Date: Tue, 10 Nov 2015 09:20:26 +0000
From: James Ivan <jamesivan2014@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Wolfcreek Files

THE WOLFCREEK FILES

By James Ivan


NOTE: All necessary disclaimers apply. If you would like to read more of my
work, please find the following stories on Nifty: "In the Rough and Wild"
in Sci-Fi/Fantasy (published Aug 2015), "Hunter Sniffs Prey" in
Authoritarian (pub. Oct. 2014), "The Buddy System" in Adult Youth
(pub. Nov. 2014), "Man Atlas" in Sci-Fi/Fantasy (pub. July 2015), and "The
Nightwalker Chronicles" in Sci-Fi/Fantasy (pub. Sept. 2014).

I'm always happy to receive emails from my readers, so please don't
hesitate to write me if you have any comments or questions. I'm usually
pretty good about responding...eventually. Also, please donate to Nifty to
ensure that we continue to have hot gay sex stories, always!!!

J


The Wolfcreek Files


"He stared up at the towering beast, and the beast stared right back. Then,
with a surprisingly human style, it reached down and grabbed the large,
blubbery cock that sprung heavy and throbbing from its groin. The smell of
male pheramones was spicy in the air, and it was clear that the beast
wanted to breed."

-exerpt from story



PROLOGUE

The boy ran through the woods knowing the beast was at his heels. He could
feel the animal's booming, thunderous breath on the backs of his legs. He
could hear it snarling, growling, snapping at him with razored fangs.

Winding in and out of the trees, the boy did his best to dodge the claws
grasping at his head . He was small and agile and could easily make a tight
turn. The beast, however, was large and quick, and with each passing
second, it gained on the boy.

The boy's fate seemed bleak.

There was a loud scraping of bare feet and a roaring scuffle of monstrous
paws, all of it followed by an earthquaking thud as the beast dove onto the
boy, sending the two of them rolling, tumbing, crashing through the sticks.

A hidden observer might have expected to see the beast tear the boy to
pieces the moment they skidded to a halt. Eat him alive. But instead, the
beast used its serrated, talon-like claws to rip the clothes from the boy's
body. It went first for the boy's loose-fitting shirt, then for his pants
and under garments. Threads torn, cloth shredded and draped uselessly on
the ground, the boy remained pinned under the beast's enormous paws,
naked. From the dark hairs curling under his arms, and from the fuzzy flesh
dangling down between his legs, it was clear the boy was in the thick of
puberty--a slender adolescent bridging the gap from boyhood to manhood.

Looming over the boy, the beast bared its fangs and released a deep,
resonant growl that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep in the
earth. It lowered its head, sniffing at the boy's body, seemingly delighted
by the smell.

It was then, in the silver cast of the moonlight, that something large, and
distinctly male, swelled up beneath the beast's legs. It was a fleshy,
blubbery organ that grew rigid, pulsing with hot blood, and twitching with
ferocity.

Pinned down beneath the monster, the boy released a loud, voice-cracking
whimper. That was when the beast positioned itself over his naked backside,
its sizeable organ wagging, excitedly, between its legs.

Had the moon been a hair brighter, or the stars a tad larger, the boy's
small, puckered anus would have been visible in the dark of the forest. A
hidden observer would have seen it quivering, seemingly in fear, and
noticed the clear fluid seeping from the tip of the beast's enormous sex
organ that hung before it--like drool from a hungry dog's jaw.

What happened next was, for the faint of heart, difficult to stomach. And
that law applied to the boy as well.

The beast mounted the boy from behind, filling him up with two pounds of
male flesh all at once. The boy cried out in pain, his voice shrill and
youthful, and squirmed beneath the beast's massive body. But a vicious
snarl stayed him, warning him that if he tried to escape, he'd be torn to a
million pieces. With that, the boy set his teeth and did his best to endure
to carnal, animal rape.

For hours--or at least what seemed to be hours--the boy was ravaged in the
forest, in the dark of the night. Surely it was only minutes. Surely. But
when enduring great turmoil, Time had a way of distorting itself.

The pain was great, and the fear was even greater. But somewhere in the
chaos, the boy felt a distinctly male pleasure erupting inside of him. It
came up from deep in his body, seemingly out of nowhere. It was sudden,
intense, explosive, and just like that, it was over.

Then at last, with an earsplitting howl, the beast climaxed and emptied
itself into the boy. The boy screamed as his insides were filled, suddenly,
with thick hot fluid. His lower abdomen, textured with adolescent fuzz,
swelled up, full and plump, with the beast's seed. And that's when the
monster collapsed on top of him, panting and exhausted.

Nearly smothered under the beast's great weight, the boy did his best to
focus on breathing. It was several long minutes of near-suffocation before
the boy felt the beast rise up off of him and pull its substantial organ
from his body.

Relieved, the boy rolled over onto his back--his belly distended and fat
from the beast's ejaculation. He looked up to meet the searing eyes of his
rapist. They were two large, yellow orbs that burned into him with a fire's
rage. The great beast stared back down at him, its large chest heaving with
each powerful breath; its fangs bared.

It was then that the boy saw the beast lick its chops with a new,
unsatisfied hunger. A distinctly familiar twinkle flickered in its eye. It
placed its massive paw on the boy's body, keeping him in its clutches. And
then, just as the boy feared, the beast began to eat him...naked.

Above the canopy of trees, and indifferent to the screams that now filled
the forest, the full moon shined bright and watchful.



CHAPTER ONE


Sheriff Mark Warner parked out front of Mae's Grocer, right on the corner
of Main Street and Fifth, and studied the parking lot with a cop's
vigilance. With his engine idling, and his AC diminishing, it began to heat
up inside the car. A few beads of sweat appeared at his brow, and certainly
his armpits and groin were growing damp. Pretty soon, the smell of him
baking in the interior of his unventilated interceptor would be too much
for him. He adjusted the contents of his groin, trying to cool himself off
best he could. But he was a man in the prime of life, and his body was full
of hot, thick blood that did not lend itself to naturally cooling
temperatures.

After giving his surveillence several more minutes, he reached for the
walkie on his two-way radio.

"This is Warner to base. Parking lot seems fine," he said into the
walkie. "Whoever was reported here earlier has gone."

"Copy that," the dispatcher said over the radio. "All in a day's work for
Sheriff Warner."

Nodding, smiling, wiping sweat from his brow, "Yeah, yeah," Mark said with
a growl. "Now get back to your donuts and newspaper, Jackson."

An upbeat curse hissed at Mark through the radiowaves before a final click
of the walkie sounded.

Laughing, Mark turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car. Under
his boots, the blacktop was crackling and sizzling. It was the dead of
August, and the sun was baking the small desert town of Wolfcreek to a fine
crisp.

Mark made his way into the grocery store and rejoiced in the cool,
industrial-sized air-conditioning. He went straight for the produce.

He grabbed a ripe apple from the pile, rubbed it on his uniform until it
shined, and took a hungry bite out of it. He was starving.

"Still as healthy as a horse, I see," said the man standing behind the
counter.

"Howdy, Bob," Mark said. He dug for some change in his pocket. "How's
business?"

"Well that's the thing about grocery store's," Bob said. "Everyone needs to
eat. So there's always good business."

Mark put a quarter into the man's hand and dropped a few more into a
makeshift tip jar.

"Though it's been so hot out," Bob went on, "that most people are coming to
do their shopping in the evening hours. Can't fault them any. The heat's
brutal."

With a mouthful of apple, Mark nodded. He grumbled something
affirmative. He stood there, hand on his hip, looking around the store's
empty aisles--everything from dairy to deli. His eyes were sharp and
watchful, but he never had an air of concern about him. He had learned a
great deal about being a cop from his father, a legend in the San
Bernandino County law enforcement.

"So, Sheriff," Bob said. "All's quiet and calm, I take it?"

Swallowing a bite, Mark said, "Busted a couple teens with dope
yesterday. They were just rolling through, traveling along the highway,
heading into California. Didn't charge 'em, just scared the shit out of
them."

Bob, a swarthy and portly man, laughed. "Gotta drive their kind outta this
town," he said.

By this point, Mark had finished the apple, all but the stem. "Hey, you
wouldn't happen to've seen anything strange going on around here, would
you, Bob?"

The man screwed up his face, crossed his arms over his substantial beer
gut. "Strange? Around here?" He mulled it over. "Couple of fellas strolled
in the other day cussing up a storm. Scared one of the ladies a
little. Nothing major, though. Why you ask?"

"Well," Mark knitted his brow. "We've been getting some reports...some
phone calls here and there. People sayin' they've seen something roaming
around in the hills out west. Something like a bear, but no one's managed
to give a good description. Anyway," Mark said, shaking his head, "a man
was found dead way up on Spencer Road..."

"No kidding," Bob said, intrigued. "Do you know who it was?"

Mark shook his head. "Nah. No I.D. Nothing. And we couldn't have I.D.'d him
if we wanted to. Face was...unrecognizable."

"Ho-ly shiiit." Bob drew the words out in a slow, conversational
manner--his catch phrase.

"Yeah, apparently he was eaten by something. Again, forensics couldn't pick
up anything specific. At least, not yet. Hell, most of this guy's body
wasn't even there. Everything, I mean every scrap of flesh, balls and
all...gone. "

"Damn. How d'ya know it was a man then? I mean, if most of the body wasn't
there."

Mark gave Bob a keen eye. "Oh, it was definitely a man. We can find out
gender by analyzing the blood. And believe me, there was a lot of blood."

"Ho-ly shiiit."

"Yeah." Mark adjusted his stance, eyeing the mostly empty store. There was
an older man picking out cereal, a few kids running around, forcing their
impatient mother to cuss at them, snap at them, threaten to beat their ass
if they didnt' shut up and stand still.

"Anyway," Mark said, "got a call in earlier about a naked man walking
around just out your doors here."

Bob's eyes narrowed. He nearly laughed. "What?"

"Swear to god," Mark said, smiling, chuckling.

"A naked man? Here?" Bob shrugged. "Haven't seen anything. You might check
around with some of my customers though...just to be sure."

Mark nodded appreciatively. "Nah, it was probaby just some kids calling in
a prank."

"Kids still do that, huh?"

"They sure do. Little bastards." He was eyeing the brats causing their
mother a world of trouble. Then, when an elderly woman came up to the cash
register to check out, Mark thanked Bob for his help and started on his
way.

"Make sure to eat a few cheeseburgers from time to time," Bob called after
him. He patted his round belly. "You're looking too in-shape these days,
Sheriff. I'm starting to get self-conscious around you!"

With a laugh and a wave, Mark stepped back out into the oven-like heat,
shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness of the world. He scanned the
parking lot one last time, booted it over to his car, hopped in, and got
back to his patrol.

He wasn't but ten feet out of the grocery store's parking lot before the
dispatcher came on the two-way.

"Calling Sheriff Warner..."

Mark grabbed the walkie. "Go ahead for Warner."

"We have a code ten-fifty-four at Rollins and West Third Trail, in Woodland
Park."

"Woodland Park?" Mark said quietly to himself. He clicked the walkie
on. "Copy that. Heading there now."

He flipped on his siren and lights, pulled a U-ey at a major intersection
on Main Street (one of the perks of being a police officer), and sped off,
driving north toward the highway. Within ten minutes he was putting the
desert behind him and sailing up into the hills, where the mesquite brush
was growing thicker, and increasingly taller. Eventually he was in a canyon
of enormous evergreens, flying over a series of dips in the road, curving
up deep into the woods. He got himself a little car-sick driving through,
but just as the queasiness began to set in, he was there.

He pulled off on the side of the road, parking behind a forensics van and
several other police vehicles.

"Sheriff," a male's voice said. "Over here!"

Mark, checking his Glock at his waist, jogged over to a small gathering of
men, one woman, and fell in step behind them as they wandered into the
woods with purpose.

"Sergeant Sanders," Mark said, slightly out of breath. "What do we have?"

Buck Sanders was not quite as tall as Mark, but still very tall. His hair
was jet-black, as were his eyebrows, while his eyes were a shade of gray as
pale as wood smoke. His uniform fit him well, and Mark had the impression
that a chiseled, athletic build was beneath it. A gold badge, similar to
Mark's, was pinned to his lapel.

"Body," Sanders said, clapping Mark hard on the back. "Found by a Mister
John Davis a little over an hour ago."

"Do we have Davis--"

"In custody? Yeah. He's being interviewed as we speak."

They stepped over a fallen tree and scaled a small, barely wet
creek--Wolfcreek, to be exact--for nearly a quarter mile before they came
within sight of the body.

Before they got too close for detail, Sanders turned to Mark and, very
soberly, said, "It's another eating."

"You're kidding! A second one?"

Sanders nodded gravely. "Here," he handed Mark a mask. "You'll want this."

Holding the mask over his mouth and nose, they crept into the taped-off
site, where flash-photography was well underway, as were forensic cops,
scraping small traces of stuff off the ground, from the nearby trees and
leaves.

Mark leaned in to observe the vestiges of the murder.

Upon first glance he knew he was looking at a young boy. Most likely
fourteen or fifteen. The kid's entire body had been devoured, all but his
head and his left foot, both of which remained perfectly in tact. He was a
brown-haired, green-eyed boy, good-looking, and was clearly in the height
of puberty--based on the size of the foot and the hairs sprouting on its
toes. The rest of him had either been eaten, or was left behind in a
disorienting and unrecognizable mess.

"Do we think it's the same assailant?" Mark asked, though he had already
made up his mind on the matter.

"All of it matches," Sanders said. "Same scratch marks, same type of brutal
goring of the victim. And over here..." he went on, his voice rocketing
with excitement. "We've found a print!"

Mark stepped over to where Sanders was pointing in the wet dirt littered
with pine needles and twigs. Indeed, there was a significant paw print,
nearly as big as a grizzly's.

"Identical to the ones we found at the first site?" Mark crouched down,
examing the impression in the mud carefully.

"Exactly."

Beneath the sweet metallic smell of blood, Mark detected something
else. Another familiar scent. One that piqued his interest.

He looked up, his eyes washing over the murder site a second time.

"There," he said, pointing to something distinct on the ground, intermixed
with the blood and shredded flesh.

"Yeah," Sanders said, sighing. "We, uh, took a sample of that."

"Semen." Mark breathed the words, as if they were holy. His eyes traced the
crime scene restlessly before lighting up again. "But did you notice the
two different pools of semen?" He looked up at one of the men working in
forensics. He was a skinny fellow--really just a kid himself--with
blond-red hair and big ears.

"What are you talking about?" the kid asked, squating down beside him to
get a better look.

Mark aimed a finger and distinguished two pools of semen that went
previously unnoticed.

"You have this spray here," he said, tracing the encrusted dribbles in the
dirt and leaves, "and then you have this other spray, most of it intermixed
with the remains of the body." When pointed it out, it became obvious to
everyone. Mark looked up, alight. "There are two different sources for this
semen," he said plainly.

"Or perhaps one source," Sanders challenged, "and he jerked off twice."

"Only one way to find out," Mark said. He took a cotton swab from the
skinny forensics kid and gathered a second sample. With care, he dropped it
into a ziplock and sealed it. "Run an analysis on this, too," he said,
handing it back to him. "I want to see how many cocks were at work here."

"Are you thinking this was a rape, too?" Sanders asked, curious.

Mark shook his head, shrugged. "I haven't got a fucking clue."

They hung around the crime scene for a while longer, collecting evidence,
discussing facts--you know, cop stuff. And then, just before they wrapped
up, Mark's eyes passed over the mostly-eaten boy one last time, but this
time, he took particular note of the boy's dead eyes. They were wide open,
staring blankly ahead. But instead of fear and unimaginable anguish in
them, the boy's eyes stared directly ahead with a look of...sexual
satisfaction. Mark blinked a few times, confused. Then, along with Sanders
and the rest of them, made his way back to the cars.



CHAPTER TWO


A light flicked on in the kitchen and Sheriff Mark Warner unloaded his
phone, his wallet, his keys on the counter. With a sigh, he unstrapped the
gun-holster from his waist, set his Glock down with a certain relief of
duty, and kicked off his boots.

"Jesus," he said under his breath. He turned on the rotating fan, the
ceiling fan, the box fan--effectively rendering his house a wind tunnel. He
opened a couple windows, allowing the cool night air to flow through
unhindered. Then, stripping off his uniform piece by piece, he headed for
the shower, worn from the day.

Cold water slid down over his naked body and pooled, noisily, at his
feet. He stood there, beneath the free-flow, for nearly twenty minutes
before he even began soaping up.

In the virile way that a man cleans himself, Mark lathered his hair with
shampoo and scrubbed his body with two large, soapy hands. He paid
particular attention to his male regions, which were prominent and needed
to be thoroughly washed, and his underarms and feet. When he was clean, and
rinsed, he let the cool water wash over him a minute more before shutting
it off and climbing out of the shower. He toweled off fast--a strange
talent of his--and stepped out into the kitchen to preheat the oven.

With all the excitement that day, he hadn't eaten much. And his stomach was
rumbling ferociously. Pizza, in lieu of his typical 'healthy meal', sounded
good to him. So, balls hanging, he set the oven for four hundred degrees,
popped open a beer, and collapsed exhaustedly on the sofa.

He could see his reflection in the television screen, and for a brief
moment he almost didn't recognize himself. He seemed...older, somehow. As
if he suddenly looked up and there he was, thirty-five, a man slowly
approaching middle-age. Two days without shaving left him with a dark five
o'clock shadow. Three days with restless sleep brought dark rings under his
already dark eyes. His hair, though short, had grown too long for his
taste, and his body, though fit, was losing its definition of youth.

Between his legs, Mark's manhood hung limp in equal exhaustion--though it
had no excuse! It was a good-sized cock. Cut, and a shade darker than the
rest of him. It was guarded by a thick tuft of dark fur that descended
aggressively from his belly button and thickened directly above it like a
canvas. When erect, his penis maxed out at a full eight inches, and
was--for some--terrifyingly thick. Beneath it, his plump scrotum, textured
in more dark fur, hung low and heavy from his body. Perhaps even more than
his cock, his balls remained his most identifiable property of manhood.

Scratching his lightly haired chest, Mark searched the room for the
remote. Television to drown out his thoughts? Yes, please.

When he couldn't immediately find it, his eyes caught another glimpse of
his reflection in the screen.

Damn, where had his youth gone? He used to be such a stud! He used to go
water-rafting and kayaking, hiking and skiing. He used to go out with his
buddies, drinking the night away, gambling until dawn. More than that, he
used to get laid...a lot. Not that he wasn't still a man with dashing good
looks and a smoldering, spell-binding gaze that (he's been told) drove the
women in Wolfcreek wild. He was very Chris Pratt in the fourth Jurassic
Park movie. Yeah, it was a cheap reference, but it was the truth. But he
seemed so suddenly...grown up. It crept up on him, this adulthood thing. He
never expected to wind up Sheriff, especially of Wolfcreek. It was a
in-the-middle-of-nowhere town, filled with brain-fried hicks and desert
rats. The closest major city was Vegas, and even that was several hours
away!

Mark forced himself to look away from his reflection. He was depressing
himself. Where was that goddamned remote?!

He found it under an issue of The Advocate and switched the television
on. Netflix--something familiar. Family Guy--his usual.

An hour later his belly was full with half a pepporoni pizza (stuffed
crust) and two beers. After several episodes and about a hundred unfiltered
jokes, his eyeslids were drawing to a close, and his head, which was
quickly losing balance, had very nearly fallen onto the cushion. And just
like that, Mark would snore halfway into the night, only to wake up
somewhere around three in the morning, butt-naked, and, beer in hand,
stumble off to bed.

Mark's sleeping habits: awful.

And so, per his routine, Mark passed out on his sofa, the blue light of the
television the only thing illuminating his home. He lie there, dick flopped
over his ballsack, arm draped over his head, mouth wide open, drooling,
snoring. It was for the time being a peaceful, restful slumber. One filled
with absent dreams. Then...a crash!

Mark sat bolt upright, eyes wide, ears pricked. He sat there for a long
time, his vision and his brain swimming in and out of focus. He questioned
whether or not the noise had been real or something from a dream. But when
the crash sounded a second time, he knew the real world was stirring him
alert.

He was instantly on his feet, listening intently, trying to locate the
sound. With a feline's grace, Mark moved over to the kitchen counter and
grabbed his gun. He kept it loaded, always.

Another noise, something less conspicuous this time, but equally
noticeable, came from somewhere right outside the window. Mark leaned back
against the wall, police-style, combat-style. His Glock was gripped in both
hands and level with his dick, which swung heavily between his legs.

Carefully, Mark peered through the blinds that looked out toward his
backyard. His house was small, and sat at the edge of a small neighborhood,
backing up to miles and miles of desert and mountains.

It was dark out, nearly lightless with the lack of moonlight. The stars,
however, were brilliant. But still, there was hardly any detail to be made
out. Quickly, Mark moved back into his living room--hardly five steps from
the kitchen--and switched off the TV. Now, masked in shadow, he returned to
the window and stared out into the impenetrable night.

For a while there was nothing. No more sound. No movement. And then, a
shadow!

Mark felt his whole body tense as the shadow scurried across the patio
right outside his backdoor. It was big, and distinctly animal--whatever it
was. His mind raced with all the strange reports that the police station's
been getting as of late. Reports of a creature lurking up in the hills. A
vicious, bear-sized beast, unidentifiable, but terrifying and prowling
around the outskirts of Wolfcreek. Yep, something was definitely out there,
eating people.

Sharpening his mind, Mark released the safety on the gun, thumbing back the
hammer. He set his teeth. At his groin, his penis hung with poise and
careful anticipation for something to happen. His balls were producing
great bursts of testosterone, pumping the horomone into his stomach, into
his bloodstream. He watched the shadow slink across his patio one, two,
three seconds longer. He tried to make it out in the dark of the night, but
his vision wasn't lucid enough, his pupils wouldn't let in enough light. He
couldn't make out a goddamned thing!

Then, with a substantial burst of adrenaline, and with his body steeped in
testosterone, Mark reached for the handle to his backdoor, yanked it wide
open, and pointed the barrel of his gun--finger on the trigger--at the
creature not five feet away from him. Simultaneously, he flipped the
kitchen light on using the wall switch right next to him, which flooded the
back patio with light, allowing him to see in exceptional detail.

The second the backdoor flew open--even before the light came on--the
coyote yelped with surprise. It didn't even look up to see what had opened
the door, or what turned on the light. All it did was scamper off, spooked
near to death, and disappeared somewhere out in the desert.

Fucking coyotes, Mark thought.

Heart pounding, he laughed a little to himself. He stood there for several
seconds, visibly naked, and let the desert breeze blow over him. What a
dumbass he was sometimes! Everything was a Dean Koontz novel for him.

With his balls dangling in quiet relief, Mark set his gun back on the
counter, shut off the kitchen light, went to close the backdoor--but
something else caught his eye. Where the spooked coyote had scampered off,
there was another figure, something even larger, moving about. This one was
further away, and running laterally, toward the hills.

Squinting into the dark, Mark strained to see what it was. The unmistakable
sound of a man's footfall--bipedal and heavy--gave Mark a better clue. He
stepped out onto his patio, allowing for his eyes to adjust even more to
the night. He could hear the sounds of someone breathing, heavy--a
cross-country race sort of breathing. If he looked closely, and narrowed
his eyes some, he could now see that it was indeed a man running through
the field of mesquite and wasteland brush. Eyes better adjusted, Mark could
see--perhaps a little too well even--that the man was naked.

He recalled the report that came in from earlier in the day, the one about
a naked man in the grocery store parking lot.

Shit!

Mark stepped back inside, reaching for the Glock. He was bare-ass naked,
but he didn't have any clothes nearby. If he didn't run after the man now,
he'd lose him!

Fuck! Shit!

He bolted out his backdoor, cock and balls flapping. Barefoot, and wary of
it, he increased his speed to an all out sprint. Somewhere in the dark, he
could see the faint image of the man ahead of him, hurrying for the
hills. Mark thought to call out to the man, tell him to freeze. But for
some reason, perhaps he didn't even know why, he never did.

Quick-footing it through the mesquite, Mark moved in and out of the large
patches of brush as he encountered them. Desert dust flew up in the air,
caking his feet and legs as he went. There was no avoiding it.

Damn. Already he needed another shower.

He just hoped that he didn't step on a rattle snake or a scorpion while he
was out there, naked, and vulnerable to the desert wildlife. Fuck, he
didn't even want to imagine getting a snakebite to the balls!

Panting, heart booming in his chest, Mark dashed up a small slope before
coming to a complete stop. He'd lost sight of the guy. Which way? Which
way? His eyes rapidly scanned the night, searching for movement, for
inconsistencies in the starlight. Nothing. Motherfucker.

When several minutes passed, and when his breathing had regulated, he took
a few more steps into the desert. It was impossible that the man could just
vanish out of thin air. He had to be around there somewhere. Mark had been,
what, thirty, maybe forty yards behind him for most of the way. There was
literally no place for the man to--

From out of a thick patch of brush, a figure rose up and tackled Mark to
the ground. A yelp barely escaped him before he was suddenly in an all-out
wrestling match with the mysterious man--his Glock flung somewhere out of
reach.

The man was large and powerful, that much was instantly clear. He moved
with a strange agility and possessed a skull-crushing strength. Mark was
almost immediately overtaken, though he put up a hell of a fight for the
three seconds he could. But suddenly, the man's enormous hand was wrapped
around Mark's throat, and with a simple squeeze, Mark's windpipe would have
been obliterated.

Panting with exhaustion and defeat, Mark submitted to his attacker's
dominance. The man was straddling Mark, one hand on his throat, the other
gripping his arm. Though it hardly seemed a matter at the time, Mark would
later realize that the man's package was resting hot and heavy on his
belly, and at Mark's groin, the man's buttocks was putting off an intense
heat, like a furnace.

Head spinning, and a little delirious from rolling and tumbling, Mark
stared up at his attacker, trying to get an I.D. on his face. But all he
could see were two dark, dangerous eyes peering down at him. Facial
features were out of the question.

"Who are you?" Mark heard the words come out of him, but he didn't remember
saying them.

The man staring down at him tightened his grip on his throat.

"I don't think you're in a position to ask questions," the man said, his
deep, baritone voice booming.

Coughing, sputtering, Mark tried to wriggle free.

The man punched him hard in the face. It was like being struck by an
anvil. His hands were so big, so forceful, that Mark felt his entire world
tremble with earthquaking disaster. He thought he might black out, and
perhaps he did, he couldn't tell. But suddenly his eyes snapped back open,
and he remembered all at once where he was, and the danger he was in.

"You were going to shoot me, weren't you?" the man said with a growl.

Mark didn't respond. He couldn't.

"Why'd you have a gun?"

Choking a little, and coughing, Mark tried to mutter something, but it
didn't come through.

"What?" the man asked, his voice serious, his eyes lethal.

"...Sheriff!" Mark spat out. "I'm the sheriff...always carry...gun..."

The man kept his eyes on Mark for several long, intense seconds. Then,
finally, he released his hold on his throat. Decisively, he climbed off of
Mark and kicked something out of his reach--probably the gun. Gasping for
air, Mark sat up a little and turned on his side, afraid he was going to
vomit.

"You're naked," the man pointed out.

"So are you." Mark was spitting blood from his mouth.

From the edges of his vision, Mark watched the man as he paced with
calculation and a predator's cunning.

"Why did you chase me?" the man asked. Again, it was as if his voice was
rising up from somewhere deep in the earth. Mark heard it booming
everywhere around him.

"...saw you...running..." he spat another string of blood.

"So it's illegal to run in the desert at night?"

Mark shook his head. "...suspicious."

"Why are you naked?"

"Why are you?"

A swift kick to his gut sent Mark doubling back to the ground, gasping for
the wind that had been knocked out of him.

"Answer the question!" the man barked.

Catching his breath, doing his best to recover, Mark said, "Attracted to
you...wanted a little...late-night rendez-vous..."

Another swift kick to the gut.

"...in the mesquite...a quick fuck..."

Another kick.

"Not your type...I take it?"

The man reached down and took a handful of Mark's hair. He yanked his head
back and growled into his ear. "You think this is funny? You think I'm
playing with you?"

"No, I think you're beating me up."

The man, who still remained masked in shadows, released his hold on Mark's
hair. Mark fell back to the ground like a sack of dirt.

"Where did you come from?" the man asked, this time a little more direct.

"My house." Mark was facedown in the sand, sniffing the earth.

Pacing back and forth above him, the man let out a small growl of
frustration. His feet boomed with each step he took. Mark could feel the
size of them next to his head. While he was momentarily distracted with his
thoughts, Mark lifted his head ever so slightly. He army-crawled a ways
through the bushes, searching, hoping to come across the Glock.

There was sudden clatter of some kind, a high-pitched rattling, and before
Mark realized what it was, the man looming over him shouted, "Look out!"

The sound of the rattlesnake didn't register with him in time, and the
serpent's fangs were in Mark's arm before he ever had the chance to flinch.

Mark cried out as the snake clamped down on him, though it hardly pained
him compared to the beatdown he received from the naked man just moments
before. It was more the fright of it that caused him to scream than
anything else.

The snake recoiled just as there was a great scuffle somewhere near his
head. Mark, barely able to discern anything, caught glimpses of the man
reaching down and seizing the snake with both hands. There was a great
ringing of his hands, which Mark imagined ended the snake's life, and
suddenly the man was crouched down beside him, examing the bite.

The poison was coursing fast through Mark's body, and it seared hottest at
the epicenter of the bite. Mark, already on the cusp of delirium, watched
liked a college frat boy stoned off his rocker as the man fastened his lips
over the bite wound and began sucking. For what seemed like an eternity,
Mark watched in a drugged sort of pain as the man sucked and spat out the
poison from his body. Gushing blood bubbled up out of his arm, too, and
darkened the man's teeth.

"Okay," the man said. "I think I got most of the poison out, but you still
need first aid." He looked up at Mark, his eyes serious. "You said you came
from your house. Do you have medical supplies there?"

Unfocused, Mark nodded. Yes.

"Where is your house? Can you direct me there?"

Another affirming nod.

Suddenly, Mark felt his body being hoisted up from the desert floor. He was
tossed over the man's shoulder like a sack of flour and his face fell
directly over the man's bare ass. Even in his clouded, brain-rattled state,
Mark admired the profoundly masculine buttocks he faced. Two large,
sculpted orbs of flesh. Powerful. Firm. A strong, spicy odor, distinctly
masculine in nature, rose up from somewhere between them. As much pain as
he was in, and as incoherent as he might have been, Mark's nostrils flared
with the potent, yet overwhelmingly pleasant smell. He smiled,
even. Enjoying it.

After that, everything went black.



CHAPTER THREE


He awoke in his bed, beneath his sheets, with a dreadful
headache. Seriously, Mark thought his skull was going to split in half as
his brain exploded free from his body like Ridley Scott's alien.

He drew a deep, labored breath and glanced at the bedside clock. It was
nearly ten in the morning.

A brief panic fizzled up inside him, but then he remembered that he had the
day off. He didn't have to be anywhere, he had no one to report to, no one
to meet with, no errands that required his due diligence.

A first aid kit and a glass of water on his nightstand flooded his head
with memories of what happened the night before. He shot up--but whoa, big
mistake. He fell back on his pillow, lamenting. His head was going to
collapse into itself like a dying star if he didn't slow down.

He could tell his face was swollen where he'd been sucker-punched by the
naked man. He could still taste blood in his mouth. Come to think of it, he
could taste vomit, too. Had he thrown up? A trashcan at his bedside
answered his question.

He took a quick survey of himself, at least the parts of him above the
sheets. His forearm was successfully bandaged where the snake had bit
him. The knuckles on both his hands were raw and scabbed. Had he thrown
punches? He couldn't remember--it was all such a blur.

Aside from his throbbing headache, the house seemed quite serene. It was as
if he had woken up from a grave nightmare, only to find his world normal
and ordinary and untouched. All except for the man sleeping on the bed
beside him.

Mark looked over, confirming what he saw in his peripheral vision. How had
he not seen the guy lying there before? It was so obvious, the man was
huge. Unmistakeable. His large furry chest and belly rose and fell with
deep, rumbling breaths. His arm was draped over his eyes to block out the
morning sun that streamed in through the window blinds. Mark noticed the
man's armpit. It was a great valley of dark hair, rivaling his own armpit
for size. Far down at the end of the bed, Mark noticed the massive feet the
man had on him. They were like two planks, dexterous and particularly
masculine in shape.

Noticeably, the man was wearing a pair of Mark's underwear that he no doubt
found in the dresser sometime during the night. Being as large as he was,
however, the man was only barely concealed by Mark's underwear, which
struggled to contain him even while he was flaccid. Mark tried to sit up
slightly, but he immediately felt nauseous with the effort, and collapsed
back onto his pillow.

This time, the shaking of the bed woke his guest.

The man made a sort of urgent, lurching motion as he woke, and his eyes
moved quickly over the room. They landed on Mark, who stared back at them
with what must have been the oddest, most confused look anyone's ever given
anyone.

"Oh," the man said, rubbing at his tired face. "You didn't die."

Mark would have normally scowled at the man, but even then, after a heavy
sleep, he was drained and barely able to bat an eye.

"Not yet," he said groggily. His voice sounded far away and strange to him,
as if he hadn't spoken in a million years.

"How do you feel?" the man asked.

Mark targeted him with his eyes--his meanest lack of expression ever.

"I feel like you beat the shit out of me," he said, and a bitterness came
through.

"Good," the man said, climbing out of the bed. "At least you're feeling
things."

He stiffly made his way into the bathroom where he began washing his face
in the sink. As he bent over, the tightly-fitted underwear he wore slipped
down a little and exposed half his butt crack. Mark, for as shitty as he
actually felt, allowed his gaze to linger for just a moment.

When he finished, the man dried himself off, stretched, and came back into
the room.

"I feel..." Mark said drunkenly, "...I feel drugged."

Stretching the muscles in his arms, the man said, "To be expected. Some of
it's residual poison from the snakebite. Some of its because of the
anti-venom in your system."

"Anti-venom?"

"Yeah," the man said. "You told me you were a sheriff. Most law enforcement
workers are equipped with a police officer's first-aid kit, right?"

Mark nodded, still dazed.

"I figured you had it in the trunk of your vehicle, and you did. There's a
whole range of medical supplies in there for emergencies, especially ones
that occur in the desert. Didn't you know you have anti-venom for
rattlesnake bites?"

Mark shrugged. Or, at least, he thought he did. He couldn't tell if he
moved his arms any.

"Why did you help me?"

Mark looked over to the man who stood, mostly naked, several feet away. He
looked directly into his eyes. They were a dark, charcoal brown, framed by
an intense brow that gave him something of a permanent scowl. He had a
rugged handsomeness about him--dark beard, brooding lips, broad
shoulders. Looked to be in his mid-thirties, early forties. In fact, he
reminded Mark very much of that one actor...damn, what was his name?
Something Brolin? That guy from 'No Country For Old Men.' The striking one.

Doing his best to sit up, Mark winced when he felt the tenderness of his
bruised ribs. He looked up at the man a second time, still waiting for a
response.

But the man only returned the stare. He didn't give Mark an
answer. Instead, he stepped over to the nightstand, and handed Mark the
half-drunk glass of water.

"Drink," he said. "You need to pee a lot. Flush the toxin from your
system."

Taking his advice, Mark took a sip. The man turned and started for the
door.

"You still haven't answered my question," Mark said, before the man could
step out of the room. "Why did you help me? I mean, you were already
beating the shit outta me...why not let me die from the snakebite?"

The man turned back. "It's not my style to leave a man for dead."

"Of course not. You only beat them until they're on the brink of death then
rescue them last minute."

The man's searing eyes were starting to burn him.

"Get some rest," the man said. "You'll feel better."

He walked out of the room, somewhere into the rest of the house. Mark,
meanwhile, felt his head start spinning again and passed out.

--

He woke up someplace dark and warm. But when he opened his eyes, he
remembered where he was. He was still in his bedroom, and suddenly it
wasn't so dark anymore. Just dim. The sun had set. He glanced over at the
clock on the nightstand. 9:35. He'd slept for most of the day.

Stiff and aching, he climbed out of the bed and barefooted it into the
bathroom. His bladder was full--near to bursting--and he took the longest
piss of his life. When he was empty, and when the cool floor tiles had
dulled the sweat-inducing fever in his head, he splashed his face with cold
water, drank straight from the faucet, and dabbed his damp head of hair
with a towel.

He could smell the man on his towel. The salty, briny musk.

Though perhaps he had been mildly aware of it all the while, Mark suddenly
realized that he was naked. The man who had helped him back home, the man
who had administered first aid to him, hadn't bothered to dress him--not
even a pair of underwear!

Balls hanging, Mark made his way over to his dresser and dug through it for
something to wear. A moment later he stepped out of the bedroom, a
loose-fitting pair of shorts around his waist, and began searching every
room. Was the man still there?

There hardly seemed a thing out of place, at least upon first
inspection. Mark went from room to room, which took all but ten seconds,
and found no one. The house appeared completely empty.

A soft, barely discernible creak in the floorboards heightened Mark's
focus, and just before he could turn, a large hand wrapped around his
mouth.

Mark let out a small gasp as the man stepped up behind him and gripped his
face. The gasp, of course, was muffled.

"Don't scream," the man said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to
know that you're not planning to hurt me."

He loosened his grip on Mark, who wrenched himself free of the man's arms
and spun to face him.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Mark hissed, eyes wide and alert.

"Do what?"

"Creep up on me like that. How did you...I checked every goddamned room!"

The man was still mostly naked, wearing nothing other than the small
underwear he found in Mark's dresser. His body gave off an incredible
amount of heat, Mark thought. It radiated from his bare skin like steam
from a hot tub.

"I didn't mean to creep up on you," the man said. "I just can't have you
creeping up on me."

"You know, I should arrest you!" Mark threatened, jabbing him in the chest
with his finger. "You physically assaulted an officer of the law."

The man eyed him. "I was being pursued by an unknown naked man with a gun
at night. Everything I did was...defensive."

Vein throbbing in his temple, eye-twitching, Mark grumbled something under
his breath. A curse, most likely.

"Plus, I saved you life," the man said. "Arresting me would be
unappreciative."

