The Gunslinger (Pt. 3 of "In The Beginning")
#3 of In The Beginning
"The Gunslinger", Part uh.. it's one of the prequels of "Under The Devil's Eye", part -0.3.
By H. A. Kirsch, copyright 2006. All characters copyright me.
This story is, as most of mine are, posted unedited because I want to share and editing takes far longer than writing.
It was very hard to write, for some reason, mostly because it started getting away from me. It's also very long, and I would suggest not trying to ferret out the sex because there isn't that much and you will be disappointed.
Also, there are some continuity oddnesses with my prequels and the first few stories of "Under the Devil's Eye". Yes, I know about this.
Hank promised himself, out loud, to tell Derrin nothing about what had happened between him and Clyde. Didn't want to kiss and tell. Derrin laughed in his face.
Ten minutes later, after refusing to acknowledge that the coon was there, Hank blurted the whole thing out.
"Oh my god, he got all done up in some cowboy shit? No way! That's hilarious! I bet he looked like some porn star guy, all buff and wearing cowboy boots and no pants-"
The wolf shook his head. "I've seen that kind of stuff. No way, this was.. oh man. It was amazing. It was, it was breathtaking. Did I just say that?"
"Wow, so you're into that stuff?"
Hank shrugged, ears burning red inside. "I guess, maybe, kinda. Look. Uh. Don't you have better things to be doing? Like weren't you planning something?"
"Planning something?" Derrin rolled around on Hank's bed, looking at the wolf upside down.
"Yeah, you moron, aren't you on the Halloween Dance committee?"
"Oh, yeah, that. We met right after school today. It's pretty cool. Since when do you care about that stuff? You live under a rock."
"No, I live in a trailer."
"So does everyone else. So what, are you going to go to the dance? Huh? That's ridiculous. You never do anything fun. "
"Shut up, it's a costume party, right?"
The coon nodded. Hank set down his notebook that he'd been doodling equations in. "So, maybe I want to go dress up. You know. Because it's fun."
Derrin looked leery. "Are you feeling alright?"
"No. So, look, uh.... do you still do that theater stuff too?"
"Stagehand? Yeah... why? You want to get in on it?"
"Fuck no. But I'll tell you what I do want..."
Hank didn't 'tell' Derrin. Instead, he wrote it out as a three page document. A description of what he wanted as a costume for Halloween, to be hopefully put together by Derrin's foppish friend Andy. Andy was the school theater crew's lackey, and despite being a shoe-in for an art fag, he was actually planning on marrying his girlfriend.
Derrin thought the request was pretty odd, an awe-filled grin as he read through the pages. Hank felt embarassed, but excited. Finally, the coon looked up at him over lunch.
"Why the hell does this seem so familiar? Hey Andy-"
The leopard looked up from his sketchbook, a cracker stuck out between his fangs. "Yeth?"
"Stop doing that, it's weird. Look, read this and tell me if this seems really familiar. Wolf boy here wants to play dress-up for the Halloween dance."
"Oh, does he? Well. Let's take a little looksie.." Andy snatched up the wolf's papers and zipped through them. "So, you want to be The Gunslinger?"
Hank coughed on his food. "What? You're kidding, you can tell? You saw that movie? No fucking way."
"Harry-" Andy always called Hank by the alternate version of his name, despite the wolf's grousing, "That movie is a modern classic of camp, over-the-top staging, set design, costume.... of course I've seen it! This won't exactly be easy, but I suppose it'd work. Hmm. I bet you can win-"
"I am not going to win a prize for anything. My life isn't a teen movie. I just want to ... I guess I just want to do something real cool. Because I can. Yeah."
Hank's tail was wagging, something he tried to suppress. He was going to get to dress up just like The Gunslinger, and it was going to be the epitome of everything in his life. He was absolutely sure of it.
"Dude, look at you! You're like a little kid!" Derrin pointed and laughed.
"Shut up."
Hank wasn't being totally serious about the costume. Or rather, he didn't expect anyone would actually help him, but he just had to tell someone about it. He figured Derrin was the best choice since they'd known each other since their fur changed. Derrin thought it was funny, for the most part, which would have made the wolf wonder about their friendship if it hadn't been for Andrew Spartz.
"Now Harry, I'm glad you came down here. I always love the chance to measure a man."
The black wolf narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you're actually going out with a girl?" Hank was standing on a small footstool, clad only in his boxer shorts. Black, silk boxer shorts.
"Well, if I had those shorts, I wouldn't need anyone else at all."
"Shut up, I wear them because they're black."
"You? Wear black?"
Hank rolled his eyes. "Look, are you really serious? You can't be serious. I mean, about this.. this thing. I was just being, I don't know, it's kind of.. it's like a dream. And I thought maybe Derrin could possibly help me out or something, and I didn't really know what I was doing."
Andy appeared to be ignoring him, busy with a PDA and a tape measure, marking off various wolf dimensions. After a few moments: "Look, Mr. Harry Wolf. I have been messing around with clothing since I was a little kid. I used to make dresses for my mom. I took a leatherwork course when I was 14, at LTC. This is my hobby, and you're going to be my next project."
Hawk's ears turned red and wilted back. "Ok."
"Do you dress left or right?"
"What? You mean which way do I aim my dick in my pants? I don't know, up?"
Andy laughed. "You don't wear fitted clothing, do you."
"I had a suit made. But I don't wear suits."
"So, I'm going to say you do it left. I think with you, it would be very important."
Hank growled.
"You growl when you blush, you know that?" Andy said, poking at his PDA. "All finished. You can put your pants back on."
The wolf was glad.
Halloween was three weeks away, Hank's birthday two weeks and seven days. He was going to be seventeen years old. He felt strange, living in his mom's trailer, working and going to two schools, not even old enough to make a difference or drink liquor. Now his life had a dimension of sex that was so new he didn't know what to do with it. He simply added it into normal things he already did, like with Derrin, or.... with the exception of Clyde, that had been it.
There was the clandestine masturbation behind the shower wall, but he didn't consider that sex. He figured most people did things like that, at least the watching part. There was the odd case of him trying to steal a jockstrap or sweaty gym shorts from one of the foxes to go huff through while pouring himself out in the storage room, but he still felt that was average. Was this all there was? Was this the big deal?
Derrin had been possibly a relationship, but that didn't pan out. Derrin just wanted to hang out and study and watch TV and oh yeah, there's a blowjob in there somewhere too. Hank was relieved when he found out that the coon didn't really think there'd be anything, because otherwise things had moved a little too fast. That, and Hank couldn't quite ever express his feelings as much. The more he felt, the less it came out...
Several days after he accidentally commissioned the idle members of the school theater club to transform him into The Gunslinger, Hank was about to do the trash pickup for the weight room when he caught a smell walking in the door. Someone was in there.
"Hey, everyone out, school's over. No one should be up here."
It was almost seven at night; the fact that there was someone in the weight room almost surely meant they were up to no good. Hank peeked around the door and spied a long black and orange-striped tail.
"Aww, shoot, y'gonna arrest me?" Clyde was leaning on the universal gym, blotting out most of its bulk with his.
Hank perked his ears up. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Dak said I could come up an' workout a bit after practice."
The wolf crossed his arms and leaned on the trash can he'd been hauling. "Practice was over an hour ago."
"An hour's a bit. Kinda long bit." Clyde looked like he didn't care one bit, and wasn't about to move. A grin slowly crept over his face. Hank came in and hauled up a bag of trash, stuffing it into the big can, then filling it up. "They got you playin' trash man?"
"Yeah. It kind of sucks. But I get paid. Look, you haven't been working out. You're wearing.. whatever you always wear." Sleeveless teeshirt, butt-hugging Wranglers, that damn cowboy belt, new boots this time - red and black firewalkers.
"Naw, I've been workin' out! Look, kinda sweaty!" The big cat showed off his crotch, and indeed it was sweaty, and he was panting after all..
"This is bizzare. Who let you in here?" Hank finished at the far end, then wheeled the big can over to where the cat was standing. "I'm really not supposed to let people in, so it wasn't me, and I'm going to have to throw you out-"
Weight thumped onto Hank's shoulder, nearly toppling the wolf. "Now you ain't throwin' me nowhere. Jus' thought I'd come on up an' see you. Th'coon tol' me you did gym shit 'bout this time of night."
The black wolf swallowed. "Okay. So .. well, you're seeing me right now. So, uh, come on. I have to lock up for real."
Both creatures headed for the door, Hank hefting the trash up and carrying it, to a somewhat startled 'whoa' from the tiger. "So Hank, heard you was goin' to th'halloween kinda thing."
