Paw Wolfywits
by
Jardonn Smith
ii.
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?"
"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.
*
* * * *
Chapter 3 in one week
