Jardonn's Erotic Tales
by Jardonn Smith
A mechanical malfunction changed my life. One of those infrequent annoyances the average person puts off fixing because it's no big deal. Two times in a six month period my garage door opener failed to properly open. Would rise about three feet and stop, so I'd get out of my car and manually raise like I'd done for years prior to my lazy-man upgrade.
Both glitches occurred when I came home from work. Five in the afternoon, so I'd lift it, park, push the wall button to close, step inside, pour my drink, collapse in my easy chair and nap prior to dinner. Glitch fixing postponed until forgotten -- until next occurrence.
That just happened to be on a night when I'd decided to head for the casino and throw twenty bucks at a nickel slot machine. Well, I managed to find a bandit which played my contribution nearly four hours. This put me home around midnight, and of course, that's when door opener decided to execute screw up number three.
My neighborhood's not necessarily rough, but my day job takes me to some that are, so I carry a Louisville Slugger on my back floorboard. Not a full-size baseball bat. One from my Little League career, about two-and-a-half-feet long. Engraved name Tony Oliva, if you care to figure out my age. Anyway, night-time, full moon, and people had been acting squirrelly all day (one jerk at the casino asked me if I had a light, and then chastised me for smoking, just one example), so I grabbed my bat before exiting to raise my garage door.
Bending to lift, I heard a rustling past the corner of my garage. A split second later, my eyes spied a pair of big-ass hairy feet with long-ass gnarly nails streaking directly toward me. A frontal assault. Quickly, I rose to vertical, my left hand flinging open the door while my right hand whirled a full-circle, roundhouse swing with my Louisville Slugger.
The blunt end of my bat cracked the beastly skull right where forehead meets scalp. Thing is though, I really couldn't tell much difference between its forehead and scalp. One was just as hairy as the other. As the momentarily-stunned oddity stood wobbling with eyes crossed, my inspection confirmed the beast a werewolf, or to be precise, its dangling wanger confirmed him a wolfman.
As his eyes began to uncross and I anticipated him resuming attack-mode, I took pity upon him. Actually, I didn't want blood on my driveway, so rather than swinging at a high heater and finishing him with another skull-crack, I stepped to my left, grasped my bat with both hands and swung at a fat, juicy, down-the-middle fast ball. His middle. A whack to the center of his gut, but since I seemed to foul-tip on that swing, I gave him another. It arrived a split second after his paw clutched his middle. Poor paw! It took the blunt of my blow, and while he held it in front of his face for inspection I pounded him three more times in rapid succession.
My triple-swing assault finally put him down. With his good paw now on his belly and the beaten paw reaching for me, he fell to his knees.
"Move your paw or I'll crack it, too," I offered him the choice, and apparently, amazingly, he understood. Withdrew his undamaged paw. Surrendered his stomach, and with one swing at a low ball, I dropped him for good. He lay on his side, groaning with a graveled growl, both paws clutching his middle while his drawn-up, human-like legs (knee caps and all) twitched.
Well, I'd say my garage door opener problem paled in comparison to this. Logic said for me to drag him aside, park my car, close the door and call the police. Option two would be all of the above, minus calling the police, and simply leave him to go about his business. Option three would be to bash his head bloody, put an end to his miserable life, and then call the police.
None of these seemed viable to me. Oddly enough, he struck a chord of sympathy in me. I mean, it wasn't his fault he had to go through this shit once a month. Whatever werewolf bit him was to blame for that. What if he had a family somewhere wondering what happened to him? Think of their hand and/or paw-ringing. Where is he? When will he come home? It would be like having an indoor pet that slipped out the front door when you're signing for a postal package. Takes off running down the street, and despite hours of looking you never see your beloved animal again. Spend the rest of your days heart-brokenly imagining its fate. Innumerable, awful possibilities.
Been there, done that, and to this day it sickens me to think of it.
Okay, now the confession. Despite his ferocious face featuring deadly fangs, his over-sized paws and feet with their flesh-shredding claws, everything in between kinda turned me on. Fur be damned, his compact torso and the way he'd taken my Slugger to his hard gut made my dick twitch. Besides, I wanted to see what the wolfman looked like when the wolf went away and he was all man. Naked man!
So, I dragged him into my garage, stood over him with my ball bat. "Roll onto your back and expose your belly," I ordered, knowing this is what a dog does when he's surrendering the fight. BAM! I pulverized his gut as soon as he moved his paws, which caused him to again clutch his middle and roll onto his side. He was primed for binding.
Towing chains hanging on my walls would be heavy enough, I reckoned, so I grabbed one with a hook attached to the last chain link. Five revolutions around his ankles took all the chain and I hooked it to itself. Left him there while I parked my car.
Once the garage door was closed, I told him, "I'm keeping you here tonight. You'll be safe."
He acknowledged with a nodding of his head.
"Are you hungry?" I thought he might say (if he could talk) that he felt like he was going to puke, what with the pounding I gave him. It warmed my heart that he again nodded his head in the affirmative. "I'll be right back," I spoke with a loving lilt. "And if you mess with anything in my garage I'll rearrange your face with my Slugger," I spoke as though I were the attacking beast and he the besieged victim.
