Strake Was Here
"Strake Was Here", by H. A. Kirsch Copyright 2007
This story is a one-off, but the characters may reappear in more one-offs later. It's been edited somewhat, thanks to Siphedious. Enjoy.
Warning: this story features some slang that'd be considered anti-gay, if it wasn't being said by
people who were gay and in the middle of having gay sex. If you're a whiny little PC brat, just save
your anger for someone else and stop reading. Also, if you're a whiny PC brat, grow up.
Stan popped the hood of his beat-up Dodge Ram, and just like a movie, a cloud of disgusting sweet
and white smoke made him jump back. The radiator cap was about to explode off. The doberman yanked
his mock mechanic's shirt off and spun the cap off; coolant bubbled up into the shirt and he jumped
back, swearing and flinging the shirt at the ground. He growled as he picked it up, tossing the
shirt back into the cab. After a look up at the blinding August sun cutting through the haze, he
plopped his cowboy hat on and snatched his bandana, then swiped up his lunch cooler.
The rest stop was deserted, but just barely. A caravan of SUVs and minivans was leaving just as he
pulled up, and they'd apparently had kids; the picnic tables were trashed with leftover candy bar
wrappers, ice cream, spilled soda, baby spit, ketchup, mustard, relish, cigarette ash. The ones that
weren't trashed by the horde were trashed by the flocks of starlings in the trees overhead. That
left just one, about as far from the road as possible. Cooler in hand, Stan wandered over and sat
down. He felt like he fit right in, painted-on Wranglers and a wife-beater clinging over his hard
chest.
The truck was going to break down. It was a given. Trying to move all of his shit in the middle of
August, A/C full on, and the water pump's tensioner kept slipping and popping the belt off. It
wasn't anything he couldn't fix in an hour or so, and the inter-state drive had been nagging him
enough that a cold beer and a sandwich break was a decent stop.
Stan fixed his bandana around his neck for a makeshift bib, and tucked in. While he was eating his
barely-cooked roast beef sub, he was disturbed by a tremendous racket. It sounded like an entire
biker gang all at once coming off the highway, but when he looked up, there was just one bike. It
roared up and thundered to a stop right next to his truck, the rider putting the stand down with a
thwack. Off stepped a white tiger who looked big enough to have to crouch over if he got into Stan's
truck.
The dobie didn't like the fact that the big cat stopped right next to his truck. His brother had
been messed up when he wandered drunk into a biker bar once. Messed up as in, dragged for a thousand
feet on ten-year-old asphalt. The dog hurridly stuffed more sandwich in his face.
The cat started off towards the actual bathrooms, then turned and headed straight for the picnic
area. The tiger took his time, wandering with heavy-booted thuds. More than just thuds; a
chain-rattle, the scrape of metal on concrete. Stan squinted forward, his splinted ears swinging
back when he realized the source of the noise. The tiger was wearing *spurs*.
As the feline approached, he stopped being just another biker in for a piss break. Goggles up on his
forehead, wide metal rings in each round ear. The upper body was a black leather biker jacket, with
a gravel-washed denim jacket worn on top. The denim was shredded where the arms should have been,
too small for the tiger's massive upper body, held from flapping with metal chains in the front. The
fabric was marred with designs, flames and demonic images, tiger stripes and skulls. The designs
were apparently the work of something like ballpoint pen, faded in spots. The biker jacket was
zipped up to the lapels, cinched up at the waist by a heavy belt whose buckle showed through the
denim's opening. Each huge hand was wrapped by a pair of mid-forearm gauntlet riding gloves, the
hand parts looking about half a size too small.
The jackets both dead-ended square at the belt line, the tiger's bottom half packed into a pair of
similarly faded bluejeans. Packed was the right word; the crotch was straining, the button fly
actually looking like it would explode apart, and the fabric was darkened by sweat. There was just a
square of denim showing, a pair of extra-heavy duty biker chaps shotgunned down the feline's legs,
held up by their own belt and some other swath of heavy leather. A closer look showed a gun belt,
black tooled leather and holding an impossibly large revolver. Stan' s dad had one like it, a .500
hunting gun, the barrel a whole foot long. Stan stared at it for a second.
