Scenes of affection with a paranormal bent allow for imagery that titillates and transgresses in a naughty but sorta safe way. You can do with a shifter or a vamp what you might consider tres risky or off-putting in a more contemporary/realistic setting. Though one could argue the point that realism has little or nothing to do with the mechanics of spreading joy and fellowship amongst willing and not-so-willing partners in a fictional setting.
Speaking of marginal non-con paranormal, one of my favorite characters is Dreu, born in the 10th century to a Vampyr princess and a father with questionable ancestry who has successfully evaded parental entanglements beyond the obvious first contact. Dreu is a hybrid creature, bearing unique qualities that make him interesting to nearly every sector of the supernatural ‘Verse. He’s been cossetted and protected by a monastic order for nine hundred years, only to be discovered in the modern age by a band of ne’er-do-well pirates with a plan for world domination hinging on Dreu’s supposedly preternatural abilities.
To say they’re barking up the wrong tree might be an understatement.
In this excerpt from The Strigoi Chronicles, Dreu is visited by the shifter, Fane…
My wolfie new BFF unlocked and manhandled the door open—it swung inward, a fact I’d noted for future activities when I tired of this charade and decided to leave for more interesting climes, though I couldn’t fault the countryside from the little I could see from the arrow-slit gracing the higher reaches of the dungeon. When the weather co-operated, there were the occasional glimpses of granite cliffs tumbling in abstract patterns to a sea glimmering in angry grey-green, the scent wafting into my cell on soft breezes.
That possibly put me on the Adriatic, amongst the friendly neighborhoods of one or another Balkan state, most likely on a trade route for arms, drugs, white slavers and weaponized young men with anger management issues.
One of whom entered my domain cautiously but with hope, desire and plain old lust bleeding out of every pore.
We considered each other over an expanse of uneven stone flooring. That he left the door open—and the key ring dangling loosely in thick, gnarled fingers—spoke volumes about his IQ; but his solid build, imposing height, and very impressive assets made concerns about après fuck small talk a moot point.
In a word, he was hot.
Mesmerized by the straining denim across a very pronounced erection, it took a few moments to see the manacles attached to his belt. If I’d had a functioning heart, it would have stopped. Like a combatant watching an opponent’s eyes for a telltale sign for when he’d lob a strike, I waited for my new toy to spy the rings set halfway up the wall. They were high enough to be ridiculously uncomfortable for someone like me, born in the eleventh century when a tall man might reach five-nine, if that. For him, towering over me by a generous five or six inches, it was going to be just an inconvenience.
My imagination kicked into overdrive, anticipating the little grunts of dismay, the huffs of distress as he swiveled and pulled against the restraints, metal clinking against cold, hard stone while I peeled that offending fabric down tree trunk thighs.
The wolf would object, strenuously. Their breed didn’t take kindly to being leashed and the risk that he’d shift made what I planned deliciously dangerous.
He smiled slyly and asked, “Would you like to eat first, Father?”
First, oh dear boy… I love when predator and prey are on the same page. I nodded to the wall behind me and stepped away, leaving a path for him amidst the clutter in the cell. He pressed against the door, grunting lightly at having to force the weight against rusty hinges. Wolves were very strong, but that door would stop a tank. Again, he impressed me.
But then, maybe I was just really, really hungry.
With a wave of my hand, I indicated he should stand under the rings, but to be polite, I asked, “Do you mind?”
“N-n-not at all, Father,” stuttering a little as the beast suggested that it was a bad idea. It wasn’t that I could read his mind or anything like that; but it didn’t take an advanced degree in lycanthropy to read eyes flashing yellowish green and skin literally crawling with anxiety, the muscles twitching just under the surface.
Oh, and what skin.
My tall friend had won the genetic lottery with a dusky olive complexion, pin straight, über-black hair falling to his shoulders, a stern brow ridge that would do a Neanderthal proud and designer stubble barely concealing a lickable chin cleft. Plus, he had meat on his bones.
I’m really not fond of the Ralph Lauren skinny minnies with monogram shirts and high cheekbones. Give me something in two hundred to two-twenty pounds, built square and hard-muscled, then top it with a face that’s got flat Slavic planes, shadowed, tortured eyes and full lips. Add a prominent nose that’s been broken, props if more than once, and my engine starts revving.
My preferences were one reason I’d relocated to the Black Sea area. Ultimately, I’d been disappointed in the quality of the gene pool but I stayed on for the ambiance, making do with my other acquired taste: nubile, virginal young things whose mothers benefitted from my bestowing indulgences.
Bartering one’s daughter’s virginity for past, current or future forgiveness of sins seemed to be a regional interpretation of the myths built up around an ancient theological practice, one that greatly benefitted every order I’d adopted over the early medieval period and beyond. It added to the cloister’s coffers and afforded the small luxuries that made life in a monastery tolerable.
Come for salvation. Stay for the perks.
Some of us had put a different spin on that ‘come’ with penance for extra-curricular activities honored more in the breach than the observance.
The wiggly pup before me obligingly held out the manacles, and then divested his broad torso of the black tee-shirt. Taking a moment, I drank in the sight of dark hair furred over massive man boobs that tapered and ridged over moguls of taut flesh, the thick vee of invitation diving inside a pewter belt buckle and disappearing from view. I licked my lips, deliberately nicking my tongue on a fang, the drizzle of syrupy rich goodness snaring his attention.
Between ragged breaths, he fumbled with the belt but I stayed his hands, instead urging them upwards and carefully latching the worn leather to thick wrists.
If my boy toy had been a horse, I’d have said something along the lines of him having good bone.
Eyebrows raised as I chuckled at my own joke, he complied, the anticipation almost more than he could bear. At the loud snick when the latch engaged, he bucked away, yanking down, testing his strength against the anchors in the stone. The rings would hold; the latch would not. It was new wave bondage lite with quick release snaps. All my darling needed was a safe word and all would be well.
Except for one little thing.
I didn’t do safe words.