Early morning sunlight streamed in the window when I opened my eyes. A turn of the head confirmed that Terri was not there. The same with Britney. I rolled sideways to look over the edge of the bed — no one down below, I was alone. Next I craned my neck to check the state of my furry abdomen. Gone, just the normal hairs I’d always had. Had it all been a dream?

No, because dried milk and cum were all over the ceiling, and the sheets, and me. Gort and Data lay abandoned on top of the sheets, all covered with… stuff. It hadn’t been a dream. I’d had one while sleeping, though, a powerful dream, unusually vivid. I lay my head back and shut my eyes, trying to remember.

I’d been sort of floating, looking down on a scene where a shimmering coyote/man/god made of thousands of burning stars somehow sat before a celestial computer monitor. He was busy compiling a list of sexual fetishes, all alphabetized by their technical names. I could remember three early ones: Amaurophilia, aquaphilia, autonephioplia. I didn’t even know what those meant, and there had been others, thousands or perhaps tens of thousands of others. He saw that I didn’t understand and placed them into a program where the fetishes were alphabetically re-categorized into layman’s terms: Sex with actors, sex with adversaries, sex with advertisers, sex with alligators, sex with altruists, sex with ambassadors, sex with ambulances, sex with angels, sex with animals, sex with asteroids…

He turned his huge starry head in the dream, looking up at me with this incredibly lusty expression. I noticed for the first time that he had a hard-on, a vast burning cosmic hard-on, and I suddenly understood: It was mating season in the heavens, and Coyøtl Major needed to get off. But being the trickster he was, he was less interested in finding a suitable starry mate than screwing around with others — in fact, spreading perverted miseries and getting off were synonymous to him.

And he would get off, for decades to come. Through me.

That was all I could remember of the dream, except for the feeling — very strong — of utter chaos and doom.

My heart pounding, I climbed down the ladder, checking in the bathroom to see if either of the girls might be there. I found all of my robot collectibles gone — Britney might be back in her dorm right now, deliriously stuffing them into her cunt, one by one.

Which wasn’t exactly normal. And neither were lactating tits when a girl wasn’t pregnant. I didn’t know jack-shit about sex, but I knew that.

I wanted to know if Terri was okay, and reflexively called her dorm. Twice I got a wrong number, even though I knew I’d punched the right buttons. It was him, making things hard again. I needed to think, but even more than that I needed to wash all of this caked mess from my body and face. The hot water didn’t work in my shower — the fucker really was asserting himself, even in his state of astrological horniness. Before enduring an ice-cold scrubbing, I took a spray-bottle of disinfectant and a washcloth to my computer monitor, and wiped the smug coyote face off the screen and out of my home. The computer wasn’t glowing or anything; even so I had this urge to take a baseball bat to it. But the problem wasn’t the computer — objects were just tools, vehicles of ruin one-step beneath me on the cosmic scale. The real problem was that damned coyote constellation, and the way it had of using me.

The water in the shower was fucking freezing, shocking my brain into understanding what had happened last night. My cock looked normal now, even when I stroked it to hardness. It must be at his discretion, then, at what times or circumstances my equipment took on some of the coyote’s size and characteristics. Last night I’d definitely had a partial canis-cock, and I’d blown coyote loads. And with Britney’s tits going all impossibly lactose…

Shit shit shit. Britney had been led — perhaps hypnotized — into opening the window, just so countless particles of magical cum and milk could float out into the night. The Trickster had tricked us all into spreading his influence far beyond anything I’d experienced before. People wouldn’t even have to be near me to attract bizarre misfortunes. Chlorine gas was the least of our troubles as an ill wind of an entirely different order was blowing through town.

I plugged in my computer and it worked completely normally. A quick visit to the school website told me that classes weren’t cancelled — the train crisis had passed. Next I tried to go to that infernal CoyoteTrickster site. I knew the web address — I’d seen it up on the toolbar above the strange overlapping text — but it proved an unreachable destination by conventional means. The message really couldn’t be any more clear: “Don’t call me, I’ll call and fuck with you.”

I had a nine a.m. biology class, and I wondered if I should even try to attend. I’d chosen forensic science as my major — I figured I might work in a morgue some day, where there were few living people to harm — but the problem was the science lab, which I’d been barred from ever entering in high school. With bad luck hanging around me like a silent fart once again, a visit to the school’s science building could be catastrophic. Then again, maybe that kind of thinking was outmoded, now that the sperm was out of the bag, so to speak. And Terri was in my class. It was a likely place to meet up, and I really was worried about her.