The cat's chaps were snug enough that muscle bulges showed through as he tromped forward. That
wasn't a simple feat, since the chaps looked like they were made of saddle-heavy leather. The chaps
didn't snap down the lower leg, but buckled instead, over a pair of knee high boots. The hide was
tight enough that the outline of top-buckle straps could be faintly seen just below the knee. The
leather ended just above the ankle, showing off spiked boot chains mingling with the spur straps.
Stan had an instant dilemma. The tiger was hot as shit. He looked like he could put a black-wrapped
fist straight through anything that got in his way, and Stan had a quivering weak spot for
well-built men. On the other hand, the cat looked *dangerous*. No, he was dangerous: a perpetual,
black-lipped scowl, teeth showing as he huffed and snorted like a wild animal in the blazing heat.
Head to toe leather. A gun that could put a hole through a big-rig's engine block.
The tiger kept up his steady progress, leaving the concrete and trudging over the worn-down grass
right for the doberman's table. The big cat came up, swiped a bench forward, and sat down with a
creak of wood and a loud huff. He then leaned back against the table's companion tree, swinging his
heavy-booted feet up right on top. One boot after the other, thudding down hard, one spur down
between the table's top slats, the other scraping at it, ankles crossed. The boot treads were caked
with dirt. Stan quickly downed his whole Budweiser and nearly choked. Then he stuffed more sandwich
into his jaw.
The biker reached into the inside of his denim jacket and pulled something out, a metal tube. The
cat pulled the tube off, then squashed it into a bent strand of metal spaghetti and stabbed it into
the side of the tree. Inside it was a fat cigar, black as ink and pre-cut. "You got a light?"
Stan quickly slapped a thigh, bony hand digging at his pocket. "Uh. Well, uh, somewhere in here." He
had to twist himself to the side to squeeze the lighter out of his pocket past his keys. He cursed
his tight jeans under his breath, the denim having had plenty of sweaty summer days and hard-water
washings to shrink-wrap to his lean legs. He finally got the lighter out, a puny little orange Bic,
and slid it along the table.
Without taking his gloves off, the tiger snatched it up and flicked it, then flamed up the cigar. He
barely got it going before the flame withered. The big cat flicked it down on top of the bench with
a guttural snarl, then hefted a boot up and crashed the block heel down on it. The lighter exploded
with a pop, a whiff of gas coming over Stan's way. It made the dobie's stomach turn and he set his
sandwich down. "Ran out of gas," the cat growled, as he sent a cloud of rank smoke towards the
dobie. It smelled like coffee, leather, burning leaves in fall. "That what happened to your piece of
shit out there?" The cat tipped his head towards the parking lot.
"Naw, uh, water pump screwed up. Belt hopped off. I'm just you know, letting it cool down 'fore I
fix it," Stan said. He felt himself slipping into his drawl, shrugging while he talked. He leaned
up and fetched his second beer out, popping the tab with a hiss. He then shifted on the seat, partly
to scratch at his sweaty tail stub, and partly to try and move his cock around under the tight
denim. 'Fuck this guy, he's making me nuts', he thought. 'And I'm just a scrawny little shit of a
dog.'
"Dodge, huh? I'll grab you by the horns, Detroit shit," the cat snarled, cigar in his mouth, as he
stuck his middle finger up and whacked a gloved hand down into his elbow for the thrust. Then, he
grinned, and leaned over, snatching the cooler away. He fished out a beer, then punched the plastic
box back towards the doberman. "Beer, huh? Cold, too. Don't mind if I do," the cat said, after the
fact. Instead of popping the tab, he clunked it down on the table hard enough to make the lunch box
rattle around. Up came a boot again, the spur rowel punching at the top of the beer. It took a
couple whacks, the effort greeted by a spray of beer that shot up over the cat's dusty, black boot
leather. Stan stared, ears sweeping back. He suddenly wished he hadn't gotten splinted as a teen,
flop ears unable to show fear so well. "Sign says, no al-co-hol-ic beverages," the tiger rumbled
through his teeth.
