Good Ol' Beasts 2: Transformations.

A photomanipulation submitted by a follower who wishes to keep his lupine nature anonymous.

Formal & Feral | Seduction | Age Difference

◌

This next chapter centers on a second plotline that takes place in 2019. The two plotlines will intersect, but first you’ll get to see some muscley werewolves hulking out of their tuxes. Enjoy.

Themes: Tuxedos & formalwear, muscle growth, lycanthropy, power dynamics, clothing destruction.

Read the previous part . . .

For Em, the dreams started when he was in middle school, right around the time when he fantasized about what it must be like in the boys’ locker room. Clothing stripping away. The more elaborate the clothing, the better: the shirts and ties that the jocks would have to wear whenever they gave presentations or had to look “professional.” Em would let his eyes zoom in on their chests as they tugged at their buttons, nudged their ties, shoved their hands in their pockets to pretend they weren’t sneaking a stroke. Em would feast over those stolen glimpses—the shirts and ties made it better, like unwrapping a present—a package they would take with them to the locker rooms and strip, unbutton, jerking their ties loose, thick phallic blades of silk swishing as they undid the double Windsored leash, releasing their sweaty necks and chests, then unbuckling their belts, cocks flopping out. Heavy, half-stiff cocks. Em couldn’t get his mind off their cocks, the sensation of silk ties brushing their cocks.

The dreams accompanied those fantasies. Em couldn’t quite pinpoint when they began. Was it before or after he started snooping in his dad’s closet? Before or after he started hanging around the hallway between the locker rooms, hungering for just a glimpse of what happened inside?

There would be a pain at the base of his neck. Sometimes the dream would start with him smelling his dad’s ties, or stuffing his nose into his dad’s discarded dress socks, drinking in the aroma of sweat and silk and leather, and letting that musk fill up something inside of him that made him transform. Or sometimes the dream would start with him breaking through the door of the locker room, driven by a hunger for that rank sweat. Somehow, filling his lungs with that odor would whisk him away to the woods. Always these dreams ended up in the woods, where the moonlight slashed through the pines.

Where he felt like something lurked just out of sight. But he could smell it, and it excited him, thrilled him, terrified him. It smelled like fine leather soaked in his father’s musk, or his father’s sweatsoaked socks, or the spritz of his father’s cologne fading on his father’s ties, or the whiff of deodorant from the locker room dissolving in jock sweat, or the ripe pits of the jocks who made fun of him on a sweltering day, or the filthy, tainted smell of a jockstrap. The stench of it would make that spot at the base of his neck sting like salt on a wound, throbbing in rhythm with the pounding of his heart, cold sweat beading out of his every pore, libido turning to ice. The source of it, whatever it was, it lingered just over his shoulder, just then, at that moment when the closet or the locker room shattered into moonlight.

*

May, 2010. Waning Gibbous Moonrise: 11:45 P. M.

“Whoa—down boy,” laughed Em as Walter licked his cheek. Em could smell Walter’s steamy musk beneath his tuxedo.

“Fuuuuck,” growled Walter, laying another wet kiss on Em’s chin. Beads of sweat poured down Walter’s face, straight into his shirt collar, blots of it soaking through his prom tux shirt. “I can’t help it. It’s like you’ve got pheromones or something.”

“Pheromones? Me? You’re the one who looks like you just got out of a shower.” Em locked lips with Walter’s, savoring his stubble as he gripped Walter’s tie. Breaking off the kiss a moment later, Em chuckled, looking around the promenade where other prom couples chatted. “We should get further away.”

“Yeah,” admitted Walter, burying his nose against Em’s neck. Walt had been sweating and tugging at his tuxedo all afternoon, stealing kisses against Em’s neck whenever he thought no one was looking. “Somewhere private. Outside. Under the moonlight.”

