Paw Wolfywits Chapter 5

v.

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?"

"Paw."

"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."

"Shoot."

"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?"

"No."

"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."

"Right."

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?"

"Yes."

"Didn't hurt me much. Just made me temporarily groggy. It was your next blow, the one to my stomach that changed the game."

"How?"

"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?"

"Right."

"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?"

"Right."

"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?"

"Yep."

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."

"Bullets?"

"Harmless."

"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.

End

Copyright 2013 to Jardonn Smith

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