O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

The Pizza Guy

by z119z

Billy Harmon was not happy.

Billy Harmon stood 6 feet 2 and weighed 245 pounds. He had a 48-inch chest, a 28-inch waist, 22-inch biceps, and 30-inch quads. His hair was sun-bleached blond, his eyes were dark blue, his dentist had wet dreams about Billy’s teeth, his tan didn’t stop. His pecs were rock-hard mounds of perfection, his nips were dark chocolate invitations to nibbling. His abs were eight scallops of defined muscle. His butt was beyond bubbly. His thighs were tornados.

Billy Harmon delivered pizzas in West Hollywood. Billy Harmon couldn’t get laid.

“I just don’t get it,” he said to his friend and fellow pizza delivery guy, The Jammer. “Look at me.”

The Jammer looked. He took a second look. The Jammer looked at Billy frequently. Billy was The Jammer’s definition of Greek god.

Billy was so used to The Jammer ogling him that he paid no attention. “What’s wrong with me? I wear the tightest wet-look Lycra shorts I can stuff my perky but pendulous pubes into. They leave nothing to the imagination. You can tell that I’m uncut. If I didn’t shave, you could count every pubic hair.”

The Jammer nodded in agreement. What was under those tight shorts that caressed every curve of Billy’s groin and butt kept The Jammer’s cock at a perpetual state of countdown—a very short countdown—to blast-off. The shorts featured prominently in the many photos of Billy that The Jammer had taken with his cell phone. He had uploaded hundreds of pictures of Billy onto his computer and his phone, where they looped in a continuous slideshow.

“I never wear a top. Everybody can see what I have to offer. I’m definitely a WYSIWYG type of guy. But nobody wants it. I just don’t understand it.” Billy shook his head in frustration. “How many cocks did you get to suck tonight?”

The Jammer thought for a bit and ticked the cocks off on his fingers. He completed almost two rounds of both hands. “About eighteen, I think. I lost count when the 8:00 o’clock rush started. I stopped about 9:00. I was too full to swallow any more cum, and my neck muscles were getting stiff. I don’t like to suck unless I can give it my best. I don’t want any unsatisfied customers. Al doesn’t like complaints.”

Al was Al “Big Red” Pomodoro, West Hollywood’s most famous employer of pizza guys.

“I didn’t get even one,” lamented Billy. “At 6:00 o’clock ten orders for extra-large all-meat pizzas came in. Naturally Big Red sent me out to deliver them.”

“Naturally,” echoed The Jammer. “You’re the go-to guy for extra-large all-meat pies.”

Billy nodded agreement. “I deliver the first one. You know the Alhambra on West Allston, that fake Moorish palace that’s full of horny gay guys. Well, the guy buzzes me in. He lives on the fifth floor, and I run up the steps so that I’ve got a nice sheen of sweat on my body. I knock on his door and then step back and assume the stance, just the way you trained me. I hold the pizza box up high and off to the side so that he can get a good look at all of me. The guy opens the door, grabs the pizza box, and hands me $25. “Keep the change,” he says. He doesn’t even notice me. He’s shutting the door, and I say ‘Thanks. Is there anything else you want, Sir?’ and I thrust my groin out. I’ve got a semi. He looks at it. Then he says, ‘No thanks. There’s no way I'm going to unzip and let a handsome, well-built pizza guy suck on my dick. Now get out of here. I want to eat my pizza before it gets cold.’ And it’s the same story at the other nine places. No cocks. Just gay guys hungry for pizza. What’s the world coming to?’

“I had four deliveries to the Alhambra tonight. I had to say no to the last guy. I just couldn’t suck any more cock.” The Jammer smiled in remembrance. “The first three guys were great, though. The first one was a nine-incher, but he was thick around so it sorta made up for his shortcomings. Really a mouth-filling sausage, and hot and juicy. That’s why I like delivering to the Alhambra. The rental agent has the best taste in men. I hear you have to be at least eight inches and capable of at least three ejaculations within two hours or he won’t rent to you.”

Billy moaned. He looked at The Jammer. He just couldn’t understand it. The Jammer was a skinny little runt, bad complexion, tufts of hair growing at odd angles from his scruffy scalp. He was pallid, like he never went out in the sun. No muscles, no body to speak of, elbows that could poke an eye out they were so bony. He always wore baggy black pants and a white shirt stained with tomato sauce. He looked like he needed a shower, and most of the time he smelled like it too. And yet he got more cock than any of the other delivery guys at Big Red’s Pizzeria. It just wasn’t fair.

