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This is the third part of an ongoing series I am working on, involving the adventures of a pair of college kids, where "adventures" largely means sex, because, I mean, college. The plot thickens a little bit further, and follows up on what transpired in the previous chapter, in which a museum was explored. Standard disclaimer - please offer criticism, feedback, etc. If you don't, I can only get better through blind luck.

"Some Assembly Required," by Rob Baird

--

Andy awoke to the feeling of his clothes being tugged at, idly, by light fingers. This was a somewhat peculiar sensation to be pulling one from slumber into the waking world, and he almost opened his eyes to voice some protestation. Then, as his consciousness asserted itself, he weighed the options: either he was about to be the victim of a singularly bizarre thief, or Chris had woken up before him.

The colliegirl was humming softly to herself, her long fingers dancing about the edge of his shirt and over the flat elastic of his briefs. He tried to imagine what her expression might be -- would she be propped up on her other shoulder, favoring him with a doggish grin and her bright, focused eyes? Or would her gaze be more pointed?

Was she trying to wake him up? Yes, probably; the movements of her fingers became sharper, until he supposed at last it would be impolitic not to make some reply. He chose a wordless grunt, feigning continued unconsciousness, and Chris paused. He expected that she might try tickling him, then, and steeled himself for the onslaught. Instead she drummed her fingers over his waist thoughtfully.

"Hmph."

His failure to wake up had, Andy sensed, changed the stakes slightly, for now Chris's paw slipped within his briefs to work them down a few inches -- far enough that they no longer served anything close to a useful purpose. A second later he felt the warmth of the collie's fingers, wrapping lightly around his sheath, and he began to stiffen involuntarily at the touch.

Did this give away his illusion of slumber? No, he didn't think so -- what else could even a sleeping body do? Thusly freed of apprehension the wolfdog relaxed, permitting himself to dwell on the feeling of the collie's paw as it closed around him, coaxing him to attention skillfully. She let him go, stroking the exposed, bare flesh with the short, soft fur that downed the backs of her fingers.

When he was fully erect, she slowed in her movements -- now she was teasing him, her touch light, almost ginger, and masterfully timed. Just as he might have forgotten the wonderful, thrilling heat of her fingers, she brushed over the sensitive tip of his manhood again. He squirmed and gave a rumbling, sleepy growl.

"Hmph," Chris said again, and her paw left him completely. He could hear rustling; feel the shifting of her body as she moved -- drawing the blanket back over the pair, and then settling down atop him, chest to his. Her breath was close to his muzzle, teasing his whiskers, ticklish and warm. When he did not answer to this, either, she rolled her hips down to grind them against his, and the bare flesh of his shaft slid over smooth, wet heat.

He had known the movement was coming, which gave him the opportunity to prepare slightly, and his only answer was a slight, involuntary arch of his hips. This seemed to satisfy the Border collie who, choosing not to stand on further ceremony, repeated the movement, changing her position just enough to catch his tip between her lips, forcing him deep inside her with one unhalting press. She gasped, slowly, a hiss of breath drawn between clenched teeth.

Andy felt his toes bunch, hoping she couldn't tell this, and repeated his earlier growl. Chris remained there, settled upon him, shifting slightly, grinding his shaft almost imperceptibly against her folds. Continuing the illusion of slumber was going to be difficult, although he realized -- surrounded by the warmth of her body and practically quivering at her continued lack of movement -- that it would provide a means of distracting himself. He hoped.

There were, after all, two ways that Chris could proceed. Ordinarily she would be moving quickly, her ragged pants escaping her in heated, exultant cries and yelps; not unless he had also decided to fake a coma could he very well remain asleep under such circumstances. Alternatively she could take things more patiently which, Andy thought, would be a new experience for her, and somewhat outside her comfort zone.

But that was what she chose. Keeping silent, her breathing strained but regular, Chris began to move with almost agonizing slowness. She drew herself off him, and he felt her walls cling to his thick shaft as it slid from her; then she relaxed, settling down against his hips again, and as his length pressed deeply within he had to fight to keep from bucking up at her.