“Fuck yeah.” Dragging Walter by his tie, Em led his prom date further into the golf course. Prom was at a country club this year, so surely there was some overgrown place where he could slip out of view. Walter was a bit of a gothboy, and so was Em, so the whole moonlight part intrigued him, especially in these steampunk-looking tuxes. They found a stretch of trees some distance away from the club house. Em turned to Walt. “This spot good?”

Walt growled, staring up at the moon, licking his stubbled lips. Em knew Walt could rock facial fuzz better than any of the other guys at school, but somehow his stubble seemed denser, wilder than Em remembered. Maybe it was the shadows?

“Or is it too close to the country club?” Em looked over his shoulder, but then felt 180 pounds of muscle tackle him against a tree. “Fuck!”

Pawing the zipper of Em’s trousers, Walt chuckled and purred against Em’s neck. “Sorry. Just . . . having trouble holding back, you know?”

“It’s alright.” The word “alright” was an understatement. Em had been crushing on this hairy beefcake of a man for months. He loved the hungry way that Walt looked at him, longing after him. Why hadn’t Em asked Walt out sooner? It was just last week they decided to go to prom together. Em wrenched Walt’s tie askew and rummaged under his collar, laying wet kisses along the base of Walt’s neck, which seemed hairier than Em remembered. Em pulled the silk tie further down, craning around the back of Walt’s head.

Walt pulled back, reaching a hand behind his neck. “I—uh—”

“Huh?” Em was confused. This guy was hardcore making out with him a moment ago, and now all a sudden he was pushing away. “Dude, what is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s nothing.” The seams of Walt’s tuxedo creaked on his shoulders, his biceps swelling in the sleeves of black fabric. “Just . . . I’ve got, like, this birthmark . . . thingie . . . you know?”

Em laughed. “Really? That’s . . . can you let me see?”

“You’re sure you won’t be weirded out?”

“Dude, you’re the hottest guy here.” Em played with Walt’s next shirt button, slipping it open, feasting his eyes on the deep, hairy, sweat-slicked cleft of muscle between Walt’s pecs. “I’ve got a birthmark, too. Why would I be weirded out?”

“Wait, you do?”

“Yeah.” Yanking his own tie loose, Em popped open his shirt buttons, then held his collar down the back of his neck. “See? Everybody says it looks like some alien shit.”

Fuck. The way Walt folded his beefy arms around Em’s body—a protecting, muscular embrace—turned him on so bad—Walt’s swelling chest purring right against Em’s, as Walt’s stubble tickled that spot on the base of Em’s neck—

“You want it?” Walt purred into Em’s ear.

Emmett paused, confused by the sudden change of subject, the sudden change of tone. A whole new depth of lust rumbling in Walt’s voice, that wasn’t there a moment ago. Emmett fumbled through his answer: “If you’re—fuck—if you’re okay with it—”

Walt’s voice dipped into a growl. “Don’t apologize. If you want it, ask for it. If you want it, take it. Don’t apologize.”

Walt’s supporting arms, the peaks of his biceps folding around Em’s body—Em’s head swam in ecstasy. “Yeah. Hell yeah. No apologies.”

Walt’s stubbled cheek traced along the edge of Em’s neck. “No apologies.”

Em’s lips parted with a moan. Pleasure hummed all up and down his spine. He felt Walt kiss that spot, the weird birthmark he’d been told about all his life. He’d only ever seen it when he took a picture of it with his phone, but never with his own eyes. Returning Walt’s kisses along the base of the big guy’s neck, Em peeked over Walt’s shoulder, and saw what Walt was talking about.

Two overlapping circles, perfect scars, at the base of Walt’s neck. Just like Em’s.

“Wait—dude—” Em lost himself in excitement. So strange yet so hot, watching this beefcake of a guy have his way with him, and spotting that one similarity. “You’ve got—”

“I have all my life,” rumbled Walt, the seams of his tux puckering across his swelling traps. Walt’s neck swelled past his collar shoving apart the top button, the tie knot rising under his adam’s apple and twisting askew as the silk adornment struggled to contain the increasing sinews knotted with veins.