The Jammer sensed his friend’s distress. “Don’t worry, Billy. You’ll have better luck tomorrow. I just know it. Hey, I gotta go. One of my steady customers wants to meet. He’s a director and he’s invited me to a private viewing of the uncut version of his latest film, Defenders Seven of the Galactic Core. It’s a deconstruction of the myth of the unhappy superhero. Personally I think overdoes the pastiche and quotation technique, and I’m trying to encourage him to take a more semiotic approach to the theme. He says he’ll consider it. He claims he does his most seminal thinking while I’m sucking his cock. I inspire him, he says. Hey, I don’t want to be late. See ya tomorrow, Billy.”

Billy watched his friend hop on his rusting bicycle and ride off down Sunset, the chain rattling against its housing. A man waiting at the corner waved at The Jammer and asked if he would be working tomorrow. When The Jammer said yes, his shift started at 3:30, the man shouted, “Me first. I wanna be your first customer.”

Billy wheeled his Harley from behind the dumpster. Someone had left a Big Red box on the seat, and the grease from the pizza had soaked through. He wiped it off as best he could. No one paid him any attention as he rode down the street. He pulled up beside a great-looking guy sitting in a black Mercedes convertible at a red light. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a smooth muscular chest. The man was speaking into his phone and laughed suddenly. Billy’s groin stirred. It was a very masculine laugh. Billy revved the engine of his Harley and flexed his biceps.

“Hey, would you keep it down? I’m trying to talk on the phone here. Jeesh.” The man scowled at Billy. “Some people are so rude,” he said into his phone. “Sorry, what were you saying? No, it’s just some 22-inch biceps on a Harley. Nothing to get excited about.” Then he laughed again.

It was a dejected Billy who opened the door to his apartment. All around him he could hear the sounds of late-night revelries coming from the other apartments. Groans. “More, more!!” Moans. “Oh god, you are so great.” Excited shrieks. “Yes, yes, yes.” And the dying fall. “No, no, no more. I can’t take any more. NOoooooooooo. Too big. It’s too big. Oooooooooo.” Billy had to take a cold shower, a very long, very cold shower.

Billy was still dejected the next morning. He turned on his phone to check his messages. Big Red wanted him to work a double shift for the next three days. One of the lunch guys had been hired to star in a porn movie. A customer of his had come to appreciate his talents—“he said there’s something about the way Luciano delivers a pizza,” texted Big Red.

“I might as well,” thought Billy. “The unluckiest pizza boy in America, that’s what I am. At least I’ll earn more in tips.”

He scrolled through the rest of his messages. They were all junk and spam. He didn’t need a bigger cock. He needed customers who wanted to feed him their cocks. He almost erased the last message without much thought. His finger was poised over the delete button when the headline broke through his consciousness.

“Pizza Boy Supplies.”

He opened the message and read it.

“Are U frustrated? Customers not getting U down? We have what U need. www.pizzaboy.com.”

“Sure. You have what I need. Yeah right,” thought Billy. “As if. Still, it might be worth a laugh.” Billy turned on his computer and logged on to pizzaboy.com.

“Not realizing your full potential as a pizza delivery boy? Are you the one who gets the $2 tip and nothing more? Do customers slam the door in your face? Are others getting cock while you’re left out in the cold? Find out their secret.”

“Secret” was printed in large red letters. When Billy drew the cursor over it, he realized it was a link. He clicked on it. The screen blossomed with pictures of a leafy green plant. “Incan Basil, the herb that will drive your customers wild,” was blazoned in neon purple letters at the top of the screen. Below the picture, in smaller type, the site proclaimed, “This ancient secret of the Inca nobility is now available exclusively at pizzaboy.com. Sprinkle a little on each pie, and your customers will lose control. One whiff and they unzip! You won’t be able to hold them back. The pants will come off! Incan Basil will turn you into a cockquistador. Read testimonials from satisfied users here.”

The testimonial page had hundreds of comments from gratified customers, each accompanied by a picture of the happy, smiling pizza boy.

“The wrestling team ordered fifteen extra-large pepperonis to celebrate its victory in the regionals. I sprinkled a little powdered Incan Basil on each pie just before I delivered them. The results were amazing. All fourteen team members and three coaches. I was in cock heaven.”

