It's when the darkness seems most severe that the storm clouds start to part and the sun starts to glimmer over the landscape. It's a scene not uncommon to literature, one that may have provided the opening image for thousands of unpublished works by now. This resonates with people because nobody goes through life without experiencing a winter to thaw out of- it may be a figurative winter, a season in a lifetime, a trial of mood that is met and conquered. Or it might be literal, evincing the real struggle against cold, one that comes on as firm and definite a schedule as the neat grid of any calender would suggest. But you don't face these winters without learning to recognize the coming of a fairer season.
On the Bright Beach will be that crisp view on the horizon, if you've been following our readings. Each story seemed a little more severe than the last. But if thousands of words of the pulpiest story we've featured yet doesn't cheer you up- go outside and get a little sun.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Meeting 004: “One Week” by Whyte Yote
Some of the best stories are simulations of the more sinful desires, and BDSM certainly falls into this category. While Whyte Yote offers up a story that is absent of the bondage or sado-masochistic aspects, he creates a story with a starkly defined dom/sub binary- and does it with a muted, even disaffected touch that enables vivid imagery. Issues of class and race (as far as they can be somehow projected upon furry animal pseudo fantasy-people, or whatever) give the story a special bite, one that can often cause conflict between writer and reader.
And for those who were looking forward to a little bondage: If I don't learn to stop futzing with my hoodie zipper during recording session, you can presume in future recording sessions that my hands are cuffed behind my back.
And for those who were looking forward to a little bondage: If I don't learn to stop futzing with my hoodie zipper during recording session, you can presume in future recording sessions that my hands are cuffed behind my back.
Text 005: "On the Bright Beach" by Kandrel
Like the last glimpse of sunlight after an Alaskan summer, the sky appeared in front of me in its amber, blue and gold glory. It was sunset, and a gorgeous one it was. The sun slowly sank, degree by degree, behind reddish clouds that studded the horizon like spikes on a collar. The rest of the sky was shot with golden streaks that matched the golden sand, upon which jade waves crashed with foam-specked waves.
In other words, it was the same sunset I'd seen last night, and the night before. It wasn't even a sunset, really, it was a composite of a thousand of the most pleasing sunsets, distilled down to their most pleasing aspects. In an hour, the accelerated day-cycle would bring the moon over the horizon, an exact forty-three percent larger than the actual moon to be visually pleasing. Then two hours later, the moon would set, and the sun would rise precisely on cue, just in time for a sunrise scene that was a composite of the thousand best sunrises and welcome a bright sunny day. That was the cycle, every six-hour day precisely on time and accurate. Day-in and day-out, four-times-a-day, as accurate as the clockwork that ran it.
In my eyes, the sunset was still beautiful. Brilliant. Inspiring, I'd almost call it, as if there were any activities it would inspire me to. Instead, I let it fill my senses, along with the crash of salt water in my nose, the breeze teasing across my ears and whiskers, and the gentle rolling of waves whose sussuration rolled over me in, well, waves, if I were to be precise.
Up and over the scrub hedge I went, taking a few seconds to re-familiarize myself with my posture. The sensation was a bit strange, a moment of body dysphoria as my brain, hard wired for two legs, was told instead that it had four. It was fed touch from over-long whiskers that played in the breeze, and smell from a nose many thousands of times more sensitive than my own. Ruddy-red fox fur pulled in a way that was only "normal" after days and weeks of familiarization. I settled into my avatar, a model of the "me" that, before the beach, had only been in my imagination. With the mental check-list of all of the limbs the system had loaned me, I scrambled up the hill.
On the apex of the hill stood a sign; a warning. The outline of a pair of pants sat in an angry red crossed circle. There wasn't much writing on the sign itself, but simply viewing it fed the rest of its message into my visual buffer. "Adults Only, under 18 prohibited." It read in bold, overlayed over my beautiful sunset. "No access to minors, you must accept the rules and policy of 'The Beach' to pass this point." Just like last night, I ignored the sign and made my way down to the far side of the hill.
The sight of the beach was always welcome, with its brickwork barbecue and solid picnic tables, and the stone pier that stretched off towards the horizon. I entered to a chorus of greetings. Loki was there, the wolf leaning with a hand on one of the brick grills and smiling a goofy grin towards me. Kiri and Ra-Shalla were there too, snuggled together on their beach towel in a chaotic medley of leopard spots and tiger stripes. Aaron was there too, flashing his blue and white feathers in a chaotic display of of recognition. Even Foriss was here tonight, the randy buck resting backwards with his antlered head digging furrows in the pristine sand.
"Foxy, over here!" The call came out from Chris. I expected to see him here. Correction: I would have been surprised if he hadn't been here. He was a staple of the beach. The otter's slinky form seemed to have worn itself into the décor, until he seemed more in tune with the picnic tables and grills than the lions and tigers that roamed between them.
Speaking of lions and tigers, one was talking to Chris today. A lion, that is, tawny with a chocolate mane that spread down between his shoulder blades and narrowed along his spine almost to the bottom of his ribcage. He was cute. Scrap that, he was more than cute. Hot. Sizzling hot, with lanky, corded muscles that weren't too blatant, and a tail that curled generously before it touched the floor, and an ass I could bounce ping-pong balls off of.
"Andy, this is Mah-Fallah" Chris smiled in his over-wide mustelid grin that crinkled the sides of his eyes and pulled his whiskers and lips up until I could see his sharp little ottery teeth.
"Nice-ta-meetc'cha" I barked out in generic greeting as I hopped up onto the nearby picnic table. I pulled up the lion's stats while I held up a forepaw. He smiled back at me and lowered his hand to take it. M'Fale was his official name (Chris had the pronunciation correct) and he was new as of a week ago.
He turned towards me and I had to struggle to keep my eyes on his face. I could see his assets, they were right at eye-level, and they were significant enough to take note. His belly fur may have been cream-colored, but the equipment dangling between his legs was shrouded in long fur as deeply brown as his mane. Stretching up from the crux of his legs was the perfect sheath, thick and long, with the trace of the interesting anatomy hidden just inside. The fur around it wasn't a modesty; it was a frame that drew the eye to his gorgeous dangling balls. I could at this point only imagine what he'd look like unsheathed, hard, throbbing and dripping, and...
And I shook myself out of my little reverie. I had better manners than that. "Welcome!" I smiled, even though I knew all that did was reveal my canines. It wasn't real fox behaviour, but we all made little sacrifices to be social and understood. "New to the beach?"
"Yeah." The lion put one hand the size of a dinner plate behind his head and rubbed, looking around with newbie's nerves. "Neat room though."
My smile waned a little.
"Nice coding, though. Looks like they did their research on that sunset." He continued. I sighed. He was a newbie, I reminded myself. He didn't know he wasn't supposed to See-The-Walls.
"The Beach," I emphasized, "is beautiful all day round. I usually find it's nicer to just enjoy it, rather than analysing how it was made."
That earned me a rather strange glance. "Sure, of course." He mumbled with a sidelong look towards Chris. The otter was smiling, but refrained from pitching in his own opinion.
I took my paw back. I didn't want this to be awkward, so I quickly changed the topic. "I'll admit, I haven't seen a lion like you before." I'd seen lions of course, but mostly they were the Standard Model. Everyone could pick to be one of the Standard Models, but most people found someone to make a custom model within a few months. On a week-old lion though, a custom model was impressive.
"A friend convinced me to join up." Ah, that would explain it. "He just logged off for the day, so I thought I'd wander and see what all the other rooms were like."
There it was again, "room". I smiled and ignored it.
"So why this secluded beach? We usually don't get folk in here without an invitation." I continued. Chris winked at me. Great, so now I was the official welcoming party.
He rubbed his chin for a moment. "Well, the description and pictures seemed pretty." He glanced around. "And, um..."
I'd been around long enough to see this before. "M'Fala, we're in an adults-only beach. We're all here for it's perks." Now I let my eyes fall meaningfully to his wonderfully sculpted crotch.
It was quickly covered by his large hands. "Um, right, but I'm not sure, now."
I laughed. He either belonged in here, or he didn't. There was no sugar-coating that. "Oh, don't worry, you're welcome to sit and watch if you don't want to join in, but the crowd gets pretty active at night. If you're not sure..."
"No, I mean..." He looked down at me. "You've got four legs. Isn't that, like bestiality?"
My friendly smile filled with ice, and behind the new lion, Chris' smirk dropped into a frown. I sat on the table and couldn't help but let out an aggravated sigh. "Nah, not in my opinion." I tried to be diplomatic. "But everyone's entitled to their own."
"Yeah, sorry." He wasn't really. He could use a lot more practice at lying with a lion's face.
"Its fine." I lied. I was good at it, and he smiled an apologetic little grin (that looked more like a snarl). Then he turned back to Chris. The otter was still frowning.
As much as I liked the lion's body, the personality had doused any lascivious thoughts, so I wandered. I didn't make it far. Strong hands lifted me and pulled me up towards a creamy white chest. I let my legs dangle. The sensation of being lifted and handled wasn't uncommon; quite the opposite, really, it was welcomed.
"Ignore him." Chris mumbled at me. I craned my head, and could see M'Fala standing alone with a nonplussed look on his face.
"Chris, I don't need coddling."
"Nope, but I'm allowed to spend some time with my favorite fox, aren't I?" he found a park bench and sat me on his lap.
I arranged my limbs and shot the otter a measuring glance. "Look, not everyone's required to have the same kinks. He's not interested, so he's not interested. It's fine. Go enjoy your chat with your new friend."
"Can't"
"And why not?"
"Got a fox on my lap."
I half lidded my eyes and settled my head in his lap. This wasn't an argument I was going to win. Hell, it wasn't worth having in the first place. I definitely wasn't going to complain about having a warm lap to occupy. Secretly, I was honored, and a little embarrassed. Chris was always too good to me.
I relaxed and started to enjoy the evening. The lion melded into one of the chatting groups seamlessly. Minutes passed, then an hour. Chris told me about his day. They'd found an anomaly today, invisible to the human eye, somewhere in the oblong rectangle formed by the big dipper. I told him about my day, the customers I'd dealt with, and the data I'd traced back to the user that'd caused it all to go wrong. We had our chuckles and laughs. Fingers stroked along my spine, and blunt claws traced circles behind my ears. In short, paradise.
Sometime during the evening, out attention was drawn by a roar off to the side. The sun had just started to rise, so it was about three hours into the night, by my reckoning. M'Fala had cleared a little room for himself and had pinned Foriss. The young buck's antlers had locked with one of the picnic tables while the lion pinioned his arm behind his back. Much to the picky lion's stated tastes, he'd found a biped, and was showing him all the enthusiasm I'd dreamt of.
Not that I needed to dream anymore. My eyes could soak in the sight of the long shaft reaching outwards from the dark furred sheath, at least as much as was still visible outside of the buck's backside. There was no foreplay, no teasing, no build-up, just an effective pin, a roar, and a thorough humping. I gorged myself on every glimpse.
Conversation with the otter cut off as my attention faltered, but there was no complaint. This was the beach. Everyone came here to have an itch scratched, no matter what enlightening conversations filled the moments before and after. I was no stranger to the rub, the touch, the prod and thrust. I rolled onto my side so my own enthusiasm wouldn't poke or drip on my otter friend, and he likewise adjusted so my head lay a few inches forward of the nest of his crotch.
The show was short, as I expected. The lion was new and didn't know how to draw it out, to work the crowd like an expert. He let out another roar and clenched himself to the buck's hips. From my vantage, I watched the lion's balls bounce every few seconds as Foriss got his prize. The crowd let out their perfunctory appreciation for the scene. I was pretty sure I caught a dissatisfied eye-roll from the buck. Yeah, the lion needed to work on his style a bit. Not that I was critiquing, no. Well, maybe a little, but I'd never share it with someone at the beach. That'd be poor manners.
"Meh. He could use some work." The chirpy voice from above me stated flatly. Except for Chris, of course. We went back a long ways, since I'd started coming to the beach in the first place. We'd watched so many couples here, wiling away the hours in the otter's lap, that all the social graces and niceties had evaporated over time. It was liberating having someone like him in which to confide.
"He's new. He'll learn."
Chris didn't respond.
If nothing else, though, the show had reinvigorated my interest in the room's inhabitants. A few more had entered the room as well, a margay that came at least once a week (both figuratively and literally) and a hare that I'd seen at least twice before was lurking near the scrub hill nervously. Conversation slowly picked back up, though a few of the other inhabitants were showing their appreciation for the show in a wholly more physical manner. Loki and Aaron were curled up together on a picnic bench, and if Aaron's hand wasn't in Loki's crotch, then you could chop my tail off and call me a rabbit. Give the lion at least this much credit, the show hadn't been spectacular, but at least it had jump-started the room's activity for the night.
Fingers strayed over my side, and smooth leathery pads rubbed over my stomach. "Hey foxy, you want to go enjoy yourself? I don't mind." I looked down. His fingers stayed an inch or two away from my own clearly visible excitement. I shivered. I could imagine them dropping just that last little bit, and the fingertips closing in a slow caress, and...
And that wasn't Chris. Never was Chris. The otter sat like the researcher behind the mirror, interested but unattainable, attentive but non-particapatory. I smiled up at him. He understood, and he'd be there after I was done. The curious tonic of anticipation and excitement washed over my mind like a warm draught, and I launched myself from the lap into the crowd, seeking my own entertainment for the night.
- - -
M'Fala was back again the next night, but after half an hour of badly disguised innuendos and a badly-placed grope, Foriss made his lack of interest clear. The Lion begged off, claiming that he had Real-Life issues to deal with, and disappeared without bothering to leave the beach. Knowing glances were passed around like cigarettes in the office, and nothing more was said about him.
Today I'd perched on one of the picnic tables, and Chris had sat himself on the bench to the side. His fingers traced lazily up my spine, ruffling my fur, then smoothing it back down with a reverse stroke. It was a feeling unlike any I'd felt before I first visited the beach and tried my own custom model. Somehow the sensations translated to something wholly unique and blissfully pleasurable, and I admit I'd become an addict.
"Good day, foxy?"
My answer was a half-engaged purr. The night was young, and I was home from work. That's good enough for me. My lips slurred just a little bit as the the fingers tickled over my collarbone. "Busy. H'bout you?"
"Stressful." He looked it, to be honest. His whiskers drooped a little, and the ever-present smirk on his face seemed just a little forced.
"Tell me?" I pleaded.
He paused for a moment, then continued. "Got word that one of our math techs is going to be leaving." I made apologetic noises. "He does a lot of good work. I'm going to need to put in a bit of overtime to make up for him until we've got someone else who's used to the numbers ready to replace him."
I gazed up at the stars. I could pick out Orion and the Big Dipper. If I stared for a while, I could pick out Arcturus. That was about the extent of my astronomical knowledge. "Show me where it is, otter? That anomaly you're working on?" I rolled onto my belly so I could easily swing my head up.
His fingers easily transitioned to rubbing over my ribs while his off-hand pointed. "Over there. It's giving off gamma readings like a pulser, but those usually only last a minute or an hour or two. This has been going on since we first started recording it two days ago." I tried to keep up with him, I really did. I'd learned more about those blazing dots up in the night sky from him than any class or lecture had managed to pound into my skull.
"Yeah, I think I caught about half of that."
"You asked, foxy." He ruffled the fur over my throat and I growled playfully. In many ways, I'd be happy to spend the night like this, good company, good conversation, and expert fingers trailing down my belly...
But Chris was too expert for his own sake. Those fingers trailed in a semi-circle around my sheath, the blunt claws stopping just millimetres from being intimate. His thumb traced around my navel, and the leathery finger pads dragged slowly along the inside of my thighs. Thin shocks of pleasure wormed their way up my spine as his hand sprawled across my belly, fingers spread to avoid my anatomy. I could feel the webbing between the otter's digits slide innocently across the underside of my sheath, and a subconscious shiver gripped me.
A tap of fur against my bare flesh made me look down, and I realized some bit of my length had slid from my sheath and was tapping every few seconds against my belly fur. I glanced in an apology up at Chris, and he shrugged down at me. Those hands, oh, and those fingers that found every little blissful spot. He avoided the red tip laying across my belly, but those expert digits kept rubbing and stroking. I realized I was panting. I couldn't suppress another shiver. Sometimes I thought he did this intentionally, made me hot and excited, when I knew for a fact that he'd never...
No, if I really didn't want him to do this, I wouldn't be laying on my back in front of him. A tease? Yes. Did he leave me hot and bothered? Yes. And I loved every second of it. Sometimes, after an otherwise uneventful night, after he'd left for the evening, I'd let myself remember just how his fingers felt. I'd close my eyes and imagine, ever touch and every stroke, and even though those fingers never touched anything truly intimate, it was enough. Sometimes I'd get a helping hand from someone else on the beach, but on those nights when my mind was running on playback, I'd imagine I could feel the webs between their fingers.
I'd never told him, though. I'm pretty sure it would embarrass him, and I didn't want that. He was too precious, too valuable to me. We were nothing but friends that met on the beach when our schedules matched, and maybe that was why he meant so much. There was no one behind the custom otter model, there was just the otter himself. I couldn't See-The-Walls, and never wanted to.
The fingers drew me back to the present, tickling up my ribcage and spreading over my collarbone. I let out a soft noise that was perhaps a bit more passionate than I intended, and he responded by ruffling the thick fur over my chest. That was his sign that he was done teasing. I rolled obediently back to my belly, and the laminated surface of the picnic table kissed my flesh as I lay my hind end flush.
"Tease." I smirked at him.
He didn't answer but to smile back, while his eyes flicked over the beach's denizens.
Another hand touched my hindquarters, heavy with thicker fingerpads than Chris. I shot a nervous glance backwards, but the comforting sight of Krytz filled my view. Chris followed my gaze, and when he laid eyes on the german shepherd that had crept up behind us, he shot me a knowing smirk, then removed his own paw in a clear release of "ownership" of the small quadrupedal fox on the tabletop. If I'd had a leash, Chris would have been handing it over.
Hmm, maybe I should get a leash.
The table shifted behind me, then wobbled uncertainly. Krytz was a big dog, and the table's four legs danced about a bit as he climbed up to its top, spreading his long legs to either side. The hand on my flank tugged a little, and a broad thumb pad pushed meaningfully beneath my tail. I couldn't suppress the groan. Chris' teasing was still fresh in my mind, and the rough prod beneath my tail immediately brought back every bit of the erotic feeling of fingers stroking so close to the bits that craved it so desperately...
"Teasing otter, fox? Room for Krytz?" The german shepherd's accent was almost too thick to understand. Chris thought that he was from one of the old Russian countries, or maybe even Russia itself. I never bothered to find out. He didn't talk much when he visited the beach, but no one ever complained about his presence. To say that he led his body talk for him was an understatement, because if bodies talked, then his sang.
I didn't bother talking. He might not understand it anyway, so I responded in the universal language of action. I pushed with my hindlegs, and my rump lifted a few inches into the air. I felt fingers tug at my tail, pulling it up and to the side, while the broad hand across my rump squeezed. The thumb pad prodded at my pucker, then pushed until it rubbed against the ring of muscles. The hand left my tail, and I obediently let it hang to the side where he'd left it.
Please, please, my body begged him, thighs quivering slightly, a soft chuff of breath escaping between my clenched jaws. He understood and acquiesced. Those rough finger tips spread themselves slowly between my legs, circling my sac and squeezing through the base of my sheath. I pushed my head down against the picnic table in response, rolling my jowls against the unyielding wood. It was perhaps one of my favorite sensations, the sensation of a hand buried between my thighs, broad fingers touching everything as they went. They teased up my length, hard and throbbing already from the otter's oh-so-innocent ministrations, and on their return journey, they pulled at my shaft and squeezed.
