Peter is the Wolf Book 1 Chapter 1 Part 4

Well, this took a while, mostly because I was busy as hell. But here it is.

I'll release another snippet towards the end of this week to catch up.

Meanwhile, here's Sarah's first transformation.

* * * * * * * *

Before that night, Jean and I had never seen a thrall.

What we did know, though, was little were kids. We’d seen them. We’d been them. And the thing is, it takes a really long time for a little kid were to get control of themselves. Little kids are a bundle of runaway emotion under any circumstances. Add to that wolf instincts and the changing phases of the moon, and you understand why a lot of were kids are either homeschooled their first two years or doped to the gills with wolfsbane when they leave for school.

(Guess which one I was.)

So we didn’t even need to discuss what we thought was about to happen. I mean, yeah, Sarah was a high school valedictorian, but she was still a teenager- and a teenager who had zero practice controlling her emotions- or even her shape- under a full moon.

We had a pretty good idea what was about to happen, and we wanted to make damn sure it didn’t happen anywhere near innocent bystanders.

Sarah Hazen was getting angrier by the minute, but she thought she had good reason.

Her high school boyfriend had both hands under her left armpit, and Jean Goodwin (who she barely knew except as Peter’s alibi with his parents) had one arm under her right. Between the two of them they’d carried her in a bumping, jostling run into the woods for the past fifteen minutes. Neither of them said a word to explain themselves. “What are you doing?” Nothing. “Why are you doing this?” Nothing. “Put me down right now!” They sped up slightly.

At first she’d been confused. Then, after she’d seen the fear in both their faces, she’d been frightened herself, for a few minutes. But after being hauled ever deeper into the woods, with the twilight fading rapidly in the sky between the tree branches, for the first time since she was seven years old she was ready to pitch a tantrum.

Her shoulders hurt where Peter and Jean held them. Her feet, protected only by her socks, kept bumping rocks and tree roots. Her pajama bottoms had begun riding down off her butt. Her head was spinning as tree trunks and leaves and branches and shafts of brilliant moonlight mixed into a confusing blur.

She’d felt bad... well, not bad exactly, but wrong... all day, with her skin crawling, her fingertips itching, and her heart going into palpitations at random.

She’d been worrying about the date with Peter, especially since she’d decided to dump him that evening. Oh, Peter was a sweet boy, and she liked him very much- better than anybody else she’d known in her four years at Dante High School. The problem was, she was going to a top university out of state for what would be a seven year pre-med track followed by internship. Peter was staying in town at the local uni on a full athletic scholarship, but Sarah knew he’d have all he could do to maintain a simple 2.5 GPA to maintain eligibility. They were moving on to wildly different worlds. It could never work out.

So she’d decided to dump him. And then, half an hour later, she decided to wait until a week or two after the date. And then she’d decided to dump him. And then she’d decided to call him and both cancel and dump him on the phone. And then she’d decided to call to cancel the date, but not dump him, because only horrible people dumped their SOs by phone. And then she’d decided... and undecided... and redecided all day, back and forth, working herself into a state of mind which the weird sick feeling did not help in the least.

So, here she was, sick, emotional, having been dragged what felt like halfway to the next town through the woods, sore and confused and absolutely done with all of it.

“I’ve HAD IT!” she announced. “This has gone on far enough! I want you to let me go and give me a good explanation for all this RIGHT NOW!”

No answer. Peter and Jean kept running.

“I told you to let me GO!” Sarah shouted, thrashing in their grip.t.

They kept running, passing out of the trees into a small clearing flooded by the light of the low-hanging full moon.

“I... said...”

Sarah’s feet, which had been dangling an inch off the ground for far too long, suddenly found purchase on the ground. Her hands grabbed Peter’s shirt and the fishnet bodysuit under Jean’s blouse.

The anger that had been building within Sarah all this time rushed into her arms and shoved.

“LEGGO!!”

Sarah stopped.

Peter and Jean, on the other hand, went flying, up and backwards, twenty, thirty feet in the air. Peter hit the crown of a tall cedar tree, while Jean caught the top of a sprawling oak.

Jaw gaping, Sarah stared at what she’d just done. “Omigosh,” she gasped, falling to her hands and knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She looked down at her hands, wondering how she’d sent three hundred pounds of teenager flying farther than a football. “I didn’t mean-”

She took a second look. It was getting full dark, but the moonlight was more than bright enough for her to see her hands...

... which were the wrong shape. The bones were all wrong. Her metacarpals had stretched twice as long as they should have been.

“... to... do... that?”

Her fingernails grew rapidly out of her fingertips, the ends sharpening into large, sharp points.

“I... I...” Sarah goggled as she stared at herself.

With a visible ripple beginning at her wrists and running up to her elbows, her forearms bulged with muscle, tugging the sleeves of her pajamas down so suddenly that the top button popped open, and her left shoulder slipped through the sudden gap.

She shrieked.

Suddenly the heart palpitations, which had been an on-and-off-again thing all day, struck again, except this time instead of lightheadedness Sarah felt blood rushing through every part of her body, and with it the anger and fear she’d been feeling, expanding out from her chest to her hands and feet. She tried to hug herself, to calm down until the fit passed, but as she did so she felt her shoulders widen, pushing against her blouse-

-and then, with a long series of rips and pops, her arms shredded her sleeves, massive bulges of muscle rising from what had been, for eighteen and a half years, skin and bone.

“WHAT-?!” The shout came out half an octave deeper than it should have, from a mouth that suddenly felt entirely the wrong shape. She could feel the bones in her face and head shifting around, her upper jaw pulling away from her eyes, her ears migrating upwards. It didn’t hurt- none of it hurt except where her clothes were cutting into her body all of a sudden- but it was such an alien feeling, such a WRONG feeling, that pain would have been more comforting by comparison.

