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Hard to believe it but it is true, three years since I posted a small story about two Doberman grunts getting it on...and here we are. again...doing what I do best! Do comment, and rejoice!

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We woke up, not as hung over as I'd feared, but still bad enough that neither of us had much interest to eat. The bread had gone stale and the pickles and sausages seemed...awfully savory for my empty stomach, but a man's gotta eat what a man's got put in front of him, they always kept telling us at Fort Chipmunk, and that's what I did, eating from the old plates with the battered utensils Brock's family had left behind.

He sat with his head hung, ears flicking occasionally as one of us scraped a plate with a fork, shirtless, jaws moving without enthusiasm.

"We gotta stop somewhere to eat," Brock grumbled. "This tastes like shit."

"What do you expect, me cooking with that?" I pointed at the blackened pot sitting on the sink I'd been forced to use as a frying pan for the lack of anything useful remaining in the kitchen.

He gave a glance, and then shrugged, going back to picking on his disgusting breakfast.

"I'm gonna drive, "I said.

"What"? he looked at me.

"You drank much more last night, it's best that I drive."

Brock chortled.

"Didn't drink any more than you did."

"But you were more drunk than I was."

Brock dropped his fork.

"Is this some kind of a fucking drunkenness competition?" he grunted, loud enough to make my ears fall down - the sound didn't only go through my ears, it seemed to bounce off the inside of my skull.

"Didn't mean it like that," I replied, "thought it'd be best I drive since..."

Brock harrumphed accusingly.

"Since what?" he spat.

"Well you were damn drunk last night, it's not like I wouldn't notice! You were acting all weird!"

His eyes darkened, and I could see a lot more teeth than usual, with Brock folding his arms over his chest while he stared at me.

"So is it that huh?" he growled. "You think I have to be dead drunk to ask for a goddamn fuck?!"

It sounded so strange, said like that, and it brought memories of last night, how he'd put his paws on me, kissed me, and demanded things of me, things that he laughed off whenever I had asked for them before. Judging by this sudden remark, that status had been renewed overnight.

"Well you don't usually ask for it," I snorted.

Brock got up, a knee banging on the edge so that everything clattered up while the grunt stormed through the back door and out before I could open my muzzle again.

"HEY BROCK!"

Shit, fuck, shit. I was getting so damn tired of this game he was playing with me, doing things and saying things whenever they suited him, not me, and now he was again going back to the "ain't talking to you" he seemed to prefer. Well not this time.

"HEY, BROCK, DON'T YOU FUCKING GO!"

I staggered the concrete steps down and looked for him, head snapping from side to side. It wasn't hard to find out Brock, already about twenty yards away, by the wooden fence separating the yard from the field beyond. My eyes caught him in mid-kick, knee held up a moment before he unleashed it into the old wooden board. My ears picked up a loud whiplash noise, followed by a muffled grunt from Brock...who was going for another kick, this time going higher and smashing...another crack...

"BROCK!"

I jogged over to him, my body's complaints put aside as I reached him and stayed a couple of yards away...beyond the range of his immediate kicks, some...newly acquired part of my mind must've told me, as I stood there, paws on my sides, held at ready, even if I didn't want to do anything to him. I didn't want to hurt Brock. He seemed to be doing a good job at doing it to himself.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

His next kick broke the old, dry board and it split with a loud noise, his foot going through it, the big man staggering forward - fucking hell it looked like he was going to get his leg torn to bit with splinters or something ,but he simply put his paw over the top of board on the fence and pulled it out, the two halves of the board now drooping to the sides with old rusty nails protruding from the fence poles. Brock was panting.

Damn, he was going for another...I had to act...I moved over to him and grabbed his arm with both my paws.

Brock spun around and faced me, his maw falling open, and the paw that flew through the air missed my head only by inches, since I had the sense to duck before he managed to hit. Head held down, I battered onto him, ramming him with my neck and putting my weight to it. I ground my teeth together, even with his paws battering on my ribs and his hot breath washing over it...no, you wouldn't, Brock...

I put my weight to it and pushed him against the fence, hard enough that when he was sandwiched between the fence he'd been kicking and me, and I could feel air rushing out of his lungs. The sound that he made...a strange, hollow grunt..."uuuumppph"...

