The moon reflected on the lakes surface, a silvery disk of light upon its tranquil waters.  It’s deep, black depths hidden beneath; cold and secluded.  The sounds of the night fell across the silent tableau; the croaks of frogs and the rustle of the rushes mixing with the woodland sounds of night birds, the creak of branches and the murmuring of the leaves in the breeze. The large silvery back of a pike broke the water causing the reflected moon to ripple and distort before the night returned to the hushed stillness of before.
The moon continued rise oblivious to the world below.
A shadow moved in the woods, appearing and disappearing as silent and fluid as a ghost.  It stopped in the darkness of the trees, hunching in the shadows before the loch, watching.  There was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of an animal sniffing the air, and then it came forward out of the blackness, ambling quickly towards the water head high and ears pricked for the slightest out of place noise; a strigoi.  It was not large for one of its kind, but the short black fur that covered most of its body flowed over tight corded muscle without the padding of fat that most had before the winter.  Unlike many of the strigoi that still carried the white fur of youth on their belly this one wore it proudly upon its back; a stripe of white that ran the length of its spine, widening at the shoulders before thinning to reach a diamond point between its unnaturally blue eyes.  The only mar was a short line above the right eye that was devoid of fur, an old scar. Reaching the waters-edge it lowered its muzzle shattering the image of the moon as it lapped quickly at the icy waters causing the drip and soft splash to join the symphony of the night.
Its thirst now sated the strigoi turned from the scattered surface and sat upon its hunches in the grass.  The long tongue that had lapped so readily at the water hung down from its damp jaw as it gently panted, waiting and patient in the way of its kind; the hunter.  Not for them the crashing and gorging like the ursa and hern.  No they were the lean killers, waiting and impatient, silent till the kill, overbearing with power or numbers.  Caring at its time and killer at its.
The was a flicker on the far hillside and the man stood naked in the grass, blue eyes fixing again to the orange flicker.  The long hair, starkly white in the moons glow, flowed down his back in a waterfall the length of his spine.  Laying against the pale skin of his shoulder the tips brushed against the taut buttocks a few strands of it blowing in the breeze.  A drop of water fell on to the firm muscles of his chest, cold in the chill of the night, he raised his arm, eyes still fixed on the distant light, and wiped the remaining moisture from the hard lines of his jaw.  Hands and skin did have some advantage over paws and fur.  He turned his head, feeling the soft caress of his hair as he did, so unlike his normal fur, and listened with the enhanced senses of the strigoi.  Against the gentle noises of the night he heard the crackle of fire and the sounds of man.  He turned from the sight, brushing away a length of hair that had fallen across his eyes, one finger moving over the curve of the scar that bisected the eyebrow.
He had gotten it on his first hunt when the pack had run into an ursa and its cubs rather than the hern that they had scented earlier.  It had been down wind and they had come upon it quickly, without the cubs they would have ignored each other and departed wary of the others strength but with the cubs to protect the mother had attacked them.  They had fled before it not having the strength after a long period of hungry to bring down such a large opponent.  The few who tried to attack back got batted aside by its huge paws and soon thought better of it and joined the retreated, most with shallow cuts along their flanks from its long curved claws.  One had broken its leg so would most likely die unable to keep up with the pack, and one other had been caught in the ursa’s embrace and crushed.  He had received a gash above his eye from a glancing blow that had sent him flying away from the struggle.
The sounds of man grew louder around the distant firelight; though most animals, without the gifts of those akin to his, would not be able to hear it at all.  The tight muscles of his stomach bunched and the strigoi ran over the grass, paws making no sound on the soft banks of the lake.

The flames from the fire leapt and twirled in the air, burning brightly and filling the clearing with the smell of smoke and herbs, mixing with the aromatic smell of woman.  The strigoi edged towards the scent of their bodies; attracted to the aromatic signal more strongly than if it was food lying ahead.  Moving forward, concealed within the darkness of the trees, he began to feel the pull on his skin as he approached; this grove was like the other place, where he had stepped forward and been gifted with this twin form by the Lady.