"Uhm," Stan said, then just dug into the last of his sandwich, washing it down with his second beer.
Anything to keep him from saying something stupid.
"Truck's fucked, food's gone, beer's gone.. hah." The cat crushed the can, opening his head back to
spray the beer in, gulping it down. He wiped the runoff onto a glove, then flicked it all over the
table with a snap of the wrist. He belched loud, then kept talking. "Not much left to do here, 'cept
jack off, piss, and take a nap."
Until that moment, Stan had figured he was simply going to get creamed into the dirt, the victim of
being a 'tough dog'; guys always wanted to start shit with a broad-chested guard dog, even if he was
sure as hell not any kind of guard. Now, Stan's head whirled through possibilities. Riding behind
the cat on his bike, holding around that leather-clad bull torso? That pleasant thought died fast.
Shivved and left in a stall, face white-washed. Thrown in the back of his truck with the rest of his
stuff to bake in the sun, duct-taped around the muzzle. The slick-furred dobie suddenly realized
that he had to take a piss, and bad. Two beers, a few hours since the last stop, and a pair of
black-rimmed tiger eyes staring at him through a haze of cigar smoke weren't making his bladder
happy.
"That uh, pissing part sounds like a good idea. I gotta take a big leak." Stan said curtly, and got
up. He started off towards the bathrooms, trying to look like he genuinely needed to leak and not
like he was scared. Luckily, his docked tail stub couldn't pin back against the back of his thighs.
He had to pass the cat's bike, and almost stopped just to look at it. A massive chopper, long-raked,
double-seated, angular fuel tank painted with black and white stripes and cat-eyes up at the front
like the face of a tiger, and an engine so large it was possibly bigger than the one in Stan's
truck. On the tank was written, "Strake".
When he got to the bathroom shelter, Stan found that the pay phones under the overhang had been
completely destroyed. Handsets smashed, cabling pulled out, housing painted with profanity and gang
signs. The same was true of the shelter doors. Inside, it smelled like piss and mildew. Only one of
the stalls seemed usable, the others either unworking or flooded.
The dobie stopped in front of the mirror and sucked in his stomach, striking the tiniest pose. At
first, he felt okay; he was pretty fit, even if guard-dog slender. He had a mouth of nasty,
well-kept teeth and a mean snarl. On second thought... he had a stretch fit two-dollar wife beater,
a cowboy belt with a rodeo-riding coyote on a bull on the buckle, his ass-grabbing almost
worn-through Wranglers, and a pair of flashy underslung-heel black cowboy boots. Bandana around his
neck like some country boy. Even worse, he'd tucked his snot-rag into a back pocket. He quickly
fumbled it all the way into the pocket; he remembered there was some kind of code for that, and he
didn't want to know what having a red handkerchief sticking out of his pocket meant.
The outside door to the restroom building banged open, followed by the stomp of stacked heel, rattle
and clank of spurs, squeak of leather. Stan quickly tossed himself into the one decent stall,
sitting down on the can. He swore silently, the seat sopping wet and soaking through the jeans. He
prayed it was condensation.
The tiger's heavy clomp entered the bathroom, the boot-stomp ringing in the tile. The cat was
massive enough that his *breathing* was obvious, an open-mouthed huff with a wet slap of tongue
moving around now and then. Stan looked over the top of the stall, watching smoke slowly drift
upwards from the general direction of the urinals. Next, the five soft snap-pops of a button fly,
breath intake, then a low snort and snarl. The cat pissed like a racehorse, finishing up with a few
squirts, then the creak of denim. The urinal flushed with a hard thump preceding it, no doubt a hand
punching the flush lever. The flush didn't stop.
