A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

A Wolf For The First Time

September 22, 2014
Leave a Comment

The werewolf memory is great catalogue of sensory information. So despite what I might have once felt for Booker Parish when he first became a lycan, and joined my pack, the Breukelen.

It doesn’t mean I feel it for him now.

Rather, that memory of him, of how great it felt to be in love with him, of how incredible those lips felt gliding over my skin, can trigger me to fool my emotions into thinking that’s how I feel now.

“I’m going to kiss you.” He mutters moving in to my mouth. “I always want to kiss you when I see you Baby Girl.”

I didn’t know that. But then again, I didn’t need to, did I?

He tilts his head and I am lost to the approaching anticipation of one last kiss, with the first love of my life.
Do you ever forget the first love of your life? Maybe that’s why this seems so hard to figure out. Booker and I never worked out. Just couldn’t get it to work. But then when we were around each other, alone like this, that never seemed to matter to me.

What am I doing? Reverting ?

His lips brush over mine, and like Paris you’d never assume he could be so damn soft and tender. Big bulky werewolf, who knows how not to crush me. Just how to touch me. I guess he should, I was the first thing, Booker Parish saw when he opened his eyes after the werewolf attack, that left him a lycan forever.

The kiss is deep and growing hungrier for more access to me and I feel booker’s fingers curling into the back of my hair, gripping me. This kiss tells me he misses me more than even I knew. More than he wants to admit.

He awoke in a hospital room after the attack, but smelt the fur and wolf and sweetness of my scent. It would’ve been confusing to figure out, when he was looking at a human female before him. I remember he tried to struggle out of the hospital bed and I tried to stop him. The hospital gown doing nothing to lessen the look of his physique or the erection he was sporting underneath it. Booker grabbed my wrist so hard, it bruised with his finger marks on it. Of course, it faded away after I shape shifted.

But now it’s like an invisible reminder.

A lycan marking a werewolf, territorial and unheard of I’m pretty sure. Not that I think he meant it, but even now as we kiss, I feel his thumb brush over the soft inside of my wrist, back and forth, back and forth.

Like he knows, this is where he bruised me, branded me his, at least, in his mind he did.

I think that was it for him. I was locked into him, in a truly deep way. Because I was there at the time, all his lycan senses kicked in as he awoke, a wolf for the first time. I don’t know how it is with lycans and love, but despite our attempted dating, breaking up, hovering around one another, having other partners since then, Booker has always had eyes for me.

And the thing is I’ve always damn well known it.

And now, I have to do something about that.

Other than return this kiss.

Continued in…We The Wolves

Breukelen Heart Beats

September 16, 2014
Leave a Comment

Lycans and Werewolves, a lot of people who don’t know better would tell you they are one and the same. But in my world of werewolves and the paranormal that is our culture, I can tell you, the two are different.

Lycans are humans bitten by werewolves and werewolves are humans born with werewolf biology.

Well that’s the text book definition, the company line. Whatever you want to call it. But the two types of wolves are so far different than they look. Werewolves are all about control. Control of their abilities and emotions, these are the traits that allow them to blend into society and still be wolves.

Lycans on the other hand…Lycans are easy to anger and from what I know, can be highly, emotional. Like the human side can’t let them give in to that control they need to be a true wolf.

Booker Parish, is a lycan.

Bg Sommers, me, I’m a werewolf.

So imagine how my family and friends and by this I mean, the werewolf variety would act if they knew about me and Booker once being not only in love, but lovers. Shit might hit the fan. Especially since Booker is my sister’s friend.

Shit has already hit the fan for me, because my pack mate, Paris D’arenberg, uncovered my little secret about Booker and I. All Because I had a dream and mumbled his name in my sleep and then orgasm, all right before the eyes of my pack mate who was in bed beside me at the time. Woken by my throws of dream filled passion.

And now I find myself in a familiar situation.

I’m in the kitchen on top of the bench stop. Looking back at one, Booker Parish, who is three years older than me and taken. Like I’m taken. I have a pack mate, he has a girlfriend. Sure she’s a non, but it works for him I guess. He’s leaning back against the sink and resting his hands at the edge of it looking at me.

Only last time we were in a kitchen together and I was sitting like this, and he was standing opposite me, we ended up having sex. But that seems like it was a lifetime ago now and neither one of us is so naively young.