She moved in a gentle, even rhythm; her chest remained pressed to his, so that he could feel her shuddering breath as she drew it in. Only her hips moved -- but this was enough, as she stroked the full length of his shaft, from the already slightly swollen base all the way to the tip. The darkness gave him nothing else to focus on but the sensation of the collie about him.

Even though his eyes were closed, Andy could envision the whole scene -- Chris's ears would be pinned, by now, her expression set; taut with pleasure. He could picture the way her tongue would loll, muzzle parted slightly -- and the way the tip would curl up a bit, reflexively, when she lowered her hips to take him fully again, a wince of delight flickering across her features.

His knot had grown further, and the colliegirl's strokes had become shorter to match -- nudging it against her lips, never letting it slide within. Her steadiness was maddening, and Andy's resolve was beginning to crack. God, god but she felt so wonderful, enveloping him in moist heat that gripped him tightly, so that he could feel every inch of her as his tip glided over her silken folds.

He needed something to distract him. What had he written? Nadsat, English modified with Russian words, is used by Anthony Burgess to develop a sense of... Yes, that was it. Passive voice. Right, that wouldn't do. Anthony Burgess uses Nadsat -- English, modified with Russian words -- to create a sense of tension in the reader, who -- no. No, he had quite enough tension to deal with already, thank-you-very-much.

Chris was starting to slow further, but her movements were becoming sharper and less refined. This lessened the physical sensations about his member, it was true, but the way she gasped in unmistakable pleasure made the mental challenge of remaining stoic all the more difficult, particularly when he thought about what she would look like. Her tongue would no longer be lolling, now, he knew; her muzzle would be clenched, her eyes screwed shut tightly as she began to give in, as if fighting the inevitable.

And now his thoughts were running together. How beautifully blue the sky the glass is rising very high continue fine I hope it may and yet it rained just yesterday I hear the country --

Chris gave a sharp little "ah!" and froze as though shot. Her inner walls gripped him tightly -- relaxed -- squeezed him again. She had not taken his knot -- had tensed up in mid stroke, actually -- but the viselike embrace locked him inside nonetheless.

When she sagged forward and onto him, he opened his eyes -- hers were closed, and her face was still tense with emotion. He nuzzled at the base of one of her ears, the short fur tickling his nosepad. "Good morning?"

"Morning," she mumbled into the bed.

"You could've woken me up, you know," he teased.

At first, her only response was a soft, muffled grunt. Then, she levered herself up on an elbow, peering down at him, one eye still closed. "Wait -- you think that I think that you slept through that?"

"Well..."

Her energy was starting to return. "Just how low do you think my self-esteem is, huh?" She nipped his nose chidingly. "Hmph. Could've woken me up, indeed." Then she paused, with a soft and still somewhat breathless giggle. "When did you wake up, anyway?"

"When you started taking off my clothes. I was just curious how far you'd take things."

Chris nodded, snuggling down and into her boyfriend's chest, nose resting against his. "And?"

"Well, I'll give you credit; you took it pretty far..."

The Border collie smirked, her eyes twinkling. "All the way."

"Well..."

"Seemed pretty all the way to me. What are you saying?" she asked, with her head cocked -- teasingly, as though she didn't understand, even though the collie then rolled her hips teasingly so that his still-buried length shifted a little and he had to catch a groan, deep in his throat. "Are you going all English major on me? Are you trying to suggest that the climax of an arc depends on the perspective of the individual characters?"

Andy rolled his eyes but was unable to prevent his grin, despite a quick effort to hide it against the collie's lips. "It's -- it's a valid literary technique. But fine." He coughed, fumbled for words against the more sensual distraction of her body. "Let me, uh... let me translate that to social scientist: an analysis -- performed by, ah, by naturalistic... heteronormative... deconstruction... suggests that my sexual release has failed to inform the, um... the discourse of your carnality."