I hated to part with the beef roast thawing in my fridge and scheduled for my crock pot next morning, but figured it would fill him past the point of wanting to eat me, not that I planned on giving him that chance. He eagerly rose onto his knees to devour the bloody beef. Gone in two minutes, and I got him a big bowl of water.
"You can sleep in my car," I informed him while he lapped. "But since I can't trust the animal in you, I'll chain you to it." Opening both back doors to my sedan, I instructed, "Now, get in and lay on your back." While he obeyed, moving on his paws and knees and wiggling his way atop my back seat, I grabbed my other tow chain and hook. "Put your paws together and give them to me."
His wrists hung off the seat beyond his head, and I wrapped them two revolutions before tossing the excess chain beneath my car's undercarriage far enough so I could reach it from the other side. Circling the back of my car, I retrieved the chain. Hooked it to the chain wrapping his ankles and secured him for the night. Next, I gave him a warning. "My bedroom's right above you, and I will hear if you try to escape. Doing so will damage my car and I will be major pissed. Understand?" I waved my bat above his face, and he nodded agreement. "Speaking of pissed. Do you need to go?" Again he nodded, and this time with urgency.
Damn me. Should have thought of this earlier. How could I accommodate him? Hospital bottle. Yes. I had saved mine from my appendectomy thirty years prior. Took me a few minutes to remember where I'd packed it, but I did and dug it out of the box. Brought it to the garage. Stuffed his dick into the bottle's mouth and held it for him to pee.
Which brings me to an interesting observation. "Stuffed" is appropriate, because I actually was forced to force his thing through the opening of that urinal bottle. Sucker was a good four inches round. About the size of my fist, with seven or eight inches of length to go with it. Wolfy's cock was scarier than Wolfy himself, so once I had the bottle attached I left it there and told him, "Goodnight."
A growl and a grunt his reply, and then a nearly-human-sounding sigh as he released his stream.
I turned off the roof light of my car. Left the garage overhead light on. The first thing I wanted to see in the morning was his big and hairy, or perhaps, lily-white and human, feet.
* * * * *
My shirt was torn, undoubtedly from when he reached for me on his way down. Standing before my bathroom mirror, I removed the garment. Two parallel scratches on my left-side collarbone, each a quarter of an inch long. No biggie. Peroxide. Rubbing alcohol. A bandage. A piss. A brushing and flossing of my teeth. A quick check to make sure my butcher knife, always kept hidden between mattress and box springs, was within reach, and then I stripped down to briefs and nestled into my bed.
Next thing I heard was the buzz of my alarm clock. Amazing how that thing survived so many years of my fingers slamming down on the snooze button. This time it didn't. Not only did I smash the clock, I also broke the particle board table top of the nightstand upon which it sat. Oh, well, no time for snoozing. Extra activities needed attention before I could begin my morning-for-work routine.
Coffee, however, would not be delayed. Stepping into flip-flops, I got the brewing started before opening the door to my garage. Same big-wolf feet. A major disappointment, but when I reached inside my car and turned on the dome light, I observed a more promising development. Somewhere beneath the chain wrapping his ankles, Wolfy's legs transitioned to human. White skin gleamed beneath a much-reduced layer of fur. Same with his thighs, the urine bottle still resting atop them, and although his penis was still of length to lay securely inside, the organ seemed to have lost half its thickness. Diameter of less than two inches, by my estimate.
I could now see his navel. An innie, and the hair below had a thick line center which fanned out until meshing with his pubes, now featuring man-like curly-q's. As a wolf, he'd been covered in a heavy coat of brown fur, but as a man, his greatly diminished body hair had gone black.
Intrigued, I continued my inspection, circling the back of my car for a look through the other door. Paws of a werewolf, face of a man. Snout gone, black-button nose now white human. Ears big and manly, but on the side of his head where they belong. Strangest of all, his head was buzz-cut, and although his beard was of length to fall upon his neck, the hair was trimmed to an inverted arc of geometric precision. The overall picture of his head and face resembled some of those Boston Red Sox who had just won the World Series.
Next, the all-important investigation. "Open your mouth," I ordered. Eureka! His teeth were human, fangs normal length. Too bad the same could not be said for his tongue. Long and slender and dog-like, meaning, I assumed, he still couldn't speak.
It appeared one more evacuation would cause his bottle to overflow, so I forcefully planted my knee to his chest and gingerly removed the urinal, leaving his dick nestled atop his balls. A man's dick. A flaccid three inches, and circumcised, no less!
"Paw," he said as I exited the car.
"Holy moly," I exclaimed, taken aback, impressed by the deep, manly tone of his voice. "You can talk!"
He tilted his head so his chocolate brown eyes met my blues, and while manipulating his right paw's pads and claws as though trying to clutch something, he excitedly repeated, "Paw."
"Yes, yes," I huffed. "I slugged your paw and I'm sorry. I'll take a look at it after I dump your bottle."
Before I'd turned toward the utility sink in my garage, he exclaimed, "Pooh."
Aw, crap, I thought while emptying. "Are you telling me you need to poop?"
"Are P-words all you can say?"
He nodded. "Paw, pee, poop."
"Great. Well, guess we've gotta start somewhere. So, you really need to shit?"
No words, just an affirmative nod.