He tried to push me, but I swung to the side again, and we went flying, propelled by Brock this time, I, throwing myself to the side with every single piece of skill I had ever gotten from those close combat classes in training. We went down to the overgrown grass, me landing on top of Brock...

I quickly grabbed his arms and pushed his paws over his head, sitting down on him, snapping my teeth together and barking like a lowly mutt, spit flying everywhere over his damn face.

"STOP FUCKING WITH ME!" I yelled from the top of my lungs. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARHHHH!"

He spat on me.

He hocked up a wad of nasty and spat it right over my face. The sudden splash was so shocking on my nerves that it might've as well been hot water thrown on me.

I went onto some kind of a rage and bit on his neck, the spot where shoulder meets the neck. My teeth pressed to the fleshy muscle and I only stopped when I tasted blood...hot and metallic, over my tongue, just as my paws on him felt him relent...stop...stop moving and fall limp.

I twisted my neck to the side only an inch or so, but I knew that the sensation for him would be immensely unpleasant, like he had his flesh torn, before I finally relented, spat blood out of my muzzle - to the side, not on him, because even then I was not going to do something as offensive as forcing my scent on him like that, and I just laid on him, panting like a kettle, much like Brock, prone and unmoving, his eyes looking like they were glassed over.

"Just stop...Brock..." I heaved, "Jesus...Christ..."

He didn't say anything, just kept breathing quickly, and occasionally snorting. I held onto his paws and didn't let him move...not yet before I'd trust him enough not to lunge at me the moment I released him...when he was acting like this, there was no saying what was going to happen. I'd roughed him up pretty bad, too...his neck was going to be all bruise by the time we'd be back to base...at least he wasn't bleeding.

"...why is that all you do is fight or fuck, Brock?" I finally managed to get the words out of me, hunched over him now that he wasn't moving, or escaping from me.

"What the fuck do you care?" his words bit on me.

"I JUST DO!" I yelled.

"Gettoff me!"

"ONLY IF YOU PROMISE NOT TO FUCK YOURSELF UP AGAIN! STOP DOING THIS!"

"Why the hell do you care?" he snarled.

"I JUST DO!" I yelped before rolling off him.

All be damned. This wasn't going anywhere, let him do this if he wanted. Let him be a fuck-up if he wanted to be. Right, I thought, as I got up and looked down to him lying there like a wreck, panting with his muzzle open.

"I'm done with this queer shit," I snorted, "you go on, but I'm through. I'm going."

Where I was going, turning around and pacing towards the house...who were I kidding? We were a mile down the road even from the big road...and there was no knowing how I'd get anywhere from there...were there busses running here? Trucks that'd pick up a grunt trying to get back to base? A kindly old man and his wife going for church, maybe taking me to the nearby town? Whatever there was other than stuffed in Brock's Dodge and getting even more messed up in the head. Being cooped up in this farm was bad enough for me, another drive back through a couple of states stuck with him, breathing his scent and his stink and getting all these damn queer thoughts. Even now a part of me wanted to go back and grab him and shove my tongue down his throat or something. My skin squirmed even thinking about it.

I got to the step to the back porch before I finally stopped and turned around. Brock was standing up by now, one paw rubbing on his neck. He wasn't looking in my direction, so all I got to see was his sleek back and the angry curve of his head. His ears were unsurprisingly flat.

Don't know how long we just stood there, both of us, breathing and staring at each other like stupid. I knew we were approaching each other, though, too. Slow steps...lots of glares and looks...Brock spitting to the ground. I tried not to round my paws into fists, in case that would piss him off something mighty. Didn't really want to show him how angry I was, how this made me feel.

I took off my shirt, hosed some water to it from the still-running tap on the back of the house, squeezed off the excess and handed it over to Brock.

"Might help," I said.

He grimaced when the cold cloth pressed against his neck, and he kept it there, to stop any bleeding and to maybe help with the bruising. His breaths turned into hisses, lips curling.

"Don't think I like you now," he said.

"I've stopped thinking," I grunted, "I can't figure you out."

"Good you stopped trying then," Brock rumbled, "don't want you to overwork that pretty head of yours."

"Sometimes you speak all stupid," I said, "most of the time."

"I'm a grunt," he said.

"So stop being one when you don't need to!" I waved my paw in the air between us.

"You don't know a thing."

"Maybe I don't, but I ain't going on like this," I said, "you go swinging your fists or your dick at me and I never know which one's coming next!"

