Detention

by octavian

Is it mistaken identity? Or is something darker at work here? Whatever the case, when our main character gets sent to detention, he’s sure there’s been a mistake. The guy sitting next to him, however, sees things differently.

Detention.

Nobody likes detention. If you get detention, I feel like that says something about you. It’s like… the sign of being a bad student, right? It shows you’re irresponsible, you can’t follow instructions, you’re a distraction to your classmates.

…So then, why am I here? 

No, really, why? That right there is what I can’t figure out. The million dollar question. Under the soft buzzing of fluorescent lighting, the question rolls around in my head over and over. I should be at my chess club meeting, and if I get this sorted out soon enough, maybe I can still make it.

It literally didn’t make any sense. But if I had to guess, I think it has something to do with that wolf principal we got a few months back, when our human one took an unexpected vacation. It’s really strange. I mean, I’ve never met the new guy, though I’ve passed him in the halls a few times. And by pass, I mean ‘barely squeezed by.’

On that note, pretty much all the canines in my school tend to resemble these beefy jock types instead of average people. They do that thing where they travel in groups—sorry, they prefer “packs”—and take up the entire hallway. Maybe the new principal is a good fit for the job, maybe not, but a lot has changed around my school recently. Dogs and wolves previously didn’t exactly make up a big proportion of the students here, but suddenly it almost seems like they’ve become half, maybe even more? It’s like a growing number of the human students and teachers transferred out, and more and more canines are filling their seats.

Literally filling. Honestly, a lot of these new guys would be better suited to a bodybuilding competition instead of a private school like this. Every class has near constant squeaking as these creatures try to squeeze into human-sized desks. Lunch in the cafeteria has also been adjusted to meet the diets of the new canine students. But the biggest change by far has probably been the dress code. The usual school uniforms barely fit around their massive bodies, since they were made for and by humans, not anthros.

Soon after joining us, the new principal announced that the school admin would launch a separate dress code for the anthro students, one which is a lot more lax. These guys? They’re not confined to stuffy polo shirts tucked into slacks like the rest of us. Nope! They’re given free rein to wear almost whatever they want, and that usually includes things like tank tops and gym shorts, school jerseys and gray sweats. In addition, the principal decided it wouldn’t make sense to force these guys to squeeze their huge paws into regular human-sized dress shoes. So, now they get to just walk around wearing gym shoes, the huge ones specially-designed for bulky anthro paws. Size 20 or 21. (19 UK, 55 EU.)

It’s not fair, right?

But whatever.

I drum my fingers on the table and glance out the window. At least it’s overcast out there, maybe drizzling a bit. Makes me feel a little less guilty about not being outside, since I’m clearly not missing much.

My eyes drift up to the clock, and I sigh impatiently. Okay, yeah, I’m the sort of guy who shows up early for detention, but can you blame me? Honestly, I feel like I’m a bit of a model student. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I had had one of the highest grade averages in my class. Which, of course, became easier over time as the collective IQ of my peers dropped. It’s been a good term for me. Straight A’s in everything, even in the classes I found unbelievably boring. Surprisingly, no, I don’t care about “Canine Roughhousing 101”, “Basic Pack Mentality”, or “Intro to Hunting.” But I guess everyone has to take classes they don’t like.

Back to grades. I had been looking over one of my tests in class a few days ago when my teacher, a burly dark-furred dog, called me up to his desk. I wasn’t too worried. It was a history exam, and I tend to do pretty well on those, even despite the… distractions—is that the right word?—of my classmates. See, these dogs and wolves, they tend to have this smell about them. Which is weird, because you’d think with their sensitive noses and all, they’d be able to notice that? And maybe shower, at least a few times a week? But you’d be wrong for assuming that they can practice basic hygiene. Instead these guys come here reeking like some unholy mix of sweat, wet dog, and pure masculinity. Don’t get trapped too close to one of them if you want to preserve your sanity. Is it rude to admit that sometimes, when I’m walking around—especially right now, in these warmer months—I consider getting something to plug my nose? No offense, but why should I suffer just because you haven’t heard of soap? But I digress.

I felt like I was going to pass out by the time I’d sat back at my desk again, but it wasn’t from the smells of the guys around me. It was from the paper he’d shoved into my hands.

