Moon Shy

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Moon Shy

  ISBN #978-0-85715-297-8

  ©Copyright Victoria Blisse 2010

  Cover Art by Natalie Winters ©Copyright September 2010

  Edited by Janice Bennett

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom

  .

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  MOON SHY

  Victoria Blisse

  Dedication

  I owe thank you's to my husband, Kev, who came up with the fantastic title for this story and to Angel from Clique who created the name of my villain.

  So thank you both very, very, much.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Mastermind: The British Broadcasting Corporation

  The Godfather: Paramount Pictures Corporation

  The Italian Job: Paramount Pictures Corporation

  Wile E. Coyote: Warner Bros. Inc.

  Yogi Bear: Hanna-Barbera Productions, Inc.

  Chapter One

  His hands moulded her arse, and she couldn’t believe it. She’d worked for ten months at this boring, mouldering old firm just because he did, too, and finally, she had her hands on him—and he on her, come to that. He was drunk, she was drunk. It was an office party, after all.

  They’d simply been chatting over the table of nibbles when he’d asked her to dance. She had accepted and enjoyed rubbing up against him while onlookers gaped at quiet little Jenny, dancing with the hottest property on the fifth floor.

  When he’d whispered in her ear about meeting her in his office, somewhere quiet for them to come to know one another better, she’d jumped at the chance without thinking of the sadness of ten months working together and him only just knowing her name.

  They’d left the party together. The company was so broke, they were doing the typical Christmas do several weeks early and in the office itself. No one seemed to mind, though. There was plenty of free booze.

  As soon as they’d reached his office, his lips had been on hers, his hands on her arse. If she’d been even a drink or two more sober, she would have slapped him. But she was drunk and horny, so she’d slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

  As he undid the zip that slipped down her back, she loosened his tie and opened his shirt.

  She was soon clad only in her sexiest bra and knickers before him, too desperate for his cock to worry about her chubby tummy or wobbling thighs. He seemed to find her attractive enough. She dropped to her knees to see to the bulge hidden under his trousers.

  His dick was hot and hard and fitted nicely in her mouth. She sucked for a little while before he barked out a command. She obeyed instantly, leaning over the desk, feeling the warmth on the wood where his buttocks had just been pressing and the chill on her breasts of the cold, early November evening.

  He spanked her, teasing her, before he pulled off her knickers and forced his way inside of her. She rocked back against him as he banged furiously into her with no care for her satisfaction. When he came, spurting all over her buttocks and back, she was still aching for more. But he passed out on his office chair. She covered him with his jacket, dressed and went home with the plan to wank furiously, but all she did was fall into bed.

  The next morning, she was summoned to Mr. Taylor’s office. It looked different in the daylight, but her cheeks flushed as she remembered the hi-jinks of the night before.

  Mr. Taylor, though, was not up for a repeat performance.

  “But-but you can’t fire me. You were having sex, too!” Jenny exclaimed in an explosion of disbelief and fury.

  “I was merely testing you, and you failed,” he said, not a sign of a smile on his lips.

  “You bastard! You snotty, fucking bastard!” she yelled. “Well, you can stick your crappy, little job up your arse, because I don’t bloody well want it, anyway.” And she stamped out of the room.

  Just as she stood in the doorway, she yelled so the whole floor could hear, “And you’re a fucking awful lay with your tiny penis and your lack of staying power. Go fuck yourself!”

  She walked over to her desk, head held high, very much aware of the stares. She gathered her things and left, and it wasn’t until she had walked down the street that she burst into tears.

  She quickly pulled herself together and bought a copy of the local paper. She looked at the jobs section, and there was a big advert for Demonet. They were looking for new customer service representatives. She was not particularly keen on the idea of working for a company that would see her as a nameless drone, but she decided to apply for the position anyway. Times were hard, and she needed a job. She had a flat and associated bills to pay. Needs must.

  Two weeks later, she walked into the Demonet building for her first day at work.

  * * * *

  Dessie was under no illusions. Everyone hated her. She was beautiful, and she knew it. She dressed in high heels and short skirts to show off her lean, lithe legs, and her makeup was always perfect. People were afraid of her and not just because she was employed to assess how well they were doing their job, but because she had an air about her. She was dangerous. She fed on the fear she sensed, and she did not care that everyone thought she was a bitch. She was.

  “Michael, I need to have a word with you,” she said, striding into the executive’s office without even knocking on the door.

  “Oh, Miss Conall, do come in.” The man struggled weakly against his fear as he ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair and fixed her with his black-rimmed eyes. “Have a seat.” He tried a smile, but it came over far more like a grimace

  Dessie replied with a curt refusal. “I prefer to stand. You know I’ve been watching you over the last few days,” she said, watching him fiddle with a pen between his nervous fingers as he nodded. “I have assessed everyone else and have recommended ten members of staff should be laid off.” She watched his eyes bulge.

