Bowling For Herms 2: How to Do it
#2 of Bowling For Herms: Limited Edition Director's Cut
The sequel. 16 words longer than the original. 16 words better!
Bowling for Herms 2: How to do it
Christy is shifting gears, letting her manicured claw tips touch my thigh in the process. I wink at her and her perfect whites emerge. Her genetics have given her divine dentistry, two small fang tips on the top and bottom, equally spaced. A genuine tabby cat curl to her lips, a rough, pink tongue that screams seduction, and elicits a gentle friction in all the right places. Then, there's her body. She has the measurements to be drooled over; thin, rich, and groomed until her fur is as soft as petting warm cream. And in that hidden "V" beneath her tailored khakis, her perfectly trimmed and moist, pink lips appear innocent. She is lucky too. Her vagina always smells like fresh gardenia and honeysuckle after a hard day's work. She returns her orange-striped paws to 10 and 2, gripping the gray steering wheel, a stylized "L" insignia smugly touting it's silver significance at the center.
I'm not the spitting image of perfection, like Christy. No one's ever complained, but I notice (my left breast is slightly larger than my right).
Through the side-view mirror, the neon lights of the bowling alley slowly disappear in the distance. A new shopping complex struts into view with the sickly glow of chain restaurants.
I'm not really telling the truth yet. I know, I'm dancing around it. I have a habit of doing that, trying to avoid the singular thing that is on my mind. Sure, these events are happening and even at this second I knock my elbow into the door handle (Christy swerves around a fallen orange cone), but as I'm rubbing my elbow and she is apologizing, and as I'm holding the bowling ball, and gazing out the window, I'm also looking into the rear-view mirror constantly. There is a wolf in the back seat. His name is Al. My name is Ellie, by the way.
This time, I smile awkwardly, because our eyes meet in the reflection.
Holy fuck. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say after all that? It's been silent since the car started.
Here's the back-story: Just an hour ago, this wolf is bowling in the lane beside mine and Christy's. We start talking and he ends up challenging me to game, and since Christy hates bowling, I figure, why not? He's some relatively normal-looking wolf, who wants a date, right? So, he ends up being some bowling expert. One in a million. He's so good, he can tell which pins fall, just by the sound of them falling. It's insane.
I don't know how it happened, but it escalated really quick. Long story short, I lose three bets in a row, and he takes me out back and gives me the best ass fucking I have ever experienced. I'm not like that! I don't do things like that! I don't even like anal sex very much! And we used bowling ball wax as lubricant! There's no way that's what the manufacturer's intended.
And now, this normal, slightly pudgy, gray wolf is sitting in the back seat of my friend's Lexus, waiting to be taken to her house, where he will be sexually mauled by a supermodel and a hermaphrodite. He is smiling. And the reason I'm having trouble forming words, is that I'm finding him more attractive with each passing moment. He has cinnamon on his breath, a little hint of caramel. I know this because he was panting very hard while fucking me.
Lets be realistic. My puberty was a harsh one. The kind filled with giggles and uncomfortable silences; the kind where the teacher calls on you during math class, like all those boys in movies, and she wants you to write the answer on the blackboard, but your teenage pride is rigid in your jeans like you're smuggling the world's largest piece of chalk right underneath your zipper, oh and you also have these lovely blossoming bosoms hanging off your chest contained in a bra one size away from breaking several ribs. My puberty was that moment when everyone snickers and stares, that moment when you stand and show it all off while biting your lip. I hated me.
But, now, tonight, I kind of like me and all my special parts.
I only bring this up because I am thirsty, and I know I'm flushed. The bowling shirt I'm wearing has a few extra buttons unbuttoned, showing off a healthy amount of the good kind of cleavage. I have a sixteen-pound sphere between my legs, properly encased in zippered leather. And most importantly, the world's largest piece of chalk is reenacting that math class nightmare. Honestly, I think I can feel the thumb-hole of my bowling ball pressing right into the center of my cock. I won't lie; it feels good. A little cold.
"So..." I sputter.
"A 7-10 split. I can't believe it." Al counters immediately, inching his way to the middle of the back seat.
Oh, I forgot to mention the most important part. The reason why my overstuffed foxhood is practically stabbing the underside of my chest. He also lost a side bet, and aside from being mauled, he will also be receiving my "world's largest piece of chalk" in his tail-hole.
"You're going to love it." Christy says, then makes a left turn.
"I know." I add to his comment, excitedly. "What do you think? Am I lucky? Or are you just un-lucky?"
His eyes roll to the right. "Well..."
"You're fucked either way, right?" I feel somewhat like my uncle, when he reacts by bobbing his head nervously with a slight grin. He looks as though I've just tousled his hair and said, "'atta boy!" When I'm nervous, I think I'm funny.
