Pappy Wolf’s Story Stump
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Problem Daddy
🕑 Added 2024-09-15 11:52:54 +0000 UTCThis commission story is a sequel to one that has already appeared elsewhere, but you don't need to read that one to get the gist. Basically, it concerns a curse that turns guys both into rednecks AND werewolves. The twist is that the most recently turned guy is also tasked with being the alpha of the group, and they prematurely age to match the part. Note: this story features a LOT of grunge and a LITTLE bit of scat, but if you're not into that (I'm not either, but it's a commission, baby!), I think you can still enjoy this story of two redneck werewolves having to deal with a newbie who makes trouble wherever he goes!
Hayden:
Hayden Renault meandered through the convenience store aisles for a fifth time. He didn’t have anything better to do. The packages of fatty foods and displays of hats with vaguely hostile slogans were blurs to him. His glasses had gotten broken a few days ago while on this apparently endless hitchhiking journey. He didn’t have the money to replace them, and he certainly couldn’t ask his folks for help. They were the ones who had kicked him out.
“We raise winners,” his father had sneered before shoving him out the door. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not acting like any son of mine. Go out there and prove you can make something of yourself, and maybe we’ll let you back in. Maybe.” The door slammed shut, and that was that.
The trouble had started when he’d dropped out of college. No, he reminded himself, the trouble started long before that. He had always been smart, but making friends was a challenge. His gangly frame was uncoordinated and terrible at sports, and he couldn’t carry on a conversation to save his life. His attempts mostly involved blurting out trivia that the other kids didn’t understand or care about. Bullies flocked to him in swarms. He didn’t dare tell his parents. They had no sympathy for “whiners,” which is the term they used for anyone who protested how they were treated by other people. The abuse got worse after puberty, especially once the bullies noticed he had no interest in girls. He lived his life in a state of constant apprehension. His folks were annoyed by his lack of social skills, but he stayed on their good side through his academic prowess. He got into a good college on a full scholarship. That should have been the end of the bullying. It wasn’t.
The students in his dorm were winners. He could tell by how easily they got along with one another, by their clothes and their cars and the easy, instant camaraderie they enjoyed with one another. He wasn’t like them. And they knew it. They treated him pleasantly, but they excluded him from everything they did. In the first week, his roommate switched rooms to stay with another guy he liked better. He was alone. A month later, jocks from his old high school found him in a gas station restroom. They were in a frat now – he could tell by the Greek signs on their t-shirts and fitted caps. They pulled him into a handicapped stall. What they did there was worse than they’d done in high school. They told him afterward that they would keep doing it, too. They gave him a schedule to follow, and if he didn’t show up, they would track him down and kill him.
He couldn’t concentrate on his studies after that. He stopped going to class. He holed up in his dorm room and gorged himself on junk food and soda until he got sick. His phone kept ringing. His parents. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. When the school kicked him out, his folks arrived and silently helped him load his things into the car. His father’s face was fire engine red the whole time, his eyes goggling, his teeth clenched. But he didn’t say a word.
Hayden followed the same routine at home: not leaving his room unless his parents demanded it, overeating, not bathing, sleeping too much. In the middle of the night, he jimmied the lock on his parents’ liquor cabinet, drank a bottle of brandy, and had to go to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. His folks kicked him out the next day.
His aunt lived on the other side of the country, in Providence, Rhode Island. She was the black sheep of the family and didn’t have much money, but she seemed happy. She invited him to visit but couldn't afford to send for him. He resolved to get there on his own. His paltry funds paid for a bus journey to the next state over, and then he had to hitchhike. It was easier than he’d thought it would be. He was tall but thin, and he had the look of a kicked puppy, so travelers didn’t see him as a threat. He realized, too, that he wasn’t bad looking. His hair was an angelic mop of blonde curls, his large eyes were a deep ocean blue, and his jawline was strong. With the addition of darker blonde beard stubble from weeks of neglecting to shave, he could pass for a model – especially when he took his glasses off.
Guys who picked him up liked it when he took his glasses off. He allowed them to pet him as they drove. He’d even consented to give a few hand jobs. He’d never done anything like that before, but he found that he enjoyed it.
He kept to the interstate, walking when he couldn’t bum a ride. The exercise and a starvation diet drained his remaining baby fat, giving him a gaunt appearance. He began to look less cute and more like a drug addict. People grew cautious about giving him rides. The ones who did give him rides now expected a lot more out of him, assuming he was desperate. When he balked, they kicked him out of their vehicles. One particular bastard punched him in the face, obliterating his glasses and giving him a black eye, a split lip, and lacerations on his cheek. The injuries made him appear shiftier than ever.