The Lady could never be seen directly, to look upon her was to die, but the strigoi had seen her shadow among the woods and had felt her gaze behind them when they drank never looking to see the reflection in the water.  That grove had been her place; they had felt her power, attracted to it by something stronger than senses.  None of then had entered the clearing at first, too frightened by the intangible force within, though all that the clearing contained was a large stone.  He had been the only one to enter, bolder than his kin yet wary still.  He had circled the stone several times before moving closer than the clearings edge.  The boulder had a dip in the top it was filled with something red that wasn’t blood, he had smelt it and been reminded of herbs.  As he lowered his muzzle to drink he had felt the lady looking at him over his shoulder and heard the pack flee.  He lowered his tongue and lapped at the strange liquid and saw the man staring at him from the pool.  The Lady never needed benediction, never asked for thanks, what she did was mystery and he had felt her touch that day.
The pull grew as he approached and he found himself once again in the shape of a man.  He gazed into the dell seeing the men gathered at the other end; a sense of raw sexuality and pure violence hanging over them like a mist.  Nearer to him, around the smoking fire, were the sacrifices; about a dozen young girls, none more than eighteen years of age, most nearer to their sixteenth year, and all of them were virgins.  Their bodies were covered with various oils, they danced uncoordinated and hazily around the blaze onto which an odd green herb had just been thrown.  Dark robed priestesses, waiting for the signal to be given so that they could begin the rite, surrounded them in a loose enclosing circle.
He knew the rite, had seen it before.  Knew that men fought for the honour of being involved in the chase that was soon to follow.
The order of the ceremony was a simple one.  As soon as the rising moon came fully over the tip of the standing stone at the clearings centre the girls would be driven out into the woods, the men chasing after them.  When the morning sun came the girls would return, virgins no more, some would be crying and all would be bleeding; for, if they did not bleed, they were beaten until the blood came.
And some, more than a few, of the girls would return with strange smiles on their faces crowned with flowers and circlets of leaves.
His eyes remained fixed to the prancing girls, their bodies a dancing seduction to him.  His eyes fixed on them one at a time travelling over them before moving on to the next.  His gaze fixed upon one in particular, his eyes moving slowly over her swaying form; her high-arched feet, the length of narrow ankles, long shapely legs, silken thighs, the swell of her velvet buttocks, the spine that he longed to follow with his tongue all the way to the nape of her neck, the soft curves of her stomach.  And the breasts.  Ah, by the heavens, those things.  All the females of his kind kept their nipples hidden under their fur, accept when weaning the newborn.  These women had them pushed forward, displayed them.  He remembered coming blind into the world, as all strigoi did, searching for the teat and enjoying the warmth of his mothers milk as he sucked upon it.  This girl had them before her, he longed to hold those soft globes in his hands, to suck upon the tips as he had when he was new to the world, desperate for warmth and nourishment and feeling the terror at not being able to survive.  He remembered the knowledge, as the warmth of the milk filled him, that he would live.  The relief and the pleasure as the warmth ran into his stomach.  He longed to hold her to him and recreate that first moment of comfort.  His tongue came out and slowly travelled over his lips in anticipation.
He was going to have her.
The priestess who had been watching the path of the moon suddenly gave out a cry to the group circling the girls and he heard the slap of a switch against flesh.  The girls milled about near the fire, one cried out as she was struck, yet none of them fled.  They reminded him of frightened mares running around tossing their heads causing their hair to wave about.  The girls twisted right and left, jumping and turning trying to avoid the stinging bite of the switches but more afraid of leaving the light of the fire for what they knew awaited them in the darkness of the woods.  They could have withstood the sting of a switching far longer but then they saw the men running as hard as the could across the clearing towards them, rushing silently, arms pumping by their sides and their eyes wild with lust.
