Urban Reconstruction
"What do you mean, 'You're fired'?"
"Look, Michael, you're a great worker... You work hard. Everyone likes you... But... you gotta understand, the economy is tight. And... well, we're macros. It's expensive to keep up a big payroll. I've gotta make cutbacks where I can."
"B-but..."
Thomas, the construction foreman, stood up from his chair. He was a weasel, and compared to Michael, who was a husky, was absolutely miniscule. It wasn't just the species difference either. Thomas was roughly normal for his species in terms of height, build, and weight; even a bit lighter, as rodents tended to be. Michael, on the other hand, was absolutely huge. His job in construction required a great deal of heavy lifting. Most all the employees were "large", but Michael took it a step forward. Most of the others were just tubs of brawny muscle. Michael, by comparison, was sculpted. In high school, and into what college he had, he had taken to weight lifting, and then bodybuilding. And though now he worked as a lowly construction worker, he maintained a strict routine of exercise and heavy eating.
He just loved it. He loved being big. He loved picking up three, four, sometimes five sacks of cement, when everyone else could only manage two. He loved when the others dared to challenge him to some feat of strength, and him, muscles bulging, succeeded. He loved being a giant, and he loved being a giant compared to other giants even more.
The muscles on his arms tensed. Gripping the desk that the foreman had been sitting at... pompous little weasel... pompous little bastard. Michael's claws dug into the wood of the table's side, and he broke off a chunk of it before he paused, catching his breath.
A dainty hand from Thomas was placed on Michael's clenched fist. Michael began to calm down. He plopped down in the chair behind him, and Thomas came around the side of the desk. "Mike... look, you're a great worker. If anything comes up... I promise, you're the first one I'm going to call. And... what time you've had here, will carry over. So... you know, next time we have a recession like this, you'll have the seniority in the union to stay on. You've got some savings, right?"
"Yeah... yeah... I got some savings."
"Just keep your belt tight for now. If I hear anything, I'll tell get in touch. I promise. I mean, everything will bounce back. It always does."
"Yeah... alright Thomas... alright..."
Michael nodded, and left. And he walked. "Macro City" was, of course, where macros lived. Macros were an enormous minority, compared to the millions, if not tens of millions, of micros in the world. Despite their lack of size, strength...anything really, micros held a great deal of power. Because they had the organization. And they had the numbers. They had the intelligence. And, truthfully, it was a fairly good deal: macros primarily worked in construction or security, micros did everything else, from government to education to manicures and pedicures for their macro neighbors. Who was dominant in the relationship was... difficult to say. But it was better than a costly war, which, truthfully, it was unclear who would win.
Macro City was where almost all macros lived. To the macros, it was about the size of a fair sized city. To the micros, it was a continent in and of itself. Micro settlements and cities and states surrounded the continent-city, so after a bit of aimless walking, Michael found himself standing before a micro city. Somewhere in the distance, a siren went off. Michael huffed, and continued on his way.
Micro cities were built by macros, and for that reason, they were fairly uniform in design. The buildings were generally fifty stories high, so about eye level with the husky. The roadways were extremely wide, so much so that a macro could walk comfortably without brushing against a building's base. This was done during their construction, so that the macros could move about, and also if any maintenance was required. The siren was simply a warning that a macro had come to town. Maybe they recognized him as one of the macros who had built this city. Maybe they figured he was here to fix a problem they had been having. But no one was panicking really. Some of the micros even hung out on their roofs, marveling at the giant. Some little kids waved at him as he passed.
Michael walked. He didn't really care where he was going, but he was at least careful that he didn't step on any of the cars that were parked on the street. The micros had quickly cleared out of the street, so he didn't have to worry about stepping on anyone real. And if he did crush a car, insurance would pay for it. All the micros were inside the building, or on the roof, staring, gawking at him. All the happy little micros, in their toy towns...
"Little bastards..." Michael muttered. "I build your city, from nothing. I give you little houses where you all can live. I make sure not to step on you. And give you homes and schools and hospitals. And now look me? I got nothing. Nothing! No more jobs. Economy dried up. You little bastards, can't you breed a bit more? Need another city? But no. And now everything is dried up, and there's nothing.