Her grin widened, and the collie giggled, nosing him again teasingly. "Oh, is that it? My carnality, huh? I didn't know I was so postmodern in the sack." After a moment, her gaze softened, and she ran one of her paws down his side, starting at the shoulder and ending at his hip. "You want to get off, hon?"

This took a moment to answer. "I -- yes? What... kind of question is that?"

"A curious one, puppy. 'Cause... you're not..." His perplexed expression seemed to tickle her, and she giggled, dancing her fingers against his waist.

That, so far as Andy was concerned, had to be the last straw. The sound of her laughter caught, rising for a moment into a little yip as he rolled her onto her back, peering down into her bright blue eyes with a deep and atavistic growl. His first thrust, constrained as it was by her legs, was more of a firm grind, and it provoked a soft gasp from the collie beneath him, as though she had suddenly realized something.

"Hold on."

He did, though his answer took the form of an incoherent and half-mumbled grunt. "Mmph?"

Chris wrapped her arms about him lovingly, pulling the wolfdog close so that she could give him a soft kiss on the lips. "You can come even if you don't tie with me, right?"

He supposed? This had not been an issue for some time -- not, indeed, since a brisk and fervent encounter the summer before when he had gone camping with Chris and her parents. "Mm-hmm," he said, somewhat disappointedly, but nodded to show his understanding.

Her ankle stroked the back of his calf, and she grinned sweetly up at him. "Then what are you waiting for?"

His first few thrusts were deep and slightly ragged; then he was able to find his rhythm, quick and unhesitating, bucking his hips forward to sink as much of his shaft as he could into the collie's body. For her part she helped him, back arching, crying out softly as his knot grazed her lips.

The need for release built swiftly -- her earlier teasing had seen to that well enough. His muzzle dropped, and he nosed desperately into the thick fur of the collie's neck, silencing his fevered groans there as he rocked into her with deep, powerful strokes.

Climax itself, however, was proving difficult; he closed his eyes to remove anything that might've distracted from the feeling of Chris's body, tight and wet and slick around him as his hips moved with abandon. Still there was the vague sense that the act could not reach its completion, even though he desired it greatly, as long as he was not locked within her, in physical testimony to their union.

Something about it -- the swiftness of his thrusts, perhaps, or the strained urgency of his moans -- tipped Chris off to his rising tension, and empathy or impatience forced her hand. Her paws wandered; one, tipped with dull, hard claws, gripped his rear to pull him roughly close, while the other drew his head closer, so that her sharp muzzle could nose his ear. Then she took it between her teeth, and the collie's voice was a ragged purr, throaty and eager.

"That's it, husky, come for me..." She forced the words between heated gasps, so intensely whispered that their sincerity was unquestionable. "Come inside me, babe -- fill my tight little pussy..."

Directness was one thing, from Chris; dirty-talk was another, and the shock of it was enough -- her sweet, coaxing exhortations against his ear and the way she was all around him, now, her arms and legs snug about his body, rendered that blissful end ineluctable -- and close.

"Ah -- fuck!" he gasped, and she cried out with him, as he pushed forward and into her one final time, as close as he could get, with his knot pressed against her yielding lips, not quite slipping within. Then there was pleasure -- raw, unalloyed, feral pleasure -- sweeping him in inexorable waves. All the tension that had built released itself in a series of deep, grinding thrusts, and as he pumped her with the long pulses of his release she shivered, her paws bunched up at his back like she was clinging to a life preserver.

When the feelings had mostly faded, and the spurts had faded into the soft, rhythmic twitching of his shaft, still buried within her, he slumped, out of breath and thoroughly drained. Chris had to nudge his shoulder a few times before he regained the presence of mind to roll to one side; then she murmured a quiet "thanks," smoothing down the fur of his back.

"Mmf."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, voice slurring. When he finally found the ability to open his eyes she was staring at him, smiling tenderly; they were both near-sighted, and it was only at very close distances that they could see each other without glasses. Distances like these; he shuffled forward, and kissed her gently. "Do you know how much I love you? Really"

Her smile widened, until her canine teeth appeared and it had become a grin. "Seven point... eight seven mega-romeos. Precisely calibrated."