They broke, fleeing in all directions, away from the fire, the switches and the wild, hungry men that followed close behind.  The red head he had fixed upon flew along quickly entering the woods not far from where he stood in the shadow.  Her long legs moved her quickly over the dried leaves of autumn, wild to get away from the beasts behind.  Fast though she was he could have been upon her within moments but, with the skill of a predator, he followed close behind.  Followed until they were deep inside the trees among the shadows and shafts of light.  When she entered a small grove thick with ferns, where the glow of stars and moon filtered through the thick tangle of branches above, he made his move.
He caught her in his arms pulling her against him.
She screamed.
He threw her to the ground where his senses told him the ferns were thickest, the landing still knocked the wind from her and for a second she was still.  Not for the strigoi was the savage penetration; he wished to explore, to smell, to feel and to taste.  He remembered the momentary feel of her skin against his; she felt like rose petals, velvety, silken, and fragrant.  Above all he desired to drink her substance.  In the darkness she was already kicking out, screaming, clawing with her nails at where she hoped his face was.  He buried his face in the most exciting place his senses could find: her groin.  His tongue lapped enthusiastically back and forth across her, running between her nether lips, tasting the folds of her sex.  As he did so he heard her screams and cries and struggles turn into something else entirely; her body lay still beneath him, her thighs no longer trying to clamp together to keep him out.  He licked harder, allowing his tongue to explore the structures that did not exist on a strigoi.  Delve… the area was soft and so affluent in its taste.  Her legs began to kick out fiercely again, but this time the blows were not aimed at him.  His exploration found a small nub, something else to suck on.  His lips curled around it and he sucked, hard.  She cried out now with a mixture of moans, howls, and gasps interspersed with wild laughter, giving voice to such noises that would shame any who heard them.  The length of her body that he had so admired arched up towards the dappled sky, the smooth globes of her buttocks pounding against their bed of ferns.  He tried to pull away unsure as to what she was doing or whether he was hurting her but her hands grabbed his head, tangling in his hair, and her thighs clamped down capturing him there, not trying to force him away.  He had a sudden desire to drink her dry; using his tongue and lips he licked and sucked harder and firmer than before in an attempted to do just that.
Her sex was wet and swollen but that was normal, strigoi females also did this; but what was not so normal to him was the heat of her body.  She heated like a twig placed in the coals of a fire, it felt like she was suffering from a high fever and he could hear the rapid drumming of her heart, feel the rush of blood as it flowed through her.  It grew stronger and stronger, continuing on and on, till her body almost vibrated beneath his ministrations.  Suddenly she reared up, releasing his head, and cried, “Fill me!  Quench me!  Please, do it now!  Now!”
He knew what she wanted but he also knew of the pain that it would cause.  Words filled his brain, human words and speech never spoken, he tried, “Hurt.”  It was little more than a snarl from between his unpractised lips yet she understood him.
“Gods below!”  Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him to her, her nails digging into the hard flesh of his back, drawing blood in her need to have him closer.  He could feel the silky skin of her body pressing itself against him and the tremulous want of the flesh beneath. “Right now I don’t give a damn about pain!  I need it!  Please!  Now!”
But she did care.
Pushing her spread legs further apart he grabbed his shaft, turgid since he had seen the dance it was now solid due to his banquet and the intense mixture of aromas that fogged the air around her femininity.  The head was larger than when he was in his natural strigoi form and he feared that it would hurt her, but the little cries of desire and the feel of her pressed so firmly against him were too great.  He positioned himself at her weeping entrance and, releasing his rod, thrust forward, pushing the large glans into her.
As he forced his admission into her most intimate area she fell back amongst the ferns.  Her hand that had been clutching at his back was now pressed against her mouth as she bit down on it in an attempt to suppress her scream.  Her body lay quiescent beneath his, breathing heavily and covered in sudden perspiration.  As he made to thrust again she quickly brought up her hand and pressed it flat against his chest.
“Wait,” she whispered.  Her breathing was deep and rapid, not quite panting, as she fought through the pain and shock of his initial invasion.  “The sacrifice is made.  I can feel the blood.  Let the bull of the forest, the male force take this homage.  As I was selected by lot and honoured to do, I offer him a woman’s pain, terror and blood.  Might he receive it from me.”
