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Sick As A Dog

He wakes up sweaty, head throbbing. A sneeze's ache pulses in his nose, but it stubbornly refuses to come out. His vision's too blurry to read the time on the nightstand's alarm clock. Groaning, he prays he'll be allowed to go back to sleep once he shuts his watery eyes: he's not that lucky.

Kicking feebly tangles up the blankets: his legs aren't working right, and now they're itchy. The image of the fabric softener bottle flashes into his mind. "Did I use it?" he thinks, grunting as he wipes the sticky mess of sweat and drool from his bristly face, adding to his thoughts, "Gonna need to shave before work today."

His mind lingering on work, he tries to refocus his eyes on the clock again; again they refuse. Maybe he's overslept , he proposes - it's dark out, but that's no good this time of year - and ponders calling off sick. There is something going around; there almost always is this time of year.

Squirming on the bed causes his morning wood to slap stickily against his chest. "How are you hard at a time like this?" he asks the heavily-swollen erection. Even his cock seemed sore. His shifting muscles squeezed on his bladder. "Fuck," he growled, realising he had to piss. "This's going to be fun."

Aches twinge through his whole body as he pulls himself over to the edge of the bed: some wincing cuts from an invisible knife, other menacing throbs of potentially-imagined tumours. But his bladder was groaning, and he didn't have enough time to think about it. He only vaguely paid attention to the rather unusual clack of nails against the floorboards as he pushed himself out of bed long enough to fall into the open door frame of the en-suite bathroom.

The nice silk boxers which hadn't done much to keep his cock covered up dangled around him, threatening to trip him up as he lurched forward again, catching himself on the cistern's cover. Wondering if he shouldn't have tried for the shower, he glanced up as the motion-sensitive lights finally flickered into life.

In the en-suite bathroom, the mirror stretched behind the toilet; this gave him a not-very-good look at himself. His heart started pounding, bringing a shaking hand into view. He'd woken up drunk before, and sick, and even just tired; he knew what he looked like, more or less, as a blob of colour. What he was looking at was all wrong. For one, he didn't usually have white hairs bristling out of enough of his face to make him look that pale; and with the shaggy edge to the blur and the ant-like twinges nipping over his flesh, he was pretty sure it was growing very fast and very thick. His face contorted, neck-twisting showing off how much his nose and mouth seem to be pushing out of his skull. That wasn't even taking into account the hairy points that couldn't possibly be the tips of his ears, but moved the way he'd expect them to when he clenched his aching - and unusually sharp-toothed - jaws at the latest painful jab to hit him in the face.

He'd forgotten about pissing, but his body hadn't: soon the hot stream was spraying over his toilet, splattering up against the rough, thick pads of flesh on the ends of his gnarled, distorted hands. It didn't seem to matter one bit his cock was still rock-hard, seeming unwilling to go down as icy shards jabbed into the sensitive flesh. The relief from the build-up was at least nice, and the warm, oddly-comforting scent of it against the harshness of the otherwise-clean bathroom dampened down some of the panic gripping him.

"Not possible!" he thought, staring at the curled, darkening nails pushing out of his eight elongated fingers. His tail - well, what else was he going to call the small, but growing tendril of fur and flesh dangling above his shrinking buttocks? - wagged.

He was confused; not just by the fact he seemed to be turning into a dog - some kind of husky, by the markings of his face fur - but because of his tail wagging, as though he was happy. How could he be happy?

A sudden whining pop echoed through his ears, and suddenly everything seemed louder. It also seemed to release some of the pressure in his head. What small relief there was in that was undermined by the barrage of new sounds clamouring for space in his brain. The pinpricks were in there now, making it harder to keep from panicking.

He whimpered, slipping off the toilet, clumsily falling to all fours. His stubborn tail continued to wag, cruelly mocking him as he tried to hold himself together. "Strange," he thought, canine fangs baring as he admonished himself for not paying attention to the huge alterations in his torso. He was so small now - his boxers tangled themselves between his hind legs, dragging through the urine stains on the floor, emphasising this realisation - that even the familiar things of his flat were taking on discomforting distortions. The colours were wrong, the smells were wrong, the sounds were wrong.

Far away - but loud enough to sound right in the room - a loud siren blared, startling him. tThe icicles in his mind dug in deeper. He turned, awkwardly padding towards the door leading out onto the balcony. Again he whimpered, sniffing about at all the strange things, trying to place where he was. Except for his scent in one place, everywhere else felt off.

He cautiously nosed the big thing with the puffy top: his snout sunk in, the material stretching back when he moved back. That smelled warm, at least. Tentatively, energy flowed into his hind legs, resting his forelegs on the top and pushed himself over the top until he was standing on it. His paws sunk in, bouncing around as he padded on it. Then he curled up, ears still alert in the dark.