FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

_Terry is human, but he wishes he was a fox to a daring vigilante's biker-wolf persona. _

The Black Wolf by H. A. Kirsch Copyright 2011

---

Terry looked up from an instruction manual to see his coworker, Becky, giving him a pouty bitten lip. "Yeeess?"

"Couples time," she said, stepping up next to him to deposit the phrase in his ear as she looked nonchalant. Terry rewound his mental image; a twenty-something couple had just walked into the shop and headed for the back room. They looked trendy, out of place amongst Bauhaus tee-shirts and racks of stiletto boots, and had ogled the bondage chair display piece by the door. (The fact that the black shop cat was sleeping on it, amidst velvet and furry cuffs, got a giggle from the woman.)

"Your turn," he said, hoping to deflect Becky back to actual store minding.

She ducked her head out and looked into the adults-only room, then went for another whisper. "He's looking at prostate massagers."

Terry sighed and slid into the back room. Couple, yes, but also clearly driven by the woman. She spoke up when he arrived. "Hi! My husband's interested in anal sex, and I told him that if he's gonna shove something up _my_ pooper, I'm gonna shove something up _his_ so he knows how it feels."

The trials of running a sex shop, he thought, and set out to describe prostate massagers in the most humiliatingly informative way possible.

Once the man was thoroughly sweating - and staring at one particular item which the girl would almost certainly buy and stuff in his asshole later that night - Terry went back into the cashier's cubicle. "Becky, you're lazy."

"I like watching girls shop for clothes! I know it's weird..." Becky had dye-black hair, blue weaves, ten facial piercings, black eye shadow, and a stupid teenager look on her face. She fit in just like the black cat on the bondage chair.

Terry was boring in comparison: gray muscle shirt, black pants, combat boots, a sullen sort of expression, black hair swooped over in a teutonic emo combover. "I don't know shit about girl clothes, but I know how to stick something in someone's ass. I guess it works out in the end." He continued trying to sort out the intricacies of a wireless security camera system he had bought on a one-a-day clearance website.

"Oh my god, so guess what!" Becky said, voice going up, face still looking punk-girl stoned. She swiped a sticky note off the computer monitor and slapped it down next to Terry on the back cashier counter. The note said, "Theodore Baron Wilson, XXX-XXXX, Chip Hi-Shines".

"So someone ordered boots and you put up a note instead of putting it in the computer?"

"OMG," Becky said, actually pronouncing the letters, "You're so _un_fun_! This guy called and ordered these boots, and he gave his name and made sure I wrote it out like that, and I was like whatever, okay, Theodore... but then I kept looking at it and yaknow what? Look! Look at the initials!" Becky swiped up a pen and circled the customer's initials, metal fingerclaw clicking at the pen.

"I have initials too," Terry deadpanned. A customer came in and he rang him up. Another customer came in and looked at a few fliers up front, his back to the cashier

"Tee Bee Double-you! Terry, what else has those initials?" Becky's droopy-eyed expression - which was actually caused by ptosis and not by her attitude or botox - lit up as far as it would, eyebrows going up enough to make one of their piercings droop.

Terry knew where Becky was going, but pretended he didn't. "I dunno."

"The Black Wolf! And he came in! He CAME IN. There was this like, you know, where there aren't a lot of people for a while-"

"A lull?"

"Yeah! And he came in, he just barged through the door in all that motorcycle shit and that scary helmet and I almost called the cops because I thought he was going to _rob_ us and then I realized who it was and was like OMG and kind of just mumbled and stuff and then he came up to the counter and slapped two hundred bucks down and stared at me, and I just knew, I just knew it was him so I gave him the boots and you know what he did?" Becky almost forgot to inhale when she was finished.