I slipped on jeans and a T-shirt, and running shoes. I had a feeling I might need the quick shoes — I definitely needed some coffee. The weather outside was gorgeous — bright sun, warm air. It was hard to imagine that anything could be wrong with people wearing shorts and sandals in October. I walked the two blocks to my favorite coffee shop, and from all appearances everything was going smoothly. Students and a few professionals sat at outside tables with their lattes and cappuccinos, some talking, some reading, others engaged with their laptops.

Because my eyes needed to adjust to the dimmer light inside the coffee bar, I heard the trouble before seeing it. Women’s voices, moaning in ecstasy. I looked down in front of the counter and saw writhing movement on the tile floor, which emerged as two completely naked female bodies.

“Oh yes!” the one on her back on the bottom sighed, as the one up top… Fuck. The girl lying on the floor was the pretty brunette who worked in the mornings behind the counter. She always gave me a sweet smile when she took my cappuccino order, and I’d fantasized about her a couple of times, silly masturbatory dreams of her going down on me in a back room. The stranger above was pouring some kind of steaming coffee drink into the counter girl’s navel, her other hand flicking at her own pussy. She bent down and slowly swiped her tongue into the caffeinated belly-button, then followed the overflowing trail of hot liquid as it trickled between parted legs. At least ten customers — all female — were just standing or sitting on the sidelines, watching. No, not simply observing — they all had their hands inside their clothes, diddling some part of their anatomy. Their mouths hung uniformly open, quick breaths stirring the air like horny butterflies’ wings.

My dick surged into a full erection inside my jeans. I didn’t want it to, but both of the women on the floor were really good-looking, the sex they were engaged in hot in more ways than one. I heard a familiar sighing/howling sound outside and every hair on my body stood at attention, just like my dick. I heard a female voice cry “What the devil?”, and I rushed out to see what chaos might be unraveling. A willowy blonde at a table in the shade had her laptop lifted in the air, showing the screen to two hipsters sitting at the next table.

“My browser has been hijacked!” she exclaimed. “I can’t get it to move!”

“What’s CoyoteTrickster?” one of the guys asked. “And what’s with all these fetishes?”

Aw fuck. I told them I knew how to fix the problem and moved in for a closer look. There in the familiar slanted type were two columns of words, filling the screen. I quickly scanned: Sex with barbed wire, Sex with barbells, Sex with barbers, Sex with Barbie dolls, Sex dressed as a Barbie doll, Sex with barflies, Sex with bark beetles, Sex during Barnaby Jones reruns, Sex with Barnaby Jones look-alikes… And there lower on the screen, glowing red and standing out from all the others: Sex with baristas.

The fucking coffee girl — or should I say, fucking the coffee girl! I gazed up into the bright blue sky above, half expecting to see a passing cloud molded into the familiar shape of a coyote’s head. It was a mistake, because the girl with the computer unzipped my jeans when I looked away, grabbing hold of my dick before I could react. I tried to twist away but she held onto me with an iron grip, pulling transformed meat out into the sunlight.

“Look how big!” she boasted, holding my supernatural rod with all the pride of a fisherman with a prized catch. “And it’s furry!”

It was furry, not so much along the length of the shaft, but further onto the base than the night before. The reaction around me to this horrendous miracle was totally freaky. The men sitting at their tables didn’t even glance at me, as if my cock and the girl’s words existed in an entirely different dimension. But every female in sight turned to look, and Stepford-like they rose from their tables with drinks, forks, croissants — whatevers — in hand. Most of them were wearing sunglasses, but I didn’t need to see their eyes to know how feral they must appear. And the way they all licked their lips simultaneously, as though of one mind, made me shudder. I tried to break free of the willowy blonde’s grip again, but she held fast, both grasping and pumping my dick with her hand.

