Saturday in the Park
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. It may contain objectionable material including, but not limited to, acts of yiffery between furs of the same sex, different species, pedophilia, non-consent, and other stuff I can't think of right now. If any of this offends you, you certainly reserve the right to guide your mouse elsewhere. If not, then read on and enjoy. One other thing: just because I write about this stuff does NOT mean I condone it in real life...we all have characters nagging at the backs of our minds, and they have a story to be told. If you wish to have an INTELLIGENT discussion as to my motivations for this tale, feel free to contact me.
FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]
Saturday in the Park ©MMV Whyte Yoté
"I think it was the Fourth of July."
"What?"
"Independence Day. I think that's when the company picnic is." The cheetah crouches, his limber body always in motion as he speaks to his friend. Jake thinks it's a fine time for Bruce to be talking about their fathers' upcoming corporate picnic. The ball is in play; at any time it could come blasting across the thick-leaved grass and right past them to the goalie, and the goalie won't be happy if he isn't defended by his own teammates.
"Fine," Jackie replies, opting to look straight ahead at the field instead of at the cat next to him. "Just keep your eyes on the ball. Don't talk."
"Party pooper," Bruce shoots back to the young kangaroo, and sticks his tongue out in a very apropos response. Jackie doesn't notice.
Instead, the roo digs his cleats into the soft, overwatered ground of Cherry Rock Park on the outskirts of Fairfield, Indiana. He squints in the mid-afternoon sunlight, the kind of light that beats down on you from the center of the sky, but at such an angle as to interfere with your vision just slightly. Up until now, Jackie's been able to keep from sweating; his naturally athletic body is plenty hydrated, but it's near the end of the game...the score is tied...and one goal is all they need to win the Fairfield Junior Soccer Championship of 1979. The roo scratches himself idly through ultra-short shorts, a horrible orange with white piping.
There is action down the field. Cubs of all species move and dart around the small black-and-white sphere, so much so that Jackie has trouble telling who is in possession of the ball. He bends at the waist, extending his thick tail behind him for added stability. The action is coming his way.
"Watch out, Bruce," he whispers, even though there is no need for it. Jackie wants to believe that winning isn't everything, that doing your best and trying your hardest are the things that count the most, but he has to admit that at this moment all he wants to do is win. Bruce has to help him, and Bruce isn't the best at paying attention. He makes up for it in speed, though.
Suddenly a break in the field reveals a raccoon, short for his age, falling over backwards as he loses the ball to an opposing team member. Poor Aaron, that happens to him so often. But now the ball is being controlled by a bull of a kid, probably the best kicker on the other team. And he is barreling his way right to their goal.
"Guys, help me out!" shouts Allen, Aaron's twin brother and a whole lot chubbier. With the ball going that fast, there's no way Allen can move to block a well-planned shot, so it's up to Jackie and Bruce to deflect it. The roo falls back toward the goal, while the cheetah shoots forward, anticipating the bull's moves as best he can.
The rest of the team is left in the dust, unable to catch up with the speeding ball and its possessor. One by one, members of Jackie's side approach the big bovine and are summarily shoved out of the way or onto the ground for their efforts. This is not looking good; there is no way, even if Bruce survives long enough to make it to the goal, that a little cub like Jackie can make a difference. But he'll try. There is a big gold trophy waiting for him.
He has to pee. He tries to ignore it.
Bruce dances on his feet, spotted tail swinging in counterbalance, then he races off to confront the bull head-on. He tries to feint right, then darts left, but the other, stronger kid does not change direction as he anticipated. Finding himself directly in the bull's path, the cheetah thinks quickly and tries to kick the ball out from under the trampling feet. A thick hand to the shoulder and he flies out and down, his head contacting the ground hard. Not an illegal move, but really close.
Jackie springs into action, now the only one on the field who can stop the ball from careening past Allen to win the game. The little roo has no idea what to do, except to improvise and hope his reactions are smart and swift enough. His crotch and ears itch again, perspiration faintly making itself known. No time for kid stuff like that; the bull is closer than ever, the scowl on his thick muzzle filled with intent.
