The Southern Werewolf Original - Chapter Fragments.
- Southern Suitor
- May 21
- 5 min read
By SouthernSuitor, Copyright 2010-2011.
Werewolves | Self-Discovery | Drama | Muscle Growth | Clothing Destruction | Transformation
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This was another piece I wrote during the height of my #musclegrowth fetish fiction era. So here the focus is on the destruction of the suits and ties. It's both a drama of vengeance (rival werewolves) and a romance (two suited coworkers end up wolfing each other, embroiled in the conflict). Lots of sweat, ripped suits, muscle, and feral fur.
Image credit: Tumblr.
Clint’s massive frame lurched in the humid breeze. Sweat poured in channels down the muscular contours of his back, slicking his reddish back hair against his delts. In front, his monstrous pecs heaved, his bearded lips lolling open, drool foaming out.
Beneath him, Reverend Cobb’s body was lifeless.
Clint had to peel himself away. He couldn’t stop stroking his cock. The sight of the dead body, the body he had destroyed, the wolf he had killed with his own prowess and cunning—that filled him too much with lust. He could smell his own hormones wafting off his sweat-drenched muscles as he tried to fight back his arousal: his own virile power had done this, these tremendous and bestial muscles of his had destroyed the creature in front of him. So great was his high that the beast within him urged him either to fuck Cobb’s corpse, or to fuck the nearest thing that moved. Staggering back across the clearing, he tripped over one of his discarded cowboy boots, his paw stroking his shaft.
He had to get out of here. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered the body. Growling, he squatted to collect his pile of things, the club of his dick just throbbing and rutting between his colossal thighs the whole time. Mingling with Reverend Cobb’s blood, Clint’s drool continued to foam out of his stubbly lips.
His pants continued to shred as he tried squeezing his monstrous calves into them; he couldn’t even get them up his thighs by the time he urged himself into his truck. His cock stuck straight up, the drooling shaft resting on the base of his steering wheel. Tossing his boots, his New Testament, his pistol and his wallet into the passenger seat, he fastened on his gold cross necklace, which lost itself in that dense, furry chasm between his enormous pecs.
Half naked, with his pants shredding on his legs and his cock rutting against the steering wheel, Clint started the truck, wheeling the large vehicle away from the scene of the murder.
-*-
Yesterday, Beauregard McClendon had gotten quite a few complements on his three-piece suit. It was a handsome one: brown tropical wool, one of his autumn ones, and he’d paired it with a bowtie, a pocket square, and a pair of suede tassel loafers that he’d worn sockless. His gelled silver hair and well-trimmed beard and handlebar mustache made him quite debonair as he went out to dinner with Mr. King, one of his associates in real estate.
But that was before he’d driven out past Scottsdale, to Stone Mountain Park. It was the largest expanse of woodland he could find. There, he parked his car near the nature trail. An onlooker would’ve been puzzled indeed to watch such a dapper man striding out of his car, peeling his suit jacket off his beefy biceps, slipping his hairy feet out of his tassel loafers, and clearing the distance up Stone Mountain’s slope so quickly. It would’ve seemed an odd time of night and an odd state of dress for such a hike.
Now Beau was getting back to his car, barefoot in his suit trousers, with his French cuff shirt untucked and open, his burly pecs and rock-hard muscle gut hanging out. His heavyweight wrestler physique was always so toned, so hard after his transformations, that he simply couldn’t risk closing his shirt any more than the bottom two buttons. He’d end up shredding his shirt if he tried buttoning it over his hairy keg of abdominal muscle.
The loose ends of his bowtie kept brushing against the silvery tufts of his chest fur. Unlocking his car, he stepped in, depositing his loafers and suit jacket and waistcoat in the passenger seat. The seams of his shirt complained against his swollen deltoids as he squirmed to reach into a pocket and pull out his phone.
***
Beau clasped his hirsute hands behind his back, waiting for Jenny to exit the back door. And, the moment he heard that door open and shut—that was when Beau pulled Walter right over to him, embracing the young werewolf in a tight hug.
Walt sniffled, burying his face in Beau’s powerful shoulder. “I . . . I don’t get it.”
“It’s alright, son.” Beau clapped Walter’s shoulder, smelling the way his embrace both comforted and aroused his “pup.” “It was hard on your mother, you know. Trying to take care of you by herself all these years.”
Walter wrapped his arms around the thick trunk of muscle that was Beau’s abdomen; the older gentleman’s barrel gut of muscle made his dress shirt feel thin, as though its buttons and seams would just burst at any moment. “Is Mom going to be . . . alright out there? By herself?”
“She’s got the same powers as Clint. She can manage.” Beau’s silvery whiskers brushed against Walter’s thin ginger beard. “Jenny’s a much tougher fighter than I am.”
Walter sniffled, tightening his embrace around Beau’s heavyweight torso, relishing its muscular power: Beau made him feel safe. Beau patted Walter’s shoulder again.
A moment passed as the two men held each other, rocking. Bending down to Walt’s neck, Beau laid a gentle kiss there.
Walter returned it, only wetter, on Beau’s bearded cheek. And Beau responded with a lick of Walt’s nose; and Walt responded by going straight for Beau’s whiskered lips.
Growling and purring, the older werewolf felt his bowtie coming loose in a matter of moments as Walter worked to undo the buttons of the older gentleman’s shirt. Not caring about looking decent for the company of a lady anymore, Beau kicked off his remaining loafer. Slipping his paws beneath Walter’s tan poplin suit jacket, Beau admired the lean power of the young man’s slimmer torso—though nowhere near as slim as it was before Walt had transformed—as his hands found their way down to the waistband of Walter’s trousers.
Whimpering with lust, Walter wasted no time tackling the older man, his hands roaming freely into Beau’s open shirt as he thrust his tongue between Beau’s bearded lips, his fingers disappearing in all that thick, silvery chest hair.
Did that kiss last moments? Minutes? Hard to say, but what was clear was the raging erection both men had when it was done.
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