Ulterior Motives
Ulterior Motives
Marcus was a very good big brother...and Keith adored him.
A twelve-year gap separated the eighteen-year-old wolf and his six-year-old half-brother, but still, Marcus always made time for the pup. Helping him with school work, protecting him from bullies, playing video games, watching cartoons, and even imitating little Keith's favorite mock-sporting event: professional wrestling.
He was a very good big brother, but to see him now, some might question that. To the untrained eye, the scene this Saturday afternoon would seem violent, dangerous, or at the very least reckless...as Marcus held Keith high above his head, the wolfdog pup snarling and thrashing about while his pureblood older brother howled in triumph, before slamming the boy down onto their parent's bed.
The fluffy brown pup giggled as he bounced off of the springy mattress, and his older gray wolf braced himself for the coming assault. This was their game: a bit of male bonding that their parents -- especially Keith's father -- wholeheartedly supported. It was a play. A pretend fight that had, over time, become nearly ritualistic. Always the same.
Keith landed on the bed and scrambled to his feet. Little brown paws adjusted the boy's only clothing: tight cotton briefs which had threatened to fall off in the tumble. And then those paws were up -- sometimes in fists but this time as claws -- as he rushed his brother in a snarling, flailing, toothy assault. Marcus though, was always ready, and fended off the frantic little paws before lifting his brother back up into the air for his next wrestling maneuver.
Sometimes he would drape him over his shoulders. Sometimes he would grab him, firmly and boldly, by his little cotton covered crotch, plant a second paw flat on his chest, and lift him to the heavens, just as he'd done a moment before. But this time he went with something else, something which, outside of a wrestling contest would look even more inappropriate than the paw on his crotch:
...setting him up for a powerbomb!
Like most wrestling moves, the ultimate goal of the powerbomb was to drop the victim on the flat of their back, but it was the set up that made this move different. Marcus hoisted Keith onto his shoulders, with one leg to either side of his older brother's head and with his tiny six-year-old package pressed right against the wolf's nose.
Marcus was a good brother. He would never hurt Keith. But what Keith didn't know couldn't hurt him. And he didn't need to know why this was Marcus's favorite move. Didn't need to know how much he loved the scent of the little wolfdog's groin. How he lingered holding him here just a bit longer than he should, so he could feel the soft little package against his nose. How he pretended to be out of breath, breathing heavier as an excuse to open his mouth...to feel little cotton covered balls slip between his lips...graze his tongue...
Keith never needed to know how much Marcus enjoyed this. This was just playtime. Just their wrestling game. And no matter the swelling in the wolf's sheath, it was innocent.
Of course, having a six-year-old's crotch in his face was also more than little risky. He'd learned this first-paw. Keith, as Marcus assumed was the case with most pups his age, didn't have the best bladder control. And more than once, the wolf's nose and mouth were greeted with a sudden warmth...and the less than pleasant scent and taste that accompanied it. But it was worth it. Worth it for those few seconds of feeling his brother in his mouth...
...and worth it, even more, for what came after.
Keith's father, Mrcus's stepfather, was not a mean old dog. But he had a habit of getting angrier than he should when Keith had his little accidents. So the first time, a few weeks back, when Marcus got a face full of puppy piss, he did what he always did. He was a good big brother.
He'd taken Keith by the paw to the restroom, and promised the crying pup that he would never tell 'daddy' what happened. He couldn't stand to see his little brother in trouble. But if it was going to be a secret, he had to get him cleaned up. That meant stripping him out of his wet briefs, and scrubbing him down with a rag. Keith, of course, had been hesitant and shy. Marcus had to talk him out of the briefs, and even cautiously peel them down himself. He had to convince the boy to move his paws so he could actually reach his little sheath and balls with the rag. And he had to tell him again and again that everything would be okay...even as he ran his fingers, with only a layer of terrycloth between them, up and down his little brother's sheath.
It was a moment he would replay in his mind again and again. That first time, gripping his tremoring little brother by his bare ass, holding him still as he touched every inch of his most private area. Rolling his tight little balls in his fingers. Feeling the heat of the crevasse behind them. Stroking up and down that little sheath...and watching it grow hard. It was an involuntary reaction, of course. Who wouldn't get hard from being stroked? But nonetheless, he had held his little six-year-old brother's twitching dick by its tiny knot, only inches from his face.