Michael looked at a building that was before him. Probably an office building or something. Lots of glass windows, that reflected with a mirror sheen in the noon sun. But when Michael looked closer, put his eye almost right up to the windows, he could peek in, and see the stares of the thousands of little micro businessmen that were housed in side. "Suits?!" he snarled. "You get to wear fucking suits! And look at me! All I can afford is a pair of fucking trunks!"
Michael spread his arms wide, showing the vastness of his chiseled physique. And indeed, all he wore was the bare minimum: a pair of black posing trunks that clung tightly to his body. "I... I can't even afford nice things! Because everything for us is so damn expensive! But you little bastards! You get fucking suits... you all probably have a hundred suits at your house... And you got a house! I have to share an apartment with a roommate!"
Michael lifted his hands above his head, clenching them together in a massive fist. He swung his hands down, over head, and into the roof of the building, making a massive dent in the steel frame, and sending a thousand spider web cracks through the glass windows that covered the front. These buildings were built to withstand a macro's accidental brushes. Michael should know, he built them. But there was no way to design them strong enough that they could endure the consistent assault of a very large, very angry husky. Fists punched, feet kicked, twice Michael even tilted his head back, before slamming it forward and breaking his crown into the steel frame. It took three minutes, after which he was panting and growling... and with one final overhead smash, the skyscraper suddenly collapsed into a massive heap. A dust cloud was kicked up, and if Michael didn't know better, he would have sworn he could hear a thousand little screams rise up, before going silent.
Michael needed to sit down... Walking a little bit, he found a squat, sturdy looking building, probably a bank. He braced himself, then carefully lowered his rump, groaning slightly as some protruding parts (doorways, antenna, maybe some micros who were still on there), crunched under his furry buttocks. His tail wagged out behind him, hitting a building twice before he got it under control, and he held his head between his knees.
"Oh god... oh god... oh god... What did I... what did I do? They don't mind if you step on one... by accident, but... oh god Michael... you just destroyed an entire building!"
"Thanks, I'll take that as a confession," said a deep voice behind him. Michael turned, eyes wide, and came face to rocky abdomen with a massive German shepherd. Michael stumbled to his feet, and stumbled back, crashing into another building that happened to be behind him. He quickly pushed off it, and looked to inspect it for damage. Aside from many, many broken windows, it didn't seem to have suffered any damage though.
Michael turned back to the German shepherd. "Oh god... oh god... oh god... I'm... I... I'm so sorry. Oh god. I'm sorry. I... I just... God, please don't arrest me! You don't get it. I... I lost my job... and... I... I don't know I just... please, god... I'll do anything. Please... I'm so sorry."
The German shepherd sighed. "Kid, what's your name?"
"M-michael... sir..."
"I'm Stan."
Stan was only slightly taller than Michael, though that might have been because Stan was standing tall and Michael was slumped like a scolded pup. Stan wore a black, skin tight shirt, with a yellow fabric "badge" over the left breast, signifying he was a cop. All he wore over his lower-half was a black jockstrap, with a noticeable bulge that may or may not have been a cup, meant to protect him if the perp he was trying to arrest got a bit too frisky. Not that anyone would ever dare mess with someone like Stan. He was massive. Of course, Michael was massive as well, so the little micros who were starting to gather in the street, or press up against the windows... it must have been looking up at two statues of gods, chiseled by some higher power. Every inch of the muscular dogs was sculpted; every muscle carefully trained and worked in the gym for hours on end, to reach true perfection.
"Stand up straight," Stan ordered. Michael swallowed, but lifted himself. His heart was racing. His chest was heaving. He was shivering, and his tail was held limp out behind him. "Now tell me," Stan continued. "How did it feel to crush that building?"
"W-what do you mean? It... it kinda hurt my fists. We build those things to last."
"But you crushed it anyway."
"I-I already confessed... I..."
