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On The Twelfth Day of Yiffmas, Jakealope Wrote For Thee...

Ten Paws a-Licking

"Blindfold on, slut."

You stare down at the black cloth in your hand, and at that moment, you consider yourself equally lucky and unlucky.

The unlucky part only has you to blame. You were caught with your hand in the cookie jar--the cookie jar in this case being a laundry hamper. You didn't think anyone would notice a few missing socks, or a vanished pair of undies that magically reappeared the next day. You were careful about when and what you stole, or so you thought, until one day you were cornered by all five of your suitemates.

You sputtered out a few half-assed attempts at excuses, but there was no refuting the video evidence they recorded of you huffing on soiled clothing in the middle of the night. They had you figured out. More importantly, they grilled you on a dozen different varieties of the same question:

"Why?"

That one was hard to think up a half-decent answer to on the spot. Like, what were you supposed to say to that?

Oh jeez, I guess I just can't stop thinking about inhaling your rank stench...

Since I'll never have a chance to smell the source, I wanted a whiff from the next best thing...

I WANT TO HUFF EVERY SINGLE PART OF YOU GUYS SO DAMN BAD.

Might as well toss yourself to the curb before saying anything like that. Instead, you chose to dodge the why and instead skipped straight to forgiveness.

"Sorry... it was a stupid thing that won't happen again. Really--no more stolen clothing or sneaking around during the night. I promise."

That was a pathetic excuse for an apology, but it was all you could conjure in the face of your five suitemates.

"Well, we didn't appreciate you doing this behind our backs," said Tony, the stocky hyena that tended to speak up for the group; maybe it was his senior status that gave him the privilege, or perhaps it was how he carried himself. "And we aren't happy about having several pairs of clothes go missing over the last few months. So we decided you're gonna make it up to us."

"H-how so?"

"Be patient and you'll see..."

They directed you to sit at the broad end of the coffee table, opposite the couch they were spread out on. Tony was smirking with the other four, in on a joke you were either too dense or unaware to understand.

"Alright, paws up fellas."

This wasn't at all what you expected, and the first thought you had was that something was not right. You were caught doing something bad, and suddenly you were presented with the greatest sight you'd ever set your eyes on. One, two, three, four, and five pairs of socks were peeled away from fluffy paws. Five sets of fluffy, meaty soles drop on the coffee table across from you.

Chink, the border collie you'd known the longest of the group, fanned at the air. "Whew! Someone's paws REEK!"

They certainly did; your nose was immediately assaulted with an aroma more fresh and potent than you'd ever had the pleasure of drinking in. It was the permeating scent of sweat mixed in with the subtle sweetness of their natural body odor. It was threatening to draw you in, like cartoon stink lines that hooked my nose and wouldn't let go.

"Sorry roomie," Tony said with a smile that was anything but. "We all just got back from the court. Didn't get a chance to shower yet, so our puppies are barkin'... not that you'd mind."

"Uhh--yea, haha. It's no big deal. Doesn't smell that bad..."

Tony's teeth were gleaming as he watched you squirm. "You think so? Awful nice of you to say that, after you've been stealing our socks for who knows how long. Come on, roomie. You can say what you really think. Go on."

"They smell... nice," you admitted, not quite to them, your face ducked to the floor.

"Look at us when you say it."

Your fur stands on end at Tony's command. You were burning hot from the embarrassment--and an insatiable desire for those paws.

"Your paws smell really good," you said, and suddenly you were gushing, "I don't know why, but I love how they smell so much. Whenever you guys workout, I can't wait to grab your sweaty clothes that night. It's so incredible... I can never get enough..."

I thought that might've been a mistake, blabbing on like that, but it seemed not to be. Each of the guys had their eyes on me and only me, and they were smiling. Big, toothy grins. And they only seemed to get bigger with each praising word I said.

"Heh, he really is a paw slut," muttered Samson, a cloud-gray marten sitting to the right of Tony.

"He's more than that. You've seen what he steals. You've heard what he likes. He's not any specific type of slut. Just a slut; a pure-bred little whore that does whatever he can to get his rocks off."

Tony and the others had a laugh at your pride's expense--not like you had pride much to begin with.

"You don't mind if your new name's slut, do ya?" asked Tony.

You shook your head, too fearful that your voice would betray how much you loved your new nickname.

"Was a rhetorical question, but it's pretty funny that you thought you had a say. Sluts don't get a say."

"Sluts don't care to be called a slut," piped in Chink.

"Sluts only do what we tell 'em to do," said Johnny, the other senior of the group, a maned wolf that usually had a standoffish attitude--except for now, where he leaned in to watch the chaos in interest.

"Hear that, slut? We all know what you really are. You know it too. You wouldn't be snuffing our underwear if you weren't." Tony shuffled his paws forward on the coffee table. "This what you want?"

"...Yeah."

"You can do better than that."

"Yes. I want your paws."

"Good slut. Listen to us, and you'll get what you want. But first..."