"Unappreciative," Mark echoed. "You know what's unappreciated?" He gestured
to the blooming purple bruises at his ribs, on his face. "Getting the shit
kicked out of you by a naked man in the desert! THAT'S unappreciated!"

The man, seemingly bored with Mark's temper tantrum, pinched the bridge of
his nose as if suppressing an oncoming headache. He turned, heading into
the kitchen.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mark asked.

The man grabbed something off the counter, turned back, and handed it to
Mark. It was a plate with a sandwich and some potato chips.

"You should eat something," the man said. "It'll calm you down."

Mark pressed his lips together and drew in a breath through his
nose. Begrudgingly, he took the plate from the man and made his way into
the living room. Though he never admitted it, the sandwich was
delicious. He scarfed it down, every last crumb. He had been starving.

"You have an appetite," the man said, watching Mark from across the
room. "That's good."

With a mouthful of chips, Mark gave the man his best scowl.

"And what about you?" Mark said. "Have you been eating my food?" He said it
with accusation, rather than genuine concern.

The man returned the hot stare. Something similar to a smirk cracked his
stoic expression.

"I haven't been hungry."

Gobbling at his food, Mark grunted something sarcastic. His eyes flicked up
a moment later and swept over the man's rippled stomach and chiseled
pecs. He sighed. The wheels in his head were turning.

"I got a call-in about you yesterday," he said casually, eyeing the man for
response. "Some lady saw you in the Mae's Grocer parking lot, dick
hanging. Public indecency warrants a trip to jail most of the time."

"There's no proof it was me," the man said.

"Right. Because Wolfcreek has so many other dark-haired, six-four naked men
running around."

"It's been pretty hot outside," the man said. "Never know."

"You know, we found a couple bodies out in the desert," Mark carried on
nonchalantly. "Well, not so much 'bodies' as gored carcasses. Eaten,
mostly. And now we're getting reports of a naked man, here and there. I
wonder if there's a connection." He looked up at the man standing,
crossed-armed, in his living room. "What do you think?"

"I think," the man said, "that you need to take some Ibuprofen. Keep the
swelling down."

He stepped out of the room, leaving Mark in total silence. Frustrated, Mark
sprang up off the couch and stomped through the house after him. He burst
into the bedroom, where the man was ruffling through the first aid kit, and
huffed.

"Okay, get out," Mark said, his voice demanding. "This is my house, and you
no longer have a reason to be here. Get out."

The man didn't even look up at him. He was focused on rummaging through the
kit.

"Are you deaf?" Mark asked. "I told you to leave."

He stepped--limped was more like it--up to the man. Though he was a few
inches shorter, and though he was about thirty pounds lighter, Mark puffed
up to his full size, doing his best to demonstrate masculinity. He reached
out, grabbing the man's arm, preparing to drag him out if need be, but the
man countered him in a way Mark wasn't expecting.

Just as he made contact with the man, the man pivoted and leaned heavily
into Mark. Surprised, Mark staggered back some, but the man's enormous arms
caught him. They pulled him in close, and suddenly their bare chests were
pressed together. There was a quick moment of...something. Connection,
maybe. Some sort of split, unspoken understanding, and then their lips were
locked together.

Enveloped in the man's embrace, Mark kissed his mysterious savior. It was a
deep, hungry kiss. The kind of kiss where it felt like a lifetime since you
made love.

Thrown, and somewhat dazed, Mark pulled away a little. He pushed back,
unsure of what to make of it all. Their dark eyes were fused together like
hot metal. In each chest, their hearts pounded with the strength of
hammers.

And then, as if their eyes spoke a language all their own, the man seized
Mark and aggressively threw him down onto the bed. Mark made a small,
boyish noise as he hit the mattress, but he did not struggle, he did not
resist. Behind him, his loose-fitting shorts were yanked down, exposing his
bare ass once more, and the sound of the man tearing off his underwear in a
fit of rage was unmistakeable.

In the mirror over the dresser, Mark watched as the man's genitals tumbled
out from the underwear. They fell down between his legs with incredible
weight, smacking loudly against his thigh. Mark wondered, even, if the
heaviness of the man's genitals was painful for him. He thought he saw the
man wince as gravity took hold of his balls.

It was a large, fleshy cock--similar to Mark's, only bigger. Surrounded in
a crop of bristling pubic hair, the man's penis slowly filled with hot
blood. Beneath it, his walnut-sized testicles hung low and heavy, like a
hairy pendulum of flesh, and put off a distinctly male odor--one that
filled the room and caused a stirring in Mark's groin.

On his belly, ass exposed, Mark felt the man close in behind him. His
intensely hot groin gave off an extreme heat--Mark could feel it singeing
the fine hairs on his ass. It wasn't long before the man gripped Mark's
buttcheeks and spread them wide, revealing the brown pucker hidden
underneath. And that's when Mark felt it, the tip of the man's cock
pressing up against his asshole...pushing inside.

Mark let out a deep, gruff sound as the man slipped into him. No
lubrication. No loosening of the muscle. Just proper alignment and
force. Still, there was something assisting the penetration, Mark
figured. He could feel a hot, syrup-like substance glazing the ring of his
anus, allowing the man easier entry. It had to have been the man's pre-cum,
which seemed to flow out of him in abundance. Either that, or Mark's anus
was secreting its own natural lube--and he highly doubted that!

It took only a moment for the man to slip all the way in, and when he did,
Mark heard himself gasping. Easily nine, maybe ten inches of thick male
flesh was jammed up inside of him, filling his rectum and breeching his
colon. Mark wouldn't have been the least surprised to find the man's cock
protruding from his lower abdomen if he were to look down. Certainly there
was a small impression below his naval from the internal presence.

Mark gasped again when the man pulled out of him halfway, only to slam back
inside, balls-deep.

Dulled from pain medication, and head still a little whoozy, Mark had a
million thoughts racing through his mind--all of them abstract, blurry,
incoherent. He wondered if he was being raped. But no, he was enjoying it!
But did the man fucking him know that? But it didn't matter either way,
Mark was on a ride...

Bobbing up and down, bouncing this way and that, Mark could feel his own
cock stiffening between his legs. A fresh pearl of pre-cum had appeared at
its tip, and suddenly Mark's bedsheets were damp with the clear male fluid.

Behind him, gripping his waist with firm hands, the man drove himself in
and out, again and again. Pump after pump, his blood-filled cock slid in,
following the S-shape of Mark's rectum, and retreated a bit. A moment
later, it was stuffed back inside Mark's body, sunk in deep, as if it were
seeking Mark's heart. Between his legs, Mark could feel his own genitals
slapping about as his entire body was rocked. The man held him securely in
place, handled him with a certian level of care, but never lightened up on
his aggression. There was something feral about the way he fucked,
something animal. Mark swore he heard the man snarl several times as he
fucked him, but even he couldn't claim to make conventional sex sounds
himself.

Gripping the bedsheet in his hands, as if they were the only things keeping
him on the earth, Mark yelped as his entire lower half was lifted high up
in the air. The man was thrusting, pounding, drilling into Mark's ass while
holding his bottom half clear off the floor. Even Mark's feet, large and
manly as they were, could not reach the ground.

Then, with a deep-throated growl, the man pulled out of Mark's body, pushed
him fully on the bed, belly down, legs spread, ass up, and crawled
dangerously on top of him. He shoved his manhood back inside of Mark all at
once, illiciting a proper scream, wherein Mark's voice cracked, very
loudly. Boring deeper and deeper, excavating new, previoulsy unexplored
territory, the man's penis scaled Mark's gut with ravenous hunger. He
bucked his hips like a male lion in heat, slamming over and over, driving
himself deeper and deeper.

Had there been a fly on the wall, it would have begun to buzz around
joyously as the bedroom filled with the hot, suffocating stink of men. Two
exposed buttholes, one unhindred, the other engorged with two pounds of
male flesh. Two sweaty ballsacks, four steaming armpits, and two pairs of
large curling and flexing feet. Above him, Mark could feel sweat dripping
off his fucker's body, landing and splashing onto his bare back and
neck. The man even leaned forward, wiping his forehead of sweat on Mark's
shoulder.

Both men grunted and moaned, gasped for air, breathed to the rhythm of
their pounding hearts. The headboard knocked boisterously against the
wall. The picture frames hanging above it rattled.

His bedroom hadn't seen sex for a long time, Mark thought. It was a blatant
reminder, if anything.

Drilling, drilling, drilling into Mark's gaping anus, the man made a noise
that was somewhere between a howl and a bark. Specifically canine in
nature. As a result of the hard, almost violent, thrusting, the mattress
was nearly halfway off of the bed, and both men were on a decline,
headfirst toward the floor.

Behind him, Mark winced as the man clasped him harder in his hands, bucked
his hips rougher, pushed in even deeper. Suddenly, the man came down on
Mark with a great crushing weight. His teeth clamped down on Mark's
shoulder, and he bit down hard. Mark cried out, certain that the man's
teeth had broken his skin. He was waiting for a stream of blood to spill
onto the sheets, onto the floor. But there wasn't any blood, and the pain
was almost instantly distinguished--or at least overshadowed--as the man's
cock pressed up into what could only have been Mark's large intestine. Mark
cried out a second time. It wasn't a cry of pain or suffering, nor was it a
cry of ecstacy. Something strange and in between. And suddenly,
unexpectedly, a familiar burning sensation fizzled up from somewhere deep
in his body.

Gasping, moaning, Mark felt hot tears coming to his eyes as the rigid penis
inside of him squeezed up to an unfathomable depth. But the burning
senstation was intensifying. It was boiling up, getting ready to overflow,
and Jesus, here it was!

Mark's cock gave one final, desperate twitch before hot white cum erupted
from him, shooting out, spilling forth--the largest orgasm he's had since
he was fifteen!

Behind him, the man howled as his cock was sucked and slurped by Mark's
convulsing and constricting anus. He thrust harder, faster.

A loud masculine groan escaped Mark as his body tingled in the raw, sexual
aftermath that only male's were able to experience.

Still deep within him, the man gave a few final thrusts, clawing into
Mark's hide, biting him with his teeth. And then, just when his thrusting
couldn't get any rougher, and just when Mark thought his ass was about to
rip wide open, the man pulled out of him, growling, panting, nearly foaming
at the mouth.

"No!" he shouted, his voice gruff and beastly. "No...can't!"

He reached down, took a firm hold of his cock, stroked its greasy shaft
with a mad fervor, and spilled his seed all over Mark's bare ass, the small
of his back...some got on his shoulders and arms. It was a massive load,
Mark could tell just by the splatters assaulting his body over and over
again.

And then, after a long and drawn-out quiet between them, the man filled his
lungs with a great, powerful sigh of relief. Pinned underneath him still,
Mark followed suit. He sighed...and it was a relief.

Worn, the man collapsed fully on top of Mark, both of them slumped over the
side of the bed, heads on the floor, legs up high on the bedframe. They
stayed there for several minutes like that, naked and spent. And finally,
with one last breath each, they drifted off to nurse their exhausted
bodies.



CHAPTER FOUR


Fists thumping on the door forced Mark's eyes wide open.

"Sheriff, you in there?" came an urgent voice.

Sprawled on top of him, butt naked, the man lifted his head, also alerted
by the knocking.

"Shit," Mark said. He wriggled out from underneath the man. It was
nightfall, and the house was nothing other than various shades of black. He
army-crawled his way to the bathroom, where he managed to get on his feet,
flick on a light, and scoop some dirty underwear out of the laundry
hamper. "Shit, shit, shit!"

A few more thumping knocks at the door.

"Sheriff?"

"Coming!" Mark hollered, trying to sound unaffected. His eyes darted over
to the naked man scurrying up from the mattress, which was pushed halfway
onto the floor, along with bedsheets, a first aid kid--a picture frame had
fallen off the wall and shattered. Jesus, Mark thought, this place looks
like a crime scene!

Pulling a cum-stained, urine-stained pair of underwear over his nakedness,
Mark hissed at the man who was now peering out the blinds to see how much
trouble they faced.

"Hey!" he said. Snapped his fingers. It only just occurred to him that he
didn't know the man's name. "Hey you! Get away from there!"

"There's a cop car out front," the man said gravely.

"No shit," Mark said. "I'll take care of it. You just stay here and don't
make any noises."

He stepped out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. In the pitch
black he bare-footed it down the hallway, bumping into a small table,
tripping over something left carelessly on the floor. He hurried up to the
front door, undid the chainlock, the deadbolt, the doorknob--hell, who was
he afriad of? He opened the door.

Sergeant Sanders, along with the big-eared kid from forensics, were staring
up at him from his porch. Their faces aglow by the reflection of the
streetlight in the windowglass. Mark flipped the porchlight on and squinted
like a man hungover.

"The fuck happened to you?" Sanders said, giving Mark a once-over.

Mark was wearing nothing other than the dirty underwear he'd dug out of the
hamper. The distinctly male stains were obvious, especially in the harsh
light. Hell, he may as well have answered the door dick hanging. The
underwear was hardly concealing. And not to mention his face was bruised,
and his body battered from his rough-and-tumble the night before. He looked
like shit.

"Sorry," Mark mumbled. "It's been a rough couple of days."

"I'd say so," Sanders said. "You get in a fist fight or something?"

Mark shook his head. "Not exactly."

Sanders and the geeky-looking kid from forensics eyed him suspiciously,
both of them doing their best to nod in understanding.

Blinking away the blurriness, Mark said, "What's up, Sergeant?"

"I know it's late, Mark, but do you mind if we step inside?" Sanders
asked. It was clear that Mark was hesitant with the idea of them coming in,
so Sanders went on to add, "Come on, it'll only be a couple minutes."

Reluctantly welcoming the two of them inside, Mark led them into the living
room. He went around switching on all the lights. He grabbed a randomly
tossed pair of shorts from the arm of the couch and slipped into them,
relieving his guests of his nakedness.

"Mark, we found something interesting in the forensics labs today," Sanders
said. "Thought you'd want to know about it."

"Yeah, okay. What is it?"

Sanders turned to the geeky kid, giving him his cue.

At once, the kid presented a manilla envelope to Mark.

"We analyzed both sets of semen, like you asked," the kid said. "And sure
enough, there were two different sources."

Mark, expressionless, nodded and shrugged. "Who are you again?"

"Oh," the kid gave a goofy laugh. "Sorry! I'm so bad at introducing
myself. I'm Will Feldman, Forensics."

"Gotcha," Mark said. "So you were saying there's two different samples of
semen that were taken from the scene?"

"Affirmative!"

"Don't say that." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, foggy-headed. "Just
say yes like everyone else."

The kid reddened. "Okay. Yes."

He was a cute kid. Mark guessed he probably got laid some in college. He
was geeky, sure. Skinny, yes. But he had an old-fashioned handsomeness
about him. Very Ron Howard in Happy Days. Even so, Mark was in no mood to
discuss the murder case. Not now. Not half-naked, in his home, with the man
who just fucked him still waiting in the bedroom.

Jesus, he could smell the sex rising off his body like steam. He gave a
sharp, sideways look to Sanders, whose nostrils were flaring. No doubt the
sergeant was getting a whiff of the pheramones wafting off of his body,
too.

Fuck.

"Okay," Mark said, fumbling for words. "Okay, great. We've got two
different DNA samples to inspect. What does this..."

Sanders stepped in, focusing Mark's train of thought.

"Mark, both of the semen samples came up as human," he said, his tone
serious.

With that, Mark's eyes flicked wide. He screwed up his face, wrinkled his
brow. "What?"

"Both samples are human," Sanders emphasized. "Two different men."

"Holy shit." Mark collapsed onto the sofa, which inadvertantly permitted
Sanders and Feldman to take a seat as well. "And no trace of animal DNA?
None?"

The two men sitting opposite him shook their heads.

"There was," Feldman said, "an interesting discovery on the second semen
sample. Lab tests showed that it was human semen, yes. However, there was
an interesting property to the semen. Something I've never seen before in
all my years at this job."

Mark rolled his eyes. Exactly how many years that was, he didn't know. But
it couldn't have been more than five. Feldman was only, what, twenty-six?

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Sheriff," Feldman said, "the second sample was--how do I put
this?--laced with the DNA of something that wasn't human." He licked his
lips nervously, swallowed hard. Mark could tell the kid felt awkward saying
this. "There was canine DNA intermixed."

"Dog?" Mark grunted a laugh. "The kid was attacked by a man-dog, which
raped and ate him?"

Feldman glanced over at Sanders for help.

"Mark," Sanders cut in. "We don't really know what to make of it yet, but
Will here showed me the evidence. It's irrefutable stuff. Remember that
footprint in the woods? And the one in the desert?"

"Jesus," Mark said under his breath. "This was so much simpler when we
thought it was a bear."

"What's more," Sanders said, "is that when we discovered the second batch
of semen, we went back and re-analysed the fluids from the first site. The
one with the man in the desert."

Mark looked up, interested.

Sanders leaned in. "Same fucking thing! Two sources of semen. Both human,
one with a slight canine flavor."

Rubbing his eyes, Mark groaned. "So, what, we send out a press release and
tell the townspeople to keep their eyes peeled for a half-man, half-dog
that's looking to rape them and eat them?"

Sanders grinned. "I think what we tell people is that there is something
strange going on in these parts, and that if they see anything suspicious,
let us know about it."

"But the townsfolk already tell us about suspicious things that happen
around here," Mark said. "Herb Gillman just told me the other day about a
vampire that was living in his basement. And Craig Bitman's one-toothed
father explained to me exactly where he was abducted by U.F.O.'s last month
and, more specifically, what they did to him on their spacecraft. People in
Wolfcreek see crazy shit all the time, Buck. How are we possibly going to
entrust the community at large with something this weird and this vague?"

Sanders scratched at his beard stubble, flashed a crooked mouth, and
shrugged. "I haven't the faintest. Wolfcreek is a fucked up place to live."

"Fucked up things happen in fucked up places," Mark added, almost as an
aside.

"Amen." Sanders got to his feet. "So the way I see it," he said, peering
down at Mark, "is that there's a man running around out there, chasing down
and raping and eating people--males in particular. He has no discernible
pattern to his methods, no viable traces of evidence in which to give us a
decent lead, aside from an animal footprint and some inconclusive semen
samples. The attacks aren't premeditated, far as I can tell. Our best hope
in finding this sonofabitch is by way of stakeouts."

Mark stared up at the man, nodding along with everything he said. He chewed
at his cheek. "Wait a second. There were two samples of semen at the
site. One was a hybrid of DNA, but what about the other?"

Feldman raised his brow. "It was the boy's."

"The boy ejaculated?"

"Apparently so," Feldman said. "At first I suspected foul play in a gay sex
sort of situation, but now I'm not so sure."

"Do we have any info on this kid?"

Feldman shuffled through some papers and handed one to Mark. On it was a
picture of a boy--mid-teens, dirty blond hair, cute face--and below it read
the name: JASON CARMICHAEL.

Marked looked up. "Have we contacted Jason's family yet?"

"We have," Sanders said. "It was just the boy and his mother. Evidently he
was a good kid, always on the honor roll at school, active in the baseball
league."

Mark have a feeble nod and let his gaze fall back on the photo of the
boy. He looked like any ordinary kid, and certainly one who was growing
into his body well. Handsome looks for a sixteen-year-old. Mark guessed the
kid had already had a good deal of sex by the time he was eaten.

"This is crazy," he said, shaking his head.

"You're tellin me!" Sanders caught a whiff of something, and he looked down
at Mark curiously. "Did you just have sex?"

Mark felt hot blood rush to his cheeks. He raised his brow, thrown.

"I, uh," he was groping for the nearest explanation, but there wasn't
one. He knew that he reeked of sex, that his underarms were potent with the
scent of primal male, that his groin was putting off a hot stink like a
steam grate. Fuck, even his back was covered in dried semen! He'd
completely forgotten.

"Yeah," Mark admitted, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I had sex tonight."

His eyes went from Sanders to Feldman and back again.

Sanders' hardened expression cracked into a lame guy's grin, and he slapped
Mark boldly on the shoulder.

"That's my boy!" he said, laughing.

Mark forced a smile, though it wasn't genuine.

"I thought I could smell it on you," Sanders went on. "Oh fuck me, is she
still here?" He looked around, spotting the closed bedroom door. "Is that
why you took so long answering the door?"

Heart pounding, Mark tried to laugh it off nonchalantly. "Nah, she left a
little while ago," he said.

Just then, a small disturbance from the bedroom. Something knocked over. It
wasn't loud, but to all three of them it was noticeable. Mark, still
sitting, tensed. His eyes shot up to Sanders and Feldman, who were both
eyeing the closed door susiciously.

"That would be the cat," Mark said quickly. He immediately cursed himself
for saying it. He hated cats. But damn it, it was the only thing he could
think of to explain the noise away.

"You got a cat?" Sanders looked down at him.

"I love cats!" Feldman said. "What kind is it?"

Burning him with his eyes, Mark said, "It's a Russian...Himalayan...tabby
cat."

Feldman tilted his head, thinking. "Oh," he said, nodding. "Fascinating?
Did you get it at the shelter?"

Mark grinned. "Yep." He was bolt upright, on his feet, ushering them to the
door. "Well, I will be sure to get on this first thing in the morning," he
said. "But I really need to get some sleep."

"I bet you do," Sanders said joshingly. He lobbed a winked at Mark and
flashed a toothy grin.

Mark feigned a laugh, exchanged farewell's, and watched Sanders and Feldman
as they got in the squad car and drove off.

A huge breath of air jettisoned from his lungs as he watched the tailights
fade away into the night. He could feel the knots in his stomach
uncoiling. He went straight for the bedroom.

"I thought I told you to be quiet!" he said the moment he stepped inside.

The room was empty, and dark, and still. Mark's eyes darted from one end to
the other, confused. He checked the bathroom. Also empty.

Mark spun a full circle, sure that he'd missed something. And then, from
out of nowhere, the man materialzed. It was as if he were made of the
shadows, and revealed himself on his terms alone.

"Fuck!" Mark said, jumping nearly three feet straight up. "How do you DO
that?!"

"Sorry," the man said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Well you did!" Mark shook off the adrenaline rush and began rummaging
through his dresser. Shirt, pants, more pain killers. "Now," he said, and
he began tossing the naked man a variety of clothes. "Could you please get
dressed, in case someone comes back."

"Are you expecting others?"

"No," Mark said. "But I wasn't expecting those guys either. It's the nature
of being Sheriff. You get a lot of visitors at odd hours of the night. Now,
seriously, put some clothes on!"

"Your clothes don't fit me," the man said.

Mark ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He still smelled of sex.

"Fuck, I stink," he said to himself.

"You smell fine," the man said. He was working to fit his enormous feet
into a pair of pants that Mark had handed him. He was having trouble.

Mark watched him for a split second, intrigued. Then he turned his
attention to tidying up the room. Mattress back on the bedframe, sweep up
the broken glass from the picture, pick up the mess of clothes and
underwear on the floor.

"So who are you?" Mark finally said. "Do you have a name?"

"John."

"John what?"

The man shot him a look, one that said, Tread lightly.

Across the room, Mark nodded, understanding. "Ah," he said. "Mystery
man. Got it. So, John," he said the name with particular emphasis, "what
the fuck happened tonight? I told you to leave my house, and you put your
dick up my butt?"

"You didn't resist." John was focused on buttoning a pair of cowboy slacks
over his bulge. He was only partially listening from the look of it.

Mark didn't know how else to counter that, so he said, "I'm trying to
decide if I was raped or not."

"Rape usually requires the unwillingness of a person before it's
categorized as such," John said plainly. He looked up at Mark. "I didn't
pick up on any unwillingness."

"You're right," Mark said. "I let you fuck me. I'll admit it."

"And you seemed to enjoy it," John added, gesturing to the cum stains on
the bed sheets where Mark exploded.

Caught, and defeated, Mark sighed. He needed to approach this from a new
angle. "Why did you fuck me?"

"Because you wanted me to," John said.

"I wanted you to? How do you reckon?"

"I could smell it on you."

At this point John was mostly dressed, all but his feet. He stepped
barefoot into the bathroom, undid his fly, and unleashed a powerful stream
into the toilet. It was loud and, noticeably, potent. Mark had never
smelled the urine of a man so strong before. Especially one that filled the
entire room.

"You could smell it on me?"

"Have you been reduced to an echo?" John asked from the bathroom, shaking
off the last drops.

"It's just strange," Mark said, changing out of his shorts and into a pair
of sweats. "Most people don't say it like that. 'I could smell it on you.'
How were you able to smell the fact that I wanted to have sex with you?"

Tucking his manhood back into the folds of his slacks, John reappeared in
the bathroom's doorway. "The same way you can smell whiskey on a man's
breath, I can smell the desire to fuck on you. Anybody really. I have
a...good sense of smell."

"Clearly," Mark said, unimpressed. "And you have the cock of a Greek god. I
think I need to go get checked for internal bleeding."

"You're not bleeding internally."

"Oh yeah? How the fuck would you know?"

John tapped a finger to his nose. "My wicked sense of smell, remember?"

"You can smell my insides? Right now? As we speak?"

The man narrowed his eyes on Mark and grinned. "I can."

At that, Mark laughed. He didn't know what else to do. This was all too
weird. "Well thank god the bloodhound can tell whether or not I need
surgery on a punctured colon. Phew!" Mark drew a deep breath, tired,
irritated, fascinated. "So, any other super powers I should know about,
John?"

John shrugged. "Maybe someday."

There was a prolonged silence that came between them, but it was not angry
or confused. It was...curious. At least on Mark's end it was.

Suddenly, a new pain made itself known on Mark's shoulder. He reached up,
wincing. "Ow!" he said. It only took a fraction of a second for it all to
come flooding back to his brain. "You bit me!" He looked up, spearing John
with his eyes. "I completely forgot. You bit me while you were fucking
me. Talk about adding insult to injury!"

Mark felt around his shoulder and neck for blood, for torn flesh. The skin
was a little tender, and certainly there were teeth marks. But no blood.

In the bathroom doorway, John's expression hardened. His eyes became
dangerous. Though, on some level, tame. He grunted dismissively. "Sorry,"
he said. "I tend to get...excited...when I fuck."

Mark looked up at him, confused. And then it was his expression that
hardened.

"You know something funny," he said, his eyes targeting John like
daggers. "I just learned that the two bodies that we found outside of
town--you know, the ones torn to barely recognizable pieces--both of them
had two sets of DNA on the scene. Yeah, the DNA of two different men. One
belonging to the victim, of course, and the other...who knows. It's
curious, don't you think? Reports of a tall naked man roaming around town
come in for the very first time, and at the same time that two bodies are
found torn to shreds, both potentially raped and, clearly, eaten. And here
we are, you and I. I find you running around naked in my backyard. You
nearly kill me beating the shit out of me, and then you fuck me--bite me
hard in the process..." Mark's voice trailed off. He was studying John's
reaction. "Seems strange, don't you think, John?"

The man mirrored Mark's stare unflinchingly. And then, after a few seconds
of stillness, he said, "Chilling."

He broke their stare and stepped out of the room. With swagger. Mark
followed him into the kitchen, where the man was getting a large drink of
water and going after the leftover pizza on the counter. Interestingly, he
only picked off the sausage and pepperoni to eat.

At a loss for words, and so tired he could sleep standing up, Mark gave up.

"Look," he said. "You can stay the night. Just don't..." his mind trailed
off into nothingness. He couldn't think of what he was going to say. "Never
mind."

With a zombie's demeanor, Mark staggered back into the bedroom and
collapsed on the hastily made bed with a roaring sigh. Within a minute he
was almost completely asleep, but the subtle sounds of movement nearby kept
him awake a moment longer. Long enough to feel John's weight fill the bed
beside him. He felt the man's arm wrap around him. He felt the man's body
curl up into his. And with that, Mark slept.



CHAPTER FIVE


The next day proved uneventful when no new information revealed itself
about the murder case--the Wolfcreek Beast Attack is what papers were
calling it. And it was especially uneventful when no new reports of
half-eaten bodies were made. A quiet day in quiet Wolfcreek. Mark's
favorite.

Mark spoke at a small press conference, did a buttload of paperwork,
grabbed coffee and donuts with his buddy, Jackson, at the police station,
and returned home with nothing exciting to share. Not that he was a man who
shared. Hell, he didn't have anyone to share with. Aside from today, that
is.

When he stepped back into his home, it was near sundown, and John the
Mystery Man was grilling ribs.

"How was work, honey?" John asked when Mark came in the kitchen.

"Don't call me that," Mark said. "And where the hell did you get ribs?"

"The store."

"What store?"

"The one where they sell food." John turned and winked at Mark, as if he
was somehow in on a very clever joke.

"How'd you get to the store?" Mark asked, irked.

"Your car?"

"I had my car with me all day."

"No, the jeep, in the garage. Found the keys on the hook."

"You drove the Wrangler?" Mark was beside himself. "Well I hope you didn't
damage it any. Because if I find a single scratch--"

John handed him a plate of ribs doused in barbeque sauce. Handed him a
beer.

"Welcome home," he said, clearly an effort to shut Mark up.

Confused, and a little thrown, Mark took the plate and the beverage. He
slowly made his way into the living room, to one of the dinner trays,
glancing back over his shoulder the whole way, eyeing John with savage
suspicion. He set his food down, turned back.

"I think there's some confusion here," Mark said, doing his best to
restrain any emotion that might filter through. "You don't live here,
John. In fact, I'm being a good guy by letting you stay. You beat the shit
out of me two nights ago, remember? I mean, I had people asking me about my
bruised face all day. You know what I kept telling them? That the fucking
TV fell on me while I was trying to adjust the wiring. How embarassing is
that? I look like something out of The Munsters, and everyone thinks its
because I'm a clumsy dickhead!"

John shot him a glance from the kitchen.

"You attacked me, buddy. You are in debt to me, because I put a roof over
your head for a night. And on top of that, I let you use my asshole as a
masturbatory aid!"

John was busy with something, searing meat, a dash of spices.

"And to come home from my job--Sheriff, BY THE WAY--and to find you still
in my home, nonetheless cooking in my kitchen, and hearing how you drove my
prized Wrangler off WITHOUT my knowledge or permission...it's just a little
bit ridiculous. So, here's what we're going to do. You can finish up what
you're doing in there. Eat your food, enjoy it. But then get the fuck out."
Mark didn't even realize he was pacing. "This is my house, and you can't
just assume--"

He turned on his heel to pace in the other direction, but instead, he ran
face-first into John. Their lips connected like a magnet to metal, and Mark
let himself melt in John's mouth at the rate of a stick of butter on a hot
summer sidewalk.

The kiss lasted for only a few seconds--though it seemed like an
eternity--before Mark pulled away. It suddenly occurred to Mark that it was
him who ended up moving in for the kiss, not John. John had just been
standing there, listening.

What the fuck is it with me? Mark thought.

"Stop threatening to kick me out," John said, and he meant it. The man
turned to set his plate of ribs on the dinner tray beside Mark's. "I know I
don't live here. I'm not that arrogant, nor am I that presumptuous. And I
certainly don't intend to stay. But you and I both know that it was me who
saved your life the other night, not the other way around. Maybe it's you
who's indebted in this relationship. And we both know that,
not-so-secretly, you really want me to stay."

John leaned in and sniffed Mark. He drew in a deep breath of him, and
strangely, it seemed to satisfy something inside. His eyes lit up and fell
down on Mark like hot volcanic ash.

"I can smell it on you," John said. "The yearning desire to keep me close."

He turned around, took a seat on the couch, and tore into his helping of
ribs.

In a state of shock, Mark just stared at him. He didn't know what to do, or
what to say. All he knew was...the man was right.

He claimed the vacant seat next to John and began to eat his dinner. The
ribs were delicious. Amazing, even. They were cooked just right, the meat
practically fell off the bone. And the beer--amazingly refreshing.

They ate in silence, and then, when they were both finished, Mark thanked
John for the meal.

"You're welcome," John said. And he cleared the dishes from the room. "Just
one thing," he said as he began running the plates under hot water.

Mark looked up from his seat in the living room.

"Don't fall in love with me." John gave him a cheeky smile and resumed
washing the dishes.

--

They were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the bed, shirtless, like a
married couple who'd grown comfortable and familiar over the years. Mark
was perusing a series of reports that might give him some better insight to
the string of murders in Wolfcreek. Next to him, John was picking at his
teeth with a toothpick, his dark eyes lost in thought.

The rest of the house was dark and silent.

"When you say you can smell desire in me," Mark said after several long,
quiet moments, "what do you mean...exactly?"

Catching a shred of meat between his fangs, John said, "I mean exactly what
I say." He shot Mark a purposeful look. "I don't hyperbolize."

"It's just weird," Mark said. "I guess I don't understand."

"You don't." John set the used and partially shredded toothpick on the
nightstand next to him. He slouched low in the bed, folding his arms up
behind his head, relaxing.

Mark's eyes zoomed in on the massive groves of John's underarms. They were
overflowing with black fur. A sweet and salty odor drifted up into his
nose. He felt a stirring in his groin.

"Right now, for instance," John started to say, "I can smell the blood
pumping harder and faster through your veins."

Mark swallowed, hard.

"I can smell your male horomones raging inside," John added. "I can even
smell the pheramones bursting like little geysers from your armpits."

"So what? A lot of people can detect pheramones. It doesn't mean that
there's always a desire..."

"I can smell your next shit coursing through your gut," John said
definitively. "It'll hit you in about two hours. Trust me."

Mark gaped at him. He almost laughed. This was, quite possibly, the most
absurd situation he's ever found himself in. Even more so than the time he
and his buddies had their car stolen by a drunk prostitute voodoo priestess
in New Orleans. Yes, this outdid that.

"You can smell my next shit?"

John nodded. "Yep."

Dumbfounded, Mark shook his head as if to Etch-e-sketch his brain
clear. "Wow," he said. "Maybe I should leave the room and let you breathe
in peace then."

"It doesn't bother me any," John said, closing his eyes to rest. He drew a
deep breath. "I may have a keen sense of smell, but my senses don't get
offended as easily as yours do."

"Wha--? As easily as mine do?" Mark almost laughed. "The fuck are you? A
god?"

"To some, yes."

Mark stared down at the man lying half-naked in his bed. He couldn't
exactly pull his gaze away from the great valleys of his armpits, which
continued to release a profoundly masculine odor. A twitch of something
beneath his pajama bottoms forced him to look away.

"So," Mark said, trying to change the subject, "you smelled a certain
desire in me yesterday, and granted that unspoken request by fucking me."
He said it not as a question, though it registered as one. He looked down
at John, waiting for an answer.

"Yes," John said flatly.

"But I'm a guy," Mark said. "And you don't seem..." He chewed on his words,
trying to lay them out carefully. "...like someone who would enjoy that
fact."

Beside him, John shrugged. "Just because you're a guy doesn't mean I can't
have sex with you." His eyes were still closed, almost indifferent to the
conversation all together.

"Right," Mark said. "But normally it...doesn't happen."

"No. But this time it did." John cracked an eye open. It was on Mark.

"Do you fuck every guy you smell this desire on?"

"No."

"Just me?"

A grin almost took John's face. Almost. "I've mated with other males
before."

"Exclusively males?"

"No."

Mark nodded, understanding...some what. Actually, no, not at all. He drew a
breath to balance out his confusion.

"I'm pretty strictly into men," he said. It came out more as a confession,
though he hadn't intended it to be one.

"I know," John said. His eyes were closed again.

"What do you mean you KNOW?" Mark was almost angry. "You can't possibly
know that? You have no idea who I am."

"You'd be surprised how much you can learn about a person by smell alone,"
John said. "By now, I've had a pretty good whiff of you."

"And you can determine my sex life based on it?" Mark said, hardly
believing a word the man said anymore. "Right."

"It's true," John said. "I've smelled you when you were naked. I know where
that cock of yours has been, and it certainly wasn't anywhere feminine."

"This may surprise you," Mark said with dripping sarcasm, "but I've
showered a time or two since my cock has been in those places."

"Doesn't matter. The scent of a man is distinct, and once it's on you, it's
there forever."

Frustrated, and secretly intrigued, Mark crossed his arms like a pouting
teenager. He let out an exasperated puff of air.

"Don'd be mad at something just because you don't understand it," John said
casually. "That's how wars get started."

"I'm not mad!" Mark snapped. "And I do understand. I understand that you're
full of shit!"

"On the contrary." John smiled for the first time, and Mark saw the dashing
handsomeness bleed through him. The man had a terrific smile. It was
endearing, but all the while stoic and contained.

Mark reached up and touched his naked belly. He let his hand rise and fall
with it as he breathed. Was this guy serious? Could he really smell--?
Fuck. He'd find out in about two hours, he guessed. Let it go.

"So who are you really?" Mark finally said. He looked down at the
half-naked man in the bed beside him. "I mean, I'm sharing my bed with
you. I have the right to know, don't I? Most people don't run around in the
desert butt-naked in the middle of the night."

John winked an eye open. "Why does it matter?" he said. "I'll be gone in a
few days and you'll never hear from me again."

The statement took Mark by surprise, but he tried not to let it show.

"Never again?"

"Never again."

"How come?" Mark asked. "You running from the law? Because if that's the
case, you picked a hell of a guy to bunk up with."

Both of John's eyes were open now, and they were fixed on Mark with searing
intensity.

"Trust me," he said. "It's better if you don't know who or what I am."

Mark felt his eyes widen, felt his heart quicken. A small surge of
adrenaline burst in his stomach. But it wasn't a response to a fear or a
dawning realization or any of the sort. It was an unexpected excitement to
the danger aspect. This man was unsafe, potentially lethal, and Mark was
tapping into some deep-rooted fetish of his...relishing in it.

He stared back into John's gaze, and for the briefest moment, he swore he
saw something savage in the man's eyes. Something animal.

"You should stay here," Mark heard himself say, and he was surprised by
it. "This could be your home. Your base. I won't let anyone know you're
here. I'll protect you."

"I told you not to fall in love with me."

"I'm serious," Mark said. "Stay here."

John's eyes were practically burning into Mark's skull, scalding him,
melting him. "I can't. It's not me who requires protection." He looked
down, running his gaze over Mark's body. Something changed in him as he
scaled the curves and contours of Mark's bare skin. "Trust me. You don't
want me here much longer."

"What, can you smell that on me too?" Mark was growing irritated.

"I can smell the opposite on you," John said, his voice a low growl. "And
I'm telling you that what you want is unsafe."

"Unsafe?"

