Five chapters, five weeks and the story is done.
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.
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Next week, Chapter 2