This negative revelation instigated a flurry of ugly realizations. What the hell was I going to do with my Wolfy? Own him like some sort of dangerous pet? How could I keep him in my home while I went to work? Chain him to the toilet? Besides the fecal and urine issues, there also came matters of other hygiene. Now that he was only one-third beast, his dirty-dog smell had morphed to funky human. The dude's odors burned my nose hairs.
And what about feeding? Owning him would be like maintaining a Saint Bernard or two. As far as I could see, his only redeeming value over a regular canine (other than the fact he kinda turned me on) was that he could understand English.
Leaving his rinsed-out bottle in the sink, I approached and looked down at his inverted face.
"Okay, this won't be easy, but I've got an idea that might work, and then I'll give you a bath. Like that plan?"
Again the affirmative from him.
Moving to the passenger side, I unhooked the long chain from his ankles chain and brought it with me to the back of my car. My right hand grabbed the bumper and I raised my auto's rear end so I could swing the chain under both tires. Wait a minute... did I really do that? Yes, I did. In fact, I stood there holding the car up to confirm it. Seemed I had the strength of ten men. Didn't know how or why, but did realize my power would make my tasks with him much easier.
I unceremoniously yanked on his long chain and dragged him paws-first from the car. "Stand up," I instructed while bringing his paws above his face. With me pulling his arms, he first sat up, and then planted the pads of his feet to concrete. I tugged forward and upward on the chain until he stood. "Now, let's hop over to that drain."
The floor drain centered my two-car garage. Above it, one track of my door opener. "Reach for that beam."
He obliged while I wrapped his long chain around the track until I could hook it to itself out of his reach. Perfect. His wrists were even with the track, his arms stretched above his head, and his butt about a foot from the floor drain. I grabbed my nearby poker and removed the drain cover.
"Okay, I'm going to unchain your ankles and let you shit." I figured he could spread his legs a couple of feet if he used his tippy-toes/claws. "There are things I need to do in the house, so I'll be back in a few minutes."
He acknowledged with a nod and a grunt, the look on his face indicating he was past ready to push that turd out. And so, I left him to his business.
For me, going to work seemed out of the question. Wouldn't be fair to him, now, would it? Besides, by the time I returned from an eight hour shift he'd probably have the garage torn down in his attempts to escape, successfully or otherwise.
I poured a cup of coffee and picked up my cell. "Janet, I won't be in the office today."
She chuckled. "Taking one of your out-on-route days? Or a sick day?"
"Out on route," I confirmed.
Five days per month we Bartlett Pharmaceuticals salespeople were allowed to visit our clients and skip our appearance in the office. Next, I gave her my detailed plan. "I'll be leaving samples for five doctors at the Marcon Clinic. Then I'll stop by Dr. Schmidt's and end my day at Dr. Carson's."
Seven doctors total. Running my route would take a couple of hours and I could get back home. Free samples of Bartlett Pharmaceuticals' money-making diabetes II medicine generously made available for patients whether they needed it or not, depending on the scruples of their doctors.
Returning to my garage situation, I was pleased to see Wolfy's solid, singular fecal sausage had dropped mostly in the drain with a small piece stuck on its edge. While I hooked up a hose to the spout of my utility sink, I explained to him my immediate plans.
"I'll bathe you here. Let you drip dry while I get ready for work." My thumb forced a jet stream from the hose to wash his turd down the drain. "This water will be cold, but I'll fix a bucket of hot soapy water for scrubbing. Okay?"
He nodded yes, and then repeated, "Paw."
"Look," I snapped, losing my cool a bit. "I know I clubbed your paw. I'm sorry, but it's not my fault. You attacked me. Remember? You'll just have to suffer for now. It's not like I can take you to the hospital. Right?"
He shook his head, and with a sigh of frustration lowered his chin to his chest.
Poor guy. I didn't know what sorts of physiological and/or mental oddities he might be experiencing, but it had to nearly drive him mad being able to understand my words when he had no way to talk back. And why should this be? Did the partial restoration of his human traits not include his memory to form words? Did his doggie tongue limit his pronunciation skills? Paw, pee, poop, not the prettiest of words. Certainly not as pretty as he looked hanging there naked, waiting for me to bathe him.
There is a film from the 1980's featuring Helen Mirren and Bob Hoskins. In one scene, Hoskins stands trance-like inside a glass shower stall. Water sprays on the crown of his head, cascading down his torso while he glares at nothing, lost in thought. The camera slowly pans down until his entire top half is in view. All the way to the beginnings of his pubic hairs. Quite erotic, in my opinion, and as I returned to my garage toting a bucket of hot water saturated with liquid dish soap, I recognized my prisoner's similarities. He was Bob Hoskins, or for younger folks, Jason Straithern, or for older, the James Bond era Sean Connery. Ratio of fur to skin, mass and symmetry of muscle and height, those three actors had nothing on my Wolfy.
I started him with a bidet spray between his butt cheeks, my thumb separating while he assisted with a spreading of his legs. Accustomed to the cold water, he barely flinched when I slowly lifted my hose the length of his spine. His back was saturated, and with water flowing freely at a medium stream, I continued up each arm to his chained wrists and paws.
Next, I soaked his head. Cold liquid wet his face. Trickled down his chest and middle, as I circled to inundate his bushy arm pits. Fronting him, I fully soaked his pectorals, belly and crotch, and then directed water to each of his thighs, knees, shins and big-dog feet.