We’ve grown up, we’ve become wolves.

This is like a courting. We haven’t even spoken yet. If we don’t speak to one another soon, it’s going to get all too physical. Because that’s how easy it is to fall into this attraction thing I have with Booker Parish. We’re fine when we’re in a group setting, and there are plenty of people around us, to act as buffers and distractions. But alone time together, is a test. Most of the time.

I asked him over to my place in Red Hook cause we need to talk. Or should I say I do.

I need to put this thing to rest, to bed. Because I’m in a relationship with an alpha werewolf who does not play nice with others, when it comes to me. But I’m finding it hard to know how to begin without seeming foolish.

Maybe Booker doesn’t feel about me the way Paris seems to think he does.

I very deliberately wore jeans. I don’t really wear jeans all that often. But I I didn’t want my armour to be weak around this lycan. Didn’t want him to think I am dressing up for him. So I wore boots, jeans and even two tops, a long sleeved Raglan top and a t-shirt over that. Deliberately didn’t wear make-up and left my black hair down instead of doing anything with it. I don’t want to him to think I’m trying to court him in this dance around each other. Because that’s not my goal.

“He knows about us doesn’t he? Paris.” Booker says breaking our silence because something had to give. He pushes off the sink and moves steadily towards me.

“He knows about the past us.” I state back at Booker.

He sighs wistfully and keeps honing in on me. “I guess we couldn’t keep us a secret thing forever huh? Even though I hoped.” He says lowering his voice so it’s a almost a husky whisper.

I watch him come over and push my knees apart, standing between them, at the edge of the kitchen bench.

He slips a hand up the back of my neck and into my hair. I decide to ignore the fact that my pulse is racing and I’m not pushing him away. I didn’t call this meeting to reignite something, I called it to put it right.

“Don’t do it Book.” I state softly, eyeing his lips as I say the words.

I remember those lips, very well. That’s the problem with the werewolf brain, it’s sensory memory is incredible.

So are those lips.

“What? Hold you again?” He mutters softly inching closer. “I should never have pushed you away to begin with.”

Continued in A Wolf for the first time

Dark Heart

August 18, 2014
Leave a Comment

My heart beat thuds in my chest like it is trying to expand it so I can breathe. I only see anger in those stormy blue eyes before me and it’s all he has for me. Where has the loving Paris I know gone?

He gets dark sometimes, but it isn’t usually around or because of me. I’ve seen it once before. Paris can let the werewolf in him seriously take a hold. To the point that he almost gets buried inside, like some kind of internal shape shift is happening and the Alpha werewolf starts to control him. It’s like his heart get’s replaced by the darkest parts of the beast.

But this darkness, it’s brought on by the werewolf trauma of fighting through life. Not over an erotic dream that I had while sleeping next to him.
This is, scary, this is Paris jealous. Really, jealous because of me.

“What?” The word whimpers out of my mouth because I’m wounded. I don’t understand what is going on here. How it could go on here.

“You had a wet dream about Booker Parish.” Paris goes on steadily. “And I want to know why. It wasn’t a regular dream about anyone else in your life, it was very clear to me, it was a sex dream with Booker. So when did you start sleeping with him?”

My whole body is trembling. I push up in the bed to a sitting position now, to face him properly. But it’s not fear that is making my arms shake and my chest pound. It’s anger.

“I’m not sleeping with Booker Parish!” The bed cover slips down me and Paris’s eyes divert briefly to my naked breasts. He looks away, as if pained.

“Cover up.” He instructs.

“No.” I growl back at him and his head snaps back around to me. “You sit there, accusing me of sleeping with your and my friend,”

“Fellow pack mate to you,” Paris stings me with.

“Right, right. We come from the same pack so we must be sleeping together!” I am truly annoyed at him now. “Grow up Paris.” I pull back the covers and slide out of the bed, looking for clothing.

Fuck him! He wants to attack me when I’m vulnerable to suggestion, just waking up, when I’m naked. Well I know how to play this fucking game of punch-up! I pull on clothes quickly. A pair of leggings and a long sleeved top. Armour. Cover me from him, so his gaze can’t affect my being.

“So?” He asks again and I turn on him.