Stan picked that moment to realize that the stall door had no latch. Where there should have been a
circular plug of metal with a little grip, there was only the internals, a metal bar with a square
couple of holes. He could see right through to the sinks and the dirty mirror. The view of the
mirror and sinks suddenly turned black. He saw a buckle, denim, leather, then the wood-grain pistol
grip of the cat's massive sidearm. Leather creaked, and the hole was filled with a yellow eye.
"You takin' a piss, little girl?" The biker chuckled. A little smoke drifted in the hole. "You sure
ain't shitting in there. You got your pants still up."
The doberman leaned back, pulling his boots up, preparing for the door to explode inward. He
imagined it bashing his legs up, the whole thing tearing off its frame... instead, the eye
disappeared, thud-rattle-clack heading towards the door. Stan looked over to the side; to his
dismay, he spotted a roughly-spackled spot that looked a whole lot like a hole had been put through
the stall divider.
"You meet me out behind th'dog run out back, puppy-dog. I know what you want."
"What?" Stan said, then shut his mouth with a click.
"You heard me."
The bathroom door slapped open, then closed. Stan whined with pent-up fear, the hint of a wet spot
appearing in his pants, a little heat as he broke the seal. He tore the fly open and unsheathed,
knees shaking together. The second his pink cock was free, piss arced out. He barked and yanked his
boots way back behind, groaning as his bladder emptied compulsively, yellow piss splattering against
the inside of the stall door, dripping off and running towards the floor drain. "Shit, shit, shit
shit," he mumbled, managing to stop the flow long enough to turn around and unleash the rest into
the toilet.
Sitting there, facing the wall and its invitations for hot blowjobs and declarations of teenage
pride, the doberman thought about what was happening. The big cat wanted to get off and was picking
Stan for it. That had to be what was up. It didn't help that Stan had been so busy he couldn't rub
one out for a couple days, cock alternately straining in his jeans throughout the whole day's trip
as his mind wandered from the endless dotted yellow lines to all kinds of hot muck. His piss flow
stopped, cock throbbing so hard that he had to lean over the flush handle to get the rest out,
swearing under his breath. He then got up, packing up and kicking the flush handle, then stepping
out of the stall.
He was shaky on his heels, almost slipping in the massive puddle that was forming by the overflowing
urinal, making a rude face and holding his hat so it didn't flip off. The gross bathroom quickly and
thankfully did his erection in. The dog practically danced his way out of the bathroom into the
restroom building's lobby. Just as he was hitting fresh air, he realized that the security camera
had been long busted to hell, cable snapped and lens smashed in. Just as well.
He had two options. Get in his truck and get out of there, or do what the cat wanted. He was just
about to get into his truck, had the key right in the door lock, when he squeezed his eyes shut and
leaned forward with a thump. He sighed, the breath catching like he'd been crying for half an hour.
Drive away and run, sure. The broken water pump wouldn't be any match for a big-block chopper and a
gun-packing tiger straddling the tank. Not to mention the prospect of a hot encounter. Stan found it
increasingly thrilling, having a big cock unleash into his mouth behind a tree, maybe a gloved
handjob. What would that feel like, anyway? He thumped his forehead into the truck's window; _You
wanted him to get in that other stall and poke his dick through a hole, didn't you? You slut,_ he
thought to himself.
'What the hell was a dog-run, anyway?' Stan thought, then started pacing around, weaving through the
picnic tables. There was no sign of the tiger anywhere, not even a whiff of cigar smoke. Up behind
the rest area was a gradual slope that crested into a hill righ before the woods started. There was
a fence with a sign on it between building and hill. Stan clopped over in that direction, looking
around as he got near the fence. Inside were weeds, a path lazily worn through them. The sign read,
in barely legible and worn out letters, "Dog Run". Underneath, it said, "Please Scoop After Your
Dog." The dog let out a huh, and then turned red in the ears. At one time, dogs were let out of
their owners' cars, walked around on leashes so they could do their business; now Stan was going to
do his.