The closer he becomes, however, the more predictable his movements are to Jackie. It's all too obvious now that this kid relies on his size and strength, not his agility, to get the ball down the field. He works in a straight line, never deviating, never maneuvering with his feet, just...running and kicking. Jackie makes his decision, and stays directly in front of the bull, hoping he is right.
"Jackie, what are you doing? Move!" yells Allen from behind him, obviously panicking in his exposed state. The roo stays put, aware of the eyes on him from all directions, probably begging him to do the same thing. But he won't give in; he must stay true to his decision.
Sunlight drowns everything in bright colors, hot and oppressive. Far off and to the left, Jackie can hear the collective voices of the parents of every member of both teams, all blended together into one noisome cacophony. It fills his tall ears, but doesn't distract him. The bull is almost ready to strike; Jackie sees his feet changing their pattern, building up to a kick. He waits, still as pond water...his opponent shifts over to the right...Jackie predicts, moving the opposite direction...
And then there's the ball, its dichromatic panels spinning and spinning, right toward him. It's a high kick, and the roo jumps up, using his tail to launch his body into the air. His head meets the ball squarely on center, and as Jackie closes his eyes he feels its weight bounce off his forehead, there then gone just as fast. As he lands, he sees the ball rolling away from him, still in play, about twenty feet away. It is picked up by a young Labrador retriever, one of his teammates, and off the play goes to the other end of the field. The crowd cheers them on, and Jackie follows full-speed.
Bruce catches up to the joey halfway down the field, patting him on the back and offering a simple "Nice block," as they catch up to the action. Passed from foot to foot, it switches teams as quickly as it is kicked from player to player in a blur of grunts, shouted orders and ripped-up turf. Jackie's eyes are on the ball and the ball only, ready to usher it into the goal as soon as it enters his possession. All he can do is wait until the right moment, if it comes to him at all.
The other team's captain is a black wolf, and he guards the ball with fervent care, dribbling it to keep it in place while he forms a strategy in his mind. His plans are changed, however, the second Bruce sneaks up and kicks the ball out from under him, sending him to the ground, cursing the way only cubs can curse.
"You jerk!" the wolf yells, getting up.
"Nice move, Bruce! Here!" cries Jackie, running past the wolf to set up a two-person strategy. They near the opposite goal, the other team close behind but not close enough. The cheetah runs all-out to the net, and Jackie looks forward to see the goalie, an armadillo, shuffling to and fro within his painted rectangle. Frankly, to the roo he looks scared.
Bruce waits until Jackie is set up in front of the goal, then gets the signal to pass the ball. He kicks it hard, but suddenly the bull is back, lumbering in front of the roo and intercepting the pass with his chest. Despair fills Jackie for a moment, but it is short-lived as his quick mind starts on ten other strategies for regaining control of the ball.
Everything from then on happens so quickly. On orders from the black wolf, the bull directs the ball to him, but the kick is high and forces the lupine to catch it with his knee. He balances it there for a moment, unopposed, obviously trying to show off. Looking for a teammate, he shouts a direction before snapping the ball high and launching it with his foot. His jaw drops open when he realizes his horrible aim, and Jackie almost doesn't see the ball until it is on a collision course with his face.
There is no time to think. The roo only sees the blurry sphere and reacts to it, not aware of the consequences should his actions not be the best. The world becomes a blur as he flips himself over and around, using his arms as counterweights. His tail is held erect, waiting for the contact, and when it comes it sends a wave of pain up and down his spine, but he knows he's hit the ball just the same. Jackie lands hard on one side, but looks up in time to see the armadillo race to block the shot.
Half the ball is inside the goal, the other half in line with the metal piping making up its frame. The goalie is already on that side, able to easily catch the shot. But the ball hits the pipe with a wang! and becomes a white line as it streaks across to the other side of the frame, which rebounds it directly into the net.
There is a good, long moment when the cries from the parents die, nobody quite believing the ball actually went in from the little roo's tail shot. Then all hell breaks loose, with the opposing team silent and slow, Jackie's team surrounding his prostrated form and congratulating him, and the roar from the bleachers all but drowning everything else out. Jackie just smiles and accepts the praise, lifted up on his teammates' shoulders with his fists held high. Over the noise he sees his father, at the edge of the bleachers, hugging his mother and shouting for all the world to hear, "That's my boy! I taught him that move, you better believe it!"
