Tonight, another sordid sex scandal is rocking San Sebastian State College’s athletic program. The latest incident centers on Mike Keegan, a player for the school’s baseball team. Police reports indicate Mr. Keegan was arrested in Lansdown Park this Saturday while allegedly having sex with, quote, “around twenty other men.” Mr. Keegan is currently held in the San Sebastian City Jail for possible arraignment. School officials decline to comment to Channel Six Eyewitness News but Burt Abrams, a spokesman for the watchdog group Sinners, Repent! says that, in his opinion, SSSC will expel Mr. Keegan “just like they’ve expelled all the other perverts.”
Captain Jack Brice, San Sebastian Police Department, emits a snort of disgust and slams shut the door. The door is an inch thick, and reinforced. This corridor of the San Sebastian City Jail doesn’t hold criminals. It holds psychos. Of which, Brice is aware, the city is overflowing. He shakes his head at Dr. Wanda Osgood.
“So he’s still masturbating?” asks Dr. Osgood.
“He’s going to wear his dick off.”
The pair walks down the corridor towards the conference room where Brice’s next task awaits. The corridor is antiseptic under bright florescent lights. The smell of cleaner pervades it.
One question’s been bothering Brice since they brought the kid in. “What’s that stuff leaking from his ass?”
“Well, we swabbed him with the rape kit,” says Dr. Osgood. “Rape seemed the most likely explanation, given the circumstances.” She shakes her head. Osgood has seen a lot, but what’s now going on in San Sebastian threatens to overwhelm the defenses she’s built up over the years. “It’s semen, all right. But the amount. My God, there were pints of it!”
“So he was gang raped?”
Osgood is hesitant. “I –I think so. Sometimes he says it was consensual. But then he starts raving about … well, he starts raving again.” She sighs. Keegan’s babblings have shaken her to the core, but Brice — a gruff twenty-year veteran — isn’t the kind of man to whom she’ll confide unorthodox speculations.
“Keegan’s the third guy this week,” snaps Brice. “It’s skyrocketing. It started off with one guy and we figured, what the hell, the queers just got out of hand. But then it was a guy a month. A guy a week. Two guys a week. It’s getting crazy.” Brice, who’s heard far more than Dr. Osgood, is also not about to broach unprofessional speculations to the doctor. “Keegan’s a jock. Got a scholarship at State. What is it? What’s going on? Horse? Meth? Coke? Weed?”
“Toxicology won’t report back for a bit.” She smiles grimly. “And I doubt it’s drug-related. Good luck explaining this to his Dad.”
Brice tries, with all the skill he can muster, to explain to the old gentleman waiting in the conference room what has happened to his youngest son. But the elder Keegan is a rural man, seemingly more at home in the 19th Century than the 21st. The elder Keegan is bearded. Sunburned. Narrow eyes perpetually suspicious. How can Brice explain to this man what has happened? And Brice sure as hell won’t even hint at his private speculations; this Keegan fellow seems religious, and Brice’s hypothesis is blasphemous. Even cops have compassion.
“I wanna see my son,” snaps old man Keegan, annoyed with Brice’s stammering and evasions. “Alone.”
Brice leads old man Keegan back down the long, florescent-lit corridor. He unlocks Mike Keegan’s cell door and waves the old man in. Brice lingers to make sure the kid doesn’t launch an assault.
“I warned ya,” grumbles old man Keegan to the pathetic figure stretched out on the cot. “College changes a guy, and not in the right way.” He unfastens his belt. “I’m gonna change ya back, son.” He shoots a look over his shoulder. “Shut the fucking door. And if you got any cameras on, make sure they get erased. I know a judge down here. Wouldn’t go well for you if word of this got out. Got it?”
No worries. Brice shuts the door. The smack of leather against bare skin follows him down the hallway. Like all members of the SSPD, he’s skilled in wiping video records clean.
Mike Keegan paces restlessly. Try it one more time? He glares at the locked bedroom door. He knows this won’t work. But he’s not going to let that fucker win.
Goddamn it. I’ve got to make it happen!
Again, Mike hurls himself across his bedroom. He crashes into the door. The boom reverberates through the house. The door shudders in the frame, but the wood doesn’t crack or splinter.
“Motherfucker!” he snarls.
Could Dad have dragged the big dresser from Seth’s old bedroom against Mike’s outward opening door? Is Dad that scared of what’s going on? Whatever the fuck Mike’s father has used to block the door, Mike’s one hundred eighty pound jock body is helpless against it.
Mike doesn’t feel the pain. He’s consumed with a primal hunger. An emptiness in his guts so absolute Mike would bet Adam felt this way before Yahweh breathed a spirit into him. Like a boxer pummeling a punching bag, he hammers on the door.
“Let me out, you bastard!”
Booted feet stomp up the stairs then down the hall. Yeah, Dad’s spooked badly enough to slip back into hunting gear.
Nothing spooks Mike.
“Goddammit, Dad! Let me out!”
The footfalls stop just outside his bedroom door. His father delivers a reply in the low, dead serious tone of a priest condemning a heretic to the flame.
“You’re not getting out, you crazy son of a bitch, until you act like a man again!”