Laying the hose spout in the drain, I plunged both my hands into the bucket. "Close your eyes," I gently instructed. He obliged. My fingers lathered his head and face, and then I massaged his scalp.
With his chin resting upon his chest, he sighed with pleasure as I cleansed his ears, the back of his neck and his beautiful black beard.
After retrieving the hose, I rinsed all soap from his head before re-wetting the rest of him. And then, I lathered him good. His paws and arms and pits. He kept his eyes closed, tossed back his head as I gently squeezed and finger-rubbed his pectorals. He spread his legs, allowing gravity to stretch him while my thumbs soap-scraped his nipples. A slight moan accompanied each of his exhales, as I circled behind him and worked my hands from there.
Deltoids. Laterals. Small of his back, my fingers glided around his flanks and onto his belly. I felt his abdominals tense. I sensed him sucking in his middle when one of my fingers delved into his belly button. My rubbing upon his chest and middle varied between fast and slow, circular, vertical, and horizontal, and one hundred percent erotic.
My palms pressed his thigh. Right leg first, as I squeezed muscle, forcing soap into his pores on my way down to his knee and shin. My pattern repeated on his left leg, and then I lifted his leg, bent his knee and brought his abhorrent foot toward me. My free hand scrubbed his sole and between his pads, and as the dirt and rough texture of his foot washed away, so too did the repulsiveness of its appearance. Somehow, despite the thick brown fur on its topside and gnarly claws protruding from it, his foot took on a workman-like quality. A functional, dominant beast of the forest. That's how I saw things, and those padded and clawed feet were the tools which took my wolf from screw to screw and kill to kill.
Obviously, my mind concocted some oddball fantasies while I administered his cleansing, but geez, I had to do something so I could get past the parts of him still wolf-like.
After finishing with his right foot, I fronted him, and he fronted me with a full-on hard pecker.
Shouldn't have surprised me, I suppose, considering how I'd been rubbing on him for half an hour or better. The real shock came a few minutes later after I'd re-lathered my hands and applied soap to his scrotum. No sooner had I touched his nuts than did he ejaculate. And I do mean ejaculate. His cock sprang halfway up to his belly and fired the biggest gob of come I'd ever seen, and then it jumped up a second time and shot another, which was the second biggest I'd ever seen. Sure, it sounds like words from a porno story, but truth is truth, and I've consumed enough loads to know the difference between puny, average, healthy, and cowabunga.
Christ Almighty, it was like he hadn't gotten off for months on end, and damn it to hell, I hadn't even touched his dick. Silly me had entertained the idea of sucking him off after I'd washed and rinsed him down. Now, here was all his glorious semen spewing uselessly to the floor. Wasted.
Before he could shoot a third spurt, I clutched my hand around his peter and stroked. Rapidly and violently, I enticed another volley which oozed onto my fingers. Still stroking, I got another dribble and one more before I lessened my grip and slowed my stroking.
His body twitched. Deep-toned growls rumbled from his throat, followed by slight whimpers. Yes, I caused him post-orgasmic pain. Soap on his piss slit couldn't have felt so pleasant, either, but I didn't care. He had spoiled my plans. Taken my fun away from me, or at least diminished it, and I had no inclination to show him mercy.
In fact, I left him hanging there lathered in soap while I bathed myself. Cold water from the hose be damned, I saw no logic in cleaning the garage mess and then showering in my bathroom. Since everything was set up I took advantage of it, but first I dropped my underwear and dry-stroked myself to orgasm -- Wolfy's naked, wet and soapy, suspended-in-bondage presence provided my inspiration.
* * * * *
Those two hours of dropping off drug samples proved to be a bizarre combination of agony and ecstasy. Slacks rub on underwear and underwear rubs on corona which produces raging erections, especially with a sexy man-beast chained up at home waiting for his master, me. That thought alone elevated the horny. My sudden ability to lord over a muscular, virile, oozing-with-macho furball brought many of my long-suppressed fantasies bubbling to the surface.
As for the agony, I was a bit embarrassed walking into doctor's offices with my rigid dick clearly poking on my pants. At every stop, females manned the reception desks, so it became sort of an adventure to see if any of them would comment in my presence or giggle behind my back. One did ask if I was happy to see her, to which I replied, "Beyond elated, my dear." This brought a suggestively-toned, "So I see," but as for the others they must have held their comments until after my exit. It really didn't matter to me. My goal was to keep conversations short, quickly leave my wares and complete my route.
With one more stop to make, my perpetual hard-on intensified. The image of Wolfy as I'd left him had my testosterone boiling beyond belief.
I'd decided he should be taken from my garage and into my house. I couldn't open the garage door with him chained to its track anyway, plus, if he made noises or tried to escape, his being inside the house made it much less likely neighbors would hear him. I'd been lucky the night before. Didn't want to press it for a second time.
My solution, my basement. One half finished in panel walls and linoleum tile floor. One section used by me as a workout room. A couple of benches, barbells, dumbbells and weighted plates a-plenty. Flat bench would work for him. His wrist chain wrapped around a vertical, iron support column. His ankles individually chained to a pair of barbells. Weight needed to secure him I estimated at two hundred pounds per leg.