“I never thought I could compete with the Italian delivery boys and their humongous calzones. Now they’re asking me how I do it.”

“The best investment I’ve ever made. Forget your oven-roasted garlic. Forget your imported parmesan. Forget your artisan crust. All you need is a pinch of Incan Basil, and you’ll never ask where’s the meat again.”

“I have a 98 percent repeat rate on customers. Customers demand that I deliver their pies. They accept no substitutes. Since I’ve started using Incan Basil, they can’t get enough of my pizza.”

“Customers’ cocks just stand up and salute as soon as I open the box and let them smell that Incan Basil. They literally don’t know what hit them. I can’t recommend this highly enough.”

“I was your typical 98-pound weakling pizza boy until I discovered Incan Basil. Last month I won our chain’s national delivery boy of the month award.”

Yeah, right, thought Billy. Rotten anchovies smell better than this! He continued to scroll down the long lists of testimonials, giggling at the more ridiculous claims. At least the site was brightening what promised to be an otherwise dismal day. But his laughter suddenly died in his throat when he ran across a familiar face. “Six weeks after I started using Incan Basil on my pies, I was voted Best Pizza Guy by the WeHo Gayzette.” So that was The Jammer’s secret. The little fucker was using Incan Basil.

Two minutes later Billy had ordered the super-economy-size box of Incan Basil, “300 individually wrapped doses, enough for 300 pies.”

Using the tracking number Pizza Boys Supplies sent him in an email, Billy checked the package’s progress toward him several times a day. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t arrive soon enough. Every evening as he delivered Big Red’s pies around West Hollywood, Billy grew increasingly frustrated. The customers grabbed the pizzas out of his hands, threw the money at him, and slammed the door in his face. None of them even looked at him.

One morning the tracking site finally showed the package “out for delivery.” Billy waited anxiously in his apartment. He was so agitated that he had to do 500 sit-ups to calm himself down. It didn’t work. Half an hour later, he did 500 push-ups. He kept pulling the curtains back and checking the street for the delivery van. Finally his vigil was rewarded. His doorbell rang. He flung the door open. He was so excited that he paid no attention to the tall dark handsome delivery man lounging invitingly in the doorway. He hastily signed the electronic pad that the guy held out, grabbed the box, and shut the door.

Billy ripped off the packing tape off the carton and pulled back the flaps. There it was. The super-economy-size box of Incan Basil. He lifted it out. The picture on the container showed a dazed-looking hunk holding a slice of pizza. His skimpy shorts were tented, barely concealing an erect ten-incher. Luckily the lid was tightly taped shut, or otherwise Billy would have opened one of the individually wrapped doses of Incan Basil and sniffed deeply of the contents. If he had, this story would have taken a very different course.

Plastered across the top of the box was the warning “Caution. Read instructions before opening.” Billy sat the box carefully on a table and searched through the shipping carton for the instructions. The pamphlet was at the bottom, along with a small brown bottle labeled “inhibitor.” The instructions were quite long. The first few pages were devoted to the manufacturer’s disavowal of responsibility for any accidents that might result from misuse of the product. “Use only as directed” was printed in bold red letters across the top of the first page. That was all the further Billy read of that section. He paged quickly through the pamphlet until he found the instructions for using the product.

The directions were quite simple. To prevent misunderstanding, they were also well illustrated.

1. “Using the applicator supplied with the small brown bottle, place one drop of the inhibitor on your tongue. This will keep you from succumbing to the effects of the Incan Basil for a full eight-hour delivery shift. Do not expose yourself to the herb without taking the inhibitor first. Warning: Inhibitor is effective only for eight hours. Repeat at the end of eight hours if working a double shift. For maximum effectiveness, do not apply until just before your first delivery.” In the accompanying picture, a cheerful, fresh-faced, clean-cut, healthy-looking, attractive pizza boy held the small bottle in one hand. His other hand held the applicator poised over his open mouth. A drop of golden liquid shimmered at the end of the applicator as it was about to fall on the tip of his luscious and visibly talented tongue.

2. “Just before delivery, carefully open one (1) individually wrapped dose of Incan Basil and sprinkle contents of the packet over the surface of the pizza. Note: the hotter the pizza, the more effective the Incan Basil will be.” The picture showed the pizza boy standing before a customer’s door and sprinkling a small amount of the herb over a steaming hot pizza in the delivery box.