"Naw. It's more like..." He demonstrates with a motion that looks to be the opposite of crushing something between his paws. When he's done, he makes a fake grin, and nods at his hands more than a foot apart. "...big."
My uncle-y side desperately wants to respond, 'Take it like a man, son!' But, I resist the urge. Christy makes a sound that is half-way between a laugh and "phew!" I slide the bowling ball bag to the floor, for a little more room to maneuver. This allows me to turn around on one leg, until I'm facing him, resting my chin by the suede head-rest. "If you think I'm big, you should meet my friend, Clyde. She says its her real name, but I think it's a running gag."
"Yeah, Clyde's not really a uni-sex name."
"Neither is Ellie, really." I counter.
"Clyde is definitely a guy's name. Ellie, Ellison. Like, Ralph Waldo Ellison, maybe. Could be masculine, I bet." Ellison? I pause for a second to consider.
I shake my head. "Alright, doesn't matter, Allison." There I go again. "That's not the joke. The key is she's half fox actually." With a grin, I let my tongue-tip touch the underside of my right fang and arch my eyebrows.
"So, what's the other half?" He asks after he adjusts himself.
"Clydesdale." I laugh. This herm really does exist, no nervous joke. "Her father is a thorough-bred Clydesdale. And I can't imagine her parents would be that retarded. It'd be like my parents naming me, 'Foxy.' Her name's probably something normal, like Betty or Sue. But, we still call her Clyde for short. Not that she looks anything like a horse. God, she's shorter than I am. It's her most prominent feature that earns her the title, of course." I stretch my arms to the sides like I'm about to hug a Redwood tree. He understands the measurement.
He nods and winks. "How was that again? How big?"
I laugh and vigorously hug the imaginary deciduous tree trunk, arms about a meter wide. "This..." I realize this time that he is blatantly observing my wobbling breasts. The wolf licks his sticky chops. "Bastard!" I gather my twin honeydews (the left being the slightly riper of the two) and hide them behind the plush shoulder rest. Then my brain clicks. "It's Emerson, by the way. Not Ellison. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Transcendentalist." I grin and show him my pearly transcen-dental hygiene.
"Damn. You're right. I should have known. But, it makes sense. You are a thorough-bred, like you said." He grins, chuckling to himself.
The only answer he receives is uncomfortable silence and the humming of a six cylinder motor. He seems to be amused by his comment. Which perplexes me. I want to retort with something witty. Maybe he caught my transcen-dental hygiene joke. But, I didn't even say it out loud. And it wasn't very funny. His face is contorting, and I realize that I'm simply staring at him. I flick my open jaw closed with an audible pop. He opens his maw to speak, but instead he clicks his tongue once. I finally say something; it happens to be the universal dipthong for confusion. "Huh?"
"Thorough-bred. You know, Henry David Thoreau. Emerson's student; the guy who wrote Walden."
"Oh! Thoreau-bred."
"Yeah, it wasn't all that funny."
"No, it's okay." I decide to add. "How do you like my transcen-dental hygiene?" I grin again, baring my teeth. "That was the one I was, thinking." My voice trails. Wow.
He responds with a tentative. "Yeah..." Wow. It sounded better in my head. Or, it didn't. What are we even talking about anymore? I feign a cramp in my lower back, and retreat, a rush of blood warming the tips of my ears in a blush. I spin around in the seat. Thoreau-bred. Wow. At least that means he's just as nervous as I am. Transcen-dental hygiene. God.
This is a good time to explain some things; while endless rows of trees rush by the passenger-side window in a blue-black blur (Christy knows the back-roads; she's lived in an apartment complex here since she dropped out of college).
First: I love bowling. So did my dad, before he was put on oxygen. He used to live the bowler's life, two night's a week, and Saturdays in the afternoon. This also meant that three times a week, he was a half-drunk, chain-smoker. His large belly sloshed with the greasiest burgers, fries, and nachos grande platters. And I loved every second. All I can remember from when I was little was the look he gave me when all the pins dropped. Not his pins, mine. When he guided my arms in the proper position, I stutter stepped, swung backwards till that signature tensing began in my shoulders and let loose; when the pins shuttered, splattered and fell; he would smile every single time like, like he was seeing me for the first time, like he was reliving the most satisfying moment in his life. Wonderment in his eyes. He made me feel like every time I let the ball fly, I was the most pretty little girl in the entire world.
After a few years, I played on his league team. The first guy I dated was one of my dad's teammate's sons. He was a nerdy little fox and a long-distance runner for his junior high school. This lasted for about ten days until he heard rumors about me and I found out that he hated bowling.
"You guys don't mind if I light up?" Christy asks as her window rolls down a crack. "I'm dying." The question is more directed towards our wolf-toy in the back. I only have to smile my indifference.
"No prob." Al replies. "Just don't offer me one." The tabby cat driver snaps her fingers and out comes a yellow flame.
I try to stop myself, but I turn my neck and say, "how about two, then?"