“Holy shit!” Em heard a ripping sound. “Are you on steroids or something?”

“I’ve got . . . something . . . to tell you . . .” Walt’s voice deepened, slurring, as though he couldn’t form words anymore. His hips thrust, the buttons of his rental tuxedo shirt busting, each one giving up the ghost against the heaving mounds of Walt’s pecs, seams rupturing down the expanding curves of his lats. First in tiny rips, then in gaps, the satin stripes of his tuxedo trousers began to shred over his hardening thighs. His stubble bristled out, climbing up his cheeks and down his neck, tufts of hair sprouting off his ears, veins bulging through the freakish sinews of his neck, pushing apart his collar, unraveling his bowtie.

Was Em really seeing this? Did someone spike the punch or something? The birthmark on the back of Em’s neck ached, yet Em wanted it more. It was the good kind of pain, like when he got his navel pierced last year after his dad told him he couldn’t—before he came out to his dad and started binding—before he told his parents that he identified as “he” and “Em” instead of the name his parents gave him. His dead name, the one that his dad still insisted on using, and even though Em and dad have gotten into countless arguments over it and Em was counting the days until he’d get to move out of his parents’ house and go to college and not have to worry about their dumbass politics. This pain felt like that pain, the pain of revealing who he was. It was the pain that felt like something about to give away, of straining the bonds to the point of breaking them, some constriction—some confinement—just about to give loose, on the point of release.

“Dude,” panted Em, wrapping his arms around Walt’s neck. Em’s mirror shined patent leather shoes no longer touched the ground. “You’re . . . fucking punishing that tux of yours. Fuck. So fucking huge.”

Walt’s only answer was some guttural sound that echoed deep within the muscular cavern of his chest. Walt’s powerful thighs lifted Em’s whole body, pinning him against the tree, humping him. Giving way from the pressure of his biceps, Walt’s sleeves frayed, failing to contain the rising peaks of hairy muscle, bursting first at his elbows and then tearing up and down his arms, hirsute bestial muscle hulking out. Each thrust, each pump—fuck, Walt didn’t even have his dick out yet, and Em could already feel him leaking through the layers of his tux—frustration, pent up—

Em felt his body touch the ground again. Breaking off the kiss, he heard another ripping sound, and saw Walt tear open the fly of his tuxedo trousers. Em knew Walt was big on the football team, but he had no idea how jacked this mountain of a man really was, every muscle pelted in fur. That tuxedo looked painted on at the beginning of the evening, and now every seam of it had torn—hulking traps rupturing his shoulders, sleeves busted wide over mountainous biceps, thighs like boulders shredding his trousers, calves inflating his socks, shoelaces snapping, his tie unraveling against the bull-like mass of corded muscle his neck had become.

“Shit,” remarked Em. “Did you bring a change of clothes—”

A grunt from Walt, along with a strange gleam in his eyes, as he wrestled his heavy cock out of his ruptured underwear. Clapping a hand on Em’s shoulder—a hand dusted now in brown fur over the knuckles—Walt pushed Em to his knees.

Em had seen enough MenAtPlay videos. He knew this part. He’d only sucked a few cocks in his time at Pineview Charter Academy, but he wasn’t about to question his ability now. He wrapped his lips around and got to work.

Grabbing the limbs of the tree, Walt thrust his cock in—too much—Em gagged on the engorged shaft, but caught his breath and kept going, his nose filling with that sweaty musk, and the mark on the back of his neck continuing to ache, to pleasure, to ache, warning and urging.