I almost came there and then. The touch was electric, the first clench of knuckles around my girth enough to make me bite at the air. I knew I was doing my chosen species' stereotype no favors, but at this moment in time, I didn't care. I was putty in Krytz's hands, and he was an artist in the most classical sense.
At one time, Krytz told me (in his broken English) that he particularly loved entertaining the beach's feral population. The reasons were difficult to translate. Maybe the four legs was one of his kinks? Maybe it was a challenge? Or perhaps it was just new. Whatever the reasons, he'd taken a shine to my quadrupedal shape, and each one of the rare nights he could spare to catch me on a beach was another blissful step in his ongoing education. He felt along my length with practised fingers, then squeezed experimentally just behind the bulbs of my knot. I let out a low yowl.
He seemed to understand. Hands big enough to straddle my hips latched themselves beneath my thighs, and the german shepherd pulled me back towards the 'v' of his hips. My paws dragged smoothly across the tabletop until I felt the dog's own arousal press squarely between my rumpcheeks. The tip blunted against the base of my tail, leaking slippery liquid down into my ruddy fur. Then fingers pushed at his tip. I lifted my hips a few further inches to accommodate his size. Then as the rubbery length prodded at the bare flesh of my pucker, the hands started to pull back again.
I opened my eyes. Maybe it was just instinct, or maybe surprise. No, being honest, I wanted to know if we had an audience. I wanted to see the eyes on me, their owners catching every lurid detail as the large canid's blunt tip slowly spread my ring of muscle around its girth, throbbing and spitting pre every few seconds. I wanted to experience it through their vision as my slippery flesh made way for the canid's thick cock as it sank inch by inch into my eager rump. They were there, a few of them at least, smiles on their faces and shameless arousal coloring their own bodies as their eyes drank in the sight of Krytz and me.
And there was Chris. He still sat at the side of the table, and he hadn't taken his eyes off of me. He'd be aroused, I knew it. When we watched others together, he didn't bother hiding that from me. He was, after all, just as sexual a being as the rest of us, or else he wouldn't be here on the beach. But both of the otters hands were above the table. If he was hard, he wasn't displaying it proudly like the other beach denizens were. He simply smiled at me. His hand reached out and caught one of my forepaws, holding it gently as I indulged myself.
The slide of flesh on flesh was so slick that it was almost frictionless. I could feel him pushing deeper and deeper, inch by inch. Each time I took him, I could swear he'd grown, because it seemed to take even longer than last time for my tail ring to finally kiss his knot. I opened my jaw in a silent yowl that never actually gained a voice, except for an unintentional little squeak when his length gave a powerful throb against my insides. I knew because I'd seen it that he wasn't actually much larger than average (because "about average" is about all that my diminutive form can handle) but the way he slid around inside me, it felt like he went on forever. His shaft throbbed again, and I could feel the channel that ran the length of his shaft tense in a slow wave that started at his base, then flowered at his tip as hot liquid pre splashed against my sensitive walls.
The german shepherd's broad hands cupped my belly and chest and lifted. I felt my paws lift off the table, then dangled in his hands as he let gravity sit my rump against his knot. His lower hand, the one on my belly, slithered even lower, and fingers encircled my shaft. I gave him a gasp, and he gave me a squeeze. Those hands were large enough that with thumbs touching, his pinkies could meet around my midsection. Fingers gathered my hindlegs, until my entire weight rested in his grasp. Then his hands tugged.
A yelp escaped my muzzle as his knot kissed my pucker. Then slick friction, followed by hollow emptiness. I could feel each detail of his rubbery cocktip as it kissed my tailhole, then another glorious gliding sensation as he pulled me back onto his shaft. He was holding me like a toy, a plaything. I relished every second of it. Again, his knot pushed at me, then lift until only the few inches of his tip remained inside, then drop. He bounced his hips in time with each motion of his hands.
Above me, the german shepherd growled. I heard his tail smack the surface of the table behind him, and his thrusting stopped. Those powerful hands pulled at me, sitting me on top of his knot as I felt him start throbbing. Hot liquid splashed across my insides. He filled me until there wasn't any room left, then dribbles of semen leaked down over his knot and pooled around his sac. He muttered something I didn't understand; maybe it was Russian, and bit at my ear. His fingers danced on my shaft, holding it away from my body and squeezed. My peak crashed in around me like fireworks behind my eyelids, and a hot flush shivered itself down to my belly. I yelped and painted the table with my enthusiasm.
Krytz held me still and let me enjoy every moment of the peak, or maybe he was just enjoying the way I writhed and squirmed on his cock. As I languished in his grasp, awareness of the beach around us slowly returned. We had an audience, more than I'd thought. Ra'Shalla and Kiri had turned on their beach towel, both pairs of bright eyes watching us. Loki had wandered over and was eyeing Krytz with a shade of green jealousy. A gryphon I'd never met had wandered in as well, and Aaron sat in his lap, hands buried suggestively between his legs.
Slowly my breathing steadied, and the dog lifted me once more. There was a loud slurp that I felt more than heard, then liquid leaked across my tail base Krytz carefully set me back on the table, and I put my paws down to meet it. Wetness met my pads. He'd set me down in a puddle. I half-lidded my eyes and scowled back at him, and he stuck his tongue out at me. No further words were exchanged. He clambered off of the picnic table and headed for the exit. That was fine. He'd got what he came here for, and I'd had every bit of the fun I'd wanted that night. As the german shepherd's alert ears disappeared behind the scrub hill's top, I rolled and splayed my legs. I could feel the slickness inside me still.
A hand buried itself in my chest fluff. I opened my eyes and narrowed my gaze at Chris. "You're going to get your hand messy." Going to? No, got. He'd dropped his fingers right into a wet spot.
His smile didn't fade, and the fingers tapped at my ribs like hammers on a xylophone. "Had your fun, foxy?"
I nodded blissfully at him, and he picked me up. There was a moment of disorientation as I spun, then I felt myself plopped down in the otter's lap. My fur was stuck in wet little spikes where the german shepherd's juices (or my own) had soaked in. Chris' blunt claws slowly picked at my fur, smoothing it down where it ruffled.
"Chris, you're spoiling me."
"Are you complaining?" He shot a critical glare down towards me.
"Not in the least." I pulled my forelegs up to my chest, giving him as much area as he wanted.
"Good. Then shush, your fur's a mess."
The night dragged on. People came and went. I was treated to a beautiful sunrise, then before I'd realized the time had even passed, sunset.
"It's morning. I should get to work, foxy."
"Ugh, don't remind me." He was right, though. My alarm was due to ring any moment, and I had a full day ahead of me.
"Tomorrow?" He asked hopefully?
"Of course." I hopped up and scrambled from his lap. I had the decency to dash over the hill before I disconnected.
- - -
When I arrived the next day, Chris wasn't there. I spent the night chatting with the resident blue jay, Aaron, about his birds. He worked at a raptor rehabilitation center in a county I couldn't point to on a map. I tried to give him my full attention, but every few moments I found myself glancing towards the entrance, waiting to see the otter's comically short ears crest the hill. He hadn't arrived by the time my morning alarm rang.
The next night told the same story, and the one after that. No one had seen the otter, nor heard from him. Not surprising, no one knew Chris outside of the beach. I told myself it was fine. Things happen, he'd be back, but under the calm façade I still worried.
On the third night, Chris was still absent, but M'Fala returned. I ignored him for the first half of the night, as did most of the beach's inhabitants. I lounged around with Kiri and Ra'Shalla. They talked about their plans to meet up outside the beach, and I wished them luck. They asked if I had anyone, and I smiled. I didn't answer questions about myself. They respected that.
Conversation stopped momentarily as a shadow fell over me. I followed their gaze as the girls looked up. M'Fala stood over me.
"Hi, uh, got a moment?"
"Sure." I faked a smile.
"Maybe somewhere a bit more private?" He asked bashfully.
"You know, we don't really do private here on the beach." I shrugged up at him but stayed still. Hell if I was going to leave behind two good sets of paws stroking me just to chat with him.
"Err..." He stammered. "Okay. Well, sorry about a few days ago. I'm a bit new to this, and..."
"It's fine, M'Fala." I rolled onto my back, and the girls' fingers followed onto my ribs. "Everyone here's got their own tastes. You don't have to apologize for not matching mine."
"Well, that's the thing." He squirmed a bit. Kiri and Ra'Shalla stayed silent, acting as if they weren't there, but I could see their ears swivel to listen. "Maybe I am a little interested. It just..."
I sighed and shook my head up at him. "I think I understand." I meant to embarrass him a little bit, but not to humiliate him. "I know the beach takes a little bit of getting used to."
"You're telling me! I'm used to rural Kentucky. I don't think I would have even given this room a second glance if a friend hadn't mentioned it."
He sat at the edge of the beach towel. I looked up at him from between my forepaws. "So, if your friend brought you here, then who was it? I know most everyone who's a regular."
"Well, he mentioned it, but not in a good way."
Suddenly, I was starting to get the picture. "Ah. So this is an escape, then?"
"Yeah." Now that he mentioned it, I was starting to notice the southern twang. He hid it well. "I guess. A chance to have some fun without any of my friends seeing that it's not with girls."
I snorted.
"Fine. Or even with two legs."
His hand reached out tentatively, then his knuckles ran across my belly fur. Kiri and Ra'Shalla made room for him, their pair of hands scratching up over my neck and under my chin. Fingers stumbled over the bottom of my ribcage, at this point, I couldn't tell whose they were.
"Oh..." I suddenly found myself the center of attention with more pairs of hands on me than I could count with my eyes closed. "That... Ehr, look, M'Fala..." Hands closed over my sheath. I was sure they were his. Pretty sure. If I lifted my head, then whosever fingers those were on my throat would stop. I was about to tell him to stop, that I wasn't interested, but I halted. What was it that had ruined my interest? His own lack of return interest? Well, that was pretty well solved now. His curt dismissal? Newbie's nerves. His lack of experience? Only one way to solve that.
Left without an excuse, my complaint faltered. But I was still unsure. Maybe for the first time since I'd started patronising the beach, I shook my head.
Fingers fell to either side as I lifted my muzzle and frowned at M'Fala. "Sorry there, but no. Thanks, but no, not tonight." He looked hurt. "Maybe another night, but I'm just not-" Suddenly, a figure on the edge of my vision grabbed all of my attention. A familiar ottery form had just flounced over the hill.
"'Scuse me." I apologized before flipping onto my legs and scampering towards the approaching mustelid.
"Chris!" He gave me a little wave, then slumped at a bench. I hopped up onto the adjoining table and licked at his whiskers. The anxiety of the past nights drained from me, leaving just a giddy happiness. "Where ya' been, otter?"
One arm folded itself over my back, and even though he was perched on the bench, I found myself tucked into his lap. "Tired, foxy. Stressed and tired." Fingers picked through the fur around my neck.
"Anything to do with being away the last few nights?" I looked up at him. Concern must have written itself on my features, because he gave me a forced smile and ruffled my cheeks.
"A bit. Mostly work stuff. It'll get better, foxy, it's just been a hell of a week." He paused for a moment. "You haven't been waiting for me, have you?"
I shook my head. "Nah, life as normal." I lied.
"Good." His fingers teased around my chest, and I obediently flipped onto my back for him.
Down closer to the shore, M'Fale cast me a few curious glances. I tried to force my muzzle into a conciliatory pose, but I wasn't sure how to do it. He shrugged and turned back to the two girls that I'd been sharing time with earlier. Well, it may not be a fox, but as long as he minded his manners, the girls would show him a good night.
"M'Fala's back. I honestly didn't expect it." Chris mused.
"Actually, he surprised me as well. He apologized to me today."
"Really? He wasn't that rude, really."
"That's what I said." I watched the lion. Kiri and Ra'Shalla had one of his arms and were pulling him down to their towel. "Actually, he wanted to say that he was interested, but too afraid to say it earlier."
"Hah!" The otter's fingers ruffled through my belly fur. "No one resists the temptation of a fox!"
I batted at his chest with one hindleg.
"Oof, okay, but still, is he getting better?"
Comprehension flat-lined for a second. "Better than..."
"Well, I figured if he was interested, maybe you'd-"
"No!" The exclamation exploded from my muzzle. Chris shot a disbelieving gaze down at me. "No, no, I guess I would, but I just wasn't in the mood."
"You, not in the mood? Is this the same fox I've seen every night for the last-"
"Fine, fine, so I was a little preoccupied."
The fingers tickled down my ribcage and Chris supported my neck with his off hand so I could lean back. "Heh, okay, so who were you doing at the time?"
Did I really have that reputation? No, never mind, I know my reputation. I'm a little proud of it. If it'd been anyone else asking, I'd smile and wink mysteriously. Then I'd have some witty rejoinder. "Foxes never hump and tell!", or "If you're really good I'll give them your number."
So why did it bother me when Chris said it? He's never disapproved of it. Look at his eyes now, he's smiling too wide. It's not a jibe or an insult, he's just curious, because it's a given. So if it's not bothering him in the slightest, why is it bothering me?
I could lie. I could say it was the girls, that'd be half right. Or someone who doesn't come in here often. He'd never check.
"No one." Or I could just tell the truth, reputation be damned. Why did I say that?
Hands picked me up. I dangled as the otter held me up in front of his muzzle. His incisive eyes examined me, trailing over every inch critically. Then without preamble he spun me around, and presumably repeated the procedure across my back.
"Are you okay foxy? Is something wrong?" I was spun to face him again.
"No, as I said, just preoccupied." Please take my word for it, I silently begged. I'm not going to tell you why, because it would just embarrass you. Please don't make me say any of this out loud.
The otter's eyes watched me closely, and I hung there, second after second. Then he put me on the table and stood.
"Chris, sorry, I-"
"Shush." He walked a few paces and sat down in the sand. "Come over here, foxy. Looks like you could use some attention."
I'm not sure what he thought. I hope he didn't think something bad had happened, but the lack of further questions was a stroke of luck I wasn't about to waste. I hopped down into his lap, and his paws immediately flipped me over, resuming their gentle strokes through my fur. On the ground, the lap was steadier, and he could press harder against my ribs, massaging me through my thick coat.
"Hmm, well, at least M'Fala won't have to worry about your refusal tonight." Chris nodded his head back towards the water line, and I followed his gaze.
Chris was right. I couldn't see much of the lion, as the girls were in the way. From where I lay, all I could see was his legs, with Kiri sitting astride them. Luckily my vantage point did afford me a gorgeous view. Kiri lifted her hips, and I momentarily saw M'Fala through the gap between her thighs. Fingers tugged at his sheath, I couldn't tell from this angle whether they were hers or his, or maybe even Ra'Shalla, who was watching closely from the side. Inches of pink lion shaft spilled into the light, and the fingers pointed them upwards to meet Kiri's drooping hips. Tapered tip fit to dripping lips, and the cats ground their hips together.
Caught as I was with the show, I didn't notice when the fingers on my belly had dipped lower. A squeeze around the tip of my own erection surprised me, and with a jump, I looked around for the culprit. Chris' arm caught me, and fingers caught my lips to keep me silent. I looked down. The fingers were dark brown, short furred, blunt clawed, and thin flaps of skin stretched from one to the next in aquatic webbing. Those were Chris' fingers.
In the midst of the surreal confusion, his whiskers tickled my ears. "Don't tell anyone, foxy. Shh..."
I settled and let his fingers trace up and down my length. To keep his modesty, I flicked my tail up and over, hiding the act. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from my muzzle. "Chris, are you sure?"
"Sure I need it? Yeah." His fingers squeezed at the base near my knot. "And there's no one else I'd trust with it like I would you, foxy."
I swallowed nervously and hunkered down in his lap, curled to hide everything from the normally obscenely public world. My tail curled around his wrist, hiding fingers that tugged momentarily at my sheath. I flipped over onto my front, belly pushed to his crossed legs to hide the red excitement that'd sprouted between my thighs.
I glanced up at him. His attention wasn't on me, his gaze was still watching the felines frolicking near the waterline. Ra'shalla pushed her girlfriend off of the lion's post. His struggling red erection strained up into the air, throbbing fitfully. She swung her leg over, while Kiri's hand reached over to line the desperate lion up with the descending leopard. With a drop of her hips and a quick thrust of his, he disappeared into her depths.
Above me, the otter gave a muffled little moan. I'd never heard him in a state I'd call "worked up." He was always smooth, in control, refined, cool, and collected. Today, though, he was letting the feline's show work him. With each muffled squelch of flesh on flesh from the threesome by the water line, I could feel him tense and roll his hips, as if it were him sinking into the eager feline's soaked cunny. After a few moments of tense anticipation, I also felt the otter's arousal rise to the occasion. It prodded against my thigh, so I shifted. It poked one side, then another. He let me move without complaint, his fingers urging me on. So when it slid between my rumpcheeks, he let out a moan that might have been slightly louder than was fitting for our illicit activities, and his hands pushed me down.
On the first try, the otter's shaft slipped up and prodded at my tail base He was still only half-hard. I rubbed my hips back and forth to fix that, and on the second attempt, it caught against my pucker. With an all-too-familiar stretching sensation, the thin tip slid just an inch. I growled and braced, ready for him to tug and thrust. I waited for him to slide deep. No, I craved it. More than any of the casual fun I'd had in the company of the beach people, I wanted to feel him grind against my hips; to feel him twitching and throbbing within me; hear him panting and growling and moaning into my ears. It was rare as a blue moon during a planetary alignment, and I wanted to remember every moment of it, in case it never happened again.
So it took precious seconds for my mind to even register his voice when he leaned down and mumbled "Shit. I'm so sorry foxy, I have to go. Tomorrow. I promise, tomorrow. Be here, please?"
And then before I'd caught up with his words, he was gone. He hadn't even dashed for the hill. One second he was there, the next I had empty air between me and the ground. I let out a startled little yip, and a few eyes glanced over from the raunchy show to see me flop ungraciously to the sand. The eyes were comforting, understanding. Even inviting, maybe, but that was lost on me tonight. I'd been so close to sharing a secret part of Chris' world, a side that, to my knowledge, I alone had even glimpsed.
It must have been an emergency. Maybe more work issues. I understood. If life called, you had to answer. No one here would put the beach first, and we were really just casual friends. We only met at night, wearing different names and faces than our own. The beach was a fun place to come and act out our private little fantasies, far from the eyes of the work mates, families, and loved ones that would judge and wonder. It was a fun little secret, nothing less, but really, nothing more.
The thought didn't really help, but I convinced myself to smile and shrug off worry and disappointment.
So I watched M'Fala and the girls with scattered attention. Tomorrow. I held that date firmly in mind. Aaron approached me and took a knee next to me. He stroked my flank; I could tell it was an offer. I thanked him as I shook my head. He shrugged, smiled, and let me be. As quickly as I could without appearing out of sorts, I sauntered to the exit. It was going to be a long day until tomorrow.
- - -
When I arrived the next day, the beach was almost empty. It wasn't a surprise, really, I'd come early. I'd hoped that Chris would be here early as well, but no luck. I shouldn't really have expected any different, things had obviously been busy for him this last week. It's fine, I told myself. I could wait. With tense anticipation, I could wait.
Loki was there early today, and he had company. Another fox had joined us, though he was as different from me as two foxes could get. He had two legs to my four, and stark white fur to my ruddy pelt. Loki smiled and waved to me. I don't think the fox noticed me, as he was too busy stuffing his muzzle between Loki's spread legs.
I lazed on my side on a table, admiring the view and letting Loki see my appreciation. He shot me a rather lascivious grin, then focused his attention on the slim muzzle slurping between his thighs. My attention wandered, and by the time someone else joined us, Loki and his new fox had finished up. Kiri and Ra'Shalla slinked down to their towel. Next was Aaron and Foriss, chatting amiably as they passed the age restriction sign.