The demi-strigoi, at that moment, was nearer to being a man than he had ever been before; he tried to draw away.  Words ringing in his head as he attempted to explain, to say ‘Enough, you are bleeding. Your god should be content’.  However, all that came out from his mouth was a strangled, “No.”  He pulled further back trying to free his member from the tight embrace of her warmth.
Her arms once again surrounded him as she pressed her lips to his.  He felt the butterfly beating of her heart as her breasts were flattened against the smooth muscles of his chest, the hard points of her nipples poking into him.  Her lips parted and she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, pulling on it before biting down so hard that her teeth met through it.  The red of rage momentarily brushed away all strigoi and man turning him into what she wanted, reducing him to a primal being, conscienceless and savage.  He shoved his full length into her, completing the penetration with a vengeance, cruelly and finally in one hard thrust.  Her body was agonisingly tight around him as he rammed himself through the last remnants of her virgin barrier and painfully stretched the muscles within.
For a second he believed that he had killed her with that act of savagery, because as he did it her skin suddenly went cold and he heard, as well as felt, her heartbeat falter.  He stopped fully inside of her channel, feeling the cold perspiration that suddenly covered her against his body, frozen in an instant of horror at what he thought was her death at his hands, but then she stirred.  Tears formed in her eyes and rolled away down the sides of her face, but her body was beginning to heat up faster than before, faster and faster, while seemingly against her will he felt the throbbing begin again, the deep pounding need of her sex.  Tears became droplets in the air as she shoke her head from side to side rapidly, a frantic movement of desperation.
“Please, no,” she sobbed, “It hurts too much.  Don’t do it, please. I can’t stand it again.”
“No longer!” he said.  Slowly drawing himself back he thrust forward filling her again, slower, allowing her formally untouched passage to adjust to this new feeling.  For one moment she was perfectly balanced on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain, then pleasure tipped the scales and caught her up in its arms filling her with its deep burning need.  Her hips rose to meet the next thrust and the thrust after that, her head fell back as the delight of this new feeling filled her.
He reared above her eyes closed yet all the other senses telling him what she was feeling and doing.  One of her arms lay wrapped around the back of his neck holding her shoulders off the ground, her nails scratching his shoulder as her pleasure grew.  He could hear her other hand tearing wildly at the ferns around them, pulling at the leaves as she tried to hold on to something as the sheer flow of raw sexual gratification began to drown her.  Her legs wrapped around his body, her ankles crossing at the small of his back, holding her self wider, allowing him to thrust deeper inside of her slick passage.  Her hips slapped upwards against his matching the heady rhythm thrust for thrust, the force causing her breasts to bounce causing the sensitive buds to rub against his chest in a way that delighted them both.  She was crying out again, howling, begging, gasping, and moaning, the scent from her sex had become almost maddeningly pleasurable to him.  Their bodies slammed together faster and faster, harder and harder, the tightening of the stomach that tells of the final climactic release growing tighter and tighter.  It was all instinct now, no conscious thought just reflexes – her back arched, her free arm circling and holding him to her, fingers clasping against his back, hips moving spasmodically as the release came.
He heard the howl of final satisfaction that sprung from her lips as she stiffened against him, the muscle surrounding his shaft tightening and pulsing.  Grabbing onto the rounded curve of her hips which jerked in the finality of her release he held them steady and, desperate for his own fulfilment, pounded in an out of her rapidly.  The intoxicating scent of her orgasm filled the air around them as he drove his length back and forth between her spread legs.  It filled him, infected every part of him, just as her renewed gasps of pleasure filled the night and sent him over the precipice and into his own joyous release.  Hips juddering he spilled his seed deep inside her young body.  Then, all energy spent, they collapsed together in a heap in the midst of the bed of ferns and torn leaves.  Listening to the sound of each other’s heart as sleep came upon them.

The End.

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