Everyone in town was enamored with The Black Wolf. A vigilante hero on a motorcycle, unarmed, with a ferocious motorcycle helmet shaped roughly like an angry wolf's head and a full leather riding suit. A certified bad-ass who seemed to be in the right place at the right time. A publicity stunt? A fellow criminal diverting attention? No one really knew. Women went after him for being a big, intimidating, male asshole; men wanted to be him; Terry wanted to fuck him, but it was more complicated than that. Plus, unlike Becky, he kept that interest a secret. "He stole you away from the store and rode you around on his motorcycle and then tore your corset off and fucked your tits?" Terry said it loud enough that he got the attention of everyone in the clothing section up front, eyes rolling his way for at least a second. All eyes except those on the man who was up front at the fliers, but Terry ignored him, too far out of the situation. Probably just another creeper.

"No but that'd be awesome! He went into the changing stall and put them on, I mean he put the boots on, and then he just stalked right out! I put the boots he left, over there in the for sale pile. Should I put a sticker on them or something?" She pointed a goth-claw over at a pair of impressive metal-plated motocross boots.

"That's not a good idea. You'll get the wrong kind of attention. Or the cops will come in here looking for DNA or some shit. I don't want shit going down. That's why I got this fucking piece of shit security thing."

"Just call some company and stop whining about it. God, you whine like a puppy sometimes," Becky sniffed. "I thought it was cool."

"I think anyone who rides around on a motorcycle trying to stop crime is a Batman wannabe and probably a nutjob. He probably masturbates to pictures of his mother at home."

"Whatever. Hey, I gotta take off a little early, like I have that thing, that model audition thing?" Becky checked a customer out without really paying attention to him. The customer didn't mind; he was buying a pair of frilly red satin panties.

Inside, Terry didn't care. He thought Becky was pretty cool, and she connected with the goth girl contingent a lot better than he did. Looking like a sullen version of Gary Numan did not go as far as it should have. Outside, he had to keep up the complete disrespect of her vigilante crushing, and that meant going all the way. "Can you take the trash out when you go? Go out the back, and pull the door _shut_ when you leave, like you gotta slam it until it clicks."

"Why don't you just check it when you leave?" Becky asked, innocent.

"Because if I forget to check it, and you close it wrong, then it's open. Don't assume other people are going to do things right." When he said that, Becky winced, and he winced back.

"Okay, MOM," she huffed, and the two mostly kept out of each other's anger bubbles for the rest of the evening. During their little spat, the man who had been inspecting fliers up front looked around, and then left.

Becky left early just as promised, but Terry was too busy pretending to be busy to notice if she actually followed his orders and slammed the alley door shut. He was going to be around late, far later than necessary, so he figured he'd just check it when he needed to.

He turned off all the main lights, turned on his newly-installed dim red security lights (which were actually powerful near-infrared lights for his 'night vision' security system that _did not work_ right), and snuck into the shop's backroom office even though he was the only one there. Once inside the office, he shut the door and stripped.

He unlocked the bottom filing cabinet drawer, which only he had a key to, and took out a false drawer holding important paperwork. Underneath: latex, black and red. A clone to the bodysuit that hung as a decoration on the wall in the adult room. Back entry that zipped from the front groin, all around, for easy 'access'. A codpiece flap in the front, bulged to look sexy, attached atop the under-balls zipper. Red arms, red legs, black trunk.

Underneath the suit: long black rubber chemical gloves, with an extra 'bell-shape' cuff, designed to exactly mimic the ones worn by Doctor Steel (his favorite musical artist); black rubber Ariat field boots; a bottle of silicone lube.

Terry squirted the lube onto his arms and smeared it around, then his chest, then his cock and balls, then his legs. He picked up the suit and, breathing hard, pulled it on. It was a pale imitation of what he really wanted, which was something that looked like a sculpted rubber version of the motorcycle riding suit worn by The Black Wolf, only in fiery red and black. He'd pondered white for the chest, but white was a wimpy color. Red was lascivious; black was black.

Besides, people would get the point, especially once he got the helmet, once he found someone to make it. Black arms and legs. Red body. "The Red Fox".