Stan stepped inside the fence and made his way up the low hill. The actual dog run area made its way
back closer to the parking lot; the doberman had to push through a hole in the fence to keep going
up the hill. He didn't really need to ask himself why he was doing it; the biker cat was hot no
matter how he sliced it. Dangerous, unpredictable, unknown, a stranger, but it didn't matter. The
dog had been on the road all day and he needed to do something about it, and the lure was too great.
Cresting the hill, he saw that it led down into a ravine by way of a ratty nature trail. There was a
State Property sign, but it was split in half. Beer bottles and caps littered the ground along with
cigarette butts and shotgun shells, nitrous cartridges and even a needle or three. The trail took a
sharp dive and met a little plateau, strewn with decaying stumps. There were a few used condoms, one
black and horse-sized hanging off a branch. Stan fingered at his wallet, taking it out, looking at
the one inside there; "Cerberus" brand, for dogs, by dogs. He started opening it up, then dropped it
when someone grabbed his shoulder. The hill was at his back.
"You gonna wrap that on my dick so you don't get a mess on your shirt, faggot?" The voice was the
chest-rattling snarl of one large, white, leather-wrapped white tiger. Stan yanked and spun around,
having to stare up to even meet the cat's eyes. Then back down at the huge, obscene banana curve in
the cat's pants, a big wet splotch in the denim where the crown would be, shining with slime.
"Wh.. what'd you just call me?"
"I called you a faggot. You wanna know why, huh." The cat brought a gloved hand forward and down,
clocking Stan on the ass. "You're a faggot because you put on these pretty bot ass-jeans this
morning, this showoff shirt.." Black-clad fingers molested the strap of the shirt, pulling on it
until Stan started to stagger. The dog snarled and snapped, grabbing up at leather-bound muscle.
"Hey, I thought you were just gonna you know, make me suck you off!" The dog growled, lips back.
"What the hell's your name, doggie?" The tiger growled, and grabbed Stan by the scruff. The dog
froze up as the biker withdrew the dobie's wallet. "Says here your name's Stanley. Stanley's a puppy
name. Here boy, here Stanley!" The cat bellowed, tossing the wallet back, then stuck his fingers in
his jaw, whistling so loud that Stan barked and flatted his ears. "Yeah, little Stanley the
puppy-dog's gonna get a nice doggie treat."
The tiger grappled for Stan, one hand pulling the dog's shirt up, the other feeling over the sleek,
defined chest. The dog flinched, his nipples sticking out through the remainder of the shirt, boot
heels scraping at the dirt. The cat bent down, face so close that Stan got a whiff of cigar smoke,
beer, and the gross wildcat smell of raw meat. "You ever kissed a real man, faggot?" the cat
rumbled, and tried to lick his rough tongue at the end of the dog's pointed snout. Stan huffed and
bolted his head back. The tiger snarled instantly and spat all over the doberman's muzzle.
"You asshole!" Stan growled. He was about to lurch away, when a gloved hand grabbed him by the neck
and scruffed him again. The tiger aimed the dog at a moss-covered boulder about knee high, then
started walking. Stan found himself shoved forward onto the rock.
"You get your pants off, faggot. I'll take care of my end. Look what I got out of your pretty little
puppy-dog lunch box to grease my dick up." The biker's black-clad hand squeezed into a jacket
pocket, then pulled out a wad of white objects, dumping them onto a dimple in the rock. They were
mayonnaise packets.
Ears flat against his head, Stan undid his belt buckle, the metal clanking against the rock. Then
the fly, a rush of snaps. He didn't scoot his pants down, instead just clutching onto the rock, back
straining, heaving as he breathed. He'd been fucked exactly once, the only experience with something
that didn't have tits, and it had been an abrupt pounding in the back room of a gay bar he'd
wandered into. His hole puckered up at the thought.
