An Erie Operetta

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Torquere Press Publishers

P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.

An Erie Operetta Copyright 2015 by V.L. Locey

Cover illustration by BSClay

Published with permission

ISBN: 978-1-61040-874-5

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770

Printed in the USA

An Erie Operetta

by V.L. Locey

One

Is there anything more relaxing than an evening in front of a fire, newspaper in hand, hot toddy at the ready, as snow spirals about outside the mullioned windows? I don’t think so either. That is pretty darned much my fantasy Wednesday night down to a tee. The only thing missing from the cozy picture of domestic bliss is a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, mind you. My fantasy lycan is tall, wide, hung like a Clydesdale, intelligent, urbane, and snuggly warm whether he be in his thick brindle fur or out of it.

Sighing deeply, I lowered the
Erie Examiner
, the biweekly newspaper that covers the mystical community that lives beside the Great Lake. I looked at the windows. They were nothing but smudges of frosty white. I blinked a few times in confusion. Then it occurred to me that my glasses were atop my head. Snickering at my forgetfulness, I reached up, found my spectacles, and settled them on the bridge of my nose. Ah, yes, that was much better! Or perhaps not. The ancient windowpanes of Lupei Manor were coated with ice. I slowly got to my feet, slid them into my slippers that waited beside the recliner then scuffled over to try to make a hole in the thick ice.

I breathed on the pane and then rubbed the tip of my finger on the cleared circle. Making the viewing area bigger and bigger, I began to fret over my lover, Mikel, that tall, brindle, gorgeous werewolf we were discussing a moment ago. Mikel is not only the alpha of the Lake Erie pack, he is a senior agent for the Office for Transmogrification Registration, or OTTER as we mystical beings refer to it. Mikel and his pack are the premier trackers of our community. Nothing beats a wolf nose. I work at OTTER as well, as a clerk in the lineage department. My job is to go over claims for inheritance. It is a terrible job with few benefits to speak of. The lesser breeds, such as myself, aren’t exactly valued according to the ancient doctrines. At one time, it was the weaker shifters that served as slaves for the more powerful shapeshifters: lycans, big cats, and bruins. In our world, might makes right, as sad as that is.

I judged the clearing wide enough, so I laid my cheek to the frozen glass to peer out at the snow-covered grounds. Lake Erie sat deadly and gray a mere hundred yards away. I rolled my eye to the right. My glasses pushed into my nose.

“Damned poor vision!” I snapped as I jerked my glasses off to try once more. Poor eyesight is just one drawback to being a skunk shifter. I am rather sure you can guess one of the other unfavorable traits. Then there’s the need to sleep for days on end as soon as October rolls around. I would give my adorable plush tail to be able to see clearly when I wake up, or to not yawn during lunch. I pushed my nose flat to the glass, closed one eye, and tried to see if Mikel might be loping up the winding drive to the manse. Some moron thought it was funny to pelt the glass with a snowball at that moment. I leaped backwards at the loud impact of packed snow. My glasses flew into the air. I stumbled over an ottoman and landed soundly on my ass.

“Sorry, Templeton!” Dave shouted from the other side of the glass. Dave and Eddie are the remaining members of Mikel’s pack. We lost one male after Mikel’s sister tried and failed to make a run for pack hierarchy. Where that backstabbing cur went is a mystery. See, lycan bitches never inherit. Among the wolves, only male progeny are successors. It seemed that the bitch wasn’t willing to wait for the laws to be changed. To be frank, she was probably right in her assumption that change would not come quickly. I do not condone her actions in any way, but she knew as well as I do that such huge alterations to society occur painfully slowly. Some of us are willing to fight the fight one tiny victory at a time. Others are not. That is why we are now seeing the beginnings of a civil war among the shifters.