And again: Keith never needed to know. Marcus was a good big brother, and to Keith, the act had been a kindness. He had been cleaned up and protected from a scolding at the paws of his daddy. He didn't understand how much Marcus had loved doing it for him. Didn't understand how he could smell his dick as he cleaned away the scent of piss. How much he wanted to lean in and lick it. Or how he'd imagined doing just that...but as a joke:
'See? All better. Clean enough to lick!'
All Keith knew was that he left the restroom dry, and in a clean, white pair of underwear.
But Marcus knew. Marcus remembered. It was all he thought about when he pawed off at night. It was the only thing on his mind this Saturday afternoon, with Keith's package resting against his nose. And it was everything he could do to not moan aloud...when the stinging scent hit his nose, once again.
He hated the scent. He really did. And he snapped his lips shut, because he hated the taste even more. But this was what he always hoped would happen. Every time they wrestled, this is where he wanted it to go. Because if Keith couldn't hold it in...then Marcus had the excuse he needed to be a 'good big brother.'
He slammed Keith down onto the bed like the move called for, before the taste had the chance to seep into his mouth, and then, to avoid a wet spot on the bed, lifted the pup right back up to his feet. And he smiled, as he patted the wet little bulge...any excuse to touch...
"Looks like we need to get you cleaned up, again, buddy..."
And Keith smiled back: a shy and almost sly little smirk. The kind of smile only a child can manage when caught being naughty -- almost as if guilty and proud at the same time -- before he dashed off to the restroom yet again. Marcus followed behind, watching the boy snatch a clean pair of briefs from his bedroom, and then locked the bathroom door behind them once they arrived.
This, too, like their wrestling, had become a ritual at this point. Because this was not the second time it had happened. Far from it, in fact. The scene had become more and more frequent as the days and weeks had passed. The second time had come days later, but the gaps grew smaller and smaller every time...until, to Marcus's delight, it was happening almost every time.
Keith stood, smiling in the center of the room, and waited. Waited as his big brother wetted a rag and sat on the floor in front of him. And then the ritual began. The first time, Marcus had to talk the pup out of his briefs, but today he stripped them off in silence. The first time, he held his ass to keep him still amidst his nervous tremors, but today he held it -- and squeezed it -- out of habit. The first time, he'd cleaned all around, slowly and hesitantly making his way to the boy's wet sheath only after everything else, but today it was his first stop.
And he was so close to it. Close enough that, when the pink tip started growing and peeking out, all he needed to do was stick out his tongue to taste it. He didn't even need to bend in. And he could feel his lips parting. Feel the thirst rising inside...
But he restrained himself.
He was a good big brother. A very good big brother. He was cleaning Keith up. Protecting him from being scolded for an accident. He could enjoy it while he was at it, but he couldn't let it be anything more than that. He couldn't taste him. He couldn't give in to the urge to let one of fingers -- the fingers on his brother's ass -- slip into the boy's crack. Couldn't touch and prod at the tight, hot pucker inside. Couldn't get the boy to 'clean him' just the same. Couldn't bend him over the toilet and fuck him 'til he-
But he did all of those things. Every last one. Every night, when he was alone in his bedroom with his thoughts and his paws. He imagined how easy it would have been. He thought of the inches separating his tongue and his brother's dick...or his fingers and that hole. And he rehearsed a hundred different ways he could talk his brother into letting him do SO much more...
And it was in those moments that a question came to his mind. Burrowing away back there, somewhere between a hopeful wish and a justified suspicion. A question, and a word. Accident. Most of his fantasies were passing madness. Scenarios that he knew could and would never happen. But this one -- this question -- was different. And every day it grew louder and louder, and more and more plausible.
Until, today, as he held his brother's hard little prick in his paw. As he slid the wet rag up and down its flesh, and felt the little knot beneath. As he quite literally sat there, giving his brother a slow, gentle pawjob under the pretense of being the dutiful big brother. The question wasn't just in his mind...
It was on his tongue. And he finally had to ask: "Keith? Are you doin' this on purpose?"