The tiger took one of the packets up, put it into his gloved palm, and punched at it with the other.
The end exploded open with a wet splat, white slime splattering his curled-up fingers. Then another,
and another, until there was a thick, uneven mound of off-white on the glove leather. "This'll work
real good if I decide to eat your ass back out after I dump a few loads in it, you hot little piece
of shit." With the clean hand, the tiger yanked down on the dog's loosened jeans, skinning them off
the slender black rump. "Look at this, ain't even got a tail to get in the way."
Then, the cat undid his own sweat-soaked jeans, grabbing in and pulling his dick out. It was fat and
stuck out almost perfectly straight, foreskin rolling back behind the slimy, black head. The whole
thing was black, Stan looking over his shoulder and clutching down onto the rock, squeezing his ass
together. He winced at the thought of the color shots needed to do that somewhere so sensitive. "Oh
fuck, I can't take that! Go fuck someone your own size!" he growled, clacking his teeth.
The response was a wet squelch as the tiger throttled over his massive cock, spreading the makeshift
lube until it looked like he'd jacked off all over his own cock. He fishhooked the dog, a couple
slick fingers pushing straight through the pucker. "I like this nice little brown patch you got
here, faggot. Shows a big cat like me just where to find the puppy's tight little hole." Once the
gloved fingers were inside, they were much more gentle, thrusting and twisting, curving down. The
stabbing, cramping pain turned into an intense need for Stan to piss, then a body-relaxing
overheated pleasure. The dog's cock slid out of its sheath and into the cool brush of the moss, his
eyes wide, face open in a toothy, surprised sneer.
Out came the fingers, the clean hand grabbing up at Stan's shoulder. The tiger lined himself up,
pushing at the pink star, shoving it left, then right, then denting it in. The pucker disappeared as
he crushed forward, the dog whining and yelping. With a wet, oily squash, the head pushed through.
The tiger's leather creaked as he pushed in, then tugged back, working himself up until the dog
barked and pulled away. The first ten or so thrusts were slow enough that by the ninth, Stan was
moaning, slowly squeezing himself forward, cock leaving wet spits of precum all over his shirt as
his cock pushed up underneath the dangling fabric.
"You better not come while I'm just startin' out, faggot. Or it'll be a rough ride." With that loud
grunt, the tiger started working for real. Stan squeezed his eyes shut as hips crushed him forward,
a few tears squeezing out, smeared onto his face along with dirt and green specks of moss. The
thrusts were over almost as soon as they began, the cat letting out a muffled-up roar, a sudden push
of heat inside. The tiger stopped thrusting so abruptly that Stan ended up with his face thumping
the rock.
"You ain't never been fucked by a big cat 'fore now, huh, faggot?" Strake growled, and slowly pulled
out. Just as his cockhead was about to pop through the dog's rings, he sunk back in. He was still
rock hard. "You're gonna shit cum for an hour when I'm done."
When Strake started thrusting again, it was just as hard as before, hips smacking into the dobie's
smooth-furred rump, jostling the dog forward. Stan's cock alternated between getting hard and
slacking off, leaving huge wet splotches of preseed in the moss. After a while, each time he was
shoved forward, there was a wet squelch. Now and then, the cat would stop, groaning and snorting, a
distinctive hard jerking coming from the fat-headed cock inside the dog's asshole.
The pain gave way to a numb sort sense of awe, and by the fifth pause-grunt-jerk climax by the
tiger, the thrusts were well-lubed by slimy spunk. The dog's hole was loose enough that the
thrusting was clearly audible, making Stan flat his ears back out of humiliation.
Then, Stan realized something. Up above, over the crest of the hill, there were the squeals of kids.
They were apparently playing frisbee. One of them swore, and something flew over the hill, bonking
into a tree with a plastic thump and landing on the other side of a thick bush. The thrower burst
over the hill, rushing after it, a young fox.