The rogues -- those without packs, prides, or other familial groups -- are starting to grow restless. And violent. Murders are occurring with increasing regularity. Just two days ago one of the ruling puma matriarchs was found dead in her home. From the marks upon the body, it was obvious that a shifter had eviscerated the old granddam. Then they had rifled her papers, looking for lineage scrolls, no doubt. If the papers are gone, then so is the proof of lineage. That is what the rogues want: a system where the have-nots can hobnob with the purebloods. I can’t say that change isn’t needed. As a gay lesser breed I tend to support all cries for equality. I do not support murder to bring about that change, though. I do support anything peaceful that may further the rights of all our gay brothers and sisters who live, not only in closets, but in stifling fear of discovery. As I was before my lycan and I became intimate.

Back around Halloween it was brought to light within the pack that Mikel and I were seeing each other. Okay, we were doing more than seeing each other. “He vas my boyfriend!” to quote Frau Blucher of
Young Frankenstein
fame. Dating in our world is not supposed to cross genus lines. Ever. For example, a lycan is forbidden to date a jaguar, and a skunk is not allowed to sleep with a weasel.

I suppose a few thousand years ago, our elders thought that by just saying it was forbidden that their decree would stop it from happening. They were probably hoping to cut down on any interspecies offspring, heaven forbid.

Now add in that Mikel and I are both men. Homosexual mating is
so
highly forbidden that there are laws that give the elders the right to imprison and execute same-gender shifter lovers. I do not kid. Of course, it has been quite some time since anyone in our community has been executed for being gay or lesbian. If Mikel’s pack had wished, they could have killed him and me for being lovers. The elder counsel would not have moved against them. Hell, they probably would have handed over the Lake Erie pack to the one who had delivered the killing blow.

Fortunately for us, Dave and Eddie were either bisexual or related to someone who was gay, so no spilling of entrails occurred. Mikel and I now cohabitate but I do maintain my tiny apartment in town as a cover. My mail is delivered there even though I sleep here. It helps to keep the haters off my trail as well as ensuring I still have a job at OTTER.

I like to think that the elders will be stepping into the thirteenth century any day now. Despite the lack of beheadings for being queer, the social stigma is still so strong that we hide it lest we find ourselves banished from our little enclave of shifters, witches, vampires, and other things that humans are blissfully unaware of.

“Lycans,” I muttered as I got to my feet. The window was solid ice again by the time I got back to it. What the hell were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum doing outside in weather like this? Being a curious striper, I hustled as fast as a man in fuzzy blue slippers could hustle. Out into the foyer I went, determined to wrench the massive front door open and chastise the two dolts soundly. I wrapped my arms around my middle.

Snow was blowing into the foyer through the cracked door, melting into gigantic puddles on the Italian marble. Wind whipped around the door. Ice particles were landing on the new wooden bench Mikel had purchased for those who had a modicum of decorum to sit down upon to remove their boots. Some who lived in the mansion either slopped around with snowy boots, or kicked them off as they came in. That left another someone who lives here, but is not a wolf, to pick up the size forty boots every single stinking day to save the staff the job.

I had just placed my hand to the half-opened door when it flew fully open. The back of the door hit me in the forehead as Eddie and Dave came tumbling in. They must have shifted, for the foyer was now filled with two playful lycans each roughly the size of a Dodge minivan but with fewer higher reasoning skills. The twosome knocked over the bench as they wrestled. I jumped to the side to avoid being steamrolled by two soggy doggies. Toenails scrabbled for purchase. Teeth snapped. Skunks in smooth-bottom slippers did a split as they tried to reach the grand staircase.

Cradling my balls, I toppled over. Dave, our bisexual grey wolf, assumed in his canine way that if Temp was on the floor then he wanted to play as well. Eddie, our badly scarred brother, bounded over. I gasped out a sound that I copied from Cesar Milan’s TV show that was supposed to stop a dog being bad. It failed to work. One lycan grabbed the back of my sweater playfully, while the other sank his fangs into my left pant leg. Then the always fabulous game of “Let’s Rip Templeton In Half!” began.