The codpiece pouch bulged out as he slid himself into the rubber, tucked and pulled, squeezed air bubbles out with wet squelches. He pulled the boots on, careful to slick up his rubber-coated legs so the squeaking would be down to a minimum. Squeaking rubber was good for sex; it was bad for sneaking around. Next, the gloves, deliberately a little small so the natural rubber hugged his fingers and let him still do fine tasks.

He grabbed for his backpack, slid his notebook out, and started researching on the office internet connection. First, the VPN connection, to a server back home, which he'd spent days setting up with TOR so it would be difficult to track just what he was doing. Next, he ticked down through all of the links he'd compiled. He knew where he'd put up graffiti tags, where he'd posted fliers. The Black Wolf had gotten a following on some local HAM scanner forums (he'd taken to offering cryptic messages on police frequencies), and one of the hacker geeks there had taken to cataloging the different "OBEY" tags Terry had been secretly putting around the city. At present, only 5 had been erased, and four were because some punk had simply sprayed over them with his own declaration of potency.

Then, pay dirt. A video of The Black Wolf in action. Some guy and his friend were horsing around one night with a video camera, when they caught a group of thugs attempting to mug two women walking to their car. On the video, the thugs accosted the women and dragged them behind a construction dumpster while the video-guy's friend tried to do something to help. He didn't have much success; four thugs for two girls and one scrawny club-friendly twink. A few seconds into the attack, a motorcyclist roared past, so fast he was just a dark blur.

The video turned down the street; the biker power-slid to a stop and turned around, then did something to his bike to turn the engine purr into a wailing tuned-pipe shriek. The biker gunned the engine, producing the now-infamous 'wolf howl' exhaust note that The Black Wolf had come to use to announce his presence Somewhere.

Despite the prospect of seeing an actual rape happen on video - a heterosexual one at that - Terry had to pop the snaps on his rubber cod pouch to let his erection throb free. Screw the rotten aspects of the scene; the guy on the bike was The Black Wolf, which the videographer announced with that private hushed voice that people holding video cameras often used.

Terry could tell the video was legit because the other man, the videographer's friend, was completely frantic about him trying to help. The frantic yelps ended with a sick thud and the man collapsed with blood streaming from his face. The Black Wolf, in his immense black leather costume and helmet - complete with carefully-designed 'reflective grit' wolf markings - stormed into view and the assailants scattered. Helpless to control his own amazed, obsessive lust, Terry started jerking off, adding the wet shlick of glove rubber on dribbling uncut cockflesh to the tinny commotion from the video playback.

In a moment of instinctual masturbatory paranoia, Terry looked over towards the screen of his new security system. He expected to see nothing except the black and white image of the back storage room, and the hallway leading to the alley service door. Instead, he saw the back door open. Shit! He smacked the notebook's home button, sending the internet video shrinking away and silencing the recorded commotion.

Terry lept up and yanked the office door shut, holding the knob and letting it slowly rotate closed without an audible click. He snapped the lights off, leaving the room illuminated by the glow of notebook screen and the security monitor. The back door opened further on screen, and someone crept in. He backed out, and then two men, wearing hoodies and bandanas for masks, hurried down the hallway. They disappeared from the hall, then never peeked into the storage room. Instead, Terry heard them coming down past the office, and then rummaging around in the main room. He felt sick, desperate; he knew he should call the police, but at the same time, his secret situation merited silence.

Outside, he could hear the robbers talking, hurried and hushed, hissing words muffled by the closed door. "..is this shit? Plastic fucking panties? That back room is full of dildos!" "Get the fucking register, you shithead! Dildos cost fucking money!" Clank. Rattle. One of them had a universal cash register key; Terry recognized the normal sound of the drawer sliding out after being keyed open. He'd heard it thousands of times. "Shit, shit, look at all this stuff. What the fuck is this? Whipits? What's all this shit here?" "Those are fucking poppers, you dumbfuck, don't you ever go to porn stores? Take all that shit, bag it up, it's expensive, you can sell it for tons, sex shit sells!"