An hour passed, maybe two. A sunset came and went. Then Chris arrived. He looked a bit ragged and harried again, maybe even worse than yesterday. He stumped down to where the sand still held some heat from the not-long-gone sun and spread eagle on his back.
I approached, my concern for him peaking, but before I could voice my worries his hands caught me. I was lifted and deposited squarely on his belly, and prompt fingers stroked beneath my throat.
"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, foxy."
I settled. Whatever it was that was going on, at least I'd get an explanation.
"Remember I told you about the guy who was leaving?"
I nodded. He carried on, though I'm pretty sure he couldn't see my nod.
"He left us a nasty little surprise in the system. Our tech guys had given him permissions he shouldn't have, and we found a few things left behind that he should never have been able to install."
I drooped my ears. "I hope you didn't lose any work?" He'd told me about the numbers that they were running. A single coordinate or analysis of spectrum could take weeks or months. Lost work would be a nightmare.
"No, no, thankfully. I sorted it out, actually. Because of that, though, they're doing an audit of the internal security. Guess what that means."
I blanked and shook my head.
The otter leaned up on his elbows, and a flat palm rubbed over my ears. "No access to the system for a week, so impromptu holiday. No more working nights when I'd rather be spending them with my favorite vulpine friend."
My ears colored a little bit, but he either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.
"So that's why you left..." I started.
"And why I've been away in general. And, well..." He trailed off, and this time I could see some embarrassment in his demeanour
"Why you've been stressed." I ventured
"That's a good word for it."
I sighed and relaxed, curling up where he'd deposited me. Fingers ran over my muzzle, friendly and familiar, but innocent and chaste. Just like every night, as if last night had never happened. I longed to ask, longed to beg and plead and cajole until he acquiesced, but I knew that wasn't him. There'd always be playmates here on the beach. There was no reason to strain our friendship, no reason at all.
"So why do you hang around here, if you don't want to join in?" Last night had left questions, even if I'd blocked the physical contact out of my mind, just to save myself the tension and anticipation.
"I don't have to join in to enjoy it, foxy." Fingers scratched over the back of my head, and I perked my ears to listen. "Anyway, I'm a bit attached to it."
"Hmm, I guess." I agreed tentatively. "But didn't you tell me yourself that this isn't a beach for passive observers?"
"Hah, turning my own words against me?" He mock-scowled and dug blunt claws into my pelt over my back. They dragged down against my spine, drawing a deep hiss from me as they scratched. "I do join in. I'm social, and you spend at least half of your time here on my lap."
I turned my head to the side and narrowed one eye up at him. "That's not what I meant."
"I know, but it's how I choose to view it."
I considered for a moment. "Okay, I can accept that. You know I'd never complain about your company. That's not what I was getting at, though. Why do you choose to spend your time here, when everyone here is..." I spent a few moments to choose my words carefully "Is preoccupied with the activity you specifically don't choose to partake in." I smiled, happy with my own diplomatic tact.
"Because I enjoy it."
My mind blanked for a moment. "Wait, what?"
"I enjoy it. I enjoy seeing people having fun. Everyone around us here is completely uninhibited. They're looking for pleasure in any body they can find it, and everyone else is perfectly happy to provide. It's not just the sex. It's... I don't know, it's the sense of contentment that comes with passion and fulfilment, and you can see it on everyone's face here. They're practically radiating it."
I let that mull as I watched the other beach goers as they settled in for the night in each other's company. It was casual and free and public, which was what drew me. The beach was a contented place. "You know, I don't think about it often, but you're right. I guess that's enough for you?"
"Most of the time." He gave me that wide smirk again, and his hands wrapped around my sides, fingers stroking down my flanks in one long drag. "If you weren't here, foxy, it'd be enough."
"Hah." I mocked his sentimentality. "It's been enough before now, either way. Nothing special about this fox, Chris. You were just stressed."
"No, I mean it." I looked up at him. He usually wasn't this serious, or open about himself. "I've thought about it before." The fingers dragged down my sides again, and the fingers curled around my ribs and tickled down my chest and belly again. I suppressed a shiver. He was far too good at that, and it was distracting. "I just never acted on it, 'till last night."
"Why not? You know after all this time I'd never turn you down." I hesitated at over-sharing Don't embarrass him, I told myself. Don't ruin it. I closed my eyes ans settled for the obvious. "You know what you do to me, I'm not very good at hiding it."
"Me?" He squeezed lightly around my chest. "I always thought you were just always horny around here."
"Well, not always." I closed my eyes and tried to focus. The sensation of the digits running through my fur was putting me off balance, filling my mind with a pleasurable buzz that shattered my sense of inhibition more thoroughly than any drug could. "Sometimes, it's just you."
"Just me, foxy? Really?"
"Just you." I confirmed. I bit my tongue, but those fingers dragged down my chest again, and I couldn't help but push up a little to give them room as they dug against my belly. "Just..." I was going to say it now, wasn't I? I couldn't stop myself. "Just imagining how it would feel if your fingers went just a little bit lower."
"You mean like here?" His tone was teasing. Teasing. Damn him. Fingers dipped just an inch lower. One tapped lightly my sheath. A shock ran up my spine and terminated in my ears, leaving just a dull ringing. I knew my fur had stood up on end, puffing me up to almost twice my size.
"Oh, foxy..." He drifted off a little as the fingers dragged through my fur, grooming it back down as I tried to settle. I cursed his teasing fingers in the same breath I blessed them, that little touch still reverberating through my imagination. "Foxy, I've never seen you so sensitive."
"Sorry, sorry..." I apologized between tight little huffs of breath. I sat my hind end flat to the otter's belly, but it didn't help. That little touch had set me off, and I could feel his slick fur rubbing against my bare flesh. I bit at my tongue and folded my ears back. It'd go away in a minute if I didn't pay attention to it.
"No." Chris flatly refused, and those fingers dragged down my sides again. I closed my eyes. This wasn't helping! I should tell him to stop, that it was just too far this time, but I couldn't force the words between my lips. "No, I should be sorry."
I looked back at him. Rational thought wouldn't be my strong suit at the moment, so I kept my response short. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." Both of Chris' hands curled as he picked me up again. He leaned back, and his sizeable rudder-tail swung into view. I flipped between his legs where he lay, half as thick as the rest of his body. He set me down again, this time laying over his tail, with my own brush wagging over his belly and crotch.
I gulped. Fur pushed against bare skin again, I was still peeking out. "Chris, you shouldn't..." His fingers pushed and tugged at my rump, moving me side to side. "If you're not careful, you're going to."
He stopped momentarily, and he pushed himself up to his elbows in the sand. One hand shot down and wrapped around my muzzle. "Shhh, foxy. If you're too loud, everyone will see." One of the gears in my mind slipped a cog. Was he really talking about...
The remaining hand pushed at my rump again, and I felt my tip catch as it slid over the base of his tail, just where his legs were spread to either side and his tail met his body. I gulped, recognizing the feel of bare skin on skin. The pucker at the base of his tail slid slickly against my tip as he made sure he'd manoeuvred me to the right spot. Warmth spread from the otter as he pushed me down against the base of his tail. He slowly loosened the fingers around my muzzle, and I flicked out my tongue. It slipped between his fingers and dragged up the webbing between them.
"Huh..." I gulped. "Chris, I..."
"Shush, foxy." He repeated, and this time I obeyed. Instead, I hugged myself to his thick tail. His fingers slid beneath my tail, and with a half-concealed gasp from me, they touched and prodded at all of the places the otter had always avoided. He slid a fingertip across one stretch of fur, and I shuddered. He rolled my balls around on his palm, and I wet the area under his tail with slippery pre. Then one of the otter's short fingers pushed under and in, and I throbbed.
There was a single moment of resistance, followed by a moment of smooth friction. I wriggled in disbelief, but it was real. I felt silky walls clutch around my length, rolling and slipping with each minuscule movement of the otter's hips. I heard him gasp, the first of his own that I'd caught. His thighs clenched to either side of my body, and I felt that silky hole squeeze around me in a languid wave.
"Oh... Foxy..." He whispered. If my ears hadn't been aimed back towards him, listening for every stutter of breath, every hitch in his throat, and every concealed gasp, I would have missed it. The finger prodding at my own tail end slid free as the hand patted over my rump. One finger slid beneath my rump, tapping at my sheath as he felt around the edges. His smooth fingerpads prodded at the sides of my shaft where it sank into his clenching tail end. I smiled and turned my head to the side so I could watch. I pushed up very slightly, and just the barest glimpse of my pink shaft shone out from between where my creamy white belly fur met his toffee brown. His finger curled and squeezed, feeling at where our bodies met as if he didn't believe it himself.
In a moment of clarity, I dropped my hips again and glanced around. The rest of the beach seemed occupied with themselves, chatting or cuddling or heavy petting on beach towels and picnic tables, spread across the small plot of sand. None of them were watching. I curled my tail down, hiding the otters hand as it ducked beneath my thighs. Even though it was a public beach in every sense of the word, Chris wasn't a public otter. I'd help him break the rules, just this once.
So it was to my shock when he curled his hands under my sides again and lifted me. He gathered my paws under his forearms and supported my weight. My front came up first, letting his tail flop back down to the sandy beach. Then my hind end lifted up, just a few inches at a time. Slick walls tugged at my flesh, inch by inch, until just the very tip of my length still spread the otter's tight pucker. I squirmed, but he was insistent. With my body cradled up off the ground, just my length dangled down between his steady arms, caught in his grasping tailhole.
I looked around, almost guilty in my embarrassment We'd been noticed. Aaron was watching, definitely. He was always the first to see when there was something happening. Then M'Fala and the girls looked up from where they lay in a pile of feline fur down by the water. Then Loki and his fox looked, then Foriss too, sneaking his eyes open as he faked sleeping on the hot sand. Conversations fell silent. It wasn't just sex, that happened often enough on the beach. It was Chris. Friendly, caring, smart, and innocent Chris, with legs spread wide and the fox held in a passionate embrace. I met their eyes and time seemed to stop. Some of them would be amused. Some of them were turned on, I could see their interest. Some few might even be jealous. But each and every one was watching. I had my audience now; every eye was on us.
Then time began again, and the hands holding me up slid me down. Tight flesh raced up my length, squeezing and gripping with oily-slicked muscles. I shivered and moaned, and Chris matched my voice moan-for-moan. The evil otter, I could almost imagine he'd planned this. As the final step of his constant teasing, the ultimate play for his all-too-hot mannerisms, he'd thrown me into my scene, playing every bit of my kink and interest for all it was worth. Outwardly, I blushed under the gaze of the beach's collected population. Inwardly, I gloried in every second of it. It was just as much a mind game as it was an exercise of the bodies.
That's fine, Mr. Otter, I thought, almost loud enough for him to hear. If you're going to play this for all it's worth, then so am I!
When my feet touched down again, I wriggled out of his grip. He giggled behind me as I hugged myself tight to his tail, grinding my hips hard against the oh-so-smooth tail slit. Then with my forepaws pinning the muscular tail's tapered end, I stood my hindlegs on his thighs and lifted my hips. His insides tugged at me as I pulled back out, and a soft squelching noise echoed across the beach as if all other noise had been extinguished. I watched our audience, and with their enraptured eyes on me, I wriggled my raised hips about. One by one, I lifted my hindlegs so they could see the slick fox cock, throbbing and hard, as it caught in Chris' tight tail end. I pushed my hindlegs back and to the sides as I could, clearing room for everyone to see, then for their enjoyment just as much as my own, I slowly lowered my hips. That tight pucker rode up my shaft, almost frictionless on its inward slide. Just as I reached the bottom, Chris gave a breathless huff, and his hips bucked upwards to meet mine.
I heard a murmur out in the surrounding crowd and glanced up. It was Foriss. He wasn't just respectfully watching from the side now. He was propped up on an elbow in the sand. His eyes drank in every motion of my russet fur on Chris' tan, and as he gazed, his hand moved over his crotch. The buck was hard, and his fingers were playing up and down his own shaft. I'd had him before, he was just as long as he looked, and slim, so slim that it wasn't much effort to take him all. I looked him in the eyes and smiled. He half-lidded his eyes and gazed at me. I lifted the hindleg closest to him, giving him uninterrupted view of my full range of equipment as I thrust. He responded with another murmured groan, and his fingers shone with liquid as he stroked.
"Now now, foxy, show off if you want, but save that enthusiasm for me." Chris muttered behind me, and I glanced back guiltily. He was smiling, wide and teasing. He was enjoying this! He'd spent years of time in private here on the beach, staying out of the lime-light as I danced out to bask in the public's gaze. I knew that look though. He was getting off on it now, just as much as I always did.
If he was going to share the spotlight, then I wanted to see him. I wanted to see him gasping and squirming, just like he had me doing now. I had the sudden urge to see his short tapered shaft, the one I'd been so careful to not call attention to every night before. I curled my tail to the side, as I thrust again, and with my head to the side, I caught just a hint of pink. I smiled, proof that he was enjoying this as much as I was. I curled my tail, brushing against it.
"Come on, Chris, let's see some of your own enthusiasm here, then." I whispered at him. I knew everyone could hear me anyway, but that didn't bother me. The insides of his ears colored a bit, but he made a grab for his crotch almost without thinking. I knew what he was feeling, the giddy drunk haziness of making a spectacle. All of the eyes on us battered down the rest of his inhibitions, and his hand move shamelessly over his shaft.
"Here, foxy, let me borrow this for a moment." He tugged at my tail. I felt it curl once, then twice, as he wrapped it around his shaft. I tried to wag, and the brush twitched in his paws. Just the hint of pink peeked from above the dark ruddy fur of my tail. Chris let out a loud gasp and a thin spurt of liquid wet down my tail fur, sticking it together in thin spikes.
With him content to stroke and rub against my brush, I began the rolling of my hips again. His slit rode across my length from tip to knobs. He let out a chirp, short, sharp and piercing. I let out a huff, low, rolling and building into a growl. His thick tail rose to meet me, slapping up against my underside. I rolled again, and he matched my thrust. Again, then once more, once every other couple seconds, then once a second until I could hear the juicy slurp of flesh on flesh as my length sank into him.
Slowly, the edges of my sight creeped in. I knew he was close, I could feel him twitching against my tail as his hands tugged at it. I wasn't going to wait or hold back. As his slick pucker slid up to my engorged knot, I hugged myself to his tail and tugged. He yelped, but I kept my grip. His tail writhed beneath me, then he gave another hard hump up against me. He even reached one hand down, pushing down at my hips as I strained. I felt a tight grip slide up over my knot, then clamp down around the base of my cock.
Stars shot across my vision and a soft thrumming hum built in my ears. Without my conscious control, my body bent and clenched. A long shudder ran from my ears down to my spine, then raced down to my tail and burst. I heard him chirping behind me, a constant stream of happy otter noises. A second later, I felt a throb travel down my length, and the slick feeling of the otter's insides changed as I coated them with slippery cum. I shuddered again. I couldn't breathe with the intensity of my peak.
Every few seconds a hot rush sped from my chest down to my crotch. It felt like a peak I should somehow record, an orgasm that should somehow be saved for posterity. I know I'd be remembering it, thinking about it when I was alone, trying to relive every sensation and feeling. Chris squeezed around me slickly, the otter's silky insides twitching and squirming every few seconds.
Then, as quickly as it struck, the peak passed, leaving warm lethargy. I let out a low growl, as long as the outward breath that fed it. I felt the tie pull up and back, and let my hips be pulled along with it. I lazed on the sand, eyes half-lidded. Chris let out another chirp, this time sounding like he was just over my back. A wet spatter of liquid caught the back of my ear, then landed across my back. A second one quickly followed, as strong and wet as the first, then a third. The otter chirped out his excitement as he sprayed my back, before collapsing back into the warm sand.
Now, with the days of anticipation and frustration spent, I took the opportunity to really watch the people that surrounded us. They picked up where we'd left off, some coupling on the benches, some enjoying themselves alone in the sand, or in threes or more. Chris and I had started the night off properly, but after my peak, my only interest was crawling back into the otter's lap and enjoying the view.
So that's what I did. Twisting around so my trapped length wouldn't pull, I sat across Chris' thighs. Slowly, still sweaty and slightly sticky, he levered himself up. Fingers stroked innocently across my shoulder blades, ignoring the streaks of otter spunk that spiked my fur. We watched as our friends enjoyed themselves and each other in every way imaginable (and then some.) We basked in the glow of their happiness.
Ten minutes later, I softened enough to slip free, and did so without comment. Chris moved just enough to swing his tail back, then sat properly beneath me. Five minutes after that, I felt something throb against my flank. Chris was hard again. I considered acting on it, but decided against it. I knew I could, and he wouldn't complain, but just that knowledge was enough for me tonight. Instead I ignored it, just like I had for countless nights before. We sat together as people finished, some with a growl, some with a roar, and some silently so they didn't attract attention. We watched as they fell back in with their cliques and friends.
"So what happens tomorrow, Chris?" I ventured.
"Well, I'll be here. Won't you?" He asked with a half-smile.
"Of course."
"Then why do you need to ask?"
I hesitated. "So should I act like we never-"
"Don't act, foxy. Just be. If we do that again, then we do it again. If we don't, we don't." His smile never faltered.
"Then nothing changed, really?"
"Do you want it to?"
I gazed out over the ocean. The sun was rising with the beautiful accuracy of the composite of a thousand observed sunrises.
"No, I guess not."
In other words, it was the same sunset I'd seen last night, and the night before. It wasn't even a sunset, really, it was a composite of a thousand of the most pleasing sunsets, distilled down to their most pleasing aspects. In an hour, the accelerated day-cycle would bring the moon over the horizon, an exact forty-three percent larger than the actual moon to be visually pleasing. Then two hours later, the moon would set, and the sun would rise precisely on cue, just in time for a sunrise scene that was a composite of the thousand best sunrises and welcome a bright sunny day. That was the cycle, every six-hour day precisely on time and accurate. Day-in and day-out, four-times-a-day, as accurate as the clockwork that ran it.
In my eyes, the sunset was still beautiful. Brilliant. Inspiring, I'd almost call it, as if there were any activities it would inspire me to. Instead, I let it fill my senses, along with the crash of salt water in my nose, the breeze teasing across my ears and whiskers, and the gentle rolling of waves whose sussuration rolled over me in, well, waves, if I were to be precise.
Up and over the scrub hedge I went, taking a few seconds to re-familiarize myself with my posture. The sensation was a bit strange, a moment of body dysphoria as my brain, hard wired for two legs, was told instead that it had four. It was fed touch from over-long whiskers that played in the breeze, and smell from a nose many thousands of times more sensitive than my own. Ruddy-red fox fur pulled in a way that was only "normal" after days and weeks of familiarization. I settled into my avatar, a model of the "me" that, before the beach, had only been in my imagination. With the mental check-list of all of the limbs the system had loaned me, I scrambled up the hill.
On the apex of the hill stood a sign; a warning. The outline of a pair of pants sat in an angry red crossed circle. There wasn't much writing on the sign itself, but simply viewing it fed the rest of its message into my visual buffer. "Adults Only, under 18 prohibited." It read in bold, overlayed over my beautiful sunset. "No access to minors, you must accept the rules and policy of 'The Beach' to pass this point." Just like last night, I ignored the sign and made my way down to the far side of the hill.