"Would you ever want to do it again?"
Michael's eyes opened wide. "I... I'm not that kind of... I wouldn't..."
"That's too bad, kid. See... I really have to admit something. When I saw you smash that building, it was a thing of beauty. Usually I have to stop a couple runts with issues... I stop them from even getting near the city limits. But you... that was something beautiful." The German shepherd squatted, and scooped a sedan up from the ground, pinching it delicately between two claws. He brought it up to his face, inspecting it with one eye close and one eye closed. "It's empty, don't worry."
Stan once more squatted down, and placed the little car down in the middle of the street. "Now, step on it."
"W-wha?"
"Relax. It's not filled with anyone. Lift your foot and step on it, or I'll take you in."
Michael swallowed, staring at the other dog, then down at the little car. It was like looking at a toy. It was probably the width of three of his toes, and about as tall. He lifted his foot, but almost fell over. Fortunately, Stan took him by the arm, and held him steady. Heart thumping, Michael lowered his paw down slowly, slowly, slowly. He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt the cold tingle of the car against his sensitive pad. A reassuring look from Stan, and Michael leaned some of his weight down onto the car. It crunched with great satisfaction, making a distant sound like a can of soda being compacted. He would have savored the sensation of the metal scraping and tickling his pad, but after the briefest of moments, he realized that his paw was now resting on the ground. He lifted his foot, and sighed. It wasn't like in the cartoons, where the car had become a perfectly flattened replica. All that was there was paper thin metal, and some sticky gasoline that was now staining the bottom of his pad.
Michael suddenly realized his shorts were fitting rather tight. They were made from a flexible weave and could stretch quite a bit, but even they had their limits, and he groaned, thinking maybe he should cover himself with his hands. But when he looked to Stan, he was somewhat put at ease, because Stan seemed to be enjoying the show. He was softly stroking his inner thigh with one of his claws, tickling and teasing himself, earning little chuckles and groans when he went over a particularly sensitive spot.
"How did you like that?" he asked, to which Michael gave a few quick nods. "I liked it too." The German shepherd looked around, and then began to walk off. Michael braced himself on one of the buildings, and wiped his paw clean of gasoline and scrap metal. What was he doing here? What was he doing? He had killed hundreds of people! Micros, sure, but micro people... And he just destroyed a car... And... he really liked it...
Stan came back. Carried in his hands were five buses, which he eagerly inspected. His tail wagged when he lifted the third to his eye, and he showed off his quarry to Michael, who could see six or seven tiny furs pressed up against the window, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Stan squatted, and placed each of the buses down in a careful order. The one with the furs was left in the center. Then, on every side, a bus was placed, trapping the unlucky seven inside their public transport prison.
"Now... step."
Michael did it without thinking. The buses were better than the car, if only because there was more to rest his paw down on, for those glorious few moments before he applied any pressure. The buses were quite wide, enough that his paw could really rest and enjoy the coolness of the metal. He tilted his head back, panting softly, bracing himself on a nearby building so he wouldn't topple over, and could just hold his paw there for as long as he could manage.
He didn't notice as Stan slipped around behind him, too lost in the bliss of the cold steel against his paw. And though the micro furs probably couldn't see what was happening, they were screaming and crying. Stan slipped his hands forward, and took Michael in a backwards hug. His chin rested on Michael's shoulder, and he peeked over the broad, protruding pectorals so he might see the paw that was flexing and wiggling on the buses. His ears were forward, so he could hear every creak and strain. His hands started massaging gently over the rippling abs of the black and white husky, then lower down, and he spent just a moment touching and massaging Michael's erection inside the tightened pants. Michael was hard and solid. Stan squeezed him softly, and chuckled as he felt the pulse in his shaft pound heavier. Finally, his hands moved down to Michael's thigh, and he pushed the foot down.
The chorus of crunching metal and panicked screams, they came to an end far too quickly... once more, Michael frowned when he felt the street on his paw. He looked down, and stared at the stain that was quickly spreading out from under his paw. But he earned a little kiss on his nape, which calmed him. Stan went off to get some more toys.