The treetrunk started shaking. Walt’s whole body pulsed, prodigious biceps laying waste to the few seams holding his sleeves together. Em thought he heard some kind of roar tear itself from Walt’s body—and Em felt it, too, a strange thing awakening, stirring, purring, and writhing. The salty taste oozing off Walt’s head—Em polished it with his tongue—gulped—wanted more—felt the pulse of the shaft against his palette, as Walt started losing control, balls churning—

Leaves cascaded from the tree. Em felt the back of his head knock against the bark as Walt thrust, shoving, hurling spurt after spurt of hot seed against the back of Em’s throat, gobs of it seeping out of Em’s lips, dribbling down his chin and all over the lapel of his tux—

The hot wet sting of it all through his mouth radiated down through Em’s body, plucking his every nerve with pleasure—he swallowed, and felt it slide down—

The moon. Rushing blood and pounding heartbeat in his ears, thoughts dissolving and drowning in some strange gaping new thrill—something dark and desperate, swallowing his mind whole, plunging his words into oblivion—all Em could see now was the moon.

*

The air smelled thick, humid. Moist tree bark. Grass. Fertilizer from the golf course. And a salty, animal odor of perspiration. Em had no idea what time it was. It was still dark. His trousers were halfway down his legs, and his shirt was off. Only his binder covered him. It was getting to that point where the elastic hurt, so Em wrestled it off his body. That was when Em saw Walt.

Walt pulled the rags of his tuxedo trousers back on. The rest was in pieces all over the ground. Somehow the man’s body seemed even bigger, hairier, more ripped than Em ever imagined. In the moonlight, his full pectorals glowed with sweat, shaggy hair hanging over the yoke of muscle that was his trapezius.

“I . . . I’m sorry, Em.”

“What?” Em shrugged his tuxedo shirt over his chest. While a binder offered the only way he was going to fit into a shirt like this, it felt good to let his chest breathe a bit. He had no idea that Walt smelled so good. Delicious. He could smell Walt all over him, and just a few feet away. That athletic musk. “That was hot, last night.”

Walt looked over at the setting moon, then down to Em. “I . . . look, if someone else ever tells you about your birthmark, just stay away from them. Hell—stay away from me. I can’t talk to you anymore.”

The afterglow broke, turned cold. The words struck Em like a bag of sand. “What the fuck?”

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“Believe what?” Em shoved his trousers back up to his waist. “What the fuck are you trying to tell me? We had such a great time last night, and now you’re pulling this shit—”

“I’m a werewolf.” Walt’s eyes teared up. “And now you’re one, too.”

Em stared. “The. Fuck?”

Walt paced in a tight circle, then, shaking his head, he reached around the back of his neck and pointed out his birthmark. “Look. You know that weird circle thingie?”

Em bit his lip. He could still feel a tiny sting emanating from his. He nodded.

“That mark means . . . it’s . . . look, it’s in-born, okay? You’re born with the mark, and that means that you’re only two bites away from being turned into a werewolf. Well—okay, now it’s only one—”

“What the fuck? I mean, seriously. What the fuck?”

Walt sighed, raking his hands over his face. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks. All his sweat-slicked hair seemed denser, all across his chest and arms. “Okay. It works like this. You’re born with the mark. I was born with the mark. Some people are, some people aren’t. If you have the mark, it’s like you’re a werewolf magnet, or something.”

Em remembered Walt’s remark about pheromones last night. He crumpled the damp folds of his tuxedo shirt in his hands. He noticed that the hairs on the back of his hands seemed a bit . . . denser . . . than usual. “So . . . what does this mean?”

“First, you’re born with the mark. Then, when a werewolf—uh—you know, bites you—”

Em had to admit he found it hot last night, when he felt Walt’s teeth gripping his skin. “That part was a bit much, you know.”

“Em, I’m being serious. When a werewolf bites you, the mark is awakened. But you have to be bitten again, by a pack leader—”

Em gave a cold laugh. “Really? You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

“You won’t start turning . . . yet . . . but once you’re awakened by a pack leader—”

“Seriously. You’re making this up.”

Walt shook the rags of his tux jacket. “You think I made this up? You saw me turn last night.”

“I saw you rip up your tux,” Em corrected. Pleasure and pain and exhilaration still thrummed his recollection from last night—but it was a blur, the mingled images of ecstasy and Walt’s beefy embrace. No weird shit about turning into lycanthropes or doggos or whatever. “You didn’t turn into a wolf or anything.”