The tiger froze, leaning his body over the dog's, pressing down hard enough that Stan found it hard
to breathe. The fox rooted around, trying to find the frisbee. Stan silently prayed the vulpine
didn't come over their way. He tightened up inside, causing enough pain that he had to squint his
eyes shut, tears oozing out of them. After a few moments, Strake took a huge, slow breath, his cock
starting to jerk again. _Holy shit, he's coming in me right while that kid's over there,_ Stan
thought. He felt like the whole world was draining away.
The fox found the frisbee and ran back up the hill. Strake didn't move away immediately, starting to
rock back and forth with long squeaks of leather. Stan felt hot breath against his ear. "Bet you was
scared that lil' fox-boy was gonna see a big ol' cat tooling your queer ass, huh faggot?"
The tiger abruptly pulled out, Stan lifting his head, slumping against the rock as the fat glans
left him wide open. The dog rolled over and started to get up; Strake responded by punching the
dobie in the sternum, sending him sprawling back against the rock. "Now, you tell me somethin',
faggot. You think I look good?" The tiger kept his voice down to a hoarse whisper.
"Huh?" Was all Stan could mumble.
The cat leaned down, grabbing Stan by both arms and pinning him flat back against the rock, drooling
cock leaving a wet trail on the dog's denim-clad thigh. "I said, you think I'm fuckin' hot? You
ain't complaining much. Figured you must like somethin'. You like a big fuckers like me?"
"Uhh, I guess," Stan mumbled. His cock was fully out of its sheath, knot bulging at the bottom, the
furred skin slowly slipping back behind it and bunching up.
"Good. I like to be appreciated," the cat said, drawl heavy around his cigar. The hands let go of
Stan's arms, then grabbed at the dobie's pants, yanking them down past the knees, then over the tops
of the boots, bunching them at the ankles. He then cantilevered up, the dog forced to lie
arch-backed on the rock. "Now I'm gonna fuck you like the pretty little girl puppy you are, get in
that loosened-up pussy hole good and hard."
Stan struggled as the tiger split his legs apart, shoving the knees up until his booted feet were at
the cat's chest. He tried to kick, but the tiger just lifted further. Without touching himself, the
biker cat shoved forward and mounted again. This time, there was no gentle push, just one swift
movement and he was pistoning like a machine.
The doberman arched back, teeth showing as his muzzle gaped open wide. From behind, it was
degrading, but on his back, he wanted to come right away with the huge, bulge-headed dick cramming
up against his prostate. He moaned and yowled, tongue hanging out over his teeth, stub twitching
hard enough that it would have been audible slapping against the rock if it weren't for the wet,
greased up squelch from behind.
The stabbing pain of entry qucikly into a dull ache, then the numb overstimulated burn of before,
the dog's insides now hypersensitive to the wet sensation of flesh sliding against flesh. His feet
curled, booted toes pointing up, hands trying uselessly to push the tiger off, neck crinked as the
heavy fucking pushed him further back on the rock. His hole started to buck and he whined out a
loud, shrill whimper, white gobs of seed starting to drool out of his dick in a reflexive,
pleasure-less climax. The tiger pulled back, cock straining so hard the veins bulged out the sides.
"You fuckin' come just now, you queer-ass fuckrag?"
"N-no, I... it's just... fuck, your cock was hitting me in there-"
Stan tried to get up off the rock again, but slid down the front, knees up, rump sitting on his
booted, denim-covered ankles. He was leaning forward when the tiger lifted up a huge boot and
stomped him in the shoulder, pinning him to the rock. The dog trembled and looked over, the top of
the square boot toe smeared with a gob of what he thought was semen. It stank like vinegar and egg;
mayo.
"Well, puppy, if you think I look good in all this biker shit, then you're gonna sit there and jack
off lookin' at me. I ain't lifting my leg up until your dick's making a nice mess out of that shiny
two-tone fur over your pretty tits."