Mike stares at his door, hair wild, chest heaving, eyes glowing.
“Look, Dad,” Mike yells, failing to keep that crazy edge from creeping into his voice, “I promise — I fucking swear! I won’t do it again!” The promise is a lie, and Mike’s proud of it.
“Fool me once,” says the elder Keegan, “shame on you. Fool me twice …” He trails off.
Silence. Except for Mike’s heavy breathing. Silence, except for the pounding of his heart. Silence, except for the roar of blood in his ears.
You’re going to have to be crafty.
Minutes pass. Slow ponderous footsteps fade towards the staircase. The top stair creaks under Dad’s weight.
“Fuck!”
Mike slugs the door again. No it won’t do any fucking good but he’ll be damned if he just gives up like a trapped animal. He stalks from door to window, then back again.
I’m not locked up in the jail this time! I’m locked up in my own goddamned house!
You can see a lot of Mike’s boss body. Since he’s wearing only running shorts, he’s all skin north of his waist and south of his upper thigh. For shits and giggles, he plays intramural soccer at State. You can see that in his thighs and calves. To pay for college, though, he plays baseball. He’s got the shoulders and biceps to prove it. Normally, Mike’s got that earnest, clear eyed, honest, all-American jock face. The kind that, when he smiles, you’d believe anything he says. Right now, frustration twists it. His mahogany hair strays over his ears. Muscles ripple as he paces.
Now what the fuck is that?
Scratches — sharp, shiraz-colored, and numerous — mar his six pack. His flanks. His chest. Crusts of dried blood edge them. They aren’t the welt’s Dad’s belt left behind in the jail. They are marks bestowed on Mike by the strange events he’s enmeshed in.
Mike stalks to his desk. Who gives a fuck about these goddamned high school trophies? He sweeps them off. Yes. There’s the fucking iPhone. Maybe his Dad — if he really is serious about imprisoning Mike until all this shit blows over — should’ve taken it. But Dad is part of an earlier generation that thinks in terms of landlines, receivers, and rotary dialing. Mike doesn’t wonder why he didn’t think of his iPhone earlier. A sign of how far he’s declined.
Mike scans through his contacts. Who? Who can he call? Who hasn’t he alienated? Of that list — cut down by ninety percent since this shit started to happen — who’ll help him. Not Bob DeGrasse, a guy who tried to be Mike’s boyfriend; Bob’s even blocked Mike’s calls. Not trick – 4/20; Mike can’t even remember that guy’s name.
Seth? Yeah. Seth. His older brother had always been there whenever Mike needed him. And fuck if Mike doesn’t need something —
Why is he taking his fucking time answering the fucking call?
“Wondered when you’d think of me.”
“So you fucking know?” Mike barks.
“I know what Dad told me,” Seth says.
“Which was?”
“That you ain’t right. That you’re crazy.”
Mike snorts half a laugh. “Yeah. Well. There’s some craziness involved.”
“He got you locked up?”
“I swear he’s piled half the furniture against my damn door, Seth!”
“What’d you expect? You’re strong.”
“Listen!” Mike says. His voice cracks. “Help me.”
“Help you what?” Seth sounds as dispassionate as a coroner explaining to his students how to open a cadaver.
“Help me get the fuck out!”
“But you’re crazy!”
Mike admits the obvious. “No shit!”
Brief pause. “You want help? I’ll help. But where will you go?”
“Shit, where do you think I’m going to go? Downtown, goddammit! Downtown fucking San Sebastian!
“A lot of weird shit’s been going on in San Sebastian.”
“Tell me about it!”
“Can you get out of the house?”
“Hell yeah. Out the window, over the porch. All I need is a goddamned ride –”
“Is that convenience store at Old Stage and Brice still –”
Relief floods Mike. “It’s still there. Goddamn, Seth, you don’t know how much this means –”
“Anything for you, kid. Anything.” Seth’s always called Mike kid. As if Mike should feel it’s an honor to be Seth’s younger brother. “When?”
Mike’s eyes dart towards his bedroom window. Twilight is heavy. He can barely see the silhouette of the front yard’s maple. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. His buttcheeks grind in his nylon shorts. “Now.”
“I’ll hit the road in a few minutes. I gotta round up Officer.” The connection drops.
Mike remembers to tug on sneakers. The fact that all he’s wearing are shorts — only skimpy nylon shorts, without underwear of any kind — doesn’t bother him. He’s in no mood to put on something more … puritanical. This must be done naturally, and shorts and sneakers are the only compromise he will make.
Mike unlatches the window. He eases the pane up slowly to keep it from squealing. He pads across the tin porch roof. Mike leaps. His legs absorb the fall. Rising from the crouch, he freezes and listens. Nothing. He sighs. Mike streaks under the maple and out of the yard.
He slows to a jog on the winding, lonely road. He grins. Yeah. He did it. He’s free. He’s looking at these peanut fields — at these patches of scrub oak — at rows of corn — at old Miss Finnegan’s rusty mailbox — for the last time. He’ll never be back. He’s a city boy now.
Fuck these hicks! Fuck ’em all!
Beams from a car bathe him in light.
