Work-in-Progress - Vignette: Wolf and Bull.
- Southern Suitor
- May 2
- 6 min read
Hey y'all. Things have been busy here in My neck of the woods. But, as always, My fiction churns deep below, a horny undercurrent that ripples the surface of my diurnal life.
In the past, I would wait until I had completely finished a draft prior to posting it. This time around, I decided to do things a bit differently, and post this piece as a work in progress. Each time I make changes, I will highlight the new text, that way y'all can watch the story as it grows.
Unlike My other fiction, I'm not going to paywall this story. So the moneyshot and the horny muscle transformation will be all yours to enjoy.
Bull
Tracing a finger along the edge of his tie, Jim glared up at the television screen. He had not seen it since his childhood, this commercial. Some atrocious product masquerading as a kids' cereal, more sugar and preservative than grain. The kind that would turn the milk an unsavory grayish purple. The commercial itself was even more unserious: a furry orange puppet in a weirdly fitting tuxedo.
Jim smirked down at his beer. He never told anyone about that commercial, why he begged his mum for that cereal as a kid–how the commercial featured a boy in a school uniform who hulked out into this furry beast.
Jim snorted, rolling his eyes. The commercial was already gone. Relaxing on the bar stool, he spread his legs, his thighs beefy in his charcoal suit trousers. The suit was a sober and sensible color, but a keen observer would notice the details: the working surgeon cuffs of the jacket, the French cuffs and fine cufflinks, the cutaway collar framing an impeccably knotted double Windsor, his tie a shade of garnet with a rich grenadine, braces and gleaming double monkstraps, socks a shade of sheer. Each in their own subtle way, the lapels and cut of the suit announced that this financier wore his suits with more than a sense of duty. Far from the lackluster sacks that his straight colleagues begrudgingly flung over their shoulders, Jim's suitings rose on his chest, draped across his shoulders, and carried him with a sense of pride. This was a man who intended to be noticed.
Wolf
Tom could taste this man's lust in the air, even across the tipsy melange of scents across the pub. Tailored wool, fine silk–a bullish musk, even a hint of precum–oh yes. This handsome peacock across the bar knew how to dress, and he was more than just a cut above all these lazy corporate casual straight boys. Ideal prey.
He seemed curiously piqued with that commercial on the television above the bar, this man. Some strange kids' commercial that had no business being aired during a football game. But Tom could catch a whiff of that pheromone, that subtle spike of libido. Something within this dapper man stirred, and longed to be awakened.
Tom knew the well-dressed man noticed him. A flick of his handsome brown eyes, a twitch of his sexy mustache, as he brushed his stubbled jaw with his knuckle. A hint of a beautiful sleeve tattoo peered out from beneath the man's French cuff.
Patience, Tom told himself, as he hovered over his whiskey. You can't lick your chops here, not in front of the humans. Even if the full moon is still a week off, sometimes the Beast rustles awake. Especially when confronted with such a rare and delicious specimen.
It wasn't just the man's sharply tailored charcoal suit that drew Tom's attention, nor the man's exquisite grenadine tie. Oh no. There was something else underneath, something that marked this man as marked. Something that distinguished this man beyond just his clothing. Could it be? Another Beast? Waiting to be awakened?
Patience, Tom told himself. The veil is thin tonight, between humans and monsters. We shall stalk him, but from a respectable distance. Even willing humans are finicky targets.
Bull
Jim cast a strategic glance in the bar mirror. Still there, that man. The only other man dressed in a suit and tie at this hour. Even the other bankers and executives had ditched their ties, but not this curious fellow.
Jim had been sizing him up all evening, this man in his navy suit. A subtle windowpane. A purposefully mismatched waistcoat: a trim little waistcoat in a taupe gabardine, intended to pick up on the windowpane of the exterior suit perfectly. A gutsy combination, one that suggested panache. Ballsy panache. Balls.
Mmm, yes. Jim spread his legs a little further, making room for his own hefty package. Jim catalogued the dandy’s details: a paisley blue tie blossoming out of his lapels, lustrous silk traced with embroidered swirls of jade. A glittering pocket watch. Cufflinks. Laceups polished to a glow. A fashionable fellow, a flaneur. Yet strangely not flamboyant, at least not in his demeanor. The elegantly attired man perched on his bar stool, filling out a pocket planner with a fine pen. One of many affectations, Jim speculated.
Yet Jim could tell this man had been watching him. He was the whole reason Jim had lingered over this one beer, waiting. In situations like this, Jim usually was the one to make the first move. But something about this curiously dressed man suggested to Jim that something was afoot.
Jim adjusted his cufflink, pretending nonchalance, deflecting his gaze to the architecture. Yet this man lingered just in his periphery.
Wolf
This man was not a wolf. Tom could already tell. A beast, perhaps, but not a wolf. Tom certainly could sniff out his own kind, more readily than any other. But there are many changers in the world. It's only a question of whether they have been shown the way through the veil.
The full moon was a convenient time for wolves, of course. And in a week the change would seize Tom at that moment that the pale disc rose. Tom knew the sensation well, the terror and the thrill, the pain and the spiral of pleasure, the spurt of muscle and release. He used to try to bind himself on those nights, trying to keep himself from roaming, from causing harm. But his surges of strength would ravel the ropes, or bend the chains. And, over time, Tom knew to anticipate that phase. And learned, too, how to guide himself through, to induce the change even when the moon didn't beckon him. But that subtle art required many months of patience.
Patience.
Tom's ears twitched. He could feel that dapper man's eyes on him. Difficult to remain camouflaged when you're dressed in a custom suit after hours. But, there again, perhaps this dapper man wished to be noticed. His scent certainly betrayed an interest.
Handsome fucker. It helped that this man's human form had that naughty tilt of an eyebrow, that naughty gleam in his deep brown eyes.
Yes, Tom concluded. No matter what kind of beast this man was–or was not–Tom would have fun with this one.
Bull
The dandy extracted a pocket watch from his waistcoat. All about accessories, this afficionado. Yet Jim studied the man's posture, noticing a sudden shift. The man nodded to the bartender, and the bartender delivered his check.
About to go, eh? Jim began to swig a little faster. Some liquid courage. Or, rather, just a little lubricant for the libido. Jim was already full of swagger and confidence. But, even so, there was a hint that this dandyish fellow had a card yet to be revealed, some trick to be played.
The dandy pocketed his notebook. The watch remained on the bar as the dandy signed his name to the ticket, then stowed away the pen. Accessories, accessories. The man produced a pair of elegant driving gloves in blue calfskin. So many accessories, this one. Jim stroked his stubbled chin, then pinched his tie. Jim's check arrived.
Just as the man clicked the pocket watch shut, Jim noticed a fine blue dial on the chronograph that displayed the phases of the moon.
Wolf
It was not practical for a changer to carry this many little accessories. Even on the full moon nights, Tom would reduce the number of layers as much as he could, editing his outfit in a way that was decidedly not to his maximalist tastes. More is more, even if the moon has other plans.
Tonight was not intended to be one of those nights, of course. But it appears that, even when not to the full, the moon has other plans.
Other plans, thought Tom, as he plumped out the arch of his tie and strode out of the noisy bar. Create a distraction, a reason for the handsome financier to follow. And, as the thick air of the bar gave way to the subtle crisp of the evening, Tom could catch a whiff of that man, his subtly horny musk. He could hear his double monkstraps clicking the pavement in pursuit.
Predator turned prey, Tom thought. He'd let the man have his way, for now. But, if the man truly was a Beast like him, the tables would indeed turn.
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