"Were, not was."
"Naw, 'are going to'. Hah."
Hank stopped and looked back at the tiger, slightly horrified at the sudden use of correct English.
"Well, yeah. I figured, if there's any kind of social event going to, one where you get to dress up as something random is probably the most harmless. You won't see me at any of those other dance things. Stupid."
"Haw." Clyde punched open the basement door for the wolf. "Derrin' tol' me you're goin' as you-know-who."
Out in the hallway, Hank froze, tail slapping down against the back of his legs. He swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure do. You're gonna go as th'gunslinger. Bet you've been yankin' it to th'thought ever since we watched it at m'folks."
Hank stormed down the hall, trash in tow, growling to himself. "Yeah, so what? It'll be cool. Figured I gotta do something to get in the yearbook, or for when I come back in ten years. 'Is that Hank? I remember when he got dressed up as some scary cowboy dude from a weird movie! I wonder what he does now...'" He opened up the loading dock and shoved the canister in. "What'll they say now? 'Oh, isn't that that weird black wolf? I heard he lived all alone, his parents moved away...'"
"Hmm. See how it is.." Clyde said, and went to put a big hand on the wolf's shoulder.
"Hang on, I'm still working. Gotta put some stuff away." Hank grabbed up some tools from the dock area and headed back down the hall. He stopped at the storage room, looked back at the tiger, then went in.
Clyde followed, that alert, curious-cat expression plastered all over his face. No real smile, just... there. He closed the door, then flicked the light on.
"Uh. Well, you don't really need to come in," Hank said, setting down the tools, rubbing his neck.
The tiger fooled with the doorknob. "Lock's busted. You know 'bout that? Someone's gonna rip off all this junk, paint funny shit 'round the hallway with this.. glop." Clyde gave a big bottle of something pink a thud with his boot.
"Oh, if I need to lock it, I just put this.. " Hank stepped over and held up the board he usually shoved under the knob.
"Why're you needin' to lock it from th'inside?"
Hank shoved the board down, then looked up at Clyde. His heart started to pound, the same anxiety he felt when looking into a pitch dark room before his eyes adjusted, the same rush of unknowable feeling when he was put in a situation where his lupinity came out, the same rush he got when he thought about Karl Moul, the same rush he'd gotten when Clyde showed up in his cowboy gear. The two just stood for a long moment, the tiger looking like he already had a hardon, Hank growing one.
Then, with a growl, the black wolf lunged forward and grabbed Clyde by the shirt. He was hoping to shove the cat back against the wall, but Clyde was a lot heavier than he expected and the cat just grunted in surprise.
"What th'hell?"
"You fucked me! You invited me over to your house and you fucked me! On your parents' damn bed! You fucking came in my asshole! I have tiger jizz in me!" Hank's glare was only bested by the sort of crazy look in his eye.
"Now wait a minute, I thought we were all cool an' stuff, after you was done gettin' off we all hung out an'..."
Hank let go of the shirt and grabbed at the cat's pecs, digging into the muscle. "I'm not mad, I'm freaked out! I don't know what to think! Jesus. You're... you're huge. This is just, does this happen? Is it supposed to happen?"
"Course I'm huge. 'm a fuckin' tiger. Now jus' calm down." Clyde moved to extract the wolf from him, holding onto Hank's arms.
"No, I'm not trying to fight. Come on. Let me..." Hank growled, the sound turning into a whisper. He felt, fingers moving over the big slabs of muscle, the cat flexed and taut. Hank stepped closer, sniffing at the air around the tiger, slowly embracing his chest. "Sorry I got weird, I was tired so I had a couple energy drink... things." The cat's massive bulge bumped into the wolf's stomach, Hank's own prodding the cat in the thigh.
"Well now, you wanna fuck me?"
Hank blinked. "Are you kidding? Right here?"
"Hell yeah. Ain't no better place right now."
"I've never fucked anyone," Hank said, in his smallest voice.
"Ain't no problem, you ain't been fucked 'fore I stuffed you up an' look at you now! Grabbin' at big ol' cats." With that, Clyde just clopped over to one of the walls and kicked a big bucket of something in front of him. It was ice melter, a drum big enough that Hank couldn't budge it without a hauler - the cat moved it like it weighed nothing. Hank rummaged around for something, over by the drywall where he'd sit and watch some hapless soul take a nice, warm shower. There was a hand cleanser bottle behind a support, and the wolf picked it up.
"Uh, here, lemme... this is, uh, well I kinda keep lube around here. Because I watch guys shower, there's this little... hole. Right. There." He was pointing at the wall, but Clyde was getting his pants down. The cat was just facing the wall, undoing his fly, then yanking his tail out and getting his pants down around his ankles.
"Yep. Now you ain't gotta be shy. Jus' come on over here an' out with it." Clyde dropped himself down onto the drum, leaning forward against the wall, his striped tail lifting up and curling back and forth lazily. "Bet it's gonna be jus' the right height."
Hank came over, as silently as he could. "Be quiet, people might hear." He came up to the side of the cat and opened his fly up, hauling himself out, the length drooped down. Big furry fingers surrounded it, started pumping the foreskin. "Whoa, hey."
"Man, you got a real nice dick. Bet I told you before but dammnit, I'm gonna say it again." Clyde turned and leaned over, opening his maw and letting a broad, pink tongue lap at the head of the wolf's shaft.
Hank was expecting sandpaper, but Clyde's tongue was actually quite smooth. After just a few licks, the glans was flared and glistening with spit. Clyde snorted and coughed, then spit out more. "Jus' gonna add my touch."
"Uh, thanks." The wolf nervously squirted the pump bottle at his cock, a few splats of gel lube landing on the shaft. He smeared them around, then shook his hand off. "So I just... uh, I just put it in?"
"Yeah, you ain't even gotta be all kinda nice, I fuck 'round with my hole all the time, bet I could get a big ol' hawse up there," Clyde chuckled loudly. "Oops. Sorry," he whispered.
Hank hissed a breath out his nostrils and stepped up behind the cat, pulse pounding so hard it made his shaft bob faintly. He grabbed it around the base, straining the length out, figuring he'd need a little help. He had to spread his legs and bend his knees somewhat to get the right angle, the head nudging up against Clyde's tailhole. The star immediately flexed and opened up - Hank was pushing a little harder than he thought, his body suddenly moving forward, length sinking in. Clyde snorted and thumped a fist on the wall.
"Whoa there, hawse!" he grunted.
"Sorry," the black wolf whispered, up near one of the cat's ears. He stopped moving in, then just felt up the cat's huge back, growling low to himself. He was so impossibly nervous that he was beyond the nervous early shot, just focused on the heat pounding through him. He started to drag backwards, the cat flexing and letting out a low huff, muscles trying to hold him in. When he pushed forward again, still slow, the cat pushed back, tight rings pushing over the wolf's cockhead, up the shaft. Hank kept going until he couldn't go any further. The last couple inches made Clyde's jaw drop.
"Aww man, you gon' work it all the way? I ain't gonna care how fast it is, jus' use th'whole damn thing. You ain't got a real long one f'nothin'."
"This feels great," the wolf whispered. "Real fucking great."
Hank did what the cat said, moving slow and steady, almost pausing before his glans popped back out, jerking a bit to get that last inch. After a few strokes, sweat dampening his muzzle, the wolf felt big paws grab him.
"C'mon, fuck me like you jus' met me."
"Huh?"
"Real fuckin' rough."
Hank pumped himself forward, the hot passage contracting around him.
"Ah said rough!"
This time, Hank grabbed the cat's shoulders and pulled back until he came free, then forced in hard, the next stroke thumping his body against the cat. Clyde responded with a groan, and the soft slap of foreskin and pawpad over dick.
The pure, primal, bestial nature of forcing his dick through a tight hole made Hank's face burn under the fur, the wolf bearing forward, arching his back, pumping his hips, then getting his legs into it. Clyde's jacking turned into a wetter, lewder sound.
"You going to come, tiger?" the wolf growled, up near that same ear. "You going to come just like I did, with that fat, nasty cat-dick up my ass?"
"Aww hell, Hank, you fuckin' talk dirty! Unrrh, keep on it," the cat snorted, straining at himself, his passage tightening up again.
If Hank hadn't had his cock buried inside Clyde's ass, he would have been supremely embarassed to say anything nasty, but with the hot burn in his loins and the snug heat around his cock, the burn of humility was just more fire for lust. "I'm gonna come in you, fill you up with all my hot wolf spunk, force this long, black dick into you until-"
Clyde's low grunts and teeth-clacks turned into a low growl, into a snarl, into a roar that he stifled by biting into his arm. The fevered masturbation ceased, replaced by the visceral slap of something wet landing on the floor and wall in front of the cat. The tiger's tailhole pulsed and grabbed Hank's shaft.
Hank gave up any semblance of modesty, hammering himself into Clyde's ass, teeth bared, jaw straining, eyes squinting completely shut as the sting of climax punched him. He was all too aware of getting off inside of Clyde's hole, the pressure around his cock making each squirt like welcome relief. With the final pulse he collapsed forward onto Clyde, who barely seemed to notice.
"Urrrnh. 've been thinkin' bout that for a while."
"What?" Hank growled, in surprise. He was going soft and when he shifted backwards, it was all too easy to slip completely free of Clyde. The cat stirred and groaned, then stretched and stood up, grabbing to pull his jeans back up. There was a splatter on the wall, and a few ropes of spunk on the floor.
"Jus' you know, after I got up in you, was all wonderin' if you'd wanna return th'favor." After getting his pants done back up, Clyde didn't look much different than he had at the start.
Hank felt shellshocked, doing his pants up in a sudden hurry. "Well, yeah, I guess that makes sense. Look, I really got a bunch of work to do. You want to... uh, hang out some other time?"
"Sure as hell. You know where I live. Jus' come on by. Bet Maw'll get all crazy an' bake you somethin'." Clyde slapped the wolf on the shoulder, then swiped up the bar that was 'locking' the door. The cat was out of the room before Hank knew what was happening.
The wolf walked over and flipped off the light. He wanted to blend into the new blackness in the room and disappear. It'd been so fast, such a rush of feelings, and now he was all alone again.
A week later, Hank was blowing off some steam. Not by jerking off, but he'd just taken four quizzes, a test, and also turned in a CAD project at Lainsville Tech. He just wanted some peace by himself, so out came the bass.
Hank played jazz bass, with heapings of terrifying death metal. His parents had tried to get him going as a kid with piano lessons, then school band - he played mallets - but he'd found himself messing around with a contrabass one afternoon in the band room and that was that.
Fast forward to one pawn-shop aluminum contrabass, several planks of maple, a couple PZM microphones that Derrin's stage crew friends were getting rid of, and Hank had a frankenstein of a musical instrument. Like a bass without the body, amplified by two different amps at once, a tall stick painted black with gold trim and a sound that made Clyde's orgasmic roar sound like the mewl of a small kitten, Hank's instrument was a perfect fit in his mind. He was handy enough that the end result was playable, and it became a great way to waste time. Not to mention how the past few months of being alone helped so much in turning it way, way up.
He was enjoying one such practice session - a massive load of multi-tapped delays reaching off into the seconds, playing fuzzy screaming howls and paint-flaking walked thuds - when he gradually became aware of a pounding noise.
When he stopped, he realized someone was at the door.
"For god's sake, Harry! Open the hell up!" It sounded suspiciously like Andy the masquerade leopard. Hank answered the door in a tank top and boxer shorts.
"What? Hurry up. It's getting cold."
The cat was carrying a big box. "Oh, won't be cold for long! Can I come in?"
"No." Silence. "I'm just kidding. Come on..." The wolf rolled his eyes and stepped aside. Cat and box made their way into the kitchen area, the box meeting the table with a thud.
"Man, you need more room in here. I thought my parents' apartment was small. So." The cat panted slightly, leaning on the box. "This is the beginning of your project."
With a claw, the packing tape on the box was slit. There was marker on top, reading "Property of Lainsville Technicial College - loan to Andrew Spartz, return by November 3rd." The message was divided in half as it opened, the immediate scent of leather and boot polish coming out. Hank's ears perked. "Beginnings of my..."
Surrounded by wadded newspapers were the following items:
Black leather cowboy hat, quite worn but freshly dyed and treated. Thin azure and sterling hatband.
Black leather western gauntlets, tapered fringe on the cuff, probably deerskin from the supple look of things. Also quite worn but in real good condition.
Black bandana, with silver highlights.
Black tall cowboy boots, in a single-action shooter / cavalry style, stovepipe wide shaft, canted riding heel, a sharpish square toe. Also worn, but polished freshly.
Black leather gunbelt, times two. Empty of weapons or any ammo, made of heavy black saddle leather.
Hank looked into the box like it contained large worms. "Oh."
"Kind of interesting... I always used to wonder where they got such cool stuff at LTC, you know, like this is real decent costume makings here. Well, you know how they used to make a lot of westerns and stuff? The movie studios needed to unload all that stuff to make room for whatever else got popular - platform boots? - and it all trickled on down. This stuff's probably from the 50's, maybe the 60's. Are you listening, Harry?"
"No."
"Well." Andy huffed to himself. "Obviously there isn't much work to be done here. So, most of it is with the pants, the coat... that'll be interesting. You can have this stuff, make sure it fits, if it doesn't.. well. Let me know in the next couple days. Off to tryouts! We're starting casting for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'."
"Cool. Thanks, Andy."
The cat showed himself out, and Hank shut the door. He counted to ten, then tiptoed over to the box, like someone would be able to hear a wolf moving alone in a trailer home at the edge of a woods.
He took out all the packing, then gave each piece quite a lookover. He actually had a similar hat, and should have mentioned it to the cat, but this one was a bit broader and pointed in the front of the cap. The boots were just amazing; Hank had never been so close to something so sexually gorgeous as high, black leather boots. The gloves... would have to wait several minutes. The gun belt? Stunning, and ready to get fitted with the wolf's revolver. He'd have to borrow for the other one.
Everything went into his clutching arms, then into his bedroom. The wolf clicked the door shut carefully, tiptoeing again as he stripped himself of engineer boots, jeans, belt, teeshirt. Back went his jeans, wolf grousing to himself as he hurried to get his pantlegs wrapped and covered up by his socks. Down into the boots, each foot going in like a long, smooth penetration, twenty inches of black leather turning to worn black denim at the knee. Hank looked down, then looked down, then looked some more, trying to conquer the disbelief.
The boots definitely needed some enhancements to go with the true outfit of The Gunslinger, but at the moment, Hank was in a place he'd never been before. He was satisfying a fetish on a level that was unimaginable. On went the hat, the gun belts, the gloves. A stiff bulge ran from the center of the wolf's denim crotch over across his thigh.
He started rifling through his drawers, trying to find the leather vest he'd picked up with some of his motorcycle gear. In the process, he came across a little baggie. The baggie he'd gotten from Clyde.
Ten seconds of thought filtered back and forth between the wolf's black ears. Hank knew what pot did too him, knew what cigarettes did, alcohol. But mushrooms? That was the big h, seeing things, talking to god-
Time's up. He went into the kitchen, dumped out half the bag and went at the desiccated fungi with a chef's knife. He then mashed it all up inside a wad of jelly and slathered it on a piece of toast. He chomped it all up and down it went. His tongue felt a little tingly, like he'd used throat spray, and then he promptly forgot about it.
The wolf looked at the clock - time to study for an hour. Hank was very diligent about making sure he did what he had to. Forty minutes of calculus homework and he didn't even look over at the hat or gloves sitting on the table, didn't even think about how his legs felt shoved into those tall boots he still had on....
He looked up to the clock and the room swam a little. Everything looked like it was being filmed through a crummy old video camcorder, slightly grainy and solarized. It was like being drunk, without the mad vertigo. He gathered up his things and headed into the bedroom.
The next half an hour or so was spent watching television, mostly one of the satellite music channels. Finding far too much hardcore rap, and growing irritated at watching the bright television, Hank was about to switch it off when he clicked onto a local access show. There, holding what had to be an 8-string electric guitar and tearing the shit out of it, was a big tiger in leather pants and cowboy boots. The music was something only describable as pop death metal, and when not roaring, the big cat had an unmistakable twang as he huffed out lyrics. Holy shit, Clyde's on TV.
Clyde being on TV reminded Hank of Clyde in person, of the cat's big dick, of how it felt forcing up inside him, shooting in his mouth, the sound of it slapping spunk down on the floor while the wolf...
The performance was over, and the wolf clicked off the television. In the darkness, he was now alone with his mutating reality. Something was definitely happening, almost like becoming so awestruck the world simply washed over.
Hank stood up and looked at the hat, gloves. He slipped the hat on, feeling a change in his self from the head down. He pulled the gloves on, pulling the hide over his fingers, putting something up between himself and the real world. Looking around in his drawers, he found the leather vest he was after previously, the wolf shrugging it on as he went to find the gun belts.
Pulling the heavy saddle leather around his hips, he felt not like a 16 year old wolf living alone and fighting his way through school. He felt instead like someone who belonged on the wrong side of the law, who could do anything he wanted, anyone he wanted. He fingered where the guns should have been, then slowly tracked down where his were. Something was happening, a dark, sadistic creeping feeling, turning up one of his lips and not the other, making him almost twitch in the face. He made a bee-line to where his guns were locked up, withdrawing his own hunting revolver and one his dad left behind from the case, sliding them into their leather sheaths at his hip.
Every step was like walking through an entire different world. Hank didn't exactly stumble back to his room - he was hyper aware of every footfall in the new boots, how the heels sounded against the floor, how the leather creaked - but he made a very loose swagger and wove down the length of his trailer.
The night was nearly day, light no issue at all for his sight. Hank's home twisted slowly around him, play of moonlight and shadows all around as he cut through them, a black shape in leather and denim. He wished someone was there to see him - Clyde maybe? The surge of something, clearly some dopamine explosion in his brain, made Hank want to burst out of his body, the drugged slur around him made him stay inside it. The subtle balance it something surely Clyde wouldn't understand, the line between light and dark.
The wolf needed someone who would be under him. The white wall of his bedroom turned into a space, a projection, some sort of portal into a thought. Hank wondered who would be under him, and he saw the white space fill with a wide brushstroke of red, tipped with black, streaked with white up the center. Peter, was it? The fox from the showers, the one from whom Hank had filched a jockstrap from to huff scent and jerk off.
That fox, that Peter, would be perfect. Hank moved and the room slowly re-aligned around him, giving him a perfect view into the mirror. Black fur was a matte surface, surrounded by the dark shadow and glinting highlight of his vest, the expanses of latigo making up the gun belts, the burnished glow of his tall boots, the curve of hide over his knuckles...
The mirror was very far away, a long distance, plenty of time to show that fox, if he were there, just what Hank was made of. Each slow step, the clunk of a stacked heel into wood, the scuff of the sole right preceding, the shift of the floorboard...
There was that bulge again, straining the denim, Hank's gloved fingers stroking along it, moving it before starting to undo the buttons. One at a time, one per step. The other gloved paw hung casually from the wolf's belt, the gun belt, then moved down to trace the butt of the hunting pistol. That gun, it would fill the role for the costume just great, the impressive barrel, such a terrific thing to aim at someone. The gun slid free just as Hank's blackness came out of his pants, fingers feeling the length out to the end.
If the fox was there, if Peter was there, he'd be on his knees, tied up. Maybe he'd be tied back to a chair, arms back and cuffed to the back legs. Would he be gagged? No, or he would be, then Hank would take it off, beat the fox across the muzzle if he complained. Make Peter kiss the head, sniff around it, then lick, then suck on it like his life was going to end if he didn't. Maybe it wouldn't be the wolf's cock at all, the black shaft replaced with another, cold metal clicking against the fox's teeth, the soft slap of tongue against steel, the grunt of being opened further, the choking wet gristle noise of something entering the throat-
"If I put a hole here, fox," The barrel was prodded up against something hard, the imaginary painted fox somewhere located around it, "I could put something up into your head, maybe watch it come out your mouth when I get off." So dark, so horrifying, Hank's face twisted, left edge of smile lifting up, trying to tilt his head with it. Pleasure, burning and growing through lust to near ecstasy somewhere in his body, absent from his cock and his hand. The climax came like a rush of white fire from behind him, the wolf's load spraying out onto the mirror, dripping down slowly. His vision cleared, the gun scribbling across the glass to stop in the apex of the mess, such a rotten statement.
Hank stumbled back and flipped off the hat, gun clanking into a drawer of the nightstand. Prone, the wolf's pleasure flittered through his head. He hadn't even realized he was jerking off, the sensation from it happening up inside his chest instead of in the meat between his gloved fingers. What had just gone through his head! Horrible things, a collision of the revered Gunslinger, the black-dyed Karl Moul watching someone cry and spit around the barrel of his revolver before putting the shit's mind onto the floor in pieces... and his own desire. For a fox?
The thought flickered away, replaced by the strange disappearance of the wolf's hand as it touched the black sheets. He picked it up and he could see the glove leather, put it down and his arm was disappearing right into the bed. It was astonishing, and he rolled to look up at the ceiling. The room was awash with light, something finally filling that hole Hank had after a climax. Minutes later, he felt things start to tremble again, a wave coming on, lip curling again, erection pulsing then dying, and he was consumed by the light of a waking dream.
One week remained until halloween, and Hank was rushing his way through everything he had to do for high school, community college, his job. He came home from work sweating from the muzzle and crotch, wolfing down something unspectactular for dinner before heading out to the workshed.
Andy had given the task of creating various metal paraphenalia for the Gunslinger outfit to Hank. In the cat's words, "You're just good with making stuff like that."
I am? thought the wolf, as he surveyed a tableful of drawings. There were also inspirational pictures, printouts from scifi television magazines of Karl Moul in full gear from the movie, promo shots, screencaps. As Hank set about starting to create the metal leg armatures that helped explain The Gunslinger's hideous cliche cowboy strut, he sincerely hoped no one would ever see the inside of his shed.
"Howdy there, wolf!"
Hank's blood ran cold and his heart sank as fast as the screwdriver he was holding as it clattered to the floor. "Clyde."
"A'yep. An' some coon thing."
"Yo," Derrin said, dwarfed by the cat. Both were in the doorway. "Clyde was bringing me back from getting some takeout and we figured we'd stop by and see what ol' recluse was up to. Lights on, no one's home... bike's here.. then Clyde goes, 'now there's a shed on over there'... and now we get to stare at you doing naughty things!"
"I'm not doing naughty things!" Hank winced. "I'm making stuff!"
"What kinda stuff?" Clyde prodded.
"Stuff. For. A. Thing. You know.. uh, for that dance.. party."
"Oh, hah! Th'costume? No way. Hey man, you locked th'house? I gotta leak real bad."
"Go in the back door, I left it unlocked."
The tiger hauled off up the short hill, leaving Derrin to walk in, hands in pockets.
"So you're doing alright?"
Hank nodded, picking up the screwdriver. "Yeah. Just fine."
"You sure? Haven't seen you much."
Hank's ears burned. "Oh. Well, you know, I've been trying to... make sure I don't fail..."
Derrin rolled his eyes. "Hank, you're on the honor roll. You're on the principal's short list. Come on. Is it because of the thing with Clyde?"
"What? Are you kidding?" Hank leaned forward, voice turning to a hiss. "No, I mean, we had awesome fun, and he came by.. and we kind of.. did it at school. You didn't hear that."
Derrin snickered. "Well, I kind of set you two up. Maybe...."
"Look, I was kind of tossed for a loop, because.. I thought you have sex when you're in a relationship. And... nothing really changed. Like we were just, you know, the same as before."
"Oh. Well. Sorry."
The wolf stared. "Wait, that's it?"
Derrin shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. I'm sorry.. you know, I didn't really think anything of it. Besides it being fun. I didn't know you..."
"Unf. No, I don't know what to think. I just grew up you know, thinking ... nevermind. It's not worth thinking about." Hank grinned. "Now get out of here, I'm busy. And it's embarassing being seen with all these, uh, pictures."
"Sure thing. I'll go make sure the tiger stays out of your underwear drawer."
The coon winked at Hank, treating himself to a show of red in the wolf's ears.
October 30th. One more day to the dance. The costume was totally complete, although Hank hadn't seen the finished coat nor really assembled it all together. So maybe it wasn't complete.
He was fretting and trying to figure out what to, digging in his bedroom drawers to see if he could find the inspiring mushrooms he'd been granted by the mysterious Clyde Barrows. Back in the kitchen, fishing them out from underneath his forks, little brown pieces went into a tea ball, then into a big heaping mug, then into a little fridge container and... the phone rang. Into the fridge with his little experiment.
"Hey."
"Happy birthday, Harry!"
Hank flushed under his fur. "Mom! Shit!"
"Did I catch you doing something?"
Hank footed the door shut. "No, uh, I just forgot. I was thinking about other stuff. You know. School. Uh, I'm going to this dance tomorrow-"
"You never go to dances! Are you sick?" Hank's mom would have been a jewish mother if she was jewish. She was just from brooklyn.
"Well, no, I just.. mom! Come on."
"Oh, don't be grumpy just because it's your birthday! You're seventeen!"
Hank shotgunned down the trailer and tossed himself onto the living room couch. "Seventeen's nothing! It's like teasing, you can't do anything yet, and there isn't anything fun like being able to drive...."
"Well, I just wanted to call to wish you a happy birthday. You'll be getting something in the mail in a couple of days, I'd have shipped it sooner but David distracted me with a sudden 'romantic getaway'..."
The wolf hissed a chuckle. "Letting other men get in front of your own son! Tsk."
"Oh Harry, quit it. This whole thing with David came up so fast. So, what is this dance you're going to?"
Hank clicked on the TV and muted it, channel surfing idly. "It's the Halloween dance at school. My friend's organizing it, and I guess I just felt like I gotta do something like it sometime."
"Well, what are you going as?"
"Mom..... well, I guess I'm going as, uh, a cowboy."
"Oh, that's nice. Any particular cowboy? You're too skinny to be John Wayne. Maybe that guy from Wild Wild West. I always thought he was dashing."
"Mom! No, I'm going as, ah, uhm, The Gunslinger."
A long hmm came over the line. "I remember that... wasn't it some trashy kind of thing with that guy from Port Charles?"
Hank's ears went up. "What? Karl Moul was on a fucking soap opera? No way."
"Sure, he was Carol's sleazy ex who went crazy and turned up in Europe with someone else's face."
"Hmph. That's just as trashy. Besides, it's a cool movie, and it's really distinctive.. I mean, there's cowboy, and then there's Gunslinger."
"Well, you have fun. Oh, by the way, we're coming to visit this Christmas! Your father might even come along, if he isn't too busy tearing apart L.A."
Hank laughed. "That'd be great. We'll just get Uncle Jake into it and it'll be just one big mess."
"I have to go, I just wanted to call you and wish my baby a happy birthday!" The phone nearly dripped with maternal sap.
"Well, thanks. I appreciate it. Later mom,"
And that was that.
Hank was a lot more tired than he thought, and promptly forgot how he was going to try to make his birthday seem interesting by falling asleep.
The phone woke him up at 3 in the morning.
"Dammnit, who's calling me at three in the morning!"
"Howdy, Hank!"
Of all the people Hank wished would be saying Howdy at 3am, his dad wasn't really high on the list. Maybe Clyde would have been better.
"Jesus, dad, it's 3am. I know, I know, west coast.."
"Well, you know, I completely forgot about that. That's okay, your parents can wake you up any time. That's why they're parents. Besides, it's your birthday."
Hank's mental trigger finger, riled up by epinephrine pounding through his veins, almost leveled a hard one over the phone line. "Yeah. Well, I already heard from mom.. you could have called her, you know, passed on the word."
"Well, I'm sure she told you about our plans-"
"Yeah, christmas. I want a pony and a space ship and a thousand dollars."
"I'm not so sure about the pony, Hank. I ought to bring along one of the things I've been working on. I bet you'd really like it."
Hank's dad was a screenwriter, hence the exodus to L.A. Hank's mom hated Los Angeles, and was a park ranger. She ended up in Alaska, he ended up in Cali. "Really. Is it actually going somewhere this time?"
"Oh, it's already filming."
"No way! What are you, writing porn or something? You've only had some TV pilots, right?" Hank never really believed his dad was actually going to succeed at screenwriting. Not because he wasn't any good, but because he always worked himself half to death trying to make money and there's a little too much glamour in anything Hollywood for a rough-cut wolf from Buffalo.
"Nope. Trust me."
"Well, that's cool. I really have to get sleep though... I'm working all tomorrow, and then there's this dance thing at school... it's a halloween thing, you know, all that shit. Derrin's organizing it."
"Derrin's a good kid."
"Yeah. Pretty much. Look, I'll give you a call later this week, okay? I'm not kidding, I'm gonna just nod off.."
"Well, kid, I guess that's sayonara. Enjoy your last year of sobriety!"
What a joke. Hank laughed and hung up, then fell back into a hard snore.
The Big Day.
The dance was on a saturday night, to 'give those kids something fun and safe to do!', the school principal would probably have said. Fun, yes. Safe? Depends on who you were.
Hank spent most of the day working, and barely had time to put together a sandwich for a early dinner before a truck air-horn rattled his windows. He grabbed up a plastic canteen of tea out of the fridge, grabbed his jacket and a big duffel bag, plopped the cowboy hat on his head, and ran out of the house.
Taking up more than half of the dirt track in front of the trailer was a fucking-ass-huge CXT. Orange and black stripes were inside the cab. Hank climbed up the side step and undid the door. It nearly knocked him flat on his ass.
"Shit, Clyde? You're kidding me. Your dad let you drive the CXT? What the hell?"
"Said I could go to th'dance thing if I did some shit for 'im an' so I was drivin' some cows on down. An' he said I oughta jus' take th'truck 'cuz he was goin' out to dinner with Maw."
Hank shoved the duffel into the back. "Well, I guess it makes sense. This thing's crazy. C'mon, I gotta get all this shit together at school before the dance... "
The wolf barely had the door shut before roaring the truck through its gears, scenery tearing by.
"Hank, man, that's a real fuckin' nice hat."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah."
The wolf looked over and spotted a big bulge in the cat's jeans, maybe even a dark spot, damp perhaps. Clyde didn't seem to notice or care about it, just watching the road. The radio was playing something dark and hard, vocals a snorting blur of sound, atmospheric keyboards holding steady behind harmonic guitar screams.
"Who's this? This is halloween music. None of that stupid kids shit-"
"Oh yeah! This's m'band! I'm in a band, hah! It rocks!" Clyde was happy for about half a minute.
"Cool."
Another awkward silence. Then: "Hey, y'know... if I wasn't drivin' this thing. Maybe you'd be gettin' some of that outfit you got in th'bag.. on."
Hank turned and unzipped part of the duffel, pulling out black leather. The gauntlets. He slid them on. "What, like this?" He was suddenly aroused, the feel of the leather, the smell of it, the look of it covering his fingers. Clyde looked over, then back to the road.
"Asshole."
"Hmm?" Hank leaned an arm on the door, adjusting his hat. He felt that dark, surging thrum coming up inside him, left lip curling up slowly.
"Every time I gotta change fuckin' lanes t'the right, I gotta look at you. Gon' mess up my jeans if I ain't careful. You better not do nothin' 'fore we get to school."
"Sure thing, Clyde."
They arrived in the band room to see Andy and Derrin hanging out next to a wardrobe rack, munching on some sort of chips. Andy was done up as a World War I-era aviator, Derrin as... a caveman?
"Coon, what the hell are you?"
"Why, can't you tell?"
Hank shook his head. Clyde stood there like a rock, apparently thinking. "No idea. You're.. I don't know, Charles Lindberg. But wasn't he a Nazi?"
"I'm nameless. Just a pilot. A dashing aviator, ruling the skies for the RAF-"
"Holy fuck, it's fuckin' Ted Nugent!" Clyde bellowed out, pointing. He immediately started to guffaw.
"Geez. Hah." Hank squinted at the coon. Crazed-up wig, shredded up clothing, a bow.. "Wow. Holy crap, that's awesome. So guys.. let's do this."
Hank upended his duffel bag, the contents pouring out. Boots, bandana, gloves, spurs, various bits of chain and decoration, studded straps, gunbelts. Clyde immediately quit laughing.
"Oh, it's like going to one of those naughty shops, isn't it?" Andy nearly squealed, tromping over and whirling around the wardrobe rack. He hauled off a rather boring looking peacoat to expose a fantastic black leather duster, pants hanging in between. "Tadaa! Just had to keep it hidden, you know. Surprise surprise."
The garment wasn't really a duster, at least not entirely. It had obviously started out life as one, smooth black leather, shoulder cape, long down in back. The whole thing had been heavily modified in the front, the leather only going down somewhat short of the waist, the rest cut down to go just behind the legs. The front of the coat was double-breasted and buttoned up over the whole chest, not by buttons but by latch-buckles. The arms had been taken in to fit a lot closer than a standard duster, and two harness straps - on close examination by the wolf, they were actually plate-studded belts from a goth shop - crossed the chest. The shoulder cap was doubly-reinforced by dark hide that looked almost like boot leather.
"Holy shit."
"Stop your gawking, Mr. Harry Wolf!" Andy pointed. "Drop your clothes! It's time to turn you into a B-movie antihero!"
Clyde looked on, somewhat startled and just off to the side. He didn't look like he was going to get dressed up as anything, just there to ogle the wolf as he got down to his boxer shorts. Andy busied himself getting the duster off the hook, setting it aside. Then came pants - these were obviously motorcycle jeans, black and cut for a racing bike. The cat held them out to the wolf. "I said off! No boxers!"
"What? No way!"
"These are going to be very snug on you, Harry. I suggest it. Besides, they're leather lined."
"What? Where'd you get this stuff, anyway?" He peered inside.
"Online auctions. It was all rather battered up.. I did quite the job cleaning it up. Now get dressed, young man!"
"You're fucked up," The wolf groused.
"You've been seen naked by everyone in this room except me! I'll turn around." The cat promptly did.
Derrin just grinned on, then got up to mess around with something. He came back with a guitar. "Hey guys, check it out! I'm Clyde!" He pulled off his best Nuge impression and nailed it pretty well, rock star straddle and all.
"Aww damn, you ain't gonna fuck that up or you'll get a tiger-jaw mark right where your head's at," Clyde growled, through a smirk.
Meanwhile, Hank was exposing himself. He was actually nervous, his cock quite happily limp. He felt like a dropped stallion, although Derrin's diversion did quite a good job at letting no one notice. On went the pants. Snug wasn't quite the word - painted on. His fur felt awkward under it, and they just barely fit. Every tiny motion made some sort of complaint from the hide. "Damn. Tight."
"Wow, that's a package!" Derrin wolf-whistled. "That's some fine, natural wolf meat there! God bless the mighty male dick, the finest apppendage." The coon was trying out his best Michigan slurjob accent.
"Shut up, trashhead. So. Uh...."
Hank went for the boots, pulling them on. Andy turned around and his eyes went saucer. "Harry! What'd you *do*?!"
The wolf grunted and looked down. The boots now had studded straps around the top cuff, spurs that looked like they were made of cast-away machine parts (they were actually pushrods and piston shafts from a diesel engine, welded to a heavy-duty leather strap), metal armature going from the spurs up the sides of the boots.. they were transformed from single-action shooting garb to Mad Max. "Oh. It's not permanent. Take off the spurs and sort of... I used a bit of rubber cement for the top bits.. and voila."
"You damage anything and I'm going to be skinned a hundred ways!"
Next came the gunbelts. They were fastened together around an actual belt, chains holding them to it, along with another set of metal bars, these with hinges. The wolf hauled it all up around his hips and settled the belts into place, then went about connecting up the armatures. Everyone stared. He stood up finally, muzzle damp with sweat. "What?"
"Holy shit. That's so crazy. That's kind of.. like that movie. With that guy? You know, they piss him off and kill his wife and he goes nuts? And in the sequel there's like, all this aussie stuff-"
"Yeah, Mad Max. Also.. The Gunslinger. Just wait."
Andy hefted up the coat and Hank stepped into it. The leopard apparently knew what he was doing in terms of fitting things, as the pants were just right and so too was the duster. Hank felt like he barely fit into it, but a few cursory bends and twists showed that nothing would get wrecked. The chest of the coat clung to the wolf, and he felt like somehow like he was naked, yet still hidden. He plucked up the hat from where he'd set it down - the hatband rattled, newly minted from teeth and jewler's chain - and adjusted it up. Suddenly, no one else seemed to be in the room - he was just alone, doing himself up. Readying for battle. Going out to put something down...
On went the bandana, around the neck of course. What a relic from before the fall, a completely useless garment to a hybrid, but cheap cowboy movies left it in. The final touch was the gauntlets, the final piece of isolation between the wolf and the rest of the world. Hank turned around and stretched, puffed his chest out a bit, facing his friends. "So, verdict?" He dropped both gloved paws onto his gun belt and gave a few swaggering steps forward. The spurs on the boots made a big racket, more than Hank had really noticed at home.
Derrin and Andy's ears swept back. Clyde's stuck straight up. "Uh. You look kind of scary, actually." Derrin was the one to pipe up. Andy nodded.
Hank snorted. "Yeah? Well, maybe I am kind of scary. You guys got prop guns?"
"That's not a good idea, I mean...they won't let you in upstairs.."
"Get me my gun." Hank didn't flinch. "Then get me my other one."
Andy and Derrin looked at each other, ears still back. Then they chuckled. "This is so awesome!" they said in tune. Clyde just kept standing there, alert and a little nervous. The two theater kids went hunting over in a box of props, emerging with neon orange-handled prop guns. "Here, these oughta work.... I hope."
Hank took them and thanklessly spun the guns, then shotgunned them into the holsters.
"Damn. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"I shoot," was the only answer. "So when's this thing start?"
The aviator-cat looked up over at the clock. "Now! Come on, let's go upstairs!"
"Hey, Clyde, are you coming? You-"
"I ain't dressed yet, gonna pick through some'f this shit. Don't like guys watchin' me put on clothes."
"Uhh, okay. Well. I'll see you guys upstairs! I think you gotta go outside first, they're checking the doors."
"Sure," Hank said, as Andy and Derrin turned their backs and headed for the stairs. Clyde just kept on standing around.
"You going to be okay?" Hank said quietly, then fetched up the carafe of tea and clomped across the band room to put it in a refrigerator in one of the drama club's unlocked rooms.
"Huh? Ain't heard what you said. Spurs're too loud," was the cat's response. The tiger kept being a big stoic wall.
"Well, look. I'm going up there to show off. Damned if I'm going to get done up in all this crazy stuff all by myself." Hank was terrified of the prospect of anyone else seeing him done up as The Gunslinger, but wasn't about to let anyone know. "You better get your ass into something and come too."
"Don't worry 'bout me, Hank. Go on an' have fun."
The wolf shrugged, and went back out the way he came.
The dance - which was really supposed to be more of a party - was in Kincaid's voluminous gym. There was the actual 'dance' area up in front of the stage, a photo area set off to the side, the refreshments - someone managed to organize actual catering as part of a charity - and some chaperone seating, a few tables for the tired or shy, and even some midway games.
Of course, Hank had to get through the doors.
"Stop right there."
Hank stopped. The 'bouncer' was the assistant principal, Aeric Donovan.
"What?"
The assistant principal narrowed his eyes. "Now you can't bring those in here, Harry."
"How'd you know it was me?" The wolf frowned. The principal was a buck, of all things, and a rather cross-looking one.
"Because you're the only black wolf here. I'm serious. You're gonna have to-"
Hank just drew one of the fake guns, everyone nearby flinching back. "Look. It's fake. See? I got it from the prop stuff the drama guys have. It's even got Kincaid on it." He showed off the butt of the gun, then plunked it back.
"Hmph. I'm sure you could do without."
"I'm dressed up as a cowboy, Mr. D. I'm dressed up as The Gunslinger. You know, from that movie? You don't take away my guns." Hank put on his best tough impression.
"Well, you know, if i didn't know you knew how to handle a gun, I'd maybe think twice. But I'm only thinking once. Cause a ruckus and you're out, Harry."
"Thanks. Here's my ticket..." the wolf said, and fished it out from the inside of his hat. Donovan took it and that was that.
Derrin wasn't actually in charge of running the whole thing, but he'd come up with the whole logistics of making the dance look cool. It didn't disappoint: there wasn't a lot of typical halloween chintz. Most of the blank areas of the walls were replaced by simplistic but well-drawn trees, dark and lit up by moonlight. There were eyes in between them, red, yellow, plain white. Every now and then there was some sort of shape that looked like nothing close up, but from the other side of the gym they were intimidating monsters. The entire ceiling area of the gym had been replaced by what looked like balloons, varying shades of green, a few streaks of brown, the whole middle portion dark gray. One portion was white, making... a full moon?
Hank meandered over to his raccoon friend, who was hanging out at an apple-bobbing tank. Surprisingly, there was a line made of almost anyone who didn't have some sort of fancy headdress on. Someone groused at Hank for cutting - the wolf just glared, and the cat quickly shrank back. "I'm not here to play."
"Whoa, hey there Hank!"
"Hey." The wolf leaned up against Derrin's table. "How come so many people are bobbing for apples? Bobbing for apples is lame."
"Not when there's money in the apples."
Hank adjusted his hat and perked up an eyebrow. "Really. You put money in them."
"Mmm-hmm. And free meal coupons for Upside Down Burger."
Hank looked over at the big kettle that classmates were dunking themselves in. "Huh."
"You're such a man of words."
Derrin started to grin, and Hank got the feeling someone was staring at him. The wolf turned and found himself staring into the chest of a huge lumberjack.
"Howdy, eh? You're a fine little wolf there." The accent was unmistakably Canadian, the baritone voice behind it unmistakably Clyde. The cat was done up as the most stereotypical lumberjack possible: wool hat, white shirt, plaid overshirt rolled up past the elbows, work gloves, prop axe, suspenders, bluejeans, knee-high logger boots with socks up just past the cuff and rolled down a little.
"Well shit. I thought you were going to chicken out and leave or something. You were getting all weird down there," the wolf said.
"Hey man, stay in character, eh?"
Hank frowned. "I don't feel like having a staring contest with a tiger. Come on, let's hit the snacks or something."
"Hey guys, just you wait until the band comes on out," Derrin called after them. "Trust me, if you think the decorations are cool now..."
Hank and Clyde made their way over to where all the refreshments were, then took up at a table.
"If we go get pictures, they'll enter us in th'costume contest," Clyde said deadpan, after munching through a mini sandwich.
"Huh. We ought to go all together. You, me, Derrin, Andy... that'd be cool. I don't know what I'd do if I won."
Clyde shrugged. "I dunno if they make y'go up on stage, heard that was out-lawed by th'school board. Can't be all competitive like that."
"Stupid," Hank agreed, eating a deviled egg. "Where'd they get all this food? This isn't cheap stuff."
"Company that did th'caterin' is gonna donate a matchin' amount of food an' money to local food bank whatever things."
"Gotcha. You know, I don't dance. I don't know what I'm gonna do. Didn't think about that. Kinda feels like a waste," the wolf said, and propped himself up back on two legs of his chair, boots on the table.
Clyde sat and put on his thinking face, which made him look confused and stupid for about half a minute. Then he started to stare at the wolf's boots. "I got an idea. How 'bout you go 'round and bother th'shit outta guys an' chicks. Wasn't The Gunslinger kind've a jerk?"
Hank thought. "I dunno. I'm not a jerk. I keep to myself."
"You ain't Hank, man. You're The Gunslinger right now."
The wolf got up. "Good idea."
And it was. Hank ended up with a gaggle of fellow classmates around him as he clomped around, booming out all the lines he could remember from the movie. For the first time ever, for a fleeting twenty minutes or so, he felt like he actually had a place with the other kids.
"Okay, say cheese!" The person behind the camera was Mrs. Schleisenger, who didn't seem to have a first name. In another life, she would have been cheerfully ladling out gruel to kids in an orphanage as the only happy thing for miles. In this life, she was the school librarian.
Hank, Clyde, Derrin, and Andy were all packed up together to fit into one shot.
"Wait, wait, wait, do you want us to like pose or just grin?"
"Oh now Derrin honey, this isn't yearbook pictures!"
Everyone posed: Clyde doing his best Paul Bunyan, Derrin posing precarious and outlandish with Clyde's guitar, Andy giving his best RAF salute - with a little scarf-in-wind effect help from a quick flip of the paw, Hank... Hank didn't look like he was going to pose until he suddenly struck a wide rockstar stance and took aim at something off screen, a paw up holding his hat. With a pop of the flash, they were immortalized.
The overhead music - a carefully picked mix of campy halloween tunes and alternative pop hits - suddenly cut out along with nearly all of the lights. The stage lights came on to a roar of applause. There were four figures on stage, two wolves, a cat, and a remarkably slender bear, all clad completely in black. Blacklights kicked up and turned on fluorescent highlights in their outfits and instruments.
They were immediately recognizable as half of the goth crowd in school. The bear stood up to the mike. "Good evening, Kincaid! Are you ready to be afraid?!" There was a cheer. "There is nothing to fear as long as there's Starlight!"
With that, the band launched into their own instrumental 'opener', a metal-esque rock piece that Hank swore was from a video game. Starlight was one of the shining moments in recent high school history - despite being a gothic pop/punk/metal band, they were actually quite popular, mostly thanks to frontman Sean Greer's remarkably friendly goth sneer.
In the dark, the real truth of the decorations was apparent - the balloon 'moon' lit up white, casting a pale shadow down around where the dancefloor was. The walls were suddenly alive with monsters thanks to blacklight, the eyes in the darkness actually glowing.
"Derrin, you did pretty cool with this stuff. You really did. It's just enough."
"Dude, thanks a lot. It's cool. I sweated blood to make all this stuff go off right.... hey, you know, you're looking kind of wilted."
Hank nodded. "This stuff's kind of hot, and it's not really cool in here. You know what, I think I'm gonna go downstairs and chill for a little bit. Never one for crowds. I'll be back I guess. I got some tea in the fridge thing."
"Tea? Tea! We have punch! Tons of punch! Pop! Ice cream!"
"Yeah, I don't eat lots of sugary stuff. I'm weird."
"Well, okay, later!" Derrin divested himself of the guitar and gave it to Clyde. "Here, I don't wanna bust this.. I'm gonna go cut up."
"You ain't cuttin' nothin', you klutz," the tiger growled, a big smirk on his face.
Hank made his exit and made it down to the band room. Just as he was getting out the carafe of tea, he heard a door shut. Carrying the guitar like it was a baby was Clyde. "Jus' comin' down here t'put it somewhere safe," the cat said, matter-of-fact as always.
"Cool. Sorry if I'm ditching things. I mean, Starlight rocks, but I just.. I want some quiet right now. I'm kinda overheated." Hank leaned in the doorway.
Clyde went about putting the guitar back into its case, then carried it towards where Hank was and set it next to where the fridge was, out of casual view. "Yeah, me too."
Wolf and tiger looked at each other for a long, silent moment, Hank in as much of a cowboy casual lean as he could pull off, the cat standing with his thumbs in his suspenders.
Then, Clyde came up close enough that Hank's nose almost ended up in neckruff, and started down on one knee. "Uhrh. So.. you gonna do it?" The cat kicked the door shut, leaving the two in the dark break room.
"Do what?"
Clyde started to nose at the wolf's leather-clad crotch, getting an immediate response, a stiff bulge in the snug leather. "Talk real nasty, wolf," the cat breathed. "C'mon. You know what this cat likes."
Hank was torn - do something nasty, possibly get caught, or do something nasty and love every second of it. Hank had lived a lot of his life missing little oppurtunities here and there. Squandering his bass talent, missing the chance to move to L.A, never quite opening up to anyone but Derrin... suddenly, dressed to the gills as someone he'd wished he'd been for years, he wasn't going to miss this chance.
Out came one of the prop guns, and he cocked it. "You get yourself against that wall, cat. Or I'm going to find a whole new hole to fuck in you."
Clyde looked instantly aroused and terrified, and scurried back against the wall. Hank stepped up and undid the fly of his pants, black shaft coming out in his gloved fingers, still aiming the gun right up at the cat's temple. "You suck me good, cat. I'm gonna shoot you up real good, 'till it drips off your fucking teeth."
The tiger, of course, was not really terrified. He was on Hank's cock in two seconds, slurping and kiss-licking so hard it made a lewd squelch and fleshy tongue-slap sound that filled up the small room.
"Come on, you little housecat, suck dick like a man. I want to feel it go down your god-damn throat." Hank wasn't sure where the words were coming from - he was positive that if Karl Moul was there, and liked fucking guys, he'd be saying the same thing. At least, if he was dressed like Hank was.
Clyde did just as asked, choking and snorting, the wolf angrily pushing him back against the wall. It felt strange, just like with Derrin, a tight grab, milking as the tiger gulped. It only took a few pounding thrusts, leathers squeaking, rough enough that the wolf's spurs rattled, before Hank felt pleasure burning up inside of his cock.
"Open your fucking mouth!" he snarled, and yanked right out of the tiger's maw, gloved fist pumping along his glistening ebony skin. Clyde dropped his jaw just in time for a long white slug of spunk to spurt out over his front teeth and coat his tongue, then another, and another. The cat let out some sort of unhappy tiger rrowrl, flatting his ears like he didn't want one thing, then let out a much more pleasured sound. Hank's seed kept pouring out, until he had to shake off the last strands, one of them getting all over the cat's nosepad.
"Jesus christ," Hank breathed, and flicked the lights on. Clyde had his fat dick in his hand, the work glove soaked with spunk. "Holy shit, you were doing that?!" Hank was huffing, spent. He quickly shoved himself into his pants again.
"Aww man, get me some fuckin' towel or somethin'."
Hank quickly unrolled some and tossed them at the cat. Clyde cleaned himself off, standing up with a huff. "I can't believe I just did that! Someone could have walked in!"
"Now there ain't no one down here, wolf. Man, that was hot. That coon was right, you can get kinda rough."
Hank turned red in his ears, and wiped off his snout. He tore open the fridge and pulled out his little tea carafe. "Well. I'm getting what I came down here for. I'm so fucking thirsty," he growled, and downed it.
At first, it was a cold shock of refreshment. Then it was-
"Oh yuck! Bleahrgh! What the fucking hell?" He spat into the sink.
"Hurh?"
"Man, I must've left the teabag in that too long or something. That was some nasty tea. Oh well."
Clyde looked mostly normal, aside from the wet spots on his glove. "Huh. You gon' go back up stairs? I bet Starlight's really rockin' out. Man, I can feel it down here."
Hank nodded. "Sure. I feel better now."
The two went back up to the dance.
Starlight indeed was tearing the place apart. They couldn't quite pull off any real quiet songs, so for an intermission they got the slow dance music on. Luckily, Clyde and Hank missed it. They came up just in time for another onslaught of oddball pop covers, instrumental freakouts and the same songs that had won the band jam the year before.
About half an hour into everything, nearing the end of the set, Hank realized something was a little strange. His mouth felt tingly, and instead of the faint pump of his heart from some caffeine, he felt a little drunk. His stomach churned and he went over to quiet it with some snacks.
"Hey there, Mr. Harry Wolf." Andy was joining him. "Huh. You don't look so hot."
"Yeah. I think I.. I dunno. I must've ate something kind of funny. I feel sorta lightheaded. Kind of sick to my stomach."
"That's too bad. So, you think this is worth getting all done up for?"
"Yes. No question about that."
"You know, you can hang onto that stuff for another week or so. I mean, all the coat and stuff, that's yours. Call it generous. But the boots and stuff, I mean."
"Really? Thanks. That's cool."
The world was starting to look like crummy television reception, slightly speckled and distant. "You sure you're okay?'
"Not really. I'm going to go get some air."
Hank managed to get out by sneaking around - he didn't want to go through the main doors since he'd get hassled by Mr. D and that didn't seem like such a hot idea.
The sudden and complete darkness of the back of the school's loading area, looking out into the woods, turned things very surreal. Hank had felt the same way weeks earlier - with a dull realization, he knew what had happened. Then it floated away as he sniffed the air and picked up on something. It was the smell of pot.
He suddenly wanted to find it, setting off along the grounds, moving towards the edge of the woods as just a shadow in the night. There were the spurs, but he didn't care - no one was there to hear him. Except whoever was smoking.
There was the gradual sound of laughter, voices, talking. He couldn't make any of them out, the sound blending together into one noise. It was definitely vulpine, however. Vulpine. Fox. Foxes. Peter?
The woods were barely lit up, and Hank's eyes weren't seeing what he expected. Things were light, washed out and staticy, like he was looking through a night sight. He needed to find those animals - and blundered upon them without realizing. In a small clearing, around a campfire, were four foxes. One of them was Peter - Hank saw him as naked, soaped up, sweating from a workout, feeling himself - and they were passing around a joint.
The wolf snuck behind a tree to watch. He started thinking, seeing the friends enjoying themselves. He could enjoy them too. His left lip started to curl back, twitching, a devious and unknown prickle coming up inside him. He could do such horrible things if he could just get one of those foxes alone! He could make them do anything he wanted, because he was a wolf, and they were just slender little gymnast tennis track-running foxes.
After what seemed like an eternity of blinding possibility, things burned down in the wolf's mind and he simply breathed faint and watched. One of the foxes - Peter! - was getting something out.
"Guys, guys, I gotta show you this, oh my god, it's so awesome it's so nasty!" he chirped and lept up, hopping on his feet for a moment as he pulled something out of his sweatshirt.
"What is it man? Don't tell me you got more shit."
"No man, I was screwing around in my parents' house looking for, uhm, you know.. porn, you know, like for my dad's porno stash. They got this, you know, this real lame drawer of stuff.. you know all those sextoys and stuff?"
"Eww man, you found your parents' sex toys!" One of the others laughed. Hank had no idea who he was.
"Worse man, my parents gotta be into weird ass shit! Look at this!"
The fox was holding something black - Hank didn't know what it was and neither did the rest of the group. They didn't seem to care much, putting back some beer. Kids. "What the hell is it?" one of the foxes said. "Do you put your dick in that or something?"
Hank was having real trouble trying to figure out what it was, as the shape's blackness just blended back into the rest of the darkness behind the foxes.
"No man, no, you put it on your fuckin' snout! It's this like gag thing, like a muzzle? There's all this other shit for it but it didn't fit in my pocket!"
"Oh fuckin' nasty! That's awful!" They all jeered, laughing and shrinking back. "Your fucking mom puts that on?"
"No dude, I think it's my dad! I dunno, it kinda smells like him, he smokes a.. you know, a pipe..."
"Oh man, haha!"
The fox threw the thing at one of his friends, who shrieked and threw it back. Peter downed the last of his beer and absently stuck the thing into his pocket. "Dude, I gotta piss. I'm gonna go piss, okay? I gotta be right back."
The fox stalked off to the left, and Hank felt that creeping pulse of something come back again. He could.. he could go after Peter.
He was going after Peter, not even realizing he was moving, creeping through the woods, trying to keep his sound down. The wolf was getting hard, but he couldn't quite feel it in his pants, just the general prick of arousal. His nose led him, beer and pot, the stench of fox. It wasn't just that typical scent, covered up by cinnamon as most of them did, it was sex. Sex and piss.
Hank should have wondered why the fox didn't hear him coming. The wolf was trying hard not to make a sound, and to his credit, he didn't. Peter was standing by a tree, fly open, piss steaming off the arc down to the ground next to it.
The wolf snorted and hauled up his leg and clopped the vulpine right between the shoulderblades with a rattle of spurs. Peter let out a squeak and slammed face-first into his own puddle of piss and dirt. Hank rushed up and grabbed the fox back up, pinning him forward against the tree. The world was swirling dark soup outside Hank's eyes, body moving of its own accord despite the intoxication.
"Let me have it, you dumb little fox," the wolf breathed hoarsely, biting at the fox's ear when Peter whined. "Shut up. Do you want your friends to hear? They're too drunk to do anything about it." Hank's voice was coming out of his throat like moleasses, like the verbal equivalent of a cowboy's strut into a saloon. The kick to the back was like the bang-open of the swinging doors... this was all going through the wolf's head, even as his gloved hands grabbed and felt around the fox's sweatshirt, into the front pockets. "They'd just stand and watch. Watch you get fucked. You want to get fucked?" Peter just whimpered, and there was a tapering hiss, the reek of urine coming up hot again.
Hank found what he wanted, fingers meeting something, drawing out the leather muzzle-sheath. He quickly scruffed the fox and rammed the leather over the slender muzzle. "No more whining now. You're going to come. You're going to get your little fox dick hard, and you're going to pump it out all over that fucking tree bark, or I'm going to fuck you. And I'm a big wolf."
Peter went absolutely still.
"You fucking hear me?" the wolf rasped, and bit Peter's ear. The fox vibrated. "Is that a nod?" Less vibration, more movement.
Hank moved his head around, watching the faint outline of a black paw move to grab something. The wolf grabbed Peter's other arm behind him, almost twisting it, his other hand grabbing down the back of the fox's pants. He then hurridly undid his fly, needy cock slapping the side of the fox's tailbase. "Feel that? That's a real wolf's cock. That cock's going to make a nice mess of your little fox ass-hole."
The wolf wasn't sure if he was going to fuck Peter or not. He didn't even know what he was doing, watching black expose and hide pink flesh, the fox's breath snorting out through the nostril-holes of the leather muzzle. Hank got himself a good grip on it, leather squeaking against leather, and he started to thrust himself back and forth through the fox's fur. The tickling soft of the vulpine's trough felt like it was somewhere up over his chest, inside all of the leathers. It felt like it was tickling his heart.
Peter was really jerking himself off, breathing hard, pumping firmly enough that there was a wet slap of sheath and fingerpad. "That's right, you stinking little wretch, you work that dick of yours... why don't you fucking tense your ass around my dick, while you're at it?"
The trembling, pumping fox let out a steadily escalating whimper before choking it off, head banging forward and thumping into the tree as he went off, wet jets of spunk splashing into the bark, dripping down it. Hank felt less and less, until the sense of thrusting into between muscle and fur was nothing. Peter let out a low grunt and tried to get away, the wolf's spunk pouring out over the fox's clenched pucker, drooling back along wolfdick, then down in a big slush over the vulpine's balls.
Hank groaned and got up, his sense of being evacuated like a black hole, light seeping back in. "You don't tell anyone about this. You just make up some excuse and you get yourself out of my sight."
Peter didn't do anything as Hank backed away, the wolf putting himself back into his pants. Then slowly, the fox withdrew the sheath from his muzzle, pulled his pants up, and shambled off back towards the fire circle.
Hank turned to the blackness, guided by moonlight - that wasn't there, as it was overcast - as he stumbled around. He knew vaguely where he was going - home. He closed his eyes, lay down to stare at the ceiling, and fell asleep.