“Are you fucking serious?” I yell in disbelief. “You honestly think I’m sleeping with Booker Parish because I said his name while I was asleep?”

“You didn’t just say his name Bg, you repeated it, over and over again and then I watched as you shuddered and came, touching yourself. While I was spooned up against you. And I know you and Booker are, friends as well as pack mates.”

Oh my fucking god. “I’m going to loose it.” I mutter to myself. “You’re jealous of a fucking dream Paris, a dream!”

“A dream that made you come.” Paris states back at me. “If you were horny, you would’ve just woke me up and rode me.”

I roll my eyes and slam my hands down onto my hips. This is ridiculous beyond belief!

“There’s no fucking logic in dreams Paris, they’re just shit that comes into your head!” I continue to yell at him.

“Look I know you and Booker are friends as well as pack mates,” I growl at him again, beginning to bear my teeth. “And whilst you don’t have a lot of contact with him here, when you’re in Manhattan Maen territory, you can’t say that’s not the case when you’re in Brooklyn. He’s one of your sister’s posse and one of the first called on each time your protective detail is given.”

My eyes widen till I think my eyebrows are going to fly off my face.

“You think, I fuck around with Booker when I have the chance, when I’m over in Brooklyn and you’re not there with me?”

He’s silent again. Dark blue eyes never leave me and I begin to pace around the side of the bed, furthest from him.

“Okay, you want to know about Booker and me.”
I still and look out at him, letting out a deep breath to calm myself.

“I’ll tell you about Booker and me.”

Continued in…. Male Wolves

Wet Dream

August 11, 2014
Leave a Comment

“You were dreaming.” Paris states. “You were restless, more than normal.” He pauses waiting for me to clearly understand what he is getting at. I don’t.

“Did I hurt you in my sleep?” I ask puzzled.

It would take a fair bit to hurt Paris, especially from a soft, supple body, that was in rem sleep. He is a hulk of muscle, big, solid and tough. Having alpha werewolf genetics on top of that, means he’s intimidating, and comes across as damn-near bullet proof, invincible.

Of course, he’s not immortal but he can take more of a beating that most. I don’t have anywhere near that much power to physically break him down. So I’m perplexed as to what I could’ve done in my sleep to earn this greeting as a wake up call.

“You don’t remember your dream?” He questions me. His body is tense, his clothing is tight against it and it shows not only his bulk but also, how he is not in anyway relaxed or okay.


I know I feel good, like I got a great night’s rest. Which makes his attitude towards me, even more perplexing. I try to remember if I even knew I was dreaming. I wonder if I’m dreaming now, and this is somehow my anxiety playing out on my nerves.

“You were making noises.” He watches me closely. “Moaning.”

Okay. I still don’t get this.

“I woke up because of it.” Paris says at me and I frown. “I watched you to make sure you were okay, that you weren’t having a nightmare. It definitely wasn’t a nightmare.”

Really? He’s going to be pissed at me because I made some noises in my sleep? That’s just pathetic and does not in any way deserve the third degree of interrogation that I’m getting here, now! I feel righteously justified in giving him a serve of my mind, but he cuts my thought of with his next words.
“You called out a name and then appeared to come in your sleep.”

I tense and I see a recognition in his eyes that he notices the smallest of movement in my body at his words.

“It wasn’t my name you called out Bg.” Paris says back at me and I feel a sense of dread wash over me and I am all too awake hearing this now.
“So again, last time I ask. Is there something you want to tell me?” He persists and his voice is low and deceptively calm, less annoyed sounding. But That’s just to fool me, to suck me into him so he can come at me with his damn, male pride and anger.

“Paris, I don’t remember any of that, I don’t know what you want me to say. What to tell you.”

“I want you tell me why my pack mate, came calling out a Lycan’s name! I want to know why you called out Booker Parish’s name in my bed!” He growls at me.

Continued in…Dark Heart

Lycans are made

March 12, 2012
Leave a Comment

The first lycan I ever came across was a female Alpha that hunted me down when I was fourteen years old.

I did nothing to provoke this encounter. Other than prove an opportunity too good to pass up for her and her pack. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Prior to her attack on me , lycans to me were just some bogey-man I’d heard about, like a scare tactic designed to keep werewolves in line. To show young werewolves what we didn’t want to become. Ever.