How easily I lifted the barbells after setting up one hundred pounds per side. Showing off, I guess, still marveling at how I could summon super-natural strength when needed, while executing normal strength for normal activities so as to not destroy everything I touched. An automatic function. Didn't even have to think about it.
All I could think about was how he looked. Chest-up on the flat bench. His legs spread like a V. Heels on the floor. Each ankle chained to its own two-hundred-pound barbell set parallel to his legs so he couldn't roll the weighted plates. Arms stretched beyond his head. Wrists chained together with chain wrapping a horizontal beam. And for good measure, I set a pair of dumbbells loaded with one hundred pounds each atop the chain before it wrapped the pole. This pulled his arms down so his wrists nearly touched the floor.
"Comfortable?" I sarcastically asked him. He shook his head no. "Want to file a protest?" He repeated his silent no, and I continued. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Maybe two and a half. Guess I better get the urine bottle."
"Paw!" he said for the umpteenth time. I'd lost count since bringing him in from the garage. Been ignoring him. Wasn't anything to be done about it. I couldn't see that it was swollen, so how bad could it be? And strangely, his tone did not voice pain, but ended with inflection as though asking a question.
"Are you trying to tell me that's your name? Paw? Paul?"
He shook no. "Paw," he repeated while again manipulating his clawed pads like he was trying to grasp hold of something.
Sadly, I was clueless. "I don't understand what you want, but whatever it is will have to wait until I get back."
He sighed exasperation. Turned his face away from me.
I positioned the bottle precariously tilted between his legs. They were spread apart now, so the bottom of the bottle sat on the bench while less than half of his penis rested inside its rim. No worry. He could probably hold his pee until I returned. I'd given him no breakfast, and his only drink had been a brief one coming from the hose after his bath.
One final glance before closing the basement door. Chest high. Belly flat. Limbs and muscles gloriously stretched. Such a tragedy I had to leave him temporarily unattended.
My final stop was the office of Dr. Carson. Unfortunately, his receptionist told me the doctor wanted to speak with me.
Seems he'd read in some medical journal about a research study which concluded our diabetes medication might be causing pancreatic cancer. The doctor explained, "I am suspending distribution of your drug until further information is available."
"Certainly, Dr. Carson, I fully understand. I will report your concerns to my superiors and they can take it from there." My response, I thought, diplomatic and to the point. I sure as hell wasn't going to argue or plead with him to reconsider.
As I offered my hand to shake before leaving, he threw me a curve. "What's with the erection? Was it something I said?"
Being the smooth-talking salesman of a product I believed to be oft-times over-prescribed for people with type II, folks who might do better addressing their ailment themselves with adjustments in the foods they eat, rather than popping pills, I convincingly produced a lie. "Bartlett's wanted some of us men to try their new erectile dysfunction product."
"Do you have a dysfunction?"
"No, never have."
"How long since you took the medication?"
"About an hour ago. It should be over soon. Last night I took one and it wore off after an hour."
"Oh, I see," his previously sour face degraded to disgusted. "You know it is dangerous for a healthy man to take such drugs. I'm surprised they asked you."
"I'm surprised I accepted. Especially without compensation. After all, what's more important to a man than his penis?"
I expected a chuckle, or at least a smile, but all he gave me was a scowl.
Check off Dr. Carson as a client, I told myself while leaving. And thank God there are still some genuine, patients-come-first doctors like him in the medical profession.
I was tempted to break speed limits on the way home. Mine was a twenty-minute drive. I did it in twelve.
"Pee!" was the first thing Wolfy said when I opened the basement door.
Pee, indeed. His bottle had fallen. Puddles of urine soiled the bench and the floor.
Excellent! I silently thought. Evils from the depths of my mind had planned it all. That bottle couldn't possibly stay between his spread-apart thighs whether he peed in it or not.
"You nasty son of a bitch!" My words said it all, and I said nothing more. Not for the next couple of hours.
Silently, I marched upstairs to retrieve my Louisville Slugger.
* * * * *
Aw, shucks, Wolfman. Why do you have to be such a beautiful man? Stretched so tightly. Your spine arched so gracefully. Your chest rising so majestically. Your abdomen... well, your fur and muscle seem to spell the words "Bring it on," and I aim to please. I give you my target. Lay the blunt end of my Slugger on your tummy, dead center, two inches above your belly button.
I drool at your response: a lifting of your head, a strain to peer over your chest. Your eyes follow the line of my bat, to my hands, up my torso to my face. You wink. Drop your head. Exhale, tighten and prepare.
You winked at me? Daring me? Fine. I swing full circle. Human strength, about a seven out of ten, and my Slugger pounds into your gut with a deep, wood-to-meat thud. Nothing from you. No grunts, no groans, no escaping of air, you remain frozen, tensed, waiting for more.
More is what you get. A succession. A rain of blows delivered with pinpoint accuracy. A hammering of your muscle between pelvis and sternum. Three times and four. My bat a pick ax grounding up dirt. Five times and six. My bat a mallet pulverizing a side of beef. Seven, eight, and nine, my Slugger brutalizing an inanimate object. The sounds of wood beating belly excite me; the absence of sounds coming from you angers me in an exciting way. Still no groans? No gasps or grunts? The combination of my physical exertion and mental frustration opens my sweat glands. I'm soaked. I drop my bat. Clothes come off.