And there it was again. That smile. Guilty and proud. But the boy didn't say a word, even as Marcus's stroking paw reflexively tightened around his little shaft.
"It's just..." Marcus went on, his voice nearly a whisper, "you didn't used to have so many accidents. But now it seems like it happens every time we play." He smiled a smile of his own up at his brother. Hopeful. "You can be honest with me. Are they really accidents?"
Keith though, still said nothing, and simply looked away. Shy. Embarrassed. As Marcus's stroking slowed and shifted lower. Intentionally and blatantly teasing the tiny, underdeveloped bulb that passed for the puppy's knot...
But the wolf had already started. There was no stopping him now. He knew the answer. At least, he hoped he did. But he needed to hear it. "Do you...like it when I clean you up like this?" he asked. Clearer. More to the point. So a child would understand, "Is it...fun?"
And finally Keith looked back at him, with a timid little nod and a whisper of his own. "Yeah..."
Marcus gulped. His paw froze. And he looked back down at the tiny member between his fingers. His lips were so close that he could feel the heat of it against them, as he replayed that muted little 'Yeah' in his head, again and again. Yeah. Yeah, he was right. Yeah, Keith was enjoying this. Yeah, the pup was wetting himself so Marcus would touch him. Yeah, this little erection was more than an automatic reaction. Yeah, he was really turned on. Yeah.
Yeah.
"So, then..." he let the rag fall, draping over his paw so he could see the entire little shaft, now coaxed free of its sheath, sticking up before his nose, "...you're having accidents on purpose, because...?"
"It feels good."
He didn't look back up at his brother. His eyes were fixed on his tantalizing little prize, as he held it firm by the base. "Feels good...when I touch you?"
"Uh-huh."
'Does this feel good too?' The words flashed through his mind. So loud, it almost felt like he said them. But they were only a thought. Only a thought, as he spread open his muzzle and let his tongue slip out. This was it. He was finally gonna' learn how his brother tasted. He'd lick him and suck him into his maw. A new step to their ritual. The heat he'd felt on his lips grew as his tongue crept close. And-
An echoing CLANG rang out through the house, and he jumped back from his brother's crotch. Rooms away, his mother had dropped a pot on the kitchen tile. And suddenly Marcus remembered where he was. It was the middle of the day. Both of his parents were home. And there was NO lock on the bathroom door!
He couldn't do this. Not here. Not now. It was too dangerous. He could explain away everything else, even his brother's 'involuntary' erection. Worst case scenario: Keith's dad would be angry about the lies. But the wolf couldn't explain a six-year-old's dick in his muzzle. And so, the ritual went on. Quickly and efficiently, he finished cleaning the boy off. His balls, his inner thighs, and the fur around his sheath: all those places he'd been ignoring until now. He cleaned until every trace of yellow, and every the hint of the smell was gone. And then he held open Keith's briefs while the little wolfdog stepped back into them.
There was always an excuse for one last touch, though.
So, he gave the boy's little package a reassuring little pat, and smiled up at him...as he gave in to hormones one last time, and allowed his dick to control the next few words from his muzzle...
"You don't have to be so shy, you know?" he explained. "And you don't have to wet yourself, either. If you ever want me to touch you? To...to make you feel good? You just have to ask." There was every chance this wasn't over. But he needed to make sure that Keith knew it was okay. And, of course, that he knew: "Just like your accidents...it'll be our little secret."
~
Save for the wolf's unrelenting swollen sheath, the rest of the day was nothing special.
The family sat down for dinner at trays in front of their televisions. Marcus and his little brother played video games until it was time for bed. The wolf showered. The wolfdog bathed. And Keith never said another word about what happened. He hadn't even nodded when his big brother told him it was okay to ask. It was as if it were all forgotten.
Except it wasn't.
Not by Marcus, at least. And when the house fell dark and silent, Marcus's boxers fell to the floor beside his bed. His paw, the same paw that had held Keith's tender little shaft, now held his own. Wrapped tight, beneath his blankets, around his insistent teenaged knot. He squeezed and kneaded. And he refused to stroke. He had to make this last. He had to let the scene play out in his head: the dream that almost came true...
