Flesh
The flesh trade is what they call it, back home. I always thought that was a funny term, trading flesh. It makes it sound like you're paying for a commodity, the same way you'd buy a pound of meat at the grocer. Like its just business, weights and measures. I suppose some folks think of it that way; some sorry folks, anyway. I mean, what dog with a bone to bury can't find a warm spot, these days? You've got the internet, don't you?
Maybe you're like me, stuck half way around the world with nothing but your paw for company on a cold night. Yeah, the internet's out here, too. Don't ask me why, these wolves barely keep food on the table, but bet ya dollars to donuts every fuckin' one of 'em has a cellphone. I get pulled around town by a wolf dragging a cart like some kinda mule. It doesn't strike me as prime market for fibre optic cables and wireless devices.
Still, I've spent five months out of the last year, here, and dog knows how many days flying between, coordinating the rollout of said network to this "emerging market." Some bigwig back home who probably couldn't point this place out on a map read some report and decided it was an opportunity that couldn't be missed.
Paying another canine fifty cents--the kind of cash I make in oh, five seconds of picking my ass--to haul me around town in the rain, that's flesh trade. You won't hear anyone call it that, but that's what it is. When I get where I'm going, and I go inside that dimly labeled concrete building with the peeling red paint on the door, when I pay my five dollars for the night to the bored desk clerk and grab the keys to room 105, that's something entirely different.
You see, I'm in my prime, and I'm not going to lie about it: I can fuck just about anything I like, and I don't have to pay for it. As I'm entering room 105, and looking at the wolf kneeling quietly by the bed, waiting for me, I'm not trading flesh. I'm buying dignity.
This is my wolf. I grin at him from across the small room, and he curls his lip politely, keeping his ears down and his paws clasped over his thighs. I've paid for him, every night I've had to stay in this dog-forsaken backwater country. He can't speak a word of English, and its a good thing, too, because I don't say very nice things to him, while he's working.
Yeah, I'm buying dignity. I sit back on that old mattress, lift a foot and plant it on the creamy white fur of his chest, the rain and mud staining his otherwise immaculately cared-for body. That's rare, actually. Wolves aren't much for hygeine, but this one knows better. I taught him that, week one.
He keeps smiling up at me, lifting his paws to work my shoe free, placing it carefully on the floor next to him, and then returning those soft digits to the tired sole of my foot. I rumble happily from the sensation, lidding my eyes to enjoy it, but I'm not entirely satisfied. He knows it, as his whiskerpads brush along the edge of my toes, and his broad tongue wets the sensitive pad of my feet. I curl my foot over the bridge of his muzzle, growling and shoving at him, insistently. He laps harder, appeasing me.
You don't get that kind of love, for free. If I didn't have to get my rocks off, I could have him lick my toes until I fell asleep. And I have. Not intentionally, mind you, but some nights I don't even remember fucking him, even if I wake up knot-deep under his tail, the next morning.
I call him "Pup." He has a name, but fuck if I can pronounce it. Besides, I like to pretend he's younger than he is. And its nice, condescending, it establishes the hierarchy every time I get to use it. Pup has switched to the other foot, letting the dampened one stroke its toes idly down his soft belly. I've got a thing for bellies, and Pup's is exactly my type. Enough to grab onto when you want it, but never hides the beautiful definition of his hips when I'm riding him.
"Alright Pup, that's enough." I growl, reaching a dark paw down and snatching at a tuft of his headfur. He allows me to grab it, of course, even though his tongue stopped the moment I spoke. I drag his muzzle up along the inside of my leg, wishing my pants could just disappear, instead of needing to be shimmied off. That's the part about sex I hate, actually, trying to get your clothes off without looking like an idiot.
I shove his nose into the crux of my legs, where the hard lump of my sheath stretches against the fabric zipped around it. He whines at me and inhales through his nose, knowing my scent. I can feel the wet tip of his own member slide against the heel of my foot, and I shove it up against his belly with a chuckle. He likes the scent, obviously enough.
It takes him some work, but with enough sniffing about, nipping, and dragging of teeth, he manages to hook a fang into my zipper and peel it down, diving his snout between the exposed folds and kissing (in the way wolves do, broad, wet, rasping kisses full of tongue) along the fuzz that covers my heavy sheath. For my part, I splay my toes around the trembling length of wolfhood they've been playing with, squeezing around its base and stroking my encouragement.
Playing is a good term for what I do, with him. Of course, he's not playing. He's on the clock, and its his job to make sure I have fun, playing. He's never finished, even once, since the first night. I mean, I'm sure when I walk out in the morning, he finishes. But what I mean is, I cum in him, on him, around him, whatever, but he doesn't get to. And I know he could, if I let him. Fuck, all he'd need right now is a few extra jerks from my foot.
But I don't let him.
He pulls my sheath free of its confines, lapping across the broad cocktip that is steadily expanding its way out of its tan-furred home, its deep red flesh twitching at the touch of that careful, hungry tongue. In case you wondered, yes, I'm still grabbing his headfur. He's my wolf, I like to hold onto him, guide him where I want, though these days its more a formality than anything--dog, he knows where to lick me, alright. I mostly just have to yank him back when he gets a little too eager for a treat. If the guy outside can haul me around the city for fifty cents, Pup had better damn well work more than an hour before I'm done with him.
And I think its about time to make him work. He's a beautiful thing, prostrated in front of me, his nose bobbing along the dribbly length of meat standing proudly from my crotch. Some nights I just watch him there, and if I do that too long, I paint his face. He does look good with a few drapes of seed across the bridge of his muzzle, though.