You watch me undress. Make good use of your respite. Your breath is your only sound, as your chest and middle rapidly rise and fall. The corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly. Do you like what you see as I join you in nakedness? Do you like your torture so far? Does it excite you? Do I?
As I pick up my bat, your arms strain against their chains. You arch your back. Elevate your chest, flatten your belly, steel every muscle and nod to me. Giving me your approval? Inviting me? Challenging me?
All right, you rough and tough slab of meat. Time to go Dark Ages on you. My toes touch urine and I further regress the era. Primeval. Two alpha-male beasts will do battle. Supremacy of the forest goes to the victor, and I will win. I will break you if it kills me. Or you. No more counting, just beating. No more control over velocity of my blows, either. I'm gonna pound on you until you make a sound. My wood pulverizing your belly reverberates like a symphony. Dissonance. Expressionistic, and you will provide the counterpoint. Your melody a pained G minor: a grunt, a gasp, a groan, or perhaps a gurgling as I rupture every organ you've got inside your seemingly impenetrable wall.
Is that what you want? Are you forcing me to destroy you? I don't care one way or another. Don't know who you are, where you come from or where you belong, and I am no longer in control of my actions. I am a madman beating on you with maniacal strength. My Slugger should have already burst through your abdomen, snapped your spine, broken my bench and cracked my concrete floor, but yours is a muscled defense not to be breached. I continuously wail on you, and nothing stops me until your dick flips onto your belly and gets in my way.
The damn thing is one hundred percent erect. What kind of freakish freak of nature are you?
I drop my bat. Kneel between your thighs at the end of the bench, my knees in your piss and loving it. I bury your cock inside my mouth. Take it all. Extend my tongue. Slather your nuts while crushing your dick-head in the back of my throat. Nothing subtle. No slow-build, I violently scrape the length of your pecker, my lips arriving at the rim of your mushroom lickety-split, lickety-lick.
You breathe. Recuperate from your beatings, while I mercilessly stroke orally, squeezing with lustful insanity. My frenzied hands hot-rub your belly. My frantic fingers knead your tortured muscles. My clamped-tight mouth crushes your mighty cock, reducing it down to a harmless twig while my head bobs up and down with a rapidity that could snap my neck from its axis.
I don't care. I've lost all common sense, and besides, it doesn't take but a couple dozen strokes before you flood my throat with your come. My long-sought goal is finally achieved. You twitch. You squirm, and yes, at long last, you surrender your music to my ears. You gasp, grunt, moan and groan, as I maintain tempo sucking and swallowing. No pity for you. I drain your nuts and then some. Torture your post-orgasmic, sensitive cock as though you'd never even come. I've got you emitting sounds that nearly make me come untouched. But I do touch.
I spit out your dick. Stand over you. Straddle you. Spit in my hand and jack myself. You close your eyes. Smile at me. Groan for me when I sit on your belly to complete my ecstasy. Like you, it doesn't take much for me, and my cock spurts a volley of semen dotting your neck and chest. Second spurt, third, and the finale leaves a pool on the pit of your stomach.
Spent, I stand over you. Lean down and pressure your chest with the palms of my hand, as you open your eyes, gaze at me and wink. "Thank you, Mr. Thomas."
* * * * *
Dumbfounded, it took me a few seconds to respond. "So, Wolfy, now you can talk?"
He chuckled, as I again sat on his belly. "I can talk. Got my human tongue back, and uh, did you notice my hands and feet?"
Sure enough. Human. Not only that, he could have easily slipped their reduced size out of the chains binding him.
"When did all this happen?"
His tummy jiggled beneath my butt. "Oh, about the time you knelt down to suck me off."
"Why didn't you say something then?"
"Didn't want to spoil your fun. Or mine, and besides, I've been trying to tell you since last night."
I leaned forward, put my hands on his chest. "Tell me what?"
"Oh, that. Well, okay then, is your hand broke?"
"No. The only way I could communicate was for you to take my paw so I could guide your hand with pen on paper, but you never caught on."
"Well, shit, Wolfy, who would?"
"I know, but it was worth a try."
"I'm all right with how things worked out." Leaning closer, I pecked his sternum with a kiss. "Aren't you?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time."
I raised off him, stood and moved toward his feet for a closer view. "So, now that you're human, you can tell me two things for starters."
"What's your name?"
"Hmm. Somehow I figured on Paul. Get it? Paw? Paul?"
"Sure. What's question two?"
"If I unchain you, are you going to attack me for doing all the things I did?"
"Well, I'm sure I could release myself," he noted. "But I'll let you do it." With me unwinding the chain on his ankle, he answered my question. "I am no threat, now that everything I needed to happen has happened."
"What does that mean?"
"Thanks to you, I can be all human until next time."
He finagled his hands through the wrist chain while I, still hopelessly confused, finished releasing his other ankle. Taking his hand, I helped him sit up on the bench.
"Whew," he folded his hands across his chest and bent forward. "My spine's a little stiff."
"I can imagine. Want a back rub?"
"Sure." Straddling the bench, he laid chest down, his hands under his cheek for a pillow, his knees on the floor.