The sight of the beach was always welcome, with its brickwork barbecue and solid picnic tables, and the stone pier that stretched off towards the horizon. I entered to a chorus of greetings. Loki was there, the wolf leaning with a hand on one of the brick grills and smiling a goofy grin towards me. Kiri and Ra-Shalla were there too, snuggled together on their beach towel in a chaotic medley of leopard spots and tiger stripes. Aaron was there too, flashing his blue and white feathers in a chaotic display of of recognition. Even Foriss was here tonight, the randy buck resting backwards with his antlered head digging furrows in the pristine sand.
"Foxy, over here!" The call came out from Chris. I expected to see him here. Correction: I would have been surprised if he hadn't been here. He was a staple of the beach. The otter's slinky form seemed to have worn itself into the décor, until he seemed more in tune with the picnic tables and grills than the lions and tigers that roamed between them.
Speaking of lions and tigers, one was talking to Chris today. A lion, that is, tawny with a chocolate mane that spread down between his shoulder blades and narrowed along his spine almost to the bottom of his ribcage. He was cute. Scrap that, he was more than cute. Hot. Sizzling hot, with lanky, corded muscles that weren't too blatant, and a tail that curled generously before it touched the floor, and an ass I could bounce ping-pong balls off of.
"Andy, this is Mah-Fallah" Chris smiled in his over-wide mustelid grin that crinkled the sides of his eyes and pulled his whiskers and lips up until I could see his sharp little ottery teeth.
"Nice-ta-meetc'cha" I barked out in generic greeting as I hopped up onto the nearby picnic table. I pulled up the lion's stats while I held up a forepaw. He smiled back at me and lowered his hand to take it. M'Fale was his official name (Chris had the pronunciation correct) and he was new as of a week ago.
He turned towards me and I had to struggle to keep my eyes on his face. I could see his assets, they were right at eye-level, and they were significant enough to take note. His belly fur may have been cream-colored, but the equipment dangling between his legs was shrouded in long fur as deeply brown as his mane. Stretching up from the crux of his legs was the perfect sheath, thick and long, with the trace of the interesting anatomy hidden just inside. The fur around it wasn't a modesty; it was a frame that drew the eye to his gorgeous dangling balls. I could at this point only imagine what he'd look like unsheathed, hard, throbbing and dripping, and...
And I shook myself out of my little reverie. I had better manners than that. "Welcome!" I smiled, even though I knew all that did was reveal my canines. It wasn't real fox behaviour, but we all made little sacrifices to be social and understood. "New to the beach?"
"Yeah." The lion put one hand the size of a dinner plate behind his head and rubbed, looking around with newbie's nerves. "Neat room though."
My smile waned a little.
"Nice coding, though. Looks like they did their research on that sunset." He continued. I sighed. He was a newbie, I reminded myself. He didn't know he wasn't supposed to See-The-Walls.
"The Beach," I emphasized, "is beautiful all day round. I usually find it's nicer to just enjoy it, rather than analysing how it was made."
That earned me a rather strange glance. "Sure, of course." He mumbled with a sidelong look towards Chris. The otter was smiling, but refrained from pitching in his own opinion.
I took my paw back. I didn't want this to be awkward, so I quickly changed the topic. "I'll admit, I haven't seen a lion like you before." I'd seen lions of course, but mostly they were the Standard Model. Everyone could pick to be one of the Standard Models, but most people found someone to make a custom model within a few months. On a week-old lion though, a custom model was impressive.
"A friend convinced me to join up." Ah, that would explain it. "He just logged off for the day, so I thought I'd wander and see what all the other rooms were like."
There it was again, "room". I smiled and ignored it.
"So why this secluded beach? We usually don't get folk in here without an invitation." I continued. Chris winked at me. Great, so now I was the official welcoming party.
He rubbed his chin for a moment. "Well, the description and pictures seemed pretty." He glanced around. "And, um..."
I'd been around long enough to see this before. "M'Fala, we're in an adults-only beach. We're all here for it's perks." Now I let my eyes fall meaningfully to his wonderfully sculpted crotch.
It was quickly covered by his large hands. "Um, right, but I'm not sure, now."
I laughed. He either belonged in here, or he didn't. There was no sugar-coating that. "Oh, don't worry, you're welcome to sit and watch if you don't want to join in, but the crowd gets pretty active at night. If you're not sure..."
"No, I mean..." He looked down at me. "You've got four legs. Isn't that, like bestiality?"
My friendly smile filled with ice, and behind the new lion, Chris' smirk dropped into a frown. I sat on the table and couldn't help but let out an aggravated sigh. "Nah, not in my opinion." I tried to be diplomatic. "But everyone's entitled to their own."
"Yeah, sorry." He wasn't really. He could use a lot more practice at lying with a lion's face.
"Its fine." I lied. I was good at it, and he smiled an apologetic little grin (that looked more like a snarl). Then he turned back to Chris. The otter was still frowning.
As much as I liked the lion's body, the personality had doused any lascivious thoughts, so I wandered. I didn't make it far. Strong hands lifted me and pulled me up towards a creamy white chest. I let my legs dangle. The sensation of being lifted and handled wasn't uncommon; quite the opposite, really, it was welcomed.
"Ignore him." Chris mumbled at me. I craned my head, and could see M'Fala standing alone with a nonplussed look on his face.
"Chris, I don't need coddling."
"Nope, but I'm allowed to spend some time with my favorite fox, aren't I?" he found a park bench and sat me on his lap.
I arranged my limbs and shot the otter a measuring glance. "Look, not everyone's required to have the same kinks. He's not interested, so he's not interested. It's fine. Go enjoy your chat with your new friend."
"Can't"
"And why not?"
"Got a fox on my lap."
I half lidded my eyes and settled my head in his lap. This wasn't an argument I was going to win. Hell, it wasn't worth having in the first place. I definitely wasn't going to complain about having a warm lap to occupy. Secretly, I was honored, and a little embarrassed. Chris was always too good to me.
I relaxed and started to enjoy the evening. The lion melded into one of the chatting groups seamlessly. Minutes passed, then an hour. Chris told me about his day. They'd found an anomaly today, invisible to the human eye, somewhere in the oblong rectangle formed by the big dipper. I told him about my day, the customers I'd dealt with, and the data I'd traced back to the user that'd caused it all to go wrong. We had our chuckles and laughs. Fingers stroked along my spine, and blunt claws traced circles behind my ears. In short, paradise.
Sometime during the evening, out attention was drawn by a roar off to the side. The sun had just started to rise, so it was about three hours into the night, by my reckoning. M'Fala had cleared a little room for himself and had pinned Foriss. The young buck's antlers had locked with one of the picnic tables while the lion pinioned his arm behind his back. Much to the picky lion's stated tastes, he'd found a biped, and was showing him all the enthusiasm I'd dreamt of.
Not that I needed to dream anymore. My eyes could soak in the sight of the long shaft reaching outwards from the dark furred sheath, at least as much as was still visible outside of the buck's backside. There was no foreplay, no teasing, no build-up, just an effective pin, a roar, and a thorough humping. I gorged myself on every glimpse.
Conversation with the otter cut off as my attention faltered, but there was no complaint. This was the beach. Everyone came here to have an itch scratched, no matter what enlightening conversations filled the moments before and after. I was no stranger to the rub, the touch, the prod and thrust. I rolled onto my side so my own enthusiasm wouldn't poke or drip on my otter friend, and he likewise adjusted so my head lay a few inches forward of the nest of his crotch.
The show was short, as I expected. The lion was new and didn't know how to draw it out, to work the crowd like an expert. He let out another roar and clenched himself to the buck's hips. From my vantage, I watched the lion's balls bounce every few seconds as Foriss got his prize. The crowd let out their perfunctory appreciation for the scene. I was pretty sure I caught a dissatisfied eye-roll from the buck. Yeah, the lion needed to work on his style a bit. Not that I was critiquing, no. Well, maybe a little, but I'd never share it with someone at the beach. That'd be poor manners.
"Meh. He could use some work." The chirpy voice from above me stated flatly. Except for Chris, of course. We went back a long ways, since I'd started coming to the beach in the first place. We'd watched so many couples here, wiling away the hours in the otter's lap, that all the social graces and niceties had evaporated over time. It was liberating having someone like him in which to confide.
"He's new. He'll learn."
Chris didn't respond.
If nothing else, though, the show had reinvigorated my interest in the room's inhabitants. A few more had entered the room as well, a margay that came at least once a week (both figuratively and literally) and a hare that I'd seen at least twice before was lurking near the scrub hill nervously. Conversation slowly picked back up, though a few of the other inhabitants were showing their appreciation for the show in a wholly more physical manner. Loki and Aaron were curled up together on a picnic bench, and if Aaron's hand wasn't in Loki's crotch, then you could chop my tail off and call me a rabbit. Give the lion at least this much credit, the show hadn't been spectacular, but at least it had jump-started the room's activity for the night.
Fingers strayed over my side, and smooth leathery pads rubbed over my stomach. "Hey foxy, you want to go enjoy yourself? I don't mind." I looked down. His fingers stayed an inch or two away from my own clearly visible excitement. I shivered. I could imagine them dropping just that last little bit, and the fingertips closing in a slow caress, and...
And that wasn't Chris. Never was Chris. The otter sat like the researcher behind the mirror, interested but unattainable, attentive but non-particapatory. I smiled up at him. He understood, and he'd be there after I was done. The curious tonic of anticipation and excitement washed over my mind like a warm draught, and I launched myself from the lap into the crowd, seeking my own entertainment for the night.
- - -
M'Fala was back again the next night, but after half an hour of badly disguised innuendos and a badly-placed grope, Foriss made his lack of interest clear. The Lion begged off, claiming that he had Real-Life issues to deal with, and disappeared without bothering to leave the beach. Knowing glances were passed around like cigarettes in the office, and nothing more was said about him.
Today I'd perched on one of the picnic tables, and Chris had sat himself on the bench to the side. His fingers traced lazily up my spine, ruffling my fur, then smoothing it back down with a reverse stroke. It was a feeling unlike any I'd felt before I first visited the beach and tried my own custom model. Somehow the sensations translated to something wholly unique and blissfully pleasurable, and I admit I'd become an addict.
"Good day, foxy?"
My answer was a half-engaged purr. The night was young, and I was home from work. That's good enough for me. My lips slurred just a little bit as the the fingers tickled over my collarbone. "Busy. H'bout you?"
"Stressful." He looked it, to be honest. His whiskers drooped a little, and the ever-present smirk on his face seemed just a little forced.
"Tell me?" I pleaded.
He paused for a moment, then continued. "Got word that one of our math techs is going to be leaving." I made apologetic noises. "He does a lot of good work. I'm going to need to put in a bit of overtime to make up for him until we've got someone else who's used to the numbers ready to replace him."
I gazed up at the stars. I could pick out Orion and the Big Dipper. If I stared for a while, I could pick out Arcturus. That was about the extent of my astronomical knowledge. "Show me where it is, otter? That anomaly you're working on?" I rolled onto my belly so I could easily swing my head up.
His fingers easily transitioned to rubbing over my ribs while his off-hand pointed. "Over there. It's giving off gamma readings like a pulser, but those usually only last a minute or an hour or two. This has been going on since we first started recording it two days ago." I tried to keep up with him, I really did. I'd learned more about those blazing dots up in the night sky from him than any class or lecture had managed to pound into my skull.
"Yeah, I think I caught about half of that."
"You asked, foxy." He ruffled the fur over my throat and I growled playfully. In many ways, I'd be happy to spend the night like this, good company, good conversation, and expert fingers trailing down my belly...
But Chris was too expert for his own sake. Those fingers trailed in a semi-circle around my sheath, the blunt claws stopping just millimetres from being intimate. His thumb traced around my navel, and the leathery finger pads dragged slowly along the inside of my thighs. Thin shocks of pleasure wormed their way up my spine as his hand sprawled across my belly, fingers spread to avoid my anatomy. I could feel the webbing between the otter's digits slide innocently across the underside of my sheath, and a subconscious shiver gripped me.
A tap of fur against my bare flesh made me look down, and I realized some bit of my length had slid from my sheath and was tapping every few seconds against my belly fur. I glanced in an apology up at Chris, and he shrugged down at me. Those hands, oh, and those fingers that found every little blissful spot. He avoided the red tip laying across my belly, but those expert digits kept rubbing and stroking. I realized I was panting. I couldn't suppress another shiver. Sometimes I thought he did this intentionally, made me hot and excited, when I knew for a fact that he'd never...
No, if I really didn't want him to do this, I wouldn't be laying on my back in front of him. A tease? Yes. Did he leave me hot and bothered? Yes. And I loved every second of it. Sometimes, after an otherwise uneventful night, after he'd left for the evening, I'd let myself remember just how his fingers felt. I'd close my eyes and imagine, ever touch and every stroke, and even though those fingers never touched anything truly intimate, it was enough. Sometimes I'd get a helping hand from someone else on the beach, but on those nights when my mind was running on playback, I'd imagine I could feel the webs between their fingers.
I'd never told him, though. I'm pretty sure it would embarrass him, and I didn't want that. He was too precious, too valuable to me. We were nothing but friends that met on the beach when our schedules matched, and maybe that was why he meant so much. There was no one behind the custom otter model, there was just the otter himself. I couldn't See-The-Walls, and never wanted to.
The fingers drew me back to the present, tickling up my ribcage and spreading over my collarbone. I let out a soft noise that was perhaps a bit more passionate than I intended, and he responded by ruffling the thick fur over my chest. That was his sign that he was done teasing. I rolled obediently back to my belly, and the laminated surface of the picnic table kissed my flesh as I lay my hind end flush.
"Tease." I smirked at him.
He didn't answer but to smile back, while his eyes flicked over the beach's denizens.
Another hand touched my hindquarters, heavy with thicker fingerpads than Chris. I shot a nervous glance backwards, but the comforting sight of Krytz filled my view. Chris followed my gaze, and when he laid eyes on the german shepherd that had crept up behind us, he shot me a knowing smirk, then removed his own paw in a clear release of "ownership" of the small quadrupedal fox on the tabletop. If I'd had a leash, Chris would have been handing it over.
Hmm, maybe I should get a leash.
The table shifted behind me, then wobbled uncertainly. Krytz was a big dog, and the table's four legs danced about a bit as he climbed up to its top, spreading his long legs to either side. The hand on my flank tugged a little, and a broad thumb pad pushed meaningfully beneath my tail. I couldn't suppress the groan. Chris' teasing was still fresh in my mind, and the rough prod beneath my tail immediately brought back every bit of the erotic feeling of fingers stroking so close to the bits that craved it so desperately...
"Teasing otter, fox? Room for Krytz?" The german shepherd's accent was almost too thick to understand. Chris thought that he was from one of the old Russian countries, or maybe even Russia itself. I never bothered to find out. He didn't talk much when he visited the beach, but no one ever complained about his presence. To say that he led his body talk for him was an understatement, because if bodies talked, then his sang.
I didn't bother talking. He might not understand it anyway, so I responded in the universal language of action. I pushed with my hindlegs, and my rump lifted a few inches into the air. I felt fingers tug at my tail, pulling it up and to the side, while the broad hand across my rump squeezed. The thumb pad prodded at my pucker, then pushed until it rubbed against the ring of muscles. The hand left my tail, and I obediently let it hang to the side where he'd left it.
Please, please, my body begged him, thighs quivering slightly, a soft chuff of breath escaping between my clenched jaws. He understood and acquiesced. Those rough finger tips spread themselves slowly between my legs, circling my sac and squeezing through the base of my sheath. I pushed my head down against the picnic table in response, rolling my jowls against the unyielding wood. It was perhaps one of my favorite sensations, the sensation of a hand buried between my thighs, broad fingers touching everything as they went. They teased up my length, hard and throbbing already from the otter's oh-so-innocent ministrations, and on their return journey, they pulled at my shaft and squeezed.
I almost came there and then. The touch was electric, the first clench of knuckles around my girth enough to make me bite at the air. I knew I was doing my chosen species' stereotype no favors, but at this moment in time, I didn't care. I was putty in Krytz's hands, and he was an artist in the most classical sense.
At one time, Krytz told me (in his broken English) that he particularly loved entertaining the beach's feral population. The reasons were difficult to translate. Maybe the four legs was one of his kinks? Maybe it was a challenge? Or perhaps it was just new. Whatever the reasons, he'd taken a shine to my quadrupedal shape, and each one of the rare nights he could spare to catch me on a beach was another blissful step in his ongoing education. He felt along my length with practised fingers, then squeezed experimentally just behind the bulbs of my knot. I let out a low yowl.
He seemed to understand. Hands big enough to straddle my hips latched themselves beneath my thighs, and the german shepherd pulled me back towards the 'v' of his hips. My paws dragged smoothly across the tabletop until I felt the dog's own arousal press squarely between my rumpcheeks. The tip blunted against the base of my tail, leaking slippery liquid down into my ruddy fur. Then fingers pushed at his tip. I lifted my hips a few further inches to accommodate his size. Then as the rubbery length prodded at the bare flesh of my pucker, the hands started to pull back again.
I opened my eyes. Maybe it was just instinct, or maybe surprise. No, being honest, I wanted to know if we had an audience. I wanted to see the eyes on me, their owners catching every lurid detail as the large canid's blunt tip slowly spread my ring of muscle around its girth, throbbing and spitting pre every few seconds. I wanted to experience it through their vision as my slippery flesh made way for the canid's thick cock as it sank inch by inch into my eager rump. They were there, a few of them at least, smiles on their faces and shameless arousal coloring their own bodies as their eyes drank in the sight of Krytz and me.
And there was Chris. He still sat at the side of the table, and he hadn't taken his eyes off of me. He'd be aroused, I knew it. When we watched others together, he didn't bother hiding that from me. He was, after all, just as sexual a being as the rest of us, or else he wouldn't be here on the beach. But both of the otters hands were above the table. If he was hard, he wasn't displaying it proudly like the other beach denizens were. He simply smiled at me. His hand reached out and caught one of my forepaws, holding it gently as I indulged myself.
The slide of flesh on flesh was so slick that it was almost frictionless. I could feel him pushing deeper and deeper, inch by inch. Each time I took him, I could swear he'd grown, because it seemed to take even longer than last time for my tail ring to finally kiss his knot. I opened my jaw in a silent yowl that never actually gained a voice, except for an unintentional little squeak when his length gave a powerful throb against my insides. I knew because I'd seen it that he wasn't actually much larger than average (because "about average" is about all that my diminutive form can handle) but the way he slid around inside me, it felt like he went on forever. His shaft throbbed again, and I could feel the channel that ran the length of his shaft tense in a slow wave that started at his base, then flowered at his tip as hot liquid pre splashed against my sensitive walls.
The german shepherd's broad hands cupped my belly and chest and lifted. I felt my paws lift off the table, then dangled in his hands as he let gravity sit my rump against his knot. His lower hand, the one on my belly, slithered even lower, and fingers encircled my shaft. I gave him a gasp, and he gave me a squeeze. Those hands were large enough that with thumbs touching, his pinkies could meet around my midsection. Fingers gathered my hindlegs, until my entire weight rested in his grasp. Then his hands tugged.
A yelp escaped my muzzle as his knot kissed my pucker. Then slick friction, followed by hollow emptiness. I could feel each detail of his rubbery cocktip as it kissed my tailhole, then another glorious gliding sensation as he pulled me back onto his shaft. He was holding me like a toy, a plaything. I relished every second of it. Again, his knot pushed at me, then lift until only the few inches of his tip remained inside, then drop. He bounced his hips in time with each motion of his hands.
Above me, the german shepherd growled. I heard his tail smack the surface of the table behind him, and his thrusting stopped. Those powerful hands pulled at me, sitting me on top of his knot as I felt him start throbbing. Hot liquid splashed across my insides. He filled me until there wasn't any room left, then dribbles of semen leaked down over his knot and pooled around his sac. He muttered something I didn't understand; maybe it was Russian, and bit at my ear. His fingers danced on my shaft, holding it away from my body and squeezed. My peak crashed in around me like fireworks behind my eyelids, and a hot flush shivered itself down to my belly. I yelped and painted the table with my enthusiasm.