Terry no longer had an erection. His dick hung limp out of the front of his rubber suit; even the built-in cock ring wasn't enough to keep him plump in the face of having his store ripped off while he was hiding inside it.

Then, the sound. The motorcycle howl, rising fast with wide-open throttle, popping and wailing down like a police siren winding down, then dying in a sputter. No fucking way, Terry hissed. No fucking way. He scrambled the codpiece pouch on but only barely secured it, then hunkered over by the shut office door.

The robbers ran, bootsteps thundering past the door, and appeared on the security screen heading for the cracked open back door like two white ghosts. The frontrunner had his hand out for the pull handle when the door flung inward as if driven by an explosion. The door smashed into the front robber's face and hurled him back into the second. The second man shoved the first off and away, spun on his heel, and bolted right back the way he'd come.

Two black hands came into the frame and grabbed the bashed assailant's jacket, then heaved him forward so fast that the man's hands flew away from clutching at his head. That left him open for a headbutt that Terry could actually hear, a loud thwack that sent him toppling. He folded forward and out of view, and then The Black Wolf stomped into the hallway from outside.

The 'hero' turned and disappeared into the storage room, perhaps looking for the second robber. Terry, acting on impulse, yanked the hall door open and bolted left, towards the rest of the shop. He dove underneath a rack of clothes, eyes already accustomed to the dim reddish light. The robber was pacing around in a circle and uttering the same sound as an injured dog.

Terry waited.

The assailant paced closer and closer; if he knew Terry was there, he wasn't acting defensively.

Terry shot a hand out and clutched at the man's ankle, intending to rip it out from under him. That didn't work; Terry still had black rubber gloves on his hands and they weren't as grippy as he thought. The man didn't trip, but he did yank his foot up in the air. Terry snapped his hand out again and yanked on the man's other ankle. That worked; he fell over with a yelp and smashed into the wooden bondage chair by the front door, used as a decoration.

Terry jumped out and heaved the man off the chair, then tackled him flat onto his back.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" the man screamed, batting his hands in front of his face like a gerbil. When he saw that the person straddling on top of him was not a hulking, wolf-helmeted motorcycle terror, his face slacked only slightly. His bandana was off center; Terry snatched it off completely. It was the man who had been dropping fliers off earlier.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" Terry spat, more like sneezing than intending to insult the man. The man's reaction: absolute horror, wide-eyed and drooling. "Yeah, that's right, if you have the balls to come into my fucking store and fucking case it to steal shit-"

The man was not looking at Terry in horror. Terry was not very horrific; he was wearing a fetish bodysuit and had a Gary Numan haircut, not to mention a good deal of rubber-promoted sweat. He was looking behind Terry.

Terry couldn't react fast enough - one second, he was straddling the robber, while the next he was lifted off his feet from behind. Then, the room careened and he felt weightless for one glorious second. The next second, he landed back-first on the floor, head banging against something hard but not nearly as firm as the concrete under the thin industrial carpet. He gagged and coughed, then couldn't draw air in. Stunned.

The formerly pinned robber ran out screaming, voice turning into a hollow echo down the hallway, then fading off as he broke outside. For a brief moment, there were two voices, then the stutter of a car engine and the roar of a badly-muffled exhaust.

The Black Wolf stomped around the store, checked each room, and finally shut the back door. Terry lay on the floor, half in and half out of the cashier's booth, groaning as he slowly regained full use of his lungs. Instead of attacking him, The Black Wolf just stood and stared at him.

He was seemingly massive (although probably only a bit north of six feet tall) and coated in black leather. A custom motorcycle jacket, classic Perfecto style with the collar popped and armor added for crash protection, zip replaced by four buckles down one side of his chest; leather riding pants with double-zip drop front underneath a pair of tight black chaps; immense gauntlet gloves with diamond-plate steel inserts on the arms; equally immense boot gaiters that peaked above the kneecap with the same diamond-plate steel for armor; spit-polished engineer boots covering his feet and showing behind the gaiters. Some sort of leather shirt collar wrapped his neck and went up into the helmet, a massive thing styled like an angry wolf with a trapezoidal dark visor and dark reflective-glitter highlights to make a more lupine appearance in the light. That blank, helmet-masked face stared down at Terry.

