A Bestial Passion: Part Two (5000 words)

A Bestial Passion: Part Two
Written by Kev Francis
*This is the concluding part of a 10,000 word novella. The first part can be found in my portfolio.

Chapter Nine – St. Pauls

On the steps of St. Pauls Cathedral, watched over by the gargoyles that guard that holy place, two shadowy figures are embraced.
One hundred years ago the sight of a man holding a prostitute outside St Pauls would have been met with disdain, but today, none of the surrounding tourists pay them a second look.
“So you think you have what it takes to make me cum eh?” the woman teased, pulling the man’s tie like a fisherman reeling in a catch. With her jet black hair, and fully developed body the woman is far cry from the frail girl she once was. Although she is almost unrecognisable from her previous self, she is the same Geneviève from the Gévaudan. She has aged a few years since the accident in the woods, and has seemingly matured into a very different person.
“I fully intend to, that or die trying,” the man joked, confidently his voice carrying the unmistakeable twang of privilege. The egotistical man boasted of his sexual conquests the moment he met her, just a few hours ago, recalling the amount of ‘happy customers’ he had satisfied, it this which attracted her to him. The desire to be satisfied.
“Good, just what I like to hear” Geneviève replied, before passionately kissing the man again. As their tongues locked, she slyly removed her underwear. Determined to test the stranger’s stamina. As her knickers passed her thighs she grabbed the man’s hand, and placed it in between her legs. Geneviève moaned as he pulled her closer, kissing her neck and collarbone. After a few minutes of this sexual embrace her moans become more like growls, in order to reframe from screaming she kissing the man’s collarbone, just like he did hers. Before the man knew what was happening, Geneviève sunk her teeth into his throat, and ripped out his windpipe. The man fell to the floor silently gasping for breath, blood gushing out of his jugular vein.
“Sorry…” Geneviève said innocently, before continuing “I just don’t know what came over me.” Within seconds the man was dead. The corpse lay motionless on the steps of the grand cathedral, his shoulder-length golden hair is matted red with the unstoppable tide of blood, a stark contrast to his now lifeless face.
The gargoyles, though doubtless disgusted, do not act.
“Pity” Geneviève muttered to herself. “Such a pretty boy, not a bad kisser either. See that’s the problem with lying – if you say you’re going to do something, you have to do it, otherwise you will just end up looking stupid” she continued, leaning in to kiss the dead man on the lips. When that was done she set about his pockets, picking over them like a vulture over a carcass. His wallet, phone, car-keys; all of it is emptied into a slinky leather purse. “I really wish I would stop breaking all of my favourite toys before I get a chance to properly play with them. Satisfied? Ha! Far from it. You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep” she said arrogantly. A smirk spread across her face as she looked up at the nearby buildings.
“The night is young.” She mumbled, the sadistic smile extending from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat. It’s after the sun goes down that her double life begins.
She turns away from the body, picks up her underwear from the floor and places it into her coat pocket. Then, after blowing the corpse a final kiss goodbye, she walks away. The chilly winter wind tickles at her ears, yet her exotic black hair does not move. It does not even flinch.
London, she thinks to herself. Oh London how I need you, my city of sin.