The false climax had Stan's knot swollen, a dull ache inside from the need of the real thing. Ears
splayed, he grabbed onto his wet cock and started to pump it slowly. Soon, another hand was joining,
caressing the bulging red knot.
"I like watching you puppy-dogs jack off, working that freak faggot dick like you got your mitts on
a doorknob," the tiger snarled, each word coming out with a puff of cigar smoke. The tiger was
jerking himself, gloved hand slicked up with the greasy lube and spunk, milking his cock so the head
flared out shiny each time his hand pulled forward.
Stan was working himself for show; after he couldn't stand it, he squeezed his eyes shut and started
jacking his knot. He barked and arched his back, shirt meeting the stone, head thumping against the
boulder as his seed started spraying out. He felt it slap up against his neck, his chest, his arm.
"You motherfucker!" the tiger roared, and Stan's eyes popped open. All along the side of the cat's
boot were strands of wet seed. The dog's cock was still spurting in his hands. "You fuckin' clean
that up or I'm gonna crush your neck in and you'll make a nice, quiet fuck for the rest of your
faggot life!"
The dog just stared, hyperventilating, climax immediately mixed with fear. The tiger unholstered the
massive gun, then poked the dog's chest right over his heart. "You lick, faggot, or you get a nice,
tight new hole for guys to shoot off in."
Stan whimpered and shoved his face against the leather, furiously licking at it. His spurts came up
again, slapping against his shirt, then died off. The tiger roared out again, the dog yanking his
head away from the now drool-wet leather, expecting a huge torrent of seed to hit him. Instead, the
tiger's black cock pumped and throbbed, the slit swelling open as sticky, oozing drools of seed came
out and rolled down the cat's heavy black glove.
With a grunt, the tiger pushed past the crouching dog, holstered his gun, and shook his cock off
onto the boulder, seed landing on it with a wet splat. He took a few last puffs off the cigar, then
plucked it out of his mouth and crushed the ember down into his own puddle of semen with a crackling
hiss.
Stan slumped against the boulder, letting go of his knot. The bulge subsided, cock shrinking down,
sheath flesh slowly covering it back up. He could feel the wet ooze of seed out of his used-up
asshole, and stayed crouched for a few moments until there wasn't anything left to let go of. He got
up slowly, taking his pants up, haphazardly buttoning.
"Hmmf," the cat growled, and pissed all over the side of the rock. He shook off and stuck his cock
back into his jeans, doing the package back up as well. Then he grabbed Stan by the shoulder. The
dog flinched, but the grab didn't lead to much. "Hey. Puppy-whore. You know..." the cat's hand went
down to his side. The fingers kept moving, to the back of the cat's jeans, and tugged out a riveted
leather wallet. "Here's a hundred for your trouble. You know, hire a tow truck for that broke-down
piece of shit you got."
The cat stuffed the bills into the dog's front jeans pocket, then just pushed past, stalking up the
hillside, spurs rattling. The denim of the cat's over-jacket was cut out neatly in the back, the
cutouts hemmed, making up the word "Strake", black leather showing inside. The bulk of the cat
disappeared, leaving Stan alone. After a good ten minute wait, Stan stood up and brushed himself
off. His shoulder was caked with drying, yellowing mayonnaise, chest and shirt stained off-white and
crusting over with his seed, dirt and moss scrubbed into his face and jeans. He wandered back over
the hill, past the dog-run, past the bathrooms, and straight for his truck.
There was no sign of Strake or his massive bike. There was a little Honda with a fat badger in the
front seat, seemingly asleep, and a dirt bike that couldn't have been road worthy. There was the
dog's truck, hood still open. The dog just silently started messing under the hood, banging around
until he had the cooling belt back on. He was just getting into the driver's side when he realized
that there was a faint smear of something by the handle. He stepped back. In just the right light,
in block letters, someone had smeared something slimy around on the dust-covered paint job. It said,
"Strake Was Here." The letters puckered out near the end, and a new message was written underneath,
the paint scraped off by a set of keys. "Keep the change, faggot."