The pressure began to grind against the constrictive cloth of Chris' crotch. He fidgeted in his seat trying to push it into a less painful direction, but it seemed to want to bore a way right out by the zipper. Chris continued to hunch forward, drawing shade over his turgid shame.
Brandon moves further on to tiptoe, his ability to see being quickly edged out by Chris' impeding posture. He rubs his temple frustratedly and takes a step closer, his foot landing like a brick compared to Chris' ever softening and distracted voice.
Chris jumps, sitting abruptly up straight. Chris looks up to Brandon's eyes, which are looking down to his from just beside. A smirk raises to Brandon's cheek, just as his eyes shift back forward beyond to the table. In Chris' mortified mind, he perceives Brandon's friendly voice sliding out slowly.
"Sorry man," His eyes momentarily flick down again to Chris, "didn't mean to..." His eyes turn up slightly, aimed directly down Chris' body. "startle..." Chris' heart pauses, as a queer expression drops down from Brandon's brows. Intense pressure wins over the zipper, springing his tented boxers past. Brandon's last word falls flatly, "you."
Chris' hands clamped down around his cock, the harsh fast contact gives him a pleasant shiver. He leans forward, spouting and exclaimed, "Fuck!" Spinning a concerned stare to Brandon, Chris begins to mutter an apology. "I'm so sorry, Brandon." Brandon was stumbling back slowly, his shocked expression being replaced with concern and confusion. "I don't know what came over me. It just.." Brandon's hands unexpectedly dove into his pockets, and his cheek flushed red. "happened, and I couldn't get it to stop."
Chris spun himself back forward, his cheeks burning, his gut wrenched. He clamped a hand up into his hair then release to hit his forehead. His eyes drifted down into his crotch, his clamped hand releasing the now sticky wet cloth that clung around his still fiery hard member. Chris sniffed back a weepy wet breath then turned a timid eye to Brandon.
Brandon stood panting. His expression was unreadible, shifting over dozens of expression in moments. Chris couldn't read anger, but at times he thought he saw concern while others sadness or an intensity almost looking like lust.
Abruptly Chris' gut twisted tight, tilting him over into his lap. His weight shifted out over the edge of the chair, and he and the furniture turned down to the floor. A twisting pain pressed down at the base of his spine. He cried out a quick sharp screech. He looked back for the cause, but the chair was collapsed over his waist. He motioned to push it off, but he found his body constricted still.
Brandon's mind rolled over the image again. He saw Chris wriggle on the floor, his body rigid. Brandon's conscience prayed Chris was caught in a seizure, thinking it somehow better then what was likely happening. Brandon heard the snap of folding elastic fabric, likely the band of an undergarment. He leaned forward over Chris, who's eyes helplessly gazed frightened upwards to him. Brandon pushed off the chair, unveiling the proof of his fears, an extra appendage, a fluffy white tail.
Chris followed Brandon's narrowed gaze to where his spine stung. A patch of white fluff stuck out from between his shirt and pants. He wondered what he had sat on right until it twitched. Then he realized he felt it twitch, much like you'd feel a toe twitch. Brandon's hand moved into view, falling down to tug the fabric of the shirt. The shirt rose. Chris saw his back, what should have been his back, come to view, a carpet of short white hairs. Chris turned his head forward, shrieking out a muffled cry through his clenched jaw.
Chris looks upwards to Brandon's towering body. Chris could see something change in Brandon, his expression became intent on him. A groan rasped out across his cords. Brandon's body shuddered and his body shifted it's weight somehow, the slack around the legs lessening.