Back in the Billiards Room
?I'm too goddamn tired for this, was what I first thought when he found me. My jeans were splattered with Pearly White from some yuppie's McMansion, and now somebody wanted me to feign a conversation for $5 of draught, and I was already working on a bottle of the stuff from back home (only bar in this town that carries it, a personal favor from the owner, a close friend of mine). I get my alcohol as honestly as I do anything else, and on the same terms as I do anything else: my own. So I wasn't eager to accept any handouts from this wolf who seemed to burn with surplus energy, his fur bright like white phosphorous and pure like cocaine. As far as he could be concerned, I didn't hear him.
Then he said, as if he knew my strengths
"Sir"
just like that, letting this moment rest like he wants the glue to dry
"Can I buy you a drink?"
and then I'm not so sure he can't. My husky-tail ain't wagging on the outside, but levers were thrown on the inside, ones that have been polished by the sweat of use. The accusation I always lob when that word starts getting thrown around
"You're one of those types that calls everybody 'Sir'"
And he averted his eyes for a moment just to think about it
"No"
his answer trailed, as if he was waiting for the proper defense to come to him.
"But you call me Sir"
I don't put it like a question. I don't do questions. I intone it like narration. And that's how I intoned it. And he gulped; he really did; he dropped his eyes and choked on his pride, as he fulfilled the response to my call
"Yes, Sir"
his voice again trailing, the silence filled with the cheap shock of a benign realization. Now, I'm not the type that believes in love at first sight. But I do believe in respect at first word, and I recognize it in a man when I see it. It brings a smile to my face, it turns gears in my head. It gives me something to play with, like a stoner with a scrap of tinfoil. It couldn't have been later than nine o'clock at that point, and suddenly I didn't feel tired enough to make it a short night.
He held a limp ten in his hands, exact change for two on the low shelf. I slapped a twenty on the bar and told the bartender
"Two of anything good"
and he brought us two of something good and change (after carding the wolf, of course). The white wolf took his beer with a humble thanks, Sir, and sat down next to me, stuffing the ten unceremoniously into the pockets of tight leather pants that displayed the wolf's assets like an open garage door in Suburbia. Shy as he seemed, the fella could put a bulge in a wine barrel.
He took a swig of his, slamming it down on the bar with affected bravado so that it foamed from the mouth. Fella fancied himself cocky. I tossed mine back, refreshed my sense in the purest sense of the word in a few greedy gulps. He put his teeth in his lips, hesitated just long enough to negate whatever he was deciding to do, and followed my lead, tipping the bottle ambitiously over his lips so that he splattered his slick leather jeans. They were black like a burnished abyss. Those leathers, they really were professional. European, maybe even. I got my jeans at a thrift store and it sure as hell wasn't my fault they were tight.
He stifled a cough as he put his bottle down next to mine. He looked for a cocktail napkin.
"You know"
I eased in
"If beer could do anything to 'em, you paid too much for those leathers in the first place"
"Yeah, it's just"
he tried to get the bartender's attention. For the beer on his leather jeans. For Christ's sake. I mopped the back of my paw over his leg, and he jerked erect on his stool. From crotch the knee, I slid the back of my paw over the other leg, followed the traces of the liquid where it was dripped.
"We wouldn't want any amber stains on those Snow White paws, let me handle it, sweet cheeks"
and he was simply looking down at himself then, a beleaguered groan in his throat unlike exhaustion, which I knew pretty well, and unlike lust, which I could have easily recognized, but something falling between thankfulness and disappointment. I made a point of following his wandering eyes, waiting for the baby blues to meet mine, which they avoided with what I figured to be gracious deference until I cupped my hand over his package. His eyes locked onto mine. I gauged the size of it as it grew in quickening pulses. I didn't roll it in my fingers, I didn't try to stroke him through the thin hide, I just allowed him to grow until he stopped growing, and I let my grin widen with it. By the time he reached his limits my teeth might've been showing. I must have radiated a prideful indulgence. He wouldn't attempt any more cocky flourishes. I took my paw away, made a peace sign to the bartender
"Two of something better"
I dropped another twenty right next to where my change from the first drinks sat. All the money I'd brought from that Yuppie's house, but I had rent paid and work for the next three weeks. I don't cherish the goddamn bits of paper. Bartenders seem to. This time to bartender took both and didn't bring back anything but two of something better. I took one pull and drained the bottle, and had only then the beer I'd been working on when the whole thing started. The wolf sipped his.
"So I'm Sir"
I capitalized it
"And you are?"