"I didn't fucking do anything I fucking work here I fucking work here I stopped him he was gonna do something," Terry wheezed, trying to crabwalk backwards.

No reaction, except that the black-leathered terror just turned his head to scan around the room. He spotted one of the loot sacks left by the robbers and started rummaging through it. He pulled out a small yellow aerosol can with a red lightning bolt on it and a considerable amount of warning text. Then, he plucked one of the shiny black purchase bags out of its cubby below the counter.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Terry coughed, back so sore that it almost felt good, like he'd been massaged by a sumo wrestler.

"You interfered with me," The Black Wolf said, and his voice was completely inhuman. It was clearly electronic, processed through one of those voice changer toys, and not a particularly good one. The effect was far more chilling than it should have been, a deep formant-shifted rasp that sounded mumbled enough to have actually come out of a wolf's jaws.

The Black Wolf popped the cap off the aerosol can, stuffed the end of it into the bag, and sprayed it for a few long seconds. When he pulled it away, a little fog came out as the compressed liquid inside crackled and boiled and filled the bag with fumes.

"No, no, come on, I tried to fucking help you!"

"I don't need help," The Black Wolf said, his own voice probably growled - the transformer turned it into an electronically-dripping snarl. "I don't appreciate help." Then he started stalking towards Terry.

The Black Wolf didn't quite move like a normal person. When Terry tried to kick at him, in a moment of panicked terror, the leather-clad hulk just lifted his foot up and stomped it back down. Black leather, chunky sole, heavy heel. The rounded front bubble of an engineer boot. Polished leather, not dull oiled. Chippewa High-Shines, undoubtedly the ones Becky had sold him.

The distraction worked. Terry looked up and stared straight into one of The Black Wolf's massive riding gauntlets as it clutched the black bag. No time to react; it pushed against his face and whuffed cold ethyl chloride fumes into his nose. He couldn't help but breathe, exhaling to fill the bag, then inhaling to crumple it up. Terry knew exactly what was happening, what would happen, why The Black Wolf was doing it. It was the stuff of rough, hardcore gay kink porn films, only it wasn't a fantasy and no one was recording it.

The fumes smelled sweet but overpowering, almost nauseating. Terry tried to wrench away, but The Black Wolf just shoved his head back down against the industrial carpet; Terry tried to pry those leather-sheathed arms away, but they might as well have been made of iron. His heart pounded and his hearing whined, then swirled into the seasick flanged ringing of faltering consciousness. His heart pounded and pounded but it slowed down, and down, and down, and down-

Thud. Terry opened his eyes and saw just black leather. Then black rubber. His arms. Hands, fisted, pushed out in front of him, chemical gloves lashed together at the wrists, bound tight. Shibari tight. Then glove leather - The Black Wolf was lashing his bound wrists down to the leather surface. It was one of the leather benches from the back room, used as an actual bench for people to sit on as well as carrying a price tag as a showcase item. It had a face hole for tying someone up face-down. Terry was face down.

"Look down," The Black Wolf ordered, then slapped Terry in the back of the head.

Terry looked down. He saw the carpet through the hole. The Black Wolf wrapped more rope across the back of his neck. Terry felt like his face was shoved into a mask, constrained by the hole. "I didn't do anything, I'm not a fucking robber! I _own_ this fucking goddamn store! What the fuck!" Then, after a pause, "Please?"

"Please?" The Black Wolf replied, altered voice unseen thanks to the tunnel vision. More rope work strapped Terry's chest to the bench, then his gut, then lashed his ankles to the back bench legs. "I know who you are."

