Phil
In the silence of the log cabin, things can happen that are not spoken about.
A little mood piece here, written in the dark, simply for the joy of writing. I think I tried to write this one once before, but failed then. Here it is now - please enjoy, and comment, if you like!
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It's always a bit of a special thing when sex happens with Phil. We haven't really talked about it beyond the first awkward attempt years ago, and afterwards, I felt reluctant, considering that the Rottie seemed to have very little inclination to talk about it any further than was necessary.
That said, there is very little talking involved usually, when things go the way he wants them to be. We usually say goodnights and I go to the bedroom, lay down, curl up my tail, generally enjoy being the sleeping doggie I am, under my covers, even if my heart keeps thumping and pumping while my ears remained trained and waiting for any telltale noises.
Sometimes it doesn't happen. That's a fact. Then I simply slowly calm down and slip into a sleep. But sometimes, just sometimes, there's a small creak, a shuffle, a claw on a floor, and I know it's time.
My body usually reacts instantly, even before he is there, so that by the time the Rottie reaches my modest bed, I am already hard and pressing to the front of my boxers I wear to sleep, and my breaths quickens with each step I can hear so clearly on my noisy bedroom floor. The planks are well polished after many years of living in this cabin, and they feel nice under my pads, when I stroll around in the birthday suit and enjoy myself.
It's hard to think of anything else but Phil when he approaches the bed, and there's that characteristic stop, when he simply stares at me, I keep lying still, and I wait for him, like I always do.
The bed creaks, and I feel him thrumming the bedsprings with his weight, on his knees first, then paws near the pillows, then some more undulations when his big body spreads onto the bed, silent and unspeaking. I count the seconds and try not to move, waiting for any words, or actions, or anything, tense and aroused and wondering on the strangeness of the situation that has repeated itself many times over the years.
Nothing else happens, as I know it to be, from that same experience, and I know that I should act soon. My body is definitely telling me what to do, and I find little hesitation when I throb the covers back, exposing my body, and soon my cock, too, when I shuffle the boxers down my waist and then kick them off.
It's always almost dark, but I can see the outline of his body - the broad shoulder, the curve of his back, the dip just above the rear that forms a definitely landmark. I throb a little more at the sight, the knowledge, the thrumming tension and the blood rushing through my veins. I can smell my own arousal and his, and I long to touch him, but I can't do it yet.
The ritual must be adhered to, and that requires me to open the nightstand, grab the tube, and squeeze some of the clear, almost scentless stuff onto my fingers. It feels cool when it's spread over my erection, my very moderately formed knot too getting a coating that makes my tongue loll out at the sensation.
I know that he's listening, maybe watching, though it's rare to catch the glint of his eyes in the darkness. He usually has his muzzle against a pillow tucked under his chin, so that he doesn't have to look at what I'm doing, nor show his face to me while I attend to my own body. He knows that soon I'm touching his, too, which I do now, too, after another squeeze, a rub of my pads together, and bringing them between the warm halves of his ass.
I feel the muscles tense around my fingers, including the ring-shaped one under my fingertips, and he exhales when I massage the lube into his skin, pressing a little, rubbing some more while I knee next to him for a few, brief seconds it takes for me to do this. Then I straddle him, knees hugging his hips, while I line up, push my tip down, hold a paw over his back for balance, and tilt my groin so that I'm properly aligned for this.
He never makes much of a sound when he feels me press against him, but he can't always keep in the gasps and rumbles that come from when you're getting dogmeat in your ass. He hasn't taken much preparation, because I know he doesn't want to be fiddled with so much, and perhaps it is rough on him for that, when he is spread open, filled, receiving me until I can't go further and I am poised over him, paws on either side of his muscled body.
Sometimes I manage to savor it, go slow, do it as a sort of a slow breeding, gently working into him, in and out of that quivering opening, leaking pre into him, sweating up, panting, drowling, until I can no longer keep it up and I'm gone, deep within his body. This time it's not going to happen. I'm already too affected, my heart races and the musk is unquestionably strong and hot.
Masculine, like unshowered skin, fragrant like strong leather for some working clothes, nothing dainty or kinky, in turn. The idea of Phil wearing something made to attract the attention of certainly-minded males is ridiculous. He just happens to smell great, and he almost squeaks when I rut his ass with my sharply-angled tool. My skin burns and my knot grows rapidly, in sharp pulses that make it firm and large, pounding against his hole as much as I am working myself through the grip of his invaded opening. My paws squeeze into fists and grab bunches of the sheets with them, making a mess of the fabric. I am lucky to not to leave tears there, I hope, as I slam my hips forward, in quick succession.
He growls dangerously, like someone challenging another man into fight, teeth bared, ears flat, and I know his are flat because my muzzle is between them, my body covering all of him when I slam into him, spreading him more open than I probably ought to after only a minute or two of hard pounding, and then he has me inside him, gasping with the thickness of me filling his body. I can only give a few rapid thrusts before my balls contract close to my body and I shoot into him, my own tail going rigid above my own thickly muscled ass, cheeks squeezed together as I push myself flush with Phil's behind.
I pant, dry not to drool on him, and collapse on top of him. My muzzle is usually resting against his neck and I resist the urge to groom him there with my tongue, because that might be too much for whatever comforts he has when it comes to this. It's usually not very long before he rolls us onto our sides and we lay there, both breathing heavily, me locked inside him, connected most intimately to the male whom I like to think I know the best in this world, besides my immediate family.
And sometimes I feel like I don't know a single thing about him, when my arm is around him, I am inside him, and he lays there, unmoving but for his breathing, my cock contracts inside him, and his body squeezes down on me as if to milk further drops of seed from me.
And yet he won't speak, even when I gasp still, overwhelmed by the passion with which I screwed him only moments ago, and he won't tell me if he liked it or not, whether I was gentle or too rough, and I know that when my knot goes down, he'll be off and this won't be talked about tomorrow morning, when we get the boat out and go fishing again.
But maybe he'll come for me, when the beer is gone, the lights are out, and it's very quiet, the door is bolted, and the world outside the old log walls doesn't seem to matter so much.
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