3. “As customer opens door, lift lid of pizza box and allow him to sniff the pizza.” The hunk on the label of the container stood in an open doorway. He was bending over to smell the pizza the delivery boy was holding open before him.

4. “The customer will be ready for you within five seconds of sniffing the Incan Basil. His penis will immediately become erect, and he will become extremely horny. He will accept and follow any suggestions you have for fifteen minutes. Caution: After fifteen minutes, the potency of the herb wears off quickly. Do not attempt to prolong the encounter beyond fifteen minutes. We suggest you conclude the encounter within twelve minutes for safety’s sake. Remember to collect any money due you and to accept a large tip.” The hunk stood submissively before the pizza boy. He stared blankly ahead. His shorts were about his ankles. His engorged cock hovered invitingly before the pizza boy’s mouth. The open pizza box sat ignored on a table in the background.

Billy dressed carefully for his shift. He wore a spotlessly white wife-beater cut off at the bottom to expose his eight-pack abs. His hard nipples poked through the cloth as it stretched tightly over his pecs. A thin river of golden hair directed the eye downward across his abdomen until it disappeared under a tight red Speedo that barely covered his groin. He draped the white waist straps of the Speedo along either side of his bulging groin. Just before he left his apartment, he removed twenty of the individually wrapped doses of Incan Basil and placed them in his black nylon back pack. Then he thought a bit—it was a Wednesday. He added five more packets. Better to be overcummed than go hungry.

He was so excited about the Incan Basil and so anxious to try it that he arrived at work fifteen minutes before his shift was due to begin. He grabbed the first available pie as soon as Big Red closed the box and rushed off to deliver it. He knew the evening would be lucky as soon as he saw the address: Apartment 415, The Alhambra.

Outside the door of Apartment 415, Billy placed a drop of the inhibitor on his tongue. Then he removed one of the packets of Incan Basil from his back pack. He opened the pizza box, tore the packet open, and sprinkled the green powder over the pizza. The aroma was enticing. Earth tones with a hint of fruitiness and a suggestion of lavender and mint. He rang the bell. “Big Red’s Pizza,” he called out.

“Perfect timing,” said the tall handsome hunk in the doorway. “I just got out of the shower.” His hair was still tousled and damp, as were the hairs that covered his broad chest and his narrow abdomen. The towel wrapped around his waist did little to conceal his other assets. He smelled of soap and all things good and wonderful.

Billy opened the pizza box. The tall handsome hunk took the invitation and bent off to take a whiff. “Oh, that smells divin . . . ,” he started to say. His eyes glazed over and his body stiffened. Billy had to jump back as the tall handsome hunk’s eight-inch cock shot out, knocking the towel to the floor.

“Step inside, Sir,” said Billy. The hunk complied. Billy closed the door. It was, he decided, best not to overdo the first blow-job of the night. If the Incan Basil worked this well on everyone, he would need to pace himself. “Ten minutes,” he instructed his now-compliant customer. “Cum in ten minutes.” Billy knelt and took the hunk’s engorged cock into his mouth. Heaven, I’m in heaven, he thought. He licked its entire length. He took it slowly into his mouth, savoring every inch as it glided in and out of his mouth, across his tongue and down his throat. The cock was still succulent and moist and smelled of soap from the shower the guy had taken. Billy moaned. He groaned. His heart raced. His pulse pounded. He trembled. He quivered. At ten minutes on the dot, cum gushed out of the hunk’s cock. Billy swallowed every bit. He squeezed the last few drops out of the hunk’s cock and licked them off the tip of his still tumescent prick.

Billy stood up. “Enjoy your pizza, Sir,” he said.

“Yeah, I will,” said the dazed-looking hunk. “Here’s your tip.” He handed Billy a twenty.

On the way back to Big Red’s, Billy thought about the encounter. Something was missing. The cock was fine, but the guy hadn’t shown any enthusiasm. He had been like a mindless zombie, a will-less statue.

For his next delivery, Billy instructed the man who opened the door to be “very verbal” in his appreciation. The man followed Billy’s instructions. “Oh god, you’re the best, the absolute best. Oh, oh, you’re the best pizza boy I’ve ever had,” he panted in between moans and cries. His shouts could be heard for a hundred yards. He was screaming by the time he came.

