Wendigo's Ravenous Hunger Claims His Eager Forest Bride

Lila Voss stood alone beneath the ancient cedar at the heart of the restricted backcountry, the moon hanging fat and silver above the pines. Twenty-two, lean-muscled from two seasons of ranger patrols, she had long since stopped pretending her nightly offerings were for research. For six months she had returned to this shrine—first with apples, then with fresh venison, finally with nothing but her own slick panties soaked in her scent. She laid them on the moss-covered stone tonight like a whore laying out payment.

The air grew colder than any October night had a right to be. Frost rimed the ferns at her boots. Then the trees themselves seemed to part, and he stepped into the moonlight.

The Wendigo was massive. Easily nine feet tall, his bony frame wrapped in taut, ash-gray hide stretched over a ribcage that burned with cold blue flame. Enormous antlers branched like dead lightning above a long, elongated skull. Obsidian claws clicked as he moved. Where a normal deer’s head might have been there was only a nightmare of teeth and glowing white eyes that fixed on her with terrifying intelligence. His voice rolled out like grinding stone and splintering bone.

“You have been calling me, little ranger. Every night. Every soaked scrap of cloth. Did you think a hunger like mine could be teased forever?”

Lila’s knees shook, but not with fear. Her cunt clenched so hard she felt a fresh gush of wetness slide down her inner thigh. She had rehearsed this moment in the dark for months, fingering herself raw to the thought of him.

Instead of running, she reached for the zipper of her uniform jacket.

“I don’t want to feed you meat anymore,” she said, voice husky. “I want to feed you me.”