So, feedee werewolf won, obviously, because you're all a bunch of bottoms (loving).
So here are some more thoughts.
When I find you in the woods you're cold, scared - and hungry.
I bring you back to my cottage, offer you some clothes to replace your soaked rags. They're a few sizes too big but you're grateful.
Slowly, you piece together last night. The transformation - the gorging yourself on chickens from the farmer a few miles over.
I smile and offer you a firm, gentle hand. Don't worry - I'm here to help. You're so relieved you don't notice how deep my nails dig into the flesh of your arm.
First, I want you comfortable. I draw you a warm bath to shake off the night before. The fire is crackling, and the incense I light leaves you feeling dozy and calm.
After your bath there are more soft, large clothes - you wonder who they are for - and a proper meal, you look like you need one, poor thing!
You don't realise how late it's gotten, but I've prepared a King's supper. A roast ham and a whole cold chicken, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, a huge tray of butter roasted potatoes, pumpkin and carrots, glazed in honey. There are soft fried eggs in a dish, and jars of cramy sauces and pickles. You set about making yourself a huge sandwhich, and you're almost done before you realise you didn't wait to be invited to eat.
You blush as you look up at at me, but I wave your concerns away. I set the table for you, enjoy it.
As you eat, I explain your condition, and the words are so distracting you barely notice how many brick sized sandwiches you're gulping down.
You're a werewolf, poor little lamb, I explain. The fellow with the dark eyes you let take you home from the bar a few weeks ago - those bite marks aren't the only thing he left with you.
Your curse is to transform every full moon into a creature controlled purely by desire and animal need - yourself in an unihinited, bestial form, with power to do as you will. I know, it must be scary sweet thing - here, try one of these custard buns.
The good news is, as you've probably guessed, I'm more than just familar with the arcane and supernatural. I'm quite a skilled practitioner of magics, and with your cooperation I can make the next full moon much less dangerous for everyone.
You're so grateful to hear - the memories of the night before that are flashning through your mind scare you, as much as they stir something else, deep at the root of your stomach.
I tell you to eat up and get some sleep, I'll begin your training - your instruction, that is - tomorrow.
-
You wake and breakfast is ready - cooked meats, more eggs and poetatoes, and pastries, fruit - you don't take it all in before you start eating, you're ravenous.
Your hair is longer, you notice as I idly play with it, and is spreading down you neck and across your shoulders. You shovel more eggs, another chocolate stuffed puff-pastry treat, not thinking it at all strange as I work out one of the stress knots in your shoulder.
After breakfast - the third plate of which you eat at my insistence - I start teaching you about herblore.
Your wolf form - I explain - is an extension of your self. Don't think of yourself and them as separate creatures, they are your needs and desires made flesh. The better state you are going into the full moon, the more docile your wolf form.
As I talk, you are distracted by my fingers rolling thumb-fat herbal cigarettes into tight cones. My voice watches ovr you as the repetitive movement makes you feel dozy.
Lavender, or course, and chamomile, for calm and stillness. Mallow root for dreaminess. Oatflower for - making you open to influence. My, postitive influence. Heather for appetite - you're going to need your strength. Mugwort to enhance sensation, to keep you in touch with your body. A few others from my garden - I'm passioante about creating potent cross strains.
I place one of the joints in your mouth and light the tip, flicking away the ash as your hungry mouth starts the cone before your conscious mind has time to realise what's happening. I pull the joint away and take a hit myself, you taking a moment to greedily gasp air, before I press my lips against yours and shotgun the herbal mixture directly into your neuro-cortex.
Your head swims, and your brain short circuits as I place a hand on your thigh. You stuggle to regain your composure, as a bell in the kitchen goes off.
Oh - lunch is ready!
As I sidle off to the kitchen, you realise how warm you feel between your thighs from the contact.
-
Lunch is a shepherds pie, and I make no move to serve a portion, just place the whole dish in front of you with a huge spoon breaking the crisp crust and fragrant steam spilling into the air.
You don't hesitate, you pick up the spoon and start digging in. The food smells delicious, and you're already ravenous despite the huge breakfast. You swallow mouthful after mouthful of rich, savoury food as I explain more to you, slowly and clearly like you've realise you need.
Fullness is important. I explain, gently. I'm across the table but my foot is playing with the inside fo your thigh. The hungrier you are, the more dangerous your wolf is. It's so important that you stay full. I'm going to do my best, okay, but you need to tell me as soon as there's any room in your belly, sweet thing.
You nod happily, barely looking up from you pie.
Good dog, I say, as I ruffle you hair.
-
Dinner comes, pinning you to you chair in the kitchen, and as you eat I explain how important it is that you indulge all your needs now, while you're still a soft, safe human.
You are barely listening, enjoying dragging more of the soft, fresh and heavily buttered bread through more of the delicious, spiced stew. It's one again full of my specially chosen herbs, but you don't need to know that. You've found yourself needing to know less and less all day.
You look a little pent up dear, I say, softly, walking round to your end of the table. No - you keep eating. I know just what to do.
I slide under the table and gently pull down the trousers I leant you. They're loose - for now - and come down easily so I can take you in mouth. I gently suck as you swallow more food.
I don't know if you realise how much you're moaning, but I suspect it has as much to do with the meal as it does with my fingers teasing your hole.
You finish your dinner before you finish in my mouth, already such a good pet. Tomorrow we'll have much more to do to make you safe, but for now I'll walk your heavy, drowsy form to the bed and rub your bloated belly till you sleep.