The husky returned shortly after, carrying a bus in one hand, and a truck in the other. "Hold this," he said, offering the bus. Michael took it, and peeked inside, seeing no less than twelve little furs inside this time. He smiled at them, licking his lips, and then looked to Stan.
"You like muscles, I bet?" Stan asked. Michael nodded, staring at the dancing pectorals, the bulging biceps, the abs that were like a rocky canyon. His shirt was so tight; he might as well not have been wearing anything. "Check this out." Stan lifted the hand that held the truck, and stretched his other arm out, parallel to the ground. He bent his arm, forming a V shape, and then set the truck down in the crook of his elbow.
Michael leaned closer. First, Stan flexed the enormity of his bicep, the size of it brushing the roof of the truck. Then, slowly, slowly, he began to close his arm. He had more control over his body, then Michael did when he stepped on something. He flexed so slow, so careful, and Michael was treated to such a sight. The little truck bent and yielded, at first trying to maintain its shape, but then beginning to crack and crunch deliciously. The noise was so much like a tin can, it was almost disturbing, but... so incredible. Michael reached down, and softly stroked his chest, toying with his abdomen, then moving lower and squeezing his cock, housed safe inside his shorts. There was that sound of metal screeching, then oil and gasoline wetted the fur on the arm, as Stan continued to effortlessly close his arm, flexing and bulging the bicep, until he opened his arm, and dropped the flattened scrap metal to the earth.
"I think you know what to do," Stan said, with a soft smile. He stretched his clean arm out, then formed the same V-shape as before. Michael looked down to the bus, a cruel grin on his face. He turned the bus on its tail, causing all the little furs to tumble to the back. He pinched the front of the bus between two fingers, and tore it open. Then, he poured the contents of the bus out, onto the wide platform of Stan's joint. Stan smiled. Michael shook the bus once or twice, working a particularly stubborn micro out to join the others. They each bounced on the largeness of the elbow joint. When finished, Michael threw the bus over his shoulder, and leaned down, watching closely, as Stan flexed.
The bulging bicep swallowed up the little micros, pinning them under the tons and tons of muscle. Some braced themselves, and tried to push the bulging bicep away. To be cruel, Stan did ease the tenseness of his muscles, but then resumed squeezing them mercilessly. Ears forward, Michael could hear little screams and begs of mercy, then a sound like crushing ice... and then silence. Crimson wetted the fur.
Michael was throbbing very gently, inside his trunks. He thought of taking them off... he doubted that Stan would mind too much, but then he had another thought. He could... no, he would... do something for Stan...
He leaned forward and licked softly over the other dog's lips. His broad tongue moved to the arm that had squeezed the micros, Stan opened it to expose the sickly remains. Michael took hold of the arm, and softly licked, first the delicious taste of blood and bone in the crook, then the bicep. He kissed and suckled the arm, giving it soft squeezes... it was like holding onyx, but so warm, and the fur, the taste, so delicious on his lips. He tilted his head back, gulping down the particles of bone and blood, then asked Stan to take a seat. "I... I... I'm not an expert... you know?" Michael said. "I bet... I bet you've done this before. But... I... uhm... have an idea... would you mind?"
Stan smiled, and shook his head gently. "I look forward to what you come up with, kid." Stan sat down on the squat building Michael had used before, spreading his legs slightly. Michael could barely keep his thoughts straight, but difficult as it was, he first pulled his trunks wide. If he got any harder, they would tear, and truth be told, he couldn't afford to rip out of any of his clothing. He pulled them off, carefully, and then stepped out. He threw them up against a building, draping the roof and upper most floors in the musky smelling fabric. Stan received an eye full of the hard shaft, the toned ass... he softly stroked himself as he waited for what came next.
Michael's erection was something grand. Huge, powerful... purple veins throbbed gently over the stretched black skin of his erection. A kiss of pre cream dripped out of the slit and down to the ground, and he imagined flooding a building with his seed. How aroused he was, he certainly could, humping into the building, listening to all the screams as he shot his load. But he wanted to do something for Stan, first...