"Give me one and you might as well give me the whole pack. No thanks, Ellie."
I smile. An ex-smoker. I don't say so, but I'm an ex-smoker as well. Back in the college days.
There are signs of life outside the car now. The forested backwoods have given birth to planned communities. The houses are planted in rows and no one is outside after ten o'clock. The grass is a healthy dark green and each lawn is marked by a single street-lamp. I know the area. We are getting close, cutting across town.
But, second (and most likely last, since I thought I had more time): What is about to happen tonight, never happens. Or, more specifically, only once before, but that one has to do with my friend, Clyde, who is a sort of "side-show" treat at a Gentleman's club in New Haven, Connecticut. It doesn't really count, because, well, it was a crazy party and Clyde and me have the same type of relationship that me and Christy have. But, again, nothing like this with some guy actually wanting to...
Let's be realistic. I am a hermaphrodite. Every guy that I've even attempted to date, which ends up being few and far between, get one whiff of the sausage I'm refrigerating and bolt. I'm used to it. Which is a huge dilemma, because I'm about 75-25 in favor of males.
I've grown up wearing dresses. My boobs are there, my figure is hourglass, I giggle and gossip, and have been known to thumb through cheesy romance novels in the summertime. The only thing "masculine" about me is the fourteen and a half (gotta add the half) inches of extra flesh that half the time is hidden in its own fluffy cave, and half the time wants to be hidden in someone else's fluffy cave.
Have you ever seen the movie, "The Number 23"? Jerry Bruckheimer is the director, by the way (I liked Phone Booth). Well, the plot goes something like this: A man, with a wife and a kid, becomes obsessed over the number 23, after his wife gives him a crime novel entitled, "The Number 23" by "Topsy Krets" (or Top Secret, yes, this a horrible film). He sees the number everywhere and believes that it controls his destiny. For example, "W" is the 23rd letter of the alphabet, which means "world wide web" is the world's most dangerous symbol.
Alright, so the movie feels okay, it's well-paced, has humor and mystery and intrigue. The problem is the ending. We are strung along on a series of events that seem to make little to no sense. And the big twist at the end of the movie, is that the main character cannot remember thirty years of his life. That's not fair! The audience can only possibly see what the director puts on the screen in front of them. The movie is narrated by the main character. Not remembering thirty years of your life would be a big fucking deal, right?. We should probably know this much earlier, right?
Well, I used to hide my masculinity; a little tape on the end of the sheath and looser jeans. I wasn't perfect (a little chunky), but I had a nice set up top. There may have only been about four guys that I tried to seduce into a normal relationship before I literally gave up. But, each time, we would be dating for a few weeks, and the guy would have invested a good amount of time in wooing. I'd try to warn him as his paws would stray downward. You see, me not telling someone that I have a penis, is exactly the same as Jerry Bruckheimer not telling the audience about the main character's massive amnesia in "The Number 23." The first reaction is shock. Then, betrayal. Then, they shake their heads, either swearing, or completely heart-broken. Everything we were building is ruined in five seconds.
And you know what first comes to mind when I think of my masculinity? How annoying it is to buy new panties almost weekly because they get all stretched out by the monster. See? I'm even super-practical, exactly like all the feminine stereotypes. It's just been hard to find a guy, who isn't a freaky creep, that likes the whole package.
Women, however, love it.
My good friends have always been girls (aside from the bowling alley leaguers, of course), because that's what I looked like most and that's who I related to most. I can remember the first time, back when I was about fourteen, that I showed one of my friends my secret down below. Helen was her name; a black leopard, taller for her age (I lived in a pre-dominantly feline neighborhood). We were watching the animated Batman show in her basement, just hanging out on the couch. The show came on in the afternoons after all the funny cartoons were over. We started to talk, and I don't know how we came to the subject, but when I told her I was a little different, she became intrigued. She offered to show me hers, if I showed her mine. I was rock hard, so I wasn't really thinking anymore.
I may have been a little smaller than I am today, but she was impressed. She asked if she could touch it, and I said she could. Before long she started stroking me, and asked if it felt good, and I said that it did. This then led to my first blowjob. She did not ask if it felt good again until I was done coming. And when I was done coming, she could only laugh, because she was covered in the stuff. This then led to my first real sexual encounter, when she took off her wet shirt and stood over me on the couch. We both felt her hymen break when she sank a few inches onto my cock (she was so tight). Later, she would tell me that it didn't count. That I was a "friend" and that girls could fool around and not lose their virginity.
I've had a lot of "friends" in my lifetime. And like most hermaphrodites, I'm sterile. So, I've heard and actually said that "it didn't count" more times than one might expect. Helen was a friend. Christy is a friend. Clyde is a friend. Lucy, Jo, Rhianna, Lisa, Beth, Sunny, Cassey, Delia, Tina, and Una are all friends. And like Christy, they all seem to miss my "friendship" when I'm not in town for a while. I have to make my rounds when I can.