Krytz held me still and let me enjoy every moment of the peak, or maybe he was just enjoying the way I writhed and squirmed on his cock. As I languished in his grasp, awareness of the beach around us slowly returned. We had an audience, more than I'd thought. Ra'Shalla and Kiri had turned on their beach towel, both pairs of bright eyes watching us. Loki had wandered over and was eyeing Krytz with a shade of green jealousy. A gryphon I'd never met had wandered in as well, and Aaron sat in his lap, hands buried suggestively between his legs.
Slowly my breathing steadied, and the dog lifted me once more. There was a loud slurp that I felt more than heard, then liquid leaked across my tail base Krytz carefully set me back on the table, and I put my paws down to meet it. Wetness met my pads. He'd set me down in a puddle. I half-lidded my eyes and scowled back at him, and he stuck his tongue out at me. No further words were exchanged. He clambered off of the picnic table and headed for the exit. That was fine. He'd got what he came here for, and I'd had every bit of the fun I'd wanted that night. As the german shepherd's alert ears disappeared behind the scrub hill's top, I rolled and splayed my legs. I could feel the slickness inside me still.
A hand buried itself in my chest fluff. I opened my eyes and narrowed my gaze at Chris. "You're going to get your hand messy." Going to? No, got. He'd dropped his fingers right into a wet spot.
His smile didn't fade, and the fingers tapped at my ribs like hammers on a xylophone. "Had your fun, foxy?"
I nodded blissfully at him, and he picked me up. There was a moment of disorientation as I spun, then I felt myself plopped down in the otter's lap. My fur was stuck in wet little spikes where the german shepherd's juices (or my own) had soaked in. Chris' blunt claws slowly picked at my fur, smoothing it down where it ruffled.
"Chris, you're spoiling me."
"Are you complaining?" He shot a critical glare down towards me.
"Not in the least." I pulled my forelegs up to my chest, giving him as much area as he wanted.
"Good. Then shush, your fur's a mess."
The night dragged on. People came and went. I was treated to a beautiful sunrise, then before I'd realized the time had even passed, sunset.
"It's morning. I should get to work, foxy."
"Ugh, don't remind me." He was right, though. My alarm was due to ring any moment, and I had a full day ahead of me.
"Tomorrow?" He asked hopefully?
"Of course." I hopped up and scrambled from his lap. I had the decency to dash over the hill before I disconnected.
- - -
When I arrived the next day, Chris wasn't there. I spent the night chatting with the resident blue jay, Aaron, about his birds. He worked at a raptor rehabilitation center in a county I couldn't point to on a map. I tried to give him my full attention, but every few moments I found myself glancing towards the entrance, waiting to see the otter's comically short ears crest the hill. He hadn't arrived by the time my morning alarm rang.
The next night told the same story, and the one after that. No one had seen the otter, nor heard from him. Not surprising, no one knew Chris outside of the beach. I told myself it was fine. Things happen, he'd be back, but under the calm façade I still worried.
On the third night, Chris was still absent, but M'Fala returned. I ignored him for the first half of the night, as did most of the beach's inhabitants. I lounged around with Kiri and Ra'Shalla. They talked about their plans to meet up outside the beach, and I wished them luck. They asked if I had anyone, and I smiled. I didn't answer questions about myself. They respected that.
Conversation stopped momentarily as a shadow fell over me. I followed their gaze as the girls looked up. M'Fala stood over me.
"Hi, uh, got a moment?"
"Sure." I faked a smile.
"Maybe somewhere a bit more private?" He asked bashfully.
"You know, we don't really do private here on the beach." I shrugged up at him but stayed still. Hell if I was going to leave behind two good sets of paws stroking me just to chat with him.
"Err..." He stammered. "Okay. Well, sorry about a few days ago. I'm a bit new to this, and..."
"It's fine, M'Fala." I rolled onto my back, and the girls' fingers followed onto my ribs. "Everyone here's got their own tastes. You don't have to apologize for not matching mine."
"Well, that's the thing." He squirmed a bit. Kiri and Ra'Shalla stayed silent, acting as if they weren't there, but I could see their ears swivel to listen. "Maybe I am a little interested. It just..."
I sighed and shook my head up at him. "I think I understand." I meant to embarrass him a little bit, but not to humiliate him. "I know the beach takes a little bit of getting used to."
"You're telling me! I'm used to rural Kentucky. I don't think I would have even given this room a second glance if a friend hadn't mentioned it."
He sat at the edge of the beach towel. I looked up at him from between my forepaws. "So, if your friend brought you here, then who was it? I know most everyone who's a regular."
"Well, he mentioned it, but not in a good way."
Suddenly, I was starting to get the picture. "Ah. So this is an escape, then?"
"Yeah." Now that he mentioned it, I was starting to notice the southern twang. He hid it well. "I guess. A chance to have some fun without any of my friends seeing that it's not with girls."
I snorted.
"Fine. Or even with two legs."
His hand reached out tentatively, then his knuckles ran across my belly fur. Kiri and Ra'Shalla made room for him, their pair of hands scratching up over my neck and under my chin. Fingers stumbled over the bottom of my ribcage, at this point, I couldn't tell whose they were.
"Oh..." I suddenly found myself the center of attention with more pairs of hands on me than I could count with my eyes closed. "That... Ehr, look, M'Fala..." Hands closed over my sheath. I was sure they were his. Pretty sure. If I lifted my head, then whosever fingers those were on my throat would stop. I was about to tell him to stop, that I wasn't interested, but I halted. What was it that had ruined my interest? His own lack of return interest? Well, that was pretty well solved now. His curt dismissal? Newbie's nerves. His lack of experience? Only one way to solve that.
Left without an excuse, my complaint faltered. But I was still unsure. Maybe for the first time since I'd started patronising the beach, I shook my head.
Fingers fell to either side as I lifted my muzzle and frowned at M'Fala. "Sorry there, but no. Thanks, but no, not tonight." He looked hurt. "Maybe another night, but I'm just not-" Suddenly, a figure on the edge of my vision grabbed all of my attention. A familiar ottery form had just flounced over the hill.
"'Scuse me." I apologized before flipping onto my legs and scampering towards the approaching mustelid.
"Chris!" He gave me a little wave, then slumped at a bench. I hopped up onto the adjoining table and licked at his whiskers. The anxiety of the past nights drained from me, leaving just a giddy happiness. "Where ya' been, otter?"
One arm folded itself over my back, and even though he was perched on the bench, I found myself tucked into his lap. "Tired, foxy. Stressed and tired." Fingers picked through the fur around my neck.
"Anything to do with being away the last few nights?" I looked up at him. Concern must have written itself on my features, because he gave me a forced smile and ruffled my cheeks.
"A bit. Mostly work stuff. It'll get better, foxy, it's just been a hell of a week." He paused for a moment. "You haven't been waiting for me, have you?"
I shook my head. "Nah, life as normal." I lied.
"Good." His fingers teased around my chest, and I obediently flipped onto my back for him.
Down closer to the shore, M'Fale cast me a few curious glances. I tried to force my muzzle into a conciliatory pose, but I wasn't sure how to do it. He shrugged and turned back to the two girls that I'd been sharing time with earlier. Well, it may not be a fox, but as long as he minded his manners, the girls would show him a good night.
"M'Fala's back. I honestly didn't expect it." Chris mused.
"Actually, he surprised me as well. He apologized to me today."
"Really? He wasn't that rude, really."
"That's what I said." I watched the lion. Kiri and Ra'Shalla had one of his arms and were pulling him down to their towel. "Actually, he wanted to say that he was interested, but too afraid to say it earlier."
"Hah!" The otter's fingers ruffled through my belly fur. "No one resists the temptation of a fox!"
I batted at his chest with one hindleg.
"Oof, okay, but still, is he getting better?"
Comprehension flat-lined for a second. "Better than..."
"Well, I figured if he was interested, maybe you'd-"
"No!" The exclamation exploded from my muzzle. Chris shot a disbelieving gaze down at me. "No, no, I guess I would, but I just wasn't in the mood."
"You, not in the mood? Is this the same fox I've seen every night for the last-"
"Fine, fine, so I was a little preoccupied."
The fingers tickled down my ribcage and Chris supported my neck with his off hand so I could lean back. "Heh, okay, so who were you doing at the time?"
Did I really have that reputation? No, never mind, I know my reputation. I'm a little proud of it. If it'd been anyone else asking, I'd smile and wink mysteriously. Then I'd have some witty rejoinder. "Foxes never hump and tell!", or "If you're really good I'll give them your number."
So why did it bother me when Chris said it? He's never disapproved of it. Look at his eyes now, he's smiling too wide. It's not a jibe or an insult, he's just curious, because it's a given. So if it's not bothering him in the slightest, why is it bothering me?
I could lie. I could say it was the girls, that'd be half right. Or someone who doesn't come in here often. He'd never check.
"No one." Or I could just tell the truth, reputation be damned. Why did I say that?
Hands picked me up. I dangled as the otter held me up in front of his muzzle. His incisive eyes examined me, trailing over every inch critically. Then without preamble he spun me around, and presumably repeated the procedure across my back.
"Are you okay foxy? Is something wrong?" I was spun to face him again.
"No, as I said, just preoccupied." Please take my word for it, I silently begged. I'm not going to tell you why, because it would just embarrass you. Please don't make me say any of this out loud.
The otter's eyes watched me closely, and I hung there, second after second. Then he put me on the table and stood.
"Chris, sorry, I-"
"Shush." He walked a few paces and sat down in the sand. "Come over here, foxy. Looks like you could use some attention."
I'm not sure what he thought. I hope he didn't think something bad had happened, but the lack of further questions was a stroke of luck I wasn't about to waste. I hopped down into his lap, and his paws immediately flipped me over, resuming their gentle strokes through my fur. On the ground, the lap was steadier, and he could press harder against my ribs, massaging me through my thick coat.
"Hmm, well, at least M'Fala won't have to worry about your refusal tonight." Chris nodded his head back towards the water line, and I followed his gaze.
Chris was right. I couldn't see much of the lion, as the girls were in the way. From where I lay, all I could see was his legs, with Kiri sitting astride them. Luckily my vantage point did afford me a gorgeous view. Kiri lifted her hips, and I momentarily saw M'Fala through the gap between her thighs. Fingers tugged at his sheath, I couldn't tell from this angle whether they were hers or his, or maybe even Ra'Shalla, who was watching closely from the side. Inches of pink lion shaft spilled into the light, and the fingers pointed them upwards to meet Kiri's drooping hips. Tapered tip fit to dripping lips, and the cats ground their hips together.
Caught as I was with the show, I didn't notice when the fingers on my belly had dipped lower. A squeeze around the tip of my own erection surprised me, and with a jump, I looked around for the culprit. Chris' arm caught me, and fingers caught my lips to keep me silent. I looked down. The fingers were dark brown, short furred, blunt clawed, and thin flaps of skin stretched from one to the next in aquatic webbing. Those were Chris' fingers.
In the midst of the surreal confusion, his whiskers tickled my ears. "Don't tell anyone, foxy. Shh..."
I settled and let his fingers trace up and down my length. To keep his modesty, I flicked my tail up and over, hiding the act. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from my muzzle. "Chris, are you sure?"
"Sure I need it? Yeah." His fingers squeezed at the base near my knot. "And there's no one else I'd trust with it like I would you, foxy."
I swallowed nervously and hunkered down in his lap, curled to hide everything from the normally obscenely public world. My tail curled around his wrist, hiding fingers that tugged momentarily at my sheath. I flipped over onto my front, belly pushed to his crossed legs to hide the red excitement that'd sprouted between my thighs.
I glanced up at him. His attention wasn't on me, his gaze was still watching the felines frolicking near the waterline. Ra'shalla pushed her girlfriend off of the lion's post. His struggling red erection strained up into the air, throbbing fitfully. She swung her leg over, while Kiri's hand reached over to line the desperate lion up with the descending leopard. With a drop of her hips and a quick thrust of his, he disappeared into her depths.
Above me, the otter gave a muffled little moan. I'd never heard him in a state I'd call "worked up." He was always smooth, in control, refined, cool, and collected. Today, though, he was letting the feline's show work him. With each muffled squelch of flesh on flesh from the threesome by the water line, I could feel him tense and roll his hips, as if it were him sinking into the eager feline's soaked cunny. After a few moments of tense anticipation, I also felt the otter's arousal rise to the occasion. It prodded against my thigh, so I shifted. It poked one side, then another. He let me move without complaint, his fingers urging me on. So when it slid between my rumpcheeks, he let out a moan that might have been slightly louder than was fitting for our illicit activities, and his hands pushed me down.
On the first try, the otter's shaft slipped up and prodded at my tail base He was still only half-hard. I rubbed my hips back and forth to fix that, and on the second attempt, it caught against my pucker. With an all-too-familiar stretching sensation, the thin tip slid just an inch. I growled and braced, ready for him to tug and thrust. I waited for him to slide deep. No, I craved it. More than any of the casual fun I'd had in the company of the beach people, I wanted to feel him grind against my hips; to feel him twitching and throbbing within me; hear him panting and growling and moaning into my ears. It was rare as a blue moon during a planetary alignment, and I wanted to remember every moment of it, in case it never happened again.
So it took precious seconds for my mind to even register his voice when he leaned down and mumbled "Shit. I'm so sorry foxy, I have to go. Tomorrow. I promise, tomorrow. Be here, please?"
And then before I'd caught up with his words, he was gone. He hadn't even dashed for the hill. One second he was there, the next I had empty air between me and the ground. I let out a startled little yip, and a few eyes glanced over from the raunchy show to see me flop ungraciously to the sand. The eyes were comforting, understanding. Even inviting, maybe, but that was lost on me tonight. I'd been so close to sharing a secret part of Chris' world, a side that, to my knowledge, I alone had even glimpsed.
It must have been an emergency. Maybe more work issues. I understood. If life called, you had to answer. No one here would put the beach first, and we were really just casual friends. We only met at night, wearing different names and faces than our own. The beach was a fun place to come and act out our private little fantasies, far from the eyes of the work mates, families, and loved ones that would judge and wonder. It was a fun little secret, nothing less, but really, nothing more.
The thought didn't really help, but I convinced myself to smile and shrug off worry and disappointment.
So I watched M'Fala and the girls with scattered attention. Tomorrow. I held that date firmly in mind. Aaron approached me and took a knee next to me. He stroked my flank; I could tell it was an offer. I thanked him as I shook my head. He shrugged, smiled, and let me be. As quickly as I could without appearing out of sorts, I sauntered to the exit. It was going to be a long day until tomorrow.
- - -
When I arrived the next day, the beach was almost empty. It wasn't a surprise, really, I'd come early. I'd hoped that Chris would be here early as well, but no luck. I shouldn't really have expected any different, things had obviously been busy for him this last week. It's fine, I told myself. I could wait. With tense anticipation, I could wait.
Loki was there early today, and he had company. Another fox had joined us, though he was as different from me as two foxes could get. He had two legs to my four, and stark white fur to my ruddy pelt. Loki smiled and waved to me. I don't think the fox noticed me, as he was too busy stuffing his muzzle between Loki's spread legs.
I lazed on my side on a table, admiring the view and letting Loki see my appreciation. He shot me a rather lascivious grin, then focused his attention on the slim muzzle slurping between his thighs. My attention wandered, and by the time someone else joined us, Loki and his new fox had finished up. Kiri and Ra'Shalla slinked down to their towel. Next was Aaron and Foriss, chatting amiably as they passed the age restriction sign.
An hour passed, maybe two. A sunset came and went. Then Chris arrived. He looked a bit ragged and harried again, maybe even worse than yesterday. He stumped down to where the sand still held some heat from the not-long-gone sun and spread eagle on his back.
I approached, my concern for him peaking, but before I could voice my worries his hands caught me. I was lifted and deposited squarely on his belly, and prompt fingers stroked beneath my throat.
"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, foxy."
I settled. Whatever it was that was going on, at least I'd get an explanation.
"Remember I told you about the guy who was leaving?"
I nodded. He carried on, though I'm pretty sure he couldn't see my nod.
"He left us a nasty little surprise in the system. Our tech guys had given him permissions he shouldn't have, and we found a few things left behind that he should never have been able to install."
I drooped my ears. "I hope you didn't lose any work?" He'd told me about the numbers that they were running. A single coordinate or analysis of spectrum could take weeks or months. Lost work would be a nightmare.
"No, no, thankfully. I sorted it out, actually. Because of that, though, they're doing an audit of the internal security. Guess what that means."
I blanked and shook my head.
The otter leaned up on his elbows, and a flat palm rubbed over my ears. "No access to the system for a week, so impromptu holiday. No more working nights when I'd rather be spending them with my favorite vulpine friend."
My ears colored a little bit, but he either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.
"So that's why you left..." I started.
"And why I've been away in general. And, well..." He trailed off, and this time I could see some embarrassment in his demeanour
"Why you've been stressed." I ventured
"That's a good word for it."
I sighed and relaxed, curling up where he'd deposited me. Fingers ran over my muzzle, friendly and familiar, but innocent and chaste. Just like every night, as if last night had never happened. I longed to ask, longed to beg and plead and cajole until he acquiesced, but I knew that wasn't him. There'd always be playmates here on the beach. There was no reason to strain our friendship, no reason at all.
"So why do you hang around here, if you don't want to join in?" Last night had left questions, even if I'd blocked the physical contact out of my mind, just to save myself the tension and anticipation.
"I don't have to join in to enjoy it, foxy." Fingers scratched over the back of my head, and I perked my ears to listen. "Anyway, I'm a bit attached to it."
"Hmm, I guess." I agreed tentatively. "But didn't you tell me yourself that this isn't a beach for passive observers?"
"Hah, turning my own words against me?" He mock-scowled and dug blunt claws into my pelt over my back. They dragged down against my spine, drawing a deep hiss from me as they scratched. "I do join in. I'm social, and you spend at least half of your time here on my lap."
I turned my head to the side and narrowed one eye up at him. "That's not what I meant."
"I know, but it's how I choose to view it."
I considered for a moment. "Okay, I can accept that. You know I'd never complain about your company. That's not what I was getting at, though. Why do you choose to spend your time here, when everyone here is..." I spent a few moments to choose my words carefully "Is preoccupied with the activity you specifically don't choose to partake in." I smiled, happy with my own diplomatic tact.
"Because I enjoy it."
My mind blanked for a moment. "Wait, what?"
"I enjoy it. I enjoy seeing people having fun. Everyone around us here is completely uninhibited. They're looking for pleasure in any body they can find it, and everyone else is perfectly happy to provide. It's not just the sex. It's... I don't know, it's the sense of contentment that comes with passion and fulfilment, and you can see it on everyone's face here. They're practically radiating it."
I let that mull as I watched the other beach goers as they settled in for the night in each other's company. It was casual and free and public, which was what drew me. The beach was a contented place. "You know, I don't think about it often, but you're right. I guess that's enough for you?"
"Most of the time." He gave me that wide smirk again, and his hands wrapped around my sides, fingers stroking down my flanks in one long drag. "If you weren't here, foxy, it'd be enough."
"Hah." I mocked his sentimentality. "It's been enough before now, either way. Nothing special about this fox, Chris. You were just stressed."
"No, I mean it." I looked up at him. He usually wasn't this serious, or open about himself. "I've thought about it before." The fingers dragged down my sides again, and the fingers curled around my ribs and tickled down my chest and belly again. I suppressed a shiver. He was far too good at that, and it was distracting. "I just never acted on it, 'till last night."
