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.

* * * * *

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

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