The car comes to a stop. The engine sputters to a halt. There is a small dog barking somewhere in the complex. I look over my shoulder as I slip off my seat-belt. The wolf lifts his eyebrows and opens his door.
Outside, the tan building looms above the cityscape. From the the small parking lot, we are looking over the roofs of a few smaller town homes, nestled on the hillside. The downtown plaza is miles in the distance. The lighted windows at night seem like abstract constellations. Christy lives on the third floor; she also has a balcony. From there, she wakes up every morning to the best view of the city. The river, the jumble of phallic skyscrapers, the historic mansions carved into the forests that frame the scene.
"Nice view." Al compliments. "And the city looks nice too."
I smile and motion him closer. "Good one." He walks to my side, and I point to a building in the area surrounding the downtown plaza. It is neon pink, with green highlights. "See that? Two streets away from the river, right before the Met building. The pink and green one? It's by a Sheetz down there."
His eyes squint, then he nods. "What is it?"
I turn to him. "That, my friend, is the best bowling alley in the area. It also happens to be twenty-one plus." Christy is watching us from the stairs with a look of impatience. I put up my paws a little and start in her direction. "Come on."
"You'll have to take me there sometime. I don't get into the city much." Al says.
I round the corner of the railing. "We'll see."
"How much does a place like this cost?"
There is a long hallway on the second floor. It is carpeted. On the left side of each doorway is a lamp that resembles the look of a french horn. The walls are freshly tanned, and the carpet is spotless and mauve. "Way too much." I respond.
We continue upwards and I feel a part of him brush the tip of my tail. "Yeah, I bet it's way out of my price range."
"And you are?"
"Oh, I'm an insurance salesman. Or sales manager. Same thing really, just more hours." Insurance salesman? I think my uncle was one of those. I also think that Al notices my hesitation. He continues. "Door-to-door too; the worst. Don't worry, I'm not a big fan either. Sorry, that it's not the 'hottest' job. I could lie and say I sell Corvettes. But, what are you then?"
Christy is unlocking the door as we march down her hallway together. I respond, not wanting to admit my own line of work. "A Corvette salesman."
He laughs. "No, seriously. What horrible job do you have in between rounds of bowling?"
The door swings open. I keep it short, leaving out the part about working at a local strip club. "I'm a waitress."
"Hot." He says, and we enter into the ivory cube that is Christy's apartment. The perfect balcony extends from the living room area to the right, while a kitchen alcove with marble tiles and countertops extends to the left.
Christy calls out from the alcove. "If you want anything, Ellie, you know where it is, pie. I need to freshen up." The tabby cat twirls her fingers for a moment, then seemingly finds the right drawer underneath the sink. I look at Al, to see his reaction. She lifts a little plastic sandwich bag from the drawer. There are a few pills at the bottom of the bag, like little blue aspirin. "No offense, but I think I'll need one tonight." She points, waggling her finger between us. Al is immediately nervous. "You?"
I shake my head. Al shakes his head. Christy shrugs and twists down the hallway.
Al shuts the door behind him. I kick my bowling shoes into the corner by the front door and make my way to the kitchen, nudging the little drawer closed as I walk by. Christy has a few bottles of wine along a rack at eye-level. There is a cabinet to the right filled with various bottles of liquor, even the unopened bottle of Jamaican Rum I had given her last Christmas.
"You want anything that won't fry your endorphins, Al?" I ask while opening the refrigerator. He is stripping his bowling shoes.
"What do you got?"
I bend over to the vegetable crisper. This makes me realize that I'm still just as excited as I had been in the car. I bend over a little awkwardly and pull open the drawer. Among a few shoots of bean sprouts, and a head of romaine lettuce, I pull out two of my favorite Molson cans. So, I'm a little bit of a tom-boy. My dad used to love Molson. I kick the drawer shut. "It's not what I got. It's what you get. Molson better be good, right?"
"You're a dream, Ellie." He leans across the counter, and I hand him the aluminum. "She has a Wii?" He points to the flat-screen, plasma television and the little white box beside. Surrounding that piece of technology there is a modern, black loveseat and an uncomfortable tan single. There are four gray rectangles on the wall, two on either side of the television, two on the wall opposite. Her stereo system scrolls a florescent screensaver. A glass coffee table completes the scene, covered in a single, clean metal ashtray and two Glamour magazines.
The can fizzles in my fingers. I take a swig. "I don't know. I guess so."
"You never played the Wii Bowling game?"
Wii Bowling? I'm just glad I even know what the Wii is. "What, a bowling game?"
"Yeah, but you actually take the controller," he makes a motion like he's bowling or swinging a tennis racket, "and you roll the ball like that. It's great."