“Me first!” a professionally dressed woman exclaimed. She extended a butter knife smeared with a huge dollop of cream cheese, and brushed it along any part of my dick that wasn’t blocked by the blonde’s hand. In my peripheral vision I could see the computer screen going fucking nuts, big red words flashing like those annoying scrolling lights that advertise Lotto: Sex With Cream Cheese! it scrolled. Sex With Cranberry Muffins! Sex With Hot Chai Tea! Sex With…

I screamed and twisted again, and this time, with the cream cheese turning my dick into a greased sausage, I lurched free, and jumped over tables to escape. I huffed and puffed down the sidewalk at top speed, my furry dick ridiculously flopping up and down. Only when I was certain that I heard no pursuers did I duck into the vestibule of an apartment building, and stuff my altered cock back into its denim den.

I heard sirens, and saw two police cars whiz by. They could be responding to the disturbance at the coffee shop, or there might be dozens of similar events going on all over town. The Trickster was definitely fucking with me — it was personal, he’d made that clear — but the coffee girl had gone fetish-bonkers before I arrived, meaning that I didn’t have to be present for flare-ups to occur.

I had to find Terri. She’d taken in a giant mouthful of coyote sperm, which couldn’t be a good thing, even if she had spit most of it out. I pictured her sugar and spice features dotted with patches of brownish fur, whiskers protruding from her cheeks. I didn’t know that anything of the sort was actually happening, but that was the thing: What were the rules, or were there any?

One thing seemed certain: Men didn’t appear to be affected by the coyote’s tricks. Maybe he was narrowly heterosexual for his kind, to the point of not even sniffing the butts of any other canine constellations. Or maybe it was just that “Fetish” and “Women” had come up together this one time in the cosmic slot machine, heating my scar significantly. Perhaps in a few weeks or a few years, another spin of the cosmic wheel would have "Guys" and "Ferrets" lusting after the fur at the base of my cock.

Gathering my resolve, I slinked towards campus, trying to keep far away from any attractive women. I passed a beauty salon, and a quick glance in the window brought a vision of two young women lying naked on the floor, coloring or — barbecuing? — each other’s pubic hairs with a fevered intensity. One door down, at a small electronics shop, I caught a few seconds of a news report about some kind of deviant attacks at a nearby Unitarian Universalist church. I heard the carefully-chosen words “sexual desecration” and didn’t even want to know the nature of a fetish that could outrage a Unitarian. Authorities were attributing the current outbreak of perverse occurrences, plural, to a possible “unknown agent” released in last night’s train derailment, and classes on campus had been re-suspended until the Centers For Disease Control and the EPA gave the okay. I felt sorry for the authorities for not having a clue what they were up against, and was grew even more anxious about Terri.

I ran the last four blocks to her dorm and found the security guard on edge. He called Terri’s room and got no answer. When I asked to go up he made me sign in, which seemed standard, but wouldn’t allow me to take the stairs to the sixth floor.

“Sorry,” he said. “A girl was gang-raped this morning by a pack of accounting majors in, um... sheer nylons with their... you-know's... weirdly pierced." Somehow his gestures conveyed the information that the you-know's in question were pussies. "It all happened in the stairwell," he added. "You’ll have to take the elevator.”

Where a closed-circuit camera could monitor me, was the unspoken part of his reply. I walked over to the shiny metal doors of the elevator and tried not to panic. From my experience, elevators were one of Coyøtl Major’s favorite playgrounds. I’d only been on an elevator twice — the first time it rode up and down thirty floors half a dozen times without ever stopping, no matter how many times I pushed various buttons. The second time I got stuck in the dark between floors and had to be lifted out by a rescue crew.

My heart raced Pavlov-style when I punched the up-button and heard that "ding" when the doors opened. I pushed six and wondered if my reactions really would become more Pavlovian, since I was part-dog at least part of the time. The elevator glided past the second floor, no problem. The third floor approached and passed, and just as I began to think I might experience my first totally normal elevator trip, the car shook violently at the fourth floor, shuddering to a jerky halt. I heard odd scratching sounds against the doors, and leaped back as little shapes began to appear in the metal. It was as if the door was being punched and dented by multiple…

The doors ground open, just the littlest crack at first. I saw gleaming metallic fingers wedge into the opening, and then the doors were shoved wide by… Britney? She was stark naked, or rather half-naked, wearing an astoundingly convincing golden robot-suit above her hips that had nakedness designed into its form. She was magnificent, her athletic legs rippling down below, her six-pack abdomen and oversized boobs gleaming up above.