Chapter Ten – A Night in the City of Sin

It was a Friday night and the streets were busy. Some men staggered through the winding, foggy streets in search of home whilst others, not quite unlike Geneviève, seek out the embrace of warm flesh in the brothels and bars of the capital city.
“You’ll do” she mutters to herself. An evil grin spreads across her angelic face. The man was in his early 30’s and had a head full of short springy black locks. He looks like he has a little Irish in him, she thinks, and Irish are always the most entertaining. Geneviève approaches him just as he was entering a nearby pub. Casually she walked past him, and dropped one of the handkerchiefs she had removed from the corpse’s body. Stopping dead in her tracks, she bent over to pick it up, ensuring that her coat lifted up just enough to catch the man’s full attention.
‘Ermm…’ the Irish stranger groaned, noticing she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Now certain that he had noticed, Geneviève span around.
“Oh, how clumsy of me” she said, putting on an innocent, childlike voice playing on her French accent. The man just starred at her seemingly unimpressed. Disappointed, Geneviève slipped past him. As she did so, a man a few feet behind him approached her.
“Pardon the intrusion” he said. His voice was coarse and rough, and didn’t seem to suit the polite comment. “But I couldn’t help but notice that man that ignored you. If you want my advice, the man is either gay or married, because no single man would be able to resist such natural beauty.” He continued coarsely, clearly he was trying to appear more educated than he was, but Geneviève appreciated the effort.
Well, he’s not Irish, she thinks, but he’ll do.
For a few hours she plays along with his games, like a puppeteer allowing his instruments to perform the show, listening to him talk about his life, lying about her own – until eventually she decides that it is time to leave.
“Do you live nearby, Danny?” she asks, faking a yawn, stretching so that the almost feline contours of her body enamour the young man further. “I could really do with a coffee to warm me up”. The man smiles, glad that his three hours of talking and two bottles of champagne had secured the investment he was hoping for.
“Yeah I live fairly nearby; I have a riverside penthouse in Chelsea overlooking the Thames.” Danny’s said, voice has now adopted a more arrogant tone, and he leans in and whispers confidently. ‘It is very beautiful at night, the Thames I mean. Would you like to see it?’
Not really, she thinks.
‘Sure,’ she says and strokes a finger under his chin.
On the way back to his luxury apartment, the sexual tension was rising between the two, what started as holding hands soon escalated. As they got into the lift of his apartment, the two began passionately kissing, forcing their tongues into each others mouths like fighting snakes.
“Touch me here” she said, pulling his hand under her coat onto her breasts. Feeling bare skin, Danny wanted more, even if they were in a lift that could stop at any moment.
“Show me,” Danny said, fondling Geneviève’s chest as she opened her coat to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath.
The lift opened with a ding, and, walking into the apartment, London’s skyline twinkled from below. He hadn’t just been bragging, the Thames was truly beautiful at night, twisting through the city like a dark vein.
“Just in time” Geneviève purred. The two made their way to his bedroom with their lips interlocked; only pausing to remove items of clothing and to draw breath.
“You’re really turning me on” Danny groaned, as Geneviève slipped his trousers down whilst kissing his bare stomach.
“Good” she replied, standing up to kiss his neck.
“Do you want me you naughty girl?” he asked. He slowly raised his hand up her inside thigh, stroking the skin as he went further up. Geneviève let out an orgasmic moan. As Danny began to stimulate her body with his finger tips, her kisses became more and more passionate. Until eventually she was erotically biting around his collar bone.
“You’re so rough” he moaned. “I like that”.
“I’m glad you like it rough” she snarled, nibbling at his earlobe. “I’m tired of this foreplay, I want you now!” she forces her hand down his boxer shorts, grasping his erection and leads him to the bed. Growling and snarling like a wild animal as she shut the bedroom door behind her.
And that was the last time the man ever saw the Thames by the light of the moon.

Chapter Eleven – Living like Urban Foxes

The morning sun glares throughout Geneviève’s apartment.
Her step-brother, Thierry is pouring some milk into a bowl of cornflakes as the front door opens. It’s Geneviève. Her hair is a mess and her make up has started to run. The mascara has dried, clumping her eyelashes together, her chin is covered in lipstick, and her eyelids look bruised from the scuffed eye shadow.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Thierry joked. “You’re a dirty stop out, you are!”
Geneviève just rolled her eyes and walked into the bathroom without saying a word.
“You look how I feel” Thierry shouted just loud enough for her to hear before she turned the shower on.
When she came out again a few minutes later, draped in a towel, her brother was gone. He must have gone to work she thought to herself. Assuming that the house was now empty, rather than getting dressed straight away, she walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Whilst Geneviève was preparing her mug, she flicked the switch on the side of the radio, turning it on.
“I hate listening to the news… its so depressing” she muttered, clearly disappointed at what she could hear. The radio was crackly and the signal was bad, but you could still make out the faint sound of a news report.

“A body was found on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral earlier this morning. The man, believed to have been in his late twenties, had suffered severe lacerations to his throat – wounds which caused him to bleed to death. Police reports indicate that the circumstances of his death are suspicious, but locals believe that the ‘murderer’ was a large member of the local fox community. A spokesman for The Royal Institute of Wildlife and Game commented that, ‘urban foxes within cities have over time become bolder, and attacks on humans in recent years have tripled.’ In other news, the body of Daniel Ford – the ex-captain of Rugby-Union side the London Wasps, has been found dead in his Chelsea penthouse. The police are yet to comment on the situation, but it has been implied that he could have committed suicide after being striped of his captaincy and a recent bout of depression and alcoholism.”

“Why is it they always blame the foxes?” Geneviève sighed as the news report finished.
“Because they would never believe the truth” a voice behind her answered. Surprised that she was no longer alone, she turned around in shock. It was her step-brother Émile. She felt a slight sense of relief that it was no one else, but still felt embarrassed that he appeared to know her secret.
“What do you mean?” Geneviève asked innocently.
“You know exactly what I mean Geneviève” Émile replied coolly, “You see, you’re the same you and I. We have the same secrets.” As he said that, Geneviève stepped back, completely taken by shock.
“What do you mean exactly Émile?” Geneviève asked again, hoping for a more concise answer. Émile however grabbed his coat, reluctant to answer but as he got to the door he replied
“You’re not the only one that can’t be satisfied.”

