Sunday, January 19, 2014

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 5


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 belly 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?"

"Simon Farnsworth."

"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?"

"You can't."

"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?"

"Same result."



"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.

After our Friday night dinner, we made vanilla love atop my bed's mattress. 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.

"Your turn."

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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Sunday, January 12, 2014

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 4



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."


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Chapter 5 is the end and will post one week from now, or you can read all five chapters at Jardonn's Erotic

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 3


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 me, his master. 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.

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Chapter 4 posts in one week, or the entire story is posted at Jardonn's Erotic