Oh, Christ! It’s Dad! He got in the fucking pickup —
No. It’s an ancient Subaru, chugging along, driven by good ol’ boys in a mellow mood. Someone waves from the passenger window, a can of Budweiser clutched in their hand. The car dwindles into red fireflies ahead of Mike; then it rounds a bend in the road, and its taillights are hidden by a dead oak half-buried in kudzu.
What if Dad calls the Sheriff? Tells old Jackson his perverted son is missing again?
Lewd hunger burns in Mike Keegan’s butt.
Then I’ll kill the fucking Sheriff!
Nothing is going to stop Mike Keegan from getting back to San Sebastian. Never come between a junky and his fix.
San Sebastian is old. It’s harbor — the estuary of the Chowahee River — proved irresistible to the Spanish, who needed it — back in the 16th Century — to guard St. Augustine’s northern flank. But the British coveted the lonely Spanish fort, and took it, incorporating the surrounding land into a new colony. The flag over the old fort changed from Union Jack to Stars and Stripes, then briefly to Stars and Bars before reverting to Old Glory. San Sebastian grew over the years, swallowing up all the shore of the Chowahee estuary. Naturally, the big city now dominates the mostly backwater state behind it. In accordance with age old tradition, the city folk hated the country, and the country folk envied the city.
When Mike Keegan, driven by his brother Seth to SSSC to meet with the people who’d decide on his scholarship, saw for the first time San Sebastian’s towers and rode through the crumbling neighborhoods, he felt something. A thrill, as if the world had just immeasurably expanded. San Sebastian had infected Mike Keegan at first sight.
All his life Mike Keegan had been a rural jock, forced into a certain pattern of living by genes and by small town expectations. In backwater America, quarterbacks aren’t supposed to get hardons in their jockstraps when someone’s hand, eager to receive the snap, brushes up against inner thighs. Mike, who has a fucking impressive hardon, had improvised a catalog of excuses to explain his tented shorts.
“Ah, I ain’t getting’ the pussy I need, guys!” he’d say with a sly grin.
“Been thinking about Leslie, you know? God damn, the tits on that chick!”
Since Mike Keegan’s aw-shucks country boy grin was the salesman, they bought it.
In San Sebastian, there was no need for Mike to hide his bulging jockstrap. Definitely not his smooth, eager ass. There was Grindr. Better still, there were clubs where men could hook up. In these places, Mike could walk around with that night’s boyfriend’s hand on his buttocks. The only times this had happened back in his high school years had been when Pastor Murdock, a cherubim smelling of talcum and cheap cologne, lead Mike round the sanctuary of the First Church of Christ, casually resting his hand on Mike’s very firm right buttcheek while lecturing about the sanctity of marriage.
Mike’s favorite haunt was a hole-in-the-wall joint named the Pirate’s Cove, where it was easy to get a jolly rogering. The men there were bearded. Muscled. Horny for hot young jocks. It was easy to find a good time. Usually. Mike had off nights. Sometimes the entire bar, from one end to the other, was peopled by dudes who’d gotten their bodies by sucking down eighty pound sacks of Velveeta. Mike had his standards. On these nights, he abandoned the Pirate’s Cove and trotted down to the Snake Pit, a dingy porn bookstore off a dingier alley. There was always a friendly mouth on the glory hole’s other side. Or a big cock, oiled and ready to spurt, protruding through.
Two months ago, Mike gave up on the Pirate’s Cove porkers and set his empty Budweiser on the bar. The barkeep was named Fenris. Fenris shaved his head, exposing runic tattoos, and wore a goatee. He grabbed Mike’s arm before the jock could leave.
“Where you going?”
“Snake Pit,” said Mike.
Fenris sighed. “Is that smart?”
“Fuck yeah! I’m horny and no one here does it for me!”
“Be careful in that alley,” Fenris said.
“Why?”
“‘Cause some extreme shit goes on there,” warned Fenris. “And you’re not ready.”
“Fuck that,” Mike snorted, and strode out, head held high.
Mike hurried down the bright city street towards the alley. He had organic chemistry at nine the next morning, and carbon chains are cruel to the weary.
The alley to the Snake Pit ran behind the grimy back walls of stores facing more respectable streets. The alley was a bit kinked, so a segment in the middle had no direct view of the lively streets. Often, men cruised here. That night, though, the alley was empty, except for overflowing dumpsters.
Mike fingered his change. All he needed was enough for a few tokens. The moon glowed overhead. Perhaps its pure silvery radiance had cleared the alley of its customary cabal of cruisers. He whistled as he walked, and there was a bounce to his step that made his taut buttcheeks jiggle.
Yeah, this broad-shouldered wasp-waisted dumb jock was asking for it.
A huge force sent him sprawling. At first Mike thought someone had punched him in the back of his head. He stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance. A crack in the asphalt caught him. He went down. His change skittered across the pavement. An enormous weight pinned him.
“What the fuck –”
The weight atop him growled. The hot, coppery smell of blood filled Mike’s nostrils. Steamy breath pulsated on the back of his neck. Mike twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. A dark bulk crouched over him. Shoulders wide and developed as any bodybuilder’s were the foundation for the iron grip pinning Mike’s arms.