At that, John looked away. It was almost as if he was suppressing a great,
overwhelming urge to hurt Mark...or something like it. He took several
minutes to calm himself, gather his inhibitions. When he had a better grip,
his eyes found Mark again. They were determined.

Suddenly, the bed sheets were torn off of Mark's body and carelessly thrown
to the floor. Next thing Mark knew, John's powerful hands were dug deep
into the waistline of his pajama bottoms, ripping them off, tearing them,
shredding them. Now with his lower half naked and exposed, Mark felt his
legs being pushed up high over his head as the six-foot-four man assumed a
mounting position.

In the dim of the lamplight, Mark watched as John's substantial manhood
broke through the opening in his boxer shorts. The man reached down,
adjusted himself, and allowed his massive testicles to tumble out of the
opening as well. It was as if his sex organs needed fresh air, needed to
breathe, needed to see Mark's vulnerable white ass, which was pinned down
by the man's enormous hands.

Still flaccid, John's weighty cock dangled teasingly at the base of Mark's
anus. It was a miniature furnace, putting off an intense heat that made
Mark wince, and a thick pearl of pre-cum was oozing from its tip.

Without a word, John's cock filled up with hot blood in the matter of five
seconds, and, hardened, he let his pre-cum glaze over Mark's brown pucker
just before sticking himself inside.

Mark grunted in pain at first, but within seconds he was moaning as the
great beast of a man came to occupy every square inch of his rectum. It was
airtight.

At his tailbone, Mark could feel John's ballsack resting warmly, snugly,
against him with near-to-bursting anticipation. It was a substantial and
hairy piece of flesh that housed two large, productive male glands. The
largest Mark's ever known in a man. Come to think of it, John was the
largest man Mark's ever known, period. He was a creature from another
world.

Balls-deep inside him yet again, John began piston-fucking Mark's butthole
with ravenous energy. It was easier this time around, given that Mark's
sphincter was still loosened up from their romp in the hay the previous
day. The man was already breaking out into a malevolent sweat.

Folded up underneath the man, skewered by thick male flesh, Mark moaned and
groaned--he'd never heard such boyish sounds escape him...not since he was
a teenager! His voice, even, cracked. It surprised him. He'd always been a
guy's guy with a deeper voice than most. Hell, he was the town sheriff! He
was the eptiome of 'Man.'

But here, right now, feet up over his head, butt wide open for the taking,
and with a nine-inch penis shoved up into his gut, Mark was effectively
reduced to another man's sex object. Of course, 'reduced' wasn't an
accurate term for it. Mark was loving it. He'd never been the bottom
before--well, not happily at least. Having another dude in his butt wasn't
his preferred game. He was always the guy sniffing out asses to fuck. Never
sticking his out for a top in passing. But this, right now, was great. He'd
never felt so...in danger...so alive!

John released a deep, rumbling growl, like something massive rising up from
a volcano. He was boring further inside Mark with every passing second,
opening him up wider and wider, drilling deeper. Beneath him, Mark cried
out, which prompted John to buck his hips even harder.

Down between his legs, Mark could feel his own cock stiffen with sexual
excitement. Seminal fluids, great and swirling, rushed around inside his
balls, which were practically nothing in comparison with John's. It was
funny, actually. Mark had always considered himself a tall, good-looking
man with a good-sized package on him. He was what so many bottom boys
sought out. Tall, dark, handsome. Big dick. Heavy balls. Toned muscle. Had
he wanted to, he could have had any boy he wanted--or so he was cocky
enough to think. Hell, every time he went to Vegas he had a new kid in his
hotel room every night. A new boy bending over for him, spreading his ass
cheeks, practically begging him to stick it in. But when he stood next to
John, he seemed so...puny! Not puny. Mark shook the thought from his
head. But certainly he seemed far less magnificent. It was humbling,
actually. Strangely enticing.

With his shaft fully inside, all the way to the pubic-hair base, John used
his strong legs to push in even deeper. Beneath him, Mark nearly screamed
in a combination of pain and pleasure. The man was practically being
digested inside him.

Somewhere deep in his core, Mark could feel distinctly male feelings
swelling up, burning, rising like hot air to his surface. His prostate was
being pressed, rubbed, nudged, licked, his stomach was all flutters. His
balls were Alka Seltzer tablets in water--buzzing and fizzing and foaming,
releasing male juices into his body, dissolving in sexual ecstacy.

"Holy fuck!" Mark cried as his twitching cock went tingly with a fiery
numbness. His entire body tensed, every muscle in his belly flexed, his
sphincter tightened its grip on John's cock, his prostate was taking in a
flood of seminal fluids, he was going to blow!

Great spurts of hot white cum soaked his chest and stomach, pump after
pump, he was doused by his own batter.

Hunched over him, John howled as Mark's orgasming anus nursed his massive
cock into a frenzy. He pounded into the sheriff's butt a few times more,
his breathing increasing, his heart booming with the force of a
sledgehammer in his chest.

And then the man's entire body shuddered. Every muscle--his arms, his
belly, his back, his legs--flexed with all their might, and for the first
time, in the light and shadows that carved their details, Mark could see
just how muscular the man truly was. He was a god incarnate, a supreme
being befallen into man's physical form.

Deep in his bowels, Mark felt John's cock grow even more rigid than it
already was. Its temperature went up by two degrees--if that was even
possible. John tightened his hold on Mark, pulled him in closer, held him
to the point of near-suffocation. The man was going to blow his load any
second...

"No!" John growed. "No...!"

He forced himself to pull out of Mark, and just as he did, his penis
erupted in its overflow of semen.

The salty male nectar spilled from John's body, reminiscent of a busted
fire hydrant. Mark watched as it sprayed him from head to groin,
splattering him worse than any Jackson Pollock painting in existence. When
the man was finished, there was hardly a dry spot left on Mark's chest and
stomach.

John rolled over and collapsed on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder with
Mark. Both men were on their backs, staring up at the ceiling in panting
exhaustion.

The room, to say the least, reeked of male sex.

Mark looked over to John, whose great chest rose and fell with thunderous
breaths. His eyes moved down the man's body and landed at last on his
fleshy cock, which hung limply over his thigh, exhausted. It glistened wet
in the dim lamplight. Even flaccid, it appeared big as ever. Like a horse's
penis. Mark was amazed that his body had been able to accomodate it.

Speaking of: damn, his ass was sore!

"Was that good for you?" Mark said jokingly.

John didn't even look at him. He just grumbled something under his breath
and climbed off the bed. Mark watched him walk to the bathroom, where the
door briskly shut behind him and the sound of the shower turning on drowned
out the silence.

Naked and anus gaping, Mark looked down at his cum-drenched body. He would
wait to shower, he guessed.

--

Almost two hours later exactly, Mark felt a familiar pressure form deep
down in his gut. He sighed. Of course. John had been right.

Mark climbed out of bed and went to take a shit.



CHAPTER SIX


"It's been quiet for almost three weeks now," Sanders said with a weighted
sigh. "Wonder if our man-eater moved on from Wolfcreek."

Across from him, Mark rapped his knuckles absent-mindedly on the
table. Perhaps it was the caffeine from the coffee. Perhaps it was his
nerves. Either way, it was evident that he was restless.

"You okay?" Sanders asked, eyeing him.

"Yeah, I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night," Mark said. It was
true, he hadn't slept much. Dark rings formed under his eyes, and he was
seeing things...blurrier than usual. John fucked him twice last night...and
both times the fucking lasted over an hour!

It had been nearly three weeks with no half-eaten bodies, no new
murders. For a moment he considered John, who had been living with him for
that exact amount of time. Funny how things were so coincidental sometimes.

Or maybe he was just fooling himself.

As he sat in the booth across from the sergeant, he could feel the
tenderness of his asshole beneath him. It was permanently widened by this
point--never going back to its original size. John had seen to that for the
past twenty-one days. Every night, the man seemed to grow unruly, wild, out
of control. He would come at Mark with a certain ferociousness. And Mark,
delighting in it, would let the man conquer him again and again.

Before his meeting with Sanders, Mark made sure to shower. Thoroughly. He
didn't need Sanders smelling sex on him again. He didn't need any more
prying questions coming his way.

"Everything all right at home?" Sanders asked.

Mark stiffened. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I dunno." Sanders played it off as casual inquiry. "You seem a
little...thinned out."

Mark chuckled and tried to seem disinterested. "I'm fine," he said.

"It's that chick," Sanders said, grinning.

Mark frowned, unsure what the man was getting at.

"Am I right?" the sergeant went on, flashing a coy set of teeth. "You're
still seeing that chick?"

"Oh. Right. That chick. Yeah, she's a wild one. Been keeping me up a lot."
Mark pretended to laugh.

"I knew it, man," Sanders said. "Well, good for you. About time one of us
got laid."

Mark glanced up at him, inquiring.

"My dick's been dry for a while now," Sanders said. "Ever since Meredith
left."

Shit. Mark hated talking about other people's relationship problems,
especially straight people. It was always a bunch of nonsense. Someone was
caught cheating and the other was too jealous to give their relationship a
chance to recover. Or someone got fed up with the other's laziness and
walked out, done. Blah blah blah. It was all total crap. Mark almost rolled
his eyes, but saved Sanders from the insult.

A naked man beating the shit out of you, then saving your life at the last
minute and holing up in your house with you, fucking you every night until
your asshole no longer functioned--now THAT was a legit relationship
problem!

Mark sighed.

"I mean, the bitch just ripped my fucking heart out, and crushed it under
her Louis Vuitton heel! What kind of cold-hearted monstrosity does that?"

Reluctantly, Mark looked up from his coffee. "Maybe you should switch over
to men." He said it jokingly.

"I swear to fucking god I just might!" Sanders said. "Fuck, man. Women are
one giant pain in the ass. I'm betting a man would hurt a hell of a lot
less!"

They shared a laugh.

"So what's this chick like?" Sanders said, throwing the spotlight off of
him. "The one you're fucking in secret."

Mark smiled. "She's...complicated. Strong, though. Could kick my ass if she
wanted."

At that, Sanders guffawed. "Sweet mercy! Does she tie you up? Step on your
nads? Fuck you with a broomstick?"

Mark nearly choked on his coffee. "Jesus, Buck. No. She doesn't do any of
that."

"Should let her know you're open to it," the sergeant suggested. "Might
turn her on."

"Turn her on? What about me? I don't need anyone stepping on my nads!"

Just as Sanders was tossing another question into the ring, Will Feldman
came in the cafe's door. He spotted them on the far end and made his way
over to plop down in the seat next to Buck.

Saved by the bell, Mark thought.

"Feldman," Sanders said. "What brings you here?"

In the kid's hand was a manilla envelope (he always had a fucking manilla
envelope, Mark thought) and he dropped it on the table in front of them.

"Print analysis came back this afternoon," Feldman said. "Doesn't match a
single known species in the canine family."

"You're kidding."

The kid shook his head, adamantly. "I'm telling you, look at the report
yourself." He tapped the envelope with a finger. "They tried matching the
plaster molding with wolf prints, bear prints, the lab even went as far as
to test for a match with lion tracks. Nothing. Whatever left these is
something people haven't discovered yet."

"Are we talking sasquatches and chupacabras here?" Sanders asked.

"We're talking something weird, Sarge. Something crazy." Feldman ordered a
Shirley Temple from the waitress.

Mark hated the kid sometimes. He'd still fuck him though, given the
chance. But even so, a Shirley Temple?!

The three of them sat and discussed the forensic lab's findings for another
hour before paying their tab and heading home for the night.

Driving down Main Street, Mark looked up at the slowly rising moon. It was
three-quarters full. By tomorrow, it would a bright, bulbous blue circle in
the sky. Wolfcreek might be a desert wasteland with a few upright shacks
that passed for buildings, but it had some of the most goddamned beautiful
skies Mark's ever seen. He could stare at the moon and the stars for hours
sometimes.

When he got home, he found John in the bedroom, pacing. The man shook the
house with every step--his enormous feet coming down on the floor like
anvils.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

John looked up at him, surprised to find him there. His eyes were darker
than usual. An inky black.

"I'm leaving," he said flatly. "Tonight."

Mark screwed up his face. He was still in uniform. Boots, slacks, belt,
gun, badge. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He
wasn't afraid of John. They had grown rather...close over these last few
weeks. He was accustomed to the man's animalistic impulses by now. In fact,
he was surprised John wasn't bending him over and yanking down his pants to
fuck him already. He's come to expect a sexual attack upon arriving home at
the end of the day.

"What's wrong?" Mark said, stepping into the room gently, as if approaching
an untame stallion.

"Nothing's wrong," John said. "I just need to go."

"Okay." Mark was doing his best to sound understanding. "When will you be
back?"

"I'm not coming back."

"Why not?"

"Because...because it's not safe."

John's dark head of hair had gotten longer since he and Mark first met. It
was practically a lion's mane. His beard stubble had thickened,
coarsened. Even the hair on his chest, in his armpits, on his legs and
arms--all of it--had started coming in thicker, darker. Mark noticed the
man's massive feet, which were chiseled like a Greek god's. They, too,
sprouted thicker hair on the toes.

John continued pacing the room, wearing nothing but the boxer shorts that
Mark had given to him weeks before. Beneath them, Mark knew, was a thicker
tuft of pubic hair guarding the man's groin. Mark had noticed the increase
in hair over the past week. Even the man's body heat had skyrocketed. He
was always hot to the touch, fever-like. But no matter how strange it
seemed, the man never once acted as if anything were out of the ordinary.

"What do you mean it's not safe?" Mark asked. "John, you'll always be safe
here. With me. I'll protect you."

"I'M PROTECTING YOU!" John hollered. His voice boomed like a drum and
quieted Mark immediately.

Tail between his legs, Mark took a seat on the foot of the bed.

The room went starkly silent, so much so that even John took notice. He
flicked his eyes over to Mark, who was sitting on the back, head in his
hands. He slowed his pacing. Stopped. Taking care, he sat down beside Mark
and placed a heavy hand on the back of his neck. Gently, he began to
massage him.

"I'm sorry," John said.

On the back of his neck, Mark could feel John's pulse--thunderous and
strong--in his hand.

"I didn't mean to yell," the man went on. "I just...I need to leave. It's
the only way to keep you from getting hurt. Trust me. Mark?"

Mark looked over at him.

"Trust me."

A long tender moment held them there. Mark put a hand on John's leg--his
rough, hairy leg.

"I do trust you," Mark said. "I just don't understand why you have to
leave. I don't want you to leave. I..." He fought back a tear. "I like
having you here. I like having you as my man."

"I told you not to--"

"Fall in love with you. I know." Mark sighed. "But I'm not in love with
you. I just...I don't know...it's nice having you around."

With that, John pulled Mark in close and kissed him on the forehead. He
licked at the salty sweet sweat on Mark's forehead. Sniffed his hair.

Mark could smell the briny musk wafting off of John's underarms like black
smoke. It drifted up into his nose, and almost instantly, Mark felt a
stirring deep within.

Recklessly, and perhaps out of a deep-seated desperation, Mark went for
John's groin. The only thing concealing the man was a thin piece of cloth,
and Mark got through the barrier with ease. He leaned down and buried his
face in John's manhood, burrowing, sniffing.

John reeked. He was pure, raw man. Within the tresses of his pubic hair,
the scent of semen and sweat lingered like cigarette smoke in a 1960s
home. There was no getting rid of the smell, it was a permanent fix. Mark
inhaled deeply, as if it would be the last breath he ever took. Sweet and
spicy, with a hint of--what?--sea salt. John's scent was the most potent
thing Mark's ever had fill his nose. He could feel his eyes blur with
tears, the odor was so strong. Even so, it was like a drugg, and with a
single whiff, Mark was hooked.

Above him, John growled in vague pleasure. His large hand was still on the
back of Mark's neck, massaging him tenderly, with care.

In the man's lap, Mark's face dug through the hills and valleys of man
flesh. His nose sifted through the thick, bristling male fur that only high
levels of testosterone could produce. His lips scaled the edges of John's
penis. Hell, if John's penis had been a meal, it would feed the whole
goddamned town! Mark took the entire thing--well, most of it anyway--into
his mouth. Even limp, the man's cock was a mouthful. Mark didn't even want
to know how he would suck on it when it was erect.

Slowly, though, John was swelling up. Mark could feel the hot piece of meat
fattening up, bigger and bigger, in his mouth. He worked to suck harder, to
keep it all inside. John tasted so good. He was salty, like beef jerky. And
a little sweet, like honey-cured ham. Mark's mouth was beginning to water
as he suckled and lapped at John's blood-filled cock. The organ was hot on
his lips, on his tongue. Hot to the touch! Mark thought of a bratwurst
straight off the grill.

With his hand, Mark took hold of John's balls. Like the man's penis, they,
too, were a handful. And heavy. Miniature weights. Mark wondered how the
man got around in life when he was so weighed down by them. It was like
walking around with a sandbag hanging from your pelvis!

Somewhere up above, John made a boyish squeal as Mark continued gobbling
his cock.

In Mark's mouth, John's appendage was at full mast. Great spills of pre-cum
were sliding onto the back of Mark's tongue and down his throat. He could
taste the salty sweet fluid, like buttermilk, pooling in his stomach. John
was a man filled with fluids, Mark had learned. Given the amount of water
he drank day and night, and how much sweat and urine came out of him, Mark
knew that the man's body was always in full production.

Finally, just as Mark managed to fit John's cock all the way to the back of
his throat--breathing in the potent male stink through his nose all the
while--John reached down and grabbed Mark's head with his other hand. He
had Mark's hair in his fist.

The man's entire body tensed. Mark could feel every muscle flexing. His
head was nearly crushed in John's lap as the man's thighs squeezed tighter
and tighter. In Mark's mouth, John's cock stiffened almost a hundred
percent more. Somewhere above, John made a noise that resembled, very much,
a wolf's howl. And suddenly, just as Mark was preparing to taste the
explosion of cum, John pulled Mark off of him, grabbed a firm hold of his
twitching cock and stroked himself the rest of the way.

John shot twenty thick hot globs of cum all over his chest and stomach. The
smell of semen permeated the bedroom. Exhausted from the orgasm, the man's
cock slumped over...cum still oozing from its tip.

"Why wouldn't you let me swallow it?" Mark asked, wiping his mouth with his
hand.

John gave him a sharp upward glance, but didn't answer.

Mark stood up and walked across the room. He kicked off his boots and
unpacked the contents of his belt, his badge. He began unbuttoning his
shirt.

"You never cum inside me. You won't let me swallow your cum. What's going
on, John? Are you positive? What?"

Panting, worn, John fell on his back, drowning in the bedding. His manhood
rested with unmatched fatigue between his legs.

"And now you want to run out," Mark carried on, growing angrier as he
went. He slammed his Glock on the dresser. "You force your way into my
life, make me actually care about you...and then you skip out a month
later. What the fuck's your angle?"

"It's for the best," John said in between breaths.

"For the best?" Mark spun on his heel. "You're so goddamned vague all the
goddamned time, John! What the fuck are you even talking about? Listen to
us, arguing like a fucking married couple. This is ridiculous. I barely
know you, you barely know me. So why the fuck am I so pissed at you for
leaving?" He released a loud, drawn-out sigh. In fact, it was a growl. "Are
you hiding from the law, John? Are you in trouble? Because I won't let
anyone find out about you being here. I swear to you."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it? Huh?" When he was answered with a wall of silence, he
exploded. "TALK TO ME!"

With a predator's agility, John was off the bed, across the floor, and
pinning Mark to the wall by his throat.

Reactive and quick, Mark saw the attack coming and reached for his gun. He
had it pressed against John's temple before he ever hit the wall.

They both stared into each other's gaze, fuming, ferocious. Testosterone
had gotten the better of them, and they were operating solely under the
influence of their balls. They both knew it, but it was difficult to come
down from the high once it took over.

"Do it," John growled. "Pull the trigger. Kill the monster."

Mark could only stare up at the man. He didn't say anything.

"I didn't think so."

John released his grip, and Mark fell several inches back to the floor,
coughing. He hadn't even realized that John had lifted him up off the
ground.

With his back to him, John walked away. He was naked, and lethal. His
large, muscular buttocks caught the bedroom's dim lamplight handsomely. It
was a powerful display of masculinity, and Mark--though gasping and
choking--admired its representation of strength.

Then, with a cunning glance over his shoulder, John looked back at
Mark. For the briefest of moments, Mark thought he saw something else in
the man's eyes. Something...sinister. But before he could be sure, John
flung the bedroom window open and leapt out into the dark of the night,
vanishing in the shadows.

Mark remained in his bedroom--the taste of John still in his mouth, the
feel of John's powerful hand around his throat, and the phantom-effect of
John's cock wedged in his butthole, which pulsed and gaped with yearning
the rest of the night.



CHAPTER SEVEN


The next day was a miserable one for Sheriff Mark Warner.

He woke violently to the buzzing of his alarm clock and broke it throwing
it against the wall. His hot water had been shut off for some inexplicable
reason, so his morning shower was icy cold. The only thing in his freezer
for breakfast was a sausage and egg sandwich that had expired six months
ago. He just had coffee. And, to make matters worse, his car wouldn't start
(he left the headlights on all night). So he had to catch a ride to work.

All in all, the morning was rough. Rougher knowing that John was gone.

When he got to the station, he dove into the box of donuts that Jackson had
brought and wolfed down two long johns and a glazed.

"Jesus, Warner, it's like you haven't eaten in days," Jackson said,
cautiously handing him a cup of coffee.

"That's what it feels like," Mark said. He took the coffee gladly.

"Anne Tate from the Wolfcreek Gazette is on line three for you."

"Is someone dead?"

Jackson screwed up his face. "No."

"Then I'm busy."

Mark locked himself in his office and collapsed at his desk. He felt as if
he hadn't slept in a thousand years, and he only just woke up. Fuck it
all. He took the next hour popping vitamin pills, hydrating himself (it was
going to be a scorcher!), and sending one of the station clerks to get him
some vegetables and fruit. A belly full of donuts was not going to get him
through the rest of the day.

By noon, when Sanders traipsed into his office, Mark was chowing down on a
stalk of celery and reading from a Men's Digest.

"Can I have a word, Sheriff?"

"What's with the formality, Buck?" Mark said. "You don't have to call me--"

Out from behind Sanders, another man appeared. He was mid-forties, black
suit, black tie, crew-cut. Mark guessed that by the polished shoes on the
guy's feet, he was someone of great importance.

"Sheriff, this is Agent Fox from the FBI," Sanders said. He lobbed an
irritated look in Mark's direction. "He wanted to have a word with you."

"Oh." Mark scrambled to get rid of the Men's Digest. He hastily swallowed
the wad of celery in his mouth. He did a quick scan of his office and
lamented in the fact that it was hardly presentable. Whatever--it was a bad
day. "Please, take a seat."

But Agent Fox had already beat him to the punch. He was sitting across from
Mark, staring into him with fiery eyes. Mark immediately thought of the bad
guys in The Matrix movies, minus the sunglasses, of course.

The FBI agent flashed a set of big, square teeth at him.

"Sheriff Warner, how are you?"

"I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy took a shit on me, but otherwise I'm
fine. What can I help you with?"

Slightly thrown (he wasn't used to Mark's sense of humor yet), Agent Fox
frowned. "Sheriff, about a month ago Wolfcreek fell prey to a couple murder
cases that seemed...unusual. Am I correct?"

"Isn't every murder unusual?" Mark asked. He shot a smiling look at
Sanders, but Sanders just shook his head. Rolled his eyes.

Across from him, Agent Fox's stone expression hardened. "Sheriff I am here
in your ass-crack-of-a-town on measures of national security. Believe me,
I'd rather be anywhere else. So you'll excuse me for not finding your humor
humorous and you'll forgive me for telling you to grow the fuck up, you're
an officer of the law, not a high school punk who just discovered his
dick." He grinned. "Are we clear?"

Humbled, Mark swallowed hard. "Crystal."

"Very good." Agent Fox reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece
of paper. He handed it to Mark with gravity. "Now the two murder cases I'm
referring to, the ones where both men were--how do I put
this?--dismembered, was there any evidence collected at the murder site
that seemed...strange to you and your team?"

Mark nodded. "Well, yeah. We found semen from two different sources." He
glanced at Sanders, who was standing stiffly in the corner of the
room. "And some prints."

"These prints," Agent Fox said, perking up. "May I see them?"

"You'd have to talk to the forensics team about that. I'm not in charge of
that unit."

"Where can I find someone who is?"

Mark looked over at Sanders. "I think the sergeant is your best bet there."

"I see." Agent Fox leaned back slightly in the chair. "Wolfcreek has also
had reports of a naked man running around, yes?"

Mark tensed. "That's correct."

"Dark hair, well over six feet, muscular?"

"Yeah. So?"

"And have you seen this man?"

Mark felt a chill run up his spine. His armpits were growing damp. His ass
was beginning to sweat.

"No," he said. "I have not."

Over steepled hands, Agent Fox studied Mark intently. There was an uneasy
pause. Then, "The FBI has been tracking a man who fits this description for
quite some time. We've been following him all the way from Arkansas. He's
dangerous, and vicious, and will most assuredly strike again. If any of
your deputies come across this individual, it is imperative that you do NOT
try and go after him at night. I cannot stress that point enough. If he's
spotted, contact us straight away. We'll be there."

The man was on his feet and strolling out of the room.

"I look forward to speaking with you again, Sheriff," he said, over his
shoulder. "And I hope when we do, it's a farewell."

He stomped out of the office, down the hall, and, ultimately, out of the
police station.

"What the fuck is his deal?" Sanders said, huffing. "They always think they
can just roll on in and take over any jurisdiction. What assholes. You
okay?"

Mark was sitting in his chair, frozen. He looked as if he'd just seen a
ghost. No, a spider! Spiders were definitely scarier than ghosts.

"Mark?"

Mark looked up. "Yeah?"

"You look like you just saw a--"

"I'm fine." He bolted up on his feet. "I just need to pee really bad. Be
right back." And he was out of the room.

In his hand was the crushed up piece of paper that Agent Fox had given
him. On it was a photo of John, clear as day, running naked through an
intersection at night. The speedtrap camera had caught him.

Mark's head was spinning.

--

He walked into the convenient mart, heavy-footed and morose. The afternoon
was a sweltering hundred and five--even the blacktop was sizzling. He went
for the freezers, opened the one displaying the largest stock of alcohol,
and reached for something hard.

"Howdy, Sheriff," came a male voice from behind him.

Mark turned to find Jimmy Tanner walking in through the doors. He was one
of Wolfcreek's lifelong residents. A young buck, still in his prime. His
father was a junkyard owner--or used to be, at least. Jimmy grew up a
desert rat, and fit the role well.

He was a slender, somewhat lanky kid. Mid-twenties, goatee, shaggy head of
hair. He always wore scuffed up jeans and a wife-beater. His exposed neck
and shoulders more sun-browned than a Cherokee Indian's skin.

Mark gave him a cursory smile and went back to selecting his poison.

"Haven't seen you in here in a while," Jimmy said, scratching his fuzzy
chin. "Watcha been up to?"

Mark sighed. He wasn't in the mood to chat.

"Been minding the town," he said dismissively.

"Righteous."

Jimmy was one of those red-neck types. Put him in a secluded desert town or
in the deep south and he fit right in. Mark had always liked the kid. He
was kind, though somewhat on the dumb side. Apparently he flunked out of
high school and certainly never stepped foot in a community
college. Probably wouldn't know the names of any U.S. Presidents if
asked. Worked in an autobody shop since he was fifteen. Earned the title of
greasemonkey early on. But if there was one thing Jimmy Tanner had going
for him, it was his looks. The kid was painfully cute, Mark thought. Always
had been. Even for being as white-trash as he was, Jimmy's eyes and nose,
his trim figure, his round little ass, all of him exuded the word Male.

Mark shot the kid a half-hearted smirk and went to the register to check
out.

"Whiskey," Jimmy said, spying the bottle in Mark's hand. "Gotta be one of
those days, huh?"

"Yeah."

The clerk behind the counter, who was a quiet Indian man, never even looked
up at him. He rang up the purchase, Mark swiped his card, and that was
that.

As Mark was moving to leave, Jimmy said, "Any luck with the ladies?"

That's right, Mark thought. His and Jimmy's last conversation--over two
months ago--had been about their dating lives. Jimmy was your typical horny
guy in his twenties. His conversation range consisted of women/sex, draft
beer, car mechanics, and what it feels like to get stung by a scorpion.

"Not lately," Mark said. It was more of a growl than he intended.

"Yeah, I get that," Jimmy said, poking through the cases of beer on the
shelves. "My dick hasn't seen a pussy in ages. Might need to hit the bar
tonight, you know? Buy a chick a drink."

"Good luck with that."

Mark started to leave, but Jimmy kept rattling on, and he wanted to kill
him, slowly and painfully.

"Hey, how's your car, Sheriff?" Jimmy asked. Mark had frequented Jimmy's
autobody shop over the last few years, so his car was a mutual interest of
theirs.

"Actually, it's dead," Mark said with a sigh.
 "Yeah, must've left the lights on all night."

"Damn," Jimmy said. "I could jump start if for ya, if you'd like. Only take
a couple minutes."

With the bottle in his hand, and a steadily pulsing ache in his head, Mark
studied Jimmy with an increasing interest. He hadn't thought about needing
to jump his car. He would need to take care of it sooner rather than later,
anyway.

"Okay," Mark said, resigning. "Can you give me a ride?"

Jimmy smiled at him. "Sure thing, Sheriff." He finished purchasing a bottle
of water--must have been like an oven that shop of his--and walked Mark out
to the parking lot. They hopped in his Explorer and drove to Mark's house,
where his dead car sat pathetically in the drive way, depressed and
melancholy, a direct reflection of Mark's mood.

"I got some jumper cables in the back," Jimmy said, parking his truck on
the curb. "I'll just put your car and neutral and let it roll back out onto
the street so we can hook her up. Will need your help steering it, though."

In the baking heat of Jimmy's truck, Mark could smell the kid's underarms
roasting like a holiday ham. Jimmy had the look of a shaggy dog sometimes,
and smelled like it, too. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, though. Mark knew
that to a woman, or perhaps to a man who wasn't interested in guys, Jimmy's
scent might have been a tad offensive. But to Mark, the kid smelled like a
hard-wroking male, and nothing more. He had a salty, musky aroma about
him--and a sweetness, too. The kid's deodorant, even, was somewhere in the
vein of Old Spice, and complimented his natural fragrance.

For close to half an hour, Mark and Jimmy worked to get power back into his
car, and when they finally got the engine rumbling, they hopped in and
began driving around the block to juice up the battery.

They rolled the windows down, letting the hot desert air ventilate the
cabin, and made a few circles around the neighborhood.

"Did ya'll catch them killers who ate that boy?" Jimmy asked, out of the
blue. "You know, the one they found in the woods about a month back?"

Mark shot him a glance.

"There's only one killer, we think," he said. "And no. Didn't catch him."

"Damn." Jimmy scratched at something between his legs. "Can you imagine
that, though? Having your nuts eaten? I mean, us guys gotta keep those
suckers safe, you know? That's our manhood and all."

Mark grimaced. "It's probably not fun."

"Shit, man, I'd rather take something up the butt than have my boys bitten
off," Jimmy said, laughing.

"Well, it's not like you'd live to be miserable about it or anything," said
Mark. "From the looks of it, the boy was eaten pretty quickly. Balls and
all. There was another man we found in similar condition, up off of
Spencer."

"No way!"

Mark gave a slow, conceivable nod. "Way."

"Goddamn. What a way to go, being eaten alive like that. Well, you guys
gotta catch this sonofabitch who's out there eating people. You know what
people are saying, right? They're saying the boy was raped right before he
was eaten."

Mark looked at him. "People are saying that, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said. "It's been all the talk this month."

"Well, there's certainly evidence that he was raped," Mark said. "But we
can't verify anything yet."

"I guess some fellas will do just about anything to stick their cock into
someone these days." Jimmy scratched his armpit. "I mean, I'm hard up and
all, but I'd never bend a dude over like that and fuck him. I mean, I'd
have to be pretty desperate, you know what I mean, Sheriff?"

At the wheel, Mark nodded slowly. He turned back onto his street and parked
his car.

"You wanna come inside for a glass of water?" Mark asked. "It's about all I
got to offer you right now, seeing as I haven't gone to the store in
ages. But it's hot out and you've been sweating."

"Sure thing, Sheriff!" Jimmy said.

Mark led the kid in through the garage and gestured for him to take a seat
at the kitchen counter.

"My, you gotta nice place here," Jimmy said, looking around.

"Please." Mark almost laughed. "It's a dump."

Jimmy gave it another look. "Okay, yeah," he said. "But you keep it clean,
at least. And I like what you did with the living room! Makes for a good
bachelor pad." It was a sad attempt to salvage the obviousness of Mark's
residency. His home wasn't a hole exactly. But it wasn't a five-star hotel
either. It was, quite ordinarily, your typical mid-thirties guy's living
situation.

"Thanks for the water," Jimmy said, taking the glass that was handed to
him. He took several gulps, and the moment he lifted his arm, Mark got a
potent whiff of his pit.

Mark's nostrils buzzed and itched with the smell. It was a spicy, briny
air, like the wind off of the ocean. In turn, he caught Jimmy's nostrils
flaring, too. At first, he figured the kid was picking up his own scent of
hard-labor, but it quickly dawned on him that Jimmy was smelling something
else, something Mark hadn't even noticed.

"Smells like men in here," Jimmy said, smiling.

Mark raised his brow. "Yeah?"

The kid stuck his nose in the air, inhaled. "Yeah," he said. "Smell that?
You can definitely tell a male lives here."

Of course it did. With all the sex he and John had been having, Mark was
surprised the kid wasn't gagging.

Mark laughed. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry if it stinks."

"Nah, not at all. I just know what guys smell like," Jimmy said
casually. "Had three brothers, after all. And you don't grow up with three
brothers without smelling of few armpits and ballsacks from time to time. A
couple of butts, too." He finished his glass of water.

Mark had nearly forgotten about the Tanner boys. Jimmy's eldest brother was
roughly Mark's age. Lived somewhere north, near Salt Lake, with a wife and
a few kids. Jimmy had two younger brothers, too. One had taken over their
dad's junkyard right out of high school, and the other was still in high
school and, according to Deputy Newton, he was causing a ruckus nearly
everyday in the classroom.

The Tanner boys were a handsome litter, though Mark always figured Jimmy
for the cutest. Sure, the twenty-four-year-old looked like a roadside mutt
with mange from time to time, but damn, something about his boyish face
sent electricity into Mark's crotch.

"Well, I guess I walk around naked most of the time," Mark said. "Probably
doesn't help with the smell."

At that, Jimmy laughed. "Best part about being single, man, am I right? No
chick, all dick!"

"If you want we can step outside. You know, if the smell is too strong."

"Nah man, I don't mind. Reminds me of sharing a room with my brothers. It's
nostal-jer-ik."

God, the kid was dumb.

Mark's eyes fell over the subtle curve of Jimmy's backside. He wore his
pants in that ridiculous, gantsa-fashion where they hung halfway down his
ass, revealing the boxershorts that only barely covered up the crack. He
lost himself in a daydream, his eyes fixed on ass, and almost didn't hear
Jimmy talking.

"...to guys from here on out," and Jimmy laughed.

Mark shook away his emptiness and looked up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, this godforsaken town doesn't have a single chick worth fucking
anymore. They all went flitting off to Vegas. And then I said, I just might
have to turn to guys from here on out." He repeated his laugh.

He really did have a gorgeous smile, even if one tooth was missing.

Unable to contain himself any longer--he was boiling over--Mark closed the
five-foot gap between them in a split second. He had both of Jimmy's arms
in his fists and he was wrestling him to the floor.

"Whoa, Sheriff, what'd I--"

"Shut up!" Mark said.

He pushed the kid to the floor, down on his hands and knees, and with
little effort, Mark dug his fingers into the waistband of the kid's
boxershorts and yanked them clear off his butt.

"Sheriff, what--"

"I said, shut up!"

Now, bent over and bare-assed on Mark's floor, Jimmy Tanner looked like a
boy in trouble. And, of course, he was.

His pasty white ass had never seen sunlight before. That much was
clear. And it was surprisingly bald--even the peach-fuzz on the cheeks and
around the hole was minimal. Mark would've guessed that the kid had a furry
butt based on his overall hairy appearance. But it was smooth as a whistle.

In plain view, Jimmy's anus was a small, brown pucker that contracted and
relaxed constantly. The kid was in obvious distress. Ignoring the boy's
soft uncertain whimpers, Mark stared into the butthole with rapt attention
and felt his entire mouth fill with water. Beneath his brown dot of an
anus, Jimmy's plump scrotum hung like a ripe and fuzzy peach, ready for
picking.

Even in the cool air-conditioning of his home, Mark could smell the heat
rise up off of Jimmy's underside. It was a pungent, sour, salty heat. If he
had been wearing glasses, the lenses would have steamed up.

Cock aching for release, Mark unfastened his pants and let his manhood
tumble out in full. He wanted--no, he NEEDED--to get the male fluids out of
him. They were driving him insane.

Mark watched as Jimmy looked back and spotted his eight-inch cock filling
up fast with blood. The kid's eyes widened.

"Sheriff, are you gonna fuck me?"

The kid was trembling, which Mark found odd, seeing as Jimmy was one of
those rough-and-tough, four-wheeler desert types. He was strong enough to
take care of himself in a situation like this. He was not the victim-type.

Maybe it was because of Mark's gun, which was secured at his waist. Or
maybe it was because he couldn't believe what was happening--a very real
possibility given that Jimmy Tanner wasn't the brightest crayon in the
box. But Mark suspected, more than that, that the kid was intrigued by what
was happening. His body may have been trembling, but his voice was
inquisitive and curious and under a spell.

"Just relax your body," Mark said, taking aim for Jimmy's vulnerable
asshole.

He heard the kid taking deep, nervous breaths.

He pressed the tip of his cock to the puckered sphincter. Jimmy tensed and
the entryway closed up tight.

A pearl of Mark's pre-cum oozed out, and he glazed the kid's anus with the
natural lubricant. His cock was already ready to fire, just by Jimmy's
smell alone.

With his hands, Mark spread the kid's buttcheeks even wider apart, lined
himself up.

"Does it stink?" Jimmy asked.

"It's fine," Mark said, trying to focus.