He stomped through the streets, looking for some micro furs that might be willing to "volunteer" for some fun. But all were hiding inside the buildings. Michael sighed, and turned to a nearby building. He wrapped his arms around it in a tight bear hug, and gave it a tight squeeze. The building rumbled and shook, and Michael quickly released, before squeezing it again. Again and again, this went on, him shaking and squeezing, but never quite causing it to topple, until... yes!
He looked down to the ground, to see a small flood of micros running out of the building in a blind panic. No doubt they thought he was trying to topple the building, and if they stayed inside, they'd surely die. If they all ran at once, some might have a chance. Michael didn't really care about killing them, just for the sake of killing them. So he let them run and scream and panic through the streets. Squatting down, he carefully examined who he would take. But, honestly, they were all so small and packed so tight, it wouldn't be worth the effort. He just wanted a handful. His paw swept through their ranks. Many died on impact with his massive paw, but standing up and looking his catch over, he saw a fair few twitching and struggling, sobbing, begging for mercy.
Michael casually walked through the now filled street. He felt little bodies turn to jelly beneath his massive paw, and though it felt wonderful, he had a mission in mind. As he walked, he picked out the micros who were dead, they wouldn't be any fun after all. When he finally reached Stan again, he had about twenty or thirty little furs, still twitching.
"Stand," Michael said. When Stan did, Michael asked him to close his eyes. Michael reached for the jockstrap. Hooking it in his index finger, he pulled it back, revealing the enormous shaft that was throbbing and thumping in desperate need. Michael lifted his hand over the shaft, and turned it on its side slowly. The micros clawed and struggled, trying to find a hold on the leathery pad, but gravity was the victor, and all thirty plummeted into the open jockstrap. Some slammed against the throbbing shaft, maybe dying on impact, but others were still squirming and twitching, clinging to the sticky glans and veiny shaft. Some ran for the pubic fur, perhaps hoping they might climb out of this new prison, but Michael slowly closed the jockstrap's elastic waistband, sealing all the little furs inside the tight, musky prison.
"Ho... how...wow... y-you're a quick study..." Stan said, tongue rolling out of his mouth. He swallowed, gulping down his lust, and took a step forward. That made his shaft push up against his body, and the furs press between his pubic fur and his throbbing shaft, making them squirm and struggle. He almost fell over, but Michael was there to catch him that time. Stan reached for the waist band, and gave it a slight tug. The fabric quickly stuffed the micros up against his aching erection, and he pulled the jock strap tighter and tighter, lifting on to his toes as the squirming, twitching furs beat against his thick shaft and scrotum.
"I... holy... I'd love to fuck you right now," Stan said dreamily. "But I think we can manage some... some more foreplay... hmmm?"
Michael nodded, and Stan began to walk, shaking each time his jock strap tightened and then released, tightened and released, the micros pressing up, then struggling harder than before when they were given some space. With shaking hands, Stan peeled his shirt off, exposing his chest for the first time in the day. He threw the shirt away, and then turned to the nearest building, and gave it a furious shoulder ram. He turned in a circle, and slammed his way into another. "Come on, join the fun."
Michael grinned, and gripping one of the buildings, kicked at its base. He had spent five years building these little toy apartments. He knew exactly where to hit, to cause a tremor, but not bring the whole apartment down. Stan was a bit sloppier, and several of his buildings crumbled into dust, but there was a steady stream of micros pouring out of the building and into the widened streets, desperate for a chance to survive, because remaining in the collapsing buildings was assured death.
Stan kneeled down, where the swarm of micros was densest. Michael kneeled, then rolled back and sat in the swarming mass. The little bodies crunched delightfully under his buttocks and wagging tail. He shivered as some of them pressed into his crack, trying to escape the killing embrace of his furry cheeks.
