Read: The Werewolf Epic
A moment she resists, but trusting you,
though changed, submits to his forceful lewd will.
He pulls the child by her arm that yet,
in parts, displays endearing baby’s fat,
unto your bed, but wrestles on with her.
Here still unsatisfied—encouragement
taken at the concession made, and so
it is with wolves—he struggles with that arm.
Anon, he drags it closer to the mark,
desiring that she should touch his loins.
Upon your lap he draws her virgin hand
so white, as like unspotted dove preserved
for temple sacrifice, and had it been
herself giving within holy darkness
unto the one her heart adored her like
would be: erstwhile unblemished you have stained.
The moment comes, and innocent, she knows
only hot shame. Her love-d relative,
so her imagination thinks, could not
have meant to guide her hand unto this end,
and thus she takes the fault as hers alone.
Blushing she turns away, and tries to free
herself. His claws about her wrist tightly
contract; he spots the linen in her blood
as she—first in embarrassment lightly,
but now in terror growing—twists and pulls.
He lets not go, but draws her closer still.
Embracing her, he brings her mouth towards his.