  The small company was expecting to lose one or two of the slackers, but the number given shocked him and made him even more worried. His brows wrinkled deeply.

  “I was deeply disappointed by the level of work ethos in this company. There are far too many slackers—or should I say were. Upper management has already fired the ten members I have mentioned.”

  Dessie watched as his eyes flicked around her face and her body, seeking a non-verbal hint about the rest of her message. He found none, but his eyes lingered longer on her pert breasts than they should have.

  “Now, I have news about your job. I have watched you closely and seen you do actually do a lot of work.” S
he saw him relax slightly, easing back into his leather seat. “But that work is not up to standard. It is sloppy and undisciplined, and your influence has filtered down through the whole company, poisoning it. So, I am going to recommend your contract be terminated.”

  “No!” He virtually screamed it, then, with blushing cheeks, he repeated himself. “No, please, Miss Conall. Can’t you give me another chance? I’ll do better. I promise you, I will do better.”

  This was one of her favourite parts, the begging.

  “Michael,” she used his first name again to further emphasise her position of power, “I have not seen a spark of excellence from you. Why on earth would I be willing to give you a second chance?”

  “I’ll do anything, Miss Conall, anything. I need this job. I have a wife and children and a pension only a few years away. Please, give me a chance.”

  “Anything?” she questioned, disappointed he had laid out his cards so quickly but not at all surprised. “Would you crawl on all fours to kneel at my feet and kiss the tip of each of my shoes?”

  He thought for a moment, his tongue travelling over his dry lips, his eyes studying her visage, trying to see what his answer should be.

  “Yes, Miss Conall, I would.”

  “Do it.”

  He hesitated for only half a second before dropping to the floor behind his desk. She heard him take a huge lungful of breath, then she saw him crawling in his suit over the thick carpet to her. He kissed each toe immediately and stayed with his head bowed at her feet.

  “That is a good start. I will give you a reprieve—but on one condition. You will come to my room at The Cumberland Hotel at 8:00 p.m. sharp. There, you will bend to my every command. If you do well, you will have your job. If not, I will recommend to your superiors that you should go.”

  “I have a wife, a family. I can’t….”

  “If you’re not there at 8:00, your job will be lost. It is as simple as that.” She purposefully stood on his fingers before turning and walking out of the door. He would be there, she knew he would. She knew his type.

  And sure enough, he arrived that night at two minutes after 8:00. Dessie tortured him. The stripping, the humiliation, the spanking and the domination—he enjoyed it all. His cock was hard no matter the punishment he took, and Dessie admired that in a man.

  “Well, Michael, it seems today is your lucky day. Your cock is hard, and my cunt is aching.” She ran a hand through his hair as he knelt subserviently before her. She pulled him forward roughly, and he winced with the pain.

  “Don’t disappoint me now, Michael,” she purred. “You’ve taken it so well. Now get up here and fuck me.”

  She lay back on the bed. She was already naked, she preferred to lose her clothes as early on as possible, and it made proceedings easier and much less messy. Michael eagerly climbed between her thighs and began to thrust. She knew he wouldn’t last long.

  She pulled his head down towards her, and as he fucked her, she whispered in his ear.

  “Do you know what tonight is, Michael dear? Tonight there is a full moon, and it is rising right now, as you fuck me. In just a moment it will be at full strength. I love the full moon, Michael. It makes me so very horny. So fuck me hard, lover boy, and enjoy it, for it’s the last thing you will ever do.”

  And as the fat, pampered executive continued to pump, Dessie howled. Her flesh rippled, her soft, smooth skin erupted hair in thick clumps, and her wicked smile grew bigger and bigger until her jaws were wide and her smile was the menacing snarl of a wolf. It all happened in a split second, and before the man encased inside of her could scream out in fear, Desdemona, the werewolf, ripped into his flesh and tore out his throat. She discarded the body and ran off into the night. The full moon was still young, and she had a mighty blood lust to feed.

  * * * *

  Lowell was not the kind of man who brushed off a few minutes tardiness. He was the kind of man who had to be on time for everything.

  That evening he was very organised, indeed. He left work and the comforting coldness of the basement at bang on 6:00 p.m. The servers were fully functional, and he was satisfied that all would go well until he got back at 9:00 a.m. the next morning.

  He took the bus home. It was on time for once, making the twenty minute ride far more bearable, even though he was forced to sit next to a florid, overly made-up granny who insisted on talking to him until he reached his stop.