"Why not? You know after all this time I'd never turn you down." I hesitated at over-sharing Don't embarrass him, I told myself. Don't ruin it. I closed my eyes ans settled for the obvious. "You know what you do to me, I'm not very good at hiding it."
"Me?" He squeezed lightly around my chest. "I always thought you were just always horny around here."
"Well, not always." I closed my eyes and tried to focus. The sensation of the digits running through my fur was putting me off balance, filling my mind with a pleasurable buzz that shattered my sense of inhibition more thoroughly than any drug could. "Sometimes, it's just you."
"Just me, foxy? Really?"
"Just you." I confirmed. I bit my tongue, but those fingers dragged down my chest again, and I couldn't help but push up a little to give them room as they dug against my belly. "Just..." I was going to say it now, wasn't I? I couldn't stop myself. "Just imagining how it would feel if your fingers went just a little bit lower."
"You mean like here?" His tone was teasing. Teasing. Damn him. Fingers dipped just an inch lower. One tapped lightly my sheath. A shock ran up my spine and terminated in my ears, leaving just a dull ringing. I knew my fur had stood up on end, puffing me up to almost twice my size.
"Oh, foxy..." He drifted off a little as the fingers dragged through my fur, grooming it back down as I tried to settle. I cursed his teasing fingers in the same breath I blessed them, that little touch still reverberating through my imagination. "Foxy, I've never seen you so sensitive."
"Sorry, sorry..." I apologized between tight little huffs of breath. I sat my hind end flat to the otter's belly, but it didn't help. That little touch had set me off, and I could feel his slick fur rubbing against my bare flesh. I bit at my tongue and folded my ears back. It'd go away in a minute if I didn't pay attention to it.
"No." Chris flatly refused, and those fingers dragged down my sides again. I closed my eyes. This wasn't helping! I should tell him to stop, that it was just too far this time, but I couldn't force the words between my lips. "No, I should be sorry."
I looked back at him. Rational thought wouldn't be my strong suit at the moment, so I kept my response short. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." Both of Chris' hands curled as he picked me up again. He leaned back, and his sizeable rudder-tail swung into view. I flipped between his legs where he lay, half as thick as the rest of his body. He set me down again, this time laying over his tail, with my own brush wagging over his belly and crotch.
I gulped. Fur pushed against bare skin again, I was still peeking out. "Chris, you shouldn't..." His fingers pushed and tugged at my rump, moving me side to side. "If you're not careful, you're going to."
He stopped momentarily, and he pushed himself up to his elbows in the sand. One hand shot down and wrapped around my muzzle. "Shhh, foxy. If you're too loud, everyone will see." One of the gears in my mind slipped a cog. Was he really talking about...
The remaining hand pushed at my rump again, and I felt my tip catch as it slid over the base of his tail, just where his legs were spread to either side and his tail met his body. I gulped, recognizing the feel of bare skin on skin. The pucker at the base of his tail slid slickly against my tip as he made sure he'd manoeuvred me to the right spot. Warmth spread from the otter as he pushed me down against the base of his tail. He slowly loosened the fingers around my muzzle, and I flicked out my tongue. It slipped between his fingers and dragged up the webbing between them.
"Huh..." I gulped. "Chris, I..."
"Shush, foxy." He repeated, and this time I obeyed. Instead, I hugged myself to his thick tail. His fingers slid beneath my tail, and with a half-concealed gasp from me, they touched and prodded at all of the places the otter had always avoided. He slid a fingertip across one stretch of fur, and I shuddered. He rolled my balls around on his palm, and I wet the area under his tail with slippery pre. Then one of the otter's short fingers pushed under and in, and I throbbed.
There was a single moment of resistance, followed by a moment of smooth friction. I wriggled in disbelief, but it was real. I felt silky walls clutch around my length, rolling and slipping with each minuscule movement of the otter's hips. I heard him gasp, the first of his own that I'd caught. His thighs clenched to either side of my body, and I felt that silky hole squeeze around me in a languid wave.
"Oh... Foxy..." He whispered. If my ears hadn't been aimed back towards him, listening for every stutter of breath, every hitch in his throat, and every concealed gasp, I would have missed it. The finger prodding at my own tail end slid free as the hand patted over my rump. One finger slid beneath my rump, tapping at my sheath as he felt around the edges. His smooth fingerpads prodded at the sides of my shaft where it sank into his clenching tail end. I smiled and turned my head to the side so I could watch. I pushed up very slightly, and just the barest glimpse of my pink shaft shone out from between where my creamy white belly fur met his toffee brown. His finger curled and squeezed, feeling at where our bodies met as if he didn't believe it himself.
In a moment of clarity, I dropped my hips again and glanced around. The rest of the beach seemed occupied with themselves, chatting or cuddling or heavy petting on beach towels and picnic tables, spread across the small plot of sand. None of them were watching. I curled my tail down, hiding the otters hand as it ducked beneath my thighs. Even though it was a public beach in every sense of the word, Chris wasn't a public otter. I'd help him break the rules, just this once.
So it was to my shock when he curled his hands under my sides again and lifted me. He gathered my paws under his forearms and supported my weight. My front came up first, letting his tail flop back down to the sandy beach. Then my hind end lifted up, just a few inches at a time. Slick walls tugged at my flesh, inch by inch, until just the very tip of my length still spread the otter's tight pucker. I squirmed, but he was insistent. With my body cradled up off the ground, just my length dangled down between his steady arms, caught in his grasping tailhole.
I looked around, almost guilty in my embarrassment We'd been noticed. Aaron was watching, definitely. He was always the first to see when there was something happening. Then M'Fala and the girls looked up from where they lay in a pile of feline fur down by the water. Then Loki and his fox looked, then Foriss too, sneaking his eyes open as he faked sleeping on the hot sand. Conversations fell silent. It wasn't just sex, that happened often enough on the beach. It was Chris. Friendly, caring, smart, and innocent Chris, with legs spread wide and the fox held in a passionate embrace. I met their eyes and time seemed to stop. Some of them would be amused. Some of them were turned on, I could see their interest. Some few might even be jealous. But each and every one was watching. I had my audience now; every eye was on us.
Then time began again, and the hands holding me up slid me down. Tight flesh raced up my length, squeezing and gripping with oily-slicked muscles. I shivered and moaned, and Chris matched my voice moan-for-moan. The evil otter, I could almost imagine he'd planned this. As the final step of his constant teasing, the ultimate play for his all-too-hot mannerisms, he'd thrown me into my scene, playing every bit of my kink and interest for all it was worth. Outwardly, I blushed under the gaze of the beach's collected population. Inwardly, I gloried in every second of it. It was just as much a mind game as it was an exercise of the bodies.
That's fine, Mr. Otter, I thought, almost loud enough for him to hear. If you're going to play this for all it's worth, then so am I!
When my feet touched down again, I wriggled out of his grip. He giggled behind me as I hugged myself tight to his tail, grinding my hips hard against the oh-so-smooth tail slit. Then with my forepaws pinning the muscular tail's tapered end, I stood my hindlegs on his thighs and lifted my hips. His insides tugged at me as I pulled back out, and a soft squelching noise echoed across the beach as if all other noise had been extinguished. I watched our audience, and with their enraptured eyes on me, I wriggled my raised hips about. One by one, I lifted my hindlegs so they could see the slick fox cock, throbbing and hard, as it caught in Chris' tight tail end. I pushed my hindlegs back and to the sides as I could, clearing room for everyone to see, then for their enjoyment just as much as my own, I slowly lowered my hips. That tight pucker rode up my shaft, almost frictionless on its inward slide. Just as I reached the bottom, Chris gave a breathless huff, and his hips bucked upwards to meet mine.
I heard a murmur out in the surrounding crowd and glanced up. It was Foriss. He wasn't just respectfully watching from the side now. He was propped up on an elbow in the sand. His eyes drank in every motion of my russet fur on Chris' tan, and as he gazed, his hand moved over his crotch. The buck was hard, and his fingers were playing up and down his own shaft. I'd had him before, he was just as long as he looked, and slim, so slim that it wasn't much effort to take him all. I looked him in the eyes and smiled. He half-lidded his eyes and gazed at me. I lifted the hindleg closest to him, giving him uninterrupted view of my full range of equipment as I thrust. He responded with another murmured groan, and his fingers shone with liquid as he stroked.
"Now now, foxy, show off if you want, but save that enthusiasm for me." Chris muttered behind me, and I glanced back guiltily. He was smiling, wide and teasing. He was enjoying this! He'd spent years of time in private here on the beach, staying out of the lime-light as I danced out to bask in the public's gaze. I knew that look though. He was getting off on it now, just as much as I always did.
If he was going to share the spotlight, then I wanted to see him. I wanted to see him gasping and squirming, just like he had me doing now. I had the sudden urge to see his short tapered shaft, the one I'd been so careful to not call attention to every night before. I curled my tail to the side, as I thrust again, and with my head to the side, I caught just a hint of pink. I smiled, proof that he was enjoying this as much as I was. I curled my tail, brushing against it.
"Come on, Chris, let's see some of your own enthusiasm here, then." I whispered at him. I knew everyone could hear me anyway, but that didn't bother me. The insides of his ears colored a bit, but he made a grab for his crotch almost without thinking. I knew what he was feeling, the giddy drunk haziness of making a spectacle. All of the eyes on us battered down the rest of his inhibitions, and his hand move shamelessly over his shaft.
"Here, foxy, let me borrow this for a moment." He tugged at my tail. I felt it curl once, then twice, as he wrapped it around his shaft. I tried to wag, and the brush twitched in his paws. Just the hint of pink peeked from above the dark ruddy fur of my tail. Chris let out a loud gasp and a thin spurt of liquid wet down my tail fur, sticking it together in thin spikes.
With him content to stroke and rub against my brush, I began the rolling of my hips again. His slit rode across my length from tip to knobs. He let out a chirp, short, sharp and piercing. I let out a huff, low, rolling and building into a growl. His thick tail rose to meet me, slapping up against my underside. I rolled again, and he matched my thrust. Again, then once more, once every other couple seconds, then once a second until I could hear the juicy slurp of flesh on flesh as my length sank into him.
Slowly, the edges of my sight creeped in. I knew he was close, I could feel him twitching against my tail as his hands tugged at it. I wasn't going to wait or hold back. As his slick pucker slid up to my engorged knot, I hugged myself to his tail and tugged. He yelped, but I kept my grip. His tail writhed beneath me, then he gave another hard hump up against me. He even reached one hand down, pushing down at my hips as I strained. I felt a tight grip slide up over my knot, then clamp down around the base of my cock.
Stars shot across my vision and a soft thrumming hum built in my ears. Without my conscious control, my body bent and clenched. A long shudder ran from my ears down to my spine, then raced down to my tail and burst. I heard him chirping behind me, a constant stream of happy otter noises. A second later, I felt a throb travel down my length, and the slick feeling of the otter's insides changed as I coated them with slippery cum. I shuddered again. I couldn't breathe with the intensity of my peak.
Every few seconds a hot rush sped from my chest down to my crotch. It felt like a peak I should somehow record, an orgasm that should somehow be saved for posterity. I know I'd be remembering it, thinking about it when I was alone, trying to relive every sensation and feeling. Chris squeezed around me slickly, the otter's silky insides twitching and squirming every few seconds.
Then, as quickly as it struck, the peak passed, leaving warm lethargy. I let out a low growl, as long as the outward breath that fed it. I felt the tie pull up and back, and let my hips be pulled along with it. I lazed on the sand, eyes half-lidded. Chris let out another chirp, this time sounding like he was just over my back. A wet spatter of liquid caught the back of my ear, then landed across my back. A second one quickly followed, as strong and wet as the first, then a third. The otter chirped out his excitement as he sprayed my back, before collapsing back into the warm sand.
Now, with the days of anticipation and frustration spent, I took the opportunity to really watch the people that surrounded us. They picked up where we'd left off, some coupling on the benches, some enjoying themselves alone in the sand, or in threes or more. Chris and I had started the night off properly, but after my peak, my only interest was crawling back into the otter's lap and enjoying the view.
So that's what I did. Twisting around so my trapped length wouldn't pull, I sat across Chris' thighs. Slowly, still sweaty and slightly sticky, he levered himself up. Fingers stroked innocently across my shoulder blades, ignoring the streaks of otter spunk that spiked my fur. We watched as our friends enjoyed themselves and each other in every way imaginable (and then some.) We basked in the glow of their happiness.
Ten minutes later, I softened enough to slip free, and did so without comment. Chris moved just enough to swing his tail back, then sat properly beneath me. Five minutes after that, I felt something throb against my flank. Chris was hard again. I considered acting on it, but decided against it. I knew I could, and he wouldn't complain, but just that knowledge was enough for me tonight. Instead I ignored it, just like I had for countless nights before. We sat together as people finished, some with a growl, some with a roar, and some silently so they didn't attract attention. We watched as they fell back in with their cliques and friends.
"So what happens tomorrow, Chris?" I ventured.
"Well, I'll be here. Won't you?" He asked with a half-smile.
"Of course."
"Then why do you need to ask?"
I hesitated. "So should I act like we never-"
"Don't act, foxy. Just be. If we do that again, then we do it again. If we don't, we don't." His smile never faltered.
"Then nothing changed, really?"
"Do you want it to?"
I gazed out over the ocean. The sun was rising with the beautiful accuracy of the composite of a thousand observed sunrises.
"No, I guess not."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Audiobook 004 Andrew Rabbitt reads "One Week" by Whyte Yoté
There's a certain thrill in the development and polarization of power roles. Yeah, you don't want to let Foucault infect everything you think, but when one guy's seated in a throne and another's on his knees, it makes things easy to understand. Especially when you start to dress that dynamic in intriguing imagery- a torn suit, dark hardwood floors, looks that are centered in the whiskers rather than on his lips- and it's no surprise why so many people get a special twitch in their nerves from a good dom/sub story.
Whyte Yote breaks open a treasure trove of glittering images in his story "One Week," which you may have already read.
But we don't want to leave the commuters out, either- so here is an audiobook version, as read by the one and only Andrew Rabbitt. Gas up the crude generator you use to recharge your Zune in a dystopian future, world's last remaining furry!
Whyte Yote breaks open a treasure trove of glittering images in his story "One Week," which you may have already read.
But we don't want to leave the commuters out, either- so here is an audiobook version, as read by the one and only Andrew Rabbitt. Gas up the crude generator you use to recharge your Zune in a dystopian future, world's last remaining furry!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Meeting 003: “Thou Shalt Not Kill” by FuzzWolf
Maybe it's about time Skip and I come clean about something-
You see, we're- we're robots. We were programmed by Alex Vance to run the book club arm of his furry publishing empire. And while we hope you won't hold our lack of souls against us, it does explain the minor kink in our programming that causes us to identify so well with characters such as Unit JVCS3163- who you possibly know by his slave name- who skirt the line between real and unreal. Especially since that can be a rather potent source of some pretty steamy pulp. Which, as emotionless droids, Skip and I see as intriguing new territory.
If you haven't had a chance to read the story yet, here are the text and the audiobook, including a free eBook copy you can take with you wherever you go.
You see, we're- we're robots. We were programmed by Alex Vance to run the book club arm of his furry publishing empire. And while we hope you won't hold our lack of souls against us, it does explain the minor kink in our programming that causes us to identify so well with characters such as Unit JVCS3163- who you possibly know by his slave name- who skirt the line between real and unreal. Especially since that can be a rather potent source of some pretty steamy pulp. Which, as emotionless droids, Skip and I see as intriguing new territory.
If you haven't had a chance to read the story yet, here are the text and the audiobook, including a free eBook copy you can take with you wherever you go.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Text 004 “One Week” by Whyte Yote
He comes on Wednesday night, when foot traffic is slowest. When he doesn't have to worry about being seen, and when I don't have to worry about my one meal of the day. I don't count on it, like I don't count on anything anymore as a surety, so each time I see the silhouette of his trench coat it sets my tail to switching just so.
The nights around here are balmy, and don't change much with the seasons. When it's dry, I prefer the alley. When it rains, I prefer the bank. Everyone around here knows the lane nearest the building three blocks down belongs to me, because the last time someone challenged me I bit off a part of his ear. I hear he's in a neighboring state.
It's close to midnight when he comes around, his usual time. The theaters and sporting venues closed down hours ago, and I retired to my alley after making a few bucks off an old couple of bears on the town. They were my only take tonight, just enough to buy a burger or something. Since I'm not very hungry, I pocket the bills and sit, pulling my legs up to my chest. The suit I'm wearing is ratty and torn. It used to be nice, probably worth a grand or more. Heavy street living does that to clothes. And to people.
I don't look at myself if I don't have to.
I always see his shoes before the rest of him. Between a stack of empty pallets and a Dumpster, there is only me and the broken pavement, and then a pair of patent leather loafers. The ones with the tassels on them, and no laces. Ones you have to use a shoehorn to put on. They cover a pair of what I know are lupine footpaws, with no socks. He never wears socks, and I've never bothered to ask why. I grin before looking up, knowing I look a sight but not caring because neither does he.
He doesn't ever really smile, not the kind of smile you would think of as a clear definition of that word. His muzzle is kind of thick, and I can hardly tell it from the dark sky except for his glowing green eyes. But he's got this kind of look, and it's mostly centered in the whiskers rather than on his lips, but I know it's as close as he gets to a smile. His paw is extended, the fingers outstretched. My relief is backgrounded by hopelessness, yeah, but I have to live for the Now if I want to live at all.
Warm pads slide along mine, a larger paw, a stronger paw, and I'm on my feet fast. My momentum carries me into his side, and I let it become a hug. He's at least thirty years older than me, and much thicker all over, but he steps back with my weight against him. But he doesn't let go, and I'm glad for it. He tolerates me for a few seconds before gently turning us around and walking towards the street. I fall into step next to him. I know the drill.
He lives in the building in whose shadow I sleep. It's one turn right turn onto the sidewalk, then another into the lobby. The doorman, an African-American zebra, tips his hat to us as we approach. The wolf in the trench coat nods back, extending his arm, and the two shake. Winking to me, the zebra recrosses his arms, but not before palming the hundred-dollar bill into his pants pocket. If someone paid me a hundred a week, I'd keep quiet too.
A revolving door looks onto a lobby filled with pink marble and gold accents. It reeks of 1930's chic without seeming old, and that's the best way I can describe it. And it's empty. There are benches and chairs and live plants, but I never see anyone in them. I don't know if I'd like to be rich enough to afford chairs that no one sits in.
There's an elevator waiting for us with its door open. This time it's the farthest down on the right. That's Elevator No. 4, just as the sign says. It's one of two that go to the upper third of the building, and the only one that accesses the penthouses. A short raccoon who looks younger than me is leaning on the "Door Open" button, but he lets off as soon as the wolf steps across the threshold. The wolf inserts his key into the slot, and the crystal circle with the 23 on it glows a soft art-deco peach.
The door closes with an antique clunk as satisfying as it is unnerving. I'm in the middle of the exchange this time: the wolf, on my right, leans in and I feel his paw brush across my back. At the same time, the raccoon's paw comes around my other side and the two meet just above my rear. The rustle of money is the only sound, and when the paws part ways one of them drags its claws along the striped length of my tail. It goes to the left. The raccoon's side. I know he's looking at me, tracing his claws along the curvature of my rump, aroused by his involvement in the elicit affairs of a prominent city businessman. He's probably more attracted to the scandal than to either of us.
I try not to look at my reflection too much. I might not like what I see.