As the joey is finally let down, he makes his way through the crowd to his family, aware that his bladder is complaining something fierce. When he gets to his father, the smile on the older kangaroo's face is priceless, proud. "Come here, Jackie. Give your old man a hug!" he booms.
"Can I go to the bathroom first?" Jackie asks, starting to squirm already.
"What?"
The little roo points emphatically to beyond the field, where sits a little concrete building, one of two restrooms in the park. "I gotta go PEE!" he yells at the top of his lungs. His father falters a bit, then just laughs, realizing how long his son has been holding his water.
"Okay, okay, go. But you owe me a hug, kiddo." He shoos his son away, and Jackie obliges happily as he runs through the already-diminishing crowd. The cub can hardly wait until the trophy presentation. He runs all the way to the thick stand of trees bordering the park, and the shade is wonderfully cool on his sweaty body. Pacing slower now, Jackie rounds the little building and finds the door. Thankfully it is unlocked and it opens inward.
Inside, the restroom is nothing more than a concrete box divided into a sink area, a cutout for a urinal, and a separate stall for the other stuff. He can hardly wait while he undoes the snaps holding his shorts closed and pulls the front of them down, along with his briefs. His sheath pulls back an inch or so, and the stream he lets go does so forcefully. The roo cub stands there for a full minute, relishing the relief of the pressure and feeling the tiniest bit uncomfortable like people always do in public restrooms. The only sounds are splashing urine and the muted rustling of trees outside. Shadows of branches and leaves dance over the opaque roof of the building.
Jackie shakes the last drops from his penis, gives it one final stroke and resheathes before reaching up to flush the urinal. While he washes up with the foul-smelling hand soap provided next to the sink, he makes faces at himself in the mirror, enjoying his good mood from the game and indulging in typical nine-year-old silliness. He's going to give his dad the biggest hug when he gets back to the bleachers!
As he exits the building, the scent of the river just yards away drifts to his nose: pungent, but earthy. Anybody who swims in that river is crazy, he thinks. Unless you like swimming in cow crap. Jackie is just about to turn the corner and head back when something out of the ordinary catches his eye. Under a clump of bushes--heavy, thorny things--sits a brown box. No way is it part of the landscape; it has to be manmade. Maybe someone lost it or forgot about it when they went to the bathroom. Jackie walks closer to it, getting down on all fours to look under the tall hedge.
The sunlight is just enough to illuminate the brown casing of the box, which looks to be a camera bag or something. A leather strap is attached to its outside, but is just out of the roo's reach, so Jackie clambers up to walk around, looking for a better way to reach the mysterious object. About ten feet later he spies a spot where the bushes actually end, and walks through, his curiosity thoroughly piqued.
He can't help his squeak of surprise, and clamps his muzzle shut all too late.
Soccer is suddenly a million, billion miles away. So is his father, and Bruce, and the bleachers. Jackie stands still, cracking the fingers on his right hand, realizing that this wonderful day has been irreversibly altered. The knowledge that what he sees before him will always be connected in memory to his winning tail shot drops his heart into his stomach. It's weird, it's new, and the roo cub knows it's very wrong.
All the kids in Fairfield like Mr. Scotty. That isn't his real name, though, but whenever the big, rotund Schnauzer drives through the neighborhoods, with that stupid rendition of "Turkey in the Straw" blaring from his truck, the kids can't help but make the connection between his breed and his name. It's easier that way. He's always in a good mood, smiling and laughing and always willing to tell a joke or two...sometimes a dirty one, if there aren't any girls around. He's always got plenty of ice cream, and if he runs out of something you really really want, he goes back home and brings it to you, no matter what. Mr. Scotty keeps the neighborhood feeling like a family, safe and happy on balmy summer nights...just like this one.
There is no denying that the man Jackie sees, sitting on his heels with his pants down below his knees and a pair of binoculars in one hand and his...his other hand...