“Who the hell –”
He shook his head. The fall had fucked with his vision. The shape’s legs looked crooked, and he saw moonlight gleaming on tufted black fur, silhouetting erect ears.
Oh fuck, no! You gotta be shitting me!
Creature? Quite so. It looked up from Mike’s ass, revealing burning yellow eyes. The pupils were dilated and full of malignant darkness. Saliva dripped from fangs. Its hot breath hissed from the onyx lump of its nose, perched on the end of that long muzzle.
What. The. Fuck.
Mike tensed, gathering the strength to spring away.
The beast’s growl rumbled. Think of million-ton plates of rock dragged over each other, and you’ll have an inkling of the creature’s power. A threat? Oh no. An order.
Stay. Submit.
Mike froze. Claws cinched around Mike’s biceps.
“You’re like part of some weird reality show, right? And I’m being filmed, right?”
The tongue snaked out and licked the beast’s lips. The demonic eyes bored into Mike’s.
I’m going to die. Some weird occult thing is going to fucking kill me.
Mike felt the creature’s power. Iron, steel, titanium, adamantium: it was all the same in the end. There was no escaping the beast’s dark embrace. Its heart throbbed, through a pelt of thick fur, against Mike’s back. It was real, and full of malice, and Mike was about to be ripped to shreds by those dripping fangs.
Whimpering, Mike averted his eyes. How could he dare the gaze of the creature that would turn him into strips of bloody beef jerky?
The hot tongue slithered over his cheek, tasting him. Mike shivered, feeling the beast’s gaze burning against the back of his skull. The hot saliva cooled on his skin. The tongue swirled in the convolutions of his right ear. A bass, rhythmic sound drummed against Mike.
Is it purring?
The bitter tips of fangs closed on his neck.
Shit! That’s it! This is the end —
Scream? Whimper? Cry out and remind the universe that once Mike Keegan existed, before some horror devoured him?
The beast jerked its muzzle. Mike shirt ripped. The creature snapped its head and the torn garment spun into the shadows. Drops of saliva, hot as molten steel, spattered Mike’s neck. Fur bristled against his broad back. The creature snuffled in Mike’s armpits. It stood on all fours over the prone human. Its tongue wrote slimy hieroglyphs down Mike’s spine. Its teeth closed on the waistband of his shorts.
Snap.
The creature howled. Trashcan lids rattled in metallic harmony with the blast.
What the fuck is going on here?
Mike had to dare its eyes. He twisted and looked. Big mistake.
Something enormous hung between the creature’s hind legs. Something merlot-colored, torpedo-shaped, and knobbed. Growing. Stiffening. Dripping.
Rape!
Mike’s feet churned. Too late. The creature’s claws clamped round Mike’s belly, slicing deep scratches. Lunging forward, it pulled him up to hands and knees. Hot fluid dripped on Mike’s buttcheeks. Bristly hair scoured his shoulder blades. The prehensile tongue slobbered on his neck.
Son of a bitch. It’s gonna fuck me dry!
The creature’s cockhead probed between Mike’s buttcheeks. Something spurted from its cock against his anus. The effect was instant, like a hit of poppers. Mike’s back arched. The beast’s cockhead pressed against his slimy pucker —
“No!”
A massive jaw closed on Mike’s neck. Mike felt each fang, each one needle sharp. Power quivered in the beast’s semi-human body. It growled its only advice.
Submit. Survive.
The thing’s hips stabbed. Its long, bushy tail scythed downward. The beast crammed a cock bigger than anything Mike had imagined up his rectum.
“Jesus fucking Christ! You’re killing me!”
Whimpering, pleading, fingers scrabbling the cracked asphalt, Mike absorbed the alien thing. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. His lips worked as if he were trying to scream, but all he emitted was a gibbering ululation.
Why don’t I hate this?
The beast humped. That sharpened the pain. Mike sobbed. Threads of fire sizzled on his ring. He knew that was because his anus was about to split. Mike Keegan, a sausage filled with too much meat, was about to burst open from the inside. The dong rammed him harder and faster. Dewclaws raked his skin. His blood trickled to the pavement. The thing’s stinking breath filled his lungs with a narcotic reek.
Something big as a softball banged against Mike’s asshole.
“Stop! Stop!”
The creature strained. Its arms yanked Mike back. The softball forced its way against Mike’s gooey sphincter. Howling, Mike squirmed and twisted. There was no escape. The creature dug its claws in. Human muscle strained against occult power. Naturally, the flesh began to yield.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
The fleshy softball spread him. Mike, helpless and weak, collapsed. The creature worked and strained but Mike’s hole refused to iris wider. The beast, a cunning light in its eyes, sharp ears flat against its skull, relaxed. Sobbing with relief, Mike followed suite. The beast snarled and thrust. A fireball of pain ballooned up Mike’s spine.
Oh God. We’re tied!
“Niiiiiiice,” the beast growled in Mike’s ear.
Blackness.
