Knot In My Tummy • art/story collab with Lumi
Neither the artist nor the writer endorses or glorifies the events herein depicted. Nonetheless it is smoking hot. Play safe and enjoy.
This piece was a lot of fun to work out. It's straight-up butt-fuckery, foregoing the suggestive nature of the previous two in favor of WHAM BAM delivery. Still, there was penty of fun to be had with the context. I guess our li'l hustler coog doesn't have absolutely everything in his life together...
I had a lot of fun planning the emotional flow of this story. Our hero may be an enterprising young man with some impressive chutzpah, but he's still a teenager, and still vulnerable to emotional confusion and lack of clarity.
And the big dude here, who we've been informally calling Fuck Dog since we couldn't agree on a name, well... he has his own way of dealing with that :)
Ow, dude, careful - ow! Jesus, against the window? Seriously. Against the window. Can you think of a less comfortable place to fuck me? I can't hold on to anything! Look, I'm already sliding down the glass - the freezing glass - and the fucking curtains are parting. You wanna give the folks out on your street a nice view of the piece of ass you're banging? Fine, fine, fucking whatever.
Could you at least hold me up a little better? You're as buff as Dad and he can still put me on his shoulders when he's playful - fucking shit, dude! Are you deliberately letting me slip? Just so you can feel me clinging to you, clutching at your biceps so I can get into a remotely comfortable, non-pretzel position? Oh, yeah, of course. You just like to feel me slipping down onto your cock.
See, this bullshit right here is why I totally love having sex with you, you fucking fleabag. You go out of your way to make it as awkward and stupid as possible. Awesome.
Could you not just, you know fuck me? You've got the body of a doggy Titan, you've got a dick to drool over and you got those handsome, chiseled, canine features that just send shivers up my spine. Okay, so you don't have Dad's distinguished-looking jowls and your cropped tail makes your butt look even cuter than mine, but even with all that together you're fucking dreamy.
And don't you just know it.
I knew you knew it the first time I saw you. Fuck it, part of me knew it the first time I heard about you! Dad was so excited when you came to work at the same office at him. He hadn't seen you since high school, he said, and proceeded to tell me about the adorable trouble the pair of you uses to get into, how you'd try to steal each other's girlfriends...
And yeah, let's be fair, when you came to Dad's Super Bowl Party, lets just be fucking fair, you were the second-hottest man in the house. Just an inch shy of Dad's height, but every bit as broad in the shoulder. And you favored muscle-tees and jeans over Dad's preferred sweaters and slacks, so you sure as shit gave me plenty to drool over.
So I wasn't subtle. So I was ogling you with all the stealth of a rusty steam engine. I'm a teenager, dude, I don't fucking know any better! Did that give you an excuse to keep leering at me on the sly? To just casually rub your fingers along mine when I handed you another brew? To fucking sashay down the hall and take a piss in the bathroom across from my pad, and leave the fucking door open, and, Christ, fucking smile at me while you haul your slab out and take a whizz?
Of course I was on my knees five minutes later! Of course I was still awake when you snuck my door open after dark, when Dad and Connor took a quick last-minute drive to the seven-eleven to satisfy a sudden craving for ice cream. And of course I arched my back and purred like a kitten when you peeled the sheet off my naked body and climbed aboard.
So maybe I lied a little too. I'll admit. Maybe I hinted that you took my cherry that night. And confirmed it, every single time you brought that up, every single time I saw you, because I know how hot it makes you.
I couldn't exactly tell you the truth, could I? You're one of my Dad's oldest friends! You work together, hang out all the time. I can't risk you bragging to him about how his boy, the responsible, precious A-student apple of his eye whose only desire is to please his beloved Daddy, takes it up the ass from strangers for money.
So I can't even fucking charge you for swinging on your dick.
"You like that fat dog dick in your boy-pussy, baby?"
Oh yeah. I love it. I love that you think your precum and my spit is all the lube you need to get that monster inside me. I love that every time I think you've found the stupidest, awkwardest, uncomfortable-assest position to pound your load in my ass, you surprise me with yet another struggle-inducing innovation.
And you know what I love the most, you muscle-bound dick-on-a-chain? I love that you say "boy-pussy" and call me "baby" and, oh, my absolute favorite: "princess."
Yeah, that shit completely pushes my buttons.
You know how fucking rare it is for me to get hard when I'm taking it up the ass? Not that I hate it, as you keep reminding me, but normally I gotta keep myself under control, so I can focus on the client and still have enough energy for the next guy.
You fuck like a stallion, dude. Your body's cast from royal bronze, your dick was sculpted by God himself. When I look up at you, or at your reflection in the mirror, I feel like a doe-eyed dolt. Tight, muscular stomach, firm arms, and those piercing eyes. Grey, like Dad's, except yours I can stare into as long as I'd like.