It is Mr. Scotty. Same dark grey fur, same bulgy body, even the same plaid shirt he always wears when he comes around in his truck. In the shadows made by the thick canopy above, there is no glint anymore, no fatherly gusto. Mr. Scotty is just an ordinary man. No...a dirty old man, a pervert. Jackie may be nine years old, but he and his friends talk about things. But seeing it is still such a surprise.
"Jake...my boy." Mr. Scotty is the only one he lets call him that nickname. Sure enough, it is the same deep voice the roo has always heard, just rarely that softly, only when telling those dirty jokes. The Schnauzer sets the binoculars down, looking at Jackie, maintining a wary, frightened suspicion. His right hand stays put, the fingers splayed open, wet and slimy and covered in white goo. There is a corresponding puddle of white goo in the bare soil between Mr. Scotty's legs, his semen, and more straggling drops on the tip of his pink penis, which is now beginning to soften and wilt. Jackie also knows about semen, something he won't have until he's older. But that's about the extent of what he's been told.
"You were watching us," Jackie says matter-of-factly, surprising himself with aplomb he didn't know he had. The roo takes a guarded stance, but does not retreat. He has to give his brain time to sort out the picture, make sense of what he sees and rely on his limited knowledge to put it together like pieces of a puzzle. But there are big pieces missing, big pieces without pictures on them. Mr. Scotty was using the binoculars to watch Jackie and his friends play soccer from afar, in secret. And he was doing something foreign but oddly familiar...something that males can do when they're older, but only sometimes in private. Right now isn't one of those times, and Jackie is looking at the man in the video.
There was something just like this, about a year ago when the young roo had to watch a video before going to his first Cub Scout campout. He didn't understand it fully then, as it was filled with children like him and bad men who wanted help finding lost puppies or cleaning up their attics or sharing the shower. Every time the man would touch the child...what was the word? Inappropriately, and the child would tell their parents and the bad men would get in trouble and everything would be better. But this isn't a lost puppy, or an attic, or a shower, and this definitely has already passed way beyond what the video showed.
Jackie was warned by his parents that there were men out there who liked to take advantage of little boys, but his mother cringed every time his father mentioned it and not a word more was said. The roo feels a hole open in his gut, and a wave of maturity washes through, telling him he is in a part of the video that's uncharted, beyond the credits, that whatever happens, he will never forget this moment and it will stay etched firmly in his memory for the rest of his life. That realization, the thoughts of a much older Jackie, accentuates that loss he feels and pushes premature tears from his eyes.
All this and more floods the joey's mind in a very short time, only a matter of seconds really, and it muddles his thoughts so much that he doesn't see Mr. Scotty turn slowly toward him. When his eyes finally clear he snuffles and says, "You're one of them," pointing an accusatory finger for emphasis. This provides only scant leverage, but it's more than he had before. It is what the other kids said in the video, and though that line was always followed shortly by a happy ending, Jackie doubts it will be the same unless he takes off running as fast as his long feet will carry him. They seem glued to the ground. No police officers will come out of the forest to his rescue.
"No," replies Mr. Scotty, almost angrily. "Boy, you've got it all wrong. I know what you think." The Schnauzer is facing the little roo, still fully exposed, still unsheathed and dripping a bit. If he is embarrassed, explaining himself to Jackie is more important. The old canine looks this way and that distractedly, then finds an old rag with which to clean his messy hand. That done, he quickly pulls his pants tight under his gut and does his belt, fly and button. Mr. Scotty then looks back at the roo cub about ten feet away with palms faced out, as if to say, Look...now I'm harmless, I have no intention of hurting you.
"No, you don't--"
"I was just watching, right?" Now, Mr. Scotty's muzzle creeps upwards at the edges in a half-smile that does little to hide his wavering voice. In trying to reassure the cub, he has admitted to being just as scared as Jackie, a volatile situation which can turn sour at any time. He could decide to hurt Jackie--or worse. Fear makes people do dumb things sometimes. "No harm in that, none at all. I was spectating, just not from the bleachers."