Chapter Twelve – Top Dog

Émile and Thierry, alone in the apartment, glared at each other across the coffee table in the living room. It had become apparent that the two brothers were now at an age where they had needed their own space, a territory to mark their own. Tensions between the two had been growing for months, if not years – they had always been competitive but this was different. Since arriving in London three years ago, the two brothers have been bickering over the smallest things, but this was no small argument.
“She’s mine” growled Thierry.
“No, She’s mine little brother. I am the eldest.” Replied Émile reverently. The two brothers claimed ownership of Geneviève as if she was a toy, and like two young boys, the brothers squabbled over it.
“Mine, mine, mine” jeered Thierry childishly.
“Listen, little brother. She is mine. I am the eldest. I am closest to her. She belongs to me.” replied Émile.
“She’s mine, all mine, and I am not sharing” taunted Thierry.
“I won’t tell you again Thierry. Her father brought her to our house because of me. She’s mine” said Émile firmly.
“But I am more attractive, funnier; all the girls love me Émile. Whilst you, who has ever been interested in you?” Thierry said insultingly, changing tactics from his childish repetition.
“Thierry, you are my brother…” Said Émile warningly.
“And I didn’t choose to be, just as Geneviève would never choose to be yours.” Thierry interrupted rudely.
“She’s mine” barked Émile, stamping his authority, clearly irritated by his brother’s lack of respect.
“Thought you weren’t going to tell me again big brother” said Thierry emphasising the ‘Big’. With that Émile jumped over the table and began punching his brother savagely. Under a red rage the two men transformed into feral beasts; overcome by male aggression and sexual desire. The brothers fought like wild dogs; fighting for their right to be alpha male within the pack. They violently bit, clawed, punched and kicked at each other. This was the climax of post-pubescent rivalry. Neither brother was showing any sign of weakness, even as teeth fell out and blood splattered up the walls, the two continued to slug it out. As the pair grappled, like two boxers in the final round, they staggered around the living room, resting on each others shoulders.
Throwing in the odd kidney-punch, breathlessly. In a tired effort to win the fight, Émile pushed his brother off of him and pulled his fist back ready to land the final punch. The shove caught Thierry off balance and sent him falling backwards into the glass coffee table. Like the table that shattered all over the living room floor, Thierry was broken beyond repair. His legs were bent at awkward angles. Émile immediately called for an ambulance, although Thierry was not going to die, it was clear he would have trouble walking again.
Did Émile feel any remorse after crippling his brother? Perhaps. After all, he didn’t intend to hurt him, they were brothers after all. It was a bitter-sweet victory. But at least now Geneviève could only be his.
Émile was alpha male, and he had earned the right to mate.


Chapter Thirteen – A Mating Pair

Geneviève is sitting on the edge of her bed, with her head in her hands. Émile is circling his step-sister, like a vulture over a carcass.
“You know it’s the only way,” Émile said, his voice breaking the eerie silence. Without making a sound, Geneviève looked up at him; her eyes were teary and bitterly cold, almost as cold as the long pause that followed. Before eventually stuttering
“I know Émile, it’s just… you’re my brother.” She said innocently. With that the placid Émile sprung into life, almost pouncing on her like a lioness would a gazelle.
“Only by name, our bloodlines are different Geneviève,” he replied, a tone of desperation lingering in his voice.
“But… it’s wrong… it’s immoral…” Geneviève objected, pausing deep in contemplation. “I love you as a brother and always have.” Her words seemed solemnly final, yet Émile’s passion was relentless.
“Geneviève, from the moment I first met you I have lusted after you.” Your scent attracts me; I am fixated with your body. Never have I considered you a sister, I look at you as my mate, my breeding partner.” He hounded, still trying to persuade her that their union was meant to be. She replied to this by shaking her head with discontent, unhappy with what she was hearing.
“It’s the only way you will mother children” he teased her, knowing full well of her unfulfilled desire to be a mother. As he said that, she gazed at him fearfully thinking that he might be right.
“Only another werewolf will be able to satisfy your desire and survive your appetite.” He continued, almost smiling, happy that he was finally breaking down Geneviève’s defences. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, her had enlightened her to a harsh truth, but she reframed from sobbing she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She once again felt like she did all those years ago running through the woods, alone and afraid with no veil of innocence to protect her. Sensing her vulnerability, Émile sat next to her on the bed and comfortingly put his arm around her – eager to capitalise.
“That’s was why your father brought you to our house all those years ago. Us werewolves, we find each other by scent, and your followed his nose all the way to my mother’s house. And why? Because he knew that there were two possible suitors there waiting for you.” Émile seemed genuine, but still Geneviève was not convinced.
“But father said that we moved to the Gévaudan to keep me safe from the city.”
“He brought you to me and my brother to stop you from hurting city folk,” Émile said persistently,
“He brought you the Gévaudan to keep you safe from yourself, and that creature that lurks beneath your skin”
His voice had now adopted a stricter tone; he was starting to run out of patience. Moving his hand from her shoulder, he lifted her chin up so that she looked him in his eyes. There was such strength in those hands, a satisfying and welcoming strength Geneviève thought.
“You know it makes sense, my angel” he said softly. Looking into his eyes, she was entranced by a reassuring spark that she had never seen in them before. Sensing her attraction, Émile stroked her hair with his index finger before leaning in for a kiss.

