“Bleat for me, baby.” He snarled, his long hair creating a curtain of red that blocked her view of the room.
His hands in her hair, tugging and pulling, made her want to obey his orders. His powerful thrusts stole her every breath. His sweat covered her back, his hot, heavy balls banging into her clit with his every move.
His wooden crook slapped against the white flesh of her ass, driving her to buck harder, to scream louder, to give in to the passion making her pussy tingle and her head swim. “Baaa!” She opened her mouth and let the bleat roll from her throat like only she could.
His cock filled her so completely that the friction of his rapid thrusts almost burned. His teeth nibbled at her ear, his tongue licking the sting away. His muscular body covered hers, making her want to submit, making the world go away, awash in a red-hot glow of passion.
And…
His parents stood horrified at the door to their bedroom.
She saw them before he did, and with a panicked squeal — more like a baah — she hiccupped, he jerked out, nearly falling off the bed, there was a poof of smoke…
And the wool really began to fly.
“Arthur!” his mother wailed. “How could you? I got you out of the Highlands to keep you away from those… those mindless sheep!” The small, dark skinned, red haired woman screamed as she beat at her chest with both fists, tears running down from incredibly large brown eyes. “Oh, God,” she wailed, her Scottish accent pronounced as she backed out of the room. “What will the girls at the flower club say? I was the only one who didn’t have a boy addicted to… to… Oh, God! I can’t bear to repeat it!”
She turned and fled, her screeching sobs filling the vacuum her abrupt departure created. Leaving behind the dad, who stood there, mouth hanging open in amazement, before he moved closer to his son.
He eyed the pale, quivering shanks that his son desperately tried to cover with his body as he walked around the bed, examining the situation from all angles before giving his son a queer grin.
“Nice piece of sheep, son.” He chuckled, leering. “Your grandfather always had the same eye for a nice plump rump. He always said sheep were good pussy too.”
And with that, the man exited, no doubt chasing after his scandalized wife.
* * *
“Why me?” Arthur sighed as he pulled at what had to be the mother of all wilted erections. “They’re gone, Shelby. I guess it’s safe to come back now, though I have no idea what my parents are going to say when they recover from the shock.”
His answer was a pitiful bleat, for in her current form that was all Shelby could manage.
You see, Shelby had the distinct honor of being a superhero — well, heroine, actually. She was a defender of peace, lover of her sidekick, Arthur the Herd Boy with his Crook of Justice and his Muscles of Might, and the only known were-sheep in North America.
Her large, black eyes stared at her lover as if trying to apologize, but he was shaking his head, mute acceptance in his eyes. It was all part of being the lover of a were-sheep; a nervous were-sheep who’d had no one to teach her to use her powers correctly.
As a result, whenever she got nervous or scared, or just plain had a case of the hiccups, she could transform into a huge, white, woolly sheep.
“Baaa!”
“I know.” Arthur sighed, reaching over to run his fingers through her soft, fluffy wool. “I didn’t expect them either.”
Arthur the Herd Boy also had a power — the ability to speak to any herd animal and actually understand when it responded. It wasn’t a truly useful power, but it sometimes came in handy. Like right now, when he was trying to comfort his distraught girlfriend after this first disastrous meeting with his parents.
Shelby snuggled in closer, pouting, her huge black eyes leaking crystalline tears.
After a few seconds of petting and scritching, there was a soft poof, a flash of white, and Shelby’s pale hide was once again made of soft human skin.
“I’m sorry!” She sniffled, kicking Arthur’s Crook of Justice and various lubes and dildos off the bed in an effort to climb closer to his heavily muscled body. “I — t-tried and… and then th-they… and… “
“Shh,” he soothed. “We’ll deal with it. They had to learn our secret sometime.”
“That you’re a closet perv who likes anal penetration as long as it’s a female doing it?”
“Uh, no.” He chose to ignore his blush.
“That you are strange ‘cause you date chunky white girls?”
“Darlin’,” he drawled in his heavy accent. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a black Scotsman with curly red hair. I don’t think you can get stranger than that. And you are not chunky. You are perfection, my love. Enough curves to keep a man happy and coming back for more.”
“Oh.” She sniffled. “That I shed?”
“No, darlin’.” He chuckled. “I was thinking about the secret where you turn into a sheep and try to fight crime.”