When Billy emerged, there was a crowd of neighbors waiting on the sidewalk. “Say,” said a rugged-looking muscle-bound body builder, “do you have a card? I’m inexplicably hungry for a pizza tonight.” Billy handed out several dozen of Big Red’s cards. Everyone wanted one.

“What’s your name?” asked a man whom Billy recognized as the star of a TV cop show. “I want you to deliver my pizza personally.”

When Billy told him, all of them repeated it several times so that they would not forget it. As he rode off, he could hear them chanting, “Billy, Billy, Billy. We want Billy to deliver our pizzas.”

On the third delivery, an extra-large all-meat special to Apartment 415 at the Alhambra, Billy got the instructions just right. He ordered the man to be enthusiastic but in a restrained way. “You,” Billy told him, “are about to have the best blowjob you have ever had in your life.” By the time the man orgasmed, shooting a pint of cum into Billy’s happy mouth, he was prostrate and incapable of speech. After Billy left, the man spent more than an hour moaning mindlessly. His first act after he recovered was to call Big Red’s and order another pizza. He begged Big Red to let Billy deliver it. It turned out that the rental agent at the Alhambra did require the tenants to be capable of three ejaculations in two hours.

It was a good thing Billy had decided to take the extra five packets. He needed them all. It was a very busy evening for him. His last delivery took him back to the Alhambra. As the door open, he lifted the lid of the box. There in the doorway were two gorgeous guys. Both inhaled deeply. Billy inspected their cocks carefully before choosing which one to suck. One was a good ten inches long but a bit on the thin side. The other was only eight inches but thick. Did he want to tickle the back of this throat or did he want to fill his mouth? He opted for the eight-incher. He ordered the longer guy to really pound his friend’s ass. The ten-incher immediately rammed his obedient cock deep into the eight-incher’s body. Billy opened wide and swallowed the eight inches. Each time the ten-incher thrust, the eight-incher’s cock was pushed deep into Billy’s throat. Both the ten- and the eight-incher came as commanded after twelve minutes. It really capped Billy’s evening for him.

It was a tired but satisfied Billy who climbed the stairs to his apartment that night. At a very conservative estimate of an average of seven inches of cock per customer, he figured he had sucked 175 inches or about 14.5 feet of cock that night. Twenty-five loads of cum sucked down his throat.

Over the next several nights Billy refined his technique. Each of his “special” customers was so compliant and so willing to do exactly as Billy ordered that he was spurred to try new and different things. In order to keep himself from growing blasé, Billy had to vary his instructions from one man to the next. The traditional position of kneeling before a standing man and sucking his erect penis made his knees sore after about the tenth person. To save himself from developing pizza boy’s knees, he sometimes reclined on the floor with the customer doing push-ups over him, with his erect cock plunging in and out of Billy’s mouth. Or, depending on the height of the customer and his furniture, he might lie prone on a bed or a table with his head over the edge and the customer standing erect and his cock penetrating Billy’s mouth horizontally. Some guys he froze into a statue and then sucked them like a vacuum cleaner. He commanded other guys to face-fuck him frantically, their thighs and butts heaving as they strove to thrust their cocks deep into Billy’s throat. One night toward the end of his shift, he got bored. As soon as the guy sniffed the pizza, Billy ordered him to come. The man’s jism immediately spurted through his pants. Billy licked it off the fabric.

Billy bought a small notebook and kept track of the cocks worth sucking. He noted down the addresses of customers who were unworthy of the Incan Basil. He didn’t want to waste any on inferior cocks. He also learned to suggest to spectacular cocks that they order pizza frequently and remember to ask specifically for him. Billy was quickly becoming West Hollywood’s most popular pizza deliverer. Al gave him a raise and promised to cut Billy in on a percentage of the profits if he agreed not to work for another pizza parlor.

The call came in at 11:30, just as Billy was about to sign out.

“Hey, Billy. Wait up. I’ve got one more delivery for you. Customer asking for you special.”

“Al, I’m tired. I’ve been delivering pizzas since 3:30. I’ve given it my all. I can’t suck another cock, I mean, I can’t deliver another pizza tonight.”

“I think you might want to deliver this pie,” smirked Al. “You know that show Chronicles of the Damned?”

