The Furnace
#1 of Metal Strings in a White Hell
Is it too much to ask for patience? Tolerance? Is it enough that my dreams are filled with dark places and little doubts about myself because society considers me a bad person? Or that I'm living with a compulsion to do what society calls bad things?
I am not a complex person- I can tell you what I'm about right here and right now. As a dingo, I'm not unhandsome, though my fur has grayed a little bit near the tips of my ears in the past couple of years, and I'm a little boney. My claws are long and unclipped, my fur rust red. And I have yellow, feralish eyes that got me made fun of in elementary school. My dentist doesn't see me very often, and I'll admit to being more than afraid of him. My left canine is cheap ivory, or some sort of crappy imitation material. It's the single white fang in a sea of jagged, chipped razors, sickly yellow and sharpened by the decay.
I am the lone adult in the elementary school. I do what no one else will- that's my job. I soak up vomit, I mop up dusty floors, I clean the grit from between the bathroom tiles, scrub the rust off the sinks, replace the lights and desks when they break. I vacuum the lunchroom and dig the spare fur from the classroom carpets when spring comes and relieves the kids of their winter coats. I crawl along the corners of eyes, keeping my gaze level with the mop, occasionally looking up and throwing an embarrassed, sheepish grin in the direction of one of the little ones. When the lunch bell rings, I am not allowed to eat with the teachers. When I do, they turn in on themselves and speak about things that they know an uneducated janitor such as myself would never be able to comprehend. My tail is between my legs when they look at me, just like it should be.
I tell all of them to call me "Toby".
When lunch time comes around, I go down to the furnace. It is an old machine, but it keeps the building well warmed in the winter months. The steps leading down are really old, but made out of concrete, and if I have really quiet shoes on, I can make it all the way down without anyone hearing me. Normally, I have it all to myself- they fired the other janitor years ago, leaving the entire furnace room open for whatever I see fit, which is usually eating lunch and jerking my malehood like some of those feral monkeys do in the zoo.
I slide my back against rough, warm metal, feel it tug at my jumpsuit, pulling it tight under my tail- it's the small rituals in life that keep you going. I wrap my paws around a small metal box, pry it open, yank out a thermos full of canned soup I didn't bother heating, and a tuna sandwich. Sometimes the soup is tomato, sometimes its chicken noodle. I always try and drink it fast so I can get to the sandwich, which is refreshingly cold against the roof of my mouth. The taste isn't of any consequence. I nibble away at it like a rat, hunched over on the ground, in the darkness of the furnace room, the warm red glow of a maintenance light feeding through wire holes in a broken ventilation filter, casting a long, checkered shadow across my greasy fur.
When I finish, I lay fat and happy on the floor, my paws roaming within the lunchbox. The lunchbox is where I keep it, because I figure that no one will check the janitor's lunchbox. Down near the furnace, it's warm and womblike, and no one has the keys to this little heaven but me- and I guard them jealously.
I can do things in there that make parents squirm in their seats at the dinner table, have thoughts that never ever make it up those stairs, past that heavy iron door. I've never told anyone about down here where it is. I know that, if I ever did, I would be sorry for it.
I indulge myself in a sigh, and unzip the front of my jumpsuit, watching it peel off of my chest and fold over on itself. I run my paw up my chest, stroking my greasy fur in greedy, longish pulls, rubbing myself the wrong way. Sometimes I run a few blunt claws past the dark nipples hiding just under my fur. I don't remember when I started doing that. All the hesitation and ceremony had gone out of stuffing my paw down my font, feeling the protrusion between my legs like a fat sack of musky fur and flesh that sprang at my touch, unused and ready. My lovers in college all said that I was unnaturally well endowed- and I was well inclined to believe them. No matter how much it hurt, they always begged, just a little bit, with the corners of their mouth and panting, lapping, tongues.
But the stroking of my paws paled in comparison of what I had in the box. I couldn't even touch them without my paw shaking. A picture of a little snow leopard.
Her name is Suzie, and she's a filthy little slut. Suzie Q, to her friends. Bitch is nine, think she rules the world, thinks she has boys figured out. Well, she doesn't. She doesn't have men figured out, at least- no me. I had a friend of mine take pictures of her, bossing kids around on the playground, wearing those pink little short-shorts that look like they belong on a girl twice her age. He has one of her bending over to fry some ants with a magnifying glass. God, I hate her.
"How many boys have you kissed?" she asks her friends. "My momma told me you have to kiss ‘em first before they'll go down on you." Oh, I'll go down on you. Whore.
Those are the thoughts that get me hard as I stare into the pictures, wishing I was there, alone with her. Maybe I'd have a piece of duct tape, or maybe a little rubber tubing to cinch her little paws together, I dunno. It doesn't matter- my dick is throbbing in my paw, and begging for me to squeeze the shit out of it, and pretend it's little Suzie Q, begging me not to put my next load in her ass.