To demonstrate to impressionable werewolves what was so beneath the very nature and biology of the werewolf. And to illustrate to pups like me and my four siblings how good and great werewolves, Breukelen werewolves in particular, truly are.

I never doubted myself as a werewolf until that encounter. Everything I had ever been told about lycans up until then was proven completely true by that attack. I never have had any reason to doubt my pack. Or my pack leader or the werewolf way of life. But it turns out not all wolves are created equal.

Lycans aren’t a concept. They’re humans who have become wolves. Not true werewolves as such. They’re not born a werewolf. Werewolves are born .

We carry a genetic legacy that is eons old and passed down through our bloodlines.

Lycans are made not born. They do not have a genetic advantage of the human race like us. They do not possess a werewolf gene. They’re a problem created by werewolves.

They’re kind of like a basterdized offspring of a werewolf. The problem with this is that werewolves don’t care about lycans. Well, we’re not supposed to care about lycans. Even though werewolves are at fault here.

Of course being a werewolf myself, a true werewolf, I’m not supposed to say such blasphemous things out loud. Or you know like ever. The general rule for lycans is they just can’t be us. Therefore they can’t be a part of us. Can’t be a part of our packs or our way of life or our culture.

They’re beneath us. They’re nothing.

So you see the problem?

Werewolf attacks and bites a human. Human manages to survive the werewolf attack. Human becomes infected by werewolf’s bite. Werewolf creates something it doesn’t want, a lycan .

Lycan has nowhere to go because lycan lacks identity. Because it is the werewolf way is to deny the lycan such a thing. Strip it of what it would otherwise be entitled to if it were a werewolf, or even a human.

Therefore the repercussions of lycanthropy are put into their otherwise, unprepared for it, body’s system. Human gets past stage one, infection. Survives to live and tell whoever will listen and believe them, that they were attacked by a werewolf.

Human gets ridiculed and become ostracised from everyone and everything around it as a result of this one event affecting them, that they can’t let go of. A month later human goes through first shape shift. Human somehow manages to survive the shape shift. Human is no longer a human, but a lycan.

This new lycan does not understand what has happened to them or how it works. Has no information to go off. Has no support network. The werewolves they find out about, turn them out. All but run them out of werewolf territory.

Any time the lycan runs into werewolves, they fight, and are met with hostile intentions for no actual reason, other than they carry the scent of a lycan. Lycan is made to go it alone. Because lycan is not a werewolf by nature, intention, or biology.

When I was just a pup, I lived rather naively amongst my pack. I was just part of a collective community that looked after me. I was just a pup from the leading pack alpha’s family.

My father is the alpha leader of the Breukelen werewolf pack in Brooklyn, New York. I adore and admire my father. I thought he could do no wrong. I thought he was amazing.

He loved me, loved his pack and he was rather brilliant at leading our pack, through business decisions as well as strategic decisions and understanding the personalities of our pack. Not that I would figure that out until I was older and began to glimpse the inner working of our pack at play.

I didn’t know there were politics to work through because I never saw that side of our world. As a pup, I didn’t need to be.

But after my first run in with a lycan I changed . I guess you could say I grew up. Not that long after the lycan attack on me I met Booker Parish. I was fifteen and Booker was seventeen.

My world was about to be tilted on it’s well structured and known axis. All because of a boy. But not just any boy. Benico Parish, Ben for short, Booker to his friends.

Booker was the first lycan I met who didn’t want to kill me.

Didn’t want to harm me.

Booker Parish is to this day the only lycan this werewolf has ever been in love with.


To Read more from Perception, go to: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/133976

Being Good

November 18, 2010

Who’s brainy idea was it again to have me kept under protective guard on a lunar week, by hot looking wolves in Brooklyn?

Oh yeah, my over protective, well meaning sister, Bodil. That’s why I’m in a nightclub with Booker Parish, dancing like we’re in the streets of South America. New rules in my life to be adhered to until further notice, must have (hot) body guards by my side twenty four seven. Must be an Alpha werewolf or a fighter. Imitators and lesser wolves will not be excepted. Booker, next to my sister, is our best warrior wolf.