I heard the sound of rending fabric. The bottom half of the new jeans I had just purchased last week tore off. Eddie raced around the foyer in circles, his bushy brown tail raised in high spirits, my pant leg in his damp mouth. Dave, not to be outdone, joined in the celebratory ring-around-the-rosy, the back of my sweater still clamped tightly in his lethal jowls. I started shouting to try to get their attention.

I was quite dizzy after just a moment of this. My voice grew louder with each lap of the foyer I made on my stomach. Suddenly all yipping ceased. I was released quickly and sailed across the wet tile like a highly aggrieved curling stone. I sailed into Mikel’s front paws.

“I see you made it home safely,” I croaked as Dave and Eddie began crawling towards their alpha on their bellies. Mikel studied me sharply with glowing amber eyes. I sat up, holding my head as the fluid inside my skull continued to swirl around. The huge brindle wolf rose to all four feet, lowered his front quarters to the floor then pounced on his underlings and myself. Oh, the wet-furred fun we have.

Two

The following morning I discovered that not only do camels have straws that break their backs, but striped skunks do as well. The day started nicely enough. Mikel and I were snuggled up in bed, having a stunning make-out session. My hand cupped his balls while he worked to get me to my back, despite the mound of velveteen pillows prohibiting that from happening. I broke free from the doggedly determined lycan, released his nuts, then burrowed under the covers. It was quite dark under the thick green duvet, but skunks are quite good at finding their hidden treats in the dark. Mikel chuckled appreciatively, rolling to his wide back when my mouth latched onto his hard cock.

“Amazing how you can zero in on things you want without your glasses, yet if you’re asked to do something you don’t wish to... Yes, use your teeth. Damnation, that is good, Templeton,” he said as I nibbled on his thick prick as if it were a juicy ear of Silver Queen corn. He was just as sweet and salty if I do say so myself. I nipped my way down to his testicles.

He arched upward while spreading his thick thighs. I sucked a heavy orb into my mouth. The mighty lycan trembled. I settled between his open legs comfortably, for I planned to be there for a while. I released my prize with a slurping sound. Mikel murmured something Nordic, lapsing back into the tongue of his people as he occasionally does when he is being pleasured well. Hearing him speak in the old way sent a shiver up my spine. I knew I had him right where I wanted him. I mouthed his weighty sac noisily as I ran my hands over his lower belly, marveling at the ropes of muscle under my fingers.

“Do it now,” Mikel growled, his words rumbling in his wide chest.

“Do what now?” I asked. He threw a leg over my shoulder, took my head between two hands the size of catcher’s mitts, and redirected my oral attention from his balls to his cock. I ran my tongue over the silken head of him, just catching the drop of liquid that had pooled in the slit. Then my tongue was pressed to the pulsing vein on the back of his prick. He lifted his ass from the mattress, caressing the back of my throat with the head of his dick. I groaned in pleasure.

His fingers dug into my skull. I braced myself as I drew in moist air through my nostrils. The aroma of Mikel, sex, and me was thick under the blanket. Mikel started thrusting deeply, his leg lifting his ass as well as his back from the mattress. I held on tightly, riding the wild beast up and down until his orgasm arrived. The first splash of semen slithered down my throat. I swallowed rapidly, fearing the man’s ejaculate would spew from my nose, as has happened on occasion.

His beefy leg slithered off my shoulder. I took my time with his prick, licking the shaft over and over until I was sure he was done. Then, and only then, did I wiggle out of the side of the duvet to land on the cold bedroom floor on my hands and knees. I stood up quickly, my cock jutting out proudly. Mikel opened one sleepy golden eye, saw my erection, flashed me a smile filled with fang, then leaped off the bed. Toweringly tall, wide-shouldered and lean of waist, Mikel carried over three hundred pounds on his six-foot, seven-inch frame with magnificent masculinity. Even his damned toes were buff. I squeaked playfully and ran. This is a fun game for a lycan. Sometimes it’s fun for me as well, as long as I know the wolf breathing down my neck will be fucking me and not gutting me. That is a major distinction for a prey animal.