He decided to exit the convenience store and head back into the attached truck stop. He could check his appearance in the mirror again. He knew what he would find, but it was fun to pretend his face had magically healed. He stared at the floor like always as he shambled through the door. This time, he collided with the mammoth gut of some redneck trucker with a monstrous gray beard tied in a series of rubber bands. “Easy there, youngster,” the old hick growled. His tone was fatherly, which rattled Hayden more than if it had been threatening.
Hayden doffed his baseball cap, which his family had taught him to always do in the presence of his elders and mumbled an apology. He detoured around the hefty trucker and his equally hefty and hairy companion, a young guy in overalls and a cowboy hat, and loped down the vast, tiled hallway toward the restrooms.
Bruiser:
“Him…?!” Ratfuck stared incredulously at his gray-bearded partner, then back at the blonde scarecrow walking away from them.
Bruiser, enraptured, could only mutter, “Yeah, him.” He knew Ratfuck must be furious with him. The youthful-looking werewolf had spent thirteen years as the pack’s prematurely elderly Alpha, waiting for their peculiar curse to compel him to turn another young man and pass the role onto his victim. He was that victim, back when he was a preppy frat boy named Brewster. Now, he wouldn’t have things any other way. But he’d been turned only a few years back. Sheepishly, he turned to his lover and said, “You ain’t jealous, is you? I can’t help it. You ought to know that much.”
Ratfuck, looking deflated despite his bulk, removed his cowboy hat and ran a hand through his long, greasy brown hair. “I dunno… you sure? What’s it feel like?”
The young man’s slim form got smaller and smaller in his vision before ducking into a restroom. Bruiser took a shaky step forward, and then another. He could smell the boy. He had a salty, musky smell, but it was sweet at the same time. Road grime and youth, and a touching sadness. He could smell that too, somehow. He wanted to draw the kid into his arms and snuffle him; to get that smell into his nose so he could have the scent forever. “The feeling… it’s like the moon. I’m pulled to him. Like the tides.”
“That’s curtains for me, then,” Ratfuck said, softly. “Fuck. I thought we’d have more time together before… y’know.”
Still shuffling forward, Bruiser reached back to take his lover’s hand. “None of that now, boy. Everyone in the pack belongs to everyone else. And you and me, we’re forever. The boy is just… something I gotta do. He’s a chore.”
Ratfuck snorted. “He’ll be in charge in a year, that’s what he’s gonna be.”
Bruiser forced himself to turn around and then he gave his fellow redneck a bear hug. “Shush,” he whispered in his ear. “He’ll understand I’m doing right by the pack, going out and earning us enough money to move us out of that trailer park and into a nice big house, one we’ll own, free and clear. It’ll still be you and me on the road, driving that big rig together. You trust me, pumpkin…?”
Ratfuck smiled, a little, and patted his tremendous gut. Tension always bothered his stomach. It was just one of the many things Bruiser loved about him. As they leaned in for a kiss, Ratfuck abruptly belched into Bruiser’s open mouth. “I’ll get you back for that later,” Bruiser laughed.
Ratfuck grinned. “You love it…!”
Hayden:
The fat rednecks’ odor was unholy, even in the brisk winter air, but Hayden couldn’t bring himself to care about that right now. The important thing was they could get him all the way to Providence.
“With a few stops on the way,” the older one cautioned him.
“I don’t mind that at all, sir,” he answered, excited to have reliable transportation for once.
The younger one explained, “Now, three in a cab is against corporate rules, but Bruiser and me is independent, so we don’t gotta worry about getting in trouble for that shit. Still and all, we might have you hang out in the sleeping compartment when we’s delivering and picking up freight.”
Hayden stuck his hands in the pockets of his cheap parka. They were chapped raw from the harsh winds. “I’ll go wherever you need me,” he said, dutifully. He wondered how the two rednecks could stand the winter weather without coats or gloves or even sleeves. But he reasoned that they had plenty of flab to insulate their bodies, and a healthy coating of hair on top of that. He’d never seen anyone so hairy. On their shoulders, especially, it looked almost like dog fur. It was a little creepy. He reminded himself that he should be grateful. The truckers had approached him, not the other way around. They said they could tell he needed a hand. Refreshingly, Hayden couldn’t detect any sleazy, underhanded vibe from them. They were just rough customers, like plenty of other blue collar guys. There was nothing wrong with that.