I felt a sudden pressure in my groin and heard a ripping sound. My cock, bigger than ever, burst right through my jeans, loving Britney’s new look. And no wonder — her breasts thrust out even more proudly than I remembered, their metallic gold surface… Wow, everything looked so real! Too real. I stared intently, and couldn’t find any seam or lip where her flesh left off and the metal began. The transition was seamless; in fact, it was gradual…

Holy crap. My dick already knowing the truth but the rest of me not wishing to believe it, I lifted my eyes and looked into hers. Her pupils dilated and un-dilated in rapid succession, with a precision that was no loner biological. The expression on her face was… unexpressive. Needing one last confirmation, I reached out a hand and thwacked one of Britney’s immense tits with an index finger. The feel and the sound was solid metal. Hardbody indeed.

Which meant this coyote business no longer needed to follow any rules of reality that I might recognize. It hadn’t been enough for the fucker to turn Britney into a collectible robotsturbator — he’d transformed her, or was still in the process of transforming her, into a living robot herself!

“Awaiting commands,” Britney spoke, her voice her own yet somehow flattened.

“Help me find Terri,” I ordered, seizing the opportunity. “She might be…”

“Unauthorized input. BritUnitOne awaiting commands.”

Aw shit.

“Received,” she said, and her nipples, or rather the front caps of her nipples, swung to the side. Without moving one metal muscle of her body, I was blasted by two streams of warm milk. The force of it punched me back against the wall and I slipped in the slick pools forming below, sliding to the floor. Britney tore my clothes off — just ripped them to shreds like they were made of wet rice-paper, and positioned herself above me, impaling her still-human pussy with my huge coyote-cock.

I struggled beneath her but she simply pressed into my chest with one hand, making it clear that nothing short of a hydraulic crane could make her move her hand if she didn’t want it moved. Her legs only had human strength, but she was athletic as hell and fucking bunny-humped me, mercilessly drawing me towards a quick explosion. I watched her calves flexing and unflexing, the shiny gold color at her waist seeming to travel southward, her exertions extending the range of her roboticized flesh. I’d never had any robot fantasies that I knew of; still, watching her turn from human form to programmable machine right in front of my eyes brought extra energy to my magical dick, and I groaned from the pressure — it felt like I was about to blow an impossible barrel-load, enough cum to fuel a car. My ass tightened and I let loose, filling Britney’s semi-human pussy with God knows what. Her lower body, especially her pussy, vibrated wildly, while everything above the waist remained calm, ordered.

I could barely see, partly from coming so hard, partly because I had milk dripping from my eyelashes again. I felt Britney release my cock from her vaginal grip and she stood, calmly walking out of the elevator. Wiping my face with my hands I got up, and crawled on hands and knees out into the hall.

Britney stood before a large window at the end of the hallway. With the sweep of one arm she shattered all the glass, and then her breasts spray-vented what must be a mixture of her milk and my cum, an enormous steaming streaming white cloud flying out to catch the late morning winds.

More coyote madness, with the capacity to spread the insanity even farther through the community. I had to get out of here, as in to the South Pole or something, or there was no telling how bad this might become. Not hesitating, I ran in the opposite direction from Britney, up the stairs to the sixth floor, hoping to find Terri. She wasn’t in her room, but two other women were, licking each other out with their bodies covered in what I hoped was chocolate sauce. Right, chocolate.

I didn’t know where to go, or where to look for Terri. I heard crunching breaking sounds coming from the stairway I’d used and feared the arrival of Britney, programmed to fuck and spew and spread coyote-chaos until my balls shriveled into raisins. I ran to the stairwell on the opposite side of the building and raced down to the lobby. The security guard either didn’t notice or didn’t care that I was stark naked — men really were worthless in the coyote’s eyes — and I raced outside, right into the central quadrangle of the campus. The women outside noticed my erect naked state, and the ones who weren’t already fucking something or someone dropped whatever they were doing, and fixed their ravenous eyes on me.

I didn’t have coyote legs but I ran like I did, dodging and weaving through outstretched arms with grasping hands. One woman in particular caught my eye — she was almost unnaturally gorgeous, her hair the color of Britney’s robot “skin”. With her svelte body sheathed in a white flowing dress, I thought she looked like an angel. No, no, not an angel, I thought, remembering how “Sex with angels” had been one of the fetishes to appear in my dream last night. The woman called out my name and I definitely didn’t know her, which made her the most frightening pursuer of all. I just fucking hightailed it, fleeing the campus for good.