When it was done, the creature pulled free. Mike’s asshole was a bubbling crater. Hot slime oozed down his taint. The beast loomed over him. It slavered, and smacked its jaws. Then, like a quarterback who’s just banged the opposing team’s cheerleader, it swaggered down the alley. Mike saw it in silhouette, trotting away. Its ears were pointed. A beam of moonlight frosted obsidian fur. The long tail, slightly curled, swished. The creature turned and let out a yip. It leaped onto a fire escape and scurried up.
The rags of his shorts barely covered Mike’s ass. He made it to his car. He sat behind the wheel, mind blank. Tabula rasa. Even though he felt the creature’s spunk squirming in his guts, Mike was holly. Empty. A void. An automaton, he drove back to his dorm.
He woke the next morning to sticky sheets. At least two pints of the creature’s jism had oozed from his butthole. A little later, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, Mike ejected another three pints into the toilet. Sitting there, he looked down at the scratch marks on his belly. And his towering cock. The smell of cum filled his nostrils. He beat off three times before he flushed. Then, to cure his emptiness, he paid his first visit to Lansdown Park.
Mike’s sweat has dried. He keeps sniffing his armpits. Yeah, he smells the way he should — for the most part. Something alien’s been added to his pheromones. A new scent that makes the blood pound in his temples. Makes the void in his guts howl with need.
He paces through the weeds growing alongside the parking lot. From time to time headlights flash on his body. Each time he looks up eagerly, hoping for Seth. So far Mike’s greeted old high school buddies. Chicks that want to fuck him.
Do you need a ride back home, Mike?
Obviously, Channel Six Eyewitness News doesn’t play this far upstate.
Mike keeps himself from yelling: “Fuck no! I gotta go forward! There’s no going back!”
Come on, Seth, come on! Before I go crazy!
Seth pulls up in a brand-new Ford Fusion. A Fusion obviously isn’t Seth’s style. Seth, with his shoulder-length shaggy black hair, his indifferently trimmed black beard, and his tats, is the kind of guy you’d imagine straddling a Harley. In the cherry-red Fusion’s back seat, perched on the hump, sits Officer, Seth’s faithful Rottweiler. Seth crooks a finger at Mike from the rolled down window. Officer pokes his head over Seth’s shoulder, stub tail waggling.
“Come on, kid!”
Mike slips into the passenger seat. Officer slobbers on Mike’s neck. Laughing, Mike scratches the Rottweiler’s head. “Man, you don’t know how glad I am. Grateful. Shit. It’s been hell.”
“Dad’s nuts,” says Seth. He’s wearing only jeans, pulled low. Mike doesn’t need shirts. His pectorals and his abdominals are chiseled into the inked mosaic of his skin. A cross of black hair slashes from nipple to nipple, from neck to groin. “You serious?”
“‘Bout what?”
“Going to San Sebastian.”
“Fuck yeah!”
“You got a place to stay?”
Mike is silent, trying to think of a plausible lie. “I know a guy.”
“OK. You up for a drive, Officer?”
The Rottweiler yelps.
The Fusion sweeps through the on-ramp and barrels down the interstate. Neither brother talks. Seth lights up a Marlborough. Mike watches the glowing tip. Seth flicks the ashes off into the Fusion’s slipstream. Swarms of fireflies stream from the driver’s window. The Fusion, engine screaming, serpentines round big rigs and fat-assed SUVs.
“Is it true?” Seth asks.
A chill settles in Mike’s stomach. “Is what true?”
“You got busted in some sort of public orgy.”
“Yeah.”
“Getting it on with guys.”
“Yeah.”
“I heard it was twenty.”
“More like thirty,” says Mike quietly. “But I wasn’t counting.”
“So you’re … queer?”
“I’m a faggot, bro.”
Mike shrugs. “I’m cool with that, kid.” He fumbles under his seat and pulls out a iPod. “Plug it in. Sharon made a good mix.”
It’s good not to think. To space out. To merge with the music. The full moon soars into the sky like a pearl of spunk. The sight sends a thrill through Mike. He squirms, watching it. The swollen pouch in his shorts expands, retreats, then expands once more.
“So,” Seth says, as the interstate weaves left and right, threading its way through San Sebastian’s suburbs. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”
“Downtown. Anywhere downtown.”
“Don’t this guy … have an address?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to meet him downtown.”
Smirking, Seth flicks a Marlborough tumbling into the night. “He gonna bring twenty buds? Or thirty?”
Mike slugs his brother playfully in the bicep. “Forty.”
The brothers share a chuckle.
A slight rise lifts the interstate. The suburbs sprawl around them like glittering diamond dust. Glowing high-rises fringe the long black isosceles triangle of the harbor. The landing lights of jets coming into San Sebastian International Airport slant into the distance over the Atlantic.
“Here,” Mike barks. “Right here!”
“It’s the Cornwallis Bridge exit –”
“I know what the fuck it is. Just take it!”
At the bottom of the ramp, Seth’s fingers tap on the wheel as they wait for the light to change. Mike’s head twists and turns as he tries to find a road sign he remembers. Officer’s head always seems to be in the way.
“That’s it!” Mike grins. “Lansdown Park. You can let me off there.”
“If you’d told me earlier,” growls Seth, “I wouldn’t be in the wrong fucking lane.”