"Sorry, I took a shit a couple hours ago," Jimmy said. He yelped when the
head of Mark's cock pushed into him.

"You're okay," Mark said, a compassionate father. "You're okay, Jimmy."

Slowly, Mark stuffed every inch of himself inside of Jimmy Tanner. The kid
was tighter than the barrel of his Glock, but he managed to open him up
after a few tender minutes. The raw, flesh-on-flesh feeling, the warmth of
Jimmy's rectum, the smell of the kid's body, all of it was sending Mark
into a male frenzy.

Kneeling under Mark's weight, Jimmy moaned and whimpered as Mark sank deep
inside him. It was evident that the boy had never been fucked before. It
was also evident that he was enjoying it. Mark's swollen cock kept slipping
and sliding over Jimmy's prostate, and the kid was going crazy. His voice
cracked as he cried out, and somewhere down between his legs, something
stiff and fleshy wobbled about.

Mark was bucking his hips hard and fast by this point. In and out of
Jimmy's anus, five minutes straight.

"Sheriff," Jimmy said desperately, panting. "Sheriff, I think I'm...I think
I'm gonna--"

A loud boyish squeal escaped the kid's throat and then, somewhere down
below him, a wildfire seemed to burst into the world. Mark could smell the
stink of semen as the kid no doubt sprayed into his pants where his cock
was still concealed.

Slipping around inside Jimmy's rectum, Mark's cock was suddenly being
massaged by the voluminous contractions of orgasm. The kid's anus was
squeezing at the base of his cock, vice-like, and the wetness of his
insides were lapping at the rest of him like dehydrated dogs.

Mark felt a great inferno raging, fuming, scorching inside him. His entire
body seemed to flex and go simultaneously numb as seminal fluids charted
his male system like an express freeway, flying through his body, boiling
up into his prostate, and then firing out of his cock like a canon. He
spilled his seed inside of Jimmy Tanner, pump after pump, every last drop.

Beneath him, clothed except for his naked butt and dangling ballsack, Jimmy
Tanner sighed in something similar to relief. Gut-deep in the boy, Mark
worked to catch his breath. After giving both of them a minute or two to
recover, Mark pulled out of Jimmy and watched his flaccid cock fall heavily
down between his legs. It was greasy from Jimmy's insides, and no doubt it
smelled like them, too. He needed a shower.

"Holy shit," Jimmy said under his breath. He got up on his feet and pulled
his pants back up over his butt.

Holy shit was right, Mark thought. Where had that come from? What has he
done?

"Sorry about that," Mark said, making light of the situation. "It's been a
long day and I guess I...needed a release."

By this point, Jimmy was facing him. A curious look etched his scruffy,
boyish face.

"Yeah, your dick probaby stinks something fierce now," he said with a goofy
laugh. He reached back and rubbed his butt, which was no doubt sore as a
motherfucker. "But now worries, Sheriff. Guys are guys. We all have needs."

Mark feigned a smirk. "Yeah," he said. "It would be great if this stayed
between us, Jimmy." He said it carefully, trying to guage where the kid was
at. Had he raped him? Is that what happened? Jesus, it was like he had been
possessed by something all of a sudden, as if he hadn't been in control of
himself. "You think you can do that for me?"

"Sure thing, Sheriff," Jimmy said. He felt at his lower belly, where Mark
had emptied himself. "Gotta say, I kinda feel like a woman now," he
said. "Never thought I'd have a dude blow his load in me before."

"Yeah." Mark didn't know what to say. He was coming down from his high. He
was becoming more lucid. More...aware. He started walking toward the door,
an effort to give Jimmy his cue to leave.

"Well, hey, Sheriff," Jimmy said, following after Mark. "If you ever need
to, you know...find release...I don't mind. S'long as you don't mind the
smell of a dude's ass on your dick. I mean, I know us guys stink. But if
you ever just need a warm hole or something..."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mark said, trying to sober up quick. "Thanks,
Jimmy."

He watched as the twenty-four-year-old strolled back to his truck and drove
off. He shut and locked the door, and a huge sigh escaped him.

What the fuck was that?! How come I went so...crazy?

Confused, Mark went straight for the shower.



CHAPTER EIGHT


The Howl Room was a bar on Main Street and Eighth. In fact, it was
Wolfcreek's only bar in operation. Given the fact that Willy Henderson
collapsed from a fatal heart attack last year, there was only one bar
owner/bar tender left in the whole damn town.

So, seeing as options were limited, Jimmy Tanner found himself at the Howl
Room come sundown. A pint of beer in one hand, and his phone in the other,
the kid hooted and hollered with the fellow bar flies who had earned their
status as 'regulars' over the years.

The game was on the big screen, and Northwest State was winning. Needless
to say, there was a rowdiness in the Howl Room that night, and Jimmy Tanner
was every bit a part of it. Being twenty-four and male was his greatest
achievement in life...it was also the thing that would kill him before the
night was over.

Steeped in his own testosterone, Jimmy shouted at the players on the field
through the screen. He chugged at his beer.

"Fuckin' ref doesn't know what he's doing!" he said, throwing a fit.

The man next to him shook his head, disappointed.

Jimmy was a hard working kid, a good looking kid. But he wasn't much for
brains, and he certainly didn't have an energy dial. He was either
extremely low, or almost to the point of hyper-active. It was the curse of
being a Tanner boy, he'd always been told. All four of them had a lot of
testosterone in their bodies. As Jimmy's older brother used to say, "Our
balls are over-achievers, and that's about all we got going for us!"

When the game was over, and with a belly full of beer, Jimmy paid his tab
and stumbled out of the Howl Room. He never picked up a chick like he told
Sheriff Warner he was going to do, and all of his buddies had already gone
home for the night. It was well after midnight on a Tuesday, and they all
had to work the next morning.

Jimmy, however, was a nightowl. He liked the nights, relished in
them. Nights were for drinking and fucking...and when he had no one to
fuck, there wasn't much else to be had. So he usually spent his time at the
bar, making drunken friends and then going on his merry way.

Such was tonight.

Jimmy Tanner swayed in moderation as he made his way through the bar's
parking lot and out to the sidewalk on Main Street. The night was quiet,
the street deserted, and Jimmy was all alone.

Above, the full moon was bright. It lit up Wolfcreek like a flourescent
light. And the stars--they were magnificent.

Jimmy stumbled on toward his house. It was roughly a mile walk, give or
take a mile. He'd made the journey a thousand times.

Deep in his gut, he could still feel Sheriff Warner's cum swirling
around. His asshole was sore as hell. He knew he wouldn't be able to shit
right for a week. But even so, there was something strangely enticing about
what happened between him and the sheriff earlier that afternoon. He
couldn't quite explain it. Maybe he'd just been so hard up for so long that
it didn't matter if it was a penis or a pussy. Maybe his prostate had been
so stimulated that he was able to get off from the sensation alone. Or
maybe Jimmy actually liked having something stuck up his poop shoot for
once. Maybe it felt good. He'd always loved taking those hard,
thirty-minute shits growing up as a kid. As painful as they were sometimes,
they still felt kinda nice. Something about the pressure in the anus. He
didn't know exactly why, but getting fucked by the sheriff was the greatest
thing to happen to him in a long time.

His lower abdomen made a loud, girgling sound, and he knew it wasn't
because he was hungry.

Walking on the side of the road, Jimmy glanced a time or two over his
shoulders. No cars were coming. The streets were still as a glassy lake. By
this point, he'd passed most of Wolfcreek's main buildings and was
practically strolling in the desert. Just him, the road, and a barren
wasteland for as far as the eye could see.

For the middle of the night, it was still hot as hell. Jimmy hadn't
showered all day. Not even after Sheriff Warner fucked him. In his pants,
his dried cum was encrusted to the inside of his boxer shorts, tangled in
his pubic hair, and caked onto his dick. If he concentrated hard enough, he
could even smell Sheriff Warner's sweaty ballsack on his person. The scent
was etched into the backside of his boxers, where the sheriff's sack rubbed
up against him a time or two.

Jimmy sniffed his armpit and winced. He needed a shower, bad.

A sudden scuffling noise somewhere out in the desert caught his
attention. Jimmy slowed his walk--more of a stagger, really--and looked out
into the dark. He couldn't see far. Maybe about thirty feet. He squinted,
but still nothing. Must have been a fox or something.

He continued walking, just him and the road. The town was about a quarter
mile at his back, and receding. His house was down the road up ahead for
another half mile. He still lived at his father's house, where his younger
brother ran the company. It was a junkyard, in the middle of nowhere. And
boy, what a piece of junk it was.

Jimmy lived in the basement, whereas his two younger brothers lived in the
upstairs part of the house. He was used to entertaining women there, but
not lately. Like he said to Sheriff Warner earlier that day, all the chicks
worth fucking had left town. He was all dried up.

Alone with his drunken thoughts, Jimmy actually contemplated what it would
be like to start sniffing out guys to fuck instead. Hell, he was a guy in
his twenties. He needed to fuck.

But just as he considered what it would be like to slip his cock into
another dude's shithole, the scuffling noise came again. This time, it was
loud, and extremely close.

Jimmy froze where he stood.

Something large was standing just beyond the length of his vision. He
peered out into the night, trying to see what was there, and that's when he
heard it. The breathing.

Chills creeping in, Jimmy listened as the animal inhaled, exhaled. A
massive pair of lungs. He guessed that whatever it was, it must have been
the size of a gorilla, or a lion.

A low antagonizing growl seeped out of the shadows, and Jimmy knew
instantly that he was in trouble.

"Oh shit," he said under his breath. He immediately turned back, heading
toward town. "Oh shit...oh shit."

He could hear the heavy footfall of something big and stalking. Whatever it
was, it was interested in him. It was hunting him.

"Oh shit." Jimmy picked up his pace, and within a few seconds he was at an
all out sprint.

Behind him, the creature was in full pursuit. He could feel its booming,
thunderous steps as it chased him down. He could hear its rasping, roaring
breaths, its vicious snarls.

A cry escaped Jimmy's throat, but it hardly shattered the night. Before he
could even call for help, the beast was upon him, tackling him to the
ground. They went rolling off the road and into the desert, skidding to a
halt in a patch of brushwood. Jimmy didn't even have time to think, his
head was spinning, and the wind had been knocked out of him.

Suddenly, his clothes were being torn from his body. His wife-beater, his
pants...his boxer shorts. Jimmy felt his fuzzy male parts flop out from
their concealment and fall, helpless and dangling, into the open night
air. What was worse, his butt was completely exposed.

"No..." Jimmy tried to beg for mercy, but his attacker jabbed him in the
face with a massive paw.

The beast was enormous! Jimmy felt his legs being crushed underneath its
weight. It was a great, snarling creature with glowing yellow eyes and,
noticeably, razor sharp fangs that glinted in the moonlight.

He trembled in fear as the monster pinned him belly down and forced his
skinny hairy legs apart.

"Please, no..." Jimmy begged.

Something thick and dangling between the monster's legs came the edges of
Jimmy's vision. It was a strong, blubbery organ. In the moonlight, it
appeared wet and glistening. Jimmy felt his butthole pinch shut.

"No!"

But it was too late. The beast was already boring into him, shoving its
ten-foot male appendage into his rectum, charting unexplored territory,
breeching his colon and following the tract of his large intestine. Jimmy
screamed so loud that his voice cracked into nothing, no sound. He could
feel the monster's cock bulging from his abdomen. If he were to look down
now, he would see the massive lump in his stomach.

Jimmy's anus was stretched to its full capacity as it took in the great
phallus. Strangely enough, Jimmy could feel his dick hardening down between
his legs.

On top of him, the beast began bucking its hips. It started off slower at
first, but increased its pace as Jimmy's sphincter gave way to the
unavoidable intrusion. A deep, gutteral sound rumbled up from somewhere in
the creature's giant body. Jimmy, meanwhile, was doing his best to stomach
that invasion--literally.

While Jimmy's organs were being pushed aside to make way for the beast's
massive cock, and while his body was riddled with pain, he never once
expected for his own dick to be stiffer than a rock and ready to spew a hot
load all over the ground. The distinctly male pleasure of sex was bubbling
up inside him, ebbing and flowing in great tides, boiling hot and ready to
overflow. Jimmy gasped as a fiery sensation erupted deep inside him.

Suddenly, he was spilling his own cum all over himself and the
ground. Crouched over him, bucking its hips wildly, the creature roared
with anguish as Jimmy's anus clamped down tight around its shaft. Then, as
Jimmy could tell, it too was breeching orgasm.

Dick dripping, body shaking, Jimmy braced himself for the internal
explosion that was coming at any moment. The beast fucking him was so
massive, he wondered if he would even survive its ejaculation. And then,
just as he figured he would probably die, the monster balls-deep inside him
howled, and it was a shrill, terrifying sound that made Jimmy's blood run
like ice water.

Suddenly, he could feel the beast's thick organ spasming with orgasm deep
inside him. And yes, there it was, pump after pump of its substantial load,
filling his guts, erupting inside him like an angry volcano. The pressure
in Jimmy's colon was increasing. He was being stuffed full, so much so that
his abdomen was distended, swollen, plump, fat.

And just like that, the creature was finished. The orgasm was over, and
Jimmy was stil alive. Granted, he felt like a water balloon, but still. He
was alive. He was--

The creature pulled out of Jimmy's gaping wet anus and began to eat him,
ass-first.

Jimmy's screams were lost to the vast desert. Above, the moon was full.



CHAPTER NINE


Crime scene tape was stretched over a series of traffic cones right off the
hundred and thirty-ninth mile marker of Highway 89. It framed a small
ditch, surrounded by mesquite brush that hid the gored body of Jimmy Tanner
almost entirely.

Mark drove up and parked his car at the rear of a small fleet of police
cars and emergency vehicles. The strobing blue lights were almost
unnecessary by now, given that the morning sun was bright and rising.

Mark got out of his car and took a moment to take in his surroundings. He
was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. Noticeably, he was
barefoot--forgot to grab his shoes on the way out that morning. He hadn't
expected to go into work, but when you're the Sheriff of a town, you're
pretty much on call twenty-four-seven.

He bare-footed it over the coarse blacktop and climbed over the crime scene
tape. The wind was brisk, warm. The sun was coming up fast overhead,
blinding and reflecting off the desert that stretched out in every
direction.

A chill ran down Mark's neck and he stopped, looking at the hustle and
bustle as forensics combed the site. There was a patch of red, no doubt
leftovers of Jimmy Tanner, and a series of scrapes and scuffs in the desert
ground all around. Clearly, something vicious and violent occurred there
between sundown and sun up. It didn't look pretty.

"Warner," someone called, and Mark looked up to see Sanders coming out of
the mesquite towards him. The man appeared fresh out of bed, same as
Mark. He was wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. They were lumpy
and wrinkled and hung on him awkwardly. It was seven-thirty in the morning,
for Christ's sake. No one needed to be concious at that hour! "It's about
fucking time. Jesus Christ, Mark." He wiped a hand over his sweating brow.

Mark frowned. "What's the scoop?"

"The scoop," Sanders said, "is that Jimmy Tanner got ate. Same as the two
cases last month. Most of the flesh stripped clean, almost no internal
organs remaining. Only the head left behind, with a few bones here and
there."

"Any prints?"

"Tons."

Barefoot and cautious about it, Mark stepped closer to the scene of the
murder. Cameras flashed left and right as forensics did their job. Mark was
aware the Will Feldman was nearby, but he didn't pay much attention. His
gaze was fixed on the pool of blood and sand, staining the roadside ditch
like spilled wine on carpet.

"Some lady driving down the highway spotted it about an hour ago," Sanders
went on to say, yawning. "Bitch couldn't have called it in sometime after
nine o'clock, could she?"

There was blood everywhere. Scattered in droplets, drenching the
surrounding brush. The scarlet footprints of a monster peppered the
scene. Canine-like, but much, much larger, they bolted off to the
north--seemingly to nowhere.

"This is all we found of Tanner," Sanders added.

Mark looked down, gazing into Jimmy's dead eyes. The kid's head was the
only remaining piece of him. Everything else was, well, gone. Eaten. Not
even a leg or a foot to book-end the massacre. Not even his butthole, which
had nursed Mark's cock less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Shit," Mark heard himself say. He felt the blood rush out of his face.

"Our little monster's back," Sanders said. There was gravity in his
words. "I figure it can't be the man from the FBI's reports. Look at these
goddamn tracks. There's something discernibly animal here. Canine." He
leaned into Mark, lowered his voice. "Mark, I'm talking about an exotic pet
that's either escaped or been set free. You hear about that shit all the
time on the news. Someone buys a lion cub or a fucking arctic wolf pup, and
suddenly they grow up, kill their owner and get out of containment. I think
we need to put out a county-wide search for a quadruped predator."

"Uh-huh," Mark said, without turning around to look at the vestiges of
Jimmy Tanner's no-body. Fuck, he could still feel the kid's anus squeezing
his dick. "It makes sense."

"Ah fuck me sideways," Sanders grumbled. He was looking over Mark's
shoulder.

Mark spun around to find two black Nissan's pulling up on the road. They
each came to a full stop, and out of one of them climbed Agent Fox.

"How come the FBI always thinks they can jump in the local orgy, huh?"
Sanders said quietly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Fucking
pricks."

"Sheriff Warner, Sergeant Sanders," Agent Fox said. He glided down the
slope toward them. "Bit of an unfortunate accident, I hear."

"One of our local boys was...eaten last night," Sanders spat at
him. "'Accident' isn't the word I'd use to describe it."

"Oh, it's the word I'd use," Agent Fox said, slipping on a latex glove. "If
you'll excuse me." He stepped through them, passed them, and entered the
crime scene with something close to a twinkle in his eye.

Several other FBI agents followed in his wake.

Mark followed Sanders back to the squad car. The man was fuming.

"If they wanna believe a naked guy is running around out there, fucking and
eating people, let them," he said through his teeth. He looked up to Mark,
conspiratorially. "I'm tellin' you, Mark, I think we need to be looking for
what the evidence shows. An animal. We have the DNA on file, we have the
track marks to verify. This is not the work of a madman. This is a rogue
beast who has a taste for human blood."

Mark was listening, but he wasn't listening. A storm of thoughts was
sweeping through his mind.

"Mark?" he heard Sanders say. Then, "Sheriff?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

Mark drew a loaded breath. "Its just that--" His throat tightened. "Never
mind. I'm fine. And I agree. Let's put out asearch for an animal. I'll let
Sherlock over there," he gestured to Feldman who was being shoved aside by
FBI, "write up the press release. Notify all county dispatchers."

"Got it." Sanders was in his car, firing up the engine. "Are you sure
you're alright?"

It must have been obvious Mark was distressed...unusually so. But he put on
his best smile, harnessed his ninth grade drama class chops, and said, "I'm
great."

--

A craving, a yearning, a wild animal rage and Mark was bolting for his
bathroom. He undid his fly as he went, knelt down in front of the toilet,
put the seat up and let his balls tumble out over the rim of the porelain
bowl. His cock was fully erect and about two degrees warmer than the rest
of his body.

Mark seized his manhood in his fist and began stroking, hot and heavy. His
breathing was intense, his heart was booming. The smell of Jimmy Tanner
would not leave his nose! The kid's armpits, his ass. How come Mark was
still picking up whiffs of him? He had showered off since he fucked
him. Jimmy was dead, for crying out loud!

Stomach flexing, rippling, writhing, Mark jacked himself for barely ten
seconds before he was spilling his load in great, chunky globs. The fiery
eruptions of male pleasure shook his whole body. He had never felt so much
of his energy focus at his groin before. It was like sunlight through a
magnifying glass. It was so concentrated, so jolting, so amazing,
so...ADDICTING!

Big sigh. His belly rose and fell with his heavy breaths of relief. His
balls relaxed for the first time all day, and his cock slumped over, beat.

What the fuck is happening to me?

He got back on his feet and sluggishly made his way into the living room
where the TV was making light and sound--he never even looked up to see
what was on. There was a miserable knot coiling in his stomach, and it
didn't appear to be going away any time soon.

Outside, the moon was rising. Mark had been all over the place that
day. When there's a murder, life is sudden hell for a town Sheriff. If it
isn't an upset relative, it's an inquiring towns person. If it isn't that,
it's paperwork and a series of possible suspects who could be accountable
for the death. And when "people" weren't to suspect, life got even more
complicated.

Mark's head was whirling.

Beneath the background noise of the TV, and beneath the constant rattling
of his AC unit, something pricked Mark's ears. He was collapsed on the
sofa, one foot hanging of the side, the other on the armrest, face in his
hands as if to smother an oncoming headache, then all of a sudden he was
bolt upright, eyes wide in the dark.

The sound was shrill and sent shivers up his spine. Mark scrambled for the
remote, muting the TV, and listened.

A howl.

It was a far away, resonant howl. One that traveled a great distance and
filled the world with its booming, ubiquitous presence. Mark could feel
goosebumps prickling his flesh...even his dick. The howl got through his
home and reached his insides, his guts, his balls. It was not the ordinary
howl of a coyote or of a wolf baying at the moon. No, this was something
sinister. A creature out of a nightmare.

Mark stuffed his bare feet into his boots, hastily laced them, grabbed his
Glock and slipped out his backdoor. Once outside, he stopped, strained to
hear. The desert night was dark but for the glowing full moon overhead, and
silent but for the crickets chirping in the bushes. He took a few steps
out, off the stairs, off the patio, into the dirt. He held his breath.

The howl shattered the night a second time. It seemed to come from
everywhere at once. Whatever was making the noise must have been big. And
it couldn't have been more than a mile away...or so Mark estimated.

He carefully tried to pinpoint the direction that the howling had come
from, and after some discernment, he figured it was due north, toward the
hills. Gun loaded, boots fastened, Mark ran around to the garage, undid the
gate, hopped in his Wrangler and fired her up. Fast and furious style, he
zipped out and around the length of his house, driving straight into the
desert at 50 mph. He drove over bushes and rocks, dodged a few small
boulders, but for the most part it was a clear shot.

Within ten minutes he was at the base of the hills. Killing the engine, but
keeping the headlights beaming, Mark stepped out of the vehicle, gun in one
hand, mag-light in the other. He did not shut the door incase he needed to
make a quick getaway. It was strategy.

There was absolute quiet. All but the crickets and the cicada and
thunderous heartbeat pulsing in his head. He slowly moved away from the
Wrangler, wandering further out into the night. On his shoulders, the
silver light of the moon was bright. It gave the desert an icy filter in
the middle of the night and forced Mark to squint twice as hard.

He shined the beam of the mag-light all around him, in every direction. The
desert was a spooky place when you were alone...in the dark.

Mark shoved aside his childhood fears and continued taking slow and careful
steps. His eyes were wide and alert, his ears perked. Years of dust and
skeletons crunched under his boots, a brisk wind snapped at his body. He
figured he was either very brave or incredibly stupid for doing this on his
own. But what did he expect to say if he were to call in for back up? Hey
guys, I heard a howl outside and need some officers about a mile out into
the Mojave, stat. There was always a howl outside. It was the fucking
desert!

Taking care to step lightly, so not to make too much noise, Mark rounded a
corner on one of the hills. The rock broke off and led down into a dark
canyon. Mark pointed the mag-light into the blackness and gasped when the
beam pooled on a half-eaten man lying helplessly in the sand. He tensed,
and felt the blood in his veins go cold.

The dead man was someone Mark didn't know. A late twenties, early thirties
guy with brown hair and brown eyes. He was naked--well, the parts of him
still visible, at least--and staring blankly ahead, unphased by the bright
light shining on his face. Scratch marks textured his body, especially his
chest and arms, his neck. A pretty noticeable bite had been taken out of
his left arm, near the bicep, where the man had more meat. Mostly, though,
the man was relatively in tact. He was just missing his genitals and a good
chunk of his bowels. No biggie, right? They had only been eaten right off
his body. Common problem, simple fix.

More notably, however, the man's anus was leaking a familiar white
fluid--and lots of it!

Trembling, Mark took a few slow steps back. He needed to get out of
there. It wasn't safe. And that's when he noticed the quiet. The desert had
gone preternaturally silent. The crickets stopped chirping. The cicada cut
off their buzzing. Even the wind calmed to a barely audible blow. For the
first time, Mark sensed that he was in grave peril, and his heart began to
hammer.

Yep, he was incredibly stupid. Mind-numbingly fucking stupid.

The man's body wasn't even completely eaten like the other bodies had
been. There was still a lot of flesh on him, and by the look and smell of
it, it was fresh. The thing that had done this to him was close by. In
fact, it was probably looking at Mark right now.

He turned to go back to the Wrangler, and just as he did, something large
and furry moved out of the beam of his mag-light. Mark felt his stomach
twisting in knots...felt his balls pull up into his body. He could have
pissed himself right then and there if he wanted. He was going to be eaten,
he knew it. The creature was going to rip into him like it did all the
others. It was going to gobble up his balls, his cock, tear into his belly
and devour his intestines.

Mark began tossing the beam of the mag-light in every direction, trying to
locate the beast. But the thing had moved too far from the reach of the
light to be seen. He didn't know where it went.

Over the fearful panting of his own breaths, Mark could hear something big
moving just beyond the light. Massive feet with claws that scraped noisly
against the dirt. A scrabbling sound. A clatter of dislodged stones. A
faint rustle of dry brush.

Mark wanted to see what the thing was, but at the same time, he had gone
cold with dread and purely instinctive fear. He made a rash, split-second
decision and ran.

He was in excellent shape, and the shudded soles of his boots gave good
traction. He slipped slightly on loose stones, but righted himself almost
immediately. He did not look back.

Somewhere behind him, the thing was in full pursuit. Bounding at his heels,
biting, snarling.

Twenty yards away from the Wrangler, Mark pointed his gun behind him and
fired two shots. He did not know if they hit or not. He didn't care. He
just kept at an all out sprint--he was fast, faster than most men his
age--and dove into the jeep, slamming the door shut behind him. Something
enormous crashed into the keep, rocking the entire vehicle, before it
scampered off into the dark.

Mark rolled over and sat up, gasping. He could see nothing in the desert
outside. It was just dark, with only the rockface illuminated by the
Wrangler's headlights.

"Okay," Mark said to himself. "Okay." He was still breathing hard. Choking,
actually. "Okay, it's an animal."

He reached for the keys in his pocket. They weren't there.

"You've gotta be fucking joking," Mark said as he felt around, hoping
beyond all hope that they had fallen out somewhere in the jeep. They
weren't anywhere around. Of course not. That would be too easy.

Cursing himself, Mark took several minutes to gather his thoughts--and his
breath. In his chest, his heart was a war drum.

Fucking fuck fuck!

He shined the beam of his mag-light out the driver's side window, searching
the ground for the keys that had fallen off his person. They must have
slipped out while he was running. He would have surely noticed if they fell
off him any time before then.

When he couldn't catch sight of them with the light, Mark threw a fit. He
punched the steering wheel, sounding the horn several times, fought the
rearview mirror, most likely broke the glass, beat the seat cushions, and
screamed. He could smell the sour sweat of fear (and now anger) permeating
the interior of his jeep.

Maybe he could stay there until first light. By then, he'd be able to see
better. By then, he'd...be eaten. Okay, dumb idea. New plan. Maybe he could
find a way to distract the creature, create a diversion or something. And
when the beast was preoccupied, he could run out, grab his keys, and run
back. Only thing was he didn't know where the keys fell. That posed a
bigger problem than anything. Hmm...

The creature bolted by the jeep, and Mark caught a glimpse of it in the
beam of the headlights. It was a large black haired thing, easily eight
feet tall. Based on what he saw, it moved with the same quadruped
philosophy as a gorilla--only it resembed a canine in every other way. At
least, that's what it appeared to be. Some giant dog with massive arms and
legs, a large cabled spine, and a long, bearish snout.

Fuck it, Mark thought. I'm dead.

It was right then, when he had given up all hope of coming out of this
alive, that he could feel a familiar male sensation germinating deep in his
core. It was an odd feeling to have, especially in a time of significant
distress like this. But it was unmistakeable. Mark need to jerk off.

"What the fuck is with me lately?" he said under his breath.

A tingling, burning spasm took his insides like wildfire and, unexpectedly,
Mark let out a low, sexual moan. It was as if his prostate was being
stimulated internally, as by a phantom cock.

His breathing transformed from frightened to deep and sexual. In his pants,
his penis swelled up large and fat. What a time for his male urges to
ignite, huh?

Cursing, Mark adjusted himself as best he could, trying to keep an eye on
what was happening outside the jeep while simultaneously making room for
himself in his pants. It was a difficult multi-tasking job, he had to
admit. But soon, the compulsion to relieve his sexual frustration became
too strong, and Mark undid his fly, dug into his underwear and pulled out
his cock. Damn, he was rock hard!

Breathing heavy, Mark began stroking himself. He did it kindly, tenderly,
but still with a bit of aggression. He'd often tell people he was the best
date he's ever had. He knew his body better than anyone, and thankfully, he
found himself attractive.

Running his fingers up and down the length of his shaft, Mark figured he
might as well enjoy the male experience one last time before he was
eaten. The way he saw it, if his boys were about to be digesting the belly
of a beast, he should at least get one more turn with them. And one more
turn he got!

His fist was pumping a bit faster now, and squeezing a little tighter. His
cock was stiffer than its ever been, and for a second, Mark was afraid it
was going to rupture. In his scrotum, his testicles were in the full swing
of production. Seminal fluid was rocketing through his body, gathering,
rising. Suddenly, as if an invisible finger were poking and prodding his
prostate, Mark's entire body flashed hot with fire. All his energy was
amassing at his groin, in his balls, and suddenly shooting up through his
male organs and out his cock.

The first three shots of cum splattered the windshield, the rest spilled
out over the top and puddled on Mark's exposed belly.

"Holy fuck," Mark said, stunned. It had been, quite possibly, the most
intense orgasm he's ever had. He was exhausted, sexually. Worn.

The thing outside, whatever it was, still lurked. It was circling the jeep,
Mark knew, trying to figure out how to get inside to eat him.

Balls and dick hanging out, Mark slumped down in his seat to catch his
breath. He could feel a warm fatigue wash over him like bath water. His
genitals were so tired, his body had worked so hard to cum just now, and he
deserved rest....

Without even realizing it, Mark passed out in the driver's seat, and slept
all through the night.



CHAPTER TEN


He woke with a jolt.

Mark had stayed in the Wrangler all night and was, miraculously, alive. The
sun was just up over the horizon, and the desert was visible in every
direction. He sat up and looked around, confused. He couldn't remember
falling asleep. It must have come upon him without his knowing. He reached
for his gun on the passenger seat and checked to see how many shots he had
left.

The Wrangler was dead. Headlights burned out sometime in the middle of the
night. Battery was squeezed dry.

Blinking, Mark peered out his window, trying to locate the dropped
keys. Not that they would do him any good if he were to find them. He was
just curious.

He still couldn't see them.

All around the jeep was clear. There was no sign of the beast anywhere. At
least, nothing he could discern. Slowly, Mark opened the jeep's door. For
the early morning, the desert was already warm. The nocturnal insects had
retired for the day, and the sky was gradually growing brighter, bluer. The
world felt momentarily safe, although Mark feared he was experiencing a
false sense of security.

Erring on the side of caution, he took a few steps away from the jeep,
making sure to check underneath it, and keeping his gun cocked and at the
ready. His head was still fuzzy from sleep, but his adrenaline was kicking
back in. Between looking up and out and scanning the ground for his keys,
Mark's eyes were restless.

A glint of sunlight caught his eye, and he spotted the brass of his car
keys about twenty yards away. They were right in front of the canyon
opening, where the half-eaten man had been. They must have fallen off him
when he staggered back and fell. Damn, he was so clumsy sometimes!

Light on his feet, Mark closed the gap between him and his keys and gently
picked them up off the ground so as to keep them from jingling too
loudly. His eyes were frantically exploring every direction. He was
whipping his head around this way and that.

Now what? Okay, so he had his keys, but the Wrangler was kaput. He was
going to have to walk back, and it was an easy five miles of desert, maybe
more, before he'd reach his house.

Cursing under his breath, Mark knelt down low and scanned his
surroundings. He knew the best option available to him was to just get up
and start walking. The sun was only going to get higher, and who knows
where that creature was by now.

As he rose up to his full six feet, Mark glanced back into the opening of
the canyon. Though it was still masked in shadows, he could see clearly
that the half-eaten man was now almost fully consumed. Nothing remained of
the body but the head, a foot, and a few blood-soaked bones. Mark felt his
insides jiggle with fear, and that's when he noticed something new in the
equation. Lying next to the vestiges of the man's body was a large
lump. Mark squinted, trying to make out the object. Whatever it was hadn't
been there the night before.

To add to his list of mind-dumbingly stupid things that he did in life,
Mark took a couple steps toward the canyon. He wanted to know what was
beside the gored mess.

With his mag-light still in hand, Mark shined its beam into the dark
grotto. The first thing he recognized was the flesh tones of a grown man,
one who was curled up in the fetal position beside the remains of the
murder victim. The man was naked, and hardly had a scratch on him. More
interestingly, Mark recognized the ass all at once.

John.

In a burst, Mark skidded down the canyon's side and into the hollow. He
kept the beam of the flashlight on John's naked body until he reached
him. Then, with a heavy hand, Mark shooked the man by his shoulder.

John startled awake with a ferocious snarl. He took a swipe at Mark--barley
missed--and was on his feet within a flash of a second.

"John?" Mark said.

The man's wide eyes landed on Mark and slowly came to realization.

"John," Mark said, confused, "what the hell are you doing here?"

John seemed to get control of himself and looked down at his blood stained
hands. His eyes drifted over to the remains of the murder victim. He looked
back at Mark with something between fear and anger in his gaze. Then, as if
struck by an invisible blow, he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Mark
rushed over to catch him, but he was too late. John was already on the
ground, sprawled out and unable to be roused.

"Fuck." Mark jammed his flashlight into his belt and put the gun in its
holster. He knelt down and lifted John's naked body off the ground--Mark
was strong, and even though John was larger than he was, he was still able
to at least drag the man out of the canyon.

Within an hour, Mark managed to get John back to the Wrangler where he had
a supply of bottled water and coolant bags to help with the heat. He used
some smelling salts to wake John, and though the man seemed disoriented,
they walked together into the desert. They had five miles to go before they
reached Mark's house.

--

Naked and burning with fever, John collapsed on the sofa in the living
room. Mark went for an ice pack in the freezer and set against John's
forehead.

"What the fuck happened out there, John?" Mark asked.

John didn't answer. He was panting with exhaustion, lost in another
world. An uncomfortable groan escaped him.

"John?" Mark gently shook the man's arm. "John?"

When it was clear that the man was unresponsive, Mark went searching for
his phone. John needed a hospital, but if he sent him there, the FBI would
be crawling over him like a pack of rats within an hour. His hands were
pretty much tied on that one. Still, the man was in need of medical
attention. Mark thought it best to call Will Feldman. The kid had his
background in molecular biology, and was a resident at the Bakersfield
hospital for a year before pursuing a career in forensics. He might know
how to help.

Mark snatched the phone from the kitchen counter--yeah, he still had a
landline--and began dialing.

"Don't," John said from the sofa. His voice was weak, but it carried
through the room like a fog horn.

Mark looked up.

"John, you need medical help. I'm calling--"

"No, don't call anyone," John said. "I'll be fine. I need a day to recover,
but then my body will..." He winced with an internal pain. "...my body will
regulate itself."

"Regulate itself?" Mark was back in the living room, crouched down next to
John. "What the hell does that mean?"

Breathing heavy, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and neck, John gave a
small laugh. "Jesus, you really are a cop, aren't you? Always with the
questions."

"John, I'm serious. Another man is dead, you were found next to his
leftovers, you're spiking a fever of something inhuman, and I'm the sheriff
of this goddamned town, and if I'm caught harboring you, that's it for me!"

"And calling in someone to help me is going to keep me a secret?"

John reached up, moving the ice pack from his head to the back of his
neck. Down between his legs, his penis was glistening with sweat and his
balls were resting full and plump underneath. Mark could smell the hot and
salty air of male genitals all of a sudden. He forced the arousing scent
aside for the time being.

"This isn't up for debate, John. I can't have you dying in my home."

"I won't die," John said. "Trust me. This is normal."

Mark gave a puff of air. "Normal?"

"Jesus, are you really going to sit there and yell at me all day?"

"Maybe I am," Mark said. "I'm still trying to understand what's going on
around here, and YOU are suspiciously always in the middle of it!"

Mark had his finger on the last button to call Feldman, but instead he hung
up. Shit! He stomped into the bedroom to change his clothes. Boy, did he
stink! A whole night out in the hot desert, running from a giant animal
trying to eat him, and sweating profusely out of fear. Yeah okay, he needed
more than to just change his clothes. He needed a shower.

Angrily, Mark turned on the cold water and rinsed himself clean. He
lathered himself up in men's scented bodywash and scrubbed the dried sweat
and mud from his hair. The cold water on his desert-baked skin was one of
the greatest reliefs he's ever known. When he was done, he toweled off,
wrapped it around his waist, and stepped back out in the living room.

John was passed out on the sofa, ice pack on his bare chest. Mark touched
the back of his hand to the man's forehead. Burning. He turned up the AC
and aimed a rotating fan at him. He set out a cold glass of water on the
coffee table next to him, for when he woke up. John was dehydrated and
weak, the first thing he'd want would be water. When he was certain he'd
covered all his bases, Mark undid the towel from his waist. If John was
naked, he could be naked too. And like the sleeping murder suspect in his
living room, Mark passed out on the reclining chair.

It was a hot summer day, and thank the gods he wasn't scheduled to work.

--

Mark awoke to the agonizing male urge to cum. His cock was painfully erect
and his balls were already in the process of shooting seminal fluid up
through his system. He barely had a moment to comprehend the situation
before he took hold of his cock and jerked himself off, right there in his
recliner.

He blew his load all over his naked chest and belly, his entire body weak
with sexual exhaustion.

Mark looked over to John, who was still asleep on the sofa. By this point
in the day, the ice pack was nothing but warm water. The glass of water
Mark left out on the table, too, was warm and untouched.

By the angle of the sun, Mark guessed it was only a couple hours until
sunset. They had slept through most of the day, and somehow Mark still felt
tired, worn, fuzzy. He forced himself to get up and get his own drink of
water. He ate an apple out of the fridge and a helping of beef jerky from
the pantry. The nutrition revitalized him somewhat, but he wasn't able to
fully overcome the fatigue.