Terry fell silent as The Black Wolf finished tying him up, then listened as the heavy boot stomps moved around the back room. The back room was where all the toys and gear were; the lights were still left dim and red, but the leathered terror seemed to have no problem finding what he was looking for. The Black Wolf made two circuits, stomping slowly, leather creaking, metal accessories offering little clicks, breath huffing through the helmet's breathing filters as well as the voice changer.

"I like your toys," the hulk said, then stomped out of the room. A few seconds later, he returned, with a faint jingle of keys. Terry heard glass sliding open as The Black Wolf rifled through some things. The sound repeated, on the other side of the room. Then, the pop-pop of push snaps coming undone, and a grunt, and the rustling sound of something rubber being played with. Fetish rubber, just like Terry's fox-colored catsuit. "Do you need help? Or are you as much of a fuck-toy as what you sell here?" Need help, need help, need help - Terry first had no idea what the mostly unseen attacker meant, then flashed back to the can of ethyl chloride. "Don't gas me again! No!"

Zzzzip. Terry's skin crawled as The Black Wolf drew the all-round access zip down, then started probing him. Wet fingers, extra-extra slick and smooth. Rubber? Chemical gloves? The biker's riding gloves would have felt so much more hardcore. His anus squeezed up tighter as he realized he'd denied the chance for a hit of poppers. "Maybe... maybe just a little?"

"You lost your chance," The Black Wolf growled, and wormed his fingers Deep In-Side. A twinge of prostate pleasure, then the gut-twirl of penetration. Terry tried to push outwards, but it still felt horrific, easy but terrible. The Black Wolf withdrew his fingers, then probed something else up into Terry, something bigger but not gargantuan. In, then out, then in, then out, deep and penile and framed by the cues of The Black Wolf's pleasure, grunts and huffs and leather-creaks.

Terry suddenly felt calm. He was immobile, held captive in his own store, and he'd just been robbed. Not only had he been robbed, but the exact person he had been shadowing - no, stalking - for months had come to save the day, just as he had desperately fantasized about so many times.

"I lied," The Black Wolf said, breathing deep and firm, each breath computerized and vocoded into a mechanical snort by the voice transformer. He stopped moving, thrusting, rocking, whatever he was doing. Then, a pop, but not the soft metallic noise of a push snap coming undone. Muffled and much more acute.

Terry stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, concentrating on the sensation in his ass. The Black Wolf was still in him, and if he moved just right, it almost felt like the big, black-leathered hulk was still moving. A blurry dark shape darted into his field of vision, then mashed up against his nose. Leather smell, and then the stinging alcoholic noxious burn of poppers. They were even the old-school ampules, where the name originally came from. Terry took a deep inhale, and then, the rush. "Oh shit, just fuck me," he groaned, fear melting into the chemical need to be violated.

The Black Wolf made some sort of sputtering sound and lurched forward. Something started to push into Terry's ass, but it was even bigger, like some kind of bloop toy. It wouldn't have ever gone in without the poppers, but now that Terry's head swam, it pushed right through.

"Aah! Fuck! Fuck what is that! Fuck!" Terry squirmed as hard as he could, but he couldn't pull himself off that thickened... whatever.

"I am a wolf," The Black Wolf snarled, loud enough that it was almost a yell. "Wolves tie with their bitches." "I'm already tied up! I'm already tied up! Get it out! Get it out!"

"You want me to take it out? Fine. I'll knot fuck you instead."

Knot fu-?

PLOP. Terry barked and slobbered hard enough that spit flowed out of his mouth and hit the floor, as if he were about to throw up. The moment of pain was gone, but the sound, the sound - it was like yanking a buttplug out. The Black Wolf seized onto his upper thighs and then heaved back in again. Push, PLOP. Push, PLOP.

Terry pushed outwards, desperate to avoid any damage, and suddenly realized why fisting was so popular. Having something large pushing in and out of his ring was an amazing, indescribable sensation. He coughed and sobbed at the same time, then spasmed out a sudden burst of laughter, delirious from the nitrite fumes and violated so deep that it affected his blood pressure naturally. The size of the bulge that pulled in and out at the root of every stroke shifted his guts around and gave him such a prostate massage that he began to coo like a pigeon.