The gate is down, blocking the park’s lot. Seth puts the Fusion against the curb across the street from the dark park. Spanish moss, wafted by the breeze, sways like tentacles. Seth glances at his brother. His eyes flick north and south. A cool and appraising look settles on Seth’s face. He glances back at Officer. Scratches the Rottweiler’s head affectionately. Nods.
“You want me to wait, kid? Just in case your guy –”
“No! Fuck no! I’ll find him. Don’t worry about me!”
Heart pounding, Mike climbs out of the Fusion, slamming the door behind him. He trots towards the high-rises, gaining speed with each step.
In the Fusion, Seth lights up another Marlborough. Officer scurries out of the back, taking Mike’s place in the passenger seat.
“Don’t get impatient.”
Officer just whines.
Strutting along San Sebastian’s busy downtown streets, Mike gets his share of wolf whistles. This is nothing new. He ignores them. His mind is focused on something far more important.
How am I gonna get it to happen again?
The creature that had raped Mike hadn’t exactly scrawled a phone number on his ass.
Though the alley to the Snake Pit has plenty of guys cruising it, Mike isn’t interested in them tonight. He needs the real thing. Absorbed with his search, he struts down the alley, his nerves attuned to the subterranean rumble of a growl, but all he hears is the hiss of inhaled meth. Or low moans as some punk gets it from some dude behind a dumpster. Or invitations, all of which Mike ignores.
Once you’ve gone occult, the quotidian just won’t do.
Mike circulates and circulates, oscillating between alley and street, between stinking darkness and fresh-scrubbed light, between whispered seductions and hoots from those who recognize him from the news. The night ages. The moon rides the crest of its zenith, then begins to descend. One by one, the revelers go off to fuck the night’s prey in soft, safe beds in flats where the exterior doors have locks and deadbolts or in houses safely tucked away in gated communities.
Once again, Mike stands at the alley’s entrance. He inhales. Somehow, he knows the alley is empty now. Moonlight fills the dark crevice between buildings. He walks. His sneakers crunch on gravel. Crush a discarded bottle of Astroglide.
He rounds the kink into the alley’s hidden segment. Mike had hoped that the werewolf would be waiting. No such luck. Hidden now and able to yield to lust, he slips his running shorts partway down his thigh. His hardon smacks against his belly.
Run free, boy!
Mike jabs his rod into a beam of moonlight. A silvery thread of precum sways. He spits into his palm. He fists his meat.
Pace yourself, fuckhead! Don’t blow it!
His crotch blazes with the energy of ten thousand suns.
Mike almost cums when the growl rattles his bones. He freezes mid-stroke.
The werewolf drops from a nearby roof. Human eyes and beast eyes mesmerize one another. Eight feet tall, it stands on its crooked hind legs. Moonlight silhouettes the beast.
What’s this?
This isn’t his werewolf. Where are those erect ears? The glossy tufts of fur? The sleek muscles suggesting a marathoner or a triathlete? This is an earthier, blockier beast. His fur is black but sleek, almost of even length. His ears are floppy. The eyes glow not yellow but ozone blue, like electricity. The stub tail twitches. The most enticing thing about this other werewolf? That arrogant swagger. It struts as if it owns the alley. And Mike.
Throat dry, Mike thinks, Party time.
The werewolf’s advance stops. His muzzle rotates skyward. His chest expands as he breathes in a scent. His howl echoes down the alley. Mike shivers. Did anyone hear?
“Take ’em off.”
Mike skins his running shorts down his thighs. He flings them into the darkness. He proudly shows off his hardon.
“All fours, morsel.” The command is hissed, as if that slobbering prehensile tongue is tangled in the forest of fangs.
Bits of gravel dig into Mike’s palms and into his knees. The cool night air invades his exposed crack. Naturally, as the beast advances, Mike’s back arches. His eyes focus on the werewolf’s groin.
The testicles, jiggling in doeskin sacks kissed by white down, are the size of tennis balls. The sheath swells. The tip — the color and shape of lipstick — emerges. Already the werewolf’s slime dribbles. The strutting beast extrudes a donkey-sized cock. The meat sways. Then it swells, and stiffens, and throbs against the werewolf’s obsidian belly fur. Bending low, it sniffs Mike from neck to butt.
Mike stares at the cock. Why would he even look at anything else? A delicate tracery of veins pulsates beneath that crimson skin. The instrument of the werewolf’s lust is monstrous. Tantalizing. Musky. It twitches, and oozes.
“Drink,” growls the werewolf.
The oily pearl burns Mike’s throat like whiskey. It works like meth. His blood turns to fire. His skin radiates heat. His mind melts. Lust rules.
“That’s right, mutt,” croons the werewolf. “You can have more. If you’re good. Are you a good pup?”
Mike nods eagerly.
The werewolf’s lips draw back, exposing the frightening fence of fangs. His paw clamps to the back of Mike’s head. He draws the human’s face between his haunches.
“Let’s find out.”
The werewolf’s cock sears Mike’s lips. The creature’s body temperature is staggering. Does a bonfire, blazing deep inside, fuel the beast? Mike’s lips stretch. And stretch. The hinges of his jaw creak. It’s like fellating a baseball bat. The girth crushes his tongue. The tip stabs his uvula, and he retches.