He imagined the soft wet flesh of his brother's tiny rod sliding across his tongue. How it must taste. How warm it must feel. He wondered if it would squirt and dribble like his own. He could almost hear his brother moaning and begging for more, but he could also almost feel him pulling away. And he asked himself if he could actually stop once he'd gone that far, or if his brother's pleas would fall on deaf ears.
Soon, enough, he was convincing the boy to return the favor. 'Make me feel good, too,' his fantasy-self commanded. And the pup did. The pup gobbled it up his brother's dick, just like the pro that he couldn't possibly be...while Marcus wormed a finger into his hole. A hole he'd stretch just enough to fuck. Keith might not like it...but he wouldn't want daddy to find out about his accidents. Marcus had done him a favor. So he needed to return it!
The wol's paw finally slid up his shaft and, slowly, back down. But outside of his fantasy -- outside of his dark and quiet room -- a door creaked. And Marcus's paw grew still as his ears perked up. He held his breath. He didn't dare to dream, or hope, or pray. There was no way he was so lucky. There was no way it was Keith's door. No way that...
His own door cracked open. Slowly. Silently. And a pair of amber eyes peered in from the darkness...
"Marky?"
"Ye-" only when he spoke, did he realize he'd been holding his breath. "Yeah buddy?"
And in Keith walked, yet again in nothing but a tight little pair of briefs. Barely worn, fresh on after his bath. In the dim light, they almost shined against the boy's dark brown fur as he crept toward the center of the room. "Can I sleep with you?"
The wolf gulped and asked: "You havin' a bad dream...?"
To which the tiny, shadowy figure only shook its head.
"Then you...want me to...?" he tried and failed to voice the question...
...and he saw, in the darkness, the hints of that same proud, guilty smile, "Make me feel good."
Marcus didn't hesitate.
He didn't reflect on how those were his own words parroted back by his brother's innocent, six-year-old voice. He didn't wait for details or clarification. He woudn't risk wasting this chance. And so, he said just three simple words, "Close the door," as he pulled back his blankets.
The door barely made a sound. And in moments, a warm little body was squirming its way into Marcus's bed. Fur on fur. Yellow eyes staring into his. Nervous. Silent. Keith didn't seem to notice his brother was nude. Hadn't felt the throbbing beast hidden beneath the blankets. He just laid back. Watching. Waiting. Offered up to his brother wholly and completely...
And Marcus would take him!
His paw was on the boy's cotton covered crotch in seconds. Why wait? Why tease? Keith wasn't here to kiss and to cuddle. He didn't want Marcus to touch his stomach or his thighs. Foreplay and romance had no place in this bed. Not tonight.
He felt the little sheath he'd felt so many times before. But it felt different tonight, as it hardened against his palm. Different now that he didn't need an excuse. Now that he was just touching to touch. This was really happening. But he wanted more. He wanted it all. And he wanted it now!
He dived beneath the blankets without a word of warning. Keith trusted him. And he asked for this. He wanted to feel good? Well Marcus was a very good big brother. And he would grant that wish. He gripped the waistband of those tight briefs, and they were barely tugged aside before his nose was buried behind the wolfdog's balls. The first time they'd been there without cotton in the way. And there was hardly a scent to be found, not so soon after a shower...but he breathed it in anyway, drinking in every little trace he could find. And just like when he held him on his shoulders for a powerbomb, he opened his muzzle and let those tight little balls slip into his mouth. But this time it was fur, not cotton, on his tongue...
Beneath him, Keith squirmed and giggled. But he didn't protest. He didn't ask what the wolf was doing. He just reached down, strong, tiny fists wrapping themselves around his brother's ears. And Marcus bathed his groin with his tongue. His balls. The hot little crevices behind and beside. His swollen sheath. And, at last...wet tip, inching its way out. Both brothers gasped in unison. One had just felt a tongue graze his most sensitive flesh for the very first time. The other had tasted ambrosia.
The sweet, sticky fluids of the puppy's sheath coated the spongey flesh. Years from now, they would grow salty, bitter, and coppery like his brother's. But tonight they were sweet against the wolf's tongue. And subtle. A taste as soft as the flesh that bore it, and the fresh-cleaned fur around. But he had to have more! And in a single fluid motion, he sucked the boy's entire hardening shaft into his mouth, pushing his sheath back with his lips, and snaked his tongue around the little bulb at its base.