Slowly, he staggered back into the living room.

"You're naked," John said from the sofa.

Mark glanced over and saw the man's dark eyes on him.

"He lives," Mark said unenthusiasitcally. "And so are you, by the way. I
just didn't want you to feel self-conscious."

John's face cracked into a clever grin. He sat up, his head clearly aching
by the way he held it, and reached for the glass of water on the table. He
took two, three gulps and the water was gone. The man really was a beast,
Mark thought to himself.

Mark reclaimed his seat on the chair and offered some beefy jerky to John.

"I'm not hungry," John said.

Mark nodded and shoved the rest of the salted meat in his mouth.

"How's the fever?" he asked, chewing.

John let out a puff of air. "Going down. My body temperature will be back
to normal before nightfall."

"I see." Mark's eyes narrowed on the man mistrustfully.

"What were you doing out there?" John asked. This time, his voice was
strong and resonant. Mark could feel it down in the floorboards, in his
feet, in his balls.

"What was I doing?" Mark said defensively. He didn't like the fact that he
was the one being questioned. It should have been the other way
around. "John, I'm the fucking sheriff of this godforesaken town. I was out
there trying to protect these people."

"You shouldn't have been out there."

"Don't presume to tell me what I should or shouldn't do," Mark said. "I was
following up on a lead. It's my job."

"Well, you're doing a bad job at your job." John got up. His subtantial
male parts tumbled down from his lap and swung heavily between his legs. He
went to the kitchen to refill his glass of water.

Still in the living room, Mark was beside himself.

"A bad job? I'll have you know, buddy, that if it wasn't for me, you'd
still be out there. Most likely dead from dehyrdation or eaten up by the
thing that attacked me last night!"

Gulping down a second glass, John's smoldering gaze flicked over at
Mark. "I would have been fine," he said slowly. "So from now on, stay out
of the desert when there's a full moon."

Screwing up his face, Mark opened his mouth to say something, but quickly
realized that anything he said would have been pointless. The man was
clearly delirious from the heat. Mark sprang to his feet, stomped across
the room and grabbed the Glock from off the counter. He cocked it, aimed,
and rested his finger on the trigger. In the line of fire was John's head,
five feet away.

"Listen, John," Mark said. "I've fallen under your spell before, but not
this time. You were found at a murder scene. The FBI has had it out for you
from day one, and I didn't buy into their bullshit investigation before,
but now I haven't got much of a choice. You won't tell me who you are, or
where you came from. Wolfcreek has four men dead and eaten, and you've been
in town for every single instance." Mark reached for the handcuffs that
were also sprawled on the counter. "I'm putting you under arrest."

He moved in to slap the cuffs on John's wrists, but the man pulled away.

"Don't do this, John," Mark said through his teeth. "I don't want to kill
you, but I will if you resist me."

"If you arrest me," John said carefully, "every soul in your police station
will die come the next full moon."

"Jesus, what is it with you and full moons?"

"Do you really want to know, or would you rather take matters into your own
hands?"

"The latter." Mark took another step toward John, and John matched his
advance with a single step back. Mark tightened his grip on the gun, he was
visibly frustrated.

Suddenly, lightning quick, John had Mark's hand in his grasp. The gun was
pointing away from both of them. There was an abrupt pressure in Mark's
wrist that forced him to drop the weapon, followed by a sweeping foot that
took his legs out from under him. Before Mark crashed onto the kitchen
floor, John had him cradled in his arms, and he was wrestling the silver
cuffs from his other hand.

It all happened so fast, and it was so unexpectedly seamless that Mark
didn't even realize he was being assaulted. He was all of a sudden in
John's arms, disarmed. He stared up at the man's brooding dark gaze with a
look of what must have registered as complete and total shock. He struggled
to regain his footing, but John manuevered him as if he were a sack of
potatoes, and tossed him onto the living room sofa with ease.

"What the--?!"

Mark pushed himself up and charged after John. Testosterone had gotten the
better of him. He was furious, more than ever. His dangling cock a rabid
guard dog.

John put him back on the sofa within a couple seconds.

"Stop trying to get up," John said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"That's right, I'm going to hurt you!" Mark launched himself at John a
second time. He went for the standard police officer combat tactics. John
evaded every manuever and kicked Mark's feet out from under him once
more. This time, though, he didn't catch him.

Mark hit the floor with a thud. The wind was knocked straight from his
body.

"I'm not going to fight you, Mark," John said. "But I also can't have you
arresting me. If they put me in a cell, I won't come out of there a man."

"That's right..." Mark said, gasping. "...you'll be a sniffling, buttfucked
piece of--"

"I'm a werewolf, Mark."

A palpable silence prolonged itself.

Then,

Marked laughed. He looked up and saw that John wasn't joking. He stared
into the man's black eyes and realized for the first time that he was
dealing with a lunatic. Fuck, this man really was delirious, Mark thought.

"You're a werewolf?" A disbelieving smile carved Mark's expression.

"Yes." John returned to the kitchen and unloaded the bullets in the gun.

"Werewolf. Like those mythical creatures in movies? The ones that come out
during a full moon and eat people and shit?"

"Well, that's not our official slogan, but yes. That's a werewolf, more or
less."

This time, Mark laughed harder. He was still sitting on the floor, catching
his breath. His fuzzy man parts dangled between his legs and, clearly, they
were a frequent point of interest for John. Mark dismissed the man's looks,
though.

"So then that's what attacked me last night in the desert?" Mark said, just
to clarify. "A werewolf."

"Yes, that was me."

"Sure it was," Mark said. "Well, in case you're hungry, I have a few Purina
One dog treats in the pantry from when my brother and his dog, Skip, stayed
here last summer. Help yourself. But just to let you know, the flowers out
back are perennials, so don't pee on those when you mark your territory,
please. They're off limits."

Staring at him languorously from the kitchen, John set his teeth. It was
evident he was angry, but his temper was seemingly under control.

"It's not an easy concept for most people to grasp," John said. "But stick
around for another month, and I'm sure you'll come around."

"So is this your weird way of confessing to the murder and subsequent
cannibalism of four Wolfcreek residents? That you're a werewolf?" Mark's
eyes were daggers.

Standing over him, John shook his head. "If there's a confession in the
mix, it's that I'm telling you I'm a werewolf. The murders are not my
doing."

"Oh yeah? Then whose?"

"They are His doing."

A chill ran up Mark's spine, though he didn't know why. He didn't believe
any of this stuff, it was all total crap. Still, he knew how to get a man
monologuing--for interrogation purposes.

"His doing?"

John nodded, gravely. "In the transformation, the beast takes on a
personality all its own. I'm not entirely...present."

"Okay. I see." Mark's voice was light, cheery, loquacious. "You know, John,
if you plead insanity, you might avoid the death penalty altogether."

The man smiled at him. "Hey, how are those crazy, sudden male urges coming
along, Mark?"

John said it with a sort of liquid spite, and Mark's expression went from
cool to visibly surprised, though he tried to hide it.

"How do you--"

"Know about it?" John interrupted. The words nearly spilled out of his
mouth. "What, you think I'm completely gone when in werewolf form? Not at
all. I saw you in the jeep last night. I watched you jerk yourself off to
relieve the wild, burning frenzy of male sexuality that erupted inside
you. You were alone, in the dark. You were being hunted. You were more
afraid than you've ever been in your life, and still you felt the need to
reach in your pants and tug your cock?" John clicked his tongue,
disapprovingly. "How do you explain that?"

"How do you?"

"It's my blood," John said definitively. "All last month I fucked your ass,
every night, and though I never came directly inside you--I'd never let
myself do that--your body was absorbing traces of me. Pre-cum, saliva,
urine. My blood now courses through your veins, Mark, and as long as it's
there, you will be plagued by the same male urges that torment me every day
of my life."

Mark was staring up at him, eyes wide.

"Don't worry," John said, seeing that he'd been too harsh. "It won't last
forever. You're body will naturally filter out my traces with time."

Mark could feel his heart beating harder now. He was beginning to doubt his
own disbelief.

"So," Mark said hesitantly. "Let's say you really are a wolf."

"Werewolf."

"Whatever. Let's say you are one. Does that mean you really did kill all
those men?"

Standing tall in the kitchen, naked, dominant, John gave a slow,
unambiguous nod.

"And you...ate them?"

Again, John nodded.

Still on the living room floor, naked and inferior, Mark shuddered. "Oh
Jesus." Welp, this was a huge mistake! He definitely tangled with the wrong
fella this time. Now he was going to be raped and eaten as consequence. Way
to go, dipshit! Mark thought. You really know how to pick 'em!

He smacked himself in the head to quiet his racing thoughts.

"I'm not going to kill you," John said, watching Mark sort out his
panic. "I'm not a killer."

"But you just said--"

"I'M not a killer," John emphasized, "but the werewolf inside of me is. But
don't worry. He only comes out during the full moon. You're safe...for
tonight."

Shakily, John got on his feet. Somehow he needed to continue this
conversation standing up.

"So, wait a minute," he said, thoughts spiraling. "That man last night, the
one who was eaten in the canyon...is he still in your...?" Mark pointed to
John's stomach, which was strangely plump underneath the thick, rippling
layer of muscle.

John nodded. "Yes." He reached up and rubbed his full belly. Across from
him, Mark shuddered...again.

"He'll nourish me for about two weeks," John said, trying to be sensitive
to Mark's apprehension. "I won't feed until the next full moon."

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit..." Mark was pacing now. "You ate a
man. Ate him!"

"Well, I've eaten many men in my life," John explained. "This is just the
first time you're learning of it."

"Not helping, John!" Mark was red in the face. "Jesus, do you even
understand how deep of shit you're in? And I slept with you. Multiple
times. They're going to call ME in for questioning." He let out a growl
bordering on frustration and enraged. Then suddenly, he looked up, a new
thought in his eyes. "Jimmy Tanner. You were the one...oh fuck."

"Calm down."

"Calm down? At a time like this? John, this is serious shit we're in. Not
only are you going to prison for life, but I've been hardboring you--a
fugitive--for nearly a month. And I'm the town's goddamned sheriff! The FBI
asked me point blank if I'd seen you before, and I lied--FOR YOU!" He
continued pacing, his footfall heavy like his thoughts.

"They don't have to find out about this," John said. "Nobody does."

"Yes, they do."

"No, they don't." John's voice came at him like hot metal. "A man can be
caged, but a werewolf cannot. If I'm in a prison cell during my next
transformation, you can bet that I'll get out of it, and when I do, I'll be
mad...and unstoppable."

"Yeah, well, its sounds like if you're not in a prison cell, people are
going to be eaten anyway."

"They will be," John said. "It's inevitable. You can't control the
beast. It will feed to satisfy its purest, most carnal desires. But it only
makes one kill per night of the full moon. Just one. If I transform in
prison, hundreds will die."

Mark studied John for several minutes. He couldn't believe this is what his
life had boiled down to. Crazy naked men shoving their dicks up his butt,
claiming to be werewolves, his entire career in law enforcement balancing
shakily on a wire.

Inside him, his prostate quivered with a phantom orgasm. He felt a surge of
blood flow into his flaccid cock. Both his colon and his rectum were zapped
with a sexual charge, and his belly flared with a deeply rooted male
pleasure. Mark let out a soft moan as the unexpected sensation overtook
him.

"You can feel it, can't you?" John said, watching Mark struggle to maintain
his composure from across the room. "The craving."

"Yeah, I can," Mark said, short of breath. "What is it? How come I
keep...experiencing this?"

"Like I said. Werewolf blood. It's in you."

"Great." Mark leaned over, gripping the sofa for support. "Does this mean
I'm going to start howling and shedding on the furniture every full moon,
too?"

"No," John said. "That's not exactly how it works."

"Then how DOES it work?" Mark said, nearing the end of his rope. "And how
do I stop this from..." His voice cracked as another current of an orgasm
flowed through his penis and rectum. "...happening?"

John crossed the room and carefully approached him. Mark recoiled a little
at John's advance, but the man held up his hands, letting him know that he
meant no harm.

"I can help you," John said. "At least, for the time being I can. But you
have to trust me."

Seeing as he had no other choice (his insides were on fire with a
very-near-orgasm), Mark nodded and allowed John to bend him over the sofa,
legs spread, balls dangling, butthole wide open.

Behind him, John crouched down so he was level with Mark's ass, and
suddenly, both of Mark's butt cheeks were gripped tight in the man's
powerful hands and pulled apart to reveal the moist, brown, hairy
middle. Mark made a soft whimper, but otherwise held himself together. He
could feel the tip of John's nose lightly touch the base of his
sphincter. He could hear John take a few deep inhalations through his
nostrils, followed by a fervent sniffing, as if trying to memorize Mark's
scent.

"What are you..." Mark squealed. "...doing? Doesn't it...stink?"

Face buried between his cheeks, John was a savage animal.

"Yes," John growled through his frenzied breaths. "But it's so fucking
good!"

And then, with a lusting deliberation, the man began tonguing Mark's anus,
lapping at it like a dehydrated dog. A deep moan flooded out from Mark's
throat this time as John's tongue slid around the circumference of his
hole, slipped inside, slithered through his funnel of flesh.

With his legs spread apart, Mark's genitals dangled freely underneath
him. John tongued his ass for nearly ten minutes, slurping and sucking,
kissing and tonguing every inch of flesh, moistening the lightly-furred
valley between Mark's cheeks, and always paying particular attention to the
warm, puckered core. Eventually, Mark's hole became the main dish, the
central focus, as John was shoving his tongue so deep inside that a loud,
boyish yelp escaped him. It was high-pitched, reminiscent of a teenaged
male, and reverberated within the house.

The living room grew spicy with male pheramones. Mark could smell the
sharp, pungent odor better than ever. It was as if his sense of smell had
increased twofold. The salty musk of armpits and male genitals...of ass.

As a guy, Mark had never been sexually pleasured in this way
before. Whenever he had sex, he was always the top, always the dominant one
who performed the assplay. He never received it. That all changed once John
entered his life. But even so, the man had never feasted on his butthole
like this before. Mark felt his entire body writhing; electricity surged
through his veins, through his bones.

Down between his legs, Mark was fully erect and leaking a considerable
amount of pre-cum. He couldn't stop moaning, groaning, gasping. The thick
bristles of John's beard scraped the soft, moist skin surrounding his hole.

Just when Mark was sure his anus had been devoured by John's ravenous
tongue--that only a massive, gaping hole had been left where his sphincter
used to be--John pulled his face out from between his ass cheeks, took two
fingers, and slid them up inside of him. Mark gasped with the sudden
intrusion. John had large hands, so two of his fingers were the equivalent
of taking a decent sized cock.

With his cock hard and aching, Mark shuddered as John's two fingers located
his prostate deep in his rectum. The second they touched it, Mark's entire
body dissolved into a fiery numbness. He made a determined whining sound,
like a young boy trying to take a really big poop.

Deep in Mark's core, John titillated and caressed his prostate. Thick
pearls of pre-cum continued to gather on the tip of Mark's penis, swell,
and drip onto the sofa cushions. By this point, Mark was mostly on the
sofa, on his knees, ass high in the air for John's easy access.

"This is going to be hard," John said, still knuckle deep in Mark's
asshole. He reached under the groaning sheriff and took a firm hold of his
bulging cock. "But trust me."

With one hand caressing Mark's prostate, the other began a series of soft,
gentle strokes on Mark's cock. Face buried in the sofa cushions, Mark was
beyond moaning. He was screaming in sexual ecstacy.

Slowly at first, then faster, steadier, John began to masturbate Mark. His
fingers slipped and rubbed and pressed against his prostate, his other hand
massaged and tantalized his swollen cock. It wasn't long before John had a
good rhythm going. Still buried in the cushions, Mark screamed.

It was then that a sudden rush of fluids overtook Mark's body. The
electricity was surging, the fire was spreading, and all at once, Mark felt
every unit of energy in his body center on his groin. Deep in his core, his
prostate swelled up with the rising tide of seminal fluid. John's fingers
did not let up as they fondled the male gland as it ballooned up at the
onset of orgasm. In John's other hand, Mark's cock was harder than its ever
been. His testicles pulled up tight to his body, his feet flexed and
curled, his belly muscles constricted as his guts braced themselves for the
eruption of male pleasure, and suddenly, Mark was spilling his semen on the
sofa, hot, wet, dousing every fabric.

A loud groan escaped him, though it was muffled by the cushions.

John continued milking Mark dry, squeezing out the last drops of cum, but
his fingers were still swirling around on his prostate, and his gentle hand
strokes were constant and steady on his dick.

"John..." Mark said, weak and exhausted. "John, I...I came."

"I know," John said. He pushed a third finger up through Mark's gaping
sphincter. "And now you're going to cum again."

"What?" Mark lifted his head out of the cushions. His ass was still high in
the air, his male parts still dangled vulnerably beneath him.

"You need to cum again," John said. "Trust me."

"But I can't," Mark said. "I just blew everything I had."

Behind him, John smiled. "No," he said. "You didn't."

He went on milking the sheriff, three fingers triggering electric jolts in
the prostate and his hand delicately working the cock back into a full
erection. Mark could feel his body tingling, recovering, but he was
surprised to find that another, deeper sensation was rising up inside
him. Something he never knew before, something he never encountered.

It was another five minutes before Mark was releasing soft, sexual moans
again, his penis swelling up big and fat once more, and his anal muscles
suckling at John's triple-finger-raid like a newborn infant on its mother's
teet.

"You have more in you, and it will only keep coming back every few hours if
you don't get it out," John said. "You're almost there, Mark. Give in to
your body."

Mark was panting, gasping. His balls felt wasted and dried up, but as his
prostate continued to be heckled, his entire body was writhing in sexual
pleasure. Strangely, he could feel the contractions of orgasm bursting deep
within his guts like tiny explosions. It was as if his intestines were on
the verge of orgasm, too. It was as if his digestive organs were actually a
series of cocks, all of them, every inch, tingly with sexual stimulation.

Mark was too over-stimulated to scream this time. He could barely even
breathe.

John's fingers slipped and slid over the silky wet knob of Mark's prostate,
tugged kindly on his dick, the smell of men filled the room, and Mark was
so oversexed, he couldn't see straight.

Somewhere deep inside him, something ignited with the ferocity of an atomic
bomb. He was suddenly spewing a second white hot load of cum, overflowing,
spilling, cascading onto the sofa cushions. His anus, contracting with
orgasm, clamped at John's fingers. Mark's body was jettisoning every last
drop of male fluid it had stored, and almost immediately afterwards, Mark
collapsed...unable to hold his butt in the air any longer.

John caught him before he rolled off the couch and onto the floor.

"It's okay," John said, cradling Mark in his massive arms. "I've got you."

Panting, exhausted, Mark allowed the man to carry him into his bedroom, set
him on the bed, and tenderly tuck him in. It was there that Mark felt safe
enough to pass out. And so he did.

--

It was sometime in the middle of the night when he woke (he broke his alarm
clock recently, so he couldn't tell what time). The room was pitch black
and he was alone in his bed.

Mark crawled out from beneath his sheets. His limbs were shaky, and his
penis was the limpest its ever been. He'd been milked dry, that was for
sure, and the result of it was utter fatigue. He had almost no energy, not
even enough to stand.

Nevertheless, he got on his feet and staggered to the door.

Out in the living room, John was reading a book in the soft lamplight. Mark
shakily got to the sofa, and without giving a worry in the world about his
encrusted semen splattered all over the cushions, he took an exhausted
seat.

"What did you do to me?" he asked.

From the book, John looked up.

"He lives," he said, rather unenthusiastically. A familiar echo from not
too long ago. Mark narrowed his eyes on him. "You must be tired."

"I am," Mark said. "What--"

"I milked you," John said flatly. "As males, we need to relieve the
pressure of building seminal fluid from time to time. As a male who has a
hint of werewolf fever, you needed a double fix."

"Werewolf fever?"

"Yep," John said, dismissing Mark almost entirely. He returned to his
book. "You should drink something," he said as an after thought. "Water
would be good. Juice. Make sure you eat some protein, you're body will need
it for recovery."

Unable to argue with that, Mark regained his footing and made his way into
the kitchen. He drank. He ate. And all at once, he felt the energy
returning to his body.

"What time is it?" he asked, looking around for the nearest clock.

The green digits over the stove read 2:08 AM. He had to be at the police
station in six hours.

His eyes flicked over to the large naked man in his living room. John was
sitting on the recliner, one leg crossed over the other, lost in the world
of the book. The dim lamplight carved his stark, masculine features. His
gaze was brooding, smoldering. Mark was surprised the pages of the book
didn't burst into flame. His large stomach gently rose and fell with calm,
peaceful breaths. At his groin, his fleshy manhood rested like a loyal
guard dog, strong and ferocious if awakened.

Mark finished eating and returned to the living room, strangely glad for
the company.

"Thank you," Mark said, his eyes avoiding John all the while.

"Don't mention it." The man turned the page and started the next chapter.

Mark, ravaged with confusion, and still a little weak from his milking,
drew a thwarted breath. "So if you're a werewolf," he said at last, "and
I'm not saying I believe in all this shit. But let's say you are one. How
the hell do you expect to stay here, with me? Won't you just eat me at the
first full moon?"

John glanced up at him. "No. That's why I left, remember? My body can sense
when the full moon is rising. It's a...canine instinct, if you will. I've
clearly developed feelings for you during our time together and knew I had
to leave before the transformation occured. I wanted to protect you from
the creature."

"You developed feelings for me?" Mark was a little more coherent since he
awoke.

"Not necessarily romantic feelings," John explained. "Just feelings. I've
grown to care for your well being, is all I'm saying. During the full moon,
I'm not exactly the company of good health."

"Ah." Mark nodded. "So is this the sort of deal where only a silver bullet
can stop you?"

John shook his head, set the book down to where it was covering his male
organs. "Silver bullets are a myth. Werewolves can be killed by regular
bullets all the same, but our bodies rejuvenate a hundred times faster than
a human's. We are rarely killed by bullets. If you want to stop us
permanently, you'd have to cut off our head."

Mark's brow tensed as he thought about decapitating the man who's been
fucking him for the last month.

"Yikes," Mark said.

John nodded in agreement and picked up the book again to resume reading.

"Why do you only eat men?" Mark was hardly finished with the inquiry. He
had a long list of questions, and he was determined to get a long list of
answers.

Visibly annoyed, John closed the book, sensing that he wasn't going to get
much further in the story, and set it on the table.

"I don't exclusively eat men," he said, his voice coarsened by years of raw
testosterone. "There have been a number of women, too. Men,
however...well...they taste better."

"They taste better?"

John gave him a slow, conclusive nod.

"Okay," Mark said, his mind racing with thought, "do you rape these people
before you eat them?"

"Again," John said calmly, "I don't rape or eat anyone. The wolf does."

"Whatever."

"It's NOT whatever. Don't presume to lump the two egos together. It isn't
fair, it isn't true."

"Fine." Mark's eyes settled on him. "Does the wolf rape his victims before
he eats them?"

Affirmingly, John nodded. "He does, usually. Mostly men."

"So, what, are you saying the wolf is gay?"

"Well, the wolf's ego spawns from my own. So naturally it would adopt the
same sexual orientation. But no, the wolf is not exclusively gay. Nor am
I. We find both sexes of interest."

"But you're more interested in the male sex?"

"Mostly. But it's not a fixed rule or anything."

"Jesus." Mark squirmed in his seat, restless and bothered.

Across from him, John's dark irises shined in the lamplight. They were a
deep shade of brown, almost black, and resembled the gaze of an
intelligent, calculating predator.

Mark sighed. "So what am I supposed to do, John? Just let you stay here,
knowing that at every full moon you're going to run out and kill people?
Potentially me. Am I supposed to look the other way, let it happen? I'm the
sheriff of Wolfcreek, for fuck's sake. I can't just allow you to hunt down
the towns people and have them for a late night snack."

John rubbed his fingers over his bare stomach as if massaging his most
recent meal. It only reminded Mark that it was a man being digested in
there.

"I'll leave Wolfcreek," John said. "Give me a few days to recover from the
transformation, and then I'll be on my way."

"You said that the last time we parted, and now two more men have been
eaten."

"You're right," John said. "I'm sorry. Although, I never actually said I
was going to leave Wolfcreek. I only meant to leave you."

"So I wouldn't be on the menu."

"Exactly."

Mark turned away from John's smoldering gaze, refusing to be charmed by the
raw, interwoven sexuality that lingered in the man's stare. He had to make
a call. Had to. Just because he was attracted (seriously, attracted to the
point that he wanted to cry) to John didn't give him the right to permit
his stay. As sheriff, Mark had a job to do, an oath to uphold. And besides,
there was still an unidentified man--well, a mostly eaten man--out in the
desert who needed to be put on the record. The scene needed to be
investigated, even if Mark knew full well who the killer was.

Mark wanted to groan but he stood up instead. He started pacing--his go-to
move when he was flustered, or in this particular case, downright fucked.

"I could leave right now, if I'm that much of a burden on you," John
said. "Though I'd prefer to not."

"Agent Fox is going to cut off my balls and feed them to his dogs," Mark
said, mostly to himself. "I just know it."

"No he won't," John said, returning to his book. Mark forgot how sharp the
man's hearing was. "I'll make sure your balls are safe."

"How?" Mark whirled, his naked cock slapping around with the rest of his
body. "How could you possibly protect my balls when you have the entire FBI
coming down on you? You know, I think you seriously underestimate the law,
John. You may be endowed with some crazy supernatural canine powers a
couple times a month, but that doesn't make you invincible. Believe me, the
FBI is here, they're looking for you, and they have the resources to find
you, to trap you, and to kill you."

John looked up from his book, indifferent to Mark's monologue.

"And not only that," Mark carried on, his male parts jiggling furiously at
his groin, "but I'm going to be legally crucified for having you here, for
protecting you, for harboring you. I'm going to be sent to
jail. Jail. Fucking shit. I'm going to jail." It was official. He was
snapping under pressure.

John's eyes got big. As Mark noticed earlier, the man's irises were a deep
shade of brown--and now, widened in the soft light, he could see flecks of
silver and green sprinkled throughout their color. Whatever he was, Mark
thought, he was no ordinary human.

"Calm down," John said, as though annoyed by Mark's restlessness. "I know
full well what the FBI is capable of. I used to be one of them."

At that, everything stopped. Mark, frozen in Time, could do nothing other
than stare into the man's night-shade eyes.

After a long moment, John said, "Yes, I used to work with Agent Fox and his
team. I know what they can do." He drew a deep, rumbling breath. "The FBI
was investigating a case in Washington several years back. A series of
murders that had become so heinous that we were called in to deem it a
national crisis. Long story short, my team found something roaming the
hills outside Seattle. It killed three of my men, and left me with serious
wounds. Wounds to my throat, to my stomach." He gestured to the faded lines
of scars on his body. Mark hadn't noticed them before.

"The FBI tried to cover it up," John went on. "Tried to lock me away for
study. You see, there was a privatized faction created with the sole
purpose of weaponizing me. It was still considered a branch of the
FBI--essentially. Fox was put in charge of the team. They were trying to
acquire the genetic properties of the werewolf for...warfare. In a
nutshell, the government thinks they can harness the powers of the creature
to be used in combat. At some point, I escaped containment. They've been
hot on my trail ever since."

There was another long moment of quiet as Mark tried to process John's
story.

"So Fox isn't really with the--"

John interrupted him, already knowing where Mark was going. "Technically he
is the FBI. His paychecks are still signed by the chief executive. But no,
he's operating under a ruse. He's straddling the FBI and another government
organization entirely. Something dealing strictly with national security."

"Fuck." Mark had to sit down. Had to put his head between his knees.

At the same time, John got to his feet, achieving six-foot-four with
incredible ease, and stomped into the bedroom. He returned a moment later
with one of Mark's briefs covering his nakedness. "I should leave now. I
don't want to cause you any more trouble. And I certainly don't want to put
any more of your town's people in danger. Good luck."

He made way for the door, but Mark was suddenly up on his feet and standing
sturdily in the enormous man's way.

"No," he said, suddenly sober and level-headed. He looked up into the man's
eyes. "Stay."

John stared down at him. An incredible heat radiated off his body, as if a
great, consuming fire raged beneath his flesh.

With hardly a cenimeter's gap between their bodies, Mark breathed in John's
strong, masculine scent. They stood there, facing one another in the foyer
of Mark's house for a long time.

It was with great determination that Mark spoke again.

"Please," he said. "I...I want you to stay."

Judiciously, calculatedly, John nodded. He held his stare, so much so that
Mark had to look away, and then, with the grace of a protective lover, he
pulled Mark into his body. For many minutes, perhaps even hours, they
settled into their manly embrace, in the dark of the foyer, in the comfort
of each other's arms, in the trust of each other's heart.



CHAPTER ELEVEN


"Well, look at what we have here!" said Jerry the bar tender as Mark walked
into the Howl Room just before six. "The Sheriff's decided to grace us
lowlifes with his presence."

"Yeah, yeah," Mark said, grinning. "Cute, very cute."

Buck Sanders was at the bar with a whiskey and Coke and a copy of The
Wolfcreek Courier spread out across the counter. Mark hopped onto the bar
stool next to him.

"Blue Moon," he said, hailing Jerry. "Draft."

"Can you believe it?" Sanders said as Mark settled into his seat. "He was
an FBI agent."

It took Mark a moment. "What? The man we found in the desert?"

"He was corresponding with Fox. Poking around the outskirts of town."
Sanders shook his head. "Name was Gordon Harris."

Mark had called a squad of crime scene investigators to the attack site in
the desert the day before. Naturally, the local press got word of it and
showed up with cameras and reporters. It was the fourth man-eating in
Wolfcreek in two months. Needless to say, people were freaked.

An ice cold mug of beer slid across the granite top and into Mark's
palm. He drew a foamy sip and sighed.

"You think this one was premeditated?" he asked casually.

Sanders shrugged and downed the rest of his whiskey. "Sending a message? No
fucking clue. But something's going on, something on the inside, and we
need to figure out what."

"Have you run into Fox yet?"

"Nah," Sanders almost laughed. "I mean, I'm sorry his partner got eaten and
all, but I really hate that man."

Jerry was suddenly hovering over them, wiping his hands on a rag
towel. "Hey, you fellas ever find out who killed that Jimmy Tanner kid?" He
tossed the towel over his shoulder. "I mean, that boy must've been eaten
right after he left here the other night. We all saw him. Whoever did it
had to've been right around these parts."

Mark lowered his eyes to the handgun jetting out from Jerry's waistband.

"Not yet, Jerry," he said. "We're working on it."

"Well, you guys maybe working on it, but somewhere out there is a
killer. Now you got everyone in Wolfcreek shittin' themselves, thinking
that they could be next."

"Yep. Thanks, Jerry."

The bar tender gave a half-hearted shrug and turned to grab another order.

Sanders took the opportunity and leaned into Mark.

"Feldman came back with DNA today," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I heard."

"So you already know what I'm gonna say."

Mark nodded, took a gulp of beer.

"Jesus, Mark, this ain't no Jeffrey Dahmer we got running around out
there," Sanders said. "This is an animal. Just like we thought. The FBI
knows something, and they're not telling us. I have half a mind to kick
down Fox's front door and make him talk."

"You know where he's staying?"

"Sure, at the Pay-by-the-day down there on Carson."

Mark's expression hardened with new thought. "Was our friend Gordon Harris
staying there, too?"

"My best guess."

"Hmm," Mark said. "Then I think we definitely owe our foxy pal a visit."

A slender blond woman wearing snug jeans and a strapless shirt got up from
her table, paid her tab, and walked out of the bar. Sanders' eyes were
tethered to her backside the whole time.

"Fuck man," he said, loosening the collar of his shirt. "I'm so hard up
these days, I can't think straight. Maybe I should just give Monica a
call. You know, see if she'd be down for a quick fuck."

"Are you kidding?" Mark's face craked into a disconcerted look. "That
woman's a nightmare, Buck. Besides, she moved to Barstow last year. It's a
five hour drive."

"We can meet somewhere in the middle."

Smiling, Mark shook his head. "Have it your way. Just don't let her sink
those icy talons of hers into your dick. I think she still meant what she
said to you last time."

"What? What'd she say?"

"You don't remember?" Mark was astounded. "Buck, she said it in front of
everyone at the Christmas party."

"Oh, that thing about ripping off my cock and leaving it for the vultures?"

Mark nodded, suppressing a laugh.

"Nah, she didn't mean that. Besides, that was a year ago. She's probably
over whatever it was she was pissed about by now."

"Your choice." Mark raised a brow at him and took a sip of beer.

There was a moment of quiet between them. Then,

"You're right," Sanders said after a bit of thinking. He was sobering
up. "The woman has a deeply rooted hatred for all things male. Better if I
keep my cock safe."

Mark raised his glass, and they clinked their drinks. They drank, though
Sanders barely had a sip left at the bottom of his glass. He ordered
another whiksey from Jerry.

"Maybe I'll just head to Vegas for the weekend," Sanders said a moment
later. "Pick up a couple chicks in front of the Bellagio or something. Have
a fun couple of nights."

"Wait, you're leaving town now...in the middle of all this shit?"

"Hey bud, it's my weekend off. And I need to get laid." He slapped a couple
bills on the counter, covering both his and Mark's drinks. "I'm going crazy
lately. Besides, it'll help me re-focus, so I'll come back Monday with
fresh eyes."

Mark gave a puff of laughter. "Okay. But I want those eyes crystal clear. I
mean, I want you with night vision."

"Trust me, if I bury my bone in a couple pussies this weekend, I'll have
X-Ray vision when I get back in town," he said. He climbed down from his
stool and adjusted his waistband. "Now, go kick the shit out of Fox for
me. See you in a couple days." He tipped an invisible hat at Mark and
strolled out of the bar.

Smiling, Mark returned to his beer. He gulped at it, determined to finish
quick. He couldn't wait to get home.

--

It was night. Half moon. Mark stepped through the front door of his house
and was immediately overtaken by a baking heat, as though he'd left the
thermostat at a hundred. On top of that was the overwhelming smell. It was
the distinct smell of a warm-blooded male, beastly and savage. A
combination of hot semen, sweat, and testosterone-induced musk.

Holding his breath--the scent was so strong--he made his way down the hall
and into the kitchen. The lights in the living room were on, and so it was
immediately clear where the smell was coming from.

On the living room floor, John was naked but for a snug pair of underwear,
and finishing up a set of push-ups. He was sheened in sweat, his hair
dripping, his body beaded, his underwear...damp.

Without taking his eyes off him, Mark set his gear on the kitchen counter
(his routine) and waited for John to complete his set.

The muscles in the man's arms were flexed to full capacity--larger than
Mark's ever seen them. The undulating ripples in his shoulders, in his
back, the carved texture of his torso, all of it, sent Mark into a bit of a
frenzy. He felt a deep stirring of male fluids in his body, but did his
best to ignore it.

Finally, John lifted himself up off the floor and shook his hands of
stiffness. His eyes found Mark staring at him curiously from the
kitchen. He gave a single nod of the head, as if acknowledging Mark's
presence, and then began to stretch. The massive groves of his armpits
revealed themselves as he raised his arms up over his head. Mark's mouth
watered as the two dampened patches of hair took focus. His eyes blurred
with tears as the scent permeated the house.

"Working out?" Mark said, choking down a cough.

John nodded. "It's important to stay in shape."

Mark tore his eyes away from the mostly naked man in his living room and
busied himself by prowling through the refrigerator for a bottle of
water. He needed the distraction.

"I've finished digesting the two men," John said.

Head buried in the freezer, Mark felt his stomach churn. He turned. "What?"

"Those two men," John said. "The ones the wolf ate. Well, they've been
fully digested."

There was a small tightness in Mark's throat. Jimmy Tanner had been
digested. Okay, this was getting a little outside his comfort zone.

"How, uh...how do you know?"

John shot him a look, and it was then that Mark could see that the man had
shed the fullness of his belly.

"Trust me," John said. "I know."

A low, distant rumble echoed from somewhere close by. Mark new immediately
where the hunger was coming from.

"I take it you're hungry then?" Mark asked.

John gave him a most certain nod.

A quiet moment passed between them, and then Mark lit up with a new
thought. "I'm not on the menu...right?"

John smiled. "No. I could really go for some steak."

"Great." Mark reached for his keys. "I'll make a run then. How many steaks
should I get?"

"Three rib-eyes."

Mark blinked. "Just for you?"

"I eat a lot. It's part of the werewolf motto."

"No shit," Mark said, heading for the door. "The most expensive pet I've
ever had..." He had his hand on the door knob and was just getting ready to
step out when John stopped him.

The man had silently followed him and was now pressing a giant hand agains
the door, preventing Mark from opening it.

Mark looked up, slightly alarmed.

"Just one more thing," John said, and this time his tone was serious. "It's
a half moon. That means that I'm going to be experiencing phantom urges."

"Phantom urges?"

John nodded. "After I finish eating, I'm going to need to fuck you." He
said it plainly, as if there was no stopping it. "It'll hit me suddenly,
the urge to fuck. So just be warned, Mark. I won't be able to control
myself when it hits me, and you'll be the closest body for me to reach. I
just wanted to give you a heads up. It's gonna be rough."

Mark felt his penis twitch to life beneath the khaki of his pants. He felt
his anus quiver with a strange, sexual excitement. A tingling fizzed
throughout his lower abdomen, his colon, his rectum. Even the scent
radiating off John's body was three times as potent as it was moments ago.

Deliberately, Mark nodded. He understood, and frankly, he was even excited
by the news.

"Okay," he said. "I'll make sure I'm ready then."

"Just do me one favor," John said.

Mark stared up at him, listening intently. "Sure. Anything."

"Don't let me cum in you." He said it flatly, yet his words carried the
weight of the world in them. "It's very important that I don't ejaculate
while inside of you. Understand? No matter what happens, don't ever let me
do that."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't really know what to say. All he could
do was nod his head, which he did, and then he was off, backing out of the
driveway and rolling down the road.

As the image of his house shrank in the rearview, he lost himself in his
thoughts. What would happen to him if John came inside him?

There was something John still wasn't telling him, and Mark was determined
to get to the bottom of it.

--

Two steaks--rare and bloody--and John's body temperature had exceeded a
hundred and ten degrees. He was hot to the touch. Sweat seemed to dissolve
into mist the moment is percolated on his skin. Mark worried that such a
high temperature would kill the man, but John appeared strangely okay.

Except for his overwhelming urge to fuck.

That night, Mark found himself pinned beneath John's massive weight, naked,
and skewered through the ass by the wolf man's prominent dick. And it was
magnificent.

Mark had never felt so full before. It was the sensation of needing to take
a giant shit, complete with intense sphincter stimulation, internal
pressure, and a very small amount of pain that was more enjoyable than it
was unpleasant. A few tears glistened in Mark's eyes as John sank into him,
repeatedly.

With John's body temperature reaching nearly a hundred and twelve at this
point, Mark was beginning to feel as if a hot iron was being shoved up his
butt. John's penis was engorged with boiling blood, and Mark's rectum was
acutely aware of it. Even so, the intense heat baking inside of him sent
his body into a frenzy. Mark had never known such sexual pleasure
before. His prostate was zapped, time and again, with fire and
electricity. His asscrack, buried underneath John's body heat, was dripping
with sweat, which served as a natural lubricant. John pumped in and out of
Mark with little difficulty. Mark's anus accepted John's cock over and over
again, delighted.

A sudden rush, a distinctly male pleasure, and before he could stop it,
Mark was spewing his load all over the bedsheets--his cock bouncing stiffly
beneath him. Still buried inside him, John was approaching his own
climax. Thrusting with animal ferocity, the wolf man released a sort of
howl, desperately shoved all of himself to the deepest parts of Mark's
body, and then tore himself out to ejaculate onto Mark's bare butt and
back. Nearly a half cup of semen, spilled.

They both collapsed, panting and drenched in sweat.

"So what happens if you cum inside me?" Mark asked several minutes
later. The room had fallen into a profound quiet and the sexual energy
between the two men was beginning to regulate itself.

Still, sprawled on top of him with the weight of three men, and his
exhausted cock wedged snugly in between Mark's damp butt cheeks, John
refused to move. He was comfortable, he was...at home.

Pointedly, he said, "If I cum in you, you're marked."

"Well, I'm already Mark, so I don't know that there'd be much of a change."

"What?"

"Never mind. It was a joke."

John stared down at him, unimpressed.

"I was just trying to -- just never mind. What happens if I'm marked?"

"I'll be able to smell you anywhere you go, for the rest of your life."

"And why is that a problem?"

Mark wriggled out from underneath John's body. The man's raised temperature
was slowly cooking him. It felt like he was trying to relax in a George
Foreman grill or something. In fact, Mark wouldn't have been surprised if a
red outline of John's body was seared into his backside.

"It's a problem because if I can smell you wherever you are, then there's
no hiding from me."

"Maybe I don't want to hide from you."

"Well, you should." John's voice had grown rough and serious. He got up off
the bed and walked to the window. "If you're marked," he said, "then you're
the first one I'm coming after next time I turn."

Wiping the cum off his rear with a towel, Mark said, "So how is it that you
wouldn't be able to smell me now? I mean, you just splattered my entire
backside with your cum. How is that any different? Why is shooting your
load up my ass more dangerous?"

John was staring out the window, as if making sure they weren't being spied
on. "I don't know how it works exactly. I'm not a biologist. But the last
man I came inside, something happened. He was suddenly on the grid, my
grid. I guess my semen was absorbed by his body, through the lining of his
gut or something. It changed his chemical composition--at least, enough to
make him irresistible to me."

"What do you mean, irresistible?"

John turned to face him. "Whenever I transformed, he was the one I
hunted. I couldn't stop...desiring him."

Mark's eyes lowered to the floor, where a pair of John's underwear lie,
wrinkled and stained.

"And what happened when you caught him?" Mark asked, though he already knew
the answer.

"I ate him."

They sat there, in the dark of the bedroom, for a long time after
that. Neither of them spoke a word. Instead, they avoided each other's gaze
at all cost.



CHAPTER TWELVE


Mark rapped his knuckles on the motel door, and a few seconds later, Agent
Fox was staring stone-cold into his eyes.

"Hey, Foxy," Mark said, "have time for a chat?"

Fox didn't seem amused.

"I'm busy," he said, and started to close the door.

Mark wedged a booted foot inside to prevent the door from shutting all the
way.

"I get that," he said, a little out of desperation. "We're all busy right
now. But I think we need to talk about Agent Harris."

At the mention of Harris' name, Fox's ears pricked. He looked up at Mark
with a rigid expression that was somewhere between annoyed and disgusted.

"Okay, Sheriff," Fox said. "What the fuck do you want?"

"What was he doing out there the other night?" Mark started, deciding to
skip all forms of smalltalk.

"How the fuck would I know?"

"I'm betting you do, considering it's just you two working the case out
here, in Wolfcreek. I imagine you boys corresponded quite a bit."

"Even if I did know what he was doing out there, and I'm not say that I do,
why in the hell would I let you in on it? It's strictly FBI
information. Something far too high above your pay grade."

"As the sheriff of Wolfcreek, I think I have every right to know what it is
you FBI boys are after. This is, after all, my town."

"Go fuck yourself."

He went to close the door once more, but Mark pushed himself inside.

"I know what you're hunting, Fox," he said. "I know about the wolf."

Fox's eyes twitched, but for the most part he kept his composure.

"Alright, Warner," he said with a growl. "This conversation is over."

He placed a strong hand on Mark's chest and shoved him back.

"Do you even understand how your partner, Harris, died?" Mark said,
refusing to be pushed out. "He was eaten. Eaten. His belly, his arms and
legs...his balls."

The last part seemed to prod at Fox's stoicism. The FBI agent winced, as if
he'd been singed, and took a few steps back.

"That's right," Mark said, "Agent Harris' balls were eaten, along with the
rest of his body...and I think you and I both know what ate him."

"Get out."

"I know what you're hunting, Fox," Mark said, his tone descending from
light to serious. "I know all about it."

"Get the fuck out."

Mark stood resolutely in the doorway. "I know what the FBI wants with the
creature. Or should I say, I know what your undisclosed agency wants with
it. I know what you're planning to do, you piece of shit."

"GET OUT!"

Fox thrust his entire body forward and forced Mark back, slamming the door
in his face.

Standing just a few feet behind him, Will Feldman sighed.

"I guess we can rule out any cooperation from the FBI," the kid said.

"Looks like it."

Mark spun around and started down the sloping parking lot, toward the
car. Feldman trailed at his heels.

"It proves it, though, doesn't it?" the kid said.

"Proves what?"

"That the FBI knows about the wolf creature. He clearly didn't deny knowing
anything about it when you mentioned it, and he had a pretty clear
emotional reaction to the subject."

Mark shook his head and lowered himself into the driver's seat, started the
engine. Next to him, Feldman fell into the passenger seat, a hundred and
fifty pounds of gangly youth and red hair, freckles, and a dorkiness that
put him at a cross between a young Ron Howard and Topher Grace. He was
scribbling something on his clipboard.

"Nah, doesn't prove anything," Mark said. "I mean, for you and I it proves
he knows what's up. But for the records, there's nothing there."

Feldman furrowed his brow. "So I was doing some research at home last
night," he started to say, but Mark cut him off.

"Jesus, kid, don't you have a life?"

Feldman just looked at him, confused.

Mark laughed, shrugged. "Nah, I just feel like you're always working,
always concocting the next theory in that ridiculous brain of yours. You
need to relax more, get out, live a little."

"But there's a killer on the loose."

"There's always a killer on the loose," Mark said. He felt like he was
lecturing his nephew or something. "You're never gonna catch 'em all, and
certainly not in a timely manner." He glanced over at the kid and saw that
he may have come down on him a little too hard. "Look, I'm sorry,
Feldman. I guess I'm just frustrated by this whole situation. You're going
a good job here. You really are."

"Thank you."

"Now tell me about your research last night."

A small sunbeam of excitement returned to Feldman's eyes.

"Yeah, so, I was doing this research on the tastebuds of canines," the kid
began. "Turns out, animals that are evolved from the canine genepool have a
particular taste for the protein SHBG, which is an acronym for sex
horomone-binding-globulin. They also have a taste for the protein
albumin. Both of these proteins are found in the bulk of testosterone. This
automatically increases a canine's interest in male prey, given that these
two proteins are significantly more abundant in males. And I think that's
why our killer in this case is focusing exclusively on men."

Mark scratched his chin fuzz. This information wasn't entirely surprising
to him, but he played it off as if it was brand new. "So bascially all
women are safe, but every guy is in danger of being eaten."

"For the most part, yeah."

"Damn." He pulled out of the motel parking lot, heading back to the police
station. "So what do we do, chop off our nuts so the beast doesn't sniff us
out?"

Feldman chuckled a bit. "Preferably not. But I think this is hugely
insightful, don't you? I mean, no wonder that boy was eaten in Woodland
Park! He was sixteen, in the height of puberty, his testicles no doubt
producing a significant amount of testosterone."

Mark thought back to the mostly eaten boy in the woods. He considered, for
a moment, the fact that it was John who ate him. John--the man living with
him, fucking him. Shit.

"So what do we do with this information?" Mark asked, coming to a stop at a
traffic light.

Beside him, Feldman shrugged. "I don't know that there's anything to do
with it right now. But it might come in handy later on, you never know."

Sure it will, Mark thought. Sure.

Feldman went back to scribbing something on his clipboard, but the constant
scratching of pencil on paper was grating on Mark's nerves. He decided to
engage the kid in a conversation, just to get him to stop writing so
aggressively in the confined space of the police car.

"So, kid, you dating anyone lately?" It seemed the perfect conversation to
have. Everyone dated, and if they didn't, they at least had the interest to
date.

Next to him, Feldman shook his head.

"Nah, not lately."

"How come? Haven't met the right girl or something?"

The kid smiled. "I guess not."

It was painfully obvious the kid didn't frequent these types of
conversations.

"You are interested in girls, right?"

A deer in the headlights look. "Oh--yeah, yeah, of course I am. Yeah. I
just...I don't know...haven't met anyone special yet."

"Probably won't happen while you're here," Mark said. "Wolfcreek is in a
drought as far as women goes. Just ask Sam."

The kid laughed. "Believe me, I've heard. Sam's tried hooking me up a time
or two since I joined the team. He evidently has a lot of lady friends in
Vegas. Says I'm too young to not be having sex every weekend."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"And when's the last time you got laid?"

Feldman grinned, his cheeks reddened. "About three weeks ago."

"Hell, that's not too bad. You gonna see her again, you think?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not."

"You wear protection?"

"Are you secretly a dad?" Feldman asked, smirking. "I feel like you're
rehearsing a conversation to have with your son one day, or something."

Mark laughed. "No, I'm not a dad. I guess I'm just reiterating a
conversation that Sam's had with me many times over the years. Sorry if I'm
coming off too heavy."

"No, it's okay. I don't mind."

They drove on silently for the rest of the way. It wasn't an uncomfortable
silence, but there was definitely something brewing between them. When they
arrived at the station, Mark parked, they climbed out, and together made
their way into the front doors without a word between them. It wasn't until
they reached Mark's office that Feldman announced he was going to use the
restroom before getting on with the day's work.

A deep something in Mark was bubbling up. He watched the kid walk past him,
down the hall. His eyes lingered on him most of the way. The scent of the
kid stayed with him, the scent of boy. Mark felt a pulse in his pants, he
felt a sweat in his pits. Something animal was overtaking him, and he was
beginning to understand that he wasn't entirely in control.

Without even realizing it, Mark was walking toward the restroom.

For the most part, the police station was empty. Jaskson was manning the
front desk, and the custodian was in the back, dumping mop water into the
drain. Otherwise, it was quiet. All quiet.

"Oh, hey," Will Feldman said when Mark stepped into the men's room behind
him.

The kid was standing at the urinal, legs slightly spread, his fly undone,
his dick in his hand. The smell of his urine was strong in the air. (Mark's
sense of smell was really sharp these days.)

Before Feldman even had the chance to come to grips with what was
happening, Mark was directly behind him, yanking his pants and underwear
all the way down.

"What the--!"

The kid started to turn, but Mark pushed him forward into the tiled
wall. With his hand pressed firmly on his back, Mark looked down at
Feldman's exposed butt. It was cute; round and pasty-white, a light layer
of peach-fuzz texturing the cheeks. Feldman's bare legs were just as much
of a turn-on for Mark. He'd never seen the kid so...naked.

"Mark, what are you--?!"

But he wasn't trying to wriggle free, he wasn't trying to escape. In fact,
the kid seemed strangely prepared for this. Even his butt was sticking out
ever so slightly.

"Shut up," Mark said. He began undoing his fly with his other hand. "And
try not to scream."

His cock sprang free from the confinement of his pants swollen with sexual
desire, pre-cum pooling heavily on its tip. He let his balls tumble out,
too. They were just as much a part of this as his dick, he thought. They
deserved to get some of the action.

Pressed up against the bathroom wall, Feldman didn't say a word. He didn't
resist. He didn't struggle. For a few seconds, he didn't do anything. He
just looked as if he was mortified that this was happening to him, as if he
couldn't possibly handle himself in this situation. But then, as if
accepting what was going to happen to him, as if giving in to a world of
confession as to who he was, he reached back and spread both of his butt
cheeks apart.

"Good boy," Mark said in a low voice. And he stuck his penis into the kid's
ass.

Within seconds, the men's room went from smelling of piss and urinal cakes
to smelling of Feldman's butt. Sunk balls-deep into the kid, Mark let his
cock rummage through the stinking, hot, wet canals of flesh.

There's nothing like having your cock suckled by a butthole, Mark thought
as he began to pump in and out of Feldman.

Meanwhile, Feldman was doing his utmost not to groan. He was still pressed
against the wall, half his face smashed on cold tile, his bare butt the
only visible part of him. Somewhere on the other side, the kid's dangling
parts were exposed too. Mark could smell them.

Where did this acute sense of smell come from? How was this possible? It
was as if the kid's balls were directly over his nose--he could smell every
crevasse, every pubic hair, every millimeter of skin. It was clear the kid
hadn't showered that morning--or at least he forgot to wash his sack! The
musky odor of male genitals was eye-wateringly evident. Or was that Mark
picking up a whiff of his own manhood? Either way, he was ignited with
sexual drive.

Thwap...thwap...THWAP! Mark pounded the kid's ass hard. It was only a
couple of minutes before he exploded inside of him, unloading what felt
like a gallon of cum into the kid's gut. There was a quick moment of
recovery on Mark's part where he nearly collapsed on top of Feldman, who
was still pinned between him and the row of urinals. But then Mark seemed
to find a new strength, and so he lifted up the button-up shirt draped over
the kid's belly, felt around a bit, and finally gripped what felt like a
fully erect penis sprouting from the kid's groin.

"Oh..." Feldman said the second Mark took hold of his cock. "Oh, damn..."

"Just relax," Mark said.

He gave the kid's dick a few good, tender strokes before assuming a steady,
durable rhythm. Within a handful of seconds, Feldman was making
high-pitched, boyish moans, tossing his head back, his whole body writhing
in sexual pleasure. With his other hand, Mark reached around and gripped
the kid's ballsack. It was a plump, fuzzy sack with testicles working
double time, no doubt.

"Mark..." the kid said. "Mark, I'm gonna cum...!"

With his cock still up the kid's butt, and semi-hard, and surely putting
pressure on the kid's prostate, Mark did his best to massage Feldman's
fuzzy scrotum as he continued to jack him off. Suddenly, there were great
convulsions of the kid's dick, there was a drawn-out gasping noise erupting
from his throat, and all at once, Mark knew the young forensics officer was
spewing everything he had.

The stench of semen: suffocating.

--

"So what the fuck was that?" Feldman asked, now that he and Mark were alone
in Mark's office, door shut, window blinds closed.

"You said it'd been three weeks!" Mark said, a little defensively. "I was
doing you a favor, kid."

Feldman, a little red in the cheeks, a little squinty in the eyes, just
stared at him, mouth open.

"Okay," Mark said, "can we just keep this between us? Huh? I needed to
fuck, and you're cute, and you didn't exactly try to resist me. I think, in
the end, we were both at fault. Right? Am I right?"

Feldman looked dumbfounded. "I won't say anything to anyone," he said,
shaking his head. "I mean, I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong. But what the
fuck? I didn't even know you were...that way."

"Well, you're that way."

"No I'm not."

Mark gave him a look that said, Cut the bullshit. "You're not hot for cock?
Really, kid? The moment I tore off your pants, you had your ass sticking
out, begging to be plowed."

Beet red, Feldman looked over both shoulders, as if fearing someone
overhead them. He was immediately reminded they were in a closed office.

"Okay, okay, okay!" he said, resigning from the act. "I like cock. So what?
You clearly like boy butt."

"Yeah," Mark said, unshaken. "I do."

"Just don't..." It was evident the kid was unnerved. "Don't tell anyone
about me. Okay? Please?"

Mark stared at him long and hard from across the canyons of paper stacks
that made up his desk.

"Look, Will," Mark said, "I'm not going to out you. Trust me. I don't let
people know I fuck dudes. It's none of their goddamn business. But just so
you know, just because I had my dick in your ass doesn't mean we're
boyfriends or anything. Got it?"

Feldman, a little restless, a little relieved, nodded. "Got it."

"But I may sniff you out again sometime to dump my load in you. Cool?"

"Cool."

"Great. Now let's get back to work."

--

When Mark walked into his house that night, John greeted him at the door
like an obedient dog--a large guard dog, with loyalty only to his owner.

"How was your day?"

Mark smiled. He was beat, but he was glad to be home.

"It was a long one," he said, heading straight for the kitchen to unload
all his stuff. "Did you know that you have a taste for testosterone?"

John followed after him, like a shadow.

"Of course I do," he said in his deep, brooding voice. "Why do you think I
prefer to eat males?"

Mark nodded. "Well, forensics is on to you. Just so you know."

"They must be good at their job."

"You have no idea."

John was sniffing the air. He had picked up on a scent.

"You fucked someone today," he said.

Mark finished unloading his keys, his badge, his gun on the counter. He
turned to face the man who stood half-naked in his kitchen.

"Yes, I did." He said it coolly, matter-of-factly. "Are you upset? I wasn't
aware that this was an exclusive relationship." He meant it as a joke, but
a part of him was nervous that John was genuinely outraged.

On the contrary, the man seemed unfazed by the news.

"I'm not upset," John said. "I can smell them on you, though."

"Of course you can."

"Male. Mid-twenties. Vegetarian. Virgin."

"Virgin?!" Mark almost tripped on the rug by the sink. "Goddamnit, are you
sure?"

John drew a breath through his nostrils.

"As far as bottoming goes, yes, I'm quite sure."

"Shit." Mark went for a beer in the refrigerator. Just what he needed--to
fuck a virgin boy's asshole!

"You came inside him, didn't you?" John asked.

Mark was too busy taking a few gulps to verbally reply. He made a noise
that suggested the positive.

"Jesus Christ, Mark," John said.

"What? So I dumped my load inside him. So what?"

"You still have wolf's blood in you," John said. "Now this kid does
too. He's gonna have a hell of a month ahead of him, with his dick buzzing
like an overpopulated beehive!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "So I'll keep an eye on him at work for a little
while. No biggie."

They stood there, in the kitchen, across from each other. John wore nothing
but a pair of Mark's underwear, which always seemed to barely contain
him. Mark, fully decked in uniform, couldn't seem to pull his gaze from the
overflow of manhood in John's pouch.

"We need to relocate you," Mark heard himself say a minute later.

John looked up. Dark eyes. Serious.

"My brother has a house up at the lake. It's pretty remote, and he and his
wife never use it," Mark said. "I was thinking--"

"I'm going to leave."

Now it was Mark who looked up. Dark eyes and serious. He could feel his
heart beating hard, and heavy. It was beginning to hurt.

"Leave?" he said. "What do you mean? Look, John, if you're mad about me
fucking that forensics kid today, I won't ever do it again. I swear."

It was a stark contrast with both of them facing each other. Mark maxed out
at six feet, boyish face, relatively clean-cut appearance (minus the light
dusting of scruff along his jaw line), and dressed to the full extent of
the law (literally). And then there was John. The man was nearly half a
foot taller, almost twice as big in stature. His eyes were a shade darker,
his beard a lot fuller, and his hands and feet: enormous!

Mark paled in comparison to John's size. He even found himself submitting
to John's alpha-male disposition.

"Mark," John said, his voice low and gentle. "You know I don't care about
you fucking that kid. You're a guy. A guy with wolf's blood driving your
sexual pulse. Believe me, I understand. But we both know the longer I stay
here, the more likely it is they'll sniff me out. I'd be risking both our
lives. Besides, in two days it'll be a full moon. Seems like the perfect
time for me to make my exit. On my own." He paused, for emphasis. "To
protect you."

"Bullshit," Mark said. "I'm already in this. WE'RE in this! I know I
freaked out before, but I'm good now. I'm good, I promise. Let me help
you."

"Help me what? Help me stay alive? Stay comfortable? Just so I can eat a
few men at the end of every month? Potentially put you in
danger...potentially eat YOU someday? Fuck no. This is my demon, let me
deal with it alone."

"You never had a problem with any of this before now," Mark said. "What
changed?"

"Nothing's changed. I was always planning to leave Wolfcreek."

Mark was shaking his head. The longer they stood there, the more angry he
got.

"So what WAS all of this?" he said. "You come into my life, fuck me good,
crash at my place, get some free meals and room and board, and then, what,
you're gone? Sayonara? Peace out? Catch you on the fucking flipside?"

"Do you like picking fights with werewolves?" John asked. "Because you have
a knack for it."

Mark took a step into him.

"John, you can't leave. I've invested too much. I won't let you."

Gently, John took Mark in both his hands. He held the sheriff firmly, held
him close.

"I told you not to fall in love with me," he said. He was nearly at a
whisper, yet somehow, the vibrations of his masculine timbre rattle Mark's
insides. "I warned you, Mark."

"That's not fair," Mark said, defiant. "You fell in love with me, too."

The man's iron gaze stared down at him, heavy, solid.

"You're right." His words were purposeful, intentional, carefully
chosen. "I did."

Confined by the man's powerful grip, Mark didn't know whether he should
collapsed into John's body in defeat, or tear himself loose. Instead, he
settled for something in between. At first, he appeared to be struggling,
but as it turned out (and much to his own surprise) it was only to get his
clothes off. Seeing this, John began to assist Mark in the task.

They rolled, grabbed, clawed at each other. John didn't even remove his or
Mark's underwear before they were fucking. The fabric had simply been
pulled aside to release his own manhood from confinement, and Mark's
underwear had been torn open at the rear, allowing John access to his
anus. Mark was groaning, cursing, yelping as John entered him. John was
howling.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


It wasn't exactly love, nor was it exactly lust. It was a deep, profound
hunger. Mark didn't know what he wanted at the moment, but whatever it was,
he wanted it--needed it--so badly that he couldn't bring himself to produce
a lucid thought to save his life.

The feel of John's three-pound cock sliding in and out of his body, filling
him up to the brim (to the point that the lining of his intestines could
rupture) and then pulling out, over and over, was pure ecstacy. The two
men, naked, entangled, were like two different metals, searing hot and
fusing together.

John finished quickly and collapsed, gasping, on top of Mark. Their sweat
rolled off their skin in great, beaded drops, drenching the sofa
cushions. Words were the last thing on their mind. They could only lay
there, panting, their hot bodies ensared in each other's sexual
trap. Mark's hot semen glued their bellies together. John's was seeping,
trickling, out of Mark's anus, which was still plugged up full of cock.

They stayed there for a long time, John smothering Mark under his immense
weight. They lay there, exchanging body warmth, kissing, breathing
together--breathing as one.

"John," Mark said. "I just don't...understand."

The beast of a man kindly pushed himself up, freeing Mark from his
heaviness.

"Maybe we should talk about this another time," John said.

Mark screwed up his face.

"No, how about we talk about this now. You know, while you're still inside
of me."

"Mark..."

"Listen to me, you will be killed if you go out there alone."

"I've made it this far."

"I don't care, I can't stand--"

"Maybe dying wouldn't be such a bad thing."

They lay there in silence for a long time, both gathering their thoughts,
both trying to make sense of the whole situation.

"John," Mark said. He had never before heard such despair in his own
voice. "I understand that other people will die in order for you to
live..." Something monumental caught him in the throat. "But the thought
of...losing you..."

"I told you," John said, cool as a marble fountain, "not to fall in love
with me."

Mark stared up into the man's dark, solid eyes. He could feel a burning in
his chest, in his stomach, in his cock. He opened his mouth to speak, but
there was nothing that came out. His mind was racing, his blood was nearly
at a boil, and suddenly, just as he was trying to think of the best
possible argument he could come up with on why John needed to stay, another
thought occurred to him.

He looked down to where John's semi-hard piece of man flesh disappeared
behind the walls of his sphincter. They were still connected, penis to
anus.

"Did you cum inside me?" Mark asked.

They had fallen into each other so fast, they had been so desperate to fuck
that they were lost in the moment, neither of them thinking, neither of
them truly aware what was happening.

John's eyes snapped wide as he looked down to where his cock vanished
inside of Mark. The pearly white rivulets of semen were trickling out the
sides of Mark's anus, running along the visible shaft of John's penis,
dripping down through the sparse hairs on his scrotum, and pooling on the
sofa.

"Fuck." It was all John said.

He pulled out of Mark with a quick, sudden yank. His blubbery appendage
fell heavily between his legs and a subsequent deluge of cum poured out of
Mark's body. Mark wriggled out from beneath the large man, skin sliding on
damp skin, and let the cum drain from his anus. He was planning on buying a
new sofa soon anyway.

"How could you let me do that?" John said. There was a tremor in his
words. Mark had never heard the man so...afraid.

"I'm sorry, I just..."

"FUCK!" John was pacing, fists balled, feet stomping heavy on the floor,
cock wagging angrily at his hairy groin.

"It's okay, it's okay," Mark said, his butt still draining. "We'll figure
this out."

"There's nothing to figure out," John said. He was sincerely frightened,
and Mark had no idea how to respond.

John was a strong man, a confident man, an intelligent man. He was composed
and calculating, quick to anger, but just as quick to take control of a
situation. Mark had never once witnessed the man respond to anything out of
fear. But this, most obviously, was just that.

Even though John's cum was seeping out of him, Mark could feel a strange
fiery sensation coarsing through his bowels. It was unlike anything he's
ever felt before. It was as if something were alive inside him, and
moving. But just as quickly as the sensation came, it left. Mark shook the
chills from his body.

"You're marked," John said, almost to himself.

"Okay. Fine. I'm marked. Let's not panic until--"

"Until what?" John said, whirling around, his massive cock slapping right
around with him. "Until I turn next full moon and come after you? Eat you?"

"John."

John's eyes were on something in the kitchen. Mark saw the man's mind
working on something. Suddenly, John barefooted it across the room, took
the Glock from the counter and held it to his temple.

"John...!" Mark was up off the sofa, slowly, carefully approaching John
with hands outstretched.

"I won't do it," John said. "I won't eat you, Mark."

"I know," Mark said, his eyes wide as lemons. "I know you won't."

"You need to cut off my head when I'm dead. Understand?" John cocked the
gun. "Just to be safe."

"John, listen to me, it doesn't have to be this way."

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"No. No, I don't understand. I won't do it, so how about you put down the
fucking gun and talk to me about this!"

A noise, outside, redirected their focus. Both Mark and John looked at the
back door, where the sound of boots scraping concrete were prickling in
through the cracks. They were quick, light-footed scuffs. The sound of
spies.

Mark and John both caught each other's eye, and immediately John had the
Glock held out at arm's length, ready for someone, or something, to come
bursting throught he window glass. He took a step toward the door, but the
floor creaked under his weight. Mark held up a hand, stopping John. He had
a finger up to his mouth. They were listening.

For what seemed like an eternity, Mark and John held their stance, waiting
for something to happen. When nothing did, John signaled for Mark to come
around, out of the living room. Using a series of sophisticated military
hand signals, John directed Mark into the bedroom, where there were fewer
windows.

"Someone's out there."

"Yeah, no shit," John said. He checked the Glock's clip. "You're not fully
loaded."

"I'm not? Damn it."

Slapping the clip back in, John massaged the weapon as if it were a worry
stone.

"We need to get out of here." He was looking up at the ceiling, searching
for access to the attic. It was clear he'd been in similar situations
before.

"No," Mark said. "Just give me the gun. I'll go out and see what's up. They
don't know you're here."

"Of course they do, they heard us fighting."

"I'll say I was on speaker phone with my brother."

"How the hell are you a sheriff?! That's a terrible alibi."

"Look, we don't have any other choice--"

But before Mark could finish his thought, the door burst open. Someone,
booted and heavily armed, stepped inside. John took aim, but he did not
fire. Three rifles were pointed at him and Mark.

"Drop the weapon!" shouted one of the masked men. "Now!"

Grimacing, John followed the man's orders. Both he and Mark put their hands
up. They were balls-hanging naked, disarmed, and all around at their most
vulnerable.

"Get on the ground. Both of you. Do it!"

Together, Mark and John hit the floor. They were ordered to put their hands
on their heads, spread their legs. Several men in S.W.A.T. uniforms placed
both of them in cuffs, and suddenly, Mark and John were being hulled
outside, naked.

John was immediately placed in the back of a large, steel-boxed
S.W.A.T. vehicle. One of the men clapped a gloved hand on the back of the
truck and the driver sped off with two police cars trailing after it.

Meanwhile, Mark was still standing bare-assed on his front lawn, cuffs on
his wrists, and aglow in red and blue lights.

A sharply dressed man strolled over to him from one of the nearby squad
cars. It was Agent Fox.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mark asked.

"Pleasure seeing you again, Sheriff." Fox had an icy grin on his
face. "Although," he looked down at Mark's nakedness, "I don't know that
it's a pleasure to be seeing so much of you." He turned and signaled to one
of his men, and suddenly Mark was being shoved into the back of a
car. After that, everything seemed to dissolve into a blurry nightmare.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The room they kept him in was gray, dimly lit, and cold. Mark sat on an
uncomfortable bench, butt naked, with his man parts a little shrunken from
the cool temperature. He could still feel John's cum seeping out his hole.

A key in the lock and the door swung open. Two men stepped into the room,
and at once, Mark stiffened. It was not immediately clear who they were,
the light was so poor. But the moment they sat down and came under the
lamplight, Mark felt the first bit of relief he'd had all night.

"Fuck, am I glad to see you guys," he said.

Sanders and Feldman sat down across from him, both wide-eyed and confused.

"So..." Sanders said after a few uncomfortable seconds of quiet. "You've
been fucking our killer."

Mark lifted his brow at the sound of Sanders's tone.

"Listen, Buck--"

But he didn't get far.

"Jesus Christ, kid, what's wrong with you?" Sanders was dumbfounded. He'd
effectively reduced Mark to a kid. A kid. When in all actuality, Sanders
had only five years on Mark, maybe seven. Mark knew he was in deep shit
right then and there.

"Buck," Mark said, serious, "this whole thing has spun wildly out of
control."

"No shit, Sherlock." Sanders shook his head, disappointed. "I honestly
can't believe it. All this time."

"It wasn't all this time. And, for the record, there's some pretty shady
cover-up shit going on with the FBI in all of this. Shit they wouldn't want
you to know about."

"Like what?"

"Like how Fox doesn't even really work for the FBI. He operates from an
undisclosed government agency that wants to militarize the werewolf. I
mean, these guys have all the fucking intel in the world about how this
creature operates, when and where it strikes, WHO it strikes, and they
didn't even give us a fucking courtesy call! The deaths of our townspeople
is on them, Buck. THEM!"

"And that's another thing," Sanders said, scratching his head. "A werewolf?
What the fuck? Is this, like, a twisted episode of The Munsters, or some
shit?" He looked at Feldman, and the kid shrugged, speechless.

"Buck," Mark said, "you have to believe me. None of this is what it seems."

They were ensnared in each other's gaze for what seemed like hours when
Buck reached into his pocket. Mark felt his balls pull up into his stomach,
thinking for a moment that Buck was reaching for his gun, but when he was
handed a pair of underwear instead, he began to relax.

"Here," Buck said. "I'm tired of looking at your nuts."

Mark accepted the clothing, gracious. "Thanks." He pulled the underwear
over his nakedness. It wasn't much, but it was at least a small repeal to
his dignity. "Listen," he said a moment later, "there's something you guys
need to know. John--the other man they captured--he can't be held in a
prison cell. You have to trust me on this, Buck. The next full moon is
tomorrow night. He'll turn, and the cell won't be able to hold him. He'll
get out, and when he does, there are about two dozen people who'll be in
his immediate surrounding. They'll all be killed."

"How can we possibly trust you, Mark?" Sanders said, shaking his head.

"You don't have a fucking choice, Buck!" Mark was getting pissed. "I've
seen this beast in action. A cage won't contain it for long."

Sanders, still shaking his head, looked away. He motioned at Feldman for
something, and Mark instantly detected a weird exchange between them.

"Tell him," Sanders said to the kid.

Mark stiffened. "Tell me what?"

Will Feldman, looking like a child caught in the whirlwind of a parentla
fight, looked back and forth between them, nervous.

"Well?" Mark was growing impatient.

At that point, the kid handed him a manilla envelope.

Fuck, with the manilla envelopes!

"When the FBI hauled you in, we took another look at the samples collected
at Jimmy Tanner's murder scene," the kid said, voice shaky. "We, uh,
identified your DNA amidst the collection."

Mark stared gravely into Feldman's eyes. Sanders wouldn't even look at him.

Feldman was sweating.

"Okay," Mark said. "Okay. Here's the truth. I fucked Jimmy Tanner the day
before he was killed."

In a burst of laughter, Sanders shot up off the bench across from Mark and
began pacing. His laughter was insincere, forced, and a cursory tactic to
avoid punching Mark in the face. Mark, in the end, appreciated the effort.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this?" Sanders said, fuming.

"I'm not."

"You fucked Jimmy Tanner? In the ass? The day before he winds up dead?"

"I did."

"Well, whoopty-fuckin-do, what a coincidence!"

"It's the truth, Buck," Mark insisted. "I know it sounds crazy, but it
happened." He looked back at Feldman. "Have you told him?"

Feldman was staring back at him, wide-eyed, pale as a ghost.

"Kid," Mark said, "you NEED to tell him. Now."

"Tell me what?" Sanders had stopped pacing by this point and was clear
across the holding cell, staring at them with arms crossed.

Will Feldman looked up, a deer in headlights.

Impatient, Mark said, "I fucked him, too."

A heavy quiet descended over the three of them. Feldman was rigid with
agitated nerves, Mark was fed up, and Sanders was steeped in so much
disbelief and confusion, he didn't even know how to respond.

"I can't help myself lately," Mark said straight out. "I have werewolf
blood in my system now. My sexual appetite comes in extreme, unbearable
bursts. Feldman and I paid Agent Fox a visit last week, and afterword I
couldn't control myself. I fucked Feldman in the men's room at the
station."

Across from him, the kid was as puffed as a thirteen-year-old caught with
his daddy's Playboy.

Sanders turned to face Feldman, his expression hard. "Is this the truth?"

Feldman nodded, though it was more of a shrug than a fully committed
affirmative.

"Jesus." Sanders spun tight on his heel and began pacing the room
again. "So what does this mean, Mark?" he said. "Was Feldman next on your
hit list? Were you going to lead the wolf man to him tomorrow night, rape
him and let him get eaten, too?"

The thought had clearly never occurred to Feldman. He tensed and shot a
terrified look at Mark.

"Of course not," Mark said through his teeth. "Stop trying to nail me to
the wall, Buck. You know me!"

"I don't."

"Okay, fine, you don't know me. I'm the mastermind behind all these
killings. I like to watch men get gobbled up, naked, butt-fucked, and
screaming. That's right. I've been leading a werewolf around town at night,
sniffing out just the right guy who'd be extra tasty."

"Are you being sarcastic, or is this a hard confession? Either way, I'll
fucking knock your lights out."

Mark was instantly on his feet.

"Buck, they already have me. There's nothing I can do from a prison
cell. If I were behind these killings, I'm out of the game now," Mark said
with intensity. "But I'm telling you, John is going to turn tomorrow
night. He's going to get out. And he's going to kill everyone in his
path. You have to stop it from happening."

Mark and Sanders, now, were nose to nose. Feldman was still sitting on the
bench, stiff and silenced.

"Okay," Sanders said in a low, agitated voice. "If what you say is true:
how do we stop it from happening?"

Mark swallowed, hard. He wouldn't tell Sanders to decapitate John. No
fucking way. He wouldn't issue John's execution. He cared for John. He
was...in love with him.

Goddamn it.

"Get everyone out of there," Mark said. "When the beast gets out, he's
going to be angry. Make sure no one is around to witness it."

--

Inside a steel chamber clear across town, John sat with an incredible
fever. He was not ill, nor did he feel the normative effects that coinside
with a raised body temperature. On the contrary, he
felt...powerful...sexual...hungry.

Outside, a nearly full moon was rising. Tomorrow it would be full. He could
feel it in his blood, in his muscles, in his bones. He could feel the
transformation already beginning down in his testicles, in his cock. His
genitals were hot with desire. His stomach...hungry for flesh.

The smell of naked man was gathering inside of the chamber. It rose off of
John's body like steam off a hot lake in the cool of autumn.

Beyond the door of his cell, many voices, many feet.

They're all going to die, John thought to himself. There's no stopping
what's to come.

--

"Thank you for gracing me with your presence," Mark said. "I'm humbled,
truly. And honored. Humbled and honored. Both of those. In that order."

Across from him, Agent Fox flashed an icy grin.

"I mean, you must be pretty darn proud of yourself," Mark went on,
"capturing John finally...and then getting me in the process. Boy, what a
bonus that must've been." Mark smiled, happy. "You really owe it to
yourself to pat yourself on the back. I mean, congratulations. From one man
of the law to another. Seriously, dude. Wow. Everyone must be so proud of
you--"

"Shut up, Warner."

"Sorry, sir. Just wanted to express my gratitude to you and the whole
department of slimeballs you associate with."

Fox leaned in, and Mark could feel the frost drifting off of him like dry
ice.

"You let the werewolf fuck you, I hear."

Mark swallowed. He was nervous. Fucking nervous as hell, but he didn't want
Fox to know it. He cracked a grin and shrugged, playing it loose and
casual.

"Yeah, but probably not as much as you fuck your mother."

A quick jab to the jaw silenced him. Mark spat some blood. He was lucky a
tooth hadn't been knocked loose. He turned back, facing Fox with resolute
eyes.

"I just want you to know, Warner," Fox said, flashing his toothy grin once
more, "that I'm going to put you on the cutting board. Not the FBI. Me. You
have werewolf blood in you. And I want to know all I can about this
creature. So I'm volunteering you for a full body dissection day after
tomorrow. How's that? They're going to slice you open and play with your
guts." He paused, as if for dramatic effect. Then, menacingly, he grabbed a
fistful of Mark's balls. Mark gave a small gasp. "But first, I'm going to
chop these fellas off and feed them to the creature...and make you watch."

He ran his tongue over his teeth, gave Mark's sack a firm, painful squeeze,
and then released him. Mark sat there, catching his breath as Fox stepped
out of the room, his steel-toed shoes clinking on the tile floor as he
went.

"Shit," Mark said under his breath, and crossed his legs to protect his
balls.

--

Sanders closed and locked the door to his office.

"Sit down," he said.

Feldman took a seat in the small leather chair opposite Sanders' desk. He
was petrified.

"You," he said very pronounced, very articulate, "are going to tell me
everything. And I want no lies. No cover-ups. No treading lightly. You are
going to tell me exactly what happened between you and Mark, and everything
you know about what's been going on with Mark, and you are going to tell me
in painful detail. If I think you are hiding something, if I think you are
being flexible with your words, I will castrate you right here, right now,
and pin your nuts up on my wall as a trophy for all to see. I'm sure
they're beautiful nuts with gorgeous strawberry blond pubic hair like the
hair on your fucking head. I'm sure your dick is handomsely shaped,
circumcized, and all around nice to look at. People will stare up at it for
years to come and wonder how many boy buttholes its been inside, and then
they'll wonder how many dicks its former owner had shoved up his shit shute
in return, and then they'll go, Oh, yeah, those nuts used to belong to that
Will Feldman kid in forensics, you know, the one who got fucked by the town
sheriff and then failed to fully disclose the details regarding the
Wolfcreek werewolf case, so that's why his junk is pinned up there. Do you
understand?"

Feldman nodded, and opened his mouth at once to speak.

--

At dawn, John was still pacing the steel chamber, barefoot, dick
hanging. The smell of Mark lingered on his cock. The smell of Mark was all
over him. He couldn't get Mark out of his head.

He growled, frustrated. It was, however, not the ordinary growl of an
angered man. It was the growl of something primal,
something...predatory. Outside the day was slowly creeping by, leaving
moonrise only hours away.

His heart was pumping like a sledgehammer in his chest, BOOM...BOOM...BOOM!
His stomach was thundering with a deep, ravenous hunger. His ballsack had
grown a little larger, a little fuller, his cock...a starving canine
desperate to tend to its most instinctual needs.

The chamber reeked of male sex pheramones: male sweat, male body heat,
semen, musk.

Still, from just beyond the chamber's door: twenty people, talking, filing
paperwork, getting coffee, standing guard.

--

At the same time, Mark was across town, in his own prison, pacing. He'd had
a terrible night of sleep. Actually, scratch that. He didn't
sleep. Instead, his mind raced. In twelve hours, John was going to turn,
and he was the first person to be hunted down. Sure, some of the FBI agents
might slow John down some, as appetizers. But that didn't change the fact
that Mark was...well, marked! He was the main course. And if a prison cell
wouldn't be able to contain a fully transformed werewolf, Mark's cell
surely wasn't going to keep a fully transformed werewolf out.

Mark was fucked.

Well, to be realistic, Mark was fucked, and then eaten. In that order.

Fuck.

Mark, unable to relax, started to quickly form a plan. But every idea he
came up with sucked as far as practicality went. So that was that. He was a
dead man. And then he heard it: silence. The police station was virtually
empty, given that everyone was across town where the FBI was keeping
John. That's where all the action was for the time being.

He peered out from the steel bars of his cell, trying to see the police
station's front desk.

"Jackson," Mark called. He didn't hear anyone nearby, so he made sure it
was loud enough that someone further away would hear him. Then again, he
didn't want to call too much attention to himself in case there were more
people around, so he tried to find a balance between volume and
inconspicuousness.

When no one responded, Mark called out again.

"Jackson." This time, he was a bit louder.

A groan, the sound of a creaky chair, a shuffle of feet, and suddenly
Jackson appeared in front of his cell.

"What is it, Sheriff?"

The man didn't appear particularly excited to see him. Mark didn't care.

"Hey, Jackson," Mark said coolly, "so I know you're probably a little wary
of me right now, but is there any chance I can get some more clothes?" Mark
gestured to his mostly naked body. The underwear Sanders had given him was
covering all the important areas, but it was still pretty cold in the
concrete cell with nothing else on him. His nipples could cut glass.

"I don't know," Jackson said, shaking his head. "I was told not to engage
with you, Mark."

He started to walk away.

"Wait...wait!" Mark said, a little desperation leaking out. "Jackson, hold
up, bud. Wait a minute."

Jackson stopped, turned.

"All I need is something to wear. A blanket, even. Just something, I'm
freezing my dick off in here, man."

Clearly unsure how he felt about the situation (Jackson and Mark used to
frequently grab lunch together, have standard 'work conversations'), the
man sighed and went to the nearest custodial closet.

"Okay, Mark," Jackson said, loading up on some shirts and pants that were
designated for prisoners. "But I'm only doing this because we used to be
friends."

He turned around and started toward Mark's cell.

"Used to be?" Mark said, trying to sound a little hurt. "Jackson, what
makes you think I still don't consider you--"

Just as Jackson reached out to hand Mark the clothes, Mark grabbed the
man's wrists and pulled him violently into the steel bars, knocking him,
effectively, unconcious.

"Holy shit," Mark said, when Jackson dropped to the floor like a large sack
of dirt with relatively little effort. "That actually worked."

Careful not to call any attention to the scene, Mark reached down and
unlatched the key card from Jackson's waist and swiped it on the pad
outside the main door.

Damn, Mark thought. This is a little too easy for people to escape from
here. Noted.

He crept out of the cell, looked down the hallway, glanced into the main
atrium, and then started bare-footing it to the nearest men's room. He
hurried inside, closed and locked the door behind him, and went to the
furthest stall. He didn't grab the clothes Jackson brought him. They were
too recognizable as prisoner attire. He needed to not be noticeable. Than
again, being half-naked wasn't exactly a crowd-blending dress
code. Whatever. He didn't have the time to argue with himself.

He propped himself up on the toilet tank, lifted the ceiling panel, and
lifted himself up into the ventilation system of the police station. He
wasn't going to stand around, waiting for John The Werewolf to came clawing
his way in to eat him. Fuck that. He was going to get the hell out!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN


The sun was setting, and Wolfcreek fell into a strange, eerie quiet.

Sanders pulled up outside the gymnasium the FBI was using as a temporary
base. He climbed out without switching off the engine, and Feldman climbed
out too.

"Fox," Sanders said, hailing the agent as he was stepping out the
gymnasium's main doors.

"Ah," the FBI agent said, "Seargent. Pleasure."

"Yeah, well, not on my end." Sanders approached Fox like a father who just
learned that his daughter has been done wrong. "You can hunt down mystical
creatures till your heart's fucking desire, but don't hang around and put
the people of this town in danger."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" Sanders hissed. He may as well
have spat in the FBI agent's face. "I have it on good authority that that
man you're holding in there is dangerous and likely to get out of
confinement tonight. So, let's both do us a favor, and you and your people
pack your gear--that crazy wolf man, too--and get the hell out of
Wolfcreek!"

Fox just looked at him and smiled.

"Seargent," he said coolly, "I can assure you, my team has everything under
control.

Sanders gave Feldman are sharp, sidways glance. The kid was standing at the
foot of the gym's stairs, watching as FBI agents went this way and that,
talking in strange collusion, whispering, their eyes knowing.

"With Mark arrested, I'm next in line for leadership around these parts,"
Sanders said, "and I order you and your men to get the fuck out."

"Order all you want, sarge," Fox said. "But we're not going anywhere till
tomorrow."

"If you people keep that thing around here, there won't even BE a
tomorrow!"

Fox gave a small, disingenuous laugh. "My, my. That sheriff must really be
weaving some funny anecdotes over there at the police station, huh? You
talk as if the man we captured is some sort of...monster."

"Let's not be coy, Fox," Sanders said. "I'm not an idiot."

"What? You really believe the tales that have been told to you? Seargent?
Come now, I thought you were a man of the law. A man of integrity,
pragmaticism."

"The man you're holding is a werewolf," Sanders said, and loudly. "I've
seen the evidence, I've heard the testimony from some pretty damn credible
sources. So now I want it OUT."

Another FBI agent opened the door and came out of the gymnasium, heading
for the parking lot.

"That man," Fox said to Sanders, genteel, toothy, poised, "is a mere felon
of insurance fraud who's wanted to five states. The FBI's been tracking him
for a long time. I hate to break it to you, Seargent, but there are no such
things as werewolves."

"Explain to me then," Sanders said, "why a man who committed a crime of
financial dishonesty is being held in a three-inch thick steel vault."

Fox's grin faded, somewhat. He glanced over his shoulder, where the door
had been accidentally propped wide open for both Sanders and Feldman to see
inside. Sure enough, a large, steel container was sitting there, it's one
and only door heavily sealed, and two guards with assault rifles standing
directly outside.

"That," Fox said, his mind clearly working fast, "is standard precaution,
Seargent. I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. It's above--"

"My pay grade. Yeah, I heard."

Sanders spun tight on his heel and signaled for Feldman to follow. They
brisk-walked back to the interceptor, climbed inside, and sped off.

Agent Fox stood like a gargoyle on the stone steps of the gymnasium,
watching the tail lights fade into the growing darkness. A single bead of
sweat trickle from the cover of his hairline and into his eye.

--

Mark was roughing it through the back streets of Wolfcreek. In his
underwear. And with a boner.

Well, this is just great, he thought. I'm hiding from the law, I'm
terrified of being eaten by a giant wolf monster, and I'm fucking horny as
hell!

The last traces of daylight were slipping away, and stars, bright and
glittering, were beginning to speckle the sky. Mark quick-footed it down a
dark alleyway, somewhere behind the Howl Room, and climbed a chainlink
fence. He needed to get to the other side of town, and fast. He needed
clothes. He needed a car. He needed to speed the fuck out of Wolfcreek if
he didn't want his balls eaten off him, but still, fucking an ass was
somehow on his priority list. Jesus, he needed to reevaluate the importance
of his errands.

Most of the town's roads were quiet and still, but every once and a while,
a car would pass. A restaurant owner would take out the trash. A kid would
ride his bike through the parking lot.

Mark simply could not step out into the streetlights. Too much risk.

He knelt down behind a newspaper stand, just out of the pool of lights, to
better analyze his situation. It was getting darker by the minute. The moon
would rise soon. He needed to get to a functioning vehicle. Stat.

His first thought was to run to his house, but once he got out of the
police station, he realized it was too far. He lived clear across town,
much too far to make it on foot in the limited time he had. Besides, the
town wasn't dead. It was just after nine o'clock. People were still up and
moving around. Someone would spot him, easily.

So, okay, no going home. Not right away, at least. Plan B.

What's Plan B?

Shit, he forgot to make a Plan B.

Mark half walked, half crawled out from behind the newspaper stand and
crept into the rear parking lot behind a sandwich shop. There were three
cars sitting in the shadows, all of them potential getaways. Mark checked
every single door, and much to his disappointment, they were all
locked. Why the fuck are people always such good, safe citizens? Fuck those
people! Mark knew how to hotwire a car...in theory. But the second he broke
the window, it would make a noise, and someone who come out to see what was
happening, and then Mark would be royally screwed.

He moved on, searching quickly for more cars, more parking lots. There was
another lot he could try. The automotive shop that Jimmy Tanner used to
work. That lot had tons of cars, and at this time of night, it was nearly
deserted.

With some excitement, Mark started sneaking along the sides of buildings,
heading east, toward the town's body shop. He was maybe halfway there when
a ferocious, spine-tingling howl shattered the night.

He looked up and sure enough, the full moon was low and rising.

Another howl, this time, louder and angrier, erupted from somewhere far
away.

--

The security guards staggered back, shakily aiming their guns at the great
steel block that held the creature.

"Don't panic," Agent Fox said, addressing every terrified gaze in the
room. "Nobody panic. We're not children. That creature cannot
escape. That's solid steel caging it. No possible way it can get out."

Still, there was a general unease in the room.

A great, booming thunder resounded as something massive crashed against the
door from the inside. The entire steel block rocked. Everyone took a step
back.

"Sir," said one of the men on Fox's team. "Might we consider..."

"No," Fox stated flatly. "There will be no considering of anything. That
creature is caged, and that's the way it's gonna stay. We built a strong
enough prison for it."

Another enormous crash, and this time, the steel block scooted forward a
half-inch.

"Jesus," said one woman. "It's mad."

"Of course it's mad," Fox said, grinning. "It knows we've beat it this
time."

An ear-splitting howl seeped out of the steel, and everyone but Fox covered
their ears. In the quarter inch by three inch bullet-proof glass window
that functioned as a means to peer inside, they could all see something
large, and black, and raging bouncing around inside. None of them dared get
close enough to peer in for a good look. They all kept their distance. Even
Agent Fox.

There was one final ramming from inside the cage, and then, all of a
sudden, the violence stopped. It went deadly quiet. Everyone exchanged a
look of curious caution. Even the security guards, pointing their assault
rifles at the steel door, drew back in some sort of uncanny anticipation of
incoming terror.

But nothing happened.

Agent Fox stood, cross-armed, and smiling.

"I told you," he said. "All beasts can be tamed."

There was a muted sort of thumping coming from inside the steel
chamber. Some sort of pounding, but it hardly appeared threatening.

"What's it doing?" another woman asked.

Fox shrugged. "Probably just beating its head against the wall in miserable
defeat." He laughed. "If we're lucky, the bastard will knock itself
unconscious and sleep through the night."

"So when do we begin the testing?"

"In a month," Fox said. "It will give us time to figure out how to properly
sedate it, so that way it's operable once it's turned. I don't want to
chance it during this lunar cycle. We'll wait until the full moon phase is
over and then transport it back to our labs. In the meantime, there's a
particular sheriff that I want to...examine."

The muted pounding lasted another ten minutes and then, again, total
silence. Twenty people in the room, all there for the sole purpose of
studying this fascinating national treasure, this mythical creature proven
to be real, and all of them with eyes on the steel chamber.

"It...it stopped," whispered one of the scientists.

Carefully, softly, one of the guards crept up to the small glass
window. His rifle was up and ready, finger on the trigger. Sweat glistened
on his brow. His heart hammered in his chest. With great care, great
caution, great quiet, he leaned in toward the viewing window. He leaned in,
a nose's distance from the glass, and looked inside.

"Oh fuck me..." the guard said in a heart-stopping moment of realization.

"What?" asked one of the financers of the operation. "What is it?"

The guard turned, his eyes as large as saucers.

"It's gone subterranean!"

"WHAT?"

Three more people, instantly, were at the porthole that looked into the
chamber.

"How did it get through the steel floor?!"

"There was NEVER a steel floor," said one of the other agents. "We
constructed the cage right here, on the gymnasium's floor."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" said one of the women agents. "This floor is
linoleum. A goddamned basketball, if bounced hard enough, can break
through!"

An all around murmuring of concern. Concern turned to fear, fear turned to
panic, and suddenly people were abandoning their work stations, making
headway for their cars outside.

"Stop," Fox said. "STOP. Nobody move. We're safe. It's okay. We have guns!"

But he no longer had power over them. Their fear had taken control.

Half the room was bolting for the exit when a deafening howl came from just
beyond the main doors. Everyone froze, riddled with terror. The beast had
surfaced on the other side of the building. It had dug itself out of
confinement. And now it was loose.

The door's handle slowly began to turn...

--

"Oh shit," Mark said under his breath. "Oh shit."

He ran down another side street, this time not caring if someone spotted
him. John The Werewolf could smell him, he knew, and the fact that he
hadn't showered in over twenty-four hours made him that much more
detectable.

He cut through a few hedge plants, a deserted intersection, and raced for
the autobody parking lot.

Come on, he thought. Anything would work!

He could see a few parked cars coming into view. One was an old
Subaru. Yes, alright, those were an easy hotwire...or so he convinced
himself. He went for it. With the sharpest point of his elbow, he shattered
the driver's side window. Again, the car was an older model, so it didn't
have a car alarm. He unlocked it and hopped inside, busting the console
open and fishing through wires.

Another howl echoed in the night.

Mark felt his stomach coil into about fifty knots. His testicles pulled up
tight to his body, clinging to safety. Even his anus pinched shut with
terror.

Come on, come on.

He squinted, trying to make out which wire was which in the dark. Ever
since he reached the age of thirty-three, his eyes were beginning to lose
precision. Why he never paid the optometrist a visit, he didn't know. And
now, he was cursing himself for being too lazy.

Come on!

He stripped to wires of their coating and tried slapping the exposed copper
together. Nothing. Fuck. He had the wrong wires. He dug through the
console's guts a bit more, desperate to find the right ones.

The night came to a suspicious quiet all around him. Crickets, cicada,
nightowls...all silent. Only the wind rustled the bushes, the trees. Mark
looked up, looked around. He'd heard this deep quiet once before. He knew
what it meant.

Urgently, he returned to stripping wires, snapping them together, desperate
to fire up the car's engine. When nothing worked, Mark silently cursed the
Subaru to a painful, agonizing damnation in automobile hell, and bolted off
to the small patch of woods on the east end of town.

The woods barely qualified as woods (they were in the desert, after all),
but they were the only immediate cover he could afford. He dove behind the
bushes, army-crawling deeper into the trees in nothing but his underwear,
which, for the record, were dangerously close from slipping right off his
butt. A size too big--then again, how could Sanders have known?

Mark made his way through the trees, poking his head up from the cover of
bushes every couple of feet, scanning all around him, searching for signs
of an incoming wolf monster.

I should have stayed in the prison cell, he thought. Maybe I was too
distrusting of it. Maybe it actually could have kept a werewolf out.

He shook off the regret, determined to do his best and deal with the
right-now, and hopefully stay alive.

Through the entangled branches, Mark peered out into the night. Wolfcreek
was a lonely, dark place at night. His thirty-five-year-old eye sight
wasn't doing him much good. But still, he could see a good thirty, forty
feet, straight out, in every direction. He did his best.

For five, ten minutes, Mark stayed very very still, very quiet. He did not
move, he did not scuffle. He was committed to avoiding a werewolf endowed
with a divine sense of smell at all costs. He even held his breath.

It seemed like hours as he sat there, waiting, listening, watching. In
fact, the waiting part was killing him. His heart thundered in his chest,
his adrenal glands pumped mercilessly. He was wide awake, terrified, and
ready to run, when all of a sudden, a squad car went sailing by, emergency
lights flashing, alarm silenced. The squad car zoomed down the nearest side
street, nearly a hundred yards away, heading west toward the FBI's
headquarters.

Damn! If only Mark had been close enough to flag the car down. He could
have caught a ride.

But then the squad car was gone and away, out of sight...out of mind.

Mark had just returned to his practice of waiting for death when all of a
sudden something large and draped in shadow descended on him from out of
the bushes. He gasped and staggered back, falling hard on his ass. Two
yellow eyes, sinister and fatal, stared down at him from the night
sky. Rows of talon-sharp fangs glinted under the moonlight. A
deep-throated, vicious growl issued from the beast, and Mark felt his
intestines clench.

The werewolf loomed over him like a demon from the deepest parts of
hell. It was as if it had materialized out of the darkness, with no
approach whatsoever.

Mark could do nothing but stare back into the creature's glowing eyes. If
he ran, he'd get maybe two steps (maybe) before he was torn to shreds. If
he screamed...no one would hear. And even if they did, it'd be too late. As
difficult as it was, as disturbing, as depressing, as frightening, Mark
accepted the fact that he was going to be eaten. He closed his eyes and
waited for the pain of teeth in his belly.

The werewolf lowered itself down, crouching directly over Mark--a lion to a
gazelle. It barred its fangs. Released a skin-prickling snarl. And finally,
it leaned in to him and sniffed. It sniffed nearly every inch of Mark's
mostly-naked body. When it finally lowered its head enough, zeroing in on
Mark's groin, it held its snout there for a rather long time, as if
remembering something.

Mark glanced down, curious as to why his balls hadn't been ripped into yet,
and found two yellow eyes peering up at him from somewhere between his
legs.

Suddenly, Mark was flipped over onto his belly. The werewolf had godlike
strength. It man-handled him as a man might handle a kitten. With no
trouble whatsoever. And in that way, Mark was completely helpless.

On his belly, in the dirt, Mark felt the beast tear the underwear from his
body. Oh, right, he forgot. First he was going to be raped...then eaten. Of
course.

With his ass now fully exposed, Mark shuddered. He'd taken John's cock many
times, but how painful would it be to accomodate John The Werewolf's cock?
He didn't know, nor was he particularly thrilled about finding out. Behind
him, the werewolf got into position. A colossal animal, easily eight
hundred pounds, packed with muscle, was situating itself to fuck
him. To. Fuck. Him.

"Holy shit, this is gonna hurt..." Mark said quietly to himself.

The werewolf leaned down and sniffed Mark's bare butt. It's wet snout
traced the path of his ass crack, burrowed a ways in, and eventually found
the source of the smell. Mark winced when the cold snout pressed up against
his anus. In fact, his entire body jolted with surprise. Behind him, the
werewolf released a small growl and placed its paw on his back, forcing him
to stay still while it sniffed him.

Mark trembled when he felt the bear-like claws poke into his shoulder
blades. They did not draw blood, but it was just enough of a preview for
what was to come when the werewolf decided to finally tear him apart, and
Mark didn't like it.

Still nosing his butthole, the werewolf suddenly seemed to be
growing...restless. Mark could hear the beast breathe deeper, heavier, stir
its hind paws in the ground, wag its tail, snarl. Something was coming over
the beast. A frenzy of sorts. It was as if it was getting high off of
Mark's ass, and pretty soon, Mark guessed himself dead.

This thing is going to eat me, ass first, he thought to himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that it would all be over quick.

But instead of a mouthful of flesh-tearing teeth in his butt, Mark was
surprised to feel a warm, wet tongue sliding up the backside of his
ballsack, running up his taint and over his asshole. The tongue came again,
and again, over and over. For a long time, this happened, the werewolf
tongued his ass as if bathing a puppy. In fact, the tonguing was so
aggressive, Mark's entire body was being rocked back and forth with the
force of it. Eventually, the werewolf's tongue serpented its way into the
canals of Mark's rectum, and Mark yelped the moment it happened.

Another heavy paw on his back, keeping him still and quiet. A small growl
of warning from the werewolf.

And then it resumed licking him. Mark felt like he was being bathed, and he
probably was. Again, he hadn't showered in a whole day. The werewolf was
probably trying to clean him off a little before it ate him. Whenever a
scrap of food is dropped on the floor, doesn't one brush the dirt off it
before eating it?

Mark sighed. He wasn't even clean enough to eat. How fucking depressing.

And that's when the real fun began. The werewolf smashed Mark's face hard
into the earth and pulled his bare ass high in the air. Mark knew right
away that his butt was in trouble. He winced a little under the beast's
weight, but he didn't have long before something hot and firm pushed up
against his sphincter, redirecting his worry. Mark's anus squeezed tight
shut as more and more pressure was applied to it. Somewhere behind him,
though, the werewolf let out a snarky growl, as if demanding that Mark
relax. And suddenly, whether Mark had actually relaxed, or whether the
werewolf had just forced its way inside, Mark was being filled up, inch by
inch, with the largest cock he's ever had inside him.

The werewolf's cock must have exceeded ten inches. It was thick and hot to
the touch. Noticeably human shaped. And a distinctly masculine smell came
off it. Mark's senses were sharp enough to distinguish his own scent from
the beast's. Even as he picked up strong whiffs of the werewolf's genitals,
he realized very quickly he was inhaling traces of John. The potent odor
was slightly canine, sure, but more recognizably, the salty musk of John
revealed itself in every breath Mark breathed. It was a whirlwind of male
aroma.

"Whoa, fuuuck!" Mark bellowed as the werewolf's cock filled his rectum to
full capacity and began to breech his colon.

He felt the wind pull out of him from the shock.

A chilling howl erupted from the creature's throat as it sank its phallus
all the way in. Mark gasped, knowing full well that his asshole had never
before been so stretched--a tear came to his eye.

With rapid, carnal thrusts, the werewolf began to fuck him. The pain was
immediate, though it wasn't unbearable. Mark certainly worried that his
sphincter muscles would snap, that his anus would tear. He worried that his
intestines would be damaged beyond repair. Then again, he was going to be
eaten afterward, so it didn't really matter, did it?

But as the enormous wolf bucked--it's male sex organ sliding in and out of
Mark's body--something very strange happened. Mark's prostate was being so
stimulated, so caressed by the great pressure inside him, that his dick
sprang to life. Whereas it had been dangling helplessly between his legs a
moment before, now Mark's cock was hard as a rock.

"Oh, shit, my prostate..." Mark said as the great beast drilled into him.

Mark had never been so titillated before. John's cock, when human, had
massaged Mark's prostate time and time again. Mark had gotten off just from
the sensation of having John inside him plenty of times. But this was
something else entirely. The werewolf's cock was bigger, warmer, and the
beast fucked with a wild frenzy that somehow sent lightning bolts into his
male glands.

With great ease, the werewolf flipped Mark onto his back, pinning him to
the ground by his shoulders. Never once did the beast let it's cock slip
out. It stayed plugged inside, and resumed fucking the second Mark was
repositioned--feet high in the air, balls jiggling like a jello mold.

In the silver moonlight, Mark could make out the werewolf's rough
features. It was strange because Mark had never considered the aesthetic
appearance of an animal before. But now, given that one was fucking him,
the observation came to mind. The werewolf was handsome...for a wolf, that
is. Actually, if Mark was going to describe it, the werewolf was
blood-curdlingly, terrifyingly horrific. The whole humanoid-wolf thing was
a bit much for him, conceptually. But if there was a wolf he would label as
handsome, John The Werewolf would be it. Silky black hair, long pointy
ears, glowing eyes of a predator, a seamlessly carved snouth, complete with
rows of razor-like fangs, enormous shoulder span, powerful arms and chest,
rigid abdomen, and, of course, the giant cock rising out of its core.

The werewolf thrust deep, and Mark cried out. He looked down and found that
the wolf's cock was bulging out from his lower stomach. A large, rolling
lump had appeared just below his naval, and for quite some time, he worried
that the cock would burst right through, making a perfect dick-shaped hole
in his body.

Further south from that, Mark's own cock was ready to burst. By this point,
his prostate had been so over-stimulated, he no longer remembered his
name. All he could do was stare down as the bulge in his stomach, wondering
how his body was accomodating something as massive as a werewolf's cock. He
glanced up into the beast's glowing eyes. There was a connection, but
fleeting. He looked up at his feet, which flailed aimlessly in the air
overhead. The trees were somewhere beyond that, and the moon beyond that.

Mark yelped as the beast went in a little too deep. The beast growled as
Mark's anal walls clamped a little too tight around its cock.

The woods, needless to say, filled with the smell of male sex.

What had felt like hours of raw, unrestrained pain and pleasure, urge and
ecstacy, lasted in reality only five minutes. There was an increase in
heat, a rush of some sort, and suddenly the werewolf was pumping faster,
harder. Mark was beyond soft moans and groans at this point, he was
screaming.

The werewolf plunged all of itself inside Mark (Mark watched the contents
of his belly shift like loose ground in an earthquake), and threw its head
toward the sky and howled. Inside, Mark could feel the wolf's cock growing
slightly firmer, slightly larger, slightly hotter. He squeezed his eyes
shut, knowing full well what was coming (literally), and sure enough, the
beast was emptying everything it had into Mark's gut.

"Holy shit..." Mark said, feeling the hyrdoblast of hot semen pouring out
and swirling up into his intestines.

His belly began to swell as it was filled with the beast's ejaculation.

Simultaneously, Mark felt the familiar sensation of male orgasm rising up
from his depths. His screaming increased twofold as his own cock twitched
with one last gasp before it, too, was spewing a massive load.

Mark's cum shot clear from his body, sailing up in a perfect arch over his
swollen belly, and landing square on his chest. Some of it caught the
werewolf in the chops, and the beast quickly licked it off like left over
blood from a recent kill.

When Mark's balls finished expelling all the semen they had, his head fell
back onto the cold, hard earth. For the first time in several hours, he was
finally able to relax. But even so, another sensation came screaming back
to him all at once. The werewolf's cock was still spearing him through the
ass, and what was worse, the feral beast was glaring down at him, sexually
satisfied...and hungry.

"If you're going to eat me, do it fast," Mark said.

His belly was clenched, expecting the werewolf to sink its fangs into him
at any moment. His genitals trembled, knowing they were soon to be a
meal. A manly stench rose off his underarms, and from his cock-filled anus,
like a skunk's defense mechanism. Unfortunately, Mark could tell the
werewolf quite enjoyed the smell of his fear.

"Do it," Mark said. "Eat me." The werewolf just stared down at him, barring
its fangs. "EAT ME!"

With a sudden, violent pluck, the werewolf pulled out of Mark's ass. Its
large, greasy phallus tumbled heavily down between its hind legs, reeking
of Mark's anus and glistening with a glaze of semen. The sudden change in
pressue forced Mark to gasp as his bowels began to release the flood of
wolf cum ebbing inside him. He finally lowered his feet to the ground and
moaned softly as semen poured out his asshole like an over-turned jug of
milk.

The wolf issued a small growl and slowly began to walk away.

Confused, Mark watched as the creature padded out into the open desert. His
belly still swollen--pregnant with werewolf semen--rendered him unable to
move. He just lie there, on the ground, while the semen leaked out of his
gaping anus.

Like a stray dog, the werewolf trotted out into the wilderness. But
strangely, it paused after several yards and looked back at Mark with some
sort of distant understanding in its glowing yellow eyes. Finally, it
turned to leave for good.

The great black wolf began to disappear into the darkness, and Mark
remained in the pile of bushes, raped, bred, and alive. He couldn't believe
it. He couldn't believe he hadn't been eaten. John had warned him that if
he was marked, he'd get eaten.

Maybe the man had it all wrong, Mark thought hopefully.

He rose up to his elbows, trying to get a better look at the beast as it
vanished into the night, but suddenly, a pool of white light swept over the
desert ground. The werewolf was blindingly illuminated in the beam, and
Mark could instantly make out the buzzing hum of the helicopter somewhere
overhead. There was a split second of unrequited recognition between the
beast and the chopper, and suddenly a shower of bullets began to rain down
from the night sky.

The werewolf snarled and bolted back the way it had come, straight for
Mark. It was seeking the shelter of the woods. But suddenly, as if from
nowhere, heavily armed men came bursting from the trees, open firing on the
beast. Mark hadn't even sensed them creeping up behind him. They were
military, definitely. Covert ops, or something.

Mark rolled over onto his plump stomach and covered his head as the assault
rifles blasted over his head.

The werewolf caught a few bullets in the shoulder, one in its side, but it
kept coming for the gunmen with the strength of a pack of lions. With one
tackle, three gunmen were taken out. One swipe of the paw and another was
ripped in half. One snap of its jaws, and the last gunman was missing his
arm, screaming, bleeding. The werewolf knocked the armless man hard to the
ground and tore into his belly with ferocious teeth.

Mark could do nothing but watch. He was naked, on the ground, unfairly in
the middle of the action. How the hell did he ever wind up here?!

Victorious, the werewolf lifted its head, its searing hot eyes falling on
Mark with viciousness. Blood, thick and hot, dripped from its furry chops.

Of course, Mark thought. I was gonna make it, and then some trigger-happy
dipshit had to open fire on the beast. Now I'm dead. Thanks, guy.

But to his surprise, it wasn't Mark that the werewolf was staring at. It
was the man coming up behind him.

Just as the twig snapped under foot, and just as the rifle was pumped for
action, Mark whirled to find a lone S.W.A.T. soldier materializing from the
brush. Strangely--and for a moment Mark thought he had it all wrong--the
soldier was aiming his weapon at him...not the werewolf.

Mark couldn't process the situation fast enough. All he would remember was
the roar of the werewolf somewhere behind him, the rifle pointed at his
face, a quick scuffle of some kind, and then a deafening blast.

When he opened his eyes, Mark was somewhere dark, and mildewy, and far far
away from Wolfcreek.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN


He was still naked. Very much so. But miraculously all in one piece.

Mark looked around, trying to see through the shadows, but the room was
unfamiliar to him. He tried to stand, but he was too weak. He was starving,
and dehydrated, and a powerful headache pulsed inside him with the force of
a sledgehammer.

Out a small window over his head, the sun was beginning to rise. The last
stars were flickering out in the daylight, and the moon: vanished.

He took several minutes to climb to his feet and get his bearings about
him, and then stepped out of the room into a narrow hallway. It was an old
house, wherever he was. Long ago abandoned, dusty, rotted.

He came into the main room of the house and gasped at the sight of what
used to be a man scattered all across the floor. It was a bunch of
leftovers of the man, actually--whoever he used to be. Blood, bones, guts,
a head. Large bloody paw prints encircled the mess. Mark covered his mouth
to keep from vomiting, though he had nothing in him to throw up.

His eyes widened when he caught sight of another man--a whole man--stripped
naked and bound by hands and feet in the far corner. The man was gaffed and
staring up at him, wide-eyed and on the brink of tears. Upon first glance,
he was a handsome man, most likely late twenties, early thirties. Green
eyes, dark features, dark hair. He was fairly in shape--no doubt one of the
S.W.A.T. troops who made the surprise attack. Between his rope bound legs,
his fuzzy genitals were plump and succulent. Mark's mouth even began to
water at the sight of them.

The man made some kind of plea through the gaff.

Mark hustled across the wooden floor, being sure to avoid the mess of
shredded man everywhere else, and ripped the tape from the man's mouth.

"Oh, thank you!" the man said. "Quick, you gotta untie me, man."

He held up his hands, expecting Mark to start picking at the knot. It was
evident based on the exchange of looks between them that they both
recognized each other's nakedness.

"Who did this to you?" were Mark's first words.

"Who do you think?" the man said. "The fucking werewolf!"

Mark's expression went slack. He studied the man intently, trying to read
him.

"You were one of the men who ambushed the werewolf last night," he said.

"Yeah," the man said. "Now, hurry, you have to get me outta here."

Mark stared hard into the man's eyes, and though he couldn't be sure, he
had a pretty good idea that this man was the one who nearly pulled the
trigger on him.

"You people were going to shoot me, too," Mark said flatly. "Why?"

The man began to realize that Mark was probably not a friend of his, and he
began to stutter.

"Please," the man said, a little desperate. "Please, I was only following
orders."

Mark drilled the man with his gaze. He was decent sized man, thick arms,
thick torso, thick legs. He had some good meat on him. Overall, it appeared
he took care of himself. He seemed physically active, corn-fed. Large feet,
large hands. A healthy male scent whafted off his balls and singed the
hairs in Mark's nose.

"Tell me why you were ordered to execute me."

"Oh shit, dude," the man said. "We were told that the werewolf had
contaminated you, or something like that. I don't know. Look, just let me
go, and I'll get us both outta here and explain to my commander at the FBI
that they got it all wrong about you."

"But you don't really work for the FBI, do you?"

There was a guilty silence, and so Mark started to get up.

"No, wait!" the man said, begging. "You can't leave me here, it'll eat me,
just like it ate him." He made a vague gesture to the sloppy remains
staining the room's wood floor.

"Who was he?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know, just one of the dudes in the squad they
assembled for the mission."

"What mission?"

"What do you mean, man? The mission to kill the creature, of course."

"And me."

"Fuck, whatever, man. Look, we're grunts. That's all. We just follow
orders. They say we got a national security crisis on our hands, we go in
and shoot who they tell us to shoot. That's how it is. It's not up to us to
question authority. So please, man, don't leave me to get eaten like he
was."

"What happened to him? How'd we get here? Where's the werewolf now?"

"Fuck if I know, dude! It dragged all three of us here last night, after
the attack. I'd been knocked unconscious by the thing, and then suddenly I
woke up as it was dragging me and that other guy up the porch steps. You
were being cradled in it's other arm or something. It took you in the other
room, and we figured it ate you, but, well, here you are."

"And this other guy?" Mark asked, pointing to the mess. "You're buddy?"

The man was growing more and more anxious. "That monster came back in here
and just, I don't know, tore into him. It butt-fucked him first and then
devoured him, naked. I couldn't do anything but watch as it ate him."

Mark got back on his feet. He went for the door.

"Wait a minute, man," the man bound in ropes said. "You can't leave me."

"Yeah," Mark said. "I can."

And he stepped out.

--

There was the house, an expanse of desert, and a pair of wolf tracks
leading from the porch steps to a small run-down barn that stood about a
quarter mile to the north. A few dribbles of blood speckled the sand along
the way. Mark swallowed hard and looked around, a little brave, a little
nervous. He didn't recognize where he was. Somewhere far outside Wolfcreek,
for sure. Decisively, he started for the barn.

The sky was growing brighter every minute, the dark violet shades of night
fading into something orange and yellow. He barefooted it up to the barn's
main doors and pulled one open and poked his head inside. When he didn't
immediately see anything, or anyone, he took a few steps in, making sure to
cover his balls in the meantime--just in case.

Careful, watchful, Mark scaled the barn's inner wall, his eyes wide and
alert.

"John?" Mark called out quietly.

He paused, waiting for an answer. When none came, he moved deeper into the
barn, ducking around the large bodies of oil mining machinery (tractors,
and the like), light-footing it around every corner. He grabbed a lone
shovel while he was at it. He didn't know what he would find in there: John
The Man, John The Werewolf, or something else entirely. But he decided that
erring on the side of caution was his best option. He bent over, peering
under the heavy equipment. Only a slice of sunlight came in through the
door he left cracked open, so he couldn't see much. But then, just as he
hoped, he caught sight of a naked man curled up under the barn's loft.

Mark was instantly at John's side. The man was unconscious, and
shivering. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, flecks of blood dotted
his face, his hands, his chest.

