Breakfast
In college I met an entrancing young woman. She was a canine, not so far from a red fox, so I saw in her, in addition to everything else, a fertile future. She turned out to be as taken with me as I was with her and we started what was for both of us a terribly slow relationship. Instead of the wild sex and emotionless engagements we had both, as irreligious bisexuals, grown accustomed to, we found ourselves easing into every step and living day to day as terribly domestic people. By our third year at the university we lived in a cozy (dilapidated) house that we rented from a sweet old hillbilly raccoon that was so sure of our moral fiber and fortitude that he shared with us colorful stories of the heathen lesbian ferret couple he had to evict on principle and the alcoholic frat boys he had felt conviction to witness to. We giggled over his misconceptions on a regular basis.
Though we were settling down faster than we could realize, and though we both, subconsciously, knew we would grow old together, I had neither met her folks nor heard much of anything about them. My own parents were too far away to visit but they called and mailed us odds and ends. My family came to the industrialized world from a past of hippy-like wandering. They were pagans as far back as anyone could recall and made a living off the land and anybody willing to pay for a fortune telling or a bottle of homeopathic snake oil. When we sent pictures to them, they would tease us about our sexual pasts and present. But when it came to her folks all I knew was her father had a ridiculously thick German accent.
She was short, stocky in build, but incredibly athletic and lithe. She had some shaggy spots in her coat but over her stomach, legs, and back she had an irresistibly soft and thin coat. I remember teasing her when we first made love that her lower back felt like an otter. I think I made some comment about holding her breath and she hit me. Her coloring was a confusingly blotchy pattern of faded brown and black, like a German Sheppard that had been softened. Around her most sensitive areas, if you had your eyes right to her (and I often did) you could catch hints of a warm, golden tone. Every time I guessed her genetic origins she'd just giggle and shake her head.
One morning, when I came into the kitchen for coffee, I found her hanging up the phone. When I asked who it was she was already beaming with child-like glee, prancing back to our modest table to pour a second bowl of sugary cereal.
"It was my daddy!" she looked up from her chair with the cutest, stupidest grin I'd ever seen. It broke into a short string of German phrases reenacted as a joke, but not knowing a lick of German I just stood there tired and dumb.
"He says we can come out to visit! He wants to meet you!"
It was too early for me to think about anything but the coffee I planned to make, so the news sat in the back of my head like a seed. As I ground the beans and rinsed the carafe the seed germinated and dug a creeping vine of panic into my mind. For whatever reason, when the prospect of actually meeting the man arrived all I could see was a massive, towering German Sheppard.
The coffee was brewed and in my cup when she prattled off the directions to her parent's farm. The mention of a farm, though my parents came from ridiculously open-minded farmers, conjured up images of staunch conservatives in that mental picture of a German Sheppard. By the time I sat down beside her and had a drink or two I was really starting to worry about the guy. But just before it caught complete hold of me, she traced her paw down my spine in that special way that always elicits a shiver. She was so giddy about the trip that she didn't notice my mood at all and slid her paw into my lap, scooting her chair closer and setting her cereal aside. She leaned right up next to me and chewed at the base of my ear.
"I think I changed my mind on breakfast."
Her father was quickly fading from my mind. I took a sip of coffee and spoke soft and deadpan into the mug. "Oh?"
"I think I want some meat."
"We're out of sausage."
"I think I can find some."
She took my sheath in her paw, as we both wore clothes only when necessary, and gave it an almost painful squeeze. It was still full from having just woken up, but I hadn't actually shown any pink. I wanted to come up with a witty retort but my mind slipped too fast from her father to her paws. She pulled my sheath down and back up, slow and with a firm, purposeful grip, coaxing me to full arousal. Not being one to disappoint her when she was so eager, my length soon rested exposed in her paw.
I flexed and stretched all over, the coffee and the hand job launching me unprepared into the day. In mid-yawn I felt her pushing against my stomach with her paw to signal that she wanted better access so I slid my chair back and put the mug on the table, resting one paw behind my head and the other on the back of hers as she dove at my cock. All I could hear was birds chirping, the refrigerator humming, and lewd slopping noises accompanied by appreciative moans and murrs. She loved sucking cock easily as much as I did and did a damn fine job of it.
It was morning and we had both been too tired the night before, so as her spit and my pre fell from her face in long strands all over the chair and floor I could tell that I wasn't going to last long. She was working with full abandon; like this really was her breakfast and she hadn't eaten in weeks. Her paws, squeezing and rubbing my knot when they weren't rolling my balls, were soaked and her muzzle was a matted mess. My legs tightened up, my stomach tensed, and I pulled lightly at her head-fur. She took the signal for what it was and pulled her head back, holding me behind the knot with a clenched fist and stroking fast with her other paw. She caught the first thick globs across her face, caught the next few in her mouth, and finished me off with my tip down her throat.
She leaned her head to an angle so I could see my seed drooling from her lips as she held half my length in her mouth. She knew I loved that view. Her eyes sparkled as she stared up at me in a play-pitiful bid for approval. I huffed and puffed and rubbed her head and she lapped up all the mess. Before I could offer anything in return, though, she scampered off to shower.
I squeezed one last glob of cum with a slow, milking stroke and picked it up on the tip of my finger.
"Guess I get to meet her folks." I thought, as I flicked it into my coffee and finished the cup.