"Nuh-uh," mutters Jackie, emboldened for some reason. He cannot believe a grown-up like Mr. Scotty is acting this way. Not only is it completely opposite from the smiling old dog he sees twice a week for ice cream, it is a man who's done a very bad thing trying to cover up for it. The roo can imagine his parents saying, That's not an excuse, young man. Now go to your room and think of a suitable punishment for yourself. We're so disappointed. "You were playing with yourself. Watching us. You're not supposed to."
"You don't understand, Jake." Most of the fear has been replaced by a cold, clear logic that adults--mostly lawyers--use to make horrible things sound justified. Jake watches the shows sometimes, when Scooby-Doo is on reruns. The Schnauzer is walking on his knees over to Jackie, slowly and evenly, as if the cub were a scared cat. His ears lay flat against his skull, eyes lowered, back slumped. "No one got hurt. There's nothing wrong unless someone gets hurt. Or someone tells."
Oh, no, that was Jackie's next line! He wants to inform Mr. Scotty that it has to go like in the videos, he has to run screaming and tell his dad, who will come to the rescue, and the police will show up in the next scene, and everybody'll end up laughing at a movie back home, the mantel cleared and waiting for a shiny new trophy. That Mr. Scotty is thinking of stopping the roo from doing that--well, it's not supposed happen!
"I love you guys, all of you," the dog continues, talking more to himself than to the frightened cub only feet away from him. "You're all so cute out there...playing every week...in those shorts." The thought that Mr. Scotty has been doing this for weeks, as long as they've been playing this summer, maybe for every season, does not ease Jackie's mind. What it does do is, for a fleeting moment, make him wonder what it is about him and his teammates that so captivates this adult, on such a deep level. It certainly isn't their playing ability. He feels a little special, in a twisted sort of way.
Mr. Scotty is reaching for his leg, his large pudgy hand shaking hard. The old canine has to lean forward almost to the point of falling before his soft, black pads stroke a gentle line from the roo's tawny knee down his calf. It is a gesture of admiration, and something Jackie sees as he cringes from the touch is Mr. Scotty heaving a long pent-up sigh, as if claiming something he's sought for so long. The touch somehow breaks the immense hold of gravity and the roo cub yanks his leg away. The dog looks up at him, and his face is still supplicative, but his eyes twitch in hunger. Jackie can't let that happen...he's already seen enough...his day is already ruined.
"I'm sorry." (but he isn't; he's just saying that to be nice) "I-I've got to tell my dad. I've got to go," Jackie explains as best he can, stammeringly close to panic. He backs up a step, but Mr. Scotty follows, actually getting closer. A light breeze whips the scent of Coty Musk and Listerine to the roo's nose, and despair settles in when he recognizes the cologne as the same one his father uses when he takes his mother out to fancy dinners.
Just as the thought of turning to run actually has a chance of convincing his body to do just that, one of those thick hands is around his leg, gripping it like a vise, pinching short furs and pulling them against the grain. Jackie's exhausted calf muscle protests loudly, and he cries out.
"You can't, Jake. I could lose too much. You'd never get any ice cream ever again." Mr. Scotty's voice still retains some warmth, but underneath now lays an odd conviction. "Neither of us would want that, right? You're my favorite customer. You're so cute, in that uniform...your wonderful big tail sticking out like that. You're original."
Jackie stands still, shaking like a leaf, looking slightly down at the kneeling Schnauzer, knowing that as he tries to maintain a tough exterior he's blushing and scared as hell at the same time. He has never wanted to be a wolf, or a fox, or a tiger so much in his life. He doesn't want to be original, if this is what it gets you.
"Please let go," the roo manages to whimper, and knows Mr. Scotty knows he's weak.
"I can't, Jake. I'm not a bad person; I don't hurt little boys like you think. I just watch, but now...you're here...right in front of me. What am I supposed to do, with you looking like that?" Now it was Jackie's fault; none of this would have happened if he weren't so cute. What the old dog says sounds stupid and ineffective, too simple yet horrendously difficult for the roo to understand. Too much floats around in his head, too much of it incomprehensible.
Something is going to happen. Something unavoidable. Mr. Scotty is going to do to Jackie what dirty old men do to boys in the videos. Jackie knows it is a