*Sploosh*
The jig sinks under the waves and you begin to reel it back with increasing frustration. This whole trip had been a waste. You came to
the so-called "Pleasure Island" in search of a nice, quiet place to spend the weekend with a couple friends and sixteen hours later here
you are fishing off the end of a pier alone. The end of the pier is bathed in a solid yellowish halo of light cast by the sole dock light
above you. The mindless amble of time had passed quick, it was night now, and you had barely noticed. A yellow moon rose in the
south and the stars had revealed themselves one by one. You wipe sweat off your brow in to humidity. Your friends had hit the town
earlier in the morning and hadn't returned as of yet. A half a novel, and now around three hundred fish-less casts later you're beginning
to get worried. You turn and pack up your book and tackle box, turning to face the dark forest and dirt road that meandered its way
toward the small excuse for a civilization the island had, or at least the brochure had guaranteed it.
"I better go find these morons," you say to yourself, "This is un-fricking believable."
You check the small map, the town was a few miles off. Looking back up to survey your empty surroundings, you hear a few short yips
and two of separate howls fairly close to you by the sound of it. Startled, you point your flashlight at the tree line and
scan the shore, only the rush of the tides consoles you. You throw on your backpack and jog off the pier. There should be no reason
why this island would have wolves, you think to yourself. What possible prey could they have?
Nervously, you begin to walk up the forest path following the same route your friends took that morning. About fifteen minutes into the
woods, you hear a rustle of leaves to your right. Quickly shining the light in that direction, all you see is a blur of black and brown flying
toward you followed by a sharp, piercing pain in your shoulder.
(A sight of forepaws hitting dirt enters your empty, shocked mind as a canine runs through the forest ending in a midnight hilltop howl
at the moon. Images of German Shepards mating then fills your entirety as you crave to drive that aching, flaccid knot into the dripping
hole of a female. Suddenly disturbed by these images, you will yourself back to consciousness...)
You open your eyes and realize you're on the ground. The flashlight lies beside you, casting a pale beam of light on the dirt and foliage
surrounding you. Your vision is blurred and your body aches, as you take in browns, greens and a large pool of red beside the light.
Shit, you think, I've been bitten by something.
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Meanwhile, Lauren and Kristie view view your situation from the weeds and foliage on either side of the dirt road. Using their new mental
pack connection, the two werebitches communicate:
*He's injured Lauren, maybe we shouldn't wait for his change* thought Kristie, *I mean, it's
been fifteen minutes already and all he has done is sat up. Look at all the blood.*
*Shut up, sister* Lauren responded, *Your ignorance appalls me. His wounds have already healed, I licked them thoroughly remember?
The spilled blood is only from the initial fall. Besides, if we go in there now without the change influencing his state of mind he may flee
and really injure himself. We may be able to regenerate small wounds, but none of us has suffered a broken bone or worse. Besides, it
won't be long until he starts lusting for canine pussy, we move in when he begins to jack off.*
Thinking of the other men they had converted, Lauren began using her paw-like hand to stroke her furry femininity. The sight of the
men sliding their changing hands over large canine cocks was almost too much to bear. She began to drip.
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You note the reflecting eyes of two animals watching you in the woods as you inspect yourself further. Stay put, you think, and they may
leave. You notice that there is no wound evident on your shoulder, but a scar has already formed. Lifting your hand
several strands of a frothy liquid substance filling the gap from your hand to your shoulder. Looking down on yourself, you're clothes are
shredded. Long, claw-like holes have been sliced through all of them, front and back. Startled by this, you jump up only to be brought
back down on a knee by a debilitating pain in your groin. You look down on a penis that should have belonged to a dog. It's pointed
redness is easily ascertainable even in the semidarkness of your surroundings. Even knowing you should leave immediately, something
about the situation compels you to try to please yourself immediately. Your transforming subconscious craves what you had in your
short dream minutes ago. A clouding mind fails to take note of the approaching shadows in the darkened hedge behind you.