Beastly Desires

Chapter Seven

The castle was a behemoth of dark, grey stone, settled amongst the thick forest that loomed on all sides of it. Its thick walls kept the trees out and inside its walls a maze of gardens surrounded the base of the castle. At its entrance, two giant, black iron gates jutted from the walls, meeting each other in the middle like interlocking fingers, their spikes protruding from their topside in defiant spirals. There was a tower at each corner of the castle that splayed out at the bottom. They seemed to lift the walls of the castle higher, gathering its mighty stones heavenward.

The castle grounds use to be alive with bustling workers and guardsmen flanking its round towers on either side of the curtain walls. Now it was empty, save for the few people who still remained within its stoney grasp.

Lords and noble ladies use to live within its confines. What once was a safe haven filled with balls and gatherings now held dust and withered curtains. Its ballroom floors were barren and bleak. The numerous chambers within had gone silent- their beds and wardrobes concealed by cloths of linen. The kitchen rambled in light work, never again used to its full potential but only to meet the needs of the few that remained. The stables were empty, save for a mare and the few goats and poultry that huddled in its shambles. They hadn't a stable hand to keep much more that. If they wanted meat the lord of the castle would hunt along its walls, brandishing arrows with his bow. Twine had been tied to the ends of them and once the arrow met its prey, he pulled it in with that twine, and hauled it up over the castle outer walls. Rusty smears stained the stone where blood poured out from past kills.

The forest teamed with plenty of creatures, both small and large, monstrous and dapple, cunning and oblivious. What the forest hadn't known yet was the beast that lurked outside its confines. Who the small village that laid east of it was unaware of.

...

Sébastien stumbled down a long hall. His paw dragged along it's hard surface, scrapping lazily against the grey stone. Its talons nicked at cracks and crevices, leaving thin white lines behind its path.
He felt and saw the walls ahead of him tilt and fold across his vision. How much wine had he drunk? What time of day was it? The dull roar in his head signified too much. He'd cracked open the last barrel of wine and laid beneath its spout, allowing the sweet, pungent liquid to pour into his mouth. Today marked the twelfth year of his curse and to celebrate like past years he drunk himself to near death. If only death would come. It seemed the curse denied him the pleasure of death in other ways. His shackled body encased in this hideous beast form would stay that way until he captured the heart of a willing maiden ready to take on death as their sign of love. What a sick and perverse curse that had befallen him. The endless rage he felt burned like a smoldering forge within him. And the never ending hunger- thirst, he felt every waking hour had him on his knees, gripping the sides of his bed as the desire for release pounded through him like endless crashing waves.

That part of the curse ate at him the most. Was the soul kindle to his constant rage. Release was never found, no matter how tirelessly he groveled at his bedding, pressing himself over and over into the plush surface, kneading the blankets with the hard length of him between his thighs. Forget doing the job himself, his damed paws- claws, were no where as forgiving as a wool blanket. He ought to be lucky he thought grudgingly some days that the curse did not transform his cock into a hideous, unusable appendage. If anything had changed, the sheer length and size of it did, which made up for the rest of his body that had doubled in size during the curse's transformation.

If he wanted to take a maiden that part of himself seemed to be of more use than the rest of him. Although, there was the grim ending to think about. But he never believed that day would come- would not allow that day to come. Again.

Sébastien recoiled at the intrusive memory. The limp, pale body that had laid beneath his own. The sudden quietness that filled the air around him. He could almost recall the sound as the stranger took their final breath before death consumed them. He fought not to take them, but was overcome with a frenzied need as he scented their desire. That pure, animalistic instinct to attack, to fill them with himself, it barreled through him and he fell into his desires. It had him reeling from sleep at night, the memory of their sounds of pleasure then nothing but stillness.

It has been a long time coming since that day. Part of him died along with them. The part of him that loved. He had stopped caring, waiting for a female heroin to walk through his gates and dutifully accepted his fate. No longer would death control him. No longer would innocent blood be spilled. Taking another's life to release his own was not fair. He deserved this curse. Deserved to become one of the devils hounds. It was a fitting role for the sin he had committed.

Sixteen. Sixteen years old. Barely a man. Hardly a Lord. What possessed him that day to take what wasn't his had morphed him into an entirely new beast. That need to take, to fill his cup was magnified now and nothing would ever satisfy the thirst that burned throughout his very being. If he wanted release, he had to welcome death.

Beatrice, the castle's only remaining maid, rounded the corner at the end of the hall, holding a basket of laundry across her wide hips. She hadn't noticed Sébastien yet, who was slumped against the wall on the floor now. The wall's shadow swallowed his black fur, shielding him in its dark embrace. Only a few candelabras were posted along the walls, their tiny flames struggling to keep the dark from consuming everything.

Sébastien scented the middle aged woman, before extending a leg outward across the hall. Beatrice stumbled back in surprise, the basket of laundry falling beside her as she feebly regained her composure, clutching a hand to her large bosom.
Her face paled at the obsidian talons that curled out from his foot. Candle light glistened over their glassy surface, arching over their sharp ends like smoldering steel.

She gulped and then cautiously bowed to greet him. Sébastien's earliest memory of the woman was in the garden. He was just a small boy when he stumbled upon her behind an arched trellis. The roses that twined through the trellises iron grate were in full bloom that spring. He had been aimlessly following their scattered petals before a females voice had him stopping in his tracks. Just on the other side of a hedge he spied Beatrice leaning against the rose trellis. Her stay had been undone, hanging at her elbows, while her shift beneath was pushed down past her shoulders. Her plump, ivory breast were on display and the gardeners head between them.

Young Sébastien watched with intrigued interest as the Gardner and Beatrice embraced one another, their hands roving along each others bodies in frantic desperation. Beatrice would let out small moans as the gardener clamped his mouth over a taught, pink nipple. At the time, Sebastian found it funny that a full grown man would need a mothers milk still.

Now he lay half dazed in a drunken stupor, reeling over the memory of what he had been witnessing- grinning fiendishly. That deep, relentless need started to rise up inside of him. Warmth flooded his chest and snaked its way down to his groin. His heavy eyes glazed over with a fiery hunger and slowly, burned their way up Beatrice's full figured body to meet her hazel eyes.

He scented her fear before she took a tentative step back. Her hands slowly rose in front of her, a quiet plea.

She would not scream- could not scream if she wanted to. Her cries of distress would not be heard. The voice Sebastian remembered in that garden sounding so breathy and heavy with desire was forever lost. Taken. Just as the curse took his body.

"Run." He growled.

Beatrice did not waste a second, turning on her heels and running towards the way which she had come. The basket of spilled laundry was left to be understandably picked up later. When it was safe. When he had finally retired to his bed chamber.

Sebastian groaned in misery, rolling over onto his side and vomiting. There would be no more wine to bandage the rage and desire that festered like an open wound.