with a dizzy headache, “it’s a wonder more wolves don’t live round here. It’s perfect.”

Oli shrugged. In truth, there could have been other werewolves living in his immediate vicinity: there were enough out-in-the-sticks farm houses and old tenement cottages around which would give the sort of privacy his parents valued so highly. Werewolf scent paths were not particularly different from human or fox ones, if stronger, and Oli had always been content to stay within his bubble, where things were safe and life was predictable. Not that it had gotten him very far: not many friends, no relationships that lasted longer than a single orgasm, and now a boyfriend whom he couldn’t touch.

They made good time on the second half of the walk. Boris never seemed to know if they were going the right way, and at one point he though they were walking back towards the sea. Oli would have thought the young man would have had a better internal compass after so many years living on his wits. Within a few miles of the village, Oli sniffed at the air and scented his father, and alongside him, the rich scent of Anastasia. Boris smelt it too.

“They go everywhere together don’t they?” Boris wrinkled his nose. “She’s like, the girly-est dog I ever met.”

Oli agreed with his tail, but they still had to follow the mess of mixed scent trails down towards the house, because there was barely a square metre of land where Alexander and Anastasia hadn’t been. Oli hadn’t called his mother to say they were coming, but it was the second day of a full moon, and as they reached the line between neatly mown green grass and the scrubby rough grass of ‘the wild’, the scent of meaty things baking reached both werewolves. Oli raced his boyfriend to the house.

“What’s all of this racket?” Andrea appeared at the back door, apron on and oven gloves in hand. “Hello Oliver, oh-!” she gaped at Boris, who stood smiling like the sun with his fingers in her son’s fur, “you must be Boris.”

“Hi,” Boris seemed shy, so Oli nudged him in the thigh quickly. “It’s nice to meet you again Mrs Volkov. You make excellent salmon soup,” he glanced quickly at Oli, “that was salmon right? I’m not a total idiot?”

Oli wagged his tail. Cute, funny and self-depreciating, Boris ticked all of his boxes. He jumped up and put his paws on Boris’s abdomen, nuzzling his chest. He hated the fact he was too small, and Boris too tall, for him to look at the young man head on.

“Yes dear. Are you both staying for dinner?” Oli tilted his head and dropped one ear inquisitively, “I thought you might be coming, so I got the lamb from the freezer. And there’s mint jelly.”

Oli barked, dancing on his front feet, and Boris smiled, ruffling his thick neck fur.

“Shall I go learn how to make this mint jelly stuff that brings you such joy?” Oli licked his hand delightedly, and Boris rolled his eyes. “The things we do for love, eh?” The young man kissed his muzzle. “And I wanna see your old room this time!”

Boris ended up in the kitchen, being taught knife skills and proper cooking by his mother, and Oli lay under the table at his boyfriend’s feet, happily day dreaming, dozing, and slipping in and out of the thread of conversation.

“That’s such a pretty collar, is it new?”

“Yeah. I have that big leather one, but Oli was given this one at work.”

“Really?” Andrea turned to look at her son, still stirring the stock and gravy mix. “And how is work?”

Oli nuzzled Boris’s calf. He didn’t have to just relay information to Oli’s parents if he had other things to do.

“I don’t mind babe. Oli got given a contract for a big pet store. He’s going to be doing their whole campaign because they like his drawings so much.”

“Oh darling! That’s wonderful!” Andrea smiled warmly. “I’m so proud of you.” She finished up with the gravy and took the chopping board and knife from Boris. “Go on you two, I’ll finish up here. Oliver, give your friend a tour of the house maybe? And go say hi to your father, he’s in the workshop again.”

Oli’s father basically lived in his workshop, especially during the full moon, and Oli often wondered why his mother wasn’t more suspicious. After all, it wasn’t as though Alexander could hold a mitre saw or use a chisel when he had paws. Boris was fascinated by the house, what with it being only the second non-derelict one he had entered during his human adult life, and he poked around in all the knick-knacks on sideboards, shelves and side tables, and Oli followed him everywhere. In his old bedroom, Boris sat on his bed and Oli instantly jumped up to lie across his lap. They snuggled up together on the single mattress, nose to nose, with Boris stroking his fur and murmuring wordless intonations of love. Once the house started to smell like imminent dinner, they pulled themselves up, Boris adjusted himself quickly and straightened his clothes, and they padded out into the garden.

Oli lead his boyfriend across the well-manicured lawn towards his father’s workshop and shouldered open the door. The carpentry workshop always smelt wonderful, a thousand shades of yellow and gold; linseed oil, cedar, mahogany and beeswax. Boris was fascinated by the place, and Oli watched him pad around the room, picking up tools and offcuts, touching smooth grained polished wood and examining pieces that were half finished. Oli stood and stared at the cork board covered in photos and sketches of his father’s previous works. He made beautiful things, wonderful things, everything from bespoke staircases to gorgeous beds and matching blanket chests, but never had he ever made anything for his son. Oli huffed softly as Boris’s hand landed on his head.