He motioned to Haven, the unusually tall fox on the far end of the couch, and a piece of black cloth was tossed in front of you. Tony didn't ask, but you knew he wanted you to pick it up. There was nothing special about it, as far as you could tell, so you confusingly looked to the hyena for the next instruction.

"Blindfold on, slut."

So here you are, raising a blindfold up to your eyes, cutting off the room and the five guys staring hungrily at you. Like stepping one foot off the ledge to your descending doom; a feeling of something wrong that lurches up your stomach and into your mouth, making you feel all queasy.

You are excited, but also scared. You had to trust their judgement. You had to assume that you are in good hands--or feet, for that matter. When you feel the blindfold is secured around your face, you look up to where you could once see the couch and your five suitemates sitting across it.

"Alright slut. The name of the game is Guess Who. Simply guess whose paw is whose, and you get off scot-free."

"What if I get it wrong?" You ask back.

"We'll talk about that later, if it comes to that... I mean, this should be a walk in the park for you. You've had plenty of practice. We're even letting you do whatever you want; sniff, lick, suck, it's all fair game."

"Okay... do I start now?"

"Whoa, not so fast," Tony says, stopping my advancing snout. "Need to shuffle the deck first."

You hear the noise of five pairs of paws hitting the creaky flooring and shuffling around the living room. They continue their musical chairs for long enough for you to lose track of their order, and then a little more. Once they are satisfied with the new lineup, they each drop back on the couch, paws up on top of the table once more.

Well, so much for the easy way.

Even so, this should be stupid-easy, just like Tony said. You've done more than a fair share of smelling and tasting their thoroughly used footwear. You've even been daring enough to stuff your snout in their shoes for minutes on end on several different occasions--which they luckily had no video evidence of you doing. You thought of yourself as something like a trained athlete that'd prepped months for this very moment.

"Alright slut, time to start our game. And remember: tongue and nose only. No hands allowed."

Another one of Tony's troublesome rules to abide by. Still, it's no big deal. You're confident you can do this, for whatever reason. Call it blind optimism or sheer stupidity, but you are liking the odds.

An unknown hand grabs a handful of fur on your head and pushes you and your snout over the table. You bump your nose into a warm, textured surface, and the guiding hand disappears. The pungent stink of sweat is strong, with some transferring onto the tip of your nose.

"First one is ready for you, perv. Whenever you're ready..."

You've been ready the moment their paws touched the table.

Leaning in again, you find the first of ten paws with a gentle bump. The mysterious owner reciprocates the touch with a scrunching of their soft beans on your face. As much as you love that playfulness, it didn't help you narrow down the playing field. All of them can be likely to do that, and likely would do that, just as a means of throwing you off their scent.

Speaking of scents...

There is nothing else but their scent. It cakes your nostrils, your fur, and every gulp of air that descending your windpipe. It's a fog of musk and sweat--musky sweat. That's what you crave the most; a musky, intoxicating sweetness that has been fermenting for hours behind fabric and leather.

You never got to enjoy the powerful odor on freshly removed clothing, always having to pickpocket whatever you could find in the wee hours of the night, and what you are currently enjoying is one step higher than that. Straight from the tap. It's like quenching a thirst in your soul that's been parched for as long as you can remember.

You can hardly think about who this paw belongs to. It's hard to think at all. The oils and sweat coating your snout must be painting over your brain, too.

"Look guys, he's fucking hard as a rock," Francis jokes with the rest, a buck with a bit of redneck in his blood. "Little perv's gonna bust and ain't anyone even touching 'em."

You know there's little way of hiding your arousal; just your luck that the coffee table had a glass top, leaving nothing to the imagination. You can cover up the tent in your shorts, but that's no less admitting your guilt to being as hard as you've ever been--literally. The is the pinnacle of your whole life. This is your biggest dream come true...

"Well, slut? Are you gonna have us wait all day for an answer?" asks Tony.

"No..." you groan out. You didn't want to keep them waiting. It isn't like you to be rude or forgoing, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that you're not looking to rush through, either.

You dare to poke your tongue out, a tiny blep that you drag up one toe bean, and fireworks explode behind your eyes. You've never gotten the chance--no, the privilege--of tasting fresh sweat before. You are never offered the chance to lick up the salty droplets that ran down their worked pads. You only ever got the dried-up scraps, having to provide your own saliva to revive the long-evaporated sweat lines.

The moment really dawns on you in a holy shit type of realization: you really do have another dude's sweat dripping into your open maw. You're savoring each intense, mouth-watering bead you lick up, swirled up in your own drool. Scent is always retained in clothing, if a bit dulled over time, but the taste tends to go stale, if not becoming entirely absent.

Small licks turn into bigger and longer ones. You work your tongue into each nook and cranny, searching for more of that yummy liquid. Lick after lick across the entirety of their delicious beans...

"Aren't you missing one, bitch?"

...and you are not even to the second paw of the pair!

This really is a piece of yourself you'd always been missing. You now taste that missing piece, and it sits perfectly on your tastebuds. More of their salty flavor washes down your throat. More of their musk passes through your nostrils. More. More...