The route to Providence was far from a straight line. The semi traveled on a zig-zag of highways, carrying loads on mostly north-south routes, so that after a week, they hadn’t made much progress eastward. Hayden was disappointed, but he knew better than to show it. But there was a much worse problem: the truckers were slobs. Not only did they stink, but they were messy eaters, they left trash everywhere, and they drank and smoked like maniacs. When Bruiser wasn’t behind the wheel, he had a fifth of tequila in his unwashed paw and a cheap, foul-smelling cigar clenched in his furry jaw. Not to mention, they constantly listened to country music. The twangy, cornball music alternated between maudlin laments about lost love or raucous anthems that celebrated being poor and stupid. He knew better than to complain, but he knew they could tell he hated it.
Hayden was always glad when they found a full-service truck stop with showers. He’d eagerly scrub the truckers’ stink from his body, happy to get a small respite from the unholy smells the rednecks emitted. But every time he got out of the shower, he would find Bruiser waiting for him with his arms crossed. He’d give him a huge hug, rubbing a fresh layer of musk onto his damp flesh. Once, he shook his head in paternal bemusement at Hayden’s reluctance. “I can think of lots funner things to do in a men’s room,” he quipped. Hayden had a nauseating sense of what that meant, but he laughed anyway.
Bruiser and Ratfuck took turns driving, but they usually managed to sleep together for a few hours in the bunk at the top rear of the cab. They’d park the vehicle at a truck stop or in the parking lot of a distribution center if they were waiting for the place to open. Hayden always declined the rednecks’ playful offers to spoon with them. Instead, he would curl his skinny body on the seat, warm in the oddly baggy clothes they purchased for him. He tried to ignore the noises of their sloppy lovemaking, but it wasn’t easy.
In Wisconsin, the truckers finally sprang for a room at a truck stop motel. The place was located near a vast pine forest. After two weeks in a semi cab, Hayden was glad to have a chance for slumber in a real bed. Bruiser seemed to feel the same way. The hick was giddy and restless from the moment he set foot in the room.
“It’s gorgeous here,” Hayden offered as the truckers unpacked their meager possessions, which consisted mainly of cigars and liquor. “The forest, I mean.”
“You and me are taking a walk in them woods tonight,” Bruiser said. “We could both stand to stretch our legs some.”
Worry, like it often did, made the young hitchhiker’s breath catch in his throat. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous? With all those wild animals?”
Ratfuck grinned and shook his head.
Bruiser laughed, “I’ll look after you, kid. Anyhow, we’ll be able to see danger coming at us from a mile away. There’s a full moon tonight.”
Bruiser:
The youngster had been easy prey, especially after Bruiser had pretended to get separated from him. When the wolf within tore out of his stinking flesh, he relished hunting him down. It was odd to feel his fully erect lupine shaft pounding against his furry belly as he ran, but the windburn on his sensitive head only made him hornier. He tried not to be too rough on the boy, but he knew that any wounds he inflicted would heal instantly once he shot his load inside him. He wondered how the kid would look as a redneck werewolf. He couldn’t wait to find out.
The next morning, Bruiser and Ratfuck munched on greasy breakfast sandwiches and frosted donuts, washing it all down with beer as they watched their future Alpha sleep naked atop the covers of his bed. His below-average cock bobbed up and down as he dozed, while he made adorable little grunts and growls. There wasn’t a scratch on the lad.
A keening howl, as squeaky as a baby bird’s peeping, whistled through Hayden’s lips. With a shudder, his eyes popped open, and he sat up. He looked surprised to be back in the motel room. “Where…? There was an animal, chasing us, and…!”
Bruiser lowered his broad ass onto the bed next to Hayden and threw his arm around his shoulder. He couldn’t help fondling the boy’s bicep to see if any new hair had grown there. It hadn’t yet. But it would. “You just had a scare,” he explained. “Wild animals are always more frightened of us than we are of them. I got you back here safe and sound. Don’t you remember?”
“I guess not,” Hayden said with a sigh. “Damn, I guess I’m a real pussy, huh? Sorry about that.”
“I don’t wanna hear you talk that way,” Bruiser said, poking him in the chest. “You just ain’t had much experience in the out-of-doors, that’s all.”