I can practically see her in the furnace with me. No tits, no clothes, trying to hide her little virgin snatch with that stupid embarrassed look on her face. I wanna kneel down, tell her everything is gonna be alright. I wanna lick her ears, put my tongue in that soft cup and push until she squirms, squeaky little voice crying out for me to stop it. I want to put it in again and again, making love with her sobbing little head while my paws grip her slender calves, pull them apart. It's not even hard, her muscles are so small...
Would she cry for help, if I had her down here? She acts so mature, would she like it? I know for a fact this fat canine cock could shred up her insides- but it would be so tight. I wouldn't even care. It would be like fucking a doll, only better- smaller, spunkier, and messier. By now, my chest is heaving, my breath is all hard panting and sexual, bitter howls and grunts that I know never make it past the heavy steel door. Pre is smeared into the fur of my paw, and I lick it off like a bitch, pretending it's the tongue of little Suzie Q, three foot two.
In my fantasy, she always asks me why. "Why, Toby? Why?" I don't think I ever answer her- it's just the intonation that I like. Why why why? Because your ass sticks out when you walk, Suzie. Because your voice squeaks a little whenever I shove my cock into your gut. Good luck having kids when you're older, you nasty little thing.
I can feel my knot inflating by then. The furnace is so hot, my fur is slick with oil and pre as I writhe around, naked on the floor. I'm not loud- never too loud. There's this lingering fear in my heart that I'll have left the door open just a crack. Every time I think about it, my chest turns ice-cold, and my paw stops for a minute while I listen. Cocked ears, sharp eyes... before I slowly start the build again, pumping and thrusting with my hips, squeezing hard when I get to my base.
I just want to touch her a little. To have her feel me- to know what a real man feels like, so she won't go parading it around like she does. That's all I want. I'll spread her legs, even make her feel good about it. Maybe just put my tongue in at first, give her a little something to be happy about before I go busting her cervix with my tip. She'll thank me for that, love me for that, right? I'll rub the little nubs sticking out of her chest.
Oh, I know I'll ruin her for all the other sick fuckers out there. I know teenage boys- she'll hit thirteen, and they'll be fucking her sweet little ass because it's the one place I didn't tear open. Because it's the place I left alone- or did I? Hell, they'd need an elephant in here to get her feel anything anymore- if I left the ass, she'd just become an object. A plaything. So I'll just roll her over on her front lift her tail way up high, and drive it in. If I destroy every nerve ending, she won't have to feel it when she's turning tricks.
Suzie. Suzie, Suzie, Suzie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'll make it better. I swear I will.
I can imagine myself hunched over, my thighs around her ears, fur on fur. She doesn't even have to kneel down because she's so short- but she's got a big mouth. And there's only one thing to do with kids who have big mouths. I hear if you shove it far enough down their screeching little throats, their eyes bug out. They literally come a little out of their head, they open them so wide, desperately trying to suck in a breath. Little do you know, Suzie? Little do you know... Shallow little muzzle, I'd bet. I could probably fuck her throat real easy, slide it down her gullet, feel her squeezing, pushing, trying to keep me out, trying to choke down some air through nostrils buried so far deep in my crotch fur that it tickles her nose. If she tried to bite down, I'd hit her. Or keep her muzzle from closing with my thumb and index finger. Cats are harder, because they really have those biting muscles, but what the hell, right? I'm an adult. She has to do what I say. No biting.
And I would pound away there, until she satisfied me. It would be hard to fit my knot into her gaping jaws, but I'd do it. I'd do it if I had to break her mouth open first. And with out any sound at all, without any warning, I would pour ropes of my DNA down, into her tummy, into her lungs- whatever. I'd fill her up. She wouldn't have to eat for a week. No amount of coughing would ever erase the fact that I was there, doing...
Doing...
Every day, I wipe the stuff off of my chest, smear the excess spunk into the fur of my thighs. I have to cum early, because if I don't, my knot won't go down in time for me to get back to work, and my fear is that someone will come looking for me, and I don't want them to see a mottled old dingo, covered in his own sperm and fondling pictures of a smiling little girl. That's just unsettling.
I still reel a little bit, even to this day- that fantasy always drains me, and leaves me useless for a few minutes while I grope around for towels, searching the darkness of the furnace room for a proper way to clean myself up. You'd think a janitor would be better prepared, especially for doing this every day. Wouldn't you?
I carefully tuck the pictures back into the lunchbox, and lock it. No one else locks their lunch. Pulling up my jumpsuit is a little bit of a hassle, and I have to check that no wet spots are showing through, even though I know for a fact no one would think twice. A janitor with stains on his uniform? Unthinkable.