"Jimmy, Sir"
he replied punctually. He kept his hands crossed in his lap between sips, his eyes darting back and forth every so often to see if anybody had spotted his bulging package. A wolf with white fur, blond hair, and blue eyes; I might be wary of others' stares, too. The combination was about as likely as being born with six toes, and something about him suggested he wasn't appreciative of having gotten the luckier end of that stick. He didn't talk much. I asked him a question and he'd answer it immediately, efficiently, respectfully, and if unpracticed in vagaries. I needled him with questions, tried to peer into his personality with little interrogations.
"Where'd you get those leathers, sweet cheeks?"
"Online, Sir"
"And did you mean to order them two sizes too small?"
"Yes, Sir"
he whimpered, as if he were surprised I'd figured him out. He shifted in his stool in the next of many futile attempts to hide his bulge
"I like how the tight fit looks, Sir, it"
and he paused, kind of bit his lips. I figured on what he was going to say, figured that he thought twice about it considering the goal had become a recent issue. I wondered if it meant he hadn't planned on being quite so successful as he had been, and he confirmed my suspicions
"it's supposed to show off my body, so guys can tell what they're getting, Sir"
"And after squeezing into that death trap, you're going to keep your hands in your lap?"
He whimpered, and put his hands on the bar, the obvious and impressive tent unhidden now. Jimmy stifled a whine, and he blushed. That's the thing about the fellows with the white fur. You can see them blush, you can honest-to-God watch as their cheeks grow hot with tension or embarrassment or excitement or whatever emotion might bring the blood to a man's face. It was a pleasure, it was almost scandalous. My fur, this ashy grey like a well-used paint brush, would have concealed any little embarrassment I might have ever felt. That didn't make me special, I was just like everyone else. But the fact that this fella couldn't, that he had no choice but to crack an easy smile as the signs of his excitement boiled in his cheeks like emergency flares, it made him seem so earnest and honest and vulnerable. He wasn't trying to hide it, it must have been a little embarrassment he'd gotten comfortable with years ago. Maybe that's why he got the tight leather jeans. Maybe that's why he had the hair styled so particularly. Maybe it's why he wanted to buy me a drink. I liked it. I liked him. I smiled and took a drink, and he smiled too.
"You blush"
I told him matter-of-factly, if only to keep it in his cheeks for a moment longer. He came to his own defense
"Everyone blushes, Sir"
"Not everybody shows"
A slight groan escaped his throat and he bit his lips
"I know I do, Sir
I'm sorry, Sir"
and I just smiled until the last of the hue on his cheek faded. He was smiling too, by the time it had gone. I knew he'd take comfort in my silent approval, whatever he decided it meant. He played with his beer, rolling it along its bottom edge across the bar, gently stirring the brew. I gave him a friendly invitation
"Drink"
and I didn't mind that he took it as an order. He tipped his beer back and managed to keep it all between his lips as he polished it off.
A man two stools down did a double take, and I watched him ogle. Jimmy turned his head and the stranger did just the same, looking up toward the TV. A moment passed, Jimmy looked back over at me. The stranger turned his head again and took a mental picture before catching my glare through his skull. He didn't lose interest in the game again. I'm not the jealous type, I'm not the aggressive type. Why, to put it PG, I've often been happy to share. But something about when people see me with a guy, they leave us alone. I'm not complaining.
But neither was I about to sit there and play defense on my piece of ass for half an hour while the guy gets good and tipsy. I gave the white wolf a slap on the shoulder - the thud dulled by the leather - and told him
"Let's take this to the billiards room"
He hesitated for a moment, probably wondering why the billiard room was open on a weekday, when the bar never got enough patrons to vindicate a second tender for the auxiliary room. Like hell I was going to sit there and calmly explain myself to him, so I said
"Let's go, Snow White"
and tugged him off his stool by the collar of his evidently new leather jacket and down the narrow, short hall to the empty billiards room. He made no protest. No real protest. You can hardly call whimpering a protest when your feet follow with obedience. I kept a tight grip on his collar, and with the other hand tousled his silky blond hair, the kind of hair models have airbrushed onto them. I liked messing it up immediately, and the golden mat was a mess by the time I pushed him through the swinging doors into the empty room, pushed him down onto his knees, and unzipped my pants.