“That’s fair, I suppose,” the boy ventured, stretching his arms. “Shee-it, I’m hungry as fuck! Gimme one of them there sandwiches.” As soon as he spoke the words, he clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh no! I’m sorry, that was rude. I wasn’t making fun of you guys or anything. It just kind of slipped out that way. Um, may I have a sandwich, please?”
Ratfuck rolled his eyes. “You got it right the first time. Here, have two.” He tossed the paper-wrapped grease bombs to Hayden, who wasted no time in gobbling them down. Biscuit crumbs and blobs of oily scrambled egg dotted his chest, but he didn’t seem to notice.
A rumbling heralded the emergence of a long, loud belch. “Oh,” the boy yelped. “I am so, so, sorry! I didn’t – oh boy, hold on.” A wet fart, lasting even longer than the belch, vibrated through the mattress. The odor was foul.
Coughing, Ratfuck waddled to the door and opened it in a desperate attempt to get some clean air into his lungs. Bruiser, waving his hand in front of his nose, could only exclaim, “JESUS--!”
A strange look came over the boy’s face. It was somehow wily and moronic at the same time. Smirking at Bruiser, he said, “You love it…!”
Hayden:
The baggy clothes the rednecks supplied didn’t stay baggy for long. For some reason, the scare he’d had in the woods had flipped a switch in his brain. He’d been terrified of so many other things his entire life, and they all seemed so small, so unimportant now. They couldn’t begin to compete with the sheer horror of a wild animal attack. The world had been a vast, terrifying mystery to him before. But he knew now that it wasn’t frightening at all. It was there to be enjoyed. And he was going to act however he felt in the moment, consequences be damned. And so, he ate whatever he wanted, in great quantities, and he eagerly accepted the rednecks’ offers to share their liquor and their smokes. His gaunt face filled out and then grew round. His flat stomach quickly sprouted a cute little gut. After so much deprivation, his feeding frenzies had another odd effect: the sudden rush of nutrition was making him hairier. He’d heard of guys continuing to get hairier in their twenties, so it was probably just some genetic quirk. Whatever the reason, he found fine blonde hairs growing all over his chest, forearms and calves. There was even a dusting on the lower half of his rump. His stubble doubled in density and began to grow with lightning speed. In a week, he boasted a full beard. He liked it. It made him feel like he fit in with the rednecks. Like the three of them were a team. Even their incessant country music didn’t bother him like it used to.
He didn’t mind their farting and burping and slobby behavior these days. He was starting to outdo them in every department. And everyone thought it was hilarious. The trio spooned in the bunk regularly. There was no sex, but it was nice just to have physical contact. By the time they neared Providence, he didn’t want to leave them.
“Ain’t nobody says you have to,” Bruiser told him. “I’m sure your aunt will understand.”
Hayden was sitting between the two of them in the cab as Bruiser drove. He stopped shoveling corn chips in his mouth long enough to reply, “She’ll probably be glad not to have my gay ass underfoot. She ain’t fancy… she’s just plain poor folk like you and me.” He hadn’t meant to phrase it in such an uneducated way. Being around Ratfuck and Bruiser was affecting his speech, clearly. He just hoped the pair wouldn’t think he was mocking them.
Ratfuck opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but he shared a look with Bruiser and held his tongue. Hayden chose that moment to unleash a long but utterly silent fart. He waited for the stink to catch up to the rednecks’ noses before he said anything.
Bruiser’s nostrils twitched, and his amber eyes suddenly narrowed. “Oh, FUCK YOU,” he growled.
Ratfuck rolled down the window on the passenger side. “Nasty ass kid,” he grumbled. “What you been eating, anyway?”
Bruiser answered for him. “Everything. Ain’t you noticed?”