“DETENTION,” the pink slip read. The word was bolded and huge on the top of the page. Humiliation stung my cheeks like a cattle brand. Under the explanation section, I couldn’t actually read what it said. Like, it just looked like scribbles to me. But the consequences would be dire if I didn’t show up. There are some rumors that those who try to avoid detention usually have a 1-on-1 with the principal or, for some reason, the athletic director. Personally I wasn’t all that interested in talking to either of them. A regular teacher, even a canine one, would be easier to reason with. What would you do in my situation? You can’t just not go. You go, plead your innocence, and hopefully go home happy.

That’s the goal today, and as the classroom door swings open, I feel my heart start to swell with relief. Finally! This nightmare would be over soon enough.

But it’s not a teacher. Not at all. In walks a wolf who looks to be no less than 9 feet (2.7m) tall. I say walks, but it’s more of a squeeze. He literally has to bend down and place a huge hand on the doorframe to fit himself in. Yet he plays it off with ease, clearly comfortable in his own skin. Even by canine standards he’s unusually large. Doesn’t take long for me to tell what this guy’s deal is.

He strides in casually, like he owns the place. Huge and heavy footfalls rattle pencils off the desks. After scouring the room a bit, his eyes lock on me sitting in the center, likely noticing my confused expression, and the naughty smirk plastered on his huge muzzle slides into a full-on grin.

A dark maroon letterman jacket stretches wide, struggling to conceal enough bulk to take up an entire bed and then some, all on his own. Without realizing, my eyes continue to drift down his body.

Down, to an absolute wedding cake of an ass, one that jiggles with every step like a plate of jello.

Down, to bloated, tree trunk thighs that stretch a pair of gray gym sweats to their limit.

Down, to calves thick enough to imply this guy spends more time exercising than I spend studying ahead.

Down, to the pair of swollen dinner plates he would call his paws. No shoes, not even anthro ones, could contain those things.

Of course I glance away! But avoiding his gaze doesn’t remove the body heat that he radiates as he sits down next to me, nor does it repel the musk that billows off him like smoke from a wildfire. Great. Thirty empty desks in this room, and he picks the one directly to my right.

Well… I guess it makes sense for him to be here. He just… looks like a troublemaker. Does he have to sit so close, though?

“Yo,” he greets, waving a hand big enough to crush a man’s head. The sweat on those dark pads glistens under the lights. What exactly was he doing before he got here?

I give him a weak, yet polite nod, trying to keep my breath shallow. “Hey,” I reply. His voice is deep and smooth, like a well-tuned tuba. Mine is so unsteady it sounds like a flute that’s been broken in half.

But honestly, I’m not all that interested in chitchat. If the teacher isn’t going to show up yet, I’ve got plenty of work to do while I wait. I bend down to reach into my bag, and when I rise again, he’s still staring at me.

Now, I know some canines have a look where you can tell they’re not firing on all cylinders. Know what I mean? They have that vapid expression on their face like a cringy online influencer; their eyes are dazed and half-lidded, their big, fat tongues are hanging out, their tails are helicoptering. But no, this guy is different. I’ve never seen one with his expression before. He’s not just looking at me, it feels like he’s looking into me. His head rests on one of those great big hands, stroking his muzzle, and he’s leaning in my direction. He rests comfortably in the chair despite both his bulk and the metal’s complaints.

The awkward silence becomes too much to ignore. I have to say something. “…Can I help you?” I ask, shifting in my seat a little.

“You look familiar,” he muses without hesitation, humming softly. Can’t really say the same about him. Aside from his mysterious expression, he doesn’t really seem all that different from most other canines I’ve encountered here. Something seems to click in his mind. “Oh! You were here last week, right?”

Something in my chest tightens a little. Maybe irritation. “…What?”

“Yeah, bro!” He snaps those mammoth fingers together a few times, pointing them at me. I recoil back like I’m being accused of a crime. “You copied off my test, remember? History exam.”