“Is that the one with all those vampires and ghouls and werewolves with terrific bodies living in this creepy small town that’s always foggy and where there’s eerie music playing in the background? I think I may have watched it once.”

“Do you remember the guy who plays the leader of the werewolves?”

“Yeah, sort of. He’s the brooding, angst-ridden loner who curses the fate that makes him into a ravenous werewolf once a month, drooling over live flesh, his mammoth incisors ready to rip the throat of anyone who crosses his path, right? Big guy. Handsome face. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Huge thighs. Body to die for. Oozes sex appeal from every pore. The man everyone wants to be? That guy? I sort of recall him. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Yeah, Billy, that’s the guy. Rubio Sololobo. He lives at the top of Mulholland. He wants an extra-large all-red-meat special, no chicken, and he wants you to deliver it. He says he’ll give you a huge tip. Wants to meet you. Heard all about you from his friends.”

Billy’s cock sprang upwards. Rubio Sololobo! He felt weak. That gorgeous slab of manhood wants me, he thought. He tried to remember. Was there still a packet of Incan Basil left in his back pack? Had he used all fifty he had brought with him tonight? “Let me check on something,” he called out to Big Red. He turned his back and quietly unzipped his pack. Yes, luckily there was one dose left. Just enough to do Rubio. “Ok, ok, I’ll go,” he said nonchalantly. “Just this once, as a special favor to you, Al. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” He placed a drop of the inhibitor on his tongue. It wouldn’t do to succumb to the Incan Basil at the same time as Sololobo.

Al smirked at him. “Yeah, I really appreciate this, Billy. You making time for Rubio Sololobo. I know you’ve got more important things to do than to deliver a pizza to Tinsel Town’s stud muffin of the moment, star of a hit TV series and boffo box office at the movies. Here it is. One extra-large all-red-meat pie, hold the chicken. See you tomorrow. That is, if you’re still willing to associate with us little people. Ah, Billy, to be young again and a pizza boy. The stories I could tell you.”

Big Red didn’t get a chance to tell his stories that night. Billy was already half a block away, racing toward Sololobo’s mountain-top aerie on Mulholland Drive. A little after midnight, Billy pulled his Harley up before a gated driveway leading up into the hills. Behind him, the lights of Los Angeles stretched to the horizon. He pushed the buzzer on the gate and spoke into the intercom, “Billy from Big Red’s, with an extra-large all-red-meat, hold the chicken pizza for Mr. Sololobo.”

In reply, the gate clicked open. Billy eased his motorcycle into the driveway and then closed the gate. The lock snapped shut with a solid thud. The road wound back into the hills, much further than Billy expected. Who would have thought there was so much open land in this area? Off in the distance, coyotes howled. The wind suddenly grew chill as racks of clouds streamed inland, and Billy wished that he had a jacket to cover his naked torso. When he had traveled about five miles, he spotted the lights of a house built against the side of a hill. He stopped and took the final packet of Incan Basil from his back pack and sprinkled it over the pizza.

When Billy reached the house, the door was open. “Come on in,” a deep resonant manly voice called out in response to his knock. Billy’s groin stirred. It was as if the voice were caressing it with the promise of sensual overload. Billy walked down a dark corridor toward the source of the voice. He held the top of the pizza box with one hand, ready to flip it open and give Sololobo a whiff of Incan Basil. The lights in the hallway flickered out. There was a reddish glow at the back of the house. Billy walked toward it. “Mr. Sololobo, are you there?”

A low growl was his only answer. “In here, Billy. Come toward the light.”

At the end of the corridor, Billy found himself in a large room, lit only by the flames of a fire. “Put the pizza down anywhere, Billy.”

Billy flipped open the box and held it out toward what he thought was the general direction of the voice.

“Mmm. All red meat, as ordered. And is that Incan Basil I smell? Are you pizza boys still using that? You must not have read the warning notices very carefully, Billy.” A shadow detached itself from a dark corner of the room. A hulking giant loomed over Billy and took the pizza box from him. “They clearly state that Incan Basil does not work on werewolves.”

“But you’re not a real werewolf, Mr. Sololobo. You only play one on television.” Billy wondered what had gone amiss with the Incan Basil.

“Haven’t you heard of typecasting, Billy?” Sololobo chuckled to himself. A stray beam of red light from the fire sparkled at the end of one of his dog teeth. It looked like a drop of blood. “But don’t worry. It’s not that time of month. That’s not until next week. You’re safe—for now. I may nip and nibble a bit, but I won’t eat you.”