Andy laughed, quietly, stroking her hair with the backs of his fingers. "Seven point nine, even."

"What changed?"

"It goes up, every time I wake up next to you. Well... close to you, anyway, the exact preposition doesn't matter. Also every time we do this. It's sort of like a more carnal frequent flyer program. Frequent fu --"

"Hey. No need to be vulgar." She rapped his muzzle sharply, and he squinted at her.

"That's right, I'd forgotten how Victorian you were. Is it just Lady Come-Inside-Me, or is that a duchy?"

Chris snickered, not easily enough to hide the slight blush beneath her fur. "You sounded like you needed help, was all."

Well, and he had. "Maybe," he admitted. Then, wrapping his arms around the Border collie, he closed his eyes again and snuggled up close. "A duchy, then."

There were teeth on his ear again. "You want to go back to sleep, don't you?"

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled, the words falling languorously into the space between the sheets and her fur. "Kinda, 'less you got a better idea."

"We need to go back to the museum."

This deserved only one opened eye. "Again? And in broad daylight?"

"Not for that, Don Juan." She poked his chest sharply and then, as if to apologize, rubbed the fur back down until it was smooth again. "Remember the thing that guy was trying to take? I put it in my purse and I kinda forgot about it, so... I want to return that to Dr. Templeton. Then I was thinking we could maybe go down to Pearl and get lunch?"

He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, to convey his preference for remaining in bed. But he could not say no to her -- was it the eyes? Didn't they say something about Border collie eyes? Yes, perhaps that was it. "Alright, you win."

Chris uncurled herself from him, then, leaning down to kiss the side of his muzzle. "I'm going to go get cleaned up, then. That means you need to get up, too, lazybones." When he growled, the collie clicked her teeth together lightly; then her giggle faded as she padded off, and he began the slow process of waking up properly.

"Hmph." He tried the sound on for curiosity's sake, and grumbled his displeasure at leaving a comfortable bed to the unfeeling pillow next to him.

Outside, the warm spring morning found his mood substantially improved. Winter, it seemed, had finally lifted its veil; this, and the feeling of Chris's fingers as she intertwined them with his own, cheered him immensely. As they walked up Aurora, beneath the rumbling traffic of 28th Street, she leaned on him and gave his paw a squeeze. "Sorry I didn't let you tie with me."

"Mm? No, it's okay. Things to do."

She grinned, and put her arm around him to give him a hug as they walked. "You know, in medieval England, it was illegal in a lot of circumstances. Like, death-penalty illegal. 'Cause if you were a knight, right, on campaign, and you stopped to bang a prostitute, what if there was an attack and you were all... indisposed? So fornication was already illegal, but you were only allowed to tie with the person you were married to, on pain of death. That's how "tie the knot" came to mean "get married," you know?"

"I'm pretty sure that's an urban legend."

Chris frowned. "Really? Dr. Warne sounded pretty authoritative."

"Yeah. Pretty sure. Like how people say "fuck" is an acronym, you know? Never trust cute word origin stories."

"Huh. Yeah, she said that one, too." Chris kicked at a stone, sending it up and along the footpath until it cartwheeled off into the winter-brown grass. "You English majors and your pesky little facts."

"That's us," he agreed. "Destroying dreams one debunked E-mail forward at a time. Is there a party on the quad or something?" Smoke was wending its thick way up into the morning sky. It was too heavy for a barbeque -- and rather early -- but neither he nor Chris kept up with the affairs of the student body as a whole, so it was not inconceivable that they had missed some planned event.

"I don't... think so..." Her ears flicked, then, for she'd heard the same thing as he -- sirens, moving up Broadway. "More like some damned kid screwed up making popcorn, probably."

Black and roiling, the smoke was getting more and more dense by the minute. "Some screw-up."

The source of the fire hinted at itself as they reached the student union, but it was not until they had rounded it that the sight of the museum building -- gutted, with thick smoke pouring from all its windows -- became clear. They shared a quick glance and broke into a run.