The Black Wolf didn't let Terry's burbling reaction affect his thrusting. He just hammered away like an accelerating steam train, grunts becoming so loud that they featured the actual huff of air through his helmet intake and the gurgle of condensation and spit in the exhaust.

Then, another one of those dull nitrite ampule pops, this time followed by a big inhale from The Black Wolf. Terry felt so close, so close that he wanted to beg to get a handjob, so thoroughly and grossly fucked that he couldn't actually form words. While he moaned like a branded cow, The Black Wolf let out a throat-rattling "Hurrrgh!" and pounded Terry so hard that his restraints gave him blood blisters on the back of his neck.

Then, PLOP! and no more slippery shove-in. Terry's asshole quivered and flexed in on itself, instantly tingling and sore. "What did you do to me what did you do to me what did you-"

"Shut up," The Black Wolf huffed, then kicked the bench over onto its side. Terry yelped and coughed as he thudded to the floor, knee harmlessly crushed between the utility carpet and the bench leg.

Terry still couldn't see what was happening. All he could see was the glass display case holding various vaginal simulators and jerkoff toys, and The Jockstrap Wall. The Black Wolf stomped around, still breathing hard, rooting through the other cases. Then, he held up something so Terry could see. It glinted. Surgical scissors. "No no not my balls! Not my balls!"

SNIP.

SNIP SNIP SNIP. Instead of terrible pain, he felt the supreme relaxation of losing his bonds and flopping back to the floor.

The Black Wolf was still in his full getup, drool and sweat hanging in wet drops off the helmet exhaust at the end of the 'muzzle'. Instead of a regular cock, or even something wrapped in a condom, he had a big, red, slimy dog penis.

"What the fuck!" Terry's guts curdled.

The Black Wolf reached underneath his black balls and pulled on something, grunted, then dragged his cock off. It wasn't real, but a silicone rubber cock prosthesis. The "Cerberus", a new addition that the shop had gotten in to capitalize on a recent 'Furry' convention at the convention center. Furries apparently loved the idea of canine penises, which Terry always claimed to find slightly unsavory to avoid suspect. In secret, he'd already tried one, slid onto a dildo and stuffed up his ass a week before. He couldn't get the 'knot' in then, still couldn't see how the profound, angular bulge had gone in _now_. The Black Wolf waggled it in the air, then tossed it at Terry's face.

"Gah! That's fucking nasty!" He coughed, batting the musky, slimy, used toy aside. As he tensed, his guts ached and he rolled around. He reached back and felt for his asshole - thanks to the chemical gloves, it felt like he was sticking his fingers into bread pudding. He frowned and groaned, then splayed back onto the carpet. His head pounded. He stared at The Black Wolf; even though the cock sheath was now gone, the leathered hulk had a hidden dick, shaft and balls wrapped in a thin black latex sheath. Now partially soft, the tip of it wobbled around like a used condom, doubtless full of sperm.

The Black Wolf unzipped his armored leather jacket and rammed his hand inside. Then, he pulled it out and crouched down. He slapped the stunned Terry in the chest, leaving behind a piece of printer paper with the corners torn off. It was one of his fliers, a stylized printout of the 'artist rendition' of The Black Wolf's helmeted face with OBEY stenciled on top. It now had wet, questionably unclean streaks on it. "I know who you are."

"I can explain," Terry wheezed.

"Do not interfere with me. I am a wolf. You are not." The Black Wolf growled, then stepped on Terry's chest, grinding his boot sole into the stained flier.

"I'll do what I want!" Terry tried, struggling to get the boot off his chest. After flinging the used and slippery Cerberus sheath away, his rubber-gloved fingers were too slick to do much good.

"You are not a wolf," The Black Wolf repeated. "Do you want to be a mischievous fox? Is that what your suit is for? Is that your motorcycle out back?" Stomp, grind, stomp.