She clamped her eyes closed, curling in on herself, terrified to the bone. When she shouted, her voice didn’t even sound like her own anymore.

“What’s HAPPENING TO ME??”

“You know,” Peter said offhand as he picked himself up and crawled over to Jean, “I always laughed when they said that in the movies.”

Jean didn’t bother looking at him; she was busy shedding her outer layer of clothing as quickly as possible. “Yeah, well, laugh this one off, Petey- she’s your responsibility now.”

Peter let the change happen, sprouting fuzz and, incidentally, healing a broken bone in his right leg instantly. “What??” he asked, getting to his feet and rocking his hips to let his tail pop out the back of his waistband. “My responsibility?”

“Yeah, your responsibility!” Jean was down to her fishnet top, the rapidly spreading coat of fur more or less covering everything she felt needed covering. She glared at Peter over her shifting muzzle. “You know the lore!”

“Um... no?” Peter asked. “Dad said that if I needed to know any of it, I’d pick it up as I went.”

Jean groaned. “I can’t believe how believable that is,” she muttered, “Someday I gotta figure out how much of your dumb is you, and how much is your parents.”

“So what did I miss about thralls?” Peter bounced from one paw to the other anxiously. “The only thing anybody told me is that I shouldn’t make one, because they can’t control themselves.”

“Yeah,” Jean said. “That, and also because they’ll tell other humans trying to get themselves cured. Which is why nobody’s made a thrall in our pack for longer than either of us have been alive. But if it happens, the werewolf who did it becomes responsible for everything their thrall does until the thrall gets control of themselves!”

Peter needed a moment to absorb this. “Everything?” he asked.

“And if the thrall endangers the pack,” Jean said, “both the thrall and the maker get put to death!” Jean bounded off, first on two paws, then on four, bounding over to the clearing where the sounds of ripping and grunting had mostly faded.

“Put to death?!”

“COME ON, PETER!”

Peter took a few quick breaths. “Okay,” he muttered. “No problem. Sarah’s scrawny, and I’m a runt. She’s probably even more of a runt. A smol thrall.” He had a feeble chuckle at this. “No problem...”

Famous. Last. Words.

Sarah’s change accelerated.

Some time afterwards, when she actually tried to remember her first transformation, the main thing she remembered, besides being scared and confused, was that it didn’t actually hurt. It hadn’t been fun, either- nothing like some sort of glorious explosion of power or sexuality, as nice as that might or might not have been. But there wasn’t any pain, aside from the clothes that kept getting tighter and tighter until they gave up.

What it did feel like, so far as she could make sense of it, was that she was trying to hold... something... together, but her grip kept slipping. She could feel something inside her that she could, somehow, well, flex, and she was trying to flex... but the muscle, or whatever, just wanted to relax, and relax, and keep on relaxing.

The final surge began at the top of her head, about the time her ears finished stretching up to tall, fuzz-covered points. Her hair, already shoulder-length to start with, grew down to her waist, her bangs covering her face, the whole gaining a bounce and body it had never had before. Her nose and jaw finished stretching to fit a new set of large, sharp teeth between them. New smells invaded her awareness- the mold of old leaves, a hint of exhaust fumes on the breeze blowing over the treetops, a drop of chicken soup she’d spilled on her pajama top.

Then her shoulders exploded outwards, and she groaned as the rapidly disintegrating pajama blouse grew suddenly tighter across her chest. The cloth ripped and tore in a dozen places, but the stitching and buttons, for some reason, held stronger than the rest, binding her. The feeling annoyed her, and she brushed at her chest with fingers blunted by massive soft pads and claws that only got snagged in the unravelling threads. The tattered trailing edges brushed against the bottom of her ribcage, leaving her belly exposed to the air- a belly that had gone from soft and slightly flabby to rippling granite.

Then her breasts surged forward, swelling from practically nothing to massive spheres, nipples clearly visible through the last tatters of her top. The seams and strings dug into flesh a lot more squishable, a lot more sensitive- a lot more, period. Sarah flinched, trying to draw her chest back by pulling her shoulders forwards. Her bosom grew faster than any slack, and the scraps tightened- then, as her back muscles bulged, finally snapped and parted ways, releasing her newly grown tetons to bounce and sway.

The momentary relief passed as the change spread below the waist. Her pajama bottoms, which had been looser than the top, had already drawn tight by the early stages of the change. Now Sarah’s hips spread wide, butt swelling to match, followed by thighs and calves. The cloth pinched against her, especially against the tail she hadn’t been aware of until this moment, caught down one pants leg. A growl rattled from her throat as the elastic chafed against her waist, as the leg cuffs dug into her calves.

But flexing had worked before. It would work again.

She flexed her leg muscles, and the pajama pants practically exploded off her body, setting her big, bushy tail free to curl into place behind her. Her panties fell to the ground in rags along with her pajamas, leaving a bubble-butt covered in golden fur bare to the world.

She didn’t even notice her feet shredding her socks apart in one last burst of growth.

Slowly she got to her feet, standing tall, waiting to see if anything else was going to happen. Her balance felt off, but... it was different, but it felt natural. It felt right.

It felt like something she didn’t need to think about, and so she didn’t. Thinking no longer seemed all that important anyway.

She opened her eyes, and the woods looked bright as day. She didn’t recognize them. She had no idea where she was. She was lost.

She threw back her head and called for help, in a long, resonant howl that nearly deafened the two other werewolves who had just stumbled to a stop in front of her.

The two other werewolves who, to their shock, were roughly at eye level with her bellybutton.

Peter Stubbe, werewolf, looked up, up, up at the massive voluptuous mega-werewolf who had been his human girlfriend ten minutes before. “Yeeeeeah,” he sighed, feeling doom settling on his shoulders. “Piece of cake.”