Stan gathered a handful of the micros, and reached forward. He pressed them up against Michael's muscular chest, applying pressure until the little furs turned to jelly. Stan rubbed the warm gel over the rolling hills that were Michael's abs, moving up higher and rubbing the cream into his nipples, which were starting to grow erect. Michael fell onto his back, Stan fell on top of him. Stan gathered handfuls of micros again, and sprinkled them over the chest, before wrapping his arms around Michael and hugging him tightly. The little furs were left to be crushed between the two titans, who had taken to heavy kissing and nuzzling. They rolled about on the ground, crushing little bodies beneath their backs, tails and rumps, until once more Michael was beneath Stan. Stan gave him a soft lick on the lips, then moved his thick tongue down to toy with Michael's neck. Over the pectorals, which were covered in the warm, blood cream. He licked over the abdomen, suckling and licking into the crevices of the abs, nibbling gently on the fur, and savoring the taste of micro paste.
Stan felt Michael's hands brush over his body, and finally hook into his jockstrap. Stan pushed the hands away, and instead stood. He gave Michael a little kick, and Michael smiled, and nodded. He rolled onto all fours, and crawled forward, placing himself in a spot where the micros were thick once more, and then laying down, smothering hundreds under his body. Some died in moments. Other were left in the crevices of his abs, his hips, the space between his pectorals, the space at the sides of his cock. Stan slowly peeled his jockstrap off. The little micros who had been trapped in there had long succumbed to the musky heat and intense pressure. He stroked the gore on his erection, getting it nice and slick, and then lowered to his knees. He gently took hold of Michael's buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart, and exposing the eager pink pucker to the open air.
"Try to relax... and enjoy this..."
The broken gore of the micros made a wonderful lubricant, but Michael was still rather tight. And Stan believed he would require some help. The streets were still bustling with micros. There was simply too many in the street for them to really do anything. Some broke away from the mass and tried to escape into the few still intact buildings, but most were forced to push and struggle against each other, trying to find some means of escape. Stan reached down, and gathered a paw full up. Carefully selecting one, Stan held it between two fingers on his other hand. He pressed the micro's body up against one of Michael's ass cheeks, then slowly moved it towards the center crack. Carefully, he pushed the little body into the cavern. A moment later, Michael clenched, crushing the micro into lubricant. Two more followed after their brother, before Stan began push two at a time, then three. Each time, he used the bodies and his fingers to stretch the pucker wider and wider, and used the pulped bodies to lubricate cavern. When his hand was empty, he pinched a few out of the crowds that surrounded his legs, and stuffed them inside him, giggling as Michael kept groaning and gasping, tail whacking and wagging. When he thought his partner was (finally) ready, he once aimed his aching erection, and pushed forward.
Michael was still rather tight, but Stan pulled the huge cheeks wider apart, and pushed hard, until he felt his throbbing head slide into the tight pucker. Both dogs gave loud growls and groans. Stan arched his back, humping inside. He went slow, and careful, assuming his partner was a virgin to this sort of love. He know how shocking it could feel, and didn't want to hurt his lover. He humped deeper and deeper. He felt a little squirming on his glans, and wondered if one of the micros might still be alive, pressed between the murderous shaft and Michael's prostate. Well, their life didn't last much longer, and they were killed when a flood of cream shot forward. Michael shivered, and groaned, stretching his arms out and digging massive holes in street. He braced himself, and pushed his ass back. His hips lifted off the ground, and his throbbing erection hung in the open air. What micros were still alive in the street were treated to a heavenly view, until Stan reached underneath Michael and found the erection. He gave it a gentle squeeze, pushing Michael over the edge and releasing a flood of white cream, washing the bodies away.
Stan collapsed onto Michael, snuggling up to the husky. Michael rolled his tongue out, laying still on the ground, panting... They remained like that a long time, letting the micros flee and run, though he doubted any would get too far. The micro cities were fairly spread out. They could run and flee, but Michael was sure he could catch them all before they had a chance to report them. He assumed that was Stan's plan. Couldn't let it get out... what they had done. Then they couldn't have any more fun.
Oh, the fun they would have, if Michael could ever catch his breath, that is.