My brow furrows. “…I think you have me confused with somebody else, bro,” I reply, not quite sounding as mocking as I wanted. “I’ve never gone to detention before. And honestly I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

He shakes his head. Big ears flop around. Strangely I feel like it’d be sort of cute if I wasn’t starting to get a little frustrated. “Bro, what?” he asks, sounding amazed. “Don’t fuck around with me.” I cringe at the swear, but he keeps going, nodding to himself self-assuredly. He’s made his mind up. “Nah, man. You and me. You said something about how you didn’t study or something. You don’t remember?” He wiggles his bushy eyebrows, almost looking offended. Doing that puppy dog eye thing.

“You’ve got me confused with somebody else,” I murmur, shrugging dismissively as I scratch my chest, which throbs a little. At this point, I just turn to my history homework. It should be easy, even for the advanced class I’m in. Rumors had been circulating recently that they might cut classes like this and replace them with more sports programs or something, which had me and my (dwindling) group of friends a bit nervous.

I handle the first half dozen or so questions, but each gradually takes more time, until I find myself stumped. I scratch my head and take a few breaths, and then wince as the smell of wolf musk invites itself into my lungs. I’m a bit tired from staying up late working ahead in some classes, but right now it feels like I barely did anything last night. My body feels sort of sore, like I ran a marathon. I think back to my history class, trying to recall stuff we had learned in class, but… I can’t. It’s like trying to remember something that happened when I was way younger.

That’s right about when my buddy chimes in again. “Stuck again, bro?” I can’t tell if he’s genuinely trying to offer help, or just tease me. He’s spread his legs a bit under the desk. If I tilt my head a little, I can see his—

“I’m fine,” I grumble, pushing him and the errant thought out of my mind. I look around anxiously, eyes fixated on the door. Still no teacher. I need to just focus on this in peace. Maybe there’s another room I can go to, or…

“I know you’re pretty slow, pal,” he reassures, his voice cool as ice. “It’s why you don’t recognize me. Nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of us are.”

My pencil falls to the ground. “…W-What? What are you talking about?” I look up at him, at his shiny smile, and my chest does that tugging thing again. It’s like that feeling just before you fall asleep, when you’re somewhere between reality and dreamland. That’s how this starts to feel. He’s sitting there with his arms behind his head, and only then do I realize that his jacket is unbuttoned. Under a sweat-stained school jersey, he boasts a pair of abs that any girl would drool over, that any guy would kill to have.

“Said you’re not the brightest,” he repeats. He reaches over, suddenly, and ruffles my hair a little with his gargantuan hand. My brain feels like it turns to static as soon as he touches my head. My train of thought starts to decelerate, little by little. The edges of my vision grow a bit fuzzy, and suddenly my heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest.

As if noticing what’s happening to me, he slides that huge hand down and claps me on the back, which forces a wheeze out of me. His paw is nearly big enough to completely wrap around me. “S’alright, man. Don’t sweat it. We all have our own skills, right? You’re just not that book smart.”

“Listen,” I snap, with enough force to surprise him into letting go. Since that wheeze, my voice feels strange, like there’s something caught in my throat. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

“You’re Anthony,” he murmurs, eyes narrow, grin still unflinchingly, unbearably wide. In those sharp fangs I can almost see my reflection, almost see myself starting to get red-faced and anxious. “Isn’t that right?” He glances over at my homework before I can stop him, and something buzzes inside of my head. I hadn’t written Anthony. I didn’t know an Anthony at all. Yet there it is, in my handwriting. Maybe a little sloppier, actually. Something about hearing that name roll off his tongue sends waves of warmth radiating across my body. I realize, with a few pants, that my armpits are starting to darken. The dress code wouldn’t like that, I think to myself, feeling anxiety start to bubble up. The guy continues unapologetically. “And I remember you from something else, too.”

“…Huh?” I mumble, unsure of myself. I take the opportunity to look at him, trying to avoid whatever my body’s going through. Maybe if I don’t see it, it’s not happening.

“You were in detention the week before last too, dumbass.” He rolls those big, expressive eyes, as if to say, Duh! “You gave that dork humie Brandon a swirlie, remember?”

Before I can respond, my attention falls back to my own body. Something new is happening to me. The soreness in my fingers reaches a finger pitch, and then… somehow, someway, they start to change. I can hear them starting to crack and pop as they slowly inflate. First it’s just a little, nothing major, but as I stare, they throb, like each heartbeat is pumping more phantom mass into the things. Not to be outdone, my palm pulses as it too starts to turn fatter, the center starting to darken and swell with a strange, rubbery texture. Watching this, dizziness washes over me like I’m on a boat. What the heck?