“Oh.” She ran her hands over his hard body, loving how her fingers slid over his sweat-shined skin. “What do you mean try?”
Arthur froze for a moment, then tossed her back on the bed, amongst the remaining discarded sex toys, and jammed his tongue down her throat.
He might be a sidekick, but Arthur was no fool. Now was not the time to get into her superhero proclivities. Now was a time for fucking any thought from her mind and picking up where they’d left off when they were so rudely interrupted.
“Where were we?” he asked, lapping down her neck, caressing her sides, letting his thumbs settle beneath her full breasts.
“Baaa,” she bleated, and once again, all was right with their world.
* * *
William R. Trishaw gaped at his bank statement. It had to be wrong. It should not be in negative numbers.
“Leah?” he called out, his voice cracking with confusion and some anger. “Have you ever heard of something called a Z-Cube?”
William ran his fingers through his tangled mass of gray curls and turned his square-shaped pupils to the unconcerned teen flopped across his couch staring balefully at a TV set.
As a matter of fact, everyone who was currently in his abode was flopped somewhere like his place was a sort of downscale hostel for unwanted young adults. Leah he loved dearly, but the girl was a leech. Sure, she was one of the best mechanics ever to hold a wrench, but the measly amount of time she actually spent in the garage didn’t explain the exorbitant food bill she managed to rack up.
And for all his troubles in boarding the at-risk girl, all he had to show for it was an espresso machine that brewed three times faster than anything on the market. Which would be fine and great, a marketable product, if only he could understand the over four dozen steps you had to run through in order to get one decent cup of coffee.
And there was Villie, who had the most god-awful Transylvanian accent and a fetish for bondage-style clothing. She was a promising intern in the field of genetics and toxicology — a genius, some might say. But the only poison she’d managed to develop involved a brand of ecstasy with non-deadly side effects. That would be marketable to all kinds of research facilities. But no. Villie’s great experiment made the user grow feathers. Yes, big green and purple feathers. And they were permanent in most of the lab mice she’d tried it on. There was nothing better than walking into your lab after a hard day of scheming and planning to see a parade of purple-feathered mice hopped up on designer ecstasy. Not even really great espresso dancing through your veins could prepare you for something like that.
And then there was Larry.
Larry was about six feet of naturally muscled god wrapped up in golden skin and beautiful green eyes. He had shaved himself bald, a look that showcased his perfectly symmetrical head and gave him a Yul Brynner in his heyday sort of swarthy mystique. His voice was deep and mellow, enough to cause panties to peel and boxers to tent.
Unless he was screaming and running away in fear when someone got too close, or God forbid, touched him.
It was a complication in poor Larry’s life, and he had tried to overcome it by creating a series of more and more life-like androids. They walked, they talked, they moved, and apparently they fucked like a dream without any hassles of that real human being thing that drove Larry into crying fits of fear and agony.
It was bad for Larry’s personal life, but great for design and development… if Larry would ever allow him to sell any of his girls.
Yeah, Larry was a bit of a packrat. He had every model he had ever completed stored in perfect working condition, and he named them all Doris.
So Larry was content in his room of Doris, walking Doris, Doris with no legs, Doris skeletons in every stage of completion. There was Black Doris, White Doris, Latina Doris, Samoan Doris, Barely Eighteen Doris, Doris the Cougar, Doris in her prime twenty-five to forty age bracket. They were all full up on Doris, and Billy was just about sick of them all. Well, all except for Chef Doris, programmed with Cordon Bleu recipes.
William sighed again and stared at his statements. These people he chose to help were a bigger drain on his income than all his plans and schemes put together.
Maybe it was time to give up being so helpful and innovative? Maybe it was time for him to get a nine-to-five and put aside dreams of having his own corporation dedicated to his ideals of justice and balance.
Yeah, he thought. It was time.
He had blown through this month’s allowance already, due to stupid trust fund codicils. His parents really were assholes. And it was at least fifteen days before he could draw his usual ten thousand for the month’s living expenses.
It was expensive keeping Leah in TV dinners, Villie in exotic herbs, and Larry in spare android parts.
It was time to go the way of most creative geniuses — dying of boredom and normalcy in the suburbs — right after he drove into the city and made arrangements to pay off this overdraft.