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Raul drew in a slow breath, thick and heavy with the scent of the oils he had drizzled under the faucet just before. Definitely lemongrass, and some lime, and maybe that was a little bit of grapefruit... delicious, intense heat simmered in through his fur to the skin underneath, poking its way through days of built-up grime and sweat coagulated into something like a film there at the roots, floating off into the bathwater in little flecks and curls. The coyote's tail stirred underneath him, and he rolled his head to his other shoulder, just far enough for the surface of the water to come up and splash against his chin.

Four days, he thought, letting his eyes crack just a touch. He could see the grim floating up off of his fur towards the surface of the water, already tinted slightly brownish. Shame it couldn't be longer. But that's about average, so I can't really complain... and besides, there's always next time.

Slowly he dropped an arm down towards the water, ears flicking forward at the burbling of the flood drain at the end of the tub with the extra volume, then relaxed again. Sometimes he turned the heat up so high that upon getting out he had to lie spread-eagled on the tile floor until the steam stopped rising from his fur; this time it was hot enough to tingle through as he submerged his arm, but he paid no attention to getting that part of him clean. Instead the coyote shifted where he lay, straightened up a bit...

...and pressed a forefinger and thumb gently against the lip of his sheath, peeling the slick, sticky, tacky skin away from the rich flesh underneath. His tail wagged again upon seeing the wisps of whitish-yellow part free and float up through the surface, like little threads of half-congealed fabric; he squirmed where he lay, lifted up a little bit further, and then slid that forefinger down within the supple casing of his sheath, bulging out the skin from underneath, now scooping out the grime and gunk that had been allowed to build up in the folds and contours underneath across those four days.

Each time he slipped his finger back out from inside his sheath it came with streaks, smears, clumps, clods of the stuff, squished against the side of his fingerpad or matting down his fur. His other paw went down to slip the supple skin slightly back, bringing the red flesh of his cock tip out into the water: the gathered oils - of coyote, not of citrus - shimmered through the liquid, distorting and fuzzing the water around his emerging length, warm pinkish-red flesh visually coated with filmy specks of the same yellowish-white where the gunk had been allowed to coat around him and dry into place.

Delight starting to swell through him, Raul leaned his head back again and sighed, now working his fingers back and forth across his revealed length, squeezing to peel off the congealed gunk. Shoulda done this out of the bath first, he thought, able to feel the stuff smearing off on his fingers, and then just dip in to clean the rest...

The little hand-towel he kept by the bed was already streaked with spurts of white as well as crustier, flakier pads of the dry yellow turned brown, from where he had wiped it across his paws or his shaft after a good session. Sometimes it was enough just to swirl a finger down within the gunky skin to coat his fur in the thick slime and then huff that while pawing off still inside his sheath, pinching the lip around his tip and squeezing there...

But today he had to actually clean up. Warm arousal simmering through him, Raul returned his gaze to the work at hand, bathwater fogged and indistinct with the floating bits of flaked skin, dried cum, stale piss, and whatever else might have ended up trapped in there over the days. A little stringy bit of black reminded him of the shirt he was wearing today; some strands of grey looked like that had unraveled themselves from the underwear he'd been wearing for the past two weeks or so, now with a gritty, flaky smear of dried stuff on the interior fold; a little knob of something that very well might have just been dirt, from when he had whipped it out on his walk through the woods two days in.

Raul shifted again, lifting himself slightly out of the water, angling his half-hard shaft away from himself so he could peer along the backside. The important part was to get every bit of it, which included right down past the root of his knot; he bit his lip, squeezed his other paw along his sheath, and tugged the skin back further, until the soft cinnamon-tan of his fur folded back over itself to show instead the puckered overlaps of slick, sleek pink inside, glistening with natural wetness, inner folds similarly strung with juicy, greasy curls of gunk.

Even as he continued stroking, halfway between doing it for pleasure and doing it to clean up, bits of the congealed film stuck to his twitching, slimy length. The newer stuff tended to be thicker and softer, like an over-chewed paper spitball wedged down into the folds of succulent flesh, while the bits that had been left to ferment and simmer across a few days spread out along the contours of his shaft and sealed down, again like a thin film. It took deliberate, focused effort of rubbing his fingerpads across himself to peel some of that away, the pale, foggy yellow-white curling off from rich red flesh underneath.

Now fully hard, Raul rested his other arm over the side of the tub and relaxed, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of the feeling and the faint, foul tinge of ammonia mixed with day-old fish floating around through the citrus of the bath oils. Time and time again he brought that paw to his muzzle to sniff at the remnant scent, smeared deep into the skin of his pads: he knew by experience that that would remain even through two more washings, and if he really wanted to get clean he would have to step into the shower tomorrow, and then again the day after.

But for now he just needed to take care of this. Back and forth he stroked, the slickness of his own unwashed musk smearing easily across his length and over his fingers; again and again he pushed down at his sheath, folding the supple skin over itself, squishing and slopping back into place, until finally there was the squeeze, throb, and shiver of his knot rolling free from inside, not yet swollen but pulsing towards that point.

Raul opened his eyes again and looked down, deliberately angling his shaft away from himself. There in the deepest wedges and crevices of his sheath, wet flesh squishing up around the thinner root of his shaft, more of the gunk had gathered, still chunky and greasy despite the number of days that it had been there. He flared his nostrils in trying to draw out his own scent, turned his thumb, and scooped it around the tender, sensitive flesh there. Watching himself smear off the grime, feeling it squish and ooze between his fingers, rubbing at the flecks caught along the bulge of his growing knot, just worked the coyote up further; he reached up, wiped it off across his upper lip, felt it smush and smear there like a gritty paste, then folded his lip up against his nose and drank deep of the rich, sharp, acrid scent.

As he stroked faster and harder his knot continued to bulge out, fingers spreading around it, thoroughly slickened already. Warmth and need simmered deep inside of him, spurred further by the thick, foul odor spiking into the back of his throat; Raul squirmed, gasped, bucked, slipped his paw the rest of the way back, wrapped one, two, three fingers behind his knot, yanked - and then bucked again with the first spurt of his load out across the surface of the water, then the second smacking against his chin, then the third, and fourth, and fifth spraying out, the foggy white congealing as soon as it plopped into the heated bath.

Panting, relieved for now, the coyote sank back down, still holding his twitching shaft above the surface where it visibly steamed. Still there were some flecks and specks of gooey yellow-white; he tenderly rubbed at this, then grimaced and twitched at the hypersensitivity. The scent hovering around the tub had melded from warm citrus and lemongrass to the deep, rich, head-filling odor roughly reminiscent seafood section at a grocery store.

Assuming they turned off the refrigeration two days before...

There would definitely still be some evidence tonight, but Raul figured that would be alright. It just gave him a headstart for next time.