“Did you feel that mark from the back of your neck?”

“It hurts from time to time.” Em shrugged. That part was true. He’d feel it hurt about once a month, after having some weird dream about being stuck in the woods. “Maybe it’s a medical condition or something.”

“Or maybe I’m right and you need to stay away from anybody who asks you about that birthmark.”

Em buttoned up his shirt. He’d been played. He’d been played before, and this time was no different. He knew he should’ve gone to prom with someone he knew better. He got up and snatched his shoes, then started stomping away.

“Where are you going?”

Em turned on a heel. “Stay away from me.”

“What? Oh. So a moment ago you were all like ‘that’s hot,’ but now you’re playing the victim.”

“I don’t know what weird shit you’re trying to pull on me. But I’m not a werewolf and you’re not a werewolf and there’s no such thing as werewolves. Stay the fuck away from me.”

Walt held his powerful arms out wide. “You know what? Fine. I’ll stay away.”

Em had already marched halfway across one of the golf greens. “Good!”

“Just stay away from anyone who talks about your birthmark!”

“Fuck off!”

*

July, 2019. Waxing Gibbous Moonrise: 5:16 P. M.

Years passed after that prom night, but the dreams came harder, clearer. Littered with the musky husks of suits and ties, Em’s father’s closet became the menswear store where he worked, where his nose would drink in the traces of the guys who’d tried on jackets and trousers throughout the day. Their scent would drown his tongue in saliva as he licked the satin linings just around the pit, hoping his boss wouldn’t see. And the locker room of his charter school became the locker room of his gym, where he could now roam—forbidden, unstoppable, free to rage through the walls—sweaty, musclebound jocks fleeing, with their dress shirts and loosened ties fluttering from their muscular torsos. He would feel his body swell, the rank pit stench filling him, the menswear shop doors shattering beneath his strength, or the locker room walls tumbling like cards, revealing the woods.

The woods, where moonlight would slash through the pines, where he would prowl on all fours and hunt them all down, the meatheads who mocked him as a “Hot Topic poser.” He would close in on them, ripping their shirts and ties off their thick bodies, lapping the glistening cleft between each of their chests, and then impale them. Rage and lust. Lust and rage, like two sides of the same moon.

*

Emmett couldn’t believe that he was returning to Cahaba Country Club again, nine years after that strange night with Walt. The whole sight of it put him in a nostalgic turn of mind. At 27 years old, he was his own man now, yet he couldn’t shake that sense of returning to a place that he once thought of as a milestone from high school to college.

Emmett’s car glided up and down the Alabama hills. It was a long drive for this fancy shindig. A “New Year’s in July” gala, to mark the end of his company’s fiscal year. Not the best weather for a tux, but Emmett felt like a million bucks. It was his latest custom purchase. Black satin-striped trousers with a white linen dinner jacket, pique front shirt with black studs and a plain black bowtie. Classic formalwear for a subtropical climate, finished with opera pumps worn sockless to add a hint of tropical decadence. Old-fashioned shoes, but he’d inherited them from his great uncle Emmett. Back when he changed his name, he renamed himself in his honor.

Don’t apologize. If you want it, take it. Emmett took a new name.

Emmett thought about the birthmark on occasion, but, over time, there were other things Emmett had to think about. College. Working at a “small batch” menswear shop. Majoring in finance. Graduating. Landing that job working as an administrative assistant at a real estate company near Birmingham. Trying to keep up with rent, student loans, and saving up for his surgeries.

(Therapy, too. “Sometimes childhood trauma can act itself out in fetishes,” said Emmett’s therapist once, when Emmett told him about his fixation on suits and ties. His therapist had no idea what to make of the moonlit dreams.)