No, I'm not embarassed to admit it. He can get me off in five minutes or five hours, and if I didn't own his ass, figuratively and literally, he'd probably opt for the former. Like he doesn't have better things to do than worship some foreigner's cock right now. Pup's probably got a wife and kids, for all I know.
Actually, I like to think about that, sometimes, when I push him onto his belly over the mattress. Its a funny, powerful feeling, taking someone who you know has taken someone else. Its like you're claiming everyone he's ever done. I climb on top of his body, his tail flicked up over his back, prone for me. I reach between his legs and peel out the thick rod hiding between his body and the sheets, propping it down against the side of the bed so that it throbs down between his thighs.
He grunts uncomfortably at the position, and I like that, too. That's what I pay for. It doesn't matter that he doesn't like his cock bent back like this, what matters is I like listening to him grunt. I plant my own saliva-slick member where it belongs, the thick tip jutting under his tail and smearing my pre-seed around the creamy fur of his rump. "We ready to be a bitch now, Pup?"
He doesn't understand what I'm saying, of course. But do you really need to understand the words to understand their meaning? He whimpers in response, nodding his muzzle against the mattress and pulling his paws up under his chest. I can feel the ring of flesh pucker at my cocktip, just before I sink my weight into it. It doesn't hurt him, or at least I'm pretty sure he's used to it by now, but he cries out as though it does. He knows me well enough, and I huff my satisfaction over his ears as I shove my way inside, my sheath rolling back to its base to feed more of my flesh into that warm, welcoming hole.
The bed creaks, which is something I normally hate, when I'm fucking. It distracts me from the job. But here, I like it. What's the difference really? Well, its not my job to fuck this bitch, for one. Its his job to get fucked. He's gonna make me cum, because if I get bored, he knows its just going back in the other end until I'm interested again. And it won't taste as good, the second time around.
Its an empty threat, honestly, because he tenses up around me and clamps my shaft inside him, his powerful legs pushing at my hips and daring me to spread him open. I slap both paws over his shoulders and pummel him, sinking as deep as my first thrust and earning a muffled grunt from Pup. The bed protests, but he doesn't, jerking back against my body to meet me, rubbing his back against my chest as though he needs me.
I roll my weight over him, rocking rhythmically to a deep, sensual soundtrack that plays only in my mind. In reality, there's nothing playing in the background, only the strained huffs and grunts of a whore getting the better part of a foot of dog cock stuffed up his tailpipe. I can feel each inch, too, as his saliva begins to wear away, the warm friction rubbing out the scent of the lube he undoubtedly applied, two hours earlier. I don't like to wait, so if he doesn't get it out of the way before I get there, he gets it raw. He learned that quickly enough.
He shudders under me, and I can tell he's feeling it now, too. It doesn't matter how practiced he is, I can make him feel it. I twist my hips, pulling a new angle with my next thrust, and I'm rewarded with a stifled cry. Its an honest cry, this time, a jet of clear pre shooting from his strained cock and staining the side of the mattress on its way down to dribble through the floorboards. I pummel him again, my muzzle hunching next to his ears and growling obscenities I know he can't fathom. I talk about the things I could do to him, the ways I could make this last through the night, how sore I'm going to make him in the morning.
It doesn't last through the night, of course. If his tongue could have made me cum in five minutes, Pup's ass could do it in as many seconds. As I feel the warm rubbing of his powerful body surrounding me, stroking from my tip to my rolled-back sheath, the need in my gut swells like the knot bulging from my cockbase. It rocks against his entrance, the bulb teasing the stressed ring of flesh around it as I slam forward, Pup groaning in pain beneath me. It doesn't matter how many times I tie him, a knot is a knot, and the poor fella ain't exactly built to house one, proper.
Not my concern, really, because he's going to. I grunt loudly over him, grinding my toes against the floor and snarling "take it in, what kinda bitch are you?" between clenched teeth. My fur is matted with sweat and my paws slip on his hips, scraping their dull claws against his body for leverage. I charge, he meets me, and I cry this time as he gives way like a portcullis falling to a ram, my knot finding itself wrapped in the warmth of his body and the ring of his tailhole clamping defeatedly behind its base.
That's all I need, and I challenge you to find any dog that can claim otherwise. Shivering, I jet warm seed deep inside my wolf, the stuff filling the tight space around my shaft as it twitches and jets again, again. It has nowhere to go, the plug of my knot firmly blocking any hope of escape as I empty myself inside of him, collapsing my full weight onto his body and panting heavily.
We lie there for long minutes, him knowing better than to interrupt me, and me enjoying every slight twitch of motion. I can feel everything, embedded inside of him like I am, and it takes me about that long just to finish unloading my day's frustrations, the spasms dying away to that dull, satisfied ache.
I lower my muzzle to sniff along the nape of his neck. He offers it, weakly. Taking it between my teeth, I drag us both, awkwardly, onto the mattress. Its a battle, tied to him as I am, my sensitive flesh protesting any sudden movement, and his body only able to shimmy as far as my hips and teeth will allow. Eventually, I manage to flop into a satisfactory position, my wolf clutched against my chest like a toy with an unusually hard appendage still hanging between his legs, long since forgotten by me, but having left a long wet trail along the sheets from the corner of the bed where I just finished fucking him.
I nestle my muzzle between his ears and tell him he's a good bitch. He leans up to lick my chin, as though to thank me for the compliment. This is what I pay for. And as I drift off to sleep, I smirk, thinking for a moment that I'm helping to put food on Pup's table. But who am I kidding, I'm probably paying his wireless bill.