There is no announcement of our arrival at the penthouse level like every other floor. There's no need, when the entire floor belongs to one person. The wolf ushers me out into the hallway, takes his key from the slot and nods to the operator, who nods back (and winks at me dramatically) before the door closes.
The whole concept of the hallway is pointless when there's just a single tenant. Over a hundred feet of carpeting, wallpaper and lighting, with a single door right across from the elevator. A president stayed here once, I don't remember which. A couple people died here, too. Well, it's a big city.
He uses a different key for the door, a heavy brass one with a long neck. I have no doubt it's the original. The rest of the building, I've noticed, uses electronic cards. Nice to know some people still have eclectic tastes.
Eclectic would be the word of choice for the penthouse, too: its lines are art-deco like the rest of the building, clean without being overwrought, in a warm pastel shade that I can only describe as the color of the inside of a husky's ear. I've wondered what its real name is.
An anteroom gives onto a hallway with three doors that I know are the laundry room, the office, and a spare bedroom with its own full bath. I've never stayed in there, though. At the end of the hall it opens up on the main living area, which is huge and tall. I remember crying the first time I saw it, partly because I was blown away and partly because I was afraid of dirtying up the ultra-clean surfaces. I don't worry about that anymore. He has cleaning ladies for that.
The closer we get to the main room, the harder it is to control my salivary glands. Meat is in the air, red meat, and I'm so used to the Dollar Menu that I forgot the intricacies of the odor of properly-prepared carrion. We enter the main room and the smell hits me like a solid thing. He grasps my shoulder to hold me up while I compose myself. I had no idea how hungry I was until I smelled real food. I can't even remember what was on the table last Wednesday. That was a lifetime ago.
In the kitchen, a very rotund woman, another cat but of mixed heritage, is busy preparing what looks to be way too much food for two people. The wolf who guides me past the feast has told me on occasion that he takes the leftovers to the nearby homeless shelter the next morning, on his way to work. I've heard stories from acquaintances of some mystery donor giving high-class chow to the soup kitchen, and how the lines are slightly longer on Thursday because of it. I can't smile because there'd be questions.
I smack my lips loudly at the food, and all the woman does is crack me a genuinely warm smile. She's on the payroll, after all, and she probably enjoys the gossip she gains from just one night a week. The wolf obviously trusts her, and I have nothing to lose.
My stomach growls in protest as we turn gently away from the kitchen and pass the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that give onto a commanding view of the city skyline. As always, I'm mesmerized by the feeling of power and separation they give to anyone who looks out of them. Even me. That I live in an alley is the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I'm grateful for the amnesia.
The wolf's paws are solid on my shoulders, the heat from the pads finally soaking through the three layers of clothing that I wear. We enter the bedroom, a massive open space with windows and mirrors and perfect bedding and carpet. It looks like he hardly stays here, even though I happen to know it's his main home. He says his places in Colorado and Cancun are smaller, but I really don't care if they're the size of a Dumpster. I'd like to go someday. Maybe the Mexican breeze would clear my sinuses for once in my life.
I'm afraid to ask.
He stops me by the side of the bed and turns me around. At first, I avoid his eyes. It's a natural reaction for someone like me, both because of my status and species. Years and years of evolution still can't breed away the temptation to honor a superior race, though that concept was abolished hundreds of years ago. Instinct takes longer, though.
When he tips my chin up with a claw, I have to meet his gaze. And it makes me want to cry all over again. He's taller than me, so he has to look down his muzzle, through the pince-nez spectacles at me. But those green eyes are warm, if you can call green a warm color, and they bring an instant smile to my face as well. I could melt into those eyes and never want to leave. It's a dangerous thought.
He tilts his head just slightly and closes the distance between us in a quick move, pressing his lips to mine. It's a kiss of deep affection, nothing false about it, and though he's no longer holding me to him I feel as if I'm glued to this spot, and nothing can tear me away except for the wolf. When he pulls back he has to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. No words need be said, though. He knows why I do it. It's not nearly as bad as the first time he brought me up here, a broken and sick wreck of a tiger.
I wait for him as he goes into the bathroom, expecting and then hearing the rush of water. If anything, he is a man of continuity and discipline. Though he adheres to the same schedule each Wednesday night, I find comfort in the sameness of it all. On the outside, life is a series of surprises, the bad far outnumbering the good. Knowing what will happen next, while boring to the rest of the world, is a dream to me.
His paws rest on my shoulders once again, his fingers curled under the collar of my jacket. Closing my eyes, I feel it lifted up and back, letting the dirty fabric peel away from my arms in a cathartic kind of disposal. It makes a slight swishing sound as it piles at my feet. My shirt follows unceremoniously, the wolf preferring to pop each button instead of fumbling with it. Not out of eagerness, but because these clothes will go into the incinerator after I've left. Still, the abandonment of civility, however small, sets my heart to beating faster.
Hooking a claw into my undershirt, he pulls it away from my back, tearing it neatly down the middle so it merely melts off me. His fingers don't pause at my belt; the second it comes undone my pants slide all the way to my ankles. They're much too big for me, but they were expensive, so I don't complain. I'm not wearing anything underneath. After three days or so the itching gets to be too much, and I end up having to throw any underwear away.
I can feel his eyes on me. Nonjudgmental. Appraising. Admiring. The first time, I don't know how many months ago, he bent me over his giant bed and took me as I stood. He was loud and dominant, waiting until he was finished to ask if I was okay. I told him I was. I lied. But I came back.
Now, he turns me with him and leads from behind. Dark hardwood floors give way to the black marble and mint green rugs of the bathroom. We pass under an archway with an elegant but simple molding and enter a world of timeless spartan beauty. It takes my breath away every time my bare paws click along the heated floor, thirty or so feet past a claw-footed Jacuzzi, linen closet and double sinks to the capacious green-tiled shower comprising the entire far end of the room. The commode and bidet, I know, have their own space. Everything is glass and stone, true workmanship if there ever was.
Coming around in front of me to open the steamy door, I see he's already doffed his clothing and stashed it somewhere, perhaps down the laundry chute by the linen closet. He looks his age, but just that and not a year older. Firm but round compared to my scrawny frame, taller, more imposing, definitely with power. White fur from chin to inner thighs, a pattern befitting someone of lupine heritage. Finely coiffed all over. Tail making slow patterns behind him as he ushers me into the water.
One like me rarely has the opportunity to experience the pure joy of a shower. This is arguably the part I most look forward to. It is almost more personally intimate to be cleaned and groomed than to be made love to. And when You get that chance only once a week, the feel of hot water cascading down your head and back makes you forget you're hungry, and homeless, and caked with city grime.
The water turns brown as it circles the drain, carrying all the memories of the past six days with it. My burnt-sienna-over-dishwater fur slowly turns back into the orange-on-white it was, the black stripes darkening to a deep shine. The wolf comes up behind me with the bottle of shampoo, fairly drenching me with it. Smells of tea tree oil and peppermint infuse the steam around us as his claws work me to the skin, squeezing the lactic acid out of knots I didn't know I had.
This is the only time he varies from his normal routine. Sometimes he'll kneel in front of me and work between my legs, coaxing out an intense climax. Other times he'll pin me to the floor and keep me there until he's done. But tonight he takes his time with the shampoo, running his fingers through my fur, over my tail, around my torso and between my legs. Being thorough, not sexual, always sensual. We can both hear my purring over the sound of the water. When I finally rinse off I feel pounds lighter, physically and mentally.
I leave him to wash himself, because he knows I know how he does things. Were our relationship anything but what it is, I might ask why he never lets me return the cleansing favor. At the very least, I'd like to stand in the corner and just...watch him move. But I am his guest, among other things, and I need to respect him in his own home.
My stomach churns again, reminding me how hungry I am. An old, base part of my brain tells me all I have to do is go through his closet, yank a dish off the table and run like only a big cat can, but I dismiss it almost immediately. That would be the easy way, wouldn't it? But what if he came down to look for me? I'd have to move, and even in a city like this it's harder than you think. Not the easy way at all. Shaking my head and smiling at my own chagrin, I quickly towel off and brush myself down.
Two robes hang by the archway. The black one, the smaller one, is for me. He bought it for me after my second visit. I saw the tag before he had the chance to remove it. I don't dare mention it, though. The bamboo polyester is softer than silk, and warming to the fur. I love it, and I've told him so.
I still don't know what to feel as I enter the dining room, hardly dressed for a meal, even though this is how things are done. The table is set for two, though I can tell it's one of those that can accommodate a dinner party with added sections. It's a sea of plates, glasses and silverware, totally unnecessary but very impressive. That's what wealth is, though. As I sit in a chair so plush it should be in an office instead of at a table, the plump woman comes over and pours a glass of Gewurztraminer next to my glass of water. I like it because it's sweet and doesn't dry my mouth out. He likes it because I like it.
The woman comes back and pours merlot across the table, anticipating his impending arrival, then returns to the kitchen to start bringing out the first course. By the time she sets down the bread and butter, he comes from around the corner, fastening his robe and twitching his whiskers at the scents in the room. He sits, tucking his tail carefully to the side, and nods at me. I know I don't need to wait for him, but just because I live on the street doesn't mean I have no manners. But when I dig in, it's hard to hide my desperation.
Dinner doesn't take as long as a course-by-course meal should, but I taste every bit. Lobster bisque, followed by an arugula Caesar salad. He gets a Kobe ribeye, rare, and I get ahi tartare, encrusted with coconut and basted in lime glaze. It sounds fancy because it is. I remember him acting surprised last week when he found out I like fish, contrary to the stereotype of my species. I don't think I've ever tasted fish this fresh from anywhere around the city, and I tell him so. He says he bought the steak in Kyoto, and my dish just outside of Honolulu. Yesterday. The only reason I don't spit it all over my plate is because I can't bring myself to waste such expensive food.
I'm quiet for the rest of the meal, which is capped by Belgian chocolate gelato. I don't even dare ask where he bought that.
When I fold my napkin on top of the dish, he's still finishing his dessert. But he nods toward the bedroom with a slight smile, and my heart jumps a little like it does every week about this time. He knows I don't need to thank him, but I do it with my eyes instead of my voice. All it takes is sincerity.
The room is dim when I enter, the bed turned down. It smells faintly of wolf—no—it smells of him, but not in a bad way. It's the scent of living in a place for long enough to infuse the carpets and bedclothes with an irreversible musk. I crawl onto the bed, first waiting, then dozing, waking when I hear the click of the lock and paw-steps to the bed. It shifts away from me, and I roll slightly, my neck sliding along a lupine nose and tongue.
He's said that sex was never part of it, but the more I get to know him the less I think it. I'm willing to let him believe that if it makes him feel better, because the lie doesn't matter as much as how he treats me. I have no idea if his purpose is philanthropic or just plain sexual, but consent is no longer a question. I don't have to say yes to mean it.
I'm still tired from the wine and the food, but not too tired to turn over onto my back, my robe falling clumsily open. He's already nude, and I can feel his heat on my side. He starts to nibble my ear, which he knows is the key to bringing me off quickly. I don't stop him, though; I just let him pick the pace. Some weeks he holds me down while he thrusts hard, others we never go past kissing. He loves order in most things, surprises in others. Not knowing what to expect heightens my pleasure.
Sharp teeth tease the base of my ear while his paw settles directly on my sheath, which needs no further encouragement to split around my shaft and expose it to his attentive finger pads. The grip is strong but soft, from skin treatments only people like him can afford, and sure: there is no doubt he knows what he's doing, and he's had years of practice. There's no fighting it and no helping it along. When it comes, it comes, and it won't be long.
His muzzle moves from my ear to my chin, coaxing me to face him. Then his lips tug at mine, and I cease being a guest, a bum, and become a lover. His breath smells of chocolate, gentle against my whiskers, his tongue soft and warm. I melt into him, not knowing if he's trying to fulfill his desires or mine. But his paw never wavers, never slows or speeds up, just keeps stroking, building the pressure between my legs. I hold onto him as he holds onto me, our tongues interlocking languidly as I release over my belly and his fingers. My previous shower has been effectively negated, but neither of us minds.
He lets me lay there, catching my breath in the afterglow, for as long as I need. I can feel his sheath against my thigh, hard and ready but never forceful. His heat is tempting me to fall asleep again; I could, and he would let me, but I know there's something else he wants. He doesn't have to tell me because it doesn't need to be told. So when his paw strokes along my thigh, I spread my legs and let him in.
There's not too much I need to do, except lay there for him. Actually, he prefers it that way, not being one to enjoy the more aggressive side of lovemaking. He takes pleasure from giving pleasure, he's said, and I've been the recipient of that truth many a time. Still, there's an urgency to him as he slides his paw along my torso, collecting seed and transferring it under my tail, where he's able to open me up easily with a well-placed claw.
I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I refused him. If, for whatever reason, I became disinterested. In the end, though, there wouldn't be much difference. I get a good meal, a shower, and the physical attention so many more fortunate others never receive...and I always enjoy myself. I'm just starting to accept it graciously, but I'll never take it for granted. The last time I did that, I ended up homeless and alone.
He scoops up the rest of my cum and uses it to unsheathe himself; the strong scent hits my nose mere seconds later. When he rises to his knees and crawls atop me, I'm ready. And when he pushes, I meet him force for force. Even now, I can't control the gasp of penetration, or the pure feel of his dominant nature even as he's more careful than he needs to be with me.
The rest all blends into a series of motion and emotion. I let him take me, and I move with him, slowly as he goes, bent over and panting into my neck, arms splayed out like guy wires into the pillows on either side of my head. It doesn't pay to think too hard, or invest too much into the act itself. Tying the physicality with the fragile state of the psyche is dangerous for anyone, especially when it's far better to just feel the pleasure instead of wondering why you feel it. My paws clutch at his sides, trying to pull him into me farther than he can go without hurting me. There are times when I wouldn't mind the pain.
Never speeding up, never faltering, his passion is steady and reserved, like the rest of him and his life. That helps me control myself when I feel overwhelmed with sensation, settling for burying my snout in his neck ruff and breathing in the scent of shampoo, left-over chocolate and perspiration on his fur. When he stops breathing and gives a sudden hunch, it is me who cries out as we both resist the urge to make the tie that would surely injure me. His shaft slickens anew, and I am warmed from the inside out.
We remain precariously intertwined for as long as it takes his breathing to return to normal, and when he pulls away I'm left with a satisfaction instead of the usual emptiness. As he sits on his calves between my legs, one pointy ear flops down and he looks twenty years younger. Glowing. Happy.
I feel too tired to move from the bed under my own power, drained and content to remain within the confines of order and luxury. But eventually I'll have to, and not after I've shared sleep with him. As much as I would like it, there are some things I guess he can't or won't do. After all he's given me, I don't question that which I don't understand.
He pads to the bathroom and comes back with a hot towel, proceeding to wipe me down from chest to knees and everywhere in between. It's the most clean I'll feel for a while, and I savor it. After sitting me up, he opens the bedroom door and stoops down, and I can't help but admire the view below his temporarily-raised tail. A pile of neatly-folded clothes sits atop his paws, and they look familiar, as they should. They're the clothes he was wearing when he came to the alley just five hours ago. And they're for me. It's hard to believe that, despite their sturdy tailoring, I seem to tear through them in just a week. But then again, the streets are unfair and unkind.
It all goes on over black silk boxers that caress my fur and cling to it at the same time. Washed, pressed, and starched, the ensemble fits me as well as it fit him. It's another one of those miraculous occurrences about which I don't ask, because I might not be better off if I did. I would rather remain ignorantly blissful of those kind of eccentricities.
When I have finished knotting the tie (I usually end up hawking it for twenty bucks or so), I look up and see him in a black polo and khakis that blends well with his fur. He smiles and dusts off the arms of my jacket, admiring how well I shine up. Maybe that's part of the reason. Maybe he gets a kick out of rinsing the dirt off and making me new again. Still, it's not my place to know.
He leads me out of the bedroom and into the living space, which has been put away and cleaned almost to a level of sterility. The woman—who most likely speed-tailored my suit—is gone for the night. It doesn't even smell like food anymore.
The elevator is empty, the raccoon having gone off shift for the night. The way I'm dressed right now, with the simple addition of a hat, I could probably act civil and do that job just as well, for the ridiculous amount of money they pay for him to stand there and go up and down all day. But not having a place of residence gets in the way of the application process.
We step out into the lobby, which is devoid of people with the exception of the security guard at the desk, who pays us no more deference than he would any other tenant. The doorman, however, gives us both a knowing smile and a wink so awkward that I feel my shoulder squeezed as he turns me away and down to the alley. The guy might not have a job tomorrow.
My heart sinks a little as we round the corner and I spot my box halfway down. Immediately I feel guilty; my stepping in puddles is muddying my feet all over again, and as soon as I sit down my pants will be ruined. But his arm is around my waist and it feels so, so good and reassuring. I might be able to get four hours of sleep before the sun wakes me.
I cried the first time he took me back to the box. I couldn't understand why, but back then my emotions were uncontrolled and I had no direction in which to send them. He became my anchor for that, and although he tells me this is the way it has to be, I don't ask him why anymore. There are just some things that have to stay as they are. But as we stand there face to face, him looking slightly down at me, I can tell that he'd rather it not stay as it is. Before I can allow my heart to break at that thought, his lips are against me again, the embrace that saves me every time, that renews me just enough to make it. And when he lets me go, I'm smiling, just like always.
He rubs a thumb across the bridge of my muzzle, and I have to work hard to stifle the purring building up somewhere in my throat. My smile makes him smile, and when he turns away his tail is swishing big, wide arcs behind him. I watch him go, holding onto that feeling like a cherished thing. The sounds of a city asleep slowly return to the fore, and all I'm left with are memories. But they sustain me. I'll make it through, like I always do, some way or another. I have clothes on my back, food in my belly, and something to look forward to: a wolf, whatever his reasons, who sees enough in me to be willing to share even a small part of his life. And for that, I have all the patience in the world.
After all, I only have to wait one more week.
The nights around here are balmy, and don't change much with the seasons. When it's dry, I prefer the alley. When it rains, I prefer the bank. Everyone around here knows the lane nearest the building three blocks down belongs to me, because the last time someone challenged me I bit off a part of his ear. I hear he's in a neighboring state.
It's close to midnight when he comes around, his usual time. The theaters and sporting venues closed down hours ago, and I retired to my alley after making a few bucks off an old couple of bears on the town. They were my only take tonight, just enough to buy a burger or something. Since I'm not very hungry, I pocket the bills and sit, pulling my legs up to my chest. The suit I'm wearing is ratty and torn. It used to be nice, probably worth a grand or more. Heavy street living does that to clothes. And to people.
I don't look at myself if I don't have to.
I always see his shoes before the rest of him. Between a stack of empty pallets and a Dumpster, there is only me and the broken pavement, and then a pair of patent leather loafers. The ones with the tassels on them, and no laces. Ones you have to use a shoehorn to put on. They cover a pair of what I know are lupine footpaws, with no socks. He never wears socks, and I've never bothered to ask why. I grin before looking up, knowing I look a sight but not caring because neither does he.
He doesn't ever really smile, not the kind of smile you would think of as a clear definition of that word. His muzzle is kind of thick, and I can hardly tell it from the dark sky except for his glowing green eyes. But he's got this kind of look, and it's mostly centered in the whiskers rather than on his lips, but I know it's as close as he gets to a smile. His paw is extended, the fingers outstretched. My relief is backgrounded by hopelessness, yeah, but I have to live for the Now if I want to live at all.
Warm pads slide along mine, a larger paw, a stronger paw, and I'm on my feet fast. My momentum carries me into his side, and I let it become a hug. He's at least thirty years older than me, and much thicker all over, but he steps back with my weight against him. But he doesn't let go, and I'm glad for it. He tolerates me for a few seconds before gently turning us around and walking towards the street. I fall into step next to him. I know the drill.