Sweating up a river, with our clothes sticking to our skin, like it’s a second layer of it. I haven’t been out in what feels like forever. I’m not used to being house bound. So I’m reveling in the chance to move, to interact, to be engulfed in heat, drowned in communal lust and want.

Lunar week and it’s all fun, fun, fun. Forget your troubles and dance your nights away, the werewolves have come out to play. Especially me. I haven’t heard from Paris since I asked him to take me home. Maybe he and the boys are doing a bit of pack policing, finding Gabby, or something. I don’t know and right now, I gotta say, I don’t care, about that, about Gabby or any of them Maen wolves.

Brooklyn is where it is at.

Heart beats are pumping steadily, as it trying to match the beats of the music coating us dancers in. I can’t believe I’m actually smiling as Booker sides up behind me, and I dance, my back against his front, my hips moving from side to side as my short white skirt, swishes around. My arms are raised in the air, as I look back over my shoulder at the large, solid wall of male Lycan wolf, behind me. His black t-shirt is clinging to his chest, defining it’s grooves and ridges for me.

I swear Booker’s grinning. Nice to see. That boy rarely smiles.
But I feel his smile, his assurance in my safety, with him, literally having my back. Booker might be one of my sister’s best friends and fighters, but he’s something else to me entirely.

Booker and I have history.

So who’s brainy idea was it again to have me kept under protective guard on a lunar week, by a hot looking Booker Parish in Brooklyn? Who cares.

I haven’t felt so liberated in days. Booker gets that, he gets me. I think he’s got more patience and time for me, than the other body guards assigned to their menial detail of protecting the youngest female werewolf from the leading Breukelen Alpha’s family.

My hair is thick with heat and sweat, and it’s hanging heavily down my neck as I gather it up and lift it off my neck, I feel him move slightly behind me and see him, lean forward I think it’s to blow cool air on the base of my neck. But instead he leans towards my ear.

“You want to get some fresh air?”

Do I?
Do I!

Problem is, if I literally go outside for “fresh air” and feel the night time and moonlight caress my skin. Then “do I wanna what”, is going to just jump me, like you wouldn’t believe. I’m one of those sadistic werewolves who likes to test themselves during lunar week, by playing little games with their own bodies desire, so that the end result, of getting what you want, is ten times better. Problem, I only play those sexy little mind and body fuck games with my pack mate. Like my absent packmate, Paris, a friend of Booker’s too.

“Nah, I’m good.” I reply still dancing and letting my heavy hair drop down out of my hands.

“Is that what you call this?” He murmurs with a chuckle, before straightening up. I turn around to face him, putting a little distance between us. “Being good?”

“What would you call it?” I grin at him, still dancing in my heels.

An eyebrow arches up and he smiles shaking his head. “To be continued.” He states looking past me and pointing out the appearance of Conall Wakely walking through Disco and Rhyme. Conall’s eyes scan the crowd, and land on me. His eyes flick over at Booker standing before me, now completely still and staring hard back at Conall. Booker and I are drenched in sweat. We look like we’ve been hosed down in water. Or come straight from a pool party or something. Are clothes are sticking to us like we’ve been swimming in them.

Others around us are peeling off layers of clothing, or near naked dancing around us. See, we are being good. Conall scowls at us and throws his arm around a pretty, petite wolf’s shoulders suddenly.

“Come on, let’s get a drink at the other bar.” I grab his hand and lead Booker off the dance floor as Conall and he continue to stare it out, as we head out to the outside bar. The furthest away from Conall and his entourage. I don’t want to think about him, at all. I don’t want this night ruined. Because it’s like being given a gift, after being cooped up at my family house for days on end in lock down mode.

Booker holds the door open for me as we step outside, and the cooler night air hits me instantly and I tilt my head up and grin at the moon, closing my eyes. My neck exposed underneath as my heavy hair, drops off my back and hangs behind me. I sigh softly. I’m welcome under the moon’s embrace.

“Being good, being good.” I hear Booker mutter behind me, as he holds the doorway open and I open my eyes again, glancing back at him, before we head over to the bar.

    Arrooo! Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 466 other followers

    Follow A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn on WordPress.com

    Go hunting if you dare…

    August 2020
    M T W T F S S

    Search for posts

    Blog Stats

    • 54,870 hits
%d bloggers like this: