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THE HAUNTED PANTSBY TORAN WOLFTo Sam they seemed like any other pair of jeans ... He considered them curiously--deep navy blue with bright yellow stitching, a tarnished copper button, slim fit with a slight curve at the cuffs. He carefully ran his paw down a pant leg, letting it slide through his fingers. The material was soft, worn slightly at the knees from many years of use, and carried a slight hint of dust and stagnation. "Hmm..." He looked them over, feeling around for a tag that might indicate the size or make but there wasn't one ... not even a list of materials used. Nor was there any distinguishable logo or brand name of any kind.  The only possible identifying mark was the eerie symbol of an eye stamped on the button. He had never seen a logo such as this and as an avid shopper of clothes, it hurt Sam's ego slightly to come across a brand he didn't instantly recognize.  However, despite that, they were, in short... just a pair of pants. Completely commonplace and totally unremarkable. Still... he held them up to the light ... There was something fascinating about them. They had an old charm, something rustic and familiar, like cowboys riding horses down a dusty valley, gunslingers barging into old western taverns angrily demanding if "you felt lucky, punk?" Sam smiled at his silly fantasy but then frowned, his brow knitting. No... that didn't seemed right. These were party pants, he decided. These had seen the insides of groovy clubs in the sixties, a time of bell bottoms, psychedelic flowers and enormous hair. These were the pants of free love and rebellion ...  Maybe they were all these things. Sam giggled and before he knew it he was wondering how his butt would look in them. They're old but... that just means they're vintage! He looked around the empty attic, looking over mountains of old boxes and unused Christmas decorations. He was completely alone. Feeling a little devilish, he unbuckled his own pants, let them fall to the floor and held out his new treasure before him. The strange eye symbol seemed to stare at him and he inexplicably stared back. For just an instant he thought he caught a whiff of something, something hiding deep under the lingering funk of dust and neglect; something foul and decaying. He furrowed his brow and, burying his face right in the pant's crotch, inhaled deeply.

Nothing. Just the smell of old fabric. Then it dawned on him he was standing in his parent's attic wearing nothing but a shirt and his underwear. Quickly he bent down, lifted his right leg and slipped it in first, followed by the other. The material glided up his legs with almost no resistance, hugging his calves, his thighs. It felt cool, not quite damp but unusually chilled. He brushed it off. (They had been up here a long time, after all.) Then he pulled the zipper up and snapped the button into place. He smiled satisfactorily, pivoting on the balls of his feet, and admiring the way the pants outlined the shapely contours of his legs. They were--he squirmed uncomfortably--a little tight.  He cupped his noticeable bulge ... and maybe a little more slutty than he usually wore but... he strode over to an old full length mirror to admire himself. He looked damn hot.He couldn't wait to show his friends...* Sam shivered in the cold night wind, bouncing impatiently on his feet. Where the hell was the bus! He checked his phone for what must have been the twentieth time. 10:15PM shone back in blocky white numbers. It was late... very late. He had a sudden sense of dread. Had he missed it? He pictured his friends waiting for him at Danny's house, checking their phones, looking out the living window for him, screaming and cursing his name, before finally giving up and going off to the party without him. They would call though... right? He sighed, ran his paws up his thighs, and lamented that he wouldn't get to show off his new pants. Katy's look of envy had been his most treasured fantasy for the past ten, lonely minutes. Now it was all but a fading dream..."Fag."Sam's ear perked up and he looked around. "Hello?" The street was dark and deserted. A low, moaning breeze blew a tumbling ball of newspaper down the sidewalk. He watched it for a second before turning to glance down an alleyway. Nothing but garbage and an old dumpster. What was that voice? He wondered. Just then the bus came rumbling around the corner. Sam's big, fennec ears jumped up and his muzzle spread into a bright, joyful smile. The bus came to a stop before him, all boxy and ugly, and descended with a great hiss

of air, the doors opening with a creak. The driver was an aged bulldog with a grizzled face and sad drooping eyes. Sam climbed the steps, smiling politely, but received only cold indifference. Dropping his tokens into the toll, he sat near the back and waited as the bus began moving forward with a lurch, its engine groaning like an old man.Sam looked around, anxiously thumping his foot. The bus was old and nearly decrepit, much like its driver, Sam thought. The seats were hard, uncomfortable fibreglass covered in graffiti and lighter-burns.The faded yellow light, and the moist, circulated air reminded him eerily of the old attic back home. That realization alerted him to how claustrophobic he felt in this tiny moving box. He was alone but still felt a strange tickling on the back of his neck, like someone were watching his every move. Call it the urban panic of a young man from the suburbs, or the paranoia of the small and timid, but he swore he kept seeing shadows move out the corner of his eye. He sighed and tried to find a way to distract himself... old weathered advertisements peeked out from windows of cloudy plastic. An exciting new brand of toothpaste promised a glowing smile after only a week of using their miracle product, while another had a winking cartoon horse holding up a pack of condoms. Sam absentmindedly tugged at his crotch.  "Fag." "Huh?" He jumped and looked around the empty bus, feeling indignant. Had someone just called him a-- Pop! Sam looked down. The button on his jeans had come undone. Furrowing his brow, he refastened the button and stared out the window. The outside skimmed past like a really boring slide show. He thought of the coming party with growing excitement--Danny with her long blond braids bouncing up and down as the cheetah danced along with the beat, Katie probably saying something sassy but never daring to join in the fun; loud, booming music, cheap alcohol ... and maybe even Keith Sanders. That thought brought a smirk to his face. Keith Sanders had been the subject of some of his more dirty fantasies lately. He and the luscious cougar had never really interacted much save for a drunken, sloppy make out session at Danny's last party. Keith had been cute, shy, and inexperienced, confessing he liked more effeminate guys before trying to

choke Sam with his tongue. "Mmm." His cock twitched just thinking about it. He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his crotch.  Spurred on by thoughts of Keith Sanders, Sam became more aware of the bus's quick, rumbling vibrations. He swallowed. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed again. He winced, giving the lump in his pants a light squeeze, wishing it was Keith's paw groping him."Faggot." That voice again. Sam glared, ears dropping. The bus was empty. It couldn't have been the driver, he was too far, and the voice too close. "Alright," he hissed. "Who's saying that?"Pop! He looked down. That damn button again. He fumbled with it for as second before-- "What the?" He watched in confusion as his zipper slowly lowered itself, exposing his blue and white striped briefs. He tried tugging the zipper back up, only to find it snagged on a piece of material. Shit-Shit-shit! Blushing, He quickly refastened the button and it popped open an instant later. It was then that Sam began to panic a little. Fuck I ... I can't get my pants closed! His cock throbbed. He was hard by now--uncomfortably hard. A strong urge, like an itch deep deep in his pelvis, began to build. He tried to ignore it but just then the bus gave a slow, winding turn onto Third Street, sending tremors up his seat and deep deep into his shaft. He told himself he mustn't but he couldn't help it. He gave his cock a good, satisfying flex and his enlarged manhood pushed the jean-flap aside, and sprung up, stretching his underwear into a long thick tent.  He sat there for a moment in disbelief. Alright, he calmly told himself, I'm sitting on a bus ... I can't get my pants closed and my dick is out... what the fuck do I do?  He was silently grateful he was the currently the only passenger. He didn't

even want to consider what would happen if someone saw him like this. For a moment he imagined himself caught, arrested, his name put down on secret lists, his life ruined forever... just then, some far more alarming than the law caught his attention.He blanched, eye wide with fear. "W-What the fuck!?" As he watched, his shoelaces suddenly quivered and began to float in the air. He sat up straight, looked to his left, then his right, searching for some explanation to this sudden insanity. When he looked back his shoes had untied themselves and sprung from his feet. Sam jumped, clutching the back of the seat in front of him. Then his socks began to slide off, pulling and pulling until they came away, slithering across the floor like two white snakes. Sam gawked stupidly at his bare feet, wiggling his toes.That smell again: the stink of something damp and decaying. It seeped up into the air, seeming to swell, becoming thicker and more pungent, surrounding him in an impenetrable barrier of funk.  Eyes watering, Sam clamped his muzzle shut and tried his best not to gag on the stink. Then a low murmuring began to fill the bus, quiet at first, barely audible over the roar of the bus's engine, but then steadily grew louder and louder until it seemed the bus was full of people.  "Hehe, wow, what a fag," one of the voices jeered. Sam cried and desperately looked around. But there was no one. "I know," another agreed. "How gay can you be?" Sam whimpered and tugged down on the hem of his t-shirt, pathetically trying to hide his erection. "What a fucking slut! touching himself in public!" Those cold, empty voices filled the bus, echoing deep, filling his ears-- filling his mind! "Wearing no pants, sitting there in his underwear with a hard-on!" Red-faced and sweating, the poor fox felt close to tears. No... this wasn't his fault, he told himself. He wasn't doing this! The voices continued to taunt him, to call him horrible

things. But none of them were true ... were they? He remembered Keith Sanders and how eagerly he let the larger boy kiss him, he looked back on that time during the homecoming game when one of the football players convinced Sam to blow him behind the bleachers, then that one, embarrassing night when his last obsession made Sam jerk him off in a movie theatre ... was he a slut? There was a metal rail running along the back of the seat in front of him and he used it to rest his head, wishing he could curl up into a ball and disappear.  Then a strange sound ... like a tiny metallic click... Slowly Sam opened his tear stained eyes and saw something that made his blood run cold: the eye on his button, the eye he thought had been a company brand, had changed into a real eye and his watching him, not with indifference but with an insane hunger. The zipper's copper teeth had become sharp and pointed rows of tiny needle fangs, and the open fly had twisted itself into a demented smile. Sam sat frozen in terror, unable to move, unable to think. Then the pants began to retreat down his thighs, revealing his smooth creamy white fur. Farther and farther they went before sliding off to join his socks beneath the seat in front of him. Only when his shirt began to slide up his back did Sam begin to truly panic. He jumped to his feet and waved his arms--which became much more difficult as his shirt climbed higher up his body--and called out for the bus driver to help, but the bus driver simply stared ahead and continued driving with his head low and his shoulders hunched. Why couldn't he hear him? He shouted again, more desperately, but the driver didn't seem to hear, as though he were on the other side of some impassable membrane.Sam's shirt leaped off his arms and fell to the floor. He had nothing left but his underwear. The number of voices swelled dramatically, as though and entire auditorium of people were laughing at him. He crossed his legs, trying in vain to hide his boner.  Then a sudden, irresistible force pulled him down. He slammed back onto the hard, plastic seat, arms flailing behind him. Blubbering he looked down to see the eye still watching him. It's gaze travelled down his naked body and settled on his erection. The fly stretched into a wider smile."Please don't..." He pleaded but his pleas were unheard. His underwear began to drift down his legs, pulling his throbbing manhood down as they went. Sam made an attempt to hold onto the waistband but it easily slipped from of his weak, shaking fingers. His cock sprang back up as it was freed from his underwear, bouncing lightly. His last article of clothing soon joined the rest on the floor and Sam was left completely naked. The shame, the cold terrible shame. The laughter became uproarious.  "HAHAHA! Look at that little fag!"He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the sound."Look at his dick! Lets see what we can do with it!"He hugged himself and began to sob quietly. This ... this couldn't be happening! This was a nightmare! He then gasped. What felt like fingers began poking at his erection.  He breathed hard, squeezing the sides of his chair tightly. The touches were feather-light, gently ghosting up and down his pulsing shaft in slow teasing caresses. He was beginning to feel sick with terror ... and lust.  The fingers abandoned their shy touchings and pulled his shaft down and released it, the voices laughing with renewed vigour as it bobbed lazily up and down.  Sam's blush deepened. A tiny glistening string of cum flung up on the final spring and splashed the seat in front of him. He bit his lip and stifled a moan.  His body trembled with need and horror; his heart pounded in terror but also hot, sick desire. A cold sweat covered his body, his fingers and toes twitched, he tried so hard to keep from moaning but It took all he had not to just reach out and -- What felt like an invisible hand gently took hold of his wrist. The touch was soft, almost like a lover. The ghost-hand then guided Sam's open paw towards his groin and closed his fingers around his thick, hot shaft. Sam moaned and, despite himself, bucked into his closed fist.  The invisible hand then began to pump his wrist up and down, slowly at first but gradually picking up speed. "Wait..." he said quietly, "Don't..." Sam couldn't believe it -- it was forcing him to jerk off!He leaned his head back and moaned lewdly, unable to hold it in any longer. The phantom voices continued to laugh at him but he didn't care. His paw felt soo good. He closed his eyes and images of Keith Sander's powerful body flashed through his mind. He could see the athletic cougar crawling on

top of him, a towering wall of muscle and masculinity, and gently batting Sam's paw away before taking over himself, torturing Sam with long, fluid strokes. Sam bit his lip, the pleasure was electric.He reached out and squeezed the nearest backrest, eyes shut tight, face pounding hot and thick with blood. Then that feeling began to build, deep from within the most secret parts of his body, climbing high and higher -- Sam's tail curled, his ear lay flat against his head--on some detached level he was vaguely aware that the strange phantom hand no longer had hold of him. He was free but by now he was far from being able to stop. He was a runaway locomotive charging ahead at full steam, its forward momentum to great. Nothing to do now but watch the glorious crash.He hit his peak.His eyes shot open and he let out a loud.He arched his hips and came hard. An explosion of white, a tide of release, a brief moment of oblivion and then an inevitable plummet. He let out a long, satisfied moan and collapsed back onto his seat, panting heavily, his body weak and defeated.  Thick strings of pearly white fluid streaked up his stomach and dripped from the end of his muzzle. Some had even flown into mouth but he was far from caring. The salty taste on his tongue seemed miles away. The voices had gone silent, and the eye was a button once more. Shaking his head, his buried his face into his palms. He felt strangely groggy, as though he had woken up from a deep sleep. He felt like laughing, crying, and vomiting all at the same time. The warm afterglow of his orgasm was beginning to fade and now a creeping sense of horror was taking its place. The bus came to a slow stop and reality came rushing back. Sam gasped and stared down in horror at his naked, cum streaked body and snatched his clothes from the floor. For a moment he was worried they might simply jump away from his hands but he was able to put them on--even the dreaded pants--with no resistance. Now fully clothed, he walked quickly

to the front of the bus, not caring if this was his stop or not. Disgusted and ashamed, he avoided the Bus Driver's eyes and went for the door. The Driver suddenly reached out and seized Sam's wrist and there was cold death in his eyes. "Do that again," he muttered with venom, "and I'm calling the cops." Sam stared at him, horrifying realization flooding through him, and when the bus driver finally let go, giving him one last glare from those dark, furious eyes. Sam cried out a pathetic apology, climbed down the stairs, and ran home as fast as his shaking legs would allow.Author's Notes: I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while and I thought it would be worth writing down. Although I'm not entirely satisfied with the way it turned out. I kind of ran out of steam near the end and wasn't really sure how to continue or how to end it. Maybe it's just my imagination but I read this and it somehow feels... off. Oh well. I'm just thrilled I actually finished something. But I'll level with you. I'm not an English major, and while I do try to research these things myself, I do not intend to continue studying writing in later education. Praise is nice, and trolls are fun, but if you can see anything wrong--grammar, spelling, sentence structure--or any other way I can improve, I would love to hear it. Constructive criticism is an amateur writer's gold. Anyway, hope you enjoyed my weird exhibitionist fantasy!