Bruiser:
It was the kid’s first full moon since getting bitten. Bruiser made sure to book them a room at another truck stop motel near a forest. This time, it was in Kentucky. Dear Hayden had gained around seventy-five pounds in the last four weeks and had the beginning of a proper pelt. The hairs on his forearms, calves and chest were lush and full, and he had shorter, sparser hair elsewhere on his body – even the backs of his hands and the tops of his feet. His hair and beard were growing with inhuman speed, giving him bushy whiskers and an explosion of curls that he kept tamed by a trucker cap. He’d stopped pruning up his face when a country song was on the radio. In fact, he’d started singing along, although he inevitably screwed up the lyrics. When he sang, he spewed crumbs onto the dashboard. Because he was always eating. Bruiser recalled the ravenous cravings he’d had after he was turned, but Hayden’s appetite was twice that. The boy’s lust had mounted quickly, and he seemed to be tormented by a nonstop urge to touch himself. It was no wonder; his balls had tripled in size and were hanging down to the middle of his thighs, while his cock had thickened into a formidable thing with gobs of smegma dripping from his regrown foreskin. Bruiser had found himself needing to get stern with the young man when he wouldn’t stop trying to jerk himself off through his jeans as they drove. He’d yell at Hayden, and then Hayden would pout, but at least he’d stop. Lately, the kid’s burgeoning cock would soak his jeans with jizz anyway, even when he wasn’t touching it. At first, Hayden had acted embarrassed about this, but in the last week, he didn’t say anything or even bother trying to clean himself up.
Tonight, the husky youth threw himself on the motel bed, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels in one hand and an energy drink in the other. He landed on the mattress with a fart, which he tended to do whenever his body collided with anything at all. He was keyed up, the way they all were on the night of a full moon. “Let’s order something, guys,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’m starving!”
“Nothing heavy right now, buddy,” Bruiser cautioned. “We’re all three of us having a big meal later tonight.”
This time, when Bruiser suggested a walk in the woods, Hayden didn’t object. The lad seemed more attuned to the sounds and smells of the forest and seemed to be fascinated by it all. As darkness fell, Hayden began to breathe heavily. “Skin feels funny,” he complained, scratching his arms and neck.
“Gnats,” Ratfuck said, clawing at his own furry limbs.
Bruiser pulled the boy close and stroked his back as they walked. He slipped his hand beneath Hayden’s t-shirt, savoring the sensation of the flesh crawling and stretching, getting ready to burst open and release something wonderfully terrible into the world.
Hayden:
They had been walking in the woods in the moonlight, all of them, and then the memory turned dreamlike. He was inside himself, like his skin was a sack he was trapped inside, and he had to rip it with his long, deadly nails to get free. And then he was running on all fours, tongue hanging out of his mouth, cock slapping against his thighs, the exertion filling the air with a delicious musk. He was an animal, an impossible one, his hungers vast, his mind deliriously free. He ran with two of his pack mates, crashing through the underbrush, bounding over fallen logs, scooping up everything they could grab with life in it and devouring it. Everything he ate made him hornier, and the hornier he got, the hungrier. It was a perfect circle, like the moon that was purifying him with its reflected light, stolen from the sun and turned to a darker purpose.
He awoke in his bed, his huge body beset by aches and his ballooning gut gurgling. Opening his mouth to yawn, he instead belched, the sound a baritone croak, the stink so bad he could almost see it. Shakily, he got on his feet. Rising off the bed initiated a long, wet fart. “Christ on a cracker,” he groaned. It was pretty funny, he had to admit, and laughter burbled freely from his throat. His voice sounded deeper and raspier than it should and was stained by the rednecks’ rude twang. The laugh itself was a nasal “Huh-huh-huh” like a backwoods doofus from a bad movie.
Everything about himself felt off, and he didn’t know why. Brusier and Ratfuck might be able to diagnose him, but they were nowhere to be seen. The thought of them made his cock stiffen. He’d recently discovered a kink for burly truckers, but those two…? He had thought of them as buddies, even father figures. This erotic attraction was new. It was deeper than that, even… being with them felt like a necessity. He could imagine how it would be, getting spit roasted by them. Figuring he had time for a quick wank, he waddled to the bathroom. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his reflection.
He’d always been tall – six-foot-two – but he looked like he was at least four inches taller than that. And although he’d understandably put on some pounds in the last month with his nonstop eating, there was no way he could have fattened up this much in only four weeks. From less than one hundred pounds, he’d bulked up into a neckless behemoth looking like a fat hillbilly wrestler, but with an even larger belly. His miraculously appearing body hair had thickened into something approaching fur, and his bushy beard and plentiful curls had doubled in length, giving him a leonine mane. That gave him an idea. The walrus mustache hairs were already slipping into his mouth. He could shave the fool thing and look truly leonine. And truly trashy. The notion made him hard, but he forced himself to concentrate on examining his transforming body. He stepped closer to the mirror. His eyes, he saw, had gone from blue to amber. Like Bruiser. Like Ratfuck, too, now that he thought about it. His yellow eyes were ringed by shadows, with fine lines at the corners. More creases lurked in his forehead. He looked old. Early thirties, at least. He backed away from the traitorous reflection and sat back down on the bed, loudly farting as he did so.