I had a plan by the time I made it back to my block. My wallet and keys were gone — forever lost inside the milk-drenched elevator, lying among the soaked tatters of my clothing. I had some money at home, though, maybe two hundred dollars. I’d break into my apartment, dress and pack a small bag of clothes, and run to the bus station. The desert Southwest sounded like a good place to be. Not many people around, and maybe the Hopi knew some sort of dance that could cure me of my accursed coyoteness. If all else failed I would disappear into the open desert and try to die again.

I was terribly winded when I pulled up in front of my building. My door was wide open, which wasn’t right. Were the cops looking for me? I thought of running again but I was just too tired, and I desperately wanted another cold shower and some clothes. I approached the door cautiously, peering inside, ready for the worst.

“Terri!” I exclaimed. She stood in front of the desk, dressed like… Jesus H. Christ, or should I say, the mother of Jesus H. Christ! I don’t know where she found the garments — maybe the school’s drama department — but she looked just like one of those Renaissance portraits of the Virgin Mary, all decked out in white and blue and gold robes, with her brown hair all intricately braided and somehow given da Vinci-like delicate curls. Her glasses were history — a miracle? — and there even seemed to be a glow behind her head. It wasn't one of those cheesy toilet-seat shaped halos floating above, but a true aura of light emanating from the back of her head. It looked fucking awesome.

“Be at peace, my son,” she assured me, lifting her robes at the front. Her “virgin” pussy was clean-shaven and dripping wet, and that region of her body had its own little halo, an arc of bright light that looked like it must emanate from out her ass.

My cock instantly sprang to full furry mast. No, just fucking no! I did not have a Virgin Mary fetish — or even a virgin Terri fetish under these circumstances — and I was not going to get off from something so preposterous! But she approached, perhaps even floating towards me, because I never saw any movement that indicated the movement of her legs.

“Terri, it’s me! Max!” I cried, trying to penetrate through her weirdness.

She tilted her head to the side in response and smiled beatifically, her eyes urging me to look up and to my right. “Gentle Max. You are a true follower of the righteous path. You may choose your instrument, my son, and plug the Holy Cunt.”

The what-y what? I followed her eyes and saw something like a clothesline stretched from one wall to another, with dozens of objects attached in various ways. A rolling pin, thick long candles, the cucumber she’d wanted the night before, a wine bottle, a fat Polish sausage… Various objects to have stuffed up her pussy while she technically remained virginal, a veritable pantry-full of inappropriate masturbation toys.

I was horrified but my dick must not have been. I grew big and hard in an instant, but I wasn’t going there, no way in hell was I going to abuse my girlfriend’s privates while Coyøtl Major laughed up above getting his starry jollies.

“No!” I cried, backing up, almost to the threshold of the door. But before I could turn and run, I felt the worst pressure yet in my cock and balls, and without warning I shot a giant load straight at the middle of Terri’s robes. My spunk slid down as though her garments were made of Teflon, and congealed on the floor into the shape of a tiny coyote-man with a huge erection. Terri screamed as the cumbeast came to life and scurried under her robes, apparently climbing up her legs. I looked around the room for something I might bash it with…

And then this reaaaallllly weird thing happened. I gave up, as in I just fucking gave up. Terri fell to the floor and I could see all of this humping movement beneath her robes, but I didn’t try to save her. Her cries and moans might be pleas for help, but they really didn't sound like it. She was beyond hope — perhaps we all were — and how could I say with any certainty that what was happening to her beneath those robes should not happen? Maybe the coyote sperm would crawl inside her box and she would later give a true virgin birth. Stranger things had happened in the world and gripped the conscience of civilizations, right?

I let go. I turned away and left her there to play with the living cumyote, and took another freezing shower, washing the day from my poor tired flesh. Terri was writhing and moaning on the floor the entire time I dressed, but I remained focused, trying to see the big picture. The computer screen was practically shouting fetishes the whole time: Sex with Banjos! Sex with Bankers! Sex with Bankington!, Sex while Bankrupt! Sex with Banshees!... Christ, was there anything that somebody somewhere in the world wouldn't have sex with?