I'm rock-hard as soon as I smell you. I could get off just from the taste of your sweat, delicious dog-dick...
"Does my princess want his daddy's load? Yeah, ya do! C'mon, sweet cheeks! Ask me for it. Tell daddy how badly you wanna feel his li'l swimmers flooding your cunt!"
Aaaand then you say shit like that, and I'm too busy blushing (because you sure as shit remind me of my Dad in all the best ways) to even think about how close to the edge I am.
"Oh fuck, baby, your pussy was made for my dick! Here it comes, honey, can you feel it, take it all, down to the hilt, lemme see your eyes when I fill you up..."
And then you brace me against the window, showing that, yes indeed, all this time you were actually strong enough to prop me up so I could comfortably take your dick, maybe push back and make you feel better. And I sure as hell feel better when I can hold on to your strong shoulders and watch you work yourself to orgasm inside me, and focus on how good it feels to have such a strong dog holding me and fucking me and wonder what it would feel like if I could pluck up the courage to ask my--
Ow! Owow, fucking OW!
"Fuck, son, that's it! Milk daddy's cock; take it baby, take every - unngh - every damn drop. You feel it? You feel that thick cream shooting up your pussy?"
Christ on a stick. No, you stubby-tailed douchenozzle! I don't feel a god damn thing except the gut-wrenching ache of you just ramming that knot of yours inside me.
What the hell is wrong with you? Who taught you how to fuck? I've had plenty of dogs. Hell, I tend to be bolder offering my services to canines, especially tall, studly fuckers, Sheps or Dobies, or Rotties like you or Great Danes like - never mind - the point is, every one of them know how to get his knot into a boy half his age without making him feel like he just took a mule-kick to the stomach. except you.
They spend a little while pounding me deeper, letting that fat knob knock at my back door, so I'm ready for it when they squeak it through my tender li'l ring and ease it in. Fucking hell, it's my favorite part of having sex with canines, feeling them corkscrew that thing inside me before they explode in a fucking fountain of soothing, slimy knot-snot.
But no. Hell no. Nuh-uh. You gotta actively hold that back and spend the last ten minutes short-dicking me with just the top half of your dick. No prostate massage for me, and certainly no preparation for your final lunge. And then you just fucking punch that thing into me. You like seeing me wince, you sick old pervert? You like hearing me grit my teeth and clench my eyes and hold you, tensed, trembling and farther and farther away from an orgasm of my own while you pump me full of puppies?
Fuck you, man. You're not worth this. I'm sick and tired of biking home with my ass on fire and every joint in my body aching from whatever stupid-ass position you folded me up in this time.
Your masculine, canine scent isn't enough. Those firm, warm muscles under your short, gleaming pelt and that Olympian dog dick - they're not worth this.
Your stupid, satisfied grin makes me sick, especially because I know you can see me fuming. It would take you so little goddamn effort - not even effort, just consideration is all it'd take for me to be seeing fireworks behind my eyes and lie in your arms with butterflies in my stomach, but you don't care.
Well, fuck it, neither do I. I've had enough of this shit. No more, I'm cutting you off, I'm fucking done with you.
And then you kiss me.
It catches me off guard every time. When you lean in I think you're just going to whisper something dumb about knocking me up or giving me what I need while your dick twitches in my sore butt and spews the last of your hot load into my gut.
But no. You lean in and, with a genuine smile on your lips, press them against mine. Your hands stop deliberately squeezing my hips to leave bruises I'll have to hide when I go to Dad's gym, and just... Hold me. Your teeth clack against mine and you give soft, needy little whimpers as you hungrily devour my muzz, so profoundly canine, and then you whisper your thanks between wet, thirsty kisses and sometimes, just sometimes, you call me "son" and, yeah, I have to wash my jock as soon as I get home.
And then you text me a few days later, asking what I'm doing next weekend or if I'd like to help you out with some yard work next week, or you drop by at Dad's for a beer and sneak a pinch of my ass while you greet me with a hug.
I look at the photos Dad keeps on the wall, in particular the tiny, oval-framed one in the left corner. Mom and Dad at the prom, and you and your forgettable date. Eighteen years old, both of you, wearing tacky-ass blue suits. Yeah, dad's an inch taller and his snout's longer, but your build, your posture, your eyes are so damn alike.
I move past the picture before Dad shoots me a funny look or notices my erection, slip into my room and tap away at my phone.
Of course I'll be back for more. All that bullshit is forgotten and all I can think about is those hard muscles rubbing against my naked body. Sucking the sweat off that steely, juicy, drooling cock. Raising my tail to show it a damn good time and give it the nice, warm passage to shoot into that it so thoroughly deserves.
I can't wait to do it again, moon-brained fool that I am. I want it; I need it so, so badly. He's all I can think about.
You're all I can think about, I mean.