I’m so distracted by whatever fever dream I’ve found myself in that it takes me some time to respond to the accusation. “You’re crazy,” I challenge, still reluctant to tear my eyes off my hands. “Brendan—Brandon is one of my best friends! I would never do something like that.”

But it doesn’t seem to matter. “All due respect, you don’t seem to remember much, buddy,” he says coolly, still watching me intently.

My mind wanders a bit. I try not to think about the guy, try not to think about the changes happening to me. Brendan was one of the guys from the… I think chess club…? Maybe a few classes…I knew we spent time together, but it was just so hard to think back to some of the stuff we had done.

I mean, one of the things that does stand out is me calling him a dweeb a few times or teasing him about his glasses. And maybe I’d laughed once or twice when one of the anthros made fun of him. Let’s face it, he wasn’t the most physically active. But it was all in good fun! He was enjoying himself at the time. I think.

My mind continues to drift unchecked as my gaze returns to my hands, which are still swelling, bubbling. The same rubbery texture on my palm has appeared on my thickened fingertips too. I can’t seem to deny that the thought of… of putting these mitts on someone—even Brendan, or whatever his name is—and putting him in his place… it starts to seem so appealing. It makes sense, right? Why else would my hands be so big, if not to be used on others? They weren’t exactly anthro-sized, but by now they were becoming outside the realm of average humans.

I lurch over the desk, trying to shake these thoughts out of my head. They’re not mine! This is not me! My eyes flutter shut as I try to take a few deep breaths, except every inhale seems bigger than the last. My lungs simply refuse to fill. In fact they almost seem to be getting bigger.

“Something wrong, bro?” the guy asks. His fat tongue slips out to lick his thick, dark lips. He’s lounging casually in his seat, looking completely in his element, while I dissolve into a puddle of sweat, stink, and panic next to him. “You feelin’ kinda sore? Wouldn’t be surprised. You do tend to go above and beyond when it comes to our workouts.”

I don’t dignify him with a response. Instead I get banished to my own imagination again. An image arrives in my head, of me and him, in the school weight room after class. Him, convincing me to skip chess just this once and try lifting a bit. Spotting me. Me, lifting barbells with surprising ease with him leaning over me, giving me an excellent display of his sweaty chest…

Back in reality, one of my swelling hands drifts to scratch this weird itch on my wrist, but it doesn’t seem to actually do anything. Instead the sensation seems to spread up my arm, toward my shoulder.

He watches this with what seems like casual fascination. “Lemme help you out, bud.” Before I can even figure out how to stop him, he’s on those big feet, standing directly behind me. And before I can say anything, I feel his hands on me, pressing down expertly onto my shoulders. Despite his size, he’s surprisingly gentle as he rubs nice circles into my shoulder blades, though I could do without the sweat dripping onto my blue polo. More than a massage, it almost feels like he is sculpting my shoulders with ease, and under his care, they start to swell with size. With muscle. The results of a long day at the gym. Several long days, just me and him, with me trying out the different equipment. Running laps around the track, weightlifting on the bench. Up and down, up and down.

“I keep tellin’ ya, bro,” he mutters, tsk-tsk-tsking to himself. “You gotta let me help you cool down after your workouts.” He leans to my right side and runs his thick hands across my arm, easily pressing the new muscle into it; soon there’s enough bulk to almost match my disproportionate hand. In the process, his armpit is left dangerously close to my nose, which twitches unconsciously. The concerning part is how much my arm is starting to resemble his, not just in size but in how hairy it is. Where his is dark brown, mine is black. Hair painlessly pushes out from nowhere, stacking over itself and covering my skin. “If you keep being irresponsible like this, you’re gonna end up all noodle-armed. And you don’t wanna be that again, do you?”