"Get out!" I say, but I can believe it. I once saw this arcade game where you actually had to duck and move to avoid bullets. But, a bunch of little kids were taking turns on it.
"I challenge you." He says, and we're both leaning across the marble counter.
"You're just stalling." I say. He holds his paws up and gives me a smug, oblivious, nonchalant look. Earlier tonight when he first shook my hand, I noticed the little fur-less section on his chin, and now again, I'm investigating the tiny scar. It is a black line, a small imperfection and I find myself wanting to run a clawed finger along it. He has a cute over-bite, his bottom row of teeth are leaning left slightly, and the canine is yellowing. There is cinnamon in my nose again. Again, I have the urge to touch him, and this time I smooth his gray cheek fur, untwisting the ends. I realize that I've probably been smoothing my own cheek all night; it's a nervous habit. I bite my lip. You can't accuse me of being unfair. "You know, you don't have to, if you don't want. You know." I give him the escape clause, even if my crotch protests loud as a bullhorn.
He grins, winking at the touch. "Aside from being a creepy weirdo. Let's just say, I'll do anything for a second date."
What a cutie. "The second time's longer than the first." I repeat what he said earlier.
He points at me, his ears rise, then he turns. "Don't remind me. Your friend's got a nice place." He wanders toward the center of the room, holding the blue can to his chest. He has a pretty nice ass; a rough gray tail.
I make my way around the counter, wiping a condensation circle with my wrist. "It's not my style. You've already seen my favorite part. Outside."
"Needs a dart-board." He picks up a little white remote, and then drops into the left half of the love-seat. The Molson is set beside a copy of Glamour with Natalie Portman on the cover. Her perfectly airbrushed, white, furry chest close to popping out of a lilac evening gown.
I am careful not to catch my shin on the sharp coffee table. "Needs some shelves. Needs some pillows. Needs some color, some life. It's so zen." The hard cushion barely shudders when I lean back. My tail flicks to the side, and I take a half-hearted sip.
"I like the couch." He says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He is fiddling with the remote, kind of twisting it in his paw. I'm like a teenager wondering if tonight is the big night. I keep thinking back to the classroom. And there I am, ten pin in my lap, unable to move. And he is still fiddling with the remote.
"So, you know how to set up this bowling game?" I ask.
He finally gives me eye-contact. "That what your so excited about?" He nods his head at my obvious arousal.
"Hell no. But, you seem to be." I try not to, but there's a hint of anger in my voice. I wash it away with a rough smile though. Does he not find me attractive? I mean, is it going to be a repeat of every other time? He's just looking at me funny.
"I'm kinda waiting for you to seduce me, actually. It's your turn, isn't it?" He chuckles and I'm sure he sees me bear my teeth. "You weren't this nervous behind the bowling alley." He puts down the remote.
"Bastard! I was trying to be nice. I thought you were nervous."
"Well, yeah. So, you better get over here, if you want it."
In a split-second, I am leaning over the wolf with our bowling shirts pressed hard against each other. He pulls me hard by the scruff of the neck and we kiss. My left paw slips underneath his khakis, digging the tips of my claws into his tensing furry ass. He kisses like a man, without taking control. It's a mix of inexperience and competition; his tongue teases mine, and it makes me kiss him harder. I arch my back into him, pressing my hard cock into his soft stomach. I feel his paws grip the underside of my breasts and I have to pull away to exhale.
With my right hand, I begin to unbutton my shirt. The tip of my cock is in view after the first, falling thickly forward as button after button yield to my fingers. Even I'm impressed; it is hot as a curling iron and bulging with a purplish tint from all the attention. I can touch it to a nipple on my breasts, and I show off as the two hyper-sensitive areas rub against each other.
He wraps his fingers around the center thickness (or most of the way around) and I groan. "Now, that is a big cock. I think it's bigger then I remembered." He says.
I lift myself into his lap. I hold him by the back of the ears. I whisper. "It'll be even bigger when I'm shoving it up your ass. Don't worry, I'll be as gentle as you were."
"What? Starting without me? That's so not fair." I turn my head to the sound, and Al nibbles on the muscles in my neck.
The lights suddenly dim, but I can still clearly see the naked curves of the tabby cat as she strides into the living room. She is sucking on her fingertip and swaying her hips, those perfect teardrop breasts defy gravity with the tiniest pink nipples upturned and erect. Her body is fluid and soft, the black stripes along her orange fur emphasizing every curve. She leans her fingers lightly against the tan armchair.
"We were just getting ready for a game of Wii Bowling. Right, Al?" I laugh and Al picks up the white remote again, waving it.
She waves her hands wildly. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no... no Wii." She shuffles her way to the center of the room, and stands awkwardly in front of the television as if to block the remote. "It's my boyfriends. We might break it." I'm almost thrown off the wolf's lap when he sees Christy in all of her natural beauty. Sure, Natalie Portman has a cover story in Glamour, but Christy's on page 57, strolling with a handbag. She is gorgeous in a plaid miniskirt or buck naked and I envy her openly.