He lives in the building in whose shadow I sleep. It's one turn right turn onto the sidewalk, then another into the lobby. The doorman, an African-American zebra, tips his hat to us as we approach. The wolf in the trench coat nods back, extending his arm, and the two shake. Winking to me, the zebra recrosses his arms, but not before palming the hundred-dollar bill into his pants pocket. If someone paid me a hundred a week, I'd keep quiet too.
A revolving door looks onto a lobby filled with pink marble and gold accents. It reeks of 1930's chic without seeming old, and that's the best way I can describe it. And it's empty. There are benches and chairs and live plants, but I never see anyone in them. I don't know if I'd like to be rich enough to afford chairs that no one sits in.
There's an elevator waiting for us with its door open. This time it's the farthest down on the right. That's Elevator No. 4, just as the sign says. It's one of two that go to the upper third of the building, and the only one that accesses the penthouses. A short raccoon who looks younger than me is leaning on the "Door Open" button, but he lets off as soon as the wolf steps across the threshold. The wolf inserts his key into the slot, and the crystal circle with the 23 on it glows a soft art-deco peach.
The door closes with an antique clunk as satisfying as it is unnerving. I'm in the middle of the exchange this time: the wolf, on my right, leans in and I feel his paw brush across my back. At the same time, the raccoon's paw comes around my other side and the two meet just above my rear. The rustle of money is the only sound, and when the paws part ways one of them drags its claws along the striped length of my tail. It goes to the left. The raccoon's side. I know he's looking at me, tracing his claws along the curvature of my rump, aroused by his involvement in the elicit affairs of a prominent city businessman. He's probably more attracted to the scandal than to either of us.
I try not to look at my reflection too much. I might not like what I see.
There is no announcement of our arrival at the penthouse level like every other floor. There's no need, when the entire floor belongs to one person. The wolf ushers me out into the hallway, takes his key from the slot and nods to the operator, who nods back (and winks at me dramatically) before the door closes.
The whole concept of the hallway is pointless when there's just a single tenant. Over a hundred feet of carpeting, wallpaper and lighting, with a single door right across from the elevator. A president stayed here once, I don't remember which. A couple people died here, too. Well, it's a big city.
He uses a different key for the door, a heavy brass one with a long neck. I have no doubt it's the original. The rest of the building, I've noticed, uses electronic cards. Nice to know some people still have eclectic tastes.
Eclectic would be the word of choice for the penthouse, too: its lines are art-deco like the rest of the building, clean without being overwrought, in a warm pastel shade that I can only describe as the color of the inside of a husky's ear. I've wondered what its real name is.
An anteroom gives onto a hallway with three doors that I know are the laundry room, the office, and a spare bedroom with its own full bath. I've never stayed in there, though. At the end of the hall it opens up on the main living area, which is huge and tall. I remember crying the first time I saw it, partly because I was blown away and partly because I was afraid of dirtying up the ultra-clean surfaces. I don't worry about that anymore. He has cleaning ladies for that.
The closer we get to the main room, the harder it is to control my salivary glands. Meat is in the air, red meat, and I'm so used to the Dollar Menu that I forgot the intricacies of the odor of properly-prepared carrion. We enter the main room and the smell hits me like a solid thing. He grasps my shoulder to hold me up while I compose myself. I had no idea how hungry I was until I smelled real food. I can't even remember what was on the table last Wednesday. That was a lifetime ago.
In the kitchen, a very rotund woman, another cat but of mixed heritage, is busy preparing what looks to be way too much food for two people. The wolf who guides me past the feast has told me on occasion that he takes the leftovers to the nearby homeless shelter the next morning, on his way to work. I've heard stories from acquaintances of some mystery donor giving high-class chow to the soup kitchen, and how the lines are slightly longer on Thursday because of it. I can't smile because there'd be questions.
I smack my lips loudly at the food, and all the woman does is crack me a genuinely warm smile. She's on the payroll, after all, and she probably enjoys the gossip she gains from just one night a week. The wolf obviously trusts her, and I have nothing to lose.
My stomach growls in protest as we turn gently away from the kitchen and pass the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that give onto a commanding view of the city skyline. As always, I'm mesmerized by the feeling of power and separation they give to anyone who looks out of them. Even me. That I live in an alley is the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I'm grateful for the amnesia.
The wolf's paws are solid on my shoulders, the heat from the pads finally soaking through the three layers of clothing that I wear. We enter the bedroom, a massive open space with windows and mirrors and perfect bedding and carpet. It looks like he hardly stays here, even though I happen to know it's his main home. He says his places in Colorado and Cancun are smaller, but I really don't care if they're the size of a Dumpster. I'd like to go someday. Maybe the Mexican breeze would clear my sinuses for once in my life.
I'm afraid to ask.
He stops me by the side of the bed and turns me around. At first, I avoid his eyes. It's a natural reaction for someone like me, both because of my status and species. Years and years of evolution still can't breed away the temptation to honor a superior race, though that concept was abolished hundreds of years ago. Instinct takes longer, though.
When he tips my chin up with a claw, I have to meet his gaze. And it makes me want to cry all over again. He's taller than me, so he has to look down his muzzle, through the pince-nez spectacles at me. But those green eyes are warm, if you can call green a warm color, and they bring an instant smile to my face as well. I could melt into those eyes and never want to leave. It's a dangerous thought.
He tilts his head just slightly and closes the distance between us in a quick move, pressing his lips to mine. It's a kiss of deep affection, nothing false about it, and though he's no longer holding me to him I feel as if I'm glued to this spot, and nothing can tear me away except for the wolf. When he pulls back he has to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. No words need be said, though. He knows why I do it. It's not nearly as bad as the first time he brought me up here, a broken and sick wreck of a tiger.
I wait for him as he goes into the bathroom, expecting and then hearing the rush of water. If anything, he is a man of continuity and discipline. Though he adheres to the same schedule each Wednesday night, I find comfort in the sameness of it all. On the outside, life is a series of surprises, the bad far outnumbering the good. Knowing what will happen next, while boring to the rest of the world, is a dream to me.
His paws rest on my shoulders once again, his fingers curled under the collar of my jacket. Closing my eyes, I feel it lifted up and back, letting the dirty fabric peel away from my arms in a cathartic kind of disposal. It makes a slight swishing sound as it piles at my feet. My shirt follows unceremoniously, the wolf preferring to pop each button instead of fumbling with it. Not out of eagerness, but because these clothes will go into the incinerator after I've left. Still, the abandonment of civility, however small, sets my heart to beating faster.
Hooking a claw into my undershirt, he pulls it away from my back, tearing it neatly down the middle so it merely melts off me. His fingers don't pause at my belt; the second it comes undone my pants slide all the way to my ankles. They're much too big for me, but they were expensive, so I don't complain. I'm not wearing anything underneath. After three days or so the itching gets to be too much, and I end up having to throw any underwear away.
I can feel his eyes on me. Nonjudgmental. Appraising. Admiring. The first time, I don't know how many months ago, he bent me over his giant bed and took me as I stood. He was loud and dominant, waiting until he was finished to ask if I was okay. I told him I was. I lied. But I came back.
Now, he turns me with him and leads from behind. Dark hardwood floors give way to the black marble and mint green rugs of the bathroom. We pass under an archway with an elegant but simple molding and enter a world of timeless spartan beauty. It takes my breath away every time my bare paws click along the heated floor, thirty or so feet past a claw-footed Jacuzzi, linen closet and double sinks to the capacious green-tiled shower comprising the entire far end of the room. The commode and bidet, I know, have their own space. Everything is glass and stone, true workmanship if there ever was.
Coming around in front of me to open the steamy door, I see he's already doffed his clothing and stashed it somewhere, perhaps down the laundry chute by the linen closet. He looks his age, but just that and not a year older. Firm but round compared to my scrawny frame, taller, more imposing, definitely with power. White fur from chin to inner thighs, a pattern befitting someone of lupine heritage. Finely coiffed all over. Tail making slow patterns behind him as he ushers me into the water.
One like me rarely has the opportunity to experience the pure joy of a shower. This is arguably the part I most look forward to. It is almost more personally intimate to be cleaned and groomed than to be made love to. And when You get that chance only once a week, the feel of hot water cascading down your head and back makes you forget you're hungry, and homeless, and caked with city grime.
The water turns brown as it circles the drain, carrying all the memories of the past six days with it. My burnt-sienna-over-dishwater fur slowly turns back into the orange-on-white it was, the black stripes darkening to a deep shine. The wolf comes up behind me with the bottle of shampoo, fairly drenching me with it. Smells of tea tree oil and peppermint infuse the steam around us as his claws work me to the skin, squeezing the lactic acid out of knots I didn't know I had.
This is the only time he varies from his normal routine. Sometimes he'll kneel in front of me and work between my legs, coaxing out an intense climax. Other times he'll pin me to the floor and keep me there until he's done. But tonight he takes his time with the shampoo, running his fingers through my fur, over my tail, around my torso and between my legs. Being thorough, not sexual, always sensual. We can both hear my purring over the sound of the water. When I finally rinse off I feel pounds lighter, physically and mentally.
I leave him to wash himself, because he knows I know how he does things. Were our relationship anything but what it is, I might ask why he never lets me return the cleansing favor. At the very least, I'd like to stand in the corner and just...watch him move. But I am his guest, among other things, and I need to respect him in his own home.
My stomach churns again, reminding me how hungry I am. An old, base part of my brain tells me all I have to do is go through his closet, yank a dish off the table and run like only a big cat can, but I dismiss it almost immediately. That would be the easy way, wouldn't it? But what if he came down to look for me? I'd have to move, and even in a city like this it's harder than you think. Not the easy way at all. Shaking my head and smiling at my own chagrin, I quickly towel off and brush myself down.
Two robes hang by the archway. The black one, the smaller one, is for me. He bought it for me after my second visit. I saw the tag before he had the chance to remove it. I don't dare mention it, though. The bamboo polyester is softer than silk, and warming to the fur. I love it, and I've told him so.
I still don't know what to feel as I enter the dining room, hardly dressed for a meal, even though this is how things are done. The table is set for two, though I can tell it's one of those that can accommodate a dinner party with added sections. It's a sea of plates, glasses and silverware, totally unnecessary but very impressive. That's what wealth is, though. As I sit in a chair so plush it should be in an office instead of at a table, the plump woman comes over and pours a glass of Gewurztraminer next to my glass of water. I like it because it's sweet and doesn't dry my mouth out. He likes it because I like it.
The woman comes back and pours merlot across the table, anticipating his impending arrival, then returns to the kitchen to start bringing out the first course. By the time she sets down the bread and butter, he comes from around the corner, fastening his robe and twitching his whiskers at the scents in the room. He sits, tucking his tail carefully to the side, and nods at me. I know I don't need to wait for him, but just because I live on the street doesn't mean I have no manners. But when I dig in, it's hard to hide my desperation.
Dinner doesn't take as long as a course-by-course meal should, but I taste every bit. Lobster bisque, followed by an arugula Caesar salad. He gets a Kobe ribeye, rare, and I get ahi tartare, encrusted with coconut and basted in lime glaze. It sounds fancy because it is. I remember him acting surprised last week when he found out I like fish, contrary to the stereotype of my species. I don't think I've ever tasted fish this fresh from anywhere around the city, and I tell him so. He says he bought the steak in Kyoto, and my dish just outside of Honolulu. Yesterday. The only reason I don't spit it all over my plate is because I can't bring myself to waste such expensive food.
I'm quiet for the rest of the meal, which is capped by Belgian chocolate gelato. I don't even dare ask where he bought that.
When I fold my napkin on top of the dish, he's still finishing his dessert. But he nods toward the bedroom with a slight smile, and my heart jumps a little like it does every week about this time. He knows I don't need to thank him, but I do it with my eyes instead of my voice. All it takes is sincerity.
The room is dim when I enter, the bed turned down. It smells faintly of wolf—no—it smells of him, but not in a bad way. It's the scent of living in a place for long enough to infuse the carpets and bedclothes with an irreversible musk. I crawl onto the bed, first waiting, then dozing, waking when I hear the click of the lock and paw-steps to the bed. It shifts away from me, and I roll slightly, my neck sliding along a lupine nose and tongue.
He's said that sex was never part of it, but the more I get to know him the less I think it. I'm willing to let him believe that if it makes him feel better, because the lie doesn't matter as much as how he treats me. I have no idea if his purpose is philanthropic or just plain sexual, but consent is no longer a question. I don't have to say yes to mean it.
I'm still tired from the wine and the food, but not too tired to turn over onto my back, my robe falling clumsily open. He's already nude, and I can feel his heat on my side. He starts to nibble my ear, which he knows is the key to bringing me off quickly. I don't stop him, though; I just let him pick the pace. Some weeks he holds me down while he thrusts hard, others we never go past kissing. He loves order in most things, surprises in others. Not knowing what to expect heightens my pleasure.
Sharp teeth tease the base of my ear while his paw settles directly on my sheath, which needs no further encouragement to split around my shaft and expose it to his attentive finger pads. The grip is strong but soft, from skin treatments only people like him can afford, and sure: there is no doubt he knows what he's doing, and he's had years of practice. There's no fighting it and no helping it along. When it comes, it comes, and it won't be long.
His muzzle moves from my ear to my chin, coaxing me to face him. Then his lips tug at mine, and I cease being a guest, a bum, and become a lover. His breath smells of chocolate, gentle against my whiskers, his tongue soft and warm. I melt into him, not knowing if he's trying to fulfill his desires or mine. But his paw never wavers, never slows or speeds up, just keeps stroking, building the pressure between my legs. I hold onto him as he holds onto me, our tongues interlocking languidly as I release over my belly and his fingers. My previous shower has been effectively negated, but neither of us minds.
He lets me lay there, catching my breath in the afterglow, for as long as I need. I can feel his sheath against my thigh, hard and ready but never forceful. His heat is tempting me to fall asleep again; I could, and he would let me, but I know there's something else he wants. He doesn't have to tell me because it doesn't need to be told. So when his paw strokes along my thigh, I spread my legs and let him in.
There's not too much I need to do, except lay there for him. Actually, he prefers it that way, not being one to enjoy the more aggressive side of lovemaking. He takes pleasure from giving pleasure, he's said, and I've been the recipient of that truth many a time. Still, there's an urgency to him as he slides his paw along my torso, collecting seed and transferring it under my tail, where he's able to open me up easily with a well-placed claw.
I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I refused him. If, for whatever reason, I became disinterested. In the end, though, there wouldn't be much difference. I get a good meal, a shower, and the physical attention so many more fortunate others never receive...and I always enjoy myself. I'm just starting to accept it graciously, but I'll never take it for granted. The last time I did that, I ended up homeless and alone.
He scoops up the rest of my cum and uses it to unsheathe himself; the strong scent hits my nose mere seconds later. When he rises to his knees and crawls atop me, I'm ready. And when he pushes, I meet him force for force. Even now, I can't control the gasp of penetration, or the pure feel of his dominant nature even as he's more careful than he needs to be with me.
The rest all blends into a series of motion and emotion. I let him take me, and I move with him, slowly as he goes, bent over and panting into my neck, arms splayed out like guy wires into the pillows on either side of my head. It doesn't pay to think too hard, or invest too much into the act itself. Tying the physicality with the fragile state of the psyche is dangerous for anyone, especially when it's far better to just feel the pleasure instead of wondering why you feel it. My paws clutch at his sides, trying to pull him into me farther than he can go without hurting me. There are times when I wouldn't mind the pain.
Never speeding up, never faltering, his passion is steady and reserved, like the rest of him and his life. That helps me control myself when I feel overwhelmed with sensation, settling for burying my snout in his neck ruff and breathing in the scent of shampoo, left-over chocolate and perspiration on his fur. When he stops breathing and gives a sudden hunch, it is me who cries out as we both resist the urge to make the tie that would surely injure me. His shaft slickens anew, and I am warmed from the inside out.
We remain precariously intertwined for as long as it takes his breathing to return to normal, and when he pulls away I'm left with a satisfaction instead of the usual emptiness. As he sits on his calves between my legs, one pointy ear flops down and he looks twenty years younger. Glowing. Happy.
I feel too tired to move from the bed under my own power, drained and content to remain within the confines of order and luxury. But eventually I'll have to, and not after I've shared sleep with him. As much as I would like it, there are some things I guess he can't or won't do. After all he's given me, I don't question that which I don't understand.
He pads to the bathroom and comes back with a hot towel, proceeding to wipe me down from chest to knees and everywhere in between. It's the most clean I'll feel for a while, and I savor it. After sitting me up, he opens the bedroom door and stoops down, and I can't help but admire the view below his temporarily-raised tail. A pile of neatly-folded clothes sits atop his paws, and they look familiar, as they should. They're the clothes he was wearing when he came to the alley just five hours ago. And they're for me. It's hard to believe that, despite their sturdy tailoring, I seem to tear through them in just a week. But then again, the streets are unfair and unkind.
It all goes on over black silk boxers that caress my fur and cling to it at the same time. Washed, pressed, and starched, the ensemble fits me as well as it fit him. It's another one of those miraculous occurrences about which I don't ask, because I might not be better off if I did. I would rather remain ignorantly blissful of those kind of eccentricities.
When I have finished knotting the tie (I usually end up hawking it for twenty bucks or so), I look up and see him in a black polo and khakis that blends well with his fur. He smiles and dusts off the arms of my jacket, admiring how well I shine up. Maybe that's part of the reason. Maybe he gets a kick out of rinsing the dirt off and making me new again. Still, it's not my place to know.
He leads me out of the bedroom and into the living space, which has been put away and cleaned almost to a level of sterility. The woman—who most likely speed-tailored my suit—is gone for the night. It doesn't even smell like food anymore.
The elevator is empty, the raccoon having gone off shift for the night. The way I'm dressed right now, with the simple addition of a hat, I could probably act civil and do that job just as well, for the ridiculous amount of money they pay for him to stand there and go up and down all day. But not having a place of residence gets in the way of the application process.
We step out into the lobby, which is devoid of people with the exception of the security guard at the desk, who pays us no more deference than he would any other tenant. The doorman, however, gives us both a knowing smile and a wink so awkward that I feel my shoulder squeezed as he turns me away and down to the alley. The guy might not have a job tomorrow.
My heart sinks a little as we round the corner and I spot my box halfway down. Immediately I feel guilty; my stepping in puddles is muddying my feet all over again, and as soon as I sit down my pants will be ruined. But his arm is around my waist and it feels so, so good and reassuring. I might be able to get four hours of sleep before the sun wakes me.
I cried the first time he took me back to the box. I couldn't understand why, but back then my emotions were uncontrolled and I had no direction in which to send them. He became my anchor for that, and although he tells me this is the way it has to be, I don't ask him why anymore. There are just some things that have to stay as they are. But as we stand there face to face, him looking slightly down at me, I can tell that he'd rather it not stay as it is. Before I can allow my heart to break at that thought, his lips are against me again, the embrace that saves me every time, that renews me just enough to make it. And when he lets me go, I'm smiling, just like always.
He rubs a thumb across the bridge of my muzzle, and I have to work hard to stifle the purring building up somewhere in my throat. My smile makes him smile, and when he turns away his tail is swishing big, wide arcs behind him. I watch him go, holding onto that feeling like a cherished thing. The sounds of a city asleep slowly return to the fore, and all I'm left with are memories. But they sustain me. I'll make it through, like I always do, some way or another. I have clothes on my back, food in my belly, and something to look forward to: a wolf, whatever his reasons, who sees enough in me to be willing to share even a small part of his life. And for that, I have all the patience in the world.
After all, I only have to wait one more week.
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