A moment later, his trucker pals walked into the room carrying several bags of fast food and a huge carton of beer. Bruiser’s face fell when he saw him. “Fuck me,” he grunted. “You’re awake already.”
The pair explained that Bruiser had fulfilled one of the requirements of a curse and turned him into some sort of redneck werewolf. More than that, he’d be the leader of a whole pack of redneck werewolves, and he’d stay that way until he found the guy destined to replace him. Hayden thought about this for a minute, and then his face brightened. “So,” he beamed. “I’m like king of you guys. Y’all gotta do what I say, huh?”
“Easy kid,” Bruiser laughed. “You ain’t Alpha YET. It’ll take about a year to get there.”
Hayden snatched two bags of food from Ratfuck’s arms and helped himself to the breakfast items inside. “This is bullshit,” he complained, chunks of food spilling into his beard and rebounding off his gut. “You ‘Princess Diaries’ my ass and I don’t even get to boss y’all around.”
Bruiser:
Ratfuck climbed into the cab, his hairy face set in a scowl. “Once again, I gotta say, ‘GREAT CHOICE, CHIEF!”
“Jesus,” Bruiser moaned. “What’s he gone and done now…?”
“Made a pass at the guy in the next stall in the men’s room. As in, his fat ass climbed ON TOP OF the toilet and looked down into the next stall to propose one of his gross sex ideas.”
Bruiser tilted his head back and scrunched his eyes shut. “Shit lube again?”
“Shit lube. The guy was a Marine, too. Wanted to fight him. Luckily, the toilet broke under his weight, so that made enough of a distraction I could get him out of there.”
Bruiser peered into the side view mirror, looking for the monster he’d created. “Where’s he now?”
“Hiding out by the truck wash. You still gotta square things with the manager, though, on account of the busted toilet.”
Fingering the cash roll in the pocket of his cut-off jeans, Bruiser warily exited the cab and loped away to clean up another of Haystack’s messes.
Haystack:
Hayden “Haystack” Rowe held his driver’s license in his pudgy fingers, marveling at how his surname had magically changed from “Renault.” Bruiser had told him that would happen. The curse separated them completely from their old lives. He searched for the birthdate. It looked smudged, which made sense, since his physical age was in flux. Road grime had insinuated itself into his deepening wrinkles, making him look like a man in his forties. Streaks of gray had appeared in his long blonde curls, and the front of his massive beard had gone white. Crazy.
He placed the plastic card back in his wallet and resumed waiting for his food order, digging in his nose for boogers while he softly farted and battled the urge to rearrange his low-hanging balls. Other customers in the crowded restaurant muttered to one another and shuffled away from him. Behind him, a scrawny young man in skater regalia snickered to his friend, saying, “Triangle-shaped Jabba the Hutt looking bitch! Put some damn pants on!”
Haystack grinned at that. He hated the feel of clothes on his plump, warm body, so he usually wore shorts so brief that they were hidden by the loosely hanging tank tops he paired them with. It created a perverse illusion of being naked below the waist, which he found hilarious. He glanced over a furry shoulder at the heckler. He didn’t care much for skinny guys, but this one had face tats and ear gauges, which was enough of a turn-on to merit a proposition. With hot, reeking breath, he offered to take the kid into the men’s room and allow him to pee down his throat.
One minute later, Bruiser and Ratfuck were busting through the door and pulling him from a scuffle that had pulled in half of the population of the restaurant. He managed to yank the cardboard crown from the head of a weeping tot as they dragged him back to the truck.
Bruiser was screaming at him, his yellow eyes bulging, his face rose red. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. “The hell is wrong with you, son? You can’t keep creeping on dudes like that. What the fuck?!”
Haystack shrugged, releasing a small shart and a bit of precum. “I dunno. I mean, he was there. Might as well.”
Bruiser’s complexion deepened to a rich burgundy. “A burger joint ain’t no bear bust, numb nuts! What kind of maniac goes around showing his dong to anything with a ball sack? Who the hell do you think you are?”
Popping the crown atop his shaggy dome, Haystack giggled, “Why, I’m king around here!”