"Okay, okay, Christy cat." I climb off of Al, and motion for him to put the remote on the coffee table. I lean down and whisper. "She is high as a kite." Christy immediately calms, and with one finger and my most sexy glance I can muster, she is lured closer. My cock is forced straight upwards by the waist-line of my slacks. I decide to unbutton my khakis and it falls to a more erotic 90 degrees. My knot is in it's most ready position. "We better get started then, right?"
"Ooh, yes." Christy says, and leans against me. She is stroking my length with her left paw as if she couldn't resist it if she had a gun to her head.
"Give me a kiss, kitty." I say, and she is more than ready. Her tongue is so eager, and her expression so needy that I swear I could have come right then. After a few moments, I feel more in control, and even manage a wink to the wolf. He is stripping his bowling shirt, and watching the show. Christy is oblivious. She moans when I grip her by the ass. Both of them moan when I lightly press my fingertip into her tailhole, then break the kiss.
I guide the purring tabby cat to the tan chair. "Now, sit down. I want to show Al something." She obediently slides into place, looking at me for instructions. We've played this game before. Half the time, she begs for it. She is such a submissive type, especially when she's high. "Spread your legs, Christy. Put them over the arm rests." Again, she obeys, this time more hesitantly. Her legs slowly open and she slithers forward on the seat. Her frazzled feline tail curls over the front edge of the chair. When she places her calves onto the arm-rests, the lips of her well-maintained pussy are completely on display. It is past the point of erotic, and dangerously pornographic.
Al surprises me with a comment. "So, I guess you're a little more than friends." He grins and I can see his bare chest. So much more real than the kitten. So much less of a toy. His upper chest is broad, but his stomach looms over his belt-line just slightly. The fur on his chest is matted and wild with white and gray. He has a bowler's body. And to me, it's the most sexy, manly image that my eyes have ever seen. I lick my lips and try to remember what he was insinuating. He saw Christy go down on me at the bowling alley. Maybe... maybe he thinks we're going out. Me and Christy. No, no, no.
"I'm a little more than friends with all my friends, puppy." I say. Then cover it with a smile. Who knows? That may have been much worse to say.
Christy has her open palm against her exposed mound. "No touching." I say, and she obeys with a whimper.
Can't be too worried about what he thinks though. That wouldn't be sexy. I bend over the side of the chair, keeping my legs straight and showing off the movement of my chest. "Come over here, Al. I want you to give her a good taste. Not only does she have the pinkest little supermodel lips, she smells like perfume." I run two black fingers along the outside edge of her vagina, glancing at him the entire time. He hesitates. "Don't be shy."
Christy is biting her finger again. Al slides the glass table out of the way, and kneels before the twitching kitten. "That's right. Doesn't she smell so good?" I ask, and pull him closer ever-so-lightly by the neck. His black nostrils open and close very slowly inches from her clit. He nods. "Give her a little lick. I bet she tastes like strawberries and cream."
He looks up at me one more time before licking right underneath her hood. The kitty jerks and moans. Her open paw pets my side, gripping when the wolf takes another lick. It tastes exactly like I said, I'm sure. I'm almost jealous of him. "Just keep going. Watch what happens. She goes off like a shot, so quickly." I stand again and the kitten finds my cock immediately. Al is watching as I pet the tabby cat on the head, smoothing her creamy fur. She turns to find my long foxhood close to her muzzle. I lean forward and her finger slips from her mouth, only to be replaced with my red length. She is purring as our combined effort allows more of my masculinity into her. "She loves it, right kitty?"
She moans.
"Look at her." I say to Al, and his eyes, at least, appear amazed. Before long I can feel that restrictive feeling on the tip of my cock. I hold her by the ears, so that she can't pull away, and force one more inch through. There was a time when I used to feel bad using Christy this way, but the dreamy smile on her face afterward is worth it. We found her little kink completely by accident. She looks up at me in a slight panic. It is so much easier with a third person. Al continues to lap at her juicy cunt, while I have half of my thick cock stretching her maw wide. "Faster, Al." I say.
Christy's eyes are wide, and I know she's fighting for air. She pushes at me with her paws, but she is weak with pleasure and purring so loudly that I'm sure Al's tongue is vibrating. I watch her for the tell-tale signs. These are the times when I love having a large penis. She is absolutely stuffed, and I feel so completely in control. Her eyes started to tear and blink. She bares the upper part of her canines. After a moment, her eyes roll upwards, then come back down. Her eyelids droop to slits and she shudders. It all happens in less than a minute.