When I was ready to leave, I gave Terri a heartfelt kiss on the lips, although I don’t think it registered. And then I strode outside, holding my head high. For about two seconds. Then I ran like hell again, for the bus station.

“I need to get to Arizona!” I shouted at the old man at the ticket window. I didn’t see any attractive women around, thank God, but the sooner I was hiding on a bus the better.

“Where in Arizona?”

“Near the Hopi! Just get me near the Hopi!”

“Flagstaff?”

“That’s great!” I said, shoving my cash at him.

“That bus leaves in thirty minutes,” he informed me.

I spent the next twenty-eight minutes in the men’s room, sitting in a locked stall. I put on four pair of underwear just in case, hoping to keep my dick inside my pants at all costs.

There were hardly any other passengers when I boarded the bus, and none I thought I’d have to fear. By force of habit I sat next to the emergency exit, then thought better of it. Let me die, what did I care? I’d just fucking given up. Even my plans in visiting the Hopi had changed — I wanted them to shoot me with a silver bullet if they had any, not perform some stupid dance to cure me. I was ready for the next life if there was one, and the chance, slim as it might be, of being born again under the influence of a less fucked-up constellation.

I almost smiled as the bus backed out of its berth, and made its way along a few small streets. It was just pulling out onto the highway when I heard a woman’s voice calling out my name.

“Max! Wait! Stop!” I looked out the window and there she was, the gorgeous young woman in the white dress.

“Don’t stop!” I called to the driver, but he did. The bus just seemed to suddenly and gracefully stop, with no lurching forward from the sudden braking.

The driver opened the door and the woman stepped inside. I tried to become small or invisible in my seat but she looked straight at me, and smiled.

“Go away!” I demanded as she approached. She was probably the best-looking woman I’d ever seen and I felt my dick pressing at the layers of underwear trying to contain it.

She sat right next to me and the bus moved again, and moments later we were merging onto the interstate, heading away from town and my failed attempt to attend college.

“I’m Brianna,” the girl said. She was probably only a year or two older than me, her eyes an almost icy blue. "You can be a very difficult man to find," she added. "You're used to hiding out, aren't you?"

“Listen," I protested. "You aren’t safe here, I mean it. Get the hell off this…”

“I’m not afraid,” she smiled. "Not the least bit afraid."

Something about her demeanor put me at ease, enough that I took a good look at her without worrying that my haunted dick would explode onto the scene to fuck with us. Ideal skin, ideal lips, a slim taut waist and breasts that were plenty substantial without going too big. I thought she was… perfect.

“Look what I have,” she said, holding up a laptop.

I shrank back against the shell of the bus. She placed her black laptop on my lap, and I heard the terrible coyote cry, and there as it had been the day before: CoyoteTrickster.com: — Where Tricks Are Treats!

“Run! Please!” I urged.

She smiled again and took the computer off my lap, and placed it on hers. Almost immediately the screen went blank, and then with an eerie cry of an entirely different nature, green letters appeared on the screen pronouncing: Wiccanpedia.com — Where Spelling Is An Art!

“Holy shit,” I breathed. “You’re…”

“I think I’m here to help you,” she said. Her eyes were kind and reassuring, but they also contained fire. She lightly chanted a few words — I think they were words — and her long white dress evaporated, revealing a breathtaking body sheathed in a black latex bustier, seamed nylons with garters and shiny stiletto heels. I felt my dick standing up to beg inside my underwear, my tongue reflexively hanging out. “May I see what I have to work with?” she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer, her hands working at my zipper. She lightly snorted when she found the multiple layers of protective underwear, and quickly chanted again, causing all of the obstructing layers to vanish. Once my huge thing was out, standing coyote proud and coyote strong before her appraising eyes, she almost sang her next chant, and brought her lips to the tip, then slowly, tenderly, swallowed the entire thing.

Her tongue, of course, was pure magic, even making my scar flashed with a different kind of heat, more minty fresh this time as opposed to the usual Inquisition hot coals. As my eyes rolled from the exquisite sensations inside her mouth, I saw the computer screen change again, and there scrolling in familiar red type were the words: Sex With Witches!

Damned straight, I thought, gasping and reaching to cup two perfect breasts. I had this hopeful feeling — which was a totally new experience for me — that her luck, or failing that, her spells, would help me to see that particular fetish flashing for a very long time.