Mistress of the Werewolf

Angela was pretty enough, tall, with a tri-coloured red-brown-blond kind of hair that she always wore in a ponytail. She had a kind of eye-catching Amazon grace. Though tall, she was an ex-gymnast, and it showed in her walk. He had once remarked that she walked like a cat. But she always walked around with head phones on. He disliked that about her, that she needed constant aural stimulation. His first impulse would have been to comment on it, just to be negative, but he had at present no audience to hear him, so he left the silence alone.

Ah yes, unforgettable Angela. She was the sort of young woman who would skip in rain puddles and still climbed trees. She didn’t collect things apart from books, didn’t like recreational shopping except for others, didn’t wear fancy, ultra-fashionable clothes because she preferred shoes that she could hike mountains in, even if there were no mountains on hand. She adored nature, and could even sit in the rain without an umbrella for hours, letting herself get soaked through to the skin.

Angela was a free spirit with an obsessional devotion to keeping her promises, and her word was her bond. If she hated anything or anyone at all, it was hypocrisy and people who hurt her family, or "shallow people" who gave things only because they expected to get something in exchange for it. She disliked people who thought a pound of good intentions was worth more than an ounce of merit.

Angela had a high tolerance for physical pain, and admired honesty, integrity, dignity, and humility. She was tolerant, too, and seldom made criticism for no reason. Her natural inclination was to compromise in an argument and to share her thoughts, experiences, and worldy goods, but perhaps that was because she was a twin, and utterly devoted to her sister. That devotion intrigued the werewolf, who had felt nothing that strongly himself in all his life.

More than anything else in the world, Angela craved her freedom. Maybe because she had been moved across continents and back again since she the time that she was young, she was determined now to be the master of her own destiny at whatever cost. Just like the werewolf.

The werewolf knew most of this from having lived with Angela. At first he had not believed that she was real, that the sweet face she showed the world could be real. In general, he was skeptical about people and saw all humans as little more than aggressive, self-interested animals. The world to him was full of manipulative people ready to lie, cheat, steal, or kill in order to survive, and they would deceive him if they had to or if he let them. And anyone who didn’t know that this, the law of the Jungle, ruled the world, was a simpleton.

But for some reason, the werewolf had seen a glimmer of goodness in Angela, had recognized it in time, and had temporarily shelved his suspicions of her secret motives.

To be sure, he had only bothered to look at her long enough to assess if there was anything valuable in her because he found her attractive. And she had a very nice body. A gymnast’s body, so the chest was a bit too small, but her legs were long and lean and her posterior was rock hard. Plus, she was as flexible as a cat’s spine. Who wouldn’t notice?

Gradually, it had dawned on him that she was what the world generally called good. She was naïve of course, but she had a heart of gold that believed in charity and equality. Even if she had the most annoying defeatest idea that she could do little to improve the world she cared so much about, he had tried and tested her light, graceful goodness and sweet-strong sincerity a thousand ways, and she had unwittingly passed all of his secret tests.

That was how he had decided. She was worthy of becoming his victim.

And ever after, he had set about trying to seduce her.