That night the pair mated, like a single beast with two backs. For the first time, Geneviève was able to let go of her sexual anxieties, to fulfil her desires. Savagely the two lovers transformed into creatures of the night under the powerful glow of the moon. A mass of matted hair, entwined with perspiration and saliva. Their fingernails passionately clawed at each other’s skin, drawing blood. But still they carried on into the early hours of the morning, exchanging kisses and howls of pleasure, sadistically undeterred by the pain.

Chapter Fourteen - A Wolf and Her Cubs

Émile is sat waiting patiently at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, nervously biting what was left of his fingernails. He pauses only to look over at the bedroom door that had been bolted and padlocked, before continuing to chew away at his fingers. The heavy stench of burning tobacco fills the room with a thin blue mist. A glass ashtray on the counter has been rammed full with the remains of at least three dozen cigarette butts, their cinders was starting to spill over the rim. As he glances up at the chrome clock on the wall for what must have been the hundredth time of the evening, he stands up and stretches. Émile’s bones have grown stiff from inaction, causing his joints to click in unison. Walking over to the bolted bedroom door, he places his ear against the door. Silence.
“Geneviève?” he calls out softly. “Everything okay?” The silence continues, leaving only the tick-tock of the clock echoing throughout the flat. He paces a few steps around the room, before finally taking a key from his pocket and undoing the bolt. His hand, almost reluctantly, pulls the latch open. He hesitates, and pauses…
“Geneviève?” he called out again, “I’m coming in honey.” Believing the moon to be responsible for the way she was, the thick curtains of Geneviève’s bedroom had been pulled shut, blocking the enchanting glow of the moonlight from view, determined that her children would not be like her. Her brother paused before entering. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the furniture, and then shortly afterwards their details. The edges of the skirting board around the door had been badly scratched at, with the white gloss flecking in places, revealing the wood beneath the painted exterior. The grand silk drapes that hung over the four poster bed were torn and tattered, and were flimsily still attached to the oak frame. The frame itself was a shadow of its former glory, it had been gnawed beyond repair – it was a wonder it still had the support to stay up.
“Geneviève?” Émile called out again, “Where are you, baby?” he walked into the room, the carpet was covered with rubbish, which was mostly destroyed books and ornaments that were on a shelving unit. He walks directly up to the bed, expecting to see Geneviève laying on it, but it was empty – even the duvet was missing. It was then as he was standing at the foot of the four poster bed that a faint sound of breathing could be heard – and it wasn’t him. Intrigued, he walked around the side of the bed, and found what he had been looking for. Geneviève. She was lying on the duvet, naked. Huddled in a ball against her chest were two newborn baby boys, suckling. Whilst the twin brothers drank from their mother’s breasts, Geneviève licked the one of her baby’s skin, in an attempt to clean off the blood that had dried on from the birth. Sensing the intruder that had been standing at the foot of the watching her, she raised her head and immediately her expression changed. Her eyes glazed over, and the corner of her mouth tightened, causing her to bare her teeth.
“It’s me Émile” he fearfully croaked. Geneviève starting savagely snarling at the figure, believing him to be a threat, in an attempt to protect her baby. As he crouched down, in a bid to seem less imposing, the growling intensified and the snarls became more aggressive, even her hairs stood on end. Yet still, Émile tried to comfort her. With as much passion as she made love, she devoted herself to protecting her baby.
Émile pushed his luck too far, as the crouching Geneviève stood up on her four legs, with her tail hanging stiffly behind her, her teeth were barred and she was ready to bite.