I shake my head slowly. He says it like it’s a bad thing, so… what if it is…? “N-No.” My voice has apparently slipped down an octave. “No, I guess not…”

His voice doesn’t come from above like before. This time he whispers to me in some strange combination of praise and seduction, directly into my ear. “Attaboy.” His breath is comfortably hot on my neck. It’s not my chest throbbing this time, it’s my… my…

“I-I think you should stop,” I mumble quietly, closing my legs, which feel strange and confined in my pants. My face flushes a deeper red than ever. I’m not even sure when, but at some point I started panting, still trying to get enough air into the giant empty halls of my lungs. It’s not just his smell in the air anymore. Somehow my nose is able to distinguish between his scent and a new one, one just slightly less potent yet just as firmly male.

“No way, bro,” he teases, switching over to my left side. “Let your bro help you out, kay? Quit worrying!” I look at the results on my right arm, which is so huge now that the fabric on my shirt is starting to strain near the shoulder. Even now, corded with muscle as it is, I still feel it throbbing, pulsing with even more power. I could shove a kid into a locker with this thing. I could completely smother his face with my sweat-stained pawpad until he begged for air, or crush his glasses with ease. What could he do to stop me?

That thought sends another electric pulse between my legs. Nothing, I realize, almost feeling giddy. He couldn’t do anything to stop me. I gasp, drool leaking lazily from my mouth, as I feel myself really starting to get, well, excited. It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt, though. Every throb is stronger than before, taking up more of my attention. And instead of just stopping when it reaches the usual full mast, it just keeps going and going. It’s sliding down my leg, lazily drooling pre.

“Gotta say, though. It’s real cool how the Principal made that new policy.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a dark tunnel. And I feel like I’m slowly walking toward him. “Any kid caught messin’ with other kids has to join a sport. Smart, right? Bet that’s the one rule you don’t mind.”

My teeth gnash together as pain shoots up from my feet. “God, w-wh… what the…?” I manage to free myself from his grasp and reach down for my shoes. I fumble with the laces with my sausage fingers. Gah, stupid me, I’m always putting them on too tight. Always thinkin’ most human shoes can fit me. I should know better… But my fingers are too huge to manipulate the laces. As I struggle to loosen them, the sound of fabric tearing leaves me speechless in relief, cockiness, and even some more arousal. My toes, fatter than ever, force their way out the torn wreckage of my pricy dress shoes, bursting through like water through a collapsing dam. I manage to kick one shoe off in time, but the other crumples like paper against my swelling foot. My feet aren’t just long, they’re widening. Thick enough to crush a human and hold ’em down, I mumble to myself, and I find myself chuckling lowly at the prospect, a small grin on my face.

Much like my hands, my feet are quickly engulfed in a sea of fur, which obscures my skin like a rainforest canopy. More foreign thoughts and memories rush into my head the more I stare at these things. The last game of the season; our team, composed solely of wolves and dogs, versus humans from another school who were scrawnier than freshmen. They looked scared.

“You remember getting that touchdown, don’t you, big guy?” the voice above me prods. He’s back to simply rubbing my shoulders, seemingly content to let my mind whisk me away. Strangely his voice doesn’t sound as unfamiliar as it once did. And indeed, I do remember. Like it was yesterday. Maybe it was. I can see myself catching the ball in these sewer grate-sized hands and taking off on the largest pair of paws on the field. Leaping over the opposing team with ease and landing in the endzone. The crowd going wild, cheering my name over and over. “An-tho-ny! An-tho-ny!”

The vision fizzes away as I watch those paws now, by far some of the biggest ones in the school, throb with size, with power. The cold linoleum floor complements the boiling heat I’m feeling in these things. Rubbery pads swell on the tips of my feet, each the size of a regular person’s hand alone, while my heel starts to elongate, feeling like a sore joint is finally getting eased. In seconds they look like a bloated version of my buddy’s. Whenever I look down at the parts of me that have changed by now—my massive hands and paws, bulky arms and thighs—some part of me wishes others were envious of them.