“Don’t worry babe, your furniture is plenty nice.”

Oli looked up at the man he loved through a pinkish cloud of love. Boris always knew exactly what to say.

They exited the workshop through the back door and Oli barked in shock and anger at the sight that was presented to them. Boris stepped back and nearly trod on his paw.

“Whoa! OK, that’s a thing.” He spun around to face the open door to the workshop. “By the way, dinner’s ready. See ya.”

Oli practically had to run to catch up with his boyfriend as Boris crossed the lawn, visibly shaken. He pressed against the young man’s leg and was surprised but pleased when Boris bent down, gathered Oli up under his forelegs and back feet and lifted him bodily against his chest. After a moment of fidgeting, Oli found a position that was comfortable, and nuzzled into Boris’s neck as the werewolf carried him. Boris’s heart was beating double-time against his ribs, and Oli sent waves of fluffy orange reassurance and pink adoration his way.

Alexander and Anastasia disentangled themselves in time not to be late for dinner, and the minted lamb was served for Andrea and Boris with creamy mashed potatoes, new peas rolled in butter and a julienne of carrot and sweet parsnip. The assembled canines ate their lamb dinners from their bowls, though Oli pushed his away from his father and ate on the other side of Boris’s feet, and they had a few sautéed potatoes along with the thick marrow bones, meats and rich gravy drippings. Anastasia was the only one whose meat was paired with kibble biscuits. Boris fed Oli little orange and purple vegetable slivers from his fingers and Oli couldn’t help but broadcast how happy it made him to have the beautiful young man think of him as they ate.

Boris insisted on helping to clear up, so Oli rubbed against his calf and went to sprawl on the thick knotted rug in front of the unlit fireplace. He loved the texture, and rubbed around on his spine and shoulders for a bit before relaxing enough to allow his muscles to conform to the shape of the floor. Good food always made him sleepy, and no one quite made gravy like his mother did.

It was Anastasia who disturbed him, nosing at his ruff, wanting to play. Oli turned back his ears and kept his chin very firmly on the floor, obviously disinterested in her game. After a moment she tried again, nosing at his ear then licking his cheek. Oli whipped his head round and snarled at her. Rebuffed but not repelled, the fluffy Alsatian simply stood over him, and then lay down in her attempt to show companionship. She nuzzled his muzzle, and Oli gritted his teeth in annoyance. He’d had enough, and having Anastasia being all loving and sweet with him just made him shudder under his skin, because he’d seen what she’d been doing not half an hour earlier with his father. Oli stood up, flexing his shoulders, and sent Anastasia sprawling to the floor with a yelp.

In a moment, his father was there, leaping to the defence of his girl, and Oli found himself staring his father head on, hackles up and shoulders hunched, all his fur standing out on end. Oli knew the argument as clear as though it was spoken. He was treating Anastasia like a dog, because she was one; and it angered his father even more than the fact that his son wasn’t even capable of being a semi-decent werewolf. There was a long moment where their glaring growling match could have developed into a full-on fight, but Oli backed down. He had to: the knowledge he was not as strong as his father was burnt into his survival instinct.

Oli gave up the good rug for the carpet, but Anastasia still wanted to pile onto him and have him adore her. Every time she tried to lay down with him, Oli got up and paced away. By the time Boris came in, his mother following with tea and biscuits, both the human and canine suitable varieties, Oli was tired of being constantly disturbed. He slumped to the floor by Boris’s feet, and watched with one eye open as the Alsatian got up, yet again, and followed him over. When she began to sniff at his belly, Oli kicked her with a well-placed hind foot.

From his position on the sofa, Alexander snarled.

“Well of course he treats her like a dog,” Boris stroked Oli’s thick fur as he spoke. “She is a dog, not a werewolf.”

Alexander growled at their visitor, ears laid back over his skull. Anastasia gave up on her mission to make nice with Oli, and jumped up onto the sofa, rubbing her whole body length along Alexander before she lay down. He craned his neck and nuzzled her. Boris sniffed, a look of general disgust passing over his features.

“You do know your husband is fucking the Alsatian?”

The room went incredibly silent, and everyone except Anastasia started at Boris in shock. Oli could barely believe what his ears had heard, but his mother only smiled faintly and sipped her tea.

“Yes dear,” her voice was steady and level as one of his father’s hand hewn oak tables, “she gives him something I can’t. Milk and sugar?”