Lick. Lick. Lick.

More...

Lick. Lick. Lick.

You want more...

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Mmphf!--mmmnfff...

A toe pushes forcefully past your lips, and you graciously accept the probing digit into the warm, spittle spa inside your mouth. Sucking and licking exclusively at the one bean, you are hardly doing any investigative work right now, but they didn't need to know that. The only thing your mind is focused on is that clawed toe you're milking of all the tasty sweat it can provide, and once you coat it several times in saliva, you are on the next one. And the next. And the next...

Pop!

The foot retreats out of your maw's reach. "Took your sweet time, perv. If we knew any better, we might've thought you were stalling on purpose."

The others giggle at Tony's teasing joke. You didn't need to look away to hide your already blindfolded face, but you did so anyways, hot shame building up in your chest. They didn't even need to spot your lack of eye contact to gauge what you felt. It is practically written all over your body; it is written in the tucking of your tail, the folding of your ears, the anxious bouncing of your hands on your thighs.

"So, any thoughts going on in that head?" asks Tony, his voice a little closer. "Know whose paws were those?"

"I--uhh... I don't know," I answer truthfully.

"Don't know?! How do you lick two paws clean and not know?"

"I wasn't really thinking about--"

"Aww, does our little slut's brain go mushy when they're used as a doormat? Fucking adorable."

You're not so sure Tony meant adorable in a positive, lighthearted kind of way, but at least he isn't outright mad about your lack of an answer.

Tony continues to say, "How about this? Just give us the line-up in order at the end. I'm making it as easy as possible on you, twerp. No excuses if you mess this up, got it?"

"Y-yes sir."

"Good slut. Time for the next taste test..."

The next pair rattle the glass top as they're plopped down in front of you, and as you put your nose and tongue to work again, you realize how impossible this task really is. Your brain is literally glazed over by the musk you're drinking up. Adding more paws into the guesswork only made it tougher, and the subtle variations in taste did you little good. The only thing you learn is that discards left overnight in the laundry hamper are no comparison to the real thing!

The time you get with each set of paws flies by so quickly, even with you extracting every last drop of sweat from their tired paws, causing you to panic when the cleaned paws are replaced by the next dirty pair. It's too much! It's too fast! It's... It's...!

"How you doing there, sweat sponge? Seems like you're enjoying yourself."

"Good... So good..."

All the words you could muster match your simple, looping thoughts. It was a spinning carousel of feet--your head was spinning with them, and there was no chance to get off before you were spinning with the next paws shoved against your snout. Round and round and round... licking... sucking... huffing and puffing through the fur between their beans... nuzzling... kissing...

Never any thinking...

"Last one. Better have everything figured out soon..."

You are beyond the state of panicking when the last paws wrap around your snout. It's hopeless. You are no better off after than you were before. It's a jumble of half-incoherent guesses and thin strands piecing it all together. You are so far past screwed that you simply accept your sealed fate. It's hopeless.

You gather a sense a calmness within you. Every brushstroke of your tongue across their textured pad is like an exercise to clear your mind and body of stress. Let their unwashed odor ground yourself. Let their damp fur serve as a means of washing your worries away.

Just give in.

Be the paw-slut they want you to be--the paw-slut _you_want to be.

"Times up," Tony purrs, breaking the silence in the room.

The last pair of paws retreat. You have to stifle a whimper as they go. You want more time. More time and more filth are what you wish for right now.

"We need an answer, slut."

"I don't... I don't have one."

"You serious? After all that, your pathetic ass can't come up with a single guess?"

"No. I've got nothing," you say, barely loud enough for all to hear. "I've got nothing at all."

"Zero out of five. That fucking figures: stuffing his nose and mouth in our nasty laundry, and he can't even come up with anything to show for it. Too dumb to do anything but soak up our filth."

A hand loosens the blindfold on your head, and the sunlight cascading across the living room hurts your eyes. All five of your suitemates are still sitting on the couch, all giving you the biggest shit-eating grin, all with perfectly pampered paws.

Tony is the first to stand up. He makes his way around the table until he is just beside your head. He scoots in even closer, one paw using your aching groin as a perch, and his own strained shorts grazing your right cheek.

"Maybe we can try again?" Tony suggests to the group.

You shudder at what he means is coming next. A firm hand guides your nose under his larger package. The climate is entirely different here--a single word can describe it as tropical; it's a thick, sweaty heat that immediately clung to your face, even with the fabric of his clothing acting as a barrier.

"Maybe we keep trying until you get it straight in your tiny head. Our schedule's wide open for the rest of this weekend. Another twenty-four hours to properly train our new suite-slut."

The hyena's pants drop to his ankles, unveiling an unsheathed cock, heavy ballsack, and all of the funk-infused glory therein. In comes a wave of those mind-fuzzing aromas to hit you square into the face. The swampy cloud of musk and sweat compels you to lean in closer for another sniff... and another... and another...

"Your training starts now, slut."