My fingers worked the muscles on either side of his spine, relaxing him a bit before I asked him, "Okay, Simon Farnsworth, time for you to do some explaining."
"Hmm... where to begin." He took a deep breath and sighed. "Well, first of all, do you recognize my name?"
"I work at Bartlett's, same as you. I'm in the research lab."
"Oh, that's downtown. Sales office is out here in the burbs."
Each of my thumbs pressed either side of his spine and I drew lines from his neck down. "So, what's that got to do with you being a werewolf?"
"I'm not a werewolf. Not in the way you think."
"Sure fooled me. So, what the hell are you?"
"An ongoing experiment. You know that diabetes drug we make, Lycanthol?"
"Yes. One of my doctors told me today it might cause pancreatic cancer."
"Which one? Carson?"
"How did you know?"
"He's one of our scouts. On the lookout for prospective subjects to join the program. He probably was surprised to see you, since you shouldn't have been out and about today."
My fingers grabbed the back of Simon's neck and squeezed. "Hate to tell you this, but I'm more confused now than I was before you started."
"Okay, sorry. Let's back up. This is all about the pancreas. Think back to last night. Remember when you first hit me on the noggin with your bat?"
"Didn't hurt me much. Just made me temporarily groggy. It was your next blow, the one to my stomach that changed the game."
"Heavy doses of Lycanthol, or I should say, an altered version of Lycanthol, turn me into a dog-like creature. Causes the pancreas to secrete an enzyme which transforms humans to canines. Only two things can change me back. The antidote we've developed, or blows to my gut. Specifically, the pit of my stomach and general vicinity. The pancreas is directly behind the stomach, so anything that creates movement of the stomach against the pancreas causes the latter to secrete its normal enzymes. Turns the dog back to human."
He paused a bit. Caught his breath, giving me a chance to ask questions, but his wild-ass story at that point had me speechless.
"Anyway," he continued, "your first blow to my gut started the process. Those that followed made it irreversible. Even though my physical changes wouldn't come until much later, you had already reduced my animal strength down to about seventy percent. Too bad you didn't beat me a few more times. Then, by morning, I would have been full human instead of the freak you found. My feet, paws, and worst of all, my tongue were still canine."
Again he waited, and this time I asked, "So, the belly beating I just gave you finished the process?"
"Got it. Now, asshole, tell me this." My tone of voice made it known I was none too pleased. "Why the hell did you attack me?"
"Sorry about that, but Bartlett's wants you in the program."
"What program? Turning me into a wolfman? Why didn't they just ask me?"
"Are you kidding?"
A moment's consideration of my illogical question was enough. "No, I get it. I needed a demonstration so I wouldn't think they'd gone nuts. But why go to all this trouble? Why not just bring me into the lab and show me the program there?"
"Because once you're selected, it's not up for debate. No democracy here."
"Oh, yeah? I think I will have a say, once I get the full story. Once I know why I'm selected and for what."
"Because you fit the requirements. You are single. Unattached. You work for Bartlett's, so we will have little problem altering your place in the world. Like it or not, you are not allowed to say no. My job was to scare you shitless and take you by force."
My fingers clutched into his trapeziums. Part massage, part attack with my fingernails participating. "Tough luck, Farnsworth. I fucked up your plans."
"Actually, your malfunctioning garage door opener did it. Made you get out of your car."
"So you had to make a move?"
"Okay," my fingers clawed his traps while my thumbs deep-rubbed his deltoids. "How was it supposed to go down?"
"I was to wait until you drove into your garage. Sneak in and attack you as the door closed and you exited your car. My saliva would have begun your transformation. A bite to the neck does the trick. As it is now, my claws infected you about ten percent."
"Gee. Lucky me. Does this mean I'm stronger than you?"
"Nope. I can subdue you anytime I choose."
"So, you could have broken free from the chains whenever you wanted?"
I removed my hands from him, my puzzlement keeping my temper tempered. "Then why go through all you've gone through? Do you like being tied up and tortured? One of your kinks?"
"Not really, but it was plan B. Once my fangs were gone, there was no way for me to fully inject you. And truthfully, those blows to my belly last night did indeed render me useless."
"So all I've got to do is punch you in the gut and you turn into a puppy?"
"No, by useless, I mean my transformation had begun and I couldn't control my actions. Could have easily killed you had I fought back, so my play was to surrender and wait for everything to calm down inside me."
"What if I had killed you?"
"Really?" My finger poked the middle of his back. "What if I were to plunge a knife into you? Right here, and puncture your pancreas?"
"Wouldn't matter. The serum makes it regenerate. Instantly."
"What about your other organs? Or your limbs, eyes? Anything?"
"Land mines? A grenade up your ass?"
"Well, every immortal does have his limits, I suppose, but for our purpose, I am indestructible. You will be too. Got a problem with that?"
"Yes, I do," I raised off the bench, stood over him and let him have it. "This is mad-scientist bullshit. Are you gonna tell me this pancreas thing has been tested? Are you gonna let me stab you a hundred times so I can believe what you're saying? How about if I put a silver bullet through your heart? Or better yet, take a pistol and blow your friggin' brains out. Are you gonna survive that, too? Don't make me laugh, because this ain't funny."
