Sunday, December 29, 2013

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 2

This Jardonn Smith story is posting weekly on Frothing Author, but if you want to read it at your own pace, the entire tale is at Jardonn's Erotic .

Paw Wolfywits
Jardonn Smith


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.

* * * * *

Chapter 3 in one week

Monday, December 23, 2013

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 1

I'm serializing this Jardonn short story here. One chapter per week, but if you want to read it all at once it is posted in the Jardonn's Erotic BDMD story menu.

Five chapters, five weeks and the story is done.


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.

* * * * *

Next week, Chapter 2

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Obamacare: Veggie Rx Markets

Part of the program gives doctors and hospitals incentives to write prescriptions for fruits and vegetables instead of statins.


Tuesday, October 8, 2013


Stephen Sondheim's ode to long-term relationship, the glue, as sung by Dorothy Collins from the show, Follies...

In Buddy's Eyes

Monday, July 29, 2013

Jasper Say 072913

I am due for my castor oil. Time to get off the stage, sit in the audience and watch myself on stage. Make note if I am mean or petty or wasting my time on uselessness. My observations might produce a bitter taste, but if I see myself outside myself, I can correct myself. Good medicine, that.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Friday, March 1, 2013

Conan Reviews Tomb Raider

Conan O'Brien has little interest in or understanding of video games, so who better to review the soon-to-be-released latest version of the Tomb Raider series?

Clueless Gamer video clip

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Mitch Ryder

William S. Levise, Jr (born 26 February 1945), known better by his stage name Mitch Ryder, is an American musician who has recorded more than two dozen albums during more than four decades. In 1978 Ryder came out and released the overtly gay solo album How I Spent My Vacation.

Ryder is noted for his gruff, wailing singing style and his dynamic stage performances. He was influenced by his father, a musician. As a teenager, Ryder sang backup with a Black soul-music group known as the Peps, but racial animosities interfered with his continued presence in the group.

Ryder formed his first band (Tempest) when he was in high school, and the group... 

read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Randy Houser Fix

I'm sure you know some of the best rock music nowadays is put to country lyrics and found on the country charts. This song is a good example, but Randy Houser is no one-trick pony when it comes to musical styles, plus, he writes them, plays a mean guitar and delivers in a voice blessed with spine-chilling accuracy and emotion.

On YouTube, How Country Feels

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Derek Jarman (1942-1994)

In both his films and his writings, Derek Jarman's explicit project was to celebrate gay sexuality and imagine a place for it in English culture.

Jarman was born in Northwood, England, into a middle-class, Royal Air Force family, and his early life was spent on military bases and at public school. At his father's insistence,

... read the rest with pictures at Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Friday, February 15, 2013

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Great Pick-up Lines from Great Films

Love is in the air. Chocolates and flowers will abound, and here's some never-fail come-on phrases taken from feature films...

Hollywood Pick-up Lines, courtesy of FLAVORWIRE

Monday, February 11, 2013

Memorial Tribute 2013 Grammy Awards Show

Thank god somebody always posts this on YouTube, because the Grammy folks run it by you so fast during the broadcast there's no way to absorb the names and accomplishments of all those who have passed since last year's show.

You'd think an artist like Doc Watson might deserve a page to himself. Or how about the guy who developed vinyl records? Or Hal David, the wordsmith to all those great Burt Bacharach songs? Or Earl Scruggs? All he did was develop a new way to play an instrument, which became the key element in what we now call bluegrass. Couldn't he have a few more seconds on the screen by himself, so the audience could show their appreciation?

Oh, well, give me a reason to gripe and I'll jump on it every time.

Here's the tribute on YouTube, where you can pause to read the names of those who died.

Grammy Memorial Tribute 2013

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Coffee Enemas 4 Times Dailly

Read the article at HEALTH AIM if you wish...

and then consider taking psyllium caplets (the main ingredient used in Metamucil) instead. Much less invasive, and more importantly, far less time-consuming.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Jasper Say 020913

Like the human soul, a caterpillar, just a lowly worm, eventually becomes frustrated with his restrictions and morphs into the butterfly, taking wing to fulfill his destiny. The jungle man says "oongawah!"

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Eric Burdon and War and Grass

Some station (TBS?) is using this song to promote their re-launch of Cougar Town, and it reminds me that this iconic record remains relevant. It also leads me to believe I will be finding and posting songs from Eric Burdon's first band, The Animals.

Meanwhile... Eric Burdon and War - Spill the Wine