Terry gagged and wheezed as the stomping squeezed the breath right out of him, not to mention mangling up the (expensive!) rubber. "Urgh! I'm just kidding I'm kidding! Yes! Yes! Don't fucking ruin it or-"

"If you get on that bike with this suit on, you will die." The Black Wolf jammed his hand into his coat again and came out with a business card. It had only a phone number on it, and a name: "Todd". "Call him. Tell him Theodore sent you. He will make you some real gear. Now, stay away from me unless I want you."

Bewildered, Terry pawwed absently at his chest as The Black Wolf removed his boot. "Oww... how will..."

"You will know," The Black Wolf snarled, then turned on his heel and stomped right out of the back room. The alley entrance slammed shut, and then a bike kicked over outside. The sound escalated into the screaming wolf-howl that had become The Black Wolf's trademark, then withered away as the bike surely rocketed off across town.

The store sat still, no hollering, no thieving ruckus, no fucking, no snorting and snarling and computerized badass speech, no leather creaking.

Through everything, Terry hadn't cum. Sex rushed in to fill the void that had been pried wide open by the psychotic badass. _The Black Wolf_ had saved his ass, then hammered it open with a fake dog dick.

He picked up the still-slimy empty Cerberus sheath with a shaking hand. It was mostly clean inside, just slicked with lubricant. No DNA from The Black Wolf. He'd _planned_ it!

Terry thought over his options. The police? No. The robbers hadn't actually stolen anything. Becky? Hell No. He had to clean up the store, yes. Perfect. Something to do.

He made one full circuit before he realized that he was still carrying the lube-and-ass-slimed sheath toy. A tingle ran through Terry's spine and ended up in his cock. He hadn't cum, not in the least, not even a reflexive ejaculation from having his prostate hammered by a fetishistic brute so amazing that he was literally his own myth. Terry took the toy into the office room, intent on putting it into his secret collection, into his Black Wolf Stalker Box, into his Black Wolf Shrine, into-

The security camera monitor was still on, alternating between cameras. Blank, blank, blank, blank, office, back room, back hall, blank, blank, blank.

Terry poked at the controls and settled the image on the back room, where all the sex toys were. It was empty, of course, but the fuck bench was there, as were the leftover restraints. He found the rewind button and whizzed back through minutes of emptiness. Then, he appeared in the frame, going around in circles for what seemed like forever. He didn't remember doing that, and almost lost his erection in embarrassment and alarm. Then The Blakc Wolf appeared and Terry turned away from the screen.

He counted to thirty, then turned back and hit "Play". Someone unknown scurried into the room, spun around, then turned out. It was one of the robbers. He disappeared, and nothing much happened for a few more minutes. Then, The Black Wolf's hulking dark form came in, dragging Terry.

Terry knew that he would get to watch what happened, from the third-person omniscient perspective of a black and white night-vision IR camera. Knowing was easy. Actually watching it gave him a supremely alarmed feeling, like the body-image confusion of listening to one's voice on a recording as it plays back seemingly higher pitched. Terry had been truly incapacitated by the heavy-duty ethyl chloride gassing, enough that he looked like a rag doll as The Black Wolf pushed him onto the fuck bench and started strapping him down.

Then, the fucking. Watching it felt like receiving it, and Terry lost control of himself. He dragged his cock out, stuffed it into the lube-slick toy, and started jerking off. The hot smell of rubber, dick sweat, internal musk, and the vague smell of the lube all mingled together as Terry worked hard.

He suddenly realized that he was fucking The Black Wolf's cock, and came instantly, orgasm punctuated by the screaming, cramping burn of a bruised prostate and battered asshole.

When it was over, Terry knew what he had to do next after he sorted out the store. He had video footage of The Black Wolf fucking him. The questionably lupine vigilante would want it back.

Want it.

Want. Want him.

Terry had his solution to how to get on The Black Wolf's good side.