(Quick Scene) Hedonrir, Alpha of The Howl

(Disclaimer: Any acts of transformation, expansion, or mental altercation have been consented to by the owners of the characters affected. Any acts depicted are meant as explorations of the fetishistic psyche, hold artistic merit, and are compliant with the TOS of Patreon).

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"Boss. He's here."

 The boss was bigger than anyone I had seen in my life, and I had seen a lot of people; I was a habitual traveller, with more stamps in my passport than hairs on my head. So if anyone asked me about when I say the Hedon Hounds alpha was enormous, I felt like I would have the credentials to back it up.

He sat on a throne of twisted metal, made comfortable by tyres and fabrics layered over the seat. He occupied it with his legs wide open, parted not by choice, but necessity. There was no other way he could exist in a seated position with the obscene blue shape between his massive thighs, a set of phallic balloons, subtly fighting for space beneath the strained, shiny envelope. 

 His boots were black and polished to a mirror sheen, two more Hounds were knelt over them, running large clothes over the leather and whistling a happy tune. It was then my eyes widened, and I realized, that both attendants were average sized - around my height - and yet the boots were easily big enough to crush them under heel. 

My earlier thoughts on the alpha’s enormity, already hyperbolic in nature, felt inadequate.

Besides his impossibly straining thong and boots, he wore an open black leather vest frayed at the edges. Prismatic spikes festooned the shoulder pads, his wrist guards, and ankle bands. 

I expected him to wear a harness, like Tungsten and the other great riders of The Roads. Instead, he wore a set of dog tags, made from the same rainbow metal as his spiked accessories. 

His face was obscured by a thick vaguely canine mask, softer looking than his leather, but still resilient in its construction. It was set apart by how it's seams were trimmed with more of that rainbow metal.

He spoke, in a voice that was too deep to be human. "Welcome to my den, friend," he made a gesture with one hand to a Hound by the bar to bring me a water. "You must be thirsty, while I do what I can to keep the den comfortable, I can do nothing about the aridness of The Roads, so feel free to drink as you like".

I could see nothing of his expression, only the faint twinkling of red eyes behind a mask. But the way he spoke conveyed a welcomeness I had not felt in a long time. He was like a magnanimous, kinky emperor. And I was his guest of honour.