That's when I rip my cock from her mouth and she starts to shake. She literally screams and grunts at the same time. Her hips thrust and I see Al's black nose get splashed with some of her juices. She can be a squirter. Its extremely cute. Al wipes off his snout with a grin that tops all other grins I've seen him make tonight. It takes Christy a full minute of bucking and squeezing before she begins to calm. Then, there's that wide, dreamy smile as she sucks on her finger again.
"Christy?" I ask, and lean closer. She looks at me like she's looking through me. "I need some lube. Can you find some for me?"
She stretches and nods her head vigorously. I touch noses with her. She flexes her toes high in the air, then hops to her feet half-drunk. Her tail swishes as she shuffles to the kitchen.
"Did you like that?" I ask Al, kicking my pants from around my ankles.
He laughs. "Wow. You were right."
I sit side-saddle on the arm of the chair. "She loves it. I hate seeing her high, but she can be such a... submissive. If you know what I mean."
"I'll go with it." He says.
No time like the present. I rub my cock, wet with saliva. "Are you ready, wolf? Wanna drop those Dockers?"
He grabs his Molson from the coffee table and downs three-fourths of it in one long series of gulps. He exhales loudly. "I think." He belches and I chuckle. The button and zipper fall-away on his khakis, then he slides onto the black loveseat. When he is situated, I can see his fully-erect cock spearing close to his belly button. This is much more comfortable than a back-alley outside a bowling alley. If this wasn't the best thing that has ever happened to me, I might say I feel slighted a bit.
"Come on, Christy, you'll miss the show!" I yell over my shoulder.
"Ooh. No no no, I'm coming!" She bounces to my side and places a clear bottle of KY gel in my open paw. It's the heat-activated kind. Nice.
"Why don't you give him some moral support, babe?" I say and squeeze the base of her tail.
She hops beside the nervous wolf, sliding closer to him until she has as many square inches of her body touching his as physically possible. Her breasts mash up against his right side; she strokes his penis like she adores it. If only she was like this when she wasn't on drugs. His cock looks as shiny as a red bowling ball.
Her mouth giggles against his neck. She looks back at me, but speaks to him. "You're gonna love this!" She whispers excitedly.
"Thanks." Al says.
I make sure to push the glass table even further out of the way, take a final swig of Molson, then stand in front of the affectionate couple. I pop open the bottle of KY, and let it drip onto my entire length. I am not stingy with the stuff, and when I crouch down to tickle his backside with my warm tip, it is glazed on like icing. Al grits his teeth when I let a drop trickle onto his anus. I swirl the liquid into his hole with two fingers, and feel him tense.
"Alright. Here we go." I say and aline myself. He is apprehensive.
His first sound is a sharp intake of breath. My cock slips through his tailhole extremely slowly. He is tight, oh god, but it's going in. "Relax." So tight. I let him adjust to the first few inches, and he has his eyes shut. First time is always the worst. Best for me, worst for them, I guess. When your cock is close to thick as your fist, it's slow-going. Christy is watching with wide eyes; she is absent-mindedly chewing on his ears and stroking his little wolf.
I pull back very slowly, then put more pressure forward. It is sinking in deeper, and it isn't excruciating this time. My dick is still turning purple with the pressure. His tail is reflexively tickling underneath, some of the fur making me twitch when it rubs against my clit. Another inch or two slides inside. Maybe I'm being too nice. He wasn't very nice to me. I shudder with the feeling and start working the length inside him.
I pull out until the tip is almost outside his ass, then slam back inside. He grunts hard, and I pound him again. We're not even half-way yet. I try to work up to a rhythm, but his insides are gripping too tightly. Where we meet, he is stretched so wide. My breasts are starting to sway, and I'm already grunting loudly. I keep working him, letting my cock saw through his resistance. My thrusts are deeper and longer. Oh, fuck. Al is no longer watching, his head is backwards against the couch. His tongue is hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
I grab his thighs and lift them up until they're over my shoulders. So much easier to fuck him. I'm slamming deeper and deeper into him, feeling that shakiness in my legs. I don't know. My cock hasn't been this sensitive for years; I've gotten used to the stamina, being able to fuck for a good ten minutes before I feel anything like this. But this moment is so hot, it's like I'm a virgin all over again. He's getting closer and closer to the top of my knot. I slam him hard, trying to impale him with my cock, trying to feel my knot against his furry backside. I want it all inside him. I want to cum so bad. I keep stroking hard, unable to hear anything but my own breathing. His legs are shaking in my grip. There's no way I'm going to last. He is milking my cock, and it's excruciating. My dick is so hot. Oh, god. Just a few more. I thrust harder than before, grinding my teeth. So close. I shut my eyes and slam my hips to his.
There's a spasm and my body shakes. I bury as much cock into the wolf's ass as I can and almost cough with the next muscle spasm. I spray his insides with cum. His legs drop to the floor again and I shoot jet after jet into his warm hole. Christy tries to pull me into a kiss, but I'm in a another world. I'm shooting my load into a male for the first time. I'm coming hard for a third time today. It's unbearable. It's hot. The last spasms make me shake my head. Knowing myself, he's got a good cup of fox seed deep inside. My fingers and toes are tingling.