Brock chortled.

"I know you like it," he said. "I know you can't get enough of this..."

His free paw went to squeeze on his groin...my eyes followed, unwittingly, how the fingers pulled the cloth of his pants tight over himself. I tried not to look...I knew the danger of getting distracted by his body all too well.

"Stop that," I huffed.

"What?" he grabbed himself still, his paw...just there.

"Playing with yourself!"

"Awww, did the priest tell you you'll go blind if you do?" he leered.

"Do you only think about your dick?" I snorted.

That paw finally dropped, only leaving the bulge.

"Pretty much," he said.

"That's not how things work!" I growled.

"Seem to have worked well so far," he replied.

"Nothing works," I shook my head, "nothing fucking works because this isn't fucking right."

Brock chuckled.

"You gonna go on sissy at me again, wuff?" he smirked viciously. "Gonna bawl maybe? Or start talking about how you ain't queer?"

"I ain't queer!" I snapped.

"Oh yes you are!" he laughed.

"Maybe I just needed to get off!" I yelled, my face hot.

"Maybe if you'd tried fucking some girls instead of lying under me like a bitch!" he counter-yelled.

That was it. I barked out.

"So who's the queer then if you fuck me and not a girl?"

"I am queer," he said.

My lips froze mid-snarl. Brock snuffled.

"Yeah, wuff, I don't think this illness is gonna get any better any time soon, especially not with that sweet ass of yours making me want to jump it all the time," he licked his lips.

Fuck...not even when saying stuff like that he wouldn't...stop saying stuff like that?

"You'll go to Hell for it," I said.

Brock kicked the dirt, as dirty as his furs, and chuckled without humor In his voice.

"I think I'll go to Hell anyway," he said. "Done enough stupid things. And since when did you believe in Hell?"

"I'm Catholic, " I said.

At least raised as one. Or at least they tried to.

"Well you go to Hell for that too," Brock said. "I'm sure a wrong kind of God is worse than wrong kind of fucking."

I wasn't going to start that kind of an argument for I knew nothing about such arguments.

"They'll kick you out of the Army," I said. "Didn't you see that film they showed to us? How to protect against...seduction?"

What a load of bullshit that had been, too, but it did say something very clear...that there was no room for queers in the army.

"Don't think they'll be too concerned, with the things going in that Vietnam place the way they do," he replied. "They'll just be glad someone was stupid enough to get recruited as a volunteer. I ain't thinking that some others will have that choice if things get any worse. You know we're gonna go there soon, right?"

"You never know where we get posted," I said.

"Well I ain't seeing German wordbooks issued to us any time soon," Brock snorted. "Don't you see it? This is all we've got now...gotta do what we can before it's too late!"

I harrumphed.

"So your plan is to fuck as much as you can before we get sent to Vietnam?" I stated.

Brock stepped closer, and I held my paws up...over my hip level, ready to catch any arms that might be trying to fly in for a punch...but he didn't hit me. One of his paws still held the rag, and the other...the other just reached over...I almost grabbed it...but he only...tapped my chest with his fore finger, big, leathery pad, and all.

"I plan to fuck YOUR stinking tail until you'll ask me to stop...and then I'll just flip you over and go again!" he smirked.

I stepped backwards.

"Now with me you ain't if it keeps being like this, being thrown around and fucked," I grunted. "Don't want to!"

Brock laughed.

"Tut tut, wuff," he clicked his tongue, "a good soldier doesn't lie!"

"I'm not lying!" I yapped

Brock chuckled darkly.

"I bet if I gave you money to buy yourself a hooker, you couldn't get it up even with that whore pushing her cunt down your limp little dick," he snorted, "that's how queer you are, Jack."

"You don't know anything about pussy!"

"I know about yours," he leered.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He grabbed my chin, pads digging against my jawbone while he smashed his head forward and stopped only an inch away...looking at me straight on, his eyes as mad as the rest of him, by now. Perhaps his muzzle foamed. I only saw his eyes.

"Alright," he said, " I won't call it pussy. But I ain't going back to the base without one more go at it. No idea when we'll get leave again..."

I should've pulled my head back and tell him to get his filthy queer paws off me...but I didn't.

I just said something shocking.

"Only if I get a go at yours again," I said.

Brock smirked.

"That's my wuff there," he let go of my muzzle and stepped back.

What was I going to do with him?