The hips draw back. The canine dong emerges gleaming with human spit. Mike’s lips nurse on the cock tip, guzzling the beast’s ooze. The werewolf gathers power.
Those liver-colored lips curl into a sneer. “Here master comes, mutt!”
The meat barrels in. And in. There’s no stopping it. Man and werewolf struggle as the head lodges in Mike’s throat. Muscles bulge in the werewolf’s arms. In his chest. His thighs tense. Retching, gagging, Mike tries to whirl away. But you don’t break a werewolf’s steely grasp. Panic crashes over Mike. The werewolf’s cock pries open his throat and slides down it.
My throat’s gonna pop! Like a fucking balloon!
Mike begins screaming. This only lets more and more of the beast’s cock possess him. He can’t breathe. This is like laying paralyzed on the bottom of the swimming pool, looking up at the surface twelve feet away. He writhes. He twists. He can’t beg. He can only strangle on dog cock.
“Niiiiice,” croons the werewolf. “Be a good boy and choke on it!”
Unconsciousness creeps up, dark and tinged with red. Desperately, Mike coughs, retching up the mammoth length of meat. Ropes of mucous hang from it. Hacking, Mike clears phlegm from his throat, struggling for air.
The werewolf seizes Mike’s chin.
“Don’t pout. You tried. You’ll get better. All my pups do.”
Tender softness lights up Mike’s eyes.
With a growl, the werewolf rams between Mike’s lips. The beast pumps. Mike gobbles a quarter of the throbbing canine obscenity. The creature hisses with pleasure whenever the head blocks Mike’s throat, and Mike again gags and retches from fear. Derisive chortling rains down. Relentlessly, the werewolf skewers the human’s mouth. Mike, desperate to please, coils his tongue round the plunging shaft, teasing out drop after drop of the creature’s precum.
The werewolf leans low over Mike’s back. The beast’s tongue trails down Mike’s flanks and over the scratches. It smacks its lips.
“Yes! The infection’s taken hold!” Jerkily — as if this is the last thing he wants to do — the werewolf stops pumping. “Your desire! How have you been satisfying it?”
Reluctantly, Mike spits out the cock. “With men. They’re all I could find –”
“Naturally. Time for romance is over, isn’t it, mutt? Let’s breed!”
Claws click on the pavement. The werewolf mounts Mike from behind. The human welcomes the beast’s heavy weight. The sleek fur feels cool against Mike’s sweaty back. The beast nuzzles the back of his neck, then his armpits. It yips.
“Bitch in heat, right, little morsel?”
Mike squirms as the spurt daubs his cunt with fluid. The cockhead probes his ring. He sighs with relief. The werewolf’s cock slides home. The advance is slow and steady. This isn’t a quickie, like that first time. That had been an alpha male, asserting ownership. This is … breeding, pure and simple. This is all about flesh and fluid.
The swollen knot jams between Mike’s buttcheeks.
“Yes,” pants Mike. He hunches back, trying to absorb it.
“Not yet, mutt!”
The rutting begins. The beast’s shaft churns. It rams Mike with everything it has — keeping in reserve only that awesome knot. Man and werewolf — nature and super-nature — they rock and roll. The creature’s claws raise fresh welts. Responding to the sharp pain, Mike’s asshole squeezes on the thrusting dong. This is what the slavering beast is after. The werewolf yips with delight. Mike’s squeeze is too piquant, threatening to make the werewolf juice before it wishes.
“Please,” Mike pants, screwing his butt back.
“What do you want, little morsel?”
“Your puppies!”
“Heh! Then you want this!”
“Oh God!” shouts Mike.
The knot rams against him. Mike’s rubbery anus gulps it whole, then bulges from within as the werewolf draws back for a thrust. Mike yelps. Though he’s dreamed of feeling that alien shape inside him again, he’s forgotten the pain. Searing sheets of flame balloon outwards from his distended colon.
Fuck! I love this!
Let them hear him grunt! Let some cop cruising the streets here him, and rush down the alley to investigate! Let Channel Six rant about the pervert who two months ago was caught doing it with a horde of guys — caught now doing it with the brother of the half-canine monster whose rape had fully unleashed Mike’s need.
The werewolf spits. “Say, oh, Lucifer!”
“Oh Lucifer! Fuck me!”
The beast piledrives. Drool rains on Mike’s head. The funk of a wet dog envelops Mike. The werewolf’s claws, hooked round Mike’s belly, draw him ever upward. The furry haunches grind on Mike’s naked buttcheeks. Suddenly the powerfucking stops. The full length of the werewolf’s cock, from knot to drooling tip, twitches in Mike’s bruised colon.
“Please,” whines Mike.
The creature’s weight lifts. Something corkscrews in Mike’s rectum.
“What the fuck?” Mike cries, watching over his shoulder as the beast, one leg raised, twists behind him.
“This is how we tie!”