"Back yet?" Al asks. His teeth look perfectly white in the dim lighting.
"Give me a minute. Wow." I say. My knot is right on the outside of his tailhole. For some reason, I feel like I've accomplished something. I take a deep breath. "You like?"
He coughs. "Oh, it stings a little bit." He shifts his position slightly. "But, damn, I was so close to coming. So close."
"Aww. We can't have that." I sympathize. Christy is still drooling on his ear, rubbing her nipples against his shoulder. "Christy, get your ass over here." The feline slides along Al's body, before slinking upwards to eye-level with me.
"Yes, Ellie." She says, slurring the "s" to mimic a snake-like sound. I slide two fingers along the clear glaze on my knot. Before she can react, my two fingers are inside her asshole. When she is good and wet, I smile at her. She smiles back at me.
"Christy, please fuck mister wolf." To Christy's loopy credit, she understands the request immediately. She straddles Al's body, and lines up his cock. I help her steady herself, since she decides to face me, but with barely any thought, she sinks her tailhole over the entire length of Al's wolf cock. "He really needs to come." I add, feeling the extra pressure on my softening member, still locked deep inside the wolf.
Al is ready to explode immediately. It's easy to tell. His hips are bucking, his insides are grinding against me. I give Christy's nipples playful licks as they bounce up and down. She is a professional now, milking him with her hip movements, obviously enjoying every second of it. He is staring at her perfectly round ass and griping her sides. The whole scene barely lasts a minute.
"I'm coming!" He grunts, and Christy moans as well. Their hips meet again and again as he pumps his seed into her. A trickle of white is all that was visible as the two slowly come down from their sensual high.
I turn for a moment to admire the view over the balcony. Maybe it's a trick of the eye, but I swear when I look out the window, and see the skyline, and see the little white pinprick of lights, I also see the the florescent green and pink of the bowling alley flicker, then cut out. I look again, but they are still completely out. I'm probably crazy. Again, it's a delicious view.
I turn back to Christy and Al, still hovering in ecstacy. Another delicious view. Christy opens her eyes and looks at me. "I came, Ellie." She says with a smile. I pat her on the head.
"Well, that's all the bets. Now what?" Al asks, arching his neck around the kitten.
"I'm thinking a shower." I say. "I don't even want to look at what kind of mess I've made down there." It's true.
"True." Al agrees and Christy is the first to dislodge herself. She uses me for balance, and coos wildly when her feet touch the ground.
"Why don't you get the shower started, Christy?" I ask, giving her nipple a soft tweak. She winks twice, wiggles her pink nose, and scuttles to the shower room while licking her lips. Her bathroom and shower are separate entities.
I find myself being pulled forward. My lips meet a wolf's muzzle and our tongues tease at each other's teeth. It seems like our heart rates are synching, falling beat by beat until I'm relaxing in his arms, our literal phallic symbols shrinking safely into their sheaths. We're sticky. Al is humming a tune, and I can't place it. It sounds like the Rocky theme song with extra notes. He looks really good to me now; the soft gut, the matted fur, the cute over-bite. Really nice.
"So, yes. Now what?" I repeat him.
"Give me ten minutes and I'd love to have some good vanilla sex with you, for a change."
I chuckle and look out the window again. Lights are still out at the alley. Sky-line is still beautiful. Suddenly, a thought drifts into my head. I'm compelled to ask.
"Why didn't you go pro? If you don't mind me asking."
He flexes his shoulder. "I actually did go pro. I won an amateur tournament and was selected as a free entry. They shipped me to Baltimore, Maryland. I just, choked. I lost in the first bracket against some no-name. I threw gutter balls, plural. It was sad. I was even set up to go to the next tour spot in Pittsburgh, but my car broke down on the day of the competition, so I just threw in the towel. It wasn't meant to be."
Hmm.
"How 'bout you? Why didn't you go pro?" He asks to the ceiling.
His bowling shirt is clinging to the far arm-rest. I study it while I answer. "Well, my dad and me always talked about it. And this one summer, we were set to enter me into a few tournaments. He had the money saved; one of the amateurs I had won included a free spot. But, that was the summer that he ended up getting a triple bypass. I sort of stopped bowling for a while then. He was diagnosed with lung cancer a few months later, and he's been on oxygen ever since. I found out a year or two later that I could still enjoy bowling without my dad, but I don't know. I never felt that need to be professional, really. Except sometimes, late at night."
There is a few seconds of silence between us. I think I can hear the faint sound of running water. Al's body is warm.
"Seems like we both have some pretty weak excuses." He says.
I arch my back, and look up into his blue eyes. "Think you might want to try again?"
"Is that a date?" He asks.
"Definitely."
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