Slowly, reluctantly, I stand at the bottom of the stairs.
The door has a crack of light under it that has always fascinated me. So far. Up so many stairs, lit only by the reddish glow of the furnace. It's a bright white light. I'm sure there's some symbolism there, but I haven't ever been able to place it.
And then I just work. All day long. I mop, I clean, I scrub and rinse and vacuum. I go home, and some days I get paid. I might read a few books, or watch TV or something, but other than that, the school is my life, and everything beyond that door at the top of the furnace stairs is my public world.
And then, one day, I saw her. Suzie Q. She was on he knees, breathless, and scared.
Before somebody else.
She was wearing a little white dress that I always thought looked adorable on her. It really brought out the white around her ears, and at the tip of her tail, and made her blue eyes stand out. I stood for a while, gazing through cool yellow orbs, sinking back into the twilight realm of my own secret thoughts, unable to quite move, or help her.
She was surrounded by a gang of three older boys, probably in the fifth or sixth grade. I didn't recognize them because I don't pay attention to boys too much, but one of them was a tiger, and he had his little paw balled up in a fist. His throat was growling up a storm.
"You better come clean!" He said, and brought the fist down on her nose, causing her to yelp and hide her muzzle in her paws. Were those tears? Children can be so cruel.
"Yeah!" said a little rat boy, standing behind his friend, watching carefully. His paws were shaking. "Come clean and give me my money back. How am I gonna eat lunch today?"
"You should give him his money back." Standing about five feet away, his arms crossed over his shoulders, was a little puppy. Probably a golden retriever or something- kind of looked like a mutt to me. His voice was a little nervous. He didn't want to be here. "If you do, we won't do anything to you. You'll be square, see?" He made a square with his paws. "So just cough it up, please?"
Suzie sniffled, slinking back a bit on her knees. "I..." She began to say.
"What?" said the tiger, his muzzle curled up in a fanged expression of irritation.
"I didn't steal anything."
It was the wrong answer. Both the tiger and the rat shouted "Liar!" and little Suzie cringed.
I stared numbly at the spectacle. What was wrong with our kids today? No one talked, no one tried to find an alternate solution. It was just three guys, getting a girl on her knees, trying to get something from her. Disgusting. I straightened out my jumpsuit and strode over to the kids, gripping my mop and setting my jaw.
"Hey!" I barked, and all three of them turned, and looked at me with wide eyes, big and round like six moons looking at me. I must have put the fear of God in them, because they scattered, and I didn't have to say another word. Adults can sometimes get away with that. Suzie, for her part, just looked up at me sadly. It didn't look like she was hurt at all, just a little scared. I knelt down and wiped a wayward tear that had wound its way down her muzzle.
"I didn't steal no money..." she said, looking at the floor.
"I know, sweetie." I took her by the paw. "C'mon. Let's go.
"Where are we going?" She said, looking back up at me as I helped her to her feet. The question stunned me. I couldn't quite think.
There was a long moment of silence. Her paws were so soft- her eyes, so clear, her fur so perfectly groomed and cared for. Spectacular.
There is a certain magic children have, I think. We lose it when we get older, and bigger, and stronger. No matter what species you are, no matter where you come from, you lose a base element of purity when puberty hits, and you become a sexual creature, a beast. The day you look at a girl and blush, or think about how nice a guy looks in a pair of shorts, the magic starts to slip away, and that innocence is gone forever. I sometimes think that, when I die, I'd like to be reborn as a kid, or just maybe live as a kid forever, forever ignorant and powerless to shape the world around me. I'd want happy friends, with big imaginations, and loving parents who would get me up for school, and feed me oatmeal when I was sick and throw me birthday parties where the whole block was invited.
And whenever I'd get picked on by some bullies, a nice janitor would come my way and tell me I would be alright.
I thought about this as I passed the big metal door into the furnace, where my lunchbox still lays. Suzie was still a little kid, still full of magic, and a wonder that the rest of the adult world, including myself, would never possess again. I brought her to the principal's office, and told him what had been going on. He took Suzie by the paw, and gave her a piece of candy.
That day, I quit my job, and filled out the paperwork. They thanked me for twenty years of faithful service, but didn't ask any questions. I think they were ready to get rid of Toby, the greasy old dingo janitor who looked at little kids funny, and never talked to anyone.
I drove my car as far as I could, and then sold it for a decent sum of money. I didn't need it anymore, after all. And now, I live, deep in the heart of the city, a place full of adults who have to wake themselves up, and who don't have anyone bigger to help them when they get mugged.
I have a warm coat, and a cup that I use to hold the money people give me.
Paradise is so beautiful.
O, praeclarum custodem, ovium lupum!
O excellent protector of sheep, the wolf!
~Cicero