A new vision takes the place of the old one, so vivid I can almost actually feel the grass between my fat toes. I seem to be back at the same game, but something’s different. I see myself on top of someone from the other team. Sprawled on his stomach on the field, each struggle to get out from under me only made my grip on him tighten. The more time I spend in this vision, the more it starts to feel familiar. This guy under me had been unlucky enough to be the kid holding the ball when I tackled him. I brought him to the ground with a body nearly three times his size. And of course, once he was under me like this, the more basic instincts hidden in all of us bubbled to the surface of my mind. Soon there I was, humping this kid in the middle of the field, in front of a silent, enraptured crowd. I was pressing my body against his, letting out these deep grunts and growls. Goo-like drool dripped onto his neck. In front of us, my teammates simply grinned at each other in a way that even my lust-addled brain interpreted as nothing but sheer praise. They were proud of me. I was doing the right thing. Showing him who’s boss. Pace quickened, growls loudened. My fangs, sharp enough to draw blood and then some, sank into his neck like paper, and with a roar loud enough to send birds flying, I finished across his back. It took me quite a while to finally roll off of him, and after a few seconds to catch my breath, the game was back on, and the rest of the opposing team treated me very warily after that.

As the memory fades, feeling realer than ever, a dark stain is dribbling down my tree trunk leg, and euphoria has taken hold in my brain.

Speaking of my excitement, it feels nearly as thick as a baseball bat, and it’s throbbing so needily, right here and right now, that I almost start to get tunnel vision. I realize that I’m actually thrusting up into my desk, pressing my heavy erection up against the cold metal, without even intending to. And each thrust elicits a deep, rattly growl from me, much like the night on the field. My smile spreads wider across my face, which feels like it’s physically pushing forward, somehow. It’s as if my nose is starting to darken and get pulled outwards by some invisible force, followed by the rest of my face.

As my tongue frees itself from my mouth, more evidence of how unbelievably hot it is in here, my shirt finally loses the war against beef. With a loud shRRRIP! the fabric tears to pieces, mangled by mountains of muscle. No more dress code for me. Maybe they’d have to send me to detention for that next week, too. The shirt falls to the ground in sweaty clumps, the stink on it hanging in the air. I can’t help but stare at the sight of my body shifting, improving, with each passing second. One minute, my neck grows much larger, dropping my animalistic growls even deeper than before; the next, my lower belly hardens into abs that even I would lick, ones worthy of true worship and adoration; then there’s the feeling of my height increasing as I feel my ass itself throbbing with new weight, a firm pair of glutes courtesy of none other than hundreds of daily squats. The ceiling itself feels closer in general, no doubt thanks to my legs and spine lengthening.

By this point I’m so unbelievably massive that I could flatten my original body—at least, what I remember of it. I’ve got to be over 7 feet (2.7m) tall by now, no signs of stopping. And this whole time my brain’s not getting any quicker; the more I try to remember anything from my past, even earlier today, the faster the evidence that I was ever anybody else seems to vanish. And honestly, maybe I would bully my old self—or at least whatever’s left of that fucking nerd—if I could. Some weak part of my brain tries to resist the truth, but the voice is getting quieter by the second. That part of me had wasted so much time studying and reading that he’d never even thought about what else he could be. He didn’t deserve to be in control anymore.

If I could, I’d give my past self the swirlie of a lifetime. No, no, I’d hang him upside down and shake his lunch money loose. No, you know what? I’d have him suck this dick.

The dick in question finally tears free from its cloth prison. Unlike before, this time there is no vertigo when I see my pride and joy out in the open. It’s familiar. It’s mine. It pulses, hypnotically, as it seems to compete with my tongue for making the biggest mess on my desk. The slick, crimson shaft would be impossible for any human to fully wrap their hand around—hell, even my own hands only barely complete the trek. It extends up, up, up, and finds its way between my pecs.

A firm hand from behind shoves my canine snout onto the thing. My eyes flutter shut as I wrap my tongue around my shaft like a cum-covered lollipop and give myself the worship that I always deserved. Even with my own increased size, my cock is fat enough to fill my cheeks and still leave me feeling insatiable. Not that I mind; I’m always up for a challenge. “Finally, bro,” murmurs Dyl from behind, feigning impatience with another one of his trademark chuckles. “Thought you’d never show up. Go on, get in there. Enjoy yourself for me.”

I do exactly as he tells me. I’ve blown straight past merely suckling on the tip of the shaft and started actually pleasuring myself in a way I’d never allowed myself to before. Somewhere in the ballpark of three feet (1m) of thick canine cock is lodged into my muzzle, tasting as sweaty as ever, with still more simply waiting to be slobbered over. Under that, my balls, each the size of cantaloupes, throb and churn, practically yearning to get emptied. Each is both heavy and hefty, and sweat pools out of them like a running faucet. A person trapped under these things would be unconscious in seconds. Good. The idea of forcing someone to pleasure me sends jets of watery pre down my throat. Maybe I’d do that to Bradley or whatever the kid’s name was.