"Marky!" his brother yelped...
...and he couldn't tell if it was in pleasure, pain, encouragement, or fear. Little paws gripped his ears ever harder. Tugging. Twisting. Perhaps in sudden and unfamiliar ecstasy. Perhaps trying to pull him away. But he didn't ask. And he didn't stop. He let the boy's flavor coat his tongue and every inch of his muzzle. He caressed it and massaged it. And he sucked it in as deep as it would go. Until his brother's paws loosened...and he began to whine through his very first moans.
He was small enough that even with the whole shaft in his brother's mouth, there was still room for the wolf's tongue to snake out: around and behind his little balls. And he did just that: tasting every little bit of his brother 's package at once. But he wanted to taste more. He wanted to turn him over and bury his tongue into that virgin tailhole. The pup had just bathed. It was more than clean enough. And he certainly couldn't fuck him...not yet...but what better way to get him accustomed to the idea?
If he did it, though. If he let go of the heavenly little thorn in his maw and flipped the boy over, how would it feel, against his tongue? Just what was that little hole like?
A paw slipped under the boy, in search of the answer. Pulling apart his cheeks. Wriggling between. And there, he felt the searing heat of the tiny wrinkle on his finger. Damp from sweat. Twitching from the feelings racing through his young body. And Marcus pressed against it. Pivoting and twisting. Would it yield? Would it part? Just how tight was a six-year-old?
And all at once, the pup spasmed and whined. He pressed up into the suckling muzzle and stiffened from head to toe. Nothing came. No squirt. Not even a drip. But his little shaft flexed and twitched. And just like Mark remembered from when he learned to paw at nine...Keith had his first dry orgasm. Right there. In his brother's muzzle.
And then, in an act that Marcus would later swear was compassion, he stopped it all. He let the little shaft fall from his mouth. He pulled his finger away from the winking hole. And he sat up. It was compassion, he would say. Because, especially in the beginning, Keith would be far too sensitive for Marcus to continue...
But he knew it was a lie. It wasn't compassion. It was lust. Because he'd been practicing his next few words for weeks...
"Did that feel good?"
Yellow eyes stared back at him in glazed and confused exhaustion. Spent. Blissful. Scared. And Keith simply nodded without a word.
"Are you gonna' ask me to do it again?"
No hesitation. Another nod.
"Are you gonna' tell anyone?"
A moment passed in thought...but he shook his head.
"You want ME to tell anyone?"
Wide eyed. Nearly frantic. Another shake. His first word since they'd begun: "No!"
"Then you need to do something for me, too," the wolf smiled a devious smile. "I won't tell on you. And I'll do this for you whenever you want." And he crawled up to his knees, right by his brother's head, "But I want you to make me feel good, too."
Lewd. Throbbing. Insistent. An eighteen-year-old wolf cock stood tall in the air above a wolfdog's still-wide-eyed face. Gray balls swayed, hanging in the air only inches from his nose. Marcus was certain he could smell him. Smell the sweat he'd just worked up. He knew there were questions to answer. He knew there were steps to take. He could ask for a sniff and a lick. He could ask for a paw. But this was his fantasy come true. This was his every dream. And he let it play out exactly like it always had in his head. He wasn't waiting any longer.
And he gently reached down, pulling the boy up by the back of his head, "Just put it in your mouth, like I did for you. Help Marky out, buddy."
The pup's ears were flat. He was uncertain. But he didn't fight. Maybe he was swayed by the gentle threats. Maybe he thought it was only fair. Or maybe he was curious. But whatever the reason, Keith simply opened his muzzle, and let that dripping beast slip between his lips.
Tomorrow, Marcus would have to explain all of this. The taste of cock filling the puppy's muzzle. The strange new feelings he didn't understand. The extensive list of rules. And then, soon enough, Marcus would be able to bury himself beneath the wolfdog's tail. Soon, Keith would be his willing pet. Soon, they would be as familiar with one another's bones as they were with their own. Soon, this would be their new ritual.
A cracked door late at night.
But first. In this dark and private space, a wolf stifled a howl, and a wolfdog coughed and sputtered at his first, overwhelming taste of his brother's cum...
~
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