Billy became aware that Sololobo was naked. His body was covered with thick black hair, like a coat of fur. As Sololobo turned away to set the pizza box on a table, there was a dark flash near his buttocks. “What’s that?” asked Billy. It had looked like a tail, but that couldn’t be right.

Sololobo smiled at Billy. His teeth were suddenly more prominent and sharper looking.

“What’s happening to your teeth?”

“They get longer when I become aroused. And I am becoming aroused, Billy. The reports don’t do you justice. It’s no wonder Big Red’s pies are so much in demand.” Sololobo drew a paw, no a hand, across Billy’s naked chest. “Hmm, how hard you are, Billy. Do you have sensitive nipples?” He tweaked one of Billy’s nipples and chuckled when Billy gasped in delight.

Sololobo’s laugh was cold, but it stirred something primeval within Billy. Something dark and sexual deep within his soul awoke. Emotions that he hadn’t known existed, that he had never felt before, surged throughout his body.

“Now, Billy, I want to introduce you to a special herb of my own. It’s much better than Incan Basil. It’s called Tasmanian Wolfsbane. Traditionally it was thought to repel werewolves, but actually its powers are quite different.” Sololobo opened a small ivory box and held it under Billy’s nose.

The scent inflamed Billy’s mind. His senses were on fire. He felt dizzy and faint. Sololobo caught Billy’s swooning body in his strong arms and carried it to his bed. With one slash of a claw, he tore the shorts from Billy’s body and tossed the shreds on the floor. “Now you are mine, Billy. And you will find that, unlike Incan Basil, the effects of Tasmanian Wolfsbane are permanent. Just open your mind to me. Open your body to me. Relax and enjoy.”

Sololobo’s voice echoed within Billy’s soul. He suddenly wanted only to obey and submit. More than anything else, he wanted to please the werewolf. The moon rose and shone through the open window beside the bed. Its light turned Sololobo’s pelt to a fluid quicksilver flood washing over Billy’s body, sweeping Billy before it in a torrent of lust and lubricity.

Billy was caught in the werewolf’s powerful arms, pinned down to the bed by the superhuman strength of the werewolf’s body, his legs pushed apart by the werewolf’s thick hairy thighs. Sololobo lowered his mouth to Billy’s right nipple. “The first bite of the pizza guy is always the best,” he said. “When your mouth is fresh, every flavor and every smell stimulate it. The aroma of your meat is so strong, Billy. It makes me forget my resolution to diet. Oh well, I’ll run for an extra five miles tomorrow to make up for tonight’s indulgence.” Sololobo’s sharp teeth nibbled at Billy’s flesh and then penetrated it. Billy moaned. His will was weakening. All he wanted was to be possessed by Sololobo. He could not resist. The werewolf’s cock pressed insistently against Billy’s perineum. Billy lifted his legs and elevated his butt. With a savage cry, the werewolf thrust into him.

In one small corner of his mind, Billy knew that he was fucked—in several ways. The Tasmanian Wolfsbane had made him into Sololobo’s helpless toy. Yet he also wanted more than anything else to be Sololobo’s toy. Sololobo’s cock swelled within him, his hard muscular groin pounded against Billy’s ass. Billy’s butt and ass quivered and gave way before the savage assault. Waves of heat washed over Billy, destroying his will. Billy surrendered. He wanted only to be penetrated deeper, harder, longer.

Two hours later, as Sololobo climaxed, his sperm invaded Billy’s body. Sololobo’s werewolf DNA merged with Billy’s human DNA, overwhelming it. A transformation swept over Billy’s supine form. He could not resist it, indeed did not want to resist it. He welcomed it joyfully. A dense pelt of glossy blond fur erupted all over his body, and his legs and arms narrowed. His hands became paws, his fingers claws. His jaws and mouth lengthened into a muzzle, and his nose grew black and wet. When the change was complete, everyone within five miles of Sololobo’s den was startled awake by the howling of two wolves.

Billy the Pizza Guy was never seen again, at least not by anyone other than his new master. When Sololobo next appeared, he was accompanied by a dog, a gigantic wolfhound. Man and beast were never separated. The dog, who answered to the name of Billy, was noted for his steadfast devotion to his owner.

END

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