  He walked into his house and locked the front door behind him then left his keys in the bowl on the table in the corridor. He hung up his long, beige work coat and took off his shoes. He placed their shiny blackness on the shoe rack and continued down the hall to the kitchen.

  Lowell pulled out his Thursday night lasagne from the freezer and placed it, plastic lid pierced, into his microwave. As his meal cooked, he boiled the kettle and made himself a cup of tea and also filled a flask with the comforting brew—with two sugars—and placed it together with an apple and a packet of crisps on the end of the countertop. He didn’t need to make sandwiches, as on Friday he treated himself to a meal in the Demonet canteen.

  When the microwave pinged, Lowell plucked out the hot, plastic container, flopped it onto a cold, white plate and placed it on his tray beside his cup of tea and side plate of chocolate biscuits. He carried his meal carefully into the living room and sat down in his chair. He flicked on the television and enjoyed eating the food.

  At precisely 6:30, he walked back into the kitchen, washed his pots and made up a bottle of cold water. He walked upstairs and went to his bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. Other people thought he looked good, but he was nowhere near as toned as he’d once been, and it made him uncomfortable. He picked up his navy blue sweat suit trousers and pulled on a plain, blue T-shirt. Then he chose his clothes for the next day. Black trousers, an unadorned, white shirt and his Friday tie with a picture of Wile E. Coyote on the tip. He carried them downstairs, picked up his water and walked back into the hall.

  He opened the door under the stairs, and once he was in, he flicked on the light and pulled the bolts behind him and clicked the key in its lock. He continued down the steep, stone steps and, in the damp, cold room below, put down his clothes on the plain, wooden chair and left the bottle of water on the floor beside it.

  He looked at his watch. It was just a few minutes to 7:00. He pulled off what he wore and placed the things carefully underneath his work clothes. Sighing deeply, he walked over to the door at the far side of the tiny cellar, opened it and went in. After shutting it behind him, he drew the six bolts closed then checked each one of them again before he crossed over to the far wall.

  Lowell sat down on the pile of dirty, ripped and torn blankets and lifted the back corner of the very bottom one. Under it was a pocket, and in the pocket was a tiny, silver key. He left it there, carefully turning the blanket back down, then lifted up the chain that ran behind the covers. He found the manacle and slipped it around his ankle. He repeated the same action on the other side, so both of his legs were in chains.

  He sat still, his back to the cold stone wall, and waited. He waited several minutes. He always thought as he sat in discomfort each month that he could leave it a little later and save his bottom from the cold of the floor that seeped through the blankets and into his bones, but he never did. He was afraid he’d end up being late.

  As the moon showed itself in all its full glory, Lowell changed. With a pained and pitiful yowl tearing from his throat, his body erupted with hair, his back arched and his face elongated into a snout. Within a matter of seconds, he was no longer a man.

  He was a beast, and he strained and thrashed against his chains as he banged at the wall and slashed the crumbling brick with his hard, long claws.

  Eventually the beast tired, curled up and fell asleep.

  At 8:00 a.m., Lowell woke up, naked and shivering. He sat up with a wince—he always felt tender the night after his little problem—and gently he felt around
for the keys. He picked up first one then the other and centred his thoughts on working his fine motor skills. With effort, he managed to unlock both manacles. He put the keys away again and went over to unlock the door.

  It wasn’t until he’d put on his clothes that he pulled the watch from his pocket and saw the time.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed and grabbed the flask and his food. “I forgot to set the damn alarm. Shit, shit, shit!”

  He raced up the stairs and locked the door behind him, then he rushed along the hall and exited his home. He ran for the bus, panting and gasping and hating his lot in life, and reached the stop a mere moment after his bus pulled away. Once he’d waited for the next one, he was agitated beyond belief, and he scowled his way through the rush hour traffic. Then at his stop, he leapt from the bus and ran towards the Demonet offices.

  He skidded past reception and cannoned down the stairs, panting and puffing. He was not as fit as he used to be, and he was very aware of his stiff and aching muscles. He stopped outside his room and checked his watch. Ten minutes late, not too bad. He’d make it up by leaving later than usual.

  He walked into his room, and the comforting hum of the servers quietened his soul.

  “Ah, Mr. Kenyon. Nice of you to show up.” A woman was sitting in his chair, her delicate fingers resting on his keyboard.

  “Erm, hello. And you are?” he asked, tersely. He did not like surprises, especially ones that sat at his desk.

  “I am Miss Desdemona Conall. You can call me Miss Conall. Demonet has employed me to discover its weak links. I am here to work out where they can save money and which useless employees should be fired.”

  “Well, Miss Conall, I think there has been some kind of mix up. This is my desk, my computer and my room. You will have to find your own space, I’m afraid.”