He had landed on the floor in a heap - not like I'd thrown him, more like the nervousness in his limbs had made him stumble once I no longer had him propped up by the collars - and by the time he turned to face me my fat black cock hung in front of his nose like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I never thought I'd have to give instructions, but the little bitch stared at it with dumb admiration, and I could tell that was just what it was when he would look up into my eyes, waiting for some kind of order. He wanted to be told to suck it. I knew he wanted to be told to suck it. But I was gonna let that thick slab of cock tempt him until he got the picture itself, and it didn't take too long at all until he sunk himself down - the tent in his leather pants was practically obscene - tilted his chin up, and let the soft cock slide onto his tongue.
I smiled. I'm a tough guy, but ain't nothing soft about enjoying yourself. I mussed his hair some more, only putting it into a different pattern of disarray, as I muttered to him
"There you are, that's right, that's right. You love it, don't you?"
and he nodded, his lips closing around the head.
"That's a real nice cock you got there, ain't it, Bitch"
"Yes Sir"
"And you're gonna show that cock everything you know, huh Bitch"
My cock grew plump in his mouth, and my grin grew wide on my face.
"Yes Sir"
he moaned through my dick, taking pain to articulate the words clearly. He moaned, savoring the feel of my cock on his tongue, and whimpered. Oh did he whimper. Like a little bitch, he really did. He whimpered when I drew my cock out of his muzzle and pressed his face reverently against my package. He whimpered when I stuffed it back in, sinking the fat staff into his throat. He whimpered when I teased him
"Suck that cock, Bitch, get that dick nice and slick so I can get deep in that pretty little ass"
I'm not saying I lost respect for him. You can't take pride in a cock like mine and get all snotty when it makes a guy whine. I'm saying don't ask me why I was so quick to call the slutty pup a bitch.
He worked my cock like a desert wanderer takes to a popsicle. He got into it quick, his dulcet vocalizations seeming to egg him on just as much as my own teasing. He grabbed the bottom of my leather jacket and pulled his chin to my balls, choking himself on my fat cock as if it made him look like an expert. It just made him look like he was choking on my dick, couldn't handle all he could slurp, but I wasn't taking any marks off for it. I grabbed him by his cloud-white ears and held him there, since he was so intent upon it. When the whimpers became urgent and he started to gag, I only let him stay for a moment longer before pulling him off. He coughed and wiped his lips on his leather sleeve. The tip of his tongue lolled out just barely as his chest heaved.
I pushed him backwards and put my hands on him like I was shaking him down. I didn't have the patience to make it seem less like a struggle: it wasn't that he was resisting, he just couldn't have gotten his pants off as fast as I could yank them. I put my hands on his thigh, his ass, wherever a firm grip could stay, steadying myself as I pulled his tight leathers off his legs, and in a few moments I'd groped and exposed every inch below his waist. His impressive cock grew in generous pulses now that it was free of the skin-tight pants, not that I was that concerned about it, really. I yanked him up by the collar again, bent him over the pool table, and gave myself the free time to admire his beautiful, plump little ass. Two white mounds like warm marshmallows beneath a tail fluffy as albino cotton candy.
"Oh"
he moaned, his paws clawing at the felt surface, looking for something to grasp
"You're gonna fuck me! You're gonna fuck me, aren't you? I've never been fucked, Sir, I've never-"
I heard it but I wasn't listening, I had my fat cock grinding in the crevice between those two plush cheeks already. I was, let me say, aching for it. I wanted it bad. I wanted to stuff my cock into the trembling Bitch until I hit his vocal cords from the back. I licked a finger and plumbed him, but still I wanted to drive my cock into his ass until he howled. A second finger, and I was growing impatient, and I was sure I was taking my time but one can never be quite so sure when you're in that kind of mood. He was whimpering still, of course, and saying
"Oh fuck me, please, Sir, I've never been fucked, no one's ever"
or something. A third finger, and my cock screamed to spread his hole open, jealous of the work my digits had already done. It wouldn't be shown up by a fourth finger, and with an almost rude haste, I used his collar as a handle and jammed by still spit-slick dick into his ass. He shouted, but I clamped a hand down on his muzzle, letting the cries stifle behind his gritted teeth as I let myself sink into his ass until it couldn't sink any deeper.
I rocked my hips into him slowly, listening for the muffled yelps and shouts to quiet down, watching for his tight-shut eyes to loosen and open. Just when they seemed to, I'd ram a depth-testing blow, and the muzzle would strain against my fingers to let out a fervent yelp. But I ground him down, slowly, methodically, the pool table proving sturdy against the brusque shoves. I wore him in like new leather, and when the resonance in his voice had dropped, I let go and listened to the soft whimpers I had already grown to love.
"Sir, fuck me harder"
he whined. I didn't have any plans to take his feedback, whatever it was. If he wanted to me fuck harder, he could push back against me. If he wanted me to stop, he could claw himself across the table.