The remark worked like a charm, teasing the boys into angry sex. Haystack’s pheromones helped things along; his pungent sweat glands were working overtime today. He knew Bruiser and Ratfuck couldn’t resist him, even if they hated themselves afterward. Sure enough, the pair began to sweat, themselves, and manhandled him into a nearby alley. Ratfuck pulled his shorts down and noticed the damp yellow stain on his dingy white briefs. “Goddamn it,” he snarled. “You pissed your panties again--?”
Haystack laughed, “Huh-huh-huh…! Only use I gots for a bathroom is lining up my next date!”
“Nasty ass hick, goddamn!” Ratfuck slapped Haystack’s ass with vicious force, making the tub yelp, then burp. Ratfuck growled, “You don’t like that, huh? Tough shit! You got a lot more of it coming to you!”
Haystack told himself not to smile. On the other side of his blob-like form, Bruiser was glowering at him, baring his yellow teeth while the rest of his face was in shadow. His beard had gone from gray to salt-and-pepper, and it was tending more toward black lately. He placed a paw on Haystack’s scalp and forced his head downward. “You’re sick, boy,” he spat. “Time to take your medicine.” Haystack eagerly gobbled the trucker’s thick, musky rod as Ratfuck took his ass from behind.
A genius idea occurred to him. He tried to speak around Bruiser’s cock, but his words came out as muffled grunts. Bruiser had both hands on the sides of Haystack’s head but generously pulled his dong out for a moment. “What NOW,” he sighed.
“You could piss in my mouth right now, if you’re so inclined, Daddy! I wouldn’t mind at all, honest!”
Swearing under his breath, Bruiser thrust his cock forward again.
“So, is that a ‘no’ or…?” The rest of his words were muted by the trucker’s shaft.
Talking to Bruiser like Haystack wasn’t there, Ratfuck complained, “Jesus, there’s still shit in here!”
Haystack noticed that despite the criticism, Ratfuck hadn’t stopped assaulting his hole. But he kept this observation to himself.
The truckers didn’t say anything for a long while after that. Haystack scrolled mindlessly through fetish sites on his phone as Bruiser drove. At last, the veteran trucker muttered, “Piss in your mouth…!” He shuddered.
Wistfully, Haystack replied, “I’ll talk you into it at some point.” He punctuated the statement with a gassy belch that filled the cab and made the other two cough uncontrollably.
Bruiser:
After pissing like a racehorse into and all around a urinal, Bruiser moseyed to the sinks. He didn’t wash his hands; he hadn’t bothered with that foolishness in months. It was Haystack’s influence, he knew. Instead of bathing only occasionally, he now no longer bathed at all, and he was as likely to piss and cum in his jeans as he was to find a more appropriate place to release his fluids. The appropriate place, of course, was Haystack’s mouth. Sometimes, he’d relieve himself in an empty two-liter and give it to Haystack, who chugged it down like it was soda pop. The old pervert liked to let the excess urine splash onto his beard, so he could smell it later. He eyed his reflection. He was back to looking like he was college-aged, but the waist-length black hair and beard, which he now wore loose, conspired with the gritty dirt on his face to make him appear ten years older. When he bought liquor, beer, and smokes for the crew, he was never carded. Raising a beefy arm, he sniffed his furry, musky pit. The bush of hair there was the size of melon and was visible even when his arm was down at his sides. It stank worse than ever. Somehow, fucking Haystack or maybe just being around him, had caused his flesh to give off the noxious smells of piss and shit in addition to his usual body odor, whiskey sweats and aroma of stale smoke. Ratfuck was in the same condition. They were baffled by how their disgusting Alpha was passing on his behavior to them. It was something in Haystack’s voice, they had finally decided. When the mountainous yokel spoke, there was a reverberation in a low frequency, something below what their superior, lupine hearing could detect… consciously. Bruiser had caught Haystack whispering into Ratfuck’s ear while the latter slept, and Ratfuck confirmed that Haystack was doing the same thing to Bruiser. He was reprogramming them. Everything they had found repulsive about him was turning inside out. Even the shit lube.
In the sleeping compartment, Haystack greeted him with a booming, greasy fart. “I’m lubed up now, boy,” the gray-bearded hick purred. “You gonna fuck me now or what?”
Bruiser’s grimy cock stood at attention immediately, like a military salute. He inhaled the rank shit smell and his member grew even harder. He grinned. “Right away, Daddy!”
Comments
Viking Zombie Boyfriend
I aim to please 😈
Kell
Woot woot hot