"You're right," he sat up, stared me down with a look that could kill. "It is deadly serious, so take my advice, can the comments and let me do the talking."
"Okay, Simon smart-ass," I sarcastically sneered. "Run your mouth. I'm all ears."
Full details of the program could not be told until I was fully indoctrinated. So he said. He suggested we clean up the mess in my basement, clean up our bodies and fix ourselves something to eat. While doing these chores, (the mutual shower by no means a chore, as we fondled and explored one another's erogenous zones en-route to extracting semen appetizers before dinner. My anger be damned, I could not resist him. Gulp!) he explained everything he could about the high-security, U.S. government-sponsored program at Bartlett's.
In a nutshell, the goal wasn't to produce werewolves, but dogs with human intelligence, breeds of which I cannot reveal. As pet/service/guard dogs we would be placed within terror cells. Given to known hostiles within the U.S. and the world over. Spying on enemies of the U.S. and its allies. Gathering information. Thwarting attacks. Enough said.
The obvious need for secrecy allows me to cop out on the remaining story and quicken its end, which is fine by me because now that I'm like Simon I find it difficult to type. Even though my fingers are currently human, they want to claw at things and I'm always striking extra keys. Editing and proof-correcting this thing is a bitch. Enough said on that as well.
Meanwhile, back to the time of my story, Simon and I spent the weekend together in my home, and then Monday morning he rode with me to the downtown lab for my first injection. By needle. No fangs.
As for that weekend, before my shot, my final two days as a human, we made vanilla love atop my bed's mattress after our Friday dinner. We played and we slept and played and slept, and a time did come when I considered reaching for my butcher knife and stabbing him. You know, just to prove to myself this shit was for real, but I couldn't do it. What if I'd have actually killed him? Spoiling my bliss would have tempted me to stab myself. With lustful abandon, he sucked me and I sucked him. He poked my ass and I poked his. We marathoned until sunrise in every way that has been written about in a thousand stories, whether they be romantic, erotic, or flat-out pornographic.
Most of Saturday and Sunday was about Simon showing off. He hung naked from my chin-up bar like he was crucified. Allowed me to worship him, my hands and my mouth rubbing and kissing and licking every inch of him from his fingers to his toes. Without question, his human hands and human feet were every bit as handsome (in my idealized perfection of manliness) as the rest of him.
For hours he miraculously hung there, his hands voluntarily gripping the bar. Like the super-stud he was (is) he took my punishments, as we played out scenarios of where we were headed. Ramifications of what might happen if our espionage mission were to go awry. If we were somehow captured as humans and interrogated as such.
"So, Mr. Farnsworth, now that you have discovered our plan to blow up the White House," I enlighten him with an undefined, foreign-accented English, "you will give us names of your contacts and precisely what you have told them."
He is silent. His answer given by flexing his arms, puffing up his chest and sucking in his belly.
"Cat got your tongue?" I scoff. "Well, allow me to loosen it for you."
He is magnificent. He is glorious. He is tough as nails when I wail upon him with my leather belt. His back side from shoulder blades to calves. His front side from pectorals to shins. His cock even takes a couple of whacks and he says nothing. Doesn't even whimper. He answers with silent defiance. His muscular, fur-enhanced manliness says it all. His flexing and posturing invites me to give him the worst. Evil acts delved from the depths of my uncivilized mind.
My fists to his belly do nothing to soften him. My knuckles nearly crack upon his abdominal brick wall. My crucified hero. Nothing can break him. His natural strength coupled with experimental drug has turned him into a super-manly, super-beastly, god-like creature, given to me for my personal satisfaction.
I exploit my opportunity to its finality. Retrieve clothespins from my nearby laundry supplies. Clamp his arm pits, his pectorals, nipples, nuts, thighs and calves and between each toe. My tongue flicks his piss slit. His cock stirs ever so slightly. My lips surround his corona. His cock fills with blood. I voraciously suck on him. Scrape away layers of his peter-flesh with my hot-wet vise. My tongue wraps him. The roof of my mouth crushes him, and this time, he forces me to suck his dick long and hard and seemingly for eternity. His final act of defiance. He makes me earn his come. My reward is a muscle-flexing, endless flow of sweet-tasting semen. A man's dose. An animal's dose. Enough friggin' jizz to impregnate an entire pack of ravenous she-wolves, and then, looking down upon me as I remove his pecker from my mouth, he finally speaks.
Guess I never realized how much I could take. We reversed roles. I hung from my bar while he interrogated me. My small dose of dog juice, transferred to me when he scratched me, got me through. I absorbed the pain. Relished it. Maintained an erection throughout the entire process of every punishing kink he perpetrated upon me, and I was in love. With myself. With him. With the unholy wad of come he sucked out of me.
Yes, a mechanical malfunction changed my life forever. For the good. So next time some sort of breakdown screws up your agenda, take it all in stride. Wonder if perhaps the aggravation won't lead you down a better road than the one you wanted to take... perhaps to some place and someone you never want to leave.
I never have. From then until now, our employer has kindly kept us together. Human, animal, on-mission or off, my mentor and I are a forever team. The dynamic, indestructible duo.
Paw Wolfywits, Simon Farnsworth, whatever. Woof.
Copyright 2013 to Jardonn Smith
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