Mark gently shook him by the arm.

Lightning-quick, John had a grip on Mark's wrist and was wrestling him to
the ground. It was instinctual, reactionary, violent.

"Whoa, whoa..." Mark said, staring up at John, who was now sitting on top
of him, pinning him down. "John, it's me."

John's frenzied eyes took a moment to swim into focus, but eventually, he
recognized Mark. He took his hand off his throat and climbed off.

"I could've killed you," he said, his voice deep and raspy.

"I had to see if you were okay."

"What're you doing here?"

"You brought me here."

John looked perplexed.

"Yes, you brought me here." Mark sat up, coming nose to nose with him. "Me,
and two other guys."

John's eyes floated away, trying to recall everything from last night.

"You ate one of them," Mark said.

As if on cue, John's belly made a familiar growling noise. They both looked
down; his stomach was as plump as if he'd just devoured an entire
Thanksgiving dinner.

Looking around at the barn, John said, "Where are we?"

"Hell if I know," Mark said. "I blacked out."

John only nodded, looking directly ahead. He was putting things back
together. His eyes grew narrow, and his brow tightened.

"They came to kill you," he said, remembering. "They tried."

"But they didn't," Mark said carefully. "I'm fine, John. They didn't hurt
me."

The man was growing red with anger. "You're right," he said. "Because I
dove in front of you."

Mark's eyes lowered to a series of bullet-sized marks on John's naked
body. Three in the chest, one in the abdomen, four in the left arm. One of
the bullets had gone straight through, leaving a hideous exit wound. But
there was no pain to be felt. Each wound had healed almost a hundred
percent, most of them appearing as nothing more than minor abrasions;
nothing to seek serious medical attention for.

"Jesus," Mark said, a little out of breath. "You do heal fast."

John glanced down at the wounds texturing his
body. Shrugged. "Apparently. Still hurt like hell, though."

"Well," Mark said, nearly a loss for words. "Thanks."

John's eyes found him among the shadows. Their gazes locked for a long
moment. Mark thought he saw something glimmer in the man's half-lit eye,
but perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Then, John looked away. He
got to his feet with ease and started for the slit of daylight at the far
end of the barn.

"Come on," he said. "We need to get you somewhere safe. I'm going to turn
again tonight. You can't be anywhere nearby."

Shakily, Mark clambered after John, following him out of the dark barn and
into the early morning light.

"John, they want to capture me just as much as they want to capture you,
dead or alive" he said. "You didn't harm me last night, remember? You
fucked me, yeah, but then you started to leave. You weren't going to hurt
me, John. I think we should stay together--"

"You were lucky last night," John said definitively. "Something must've
triggered a memory in me, I don't know. But I can't guarantee that will
happen every time. I'm unable to control myself when I turn, Mark. You have
to understand that."

"I understand," Mark said, reaching out and preventing John from walking
further away. "Believe me, I understand that big time. But I have no where
else I can go right now. And you...I can't lose you again."

"Where's the other man?" John asked, flicking Mark's concerns aside. His
eyes landed on the dilapitated house and he started for it, his cock
swaying wildly in front of him.

"John." Mark was stumbling after the man. "John, wait. Wait, John, you
can't kill him. Not yet."

With the grace of an angry lion, John closed the gap between him and the
house and burst through the house's front door. His eyes pinpointed the
naked S.W.A.T. solider tied up in the far corner, and he went for him. It
was only by Mark's intervention that John didn't immediately rip into the
man.

Putting himself between John and the solider, Mark said, "If you kill him
now, you'll have nothing to eat once you turn tonight, and I'm not going
anywhere, so that'll effectively make me your best option for a meal."

All three of them were naked. If there had been a random passerby, the
sight of bare white asses and exposed male genitalia amidst a scuffle would
have appeared obscene. In fact, Mark had never seen so many cocks hanging
freely in one room before.

Panting, enraged, John almost blew past Mark anyway to get at the man. But
somehow, he was able to get his wolfish fury under control.

"Fine," he said through his teeth. "I'll be sure to eat him tonight,
though." He spun tight on his heel and walked away.

Mark, in the mean time, signed with relief. Catastrophe averted.

"Wait," the naked solider said, his eyes wide with confusion and
panic. "He's still going to eat me?"

--

In the shade of the house, Mark and John sat side by side on a rusted oil
barrel. The rising sun had grown hot, but the desert breeze was relatively
cool. They sat in silence for quite some time before Mark finally said
something.

"We can run away together." He was serious. "We can be together, just
us. You won't hurt me, John. We'll figure it out."

Beside him, John was stone still. He didn't react, he didn't flinch. He sat
with a resolute stoicism, staring ahead with a furrowed brow, and eyes that
burned hotter than the sun-baked desert.

"John," Mark went on, "please. We can't stay here. They'll find us."

Mark could feel a stinging heat rise off John's bare skin. The man was no
doubt spiking a internal fever of something over a hundred and ten. The
werewolf horomone was coursing actively through his blood.

Mark's eyes fell to the prominent cock resting between John's legs. It
nested in a bed of dark pubic hair. The man's scrotum hung low and heavy
beneath that. A spicy male odor sent Mark's nostrils in a flare. His eyes
began to water.

"They're going to find us anyway," John said, finally. "A creature like the
werewolf is too big, too heavy, to not leave tracks. As long as we're in
the desert, they'll track us down, no matter what direction we go. In fact,
they're coming right now." He shot Mark a wary look. "I can sense Fox. He's
heading this way."

"You can sense him?"

John gave a slow, absolute nod. "It's a canine thing. I guess. I've been
able to sense him for years."

"Well, gee, that would've been nice to know earlier on," Mark said, a
little irritated. "How the hell did he manage to sneak up on us at my place
then?"

"I didn't say I was able to sense him a hundred percent of the time."

Mark shook his head, sighed. "Can you at least detect how much of a
reinforcement he's bringing with him?"

A gentle quiet bubbled up between them. John was concentrating. To Mark, it
looked like the man was deeply troubled by something. Or perhaps angry
about it. Then again, John was a tricky guy to read. Mark sat in the
silence, waiting for him to determine his sensory perception.

"No," John said at last. "It's just him this time. Alone."

"Fox is alone?"

A nod of certainty. John said, "He's gone rogue. Most of his team is
dead. The few remaining have abandoned the mission."

"You killed most of them when you escaped, didn't you?" But Mark didn't
need the confirmation. He already knew it was the truth. He shook the
thought from his head, refocusing. "What kind of artillery does he have?"

John shrugged. "Can't be sure. But he's pissed. He'll come for us with
everything he's got, whatever it is."

John took his eyes off the desert horizon for only a second and looked at
Mark with a deeply rooted love that bordered somewhere
betweenwrecklessness, insanity, and raw passion. For the briefest of
moments, Mark's gaze met his, and not with his usual street-mutt charm, but
with something that looked very much like affection and also a little
gratitude.

"What should we do?" Mark asked.

"You should go," John said. "I'll stay behind and distract Fox. Give you a
head start. Get as far away from this place as you can, Mark. Go into
hiding."

"Fuck you, I'm not going anywhere."

"It's the only way."

"You're thinking small," Mark said, frustrated. "I'm not worried about what
happens to me."

"Well, I am." John's voice was like boiling steel, hot and dangerous.

Their gazes were fused, their dicks full with thick, anger-induced blood.

It was Mark who looked away first, frustrated.

"This isn't fair," he said.

"It's my fault they're after you. You shouldn't pay the price for my sins."

"What sins?" Mark was on his feet, pacing, stomping the earth. "Is it a sin
that you came into my life? That we came to care deeply for each other?
That we fell in love? John, I'm not paying a price for anything right
now. But if we were to go our separate ways, you bet your ass there'd be a
price to pay. For both of us."

"Mark, I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? A lone FBI agent? I can take care of myself, thanks."

"Fox is dangerous. Trust me."

"Yeah, that's precisely what you said about you. You're dangerous. But last
night, John The Werewolf was as cuddly as a domesticated husky."

A deep, rumbling roar and Mark was on his back, pinned under
two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of muscle. John straddled him with wild eyes
and barred teeth. The man's substantial ballsack and cock were suddenly
draped over Mark's stomach. Mark could feel the heat radiating off John's
backside and onto his own cock.

For a brief moment, Mark thought John was going to rip him open with his
bare hands. He figured the werewolf horomones had grown too strong, that
something feral and lethal had come out. But instead, John bent down and
kissed him full on the lips. A long, passionate kiss. The kind of kiss that
people come out of brand new and changed.

When their lips finally parted, there was a quick exchange of looks between
them, and suddenly Mark's feet were being lifted up overhead to give John
easy access to his anus. The man was inside of him instantly (Mark's
sphincter still wide and gaping from beind fucked by the werewolf the night
before), and settling into Mark's wet, hot core.

In the shade of the house, John and Mark didn't just fuck, they made
love. It was a deep love, a concrete love. Something not only physical, but
spiritual. John claimed Mark as his own, sliding in and out of his body,
holding him tight in a warm, powerful embrace. Beneath the beast of a man,
Mark was cock-skewered, legs in the air, an infant cradled by a loving
father. It took perhaps five minutes before John's anus-suckled cock was
buzzing with potent male horomones and erupting inside Mark's gut. At the
same time, Mark's cock--stiff and twitching--unleashed a substantial load
all over his belly and chest.

Panting, milked, both men held their embrace for a long time after
that. They recovered together, and bathed in each other's sweat and
semen. John kissed Mark tenderly on the forehead, tasting his saltiness,
his manliness. He sniffed at Mark's hairline, as if memorizing his
scent. And then, with incredible ease, he began to lower Mark back to the
ground. Mark hadn't even realized John had him three feet in the air, held
securely in his massive arms.

"We stay together," John said. "But stay close to me. I need to protect
you. You're mine, Mark."

He pulled out of Mark's body, his glistening wet cock falling and swinging
heavily between his legs. Mark felt his sphincter retract a little and
watched as his own cock began to deflat with exhaustion.

John leaned down and lapped up the cum Mark spilled all over his stomach,
like a cat with a saucer of milk. When he was finished, and satisfied, he
rose up on his feet.

"Come on," he said. "We need to get to work."

--

All day, Mark and John planned for the storm that was certain to descend on
them that night.

"Fox'll be here by nightfall," John explained. "He's hot on our tracks,
even as we speak."

The only weapons they had in their defense was an assault rifle one of the
S.W.A.T. soldiers had strapped on him, and the fact that John was, well, a
werewolf. That pretty much accounted for ten weapons, easily. The tentative
plan was for John to lock himself in the barn for when he turned. It would
give Mark, and the naked S.W.A.T. soldier enough of a chance to survive the
beast, especially if Fox was the distraction John believed he would be.

They routed some escape plans in the shelter of the house. Came up with a
few tactical maneuvers for killing Fox, too. In one of the
S.W.A.T. military rucksacks, Mark found a granola bar, a canteen of water,
and a packet of saltines. He ate everything and downed the water, given
that John was still digesting the solider he'd eaten the night
before. Hours went by, and before they realized it, sundown was upon them.

John was sweating profusely, his body temperature exceeding a hundred and
eleven. He could feel his bone structure recalibrating beneath his
skin. His body had grown hairier somehow. His teeth, sharper. Even his eyes
were beginning to change into something crossed between human and canine.

It was clear the full moon was on the rise.

"Hey," the naked S.W.A.T. solider said from the corner of the room. "Hey,
man, you're not gonna eat me, are you?"

The man was trembling with a cold sweat. His fuzzy sack and flaccid cock
jiggled nervously at his groin. His bare white ass emitted a strong male
scent that continued to drive both Mark and John crazy. Mark wanted nothing
more than to fuck the guy. John simply couldn't decide if he was horny or
hungry.

"Shut up," Mark warned.

"Please," the man said, begging. "Don't eat me."

John was across the room, visibly annoyed.

"Dude, shut the fuck up." Mark, too, had had enough of the man's
whimpering. "You're a solider, for fuck's sake. Stop with the begging."

"I just don't want to be eaten by that..."

His eyes snapped wide when John spun around, staring down at him with a
ferocious gaze and an enraged cock dangling out in front of him.

"By that what?" John said.

The naked solider swallowed, hard. "By that...man. Yeah...by that man. But,
you know, after you turn into a wolf and shit."

Silent, John stared at the man intently for what felt like an eternity. His
fire-hot eyes nearly seared the man's bare flesh, they lingered so
long. Eventually, they dropped down and zeroed in on his obvious
nakedness. John's nostrils flared. He could smell the man's most intimate
body parts from where he stood, ten feet away. He was doing everything in
his power to fight the urge to rape the man, right then and there.

"You better hope your boss gets here before I turn," John said slowly,
darkly. He stepped over to the man, knelt down so that their gazes were
level. "Because if he isn't here, you'll be my only option for food." John
seized the man by the balls in a quick swipe. "And this smells delicious."
He gave the man's hairy scrotum a firm squeeze, as if testing a ripe fruit,
and then turned to leave.

Mark followed John out onto the house's front porch, leaving the naked
solider bound hand and foot in the room. Outside, the sunset was bright,
the sky clear, the expanse of the desert: infinite. Mark detected something
in John, something the man was keeping buried beneath an armor of anger and
power and rage.

Mark leaned up against the porch's railing along with John as the man
looked out, on guard duty.

"You okay?"

John nodded. His expression inflexible.

"Thankfully, there aren't any high winds," Mark said. "It'll keep the dust
down. We'll be able to see him coming from farther off." A suppressed
thought fizzled up inside Mark. "What're we going to do with Sergeant
Ballsack in there? We can't let him get caught in the line of fire. It
isn't right."

"I'm thinking." John's cock hung prominently before him, a symbol of his
masculinity, of his strength, of his thirst for revenge and blood.

"We should let him go, don't you think?" Mark said. "He can't hurt us
now. He has no fire power. Besides, our beef is with Fox. Not him."

"I need him here," John said. "In case Fox isn't here by nightfall. After I
turn, I'll want to hunt. I'll want to feed. And I can't allow you to be the
only man in the vicinity when that happens."

"I thought I was already marked," Mark said. "Aren't I already on your
radar, or something?"

"Trust me," John said. "That piece of ass in there will satisfy my hunger
for tonight. Of course, I'd rather Fox be my prey. We'll see. But we need
to keep Sergeant Ballsack around, just in case. If he survives the night,
we'll free him in the morning."

Mark nodded. A slow-growing smirk carved his lips.

"What?"

"Sergeant Ballsack." Mark laughed a little.

For the first time that day, John's expression cracked into an amused
grin. He, too, partook in the laugh.

"I mean, he has a pretty big nutsack," John said. "Can't mistake it."

The laugh was warm, revitalizing, and familiar. Mark leaned into John a
bit, and John put his arm around him. It wasn't the fact that they were
naked that sent a buzz of electricity into Mark's dick. It was that John
had his arm draped around him, shielding him, protecting him. It had always
been in John's nature: to protect. Ironically, he turned into a monster
that sought out people and killed them a couple times a month. Otherwise,
he was a natural born guardian.

Had someone walked by the house just then, they would have seen two white
male butts, side by side, each with a pair of hairy testicles dangling
underneath. It would have been a shock, for sure. But for Mark and John, it
was glorious freedom. They stood there on the house's porch, naked, baring
raw masculinity, as the sun sank away from the earth, slipping out of
sight, fading.

As a pearl of pre-cum sprouted simultaneously on both Mark and John's
penis, and as their bodies began to expel the pungent odor of male sex,
John stiffened. He stood up, tall and alert, his eyes rapidly scanning the
horizon in every direction.

"What is it?" Mark asked.

"It's Fox," John said. "He's here."




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Mark pumped the rifle into action, grabbed a couple extra rounds and loaded
them into the military-style rucksack.

Judging by John's sense of urgency, he had no time to get to the barn at
this point. To compensate, he barricaded himself in the furthest room in
the upstairs portion of the house. His blood was running hot and thick, his
skin was scalding to the touch. Somewhere in the sky, the full moon was
beginning to rise.

Their plan to lure Agent Fox to the barn had been built upon the belief
that he would approach after John had turned. Now that he was too close for
comfort, and John's transformation was still twenty minutes off, the plan
was useless. They would have to improvise.

Mark crouched down in the house's kitchen--the darkest part. He stayed
there, rifle in hand, listening, but nothing could be heard over the
constant stomping and restless movement of John upstairs.

Shit, he thought. Fox is going to go straight for all that noise and find
John vulnerable and unturned.

Five, maybe ten minutes went by with virtually no incident. But then, as
Mark kept low and out of sight, the sound of the front door creaking open
could barely be heard above the thunderous clatter on the second
floor. Carefully, Mark peeked over the counter and spotted the silouhette
of a man, pistol in hand, light-footing it into the main room of the house.

Behind him, outside, daylight had vanished almost entirely. A few stars
dotted the deepening violet sky, and quite noticeably, the moon--bright and
glowing, was ascending from the horizon. It was on the edge of being full,
so close. John needed, perhaps, another five minutes.

Mark could hear the naked S.W.A.T. solider in the other room crying for
help through the duct tape that sealed his lips. Clearly, he knew Fox was
there, too.

By the time Mark's eyes switched back to where Fox's silouhette had been,
the man was gone. Damn! He had some crazy stealth moves about him. It was
only a moment after that that Mark heard heavy boots making their way up
the stairs.

Quietly, carefuly, Mark left the shadows of the kitchen and mazed his way
through the lower rooms in the house. Rifle ready and aimed, he found the
dark staircase at the back of the main hallway. It was empty. Fox was
already on the second floor.

Mark climbed the stairs, stepping lightly on each step to keep the old wood
from betraying him. He was acutely aware of his cock hanging vulnerably out
in front of him. He was never more conscious of his own nakedness than at
that moment. He took his time on the ascent, listening all the while to the
series of growls and crashes coming from the furthest room. John was
clearly having a rough transformation. But it comforted Mark, somewhat,
that he could still hear the disturbance. It meant that Fox hadn't reached
him yet.

Approaching the second floor, nearly at the head of the stairs, Mark
paused. He had to be absolutely very silent now. His eyes were wide and
alert, his heart booming in his chest. Beyond all the warfare sensations, a
sexual stirring in his dick struck him, suddenly, unexpectantly. He had an
overwhelming desire to go back downstairs and flip Sergeant Ballsack over
and burrow into him.

Mark tried to shake the thought. He had to focus!

The upstairs was a dark, shadowy place. Agent Fox could be hiding
anywhere. In fact, the man could have night vision goggles on, and maybe he
could see Mark where he stood, balls hanging. Mark hadn't thought of that
until just then. He brought his legs a little closer together to protect
his manhood. He kept low, scaled the wall.

It suddenly occurred to him that a profound silence had come over the
house. The growling and crashing had stopped, the wood floor was no longer
trembling with the chaos. Mark felt his entire body stiffen when he
realized exactly what the stark quiet signaled.

Somewhere in the house, John was no longer human.

At the end of the dark upstairs hallway, a door was busted clean off its
hinges and flew against the wall. There was a cry--a man, no
doubt--followed by a large, ominous body that came charing out of the room.

Someone fired a gun, and it wasn't Mark. Two more shots were fired. A
blood-curdling growl, a roar.

Mark turned and bolted down the stairs, back into the lower rooms of the
house. Something big and deadly was continuing to wrestleand thrash
somewhere on the second floor. Another gunshot echoed, loud and booming,
followed by the unmistakable shattering of glass. Somewhere outside there
was a earthquaking impact of a heavy body, a quick scrabbling of claws, a
deep, resonant panting.

Mark went to the nearest window and looked out. Indeed, the moon was full
and continuing to rise. He spotted splashes of blood leading across the
front porch and out into the desert. Movement caught his eye, and he looked
toward the barn just as the werewolf disappeared through the big doors.

Somewhere behind him, feet, heavy and staggering, were descending the
stairs. Agent Fox was far from finsihed with hunting down the beast. He was
desperate for his trophy.

Mark whirled around and took aim. He would blast the son of a bitch into
the next world the second he came into the room. But before Fox ever gave
him the shot, a spray of bullets, thick from an Uzi, peppered the
room. Mark threw himself to the ground, narrowly escaping the
shower. Pieces of window glass, wood paneling, all of it, flung
everywhere. The entire lower portion of the house became a storm of
debris. Mark covered his head with his hands, hoping that Fox didn't start
shooting up the floors.

The Uzi stopped, the debris settled, and Fox came charging through the
house and burst out the front door.

"I'm coming for you, you bastard!" He stumbled out into the night,
completely uninterested in Mark, who was lying helpless on the floor,
surely in plain sight.

He didn't even notice me, Mark thought to himself. He probably doesn't even
know I'm here.

Mark's eyes fell over a stream of blood that marked Fox's trail out of the
house. He army-crawled back to the window and peered out. Sure enough,
Agent Fox only had one arm. The other must have been bitten off by the
werewolf.

The sounds of a whimpering man redirected Mark's focus. He looked over to
the naked S.W.A.T. soldier in the corner of the room. The guy was still
bound tight, gagged, all around helpless. But Mark didn't see any blood or
noticeable injuries on him, so he resigned from his concern for the man,
grabbed the rifle that had been thrown somewhere across the floor, and
crept outside to follow Fox.

Mark's experience and training told him he ought to stay put, in the
shelter of the house, instead of stepping out into open land. He would be
too noticeable, too exposed. But he didn't know how much trouble John was
in, if any. And their enemy wasn't a fleet of armed men. It was one
man. One angry and insane man, who was preoccupied with slaying an
eight-hundred pound werewolf, alone.

As Mark bare-footed it across the desert floor, he realized his whole body
was shaking. The tremors originated in his balls and radiated outward,
jiggling his intestines, his muscles, his bones. He did his best to funnel
the testosterone in his body to sharpen his rage, to hone his fury until it
had a razor's edge.

Successfully, he had broken fear's hold on him and rushed to close the
distance between the house and the barn.

The barn swarmed with shadows. He crept up to the open door and peered into
the blackness, hoping to spot something, movement, glowing eyes, anything.

Nothing.

Mark stepped quickly inside and slipped into the shadows, bold with
rage. Somewhere in there, Fox was on the hunt. He had to make sure he
didn't accidentally give the smarmy agent something to open fire at. He
stood stone still in the shadows for nearly a minute before something
finally happened.

A quick pull of the trigger and the Uzi flashed in the darkness. Fox had
given his position away. He was near the back of the barn, beyond the
tractors and abandoned industry machines. Mark tip-toed deeper inside. His
heart pounding in his chest. He reached down and put one hand over his
private parts, for good measure, and positioned himself so his back was to
the machinery.

His eyes were wide, and still adjusting to the sheer blackness of the barn,
when two yellow orbs appeared not three feet away from him. The beast
lifted its head, coming snout to nose with Mark. It had been hiding among
the large equipment all the time, the smell of blood, hot and metallic,
heavy on its breath.

Mark gulped. The werewolf had its gaze locked onto him. With one swipe, it
could rip Mark in half if it wanted. Working its large, powerful jaws, it
issued a low, raspy, cracked growl. Somehow, though it was already at
Mark's height, it stood up, taller, achieving nine feet with ease.

Even so, it was still one with the shadows.

A strong, taloned claw reached down and lifted Mark clear off the
ground. Mark felt his heart quicken, he felt his testicles pull up into his
belly, he felt his intestines clench, he felt his anus pinch shut. But
then, more to his surprise than to his amazement, the werewolf moved him to
the far side of the tractor and softly put him down again. Now on his feet,
Mark felt the giant wolf release its hold around his naked body, and then
it faded away into the night, camouflaged.

Mark stayed precisely where the werewolf placed him. There was a quick
scuffle somewhere on the far side of the barn. The Uzi fired--a strobelight
effect--illuminating the inside of the barn in small, lightning like
bursts. The sound was deafening. Bullets richocheted off the metal
machines, pierced the wood walls. Mark ducked and covered his head.

A volcanic roar erupted from the werewolf's throat. There was a crash, a
snarl, a scream, another crash, and suddenly it went very very quiet.

Mark waited, listening intently for his next cue, but nothing came. Only a
deafening quiet. Theny, after what can only be described as an eternity, a
familiar sound percolated in his ears. Fabric, ripping, tearing, followed
by the a familiar wet smacking sound, teeth on flesh.

Mark dug through the rucksack and pulled out a small flashlight. The
concentrated beam of light burned his eyes a little as he switched it
on. He'd gotten so used to the pitch dark.

Carefully, he shined his way to the rear of the barn, following the wet
slurping noise. When the flashlight caught the werewolf's eyes, it looked
up and issued a single growl of warning. But it appeared that Mark was the
least of its worries. The werewolf, like a dog at its bowl, was much too
interested in its food.

Mark lowered the flashlight to what lie at the werewolf's paws and found
Agent Fox, butt-naked (his suit had been ripped right off his body), and
dead. The werewolf was taking large bites out of Fox's upper leg, working
its way, noticeably, toward the man's fuzzy ballsack, which hung full and
plump beneath a decent-sized, and certainly experienced, cock.

Mark resisted the impulse to run, even though it was strong. Instead, he
stayed and watched the werewolf eat Agent Fox. He watched the beast eat
every piece of him. When the feast was over, and when the werewolf had
thoroughly licked its chops, and cleaned its paws of blood, it stood up,
reaching its full heighth, and narrowed its glowing eyes directly on Mark.

"I'm not afraid of you," Mark said. And he meant it.

The glowing eyes blinked once, and a small, barely audible growl rumbled up
from the beast. It moved toward it, closing a ten foot gap with two
steps. Mark, fully aware that his dangling man parts were vulnerable and
exposed, that his soft belly was equally in danger of being slashed open,
stood firmly in his place. He stared up at the towering beast, and the
beast stared right back. Then, with a surprisingly human style, it reached
down and grabbed the large, blubbery cock that sprung heavy and throbbing
from its groin. The smell of male pheramones was spicy in the air, and it
was clear that the beast wanted to breed.

Mark knew instantly what was expected of him, and suddenly he was being
spun around and bent over. He reached back and spread his butt cheeks apart
for the beast--the least he could do--and submitted to every move. Sure
enough, the great wolf mounted him from behind, stuffing him full of
raging, unbridled cock. He was forced onto all fours--a tricky position to
get into with a rectum air-tight with male genitalia, and then the werewolf
found its rhythm.

That night, in the barn, Mark was bred by the enormous beast--a quart of
semen in his gut. When the great wolf finished unloading all of itself
inside him, it pulled out of Mark's butthole, drained and satisfied, and
curled up around his naked body to sleep. It guarded Mark throughout the
night, waking up a few times only at the suspicious sounds of night. But
there were no more threats coming after them...at least, not for a long
time.

Mark staggered out of the big doors the next morning with a
pregnant-looking belly and a gaping anus that was sore as all hell. A few
steps behind him, John--human again, and also pregnant-looking, given that
he had eaten two adult men in two days--followed him back up to the house,
his meaty cock still glistening wet from his sex with Mark.

When they stumbled sleepily into the house, they were both instantly
reminded of the naked S.W.A.T. solider tied up in the corner. The man's
eyes popped when he saw them, a mixture of relief and concern.

John stepped over, tore the duct tape from the man's lips and started to
unbind his feet, but Mark stopped him.

"Hold on."

John looked over and found Mark standing over them, his cock rock hard and
in need of a warm hole. Understandably so, given the amount of testosterone
that's been pumping through their veins these last several days.

John stepped aside, clearing the runway for Mark to land.

"Wait," the naked solider said, sprawled on his stomach, still tied up at
both ends. "Wait a second, dude. Don't fuck me, please. Please."

Mark spread the man's ample ass cheeks apart, revealing the warm, brown
center.

"Dude, come on," the solider said, "it stinks. You don't want to fuck my
ass. Come on..."

But Mark was experiencing the werewolf frenzy. There was nothing to stop
him.

Seeing that the Sergeant Ballsack was squirming, trying to keep from
getting butt-fucked, John stepped in, holding the solider firmly in place
while Mark sank his swollen cock into the warm and wet orifice. The soldier
cried out, his whole body flinching with the invasion of cock.

Aggressively, Mark pulled the man's bare ass up off the ground, situating
the man so that he was on his knees.

"No. NO!" the man cried, but it was no use. Mark was already balls-deep
inside him, thrusting in and out.

Oddly enough, Sergeant Ballsack's cock was growing stiff down underneath
him. No doubt a reaction to the pressure being applied to his
prostate. John stroked the guy off just as Mark unloaded all he had into
his rectum.

When both Mark and the soldier were milked dry, they untied him, slapped
him hard on the ass, and let him go. The man was barely more than a speck,
heading out into the desert, when John finally turned to look at Mark.

At first, they didn't say anything. There wasn't much to say. They just
stared into each other's eyes. John's belly full and plump with Agent Fox
and the other S.W.A.T. soldier. Mark's gaping anus was leaking a
substantial load of cum, which trickled down his leg in a white
stream. Both of their cocks hung prominently between their legs, wet and
reeking of male sex. Their nakedness: the definition of their love for each
other.

"We're okay," Mark finally heard himself say, standing next to John,
staring out as Sergeant Ballsack disappeared at the horizon.

John nodded. "We are." A small grin carved his hardened, chiseled face, and
for a moment, Mark swore he saw the man wink at him.

They stood there, on the porch, naked, arm in arm, for what seemed like the
whole day. But, of course, it was perhaps only a few minutes. Still, for
Mark, those few minutes may as well have been an eternity.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


On Wednesday afternoon, four months after the strange werewolf attacks in
Wolfcreek, Buck Sanders left Will Feldman at the end of a small driveway in
a small neighborhood on the outskirts of a small town. Will's instructions
were strictly to stand watch, making sure no one interrupted Buck's
business.

The kid was not particularly thrilled about being put on guard duty, but he
did not voice his objections.

Buck explained to him that since the disappearance of Sheriff Mark Warner
and the mysterious man who was apparently a werewolf, going forward with
the investigation, even though it was a closed case, needed to be handled
delicately, and with care. "I don't want anyone thinking they're being
ambushed," Buck said. "If people open the door and find two man of the law
on their front porch, they'll think an investigatino is underway. We don't
want that. Let me handle this alone, will ya?"

Will thought it was a pretty flimsy explanation, but what the
hell. Alright, he'll stand watch.

Satisfied with that, Buck walked up the walkway to the house alone. Birds
were singing in the trees. The desert air was temporarily cool, given the
El Nino weather that was changing the weather stream all over the western
country. He climbed the steps and knocked gently on the front door.

Mark Warner answered. Just as Buck suspected.

"I found you, you son of a bitch," Buck said, his expression smug and
playful at the same time.

To his surprise, Mark opened the screen door to let Buck inside. He didn't
appear at all unnerved by his presence.

"You may as well come in," Mark said flatly.

Buck stepped into the foyer, suspicious at the ease of Mark's
invitation. He followed Mark through the front room and into the kitchen,
where a cup of coffee, hot and steaming, was on the table, waiting for him.

"Please, take a seat," Mark said, gesturing for Buck to sit.

Standing in the middle of the room awkwardly, Buck's eyes shifted back and
forth. He didn't understand.

"Please." Mark insisted.

Buck sat in the chair, but he didn't drink the coffee. He smiled, trying to
hide his confusion, and said, "You were expecting me."

Mark stood at the island, sipping his own cup of coffee. He raised his brow
in response to what Buck said.

Buck went on. "Well, it was inevitable, I guess. We were going to catch up
with you one way or another, Mark. You clearly knew that."

Mark busied himself with rummaging through the refrigerator, adding a
splash of cream to his coffee. He quietly offered some to Buck, but Buck
declined.

"Aren't you at all curious how we found you?" Buck said, a little
disappointed in the serious lack of reaction in Mark.

Mark shook his head. "Oh, I know how you found me," he said. "I used to be
sheriff, Buck. Remember?"

"Right." Buck adjusted himself in the chair. "I had Feldman run a search
for any homes purchased with cash in a four hundred mile radius. We know
this John character had an enormous stockpile of money from his former life
in the FBI, all to his name. We figured if you were still alive, and
clearly you are, that you and him would have...run away and used the cash
to cover your tracks. It wasn't long before we discovered you were
operating under the name Charles Adams. Fake I.D. Low-profile job as a bar
tender for a hole in the wall pub, where no form of authentication would be
necessary. And now here I am, sitting in your kitchen, talking with you
face to face."

Mark shot him a look. "Do you want a medal or something?"

Buck bit his tongue to keep from asking, flat out, why Mark wasn't
panicking.

"Look," Buck said, "I have Feldman out there right now, standing watch. I
didn't want you to panic and do something stupid if you so the two of us
walking up to your front door. But the true reason I came alone was...to
make you an offer, Mark."

Mark looked up.

Buck said, "I've taken over as sheriff of Wolfcreek. And to be honest, it's
a terrible, awful job, and I'm already looking into how to resign. I don't
know how you did it, Mark." He gave a small laugh. "Truthfully, we're all
still pretty shaken up by what happened four months ago. People--that is,
the few people in town who actually KNOW what happened--are trying to pin
the blame on someone. Everyone thinks your dead. They think the werewolf
ate you. One of the FBI's guys wandered back into town not too long after
you guys fled. He was butt naked. Said he was fucked in the ass by a
younger handsome guy. His words, not mine. And I immediately figured he was
referring to you. But, like I said, everyone already suspected you'd been
eaten. But you're too smart to get eaten. I know that. So that's why I've
been trying to track you down ever since then. Mark," Buck said, "I'm not
asking you to come out of hiding. I wouldn't do that to you...to a
friend. But I can't very well let this John character get off scott-free
from all this either. I know you really care for him, and I know that your
loyalty to people is unbreakable. Believe me, I know. But he has to answer
for his crimes--"

"You're too late," Mark said, cutting him off.

"Too late?"

"Agent Fox tracked us down shortly after we fled Wolfcreek and killed
John. And so I killed Fox."

"Ah, Jesus," Buck said.

Mark looked away, as if embarassed to hold the stare.

Buck sat slumped in the chair. He was nodding, but about what, he didn't
know.

"I'm sorry, Mark," he said. "Truly, I am. I know that you...loved him." He
reached up and rubbed his nose, as if he caught an unpleasant whiff of
something. "Really. I'm sorry."

Buck got to his feet and started for the door. Just as he gripped the
handle, he turned to say one last thing to Mark, chose against it, and
walked outside. The door shut behind him with a definitive slam.

--

Buck pulled onto the freeway, his mind working fast.

"Do you have a lot of sex?" he asked Feldman, who sat in the passenger seat
beside him.

The dorky forensics kid seemed taken aback by the question.

"Excuse me, sir?" he said.

"I asked you if you have a lot of sex."

Feldman blinked his eyes, still thrown by the suddenness of the
conversation topic.

"I...I don't know. I guess so," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"And you have sex with men, right?" Buck asked.

Feldman swallowed. "Yeah."

"Gay sex."

"Yeah."

"Can you describe to me what it smells like?"

The car went sharply silent. All that was left was the hiss of the radio.

Then,

"What it smells like, sir?"

"Yeah. Gay sex. What does it smell like?"

Feldman shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Sir, I..."

"Come on, kid," Buck said. "It's me. There is nothing anyone, anywhere, can
say that will offend me. Okay, maybe if you said you were a Mets fan, then,
yeah, I'd be offended. I knock your fucking' lights out. But come on. Tell
me what sex with men smells like."

Still very confused, Feldman said, "Well, it smells like...a men's locker
room. Kind of."

"Okay," Buck said. "Go on."

"I mean, it smells like sweat. Very salty, very...musky. I don't know. It
smells like...men. Naked men. You know, cocks, ballsacks, armpits,
feet. There's also a great deal of...ass. The smell of butthole. I
mean...given how men have sex with men...the anus is a pretty important
part of gay sex. And it...smells. I guess..." His voice trailed off,
fearing that he said too much. "Sir, why do you--"

"And when you have sex with a guy," Buck said, interrupting, "how long does
that smell linger in the air?"

"Sir?"

"Approximately. How long, would you say, does the room stink like gay sex?"

Clearly flustered, Feldman shook his head, shrugging. "I don't know. Two,
maybe three hours. Depends on how well-ventilated the room is, I suppose."

"Hmm." Buck smiled. "I thought so."

He could see the kid staring at him from the corner of his eye. His smile
grew bigger.

"Sir, who was it that we paid a visit to back there?"

"Nah, it was no one," Buck said. "I wouldn't worry about it. Just curious
about gay sex, is all."

"How come?"

"Because I like to take an interest in my friends' interests, alright?" he
said, raising his voice a little. "Your my friend, kid, and you like gay
sex. I thought I'd educate myself a little, what's the big fucking deal?!"

They drove the rest of the way to Wolfcreek with Feldman, painfully,
describing the most intimate details of his sex life. And not by his own
volition.



CHAPTER NINETEEN


In the bedroom of the small house in the small neighborhood of the small
town outside Vegas, Mark and John's naked bodies writhed together, staining
the bedsheets with their sweat. John was burrowed nine inches deep inside
of Mark, his body hot with fever, and his sexual appetite
monstrous. Outside the window, the moon was waning high in the night
sky. It would be full in two days' time.

Mark yelped a little as John slid up into his colon. His anus constricted,
tightening its grip on the man's blood-filled cock. John threw his head
back and howled loud into the night.

The sex between them was primal, was animal, was as ferocious as it was
gentle. The entire bedframe rocked, barely able to stay in one place, as
John bucked his hips wildly back and forth, fucking Mark with the strength
of a lion. It was the third time that day that Mark and John made
love...and it was the truest love either of them had ever known.

If you had been in the room with them, if you had been hiding in the
shadows, watching, you might have detected a most familiar smell...the
smell that Buck Sanders had picked up on just before he left their home
earlier that day. It was a strong, potent stench, unmistakable, and
certainly, absolutely, intoxicating. It was the smell of two men having
sex, and it was the smell that affixed itself to Mark and John's
home--permanently. Their bodies did not smell of body wash or
deordorant. No. They smelled, quite noticeably, of sex.

Though the moon wasn't yet full, John unleashed one last howl as his cock
prepared to unleash a wave of male fluids into Mark's body. The howl
shattered the night. It echoed down the streets in every direction,
spreading out, fast and shrill, into the surrounding desert. And it
traveled for many miles beyond that, resounding wildly across the land,
letting the world know that a werewolf had officially marked his
territory...and that the territory was his forever.


END