The knot, as the werewolf positions himself, threatens to burst out of Mike’s anus. Mike squeezes to keep the burning hot ball lodged in place. A shudder runs up the werewolf’s spine. Ass to ass, man and werewolf gaze into each other’s eyes over two lengths of spine. The stub of the werewolf’s tail wags. Mike grinds his butt against the werewolf’s. Mike, tongue lolling, watches those glowing blue orbs shrink to satisfied slits. The beast’s tongue unrolls from its jaws, swaying just as dementedly as Mike’s. The werewolf moans each time Mike’s anus milks its shaft.
“You want puppies?” grunts the werewolf. “Here they are!”
A gooey warmth, like melted butter, begins filling Mike. Sometimes he feels of spurt of it as it lands deep up his colon. Sometimes it merely oozes, spreading like hot grease, coating his guts. Puddles spread. Mike’s anus spasms, farting out a dollop of it onto the werewolf’s bristly buttfur.
They’re tied at least half an hour. Babbling happily, Mike absorbs the werewolf’s cum.
Finally, the swollen knot shrinks. Mike’s guts convulse, spitting up the monster’s shaft in a torrent of milky goo. Spent, the werewolf falls to the asphalt, rolling onto its back. Mike, asshole gaping, crawls to it.
“Lick me clean,” the beast growls. “Show some appreciation, mutt!”
Mike crawls between the creature’s thighs. He seizes the rubbery cock. He tongues it. Long swipes take him from the fur-studded sheath to the leaking tip. His asshole has left a distinctive tangy flavor, which is kinky enough, but what stokes Mike is the alien, electric taste of the creature’s fuckshaft. Is that the taste of magick? Or just the flavor of its spunk?
The werewolf, chest heaving, paw on its forehead, groans happily as his human pet abases itself. Its lips twitch. Perhaps that’s an attempt to smile, because its shaft, laved by the human’s tongue, is stiffening again.
“Please?” Mike pleads. “I need it. And … maybe I’m not pregnant.”
The werewolf chortles. “A master breeder’s work is never done. Against the wall, mutt!”
Grit digs into Mike’s back and buttocks. He opens his eyes. It’s still night, thank Lucifer.
I better get out of here.
He staggers to his feet. Fluid gurgles in his bowels. Just in time he cinches shut his sphincter.
Don’t want to lose that, do I?
He struts down the alley towards the street. He hears a car thrum past.
Where are my shorts?
They’d landed in a pot hole half filled with muddy water. He fishes them out. The wet nylon clings to his groin like a poultice of cold snot. But the sensation wakes his lust. The bulge grows, stretching into a pseudopod.
Fuck! If they catch me again —
Crouching like a soldier worried about being flanked, Mike pads down the alleyway. His anxiety fades the moment he eases past the kink. For blocking the end of the alley is a red Ford Fusion. Seth, hands cupped round cigarette and lighter, leans against the fender. He grins when he sees Mike.
“Get in, kid. Before someone sees you.”
Mike sighs. He slides into the passenger seat. Seth slips in behind the wheel. Seth’s grin is wide as the Mississippi.
“Um. Let’s get going,” says Mike.
“Gotta wait for Officer.”
For a long moment, the two brothers stare at each other. Then there’s a yip to Mike’s right. Officer bounds down the alley.
“Open the door for him,” says Seth. “He likes the royal treatment.”
Mike stares unbelieving at Seth. Officer paces beside the Fusion. He lets out an annoyed bark. Slowly Mike turns and opens the back door. Officer hurls himself in. Seth’s head turns. The dog licks Seth’s bearded face. With a stab of heat — jealousy? — Mike realizes Officer is thrusting his tongue into his brother’s mouth. The dog yammers.
Grinning, Seth says, “OK, enough, enough, we gotta get going!” He wipes Officer’s spit from his lips and starts the car. He pulls into the street. At the light, he says quietly, “Officer told me you’re as hot a lay as he’s heard.”
Suddenly Mike’s dizzy. He feels like that time when he was a little kid, minding his business on the merry-go-round, when some jackass crept up on him and gave it a ferocious whirl. He flips down the sun visor. In its mirror, he studies Officer. The dog pants happily. The Rottweiler’s tongue hangs from his mouth. His ears flop in the breeze as Seth guns the Fusion.
“So … you’re a part of this?” Mike asks. “You know, the strange stuff?”
“I’m kinda on the fringe, kid. It’s more Sharon’s thing. Come on. Let’s go back to the trailer and get you cleaned up.”
Stunned, Mike says nothing. He watches Officer lick his genitals clean. Dawn is beginning to illuminate the eastern sky as the Fusion races back onto the interstate for the trip northwest.
Seth flicks the cigarette butt into the Fusion’s slipstream. His hand closes on Mike’s knee. “You’re queer, kid. Maybe queerer than Officer, who knows with this pack? But. If you ever wanna try pussy, well, Sharon thinks you’re hot. And she’s knocked up with Officer’s pups. You can spooge her all day and she ain’t gonna catch. You know what I mean?”
Mike watches Officer’s ears flop as the dog cleans itself.
“Who fucked me the first time? It wasn’t Officer.”
Seth grins. “You wanna find out, kid? ‘Cause there’s a lot you don’t know about San Sebastian.”
The Corral 