His stiff cock swung with each heavy thrust, strings of juice painting the floor and the pool table like a modern art piece. I bore into him like a ramrod - every thrust measured and paced, granting myself ample leisure to enjoy the tight hole gripping my cock like only an unused ass can. He seemed like too much of a bitch for this to be his first time, but I couldn't argue with the firm grip around my cock.
"Oh God, I want to cum, Sir"
But I plowed away, not paying any mind to his mewling pleas. I teased him gratuitously, and when I pulled my cock out of his ass to freshen the lube, I didn't spear that pure white ass again until he'd whimper and beg, each time wrapping my beefy hand around his muzzle just before boring my thick cock into his ass again. He didn't stop begging, really, just found new ways of demanding the same thing.
"Deeper, Sir, oh God, please, I never knew how much I needed this
Jesus Sir, you don't know what you're doing to me
Sir- Sir- Oh God
Fuck, fuck, oh please, just fuck me harder and I'll cum, I know I will, Sir"
he'd say it like a promise, every time, like I was concerned about it. I wasn't. I could care less if he came. He might, he might not. I wanted to make sure, on the other hand, that he'd always remember this dick. And I knew he would. When he whimpered with wordless worry, each thrust yanking a high-pitched grunt from his throat, I knew he'd remember how thick my cock had pried him open. When he lifted his chin to the cieling and bared his teeth, a thin hissing sound coming through them as he breathed in heavy gasps, I had the confidence he'd never forget just how deep my dick could go. And when he would slump forward onto the pool table in obvious fatigue, the furrowed brow and hair a mess, I would have wagered he'd even remember the pronounced curve of my stately prick that dug into all the tender spots he'd forget about, either. Yeah, when the bitch moaned
"Please please please Sir, I gotta blow my load, my cock is aching, my ass can't stand it"
I figured he'd be comparing every prick he'd ever honor to his original.
I tortured him. How long did I fuck him for? If I'd bothered to bend him into this position or that, if I'd cared to drive him up and down by plowing him with a furious pace only to drop into one more subdued, the time might have at least seemed to go by faster. But I plunged away with a machinelike duty, only changing what part of him I held onto while I rutted his perfect ass until we could both swear I'd carved rifling into it.
His whole body would shake and jump when my hand graced his pulsing prick, collecting on my fingers a gratuitous smear of precum to hold in front of the white wolf's face. I was proud that I didn't have to tell him to lick it off. He did it himself, and he enjoyed it, each time begging
"You're going to let me cum, Sir? Please Sir, please Sir, oh fuck me, Sir. You can cum in me if you want, you can cum in me if you want, Sir, but please Sir my dick can't take it"
And I bore on, my fingers pleased to ply his ass, to spread the cheeks open, to dig with ebullient bliss into the soft meat. I didn't feel close to cumming, but I could feel his tension. It sparked in almost violent fits, conducted through my cock and into my spine. I was proud of myself, really. The Bitch's need emanated from him. It broadcast itself clearly.
I hilted my dick in his ass and held it there as I wrapped my arms around him. I lean in close to his ear and teased him
"You want to cum, Bitch?"
I punctuated it with a deep thrust.
"Oh God Sir, please, please, please"
"You want me to make that little prick spurt, Bitch?"
Not that it was, but he didn't protest as I gave him the same punctuation.
"Yes yes yes yes, Sir, please Sir, oh God"
It was brutal. Words broke into his voice only out of a constant din of whimpers and whines, mewls and breathy sighs.
Once more, twice more, three more times I gave him the routine, holding the head of my dick at the rim of his hole like a guillotine before I stuffed it cruelly into his ass. And on the third time, he groaned
"OH"
I didn't pull out, I pushed as if sinking it deeper, really only pushing him against the pool table.
"SIR OH GOD"
I felt him tighten around me, and then I heard the splatter against the edge of the pool table. I pumped him, meeting every gush of his prick with a curt jab of my cock. His voice whined with a triumphant trill - I didn't bother to clamp the muzzle shut down, I figured I'd at least let him have this and bear the looks from the other patrons when he stepped back into the bar - with every gush. His muscles seemed to slacken with every jet of thick cum, as if he were melting into an off-white puddle on the pool table. I grabbed a shock of hair, yanking his lips skyward to make sure his cries were heard, and I didn't stop fucking him. I fucked every lost drop out of the bitch. I fucked him until the whimpering eased into a gentle coo, and that's when I pulled out.
"Put your leather back on"
I told him.
"I've got a hardon and an apartment"