Around the building, firefighters moved briskly -- a few engines, their hoses snaking over the pavement to a beleaguered hydrant, sprayed water at intervals into the museum, but it was far from clear that they were making any progress. Closer to Broadway, where traffic had been halted, a handful of policemen milled about.

Noting their presence, one turned to them. "Everyone got out okay, don't worry -- just a janitor. They had to let the watchman go, I guess -- budget cutbacks."

Chris sighed. "Do you know what happened?"

"Arson, I reckon," the cop said, turning to look at the building, where flames still billowed as the archives were combusted. Andy tried not to think about the source of the acrid smell that spread from the building -- about what was being lost, forever, in the flames. Next to him, Chris's face was set; she blinked rapidly, tearing up, and it was hard to tell whether it was from the smoke or her own emotions.

"You can't have had time to investigate for accelerants," Andy mused aloud, because the silence was disquieting. "But something about it looks like arson to you?"

The policeman arched an eyebrow, his voice dry. "The fire spread very quickly, yes, like it was fed by something. Also, detective, I saw somebody throw a Molotov cocktail through the window."

"Who'd want to set fire to a museum?" Chris asked. The policeman simply shrugged, and wandered off to supervise the actions of his fellow officers. Back at the apartment, twenty minutes later, the Border collie sat at the edge of Andy's bed, frowning heavily. "This must've had something to do with what happened last night."

"Could be a coincidence." Andy was playing the devil's advocate -- the likelihood of two unconnected individuals trying to break into a museum that had experienced nothing of the sort before was startlingly low. It wasn't an obvious target for vandals and -- so far as either of them were aware -- nor did the museum contain anything of especially great value. "After all, they didn't get anything, right? So why burn the place down?"

Chris tapped the claw that tipped her left thumb against all the other claws on that paw in turn, over and over -- a nervous tic he had seen only once or twice before. "Hide some sort of evidence? Maybe they sent somebody else back, after we left... maybe they found out what they were looking for was missing."

"What is it, anyway?"

She stopped fidgeting for long enough to retrieve the small box from her purse. It was made of wood, with a compartment on the top that slid back to reveal a mess of torn paper packing. She reached two fingers in and pulled out a small golden cylinder, holding it up to the light. "I'm... not sure."

A long groove ran down the length of the thing, but its surface was otherwise smooth and polished. At one end, it was capped by dark red crystal that Andy thought might've been ruby; Chris did not wear jewelry and was unable to offer a suggestion. On first glance, it was solid gold -- when one peered closer, a fine webwork of a silvery material, inlaid into the surface, became clear. It was regular, too clean to be random, and completely impenetrable.

"Pretty," Chris mused, turning it in the morning light that filtered through his blinds. "Out of character for all the broken pots, though, huh? I don't think this comes from any of the university's expeditions."

"Maybe it was donated? Part of somebody's will?"

The collie nodded slowly, still staring at the object. "Yeah. Or given to them for safekeeping. You think we should talk to Dr. Templeton?"

"Yeah. Maybe not right now -- I bet he's busy."

"Not right now," she agreed. "What if he wants it back before we have a chance to make notes on it?" When she caught Andy staring at her she grinned, a little of her good humor returning. "Oh, c'mon, aren't you the least bit curious what's going on? I mean, not just with this, but... who was trying to steal it? It looks like it's gold -- maybe brass, I don't know -- so, sure, maybe somebody was trying to take it to sell, 'cause it's valuable. But then why torch the museum? Nah, something's going on here, husky."

"You're not worried you're getting in over your head?"

Her grin widened. "What's the point of life if you don't spend it that way, huh? You know what this is, Andy? You know how you buy a piece of furniture, or something, and it's "some assembly required," and at the end you're just one piece short and it doesn't go together right? This is that piece. Right now somebody, somewhere, is staring at some Ikea instruction manual and cursing."

He chuckled softly at the analogy, shaking his head. "Sure. But what were they building?"

"I don't know." Chris replaced the object in its box, setting it down on the bed and leaning forward to nip at his nose teasingly. "But it's our job to find out."