Behind me, a black, fuzzy string of fur pokes out from the debris that used to be my pants and underwear, wagging faster than if I’d shoved a freshman down the stairs. As my sensitive nose helps me literally get high off my own supply right now, I feel my ears starting to get tugged upwards, their shapes being contorted into triangles with tufts of white fur buried inside. They immediately flop down as my attention focuses on the task spilling out of my hands.

“Thaaat’s it, bud, just like that,” Dyl encourages, pushing me down farther. “You’ve earned it, big guy.”

He’s right. Of course I’ve earned it—just like everything else. Those trophies and medals in my room, my championship jerseys, and especially this body.

This deliciously handsome body, with its firm muscles and its fat ass, its slobbery tongue and deep voice, its swollen paws and puffy hands, its thick cock and reeking balls. It’s all mine, … mine… mine!

The sound that races out of me can only be described as a howl, even if my mouth is full. Those firm balls tense, and before I know it literal gallons of batter are pumping directly into my mouth. I manage to guzzle most of it down, rounding out those abs just a little. But before long my cock spills out of my mouth and continues shooting yet more thick, glue-like jets across the desks around me, hitting the walls and the floors with a wet splotch! I throw my head back and let the howls just keep coming. Not bothering to aim the thing, I decide to completely mark the room. Why not, right? The world is my oyster. I’ve got the whole wide world in the palm of my big, fucking hand.

I lean back in my seat, trying to catch my breath after the orgasm of a lifetime. But it isn’t long before the chair gives a death rattle and sends me clattering to the floor, left on my back in a pool of my own jizz.

“G’job, bud,” Dyl compliments, offering me a paw to stand. His hands are smaller than mine; in fact, all of him is smaller than me. The realization gives me a rush of emotions, all of them leaving my cock hoping for a round two. “How do you feel, big guy? That seemed like quite the experience.”

But I’m still a bit unsteady on these huge feet, and find myself swaying a little as I try to stand straight. I take a few uncertain steps and slip a little bit. My clumsiness leaves me chuckling like a moron. “…Yuh,” is all I can think of as a response, and that sends some more jizz pouring out of my mouth.

He laughs, which makes me laugh louder. Dyl instructs me to bend down for him, and I do so, inadvertently shoving aside a desk with my ass. He easily grips my bigger muzzle with his paw, and in short order he buries his tongue in my mouth. I let him do it, of course. He’s Dyl, my best bro! How could I not? His tongue ventures all the way around my muzzle, and he even wraps a thick leg around mine and puts an arm around my waist to hold me tighter against him.

As he breaks the kiss, dizziness almost sends me careening into another desk. More idiotic giggles keep coming out of me. Any time he’s not occupying my attention, something else is, like the sound of a car driving by or a particularly hot guy walking past. “Hold your horses, hot stuff,” Dyl mumbles with a wink. He dips behind his own desk and reaches into his bag. “Yo, catch! You’re always leavin’ your shit at my place, bro.”

Years of football and baseball gave me great agility, and the mystery object lands in my huge hands without me even needing to think about it. My eyes snap down to them like two magnets stuck together; it’s a letterman jacket, a dark red one just like his. Size XXXL. He had to put in a special order to get this made in my size. See? Told ya he was a bro! It’s even got the school’s emblem on it, too! There’s also a jockstrap that’ll probably end up as a cumrag by the end of the day, and a pair of shorts just barely wide enough for my fat thighs.

When I look back up at Dyl, he’s standing by the door, about to leave. “Catch ya later, bro,” he says with a wink, giving me V-signs.

I do the same back to him, no hesitation. “Party at my place tonight!” I add.

He beams, pleasantly surprised, as he steps out.

Now alone in the classroom, I decide to spend some more time admiring myself. Running my thick hands over every inch of my body, squeezing myself here and there. Idly tugging on my cock with a moan. I spend some time running my hands up and down all the different parts of myself before catching something out the window. Outside, under the bright blue sky, two dudes are tossing a football back and forth.

Doesn’t take me long to join ’em.

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