During those years, Emmett built his wardrobe. Clothing allowed him a way to be in his body. The way the shoulders of a suit jacket squared off his frame, or the way the cut of suit trousers lengthened his silhouette. But the clothes and what he needed for his body—all that required money.

(Emmett didn’t tell the therapist about how, once a month, while he drove back home from work, he would have this weird urge to stop his car and just get out and walk through the woods in his fine suit, maybe even take his shoes and socks off to feel the mossy earth beneath his soles. How much it turned him on, the disparity between the sweltering vegetation and his gleaming, pristine shoes, or his crisp suits. But Emmett pushed that thought out of his mind.)

Turned out that being a business major fresh out of college wasn’t a guarantee to success. In the seven years since, he worked his way up the ladder until he became a full-time agent at the real estate firm. Another step in his path, which now led him back here, the Cahaba Country Club.

Stepping out of his car, Emmett adjusted the corners of his bowtie. Fragrant—he chose a bright, citrusy cologne for the evening—and sharp, he peered at his reflection for one more adjustment in his driver’s side window. Emmett had spent the first part of his life angry at his body, so his clothing was a way of making amends, of being himself. Debonair, elegant, yet with ginger stubble that imparted a rough edge, his red hair trimmed into an undercut, he walked towards the country club, he let his shoulders swing into an easy swagger. Even at a party, the corporate networking game never let up.

The conversation and champagne flowed as Emmett spent his time rubbing elbows with other well-attired folks. He took note of which guys’ tuxedos were cheap rentals, or which ones wore them because they had to—and, between the two groups, that was pretty much all the guys who were there. Except—

Emmett recognized Mr. Beauregard McClendon from commercials years and years ago. Always had a crush on the guy, and—back before Emmett got his MenAtPlay subscription—Emmett had a private YouTube playlist saved just of this guy’s commercials through the years. In the early ones, Mr. McClendon looked like a beefed up Jonathan Frakes. (Star Trek: Next Generation was about the only thing Emmett and his dad had in common back in the day.) Black hair coiffed in a glossy sidepart, with a sexy full beard, a neck thicker than his head, barrel chest. Through the layers of his sharp suits and ties Emmett could tell that Beauregard McClendon must have had biceps to kill. As the decade of commercials progressed, Emmett began to notice two streaks of gray in Mr. McClendon’s beard. Then it spread out into salt and pepper throughout. His hair frosted, then grayed, Mr. McClendon’s suits grew more luxurious: double breasted, with big, lustrous peak lapels, or three-piece with flashes of a brilliant satin lining, always with glittering cufflinks and fat double Windsored ties blossoming from his neck, each ripple of pinstripe fabric hugging the contours of what had to be a herculean physique underneath that grew beefier and thicker with each passing year, thick cords of power twining and heaping on themselves to fill out his tailoring to within an inch of its life.

And here he was, in the flesh, larger than life, in real life. Emmett’s cock piqued.

Sporting a double-breasted tuxedo, Mr. McClendon chatted and mingled with the other finely dressed guests. Emmett always zoomed in on a suited guy’s shoes first: opera pumps. Mr. McClendon was the only other person in the room wearing such elegant footwear—an odd choice, too, finishing off his formalwear with such tiny, effete shoes. Emmett could make out a hint of sheer sock as well, just below the cuffs. Accented with a fine satin bowtie, a ruffled pocket silk, and chunky cufflinks, the big man smiled, his laughter radiating across the room, effortless.

Draw a deep breath. Steady yourself, Emmett thought. You’ve got to talk to this guy. But you’ve also got to play it cool. He might be straight. Or—worse—a Republican.

So Emmett dipped into a few other conversations, flourished his business card, clinking his champagne flute as he roamed from one knot of people to the next, always with an eye towards his prey, dropping the occasional question about the big man. From the other realtors in the room Emmett gathered his clues: Mr. McClendon had been in the business for a long time. This country club was his home, his pride and joy. The land was a plantation, but the original house was burned down during Sherman’s March.

An hour passed. Emmett watched. Mr. McClendon wore his tuxedo with the same relaxed air as pajamas, his movements smooth and natural as he sauntered from the main dining room to one of the parlors with a feral sway of his shoulders. Collecting another champagne flute, Emmett followed.

Stay in stealth mode, thought Emmett. The room was large and crowded, perfect for him to attach himself to another conversation, where he could keep an eye on Mr. McClendon in his peripheral vision. The big man’s double-breasted tuxedo highlighted every muscular curve: tailored, revealing, with just a hint of a pucker between the onyx studs where his tuxedo shirt stretched to stay together over his chest. That little gap of fabric drove Emmett wild, offering the tease of pectoral muscle.

More clues dribbled in from the realtors’ conversations. McClendon had a reputation for being a menswear buff. That much Emmett could see. But then there was this:

“He has a bit of a weird habit,” remarked one of the realtors. She glanced to the side of the room where Mr. McClendon chatted and laughed. “I’ve seen him buy up rural lots all around here, but he never leases them to developers. Never resells them.”

“Huh,” replied Emmett. (Emmett’s subconscious flashed him the image of Mr. McClendon roaming his acres and acres of woods in one of his fine suits and ties, slipping off his shoes to dig his toes into the moist earth. Fuck. Surely Mr. McClendon had huge, huge feet. But Emmett sipped his champagne and stayed focused.) “Do you think he’s building up some kind of investment portfolio?”

She laughed. “Either that, or he’s going to consolidate all the parcels into a national park or something. Most of his lots are adjacent to this one. All pine forest.”

“Maybe he’s thinking of—” Shit. Emmett noticed. From across the room, Mr. McClendon fixed his eyes on him. Frigid blue eyes that cut right through the noise and the air, and met his.

“Thinking of what?”

Play it cool. Emmett tried to focus on the realtor in front of him, rather than his target. He cleared his throat, twirling his champagne stem in his fingers. “I don’t know. Trying his hand at the logging business, maybe?”

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. For all his public appearances, he’s awfully secretive.”

Setting down his glass on a credenza, Mr. McClendon excused himself from his colleagues, then exited the room.

Emmett nodded to the realtor in front of him. “You know, I think I ought to go meet him. He seems like an important contact.”

“Seems like a good idea,” she replied. “Would you like me to introduce you to him?”

Emmett finished his champagne. “Thank you, ma’am, but I think I’d like to try on my own.”

Slipping through the crowd, Emmett made his way to the hallway on the other side of the parlor. Not as many dinner guests out here, so he could move more freely. But still no sign of Mr. McClendon. Surely he’d catch sight of the big man again. So, clasping his hands behind his back, Emmett paced down the corridor to a spot where the hallway branched off to an empty sitting room. A perfect spot to be noticed.

Admire the décor, thought Emmett. You’re impressed with Mr. McClendon’s taste. Emmett passed by a bureau next to a closed door labeled “office.” Some fine antiques you’ve got here, Mr. McClendon. That is what you’ll tell him, even if you’d rather not stare at another painting of a quail hunt.

Except that this wasn’t a painting of quail flushed out by hounds. Emmett looked closer. Above the bureau hung a yellowed newspaper clipping, custom framed, accompanied with a picture that—

“What the—” Emmett felt the uncanny twinge of recognition. The shaggy hair, the stubbled jawline, the carefree smile of a high school senior. It was Walt. And it was an obituary.

As Emmett skimmed the paragraph, the warm lust of tracking down Mr. McClendon faded. The obituary described Walt as a promising young man whose parents died in a car accident when he was 16. He worked and lived at Cahaba Country Club throughout high school. Mr. McClendon adopted him. And then—

“A car crash, yes.” Accompanied with a sniffle, the voice was a silky drawl Emmett recognized from his years of YouTube commercials.

Stunned, Emmett turned to see Mr. McClendon, standing right there, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, his bearded features somber. “Only a month after he graduated and got accepted to Auburn, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” replied Emmett.

Mr. McClendon shook his head, nose twitching. “It’s alright. That was years ago. I still miss him, though. He was like a son to me.”

As Emmett glanced back at the newspaper clipping, a dozen thoughts crowded out his calculations. Should he mention that Walt was his prom date, back in the day? The last time that Emmett saw Walt was on that prom night, and Auburn sent out its acceptance letters—what?—in June, Emmett guessed? So that meant—fuck—last time Emmett saw Walt was less than a month before he died. This was too weird. Was this a sore subject with Mr. McClendon? Was McClendon still grieving? Shit. The erotic hunt that Emmett thought he’d mastered now turned into a minefield.

“I’m sorry. I believe I might have started off our conversation on the wrong foot.” Drawing a deep breath, nostrils flaring—that little gap of his tuxedo shirt puckering over his full chest—Mr. McClendon extended a hand. “Beauregard McClendon.”

“Emmett Clark.” With a firm handshake, Emmett cleared his thoughts. Focus. First, figure out whether this guy’s a Republican. That’s a non-starter. “My pronouns are he/his.”

“Ah. I, erm, prefer he/his as well.”

A drop of relief broke over Emmett’s emotions. Realtors were a conservative crowd, so Emmett knew he could use the pronoun question to ferret out a person’s politics. Perhaps he could regain the upper hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to seem as though I was snooping. It’s just that folks have been talking all about this country club all evening. The crown jewel of your little empire, Mr. McClendon.”

The big man’s chest rose with a chuckle. “Oh, this old thing? It’s just my retreat from the noise of Birmingham.”

“I bet.” Without missing a beat, Emmett gestured at Beau’s shoes. “Opera pumps are an unusual choice. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who knows what they are.”

“Thank you. I try to avoid any shoes with laces, really. Slippers and loafers only. Makes it much easier on the feet.” Leaning against the bureau, Mr. McClendon lifted a foot, letting the fine little shoe fall off his heel. Yes, they were indeed sheer, seethrough socks: hosiery that made no apology for every hair atop his broad, veined feet. Solid, wide feet, Emmett thought: the kind of feet Emmett associated with that statue of Vulcan outside of Birmingham. Emmett’ felt libido pouring back into his bowels.

“You clearly know your menswear,” remarked Emmett, his confidence recovering. “They’re a classic choice, Mr. McClendon.”

“Please—call me ‘Beau.’”

The big man’s guard was already lowering. Emmett smiled. He had regained control of the conversation. “Call me ‘Emmett,’ then.”

Beau drew another breath—deeper, his nostrils flaring wide, that pucker of shirt fabric straining to hold his studs together over that pectoral ridge. “I . . . must say that I’m flattered that you appreciate my style. Do you work in menswear?”

“I used to, before I started in this business.” Stepping away from the bureau, Emmett tucked his hands in his pockets, feet shoulder-width apart. He might be half Beau’s size, but he wanted his pose to show that he was in control, the dominant one. Too tempting to pass up, the thrill of having his way with a big, hairy muscleman he’d been crushing on for years. “And it always pleases me when someone notices the details. Like the width of your peak lapels, for instance, or the button stance that makes your jacket flatter your waist and expand your shoulders.”

Beau drew another deep, nostril-flaring breath. Leaning against the bureau, he let his opera pump slip off his toes. “Knowledgeable, I see. And handsome.”

“You’re not hard to look at, either.” Yes, thought Emmett, stroking his ginger stubble. Beneath all that beef, this guy wanted someone to take control. “And I noticed you seemed to be following me from one room to the next, back there.”

“I thought it was you who was following me,” replied Beau with another chest-shaking chuckle. Glancing up and down the hall, he reached down and unbuttoned his jacket, letting the lustrous garment fall open.

---

Hungry for more? Purchase and download the full .pdf here:

Good Ol’ Beasts 2 (werewolves, tuxedos, muscle growth, clothing destruction, romance, southern gothic).