Tall, tanned and handsome, Professor Damien Lock stood leering at the fresh faced young men and women before him. He had just turned thirty and had a face full of stubble that coated his strong jaw, his hair was short and thick, tamed by a handful of gel and pushed back so that his green eyes could stand out beneath the thick, black brows that I’d seen frown at me far too many times. I had spent several nights fantasizing about the older man, reaching into my briefs and tugging at my shaft as I thought of all the ways he could take me. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of his hairy chest poking out of the undone button of his collar, on those occasions I often found myself retreating to my dorm to release the tension building between my thighs.
My sexuality had kicked in the same time my werewolf gene had. Almost overnight I found myself – a young man with a history of ex-girlfriends – craving other men and yearning for them to throw me up against a wall and have their wicked way with me. These emotions felt so natural that I didn’t waste my time questioning them. I didn’t want to deny what my heart, head and crotch were feeling.
Maybe if I hadn’t been a werewolf then I would’ve struggled to ‘come out’ and accept myself but none of that other stuff really seemed to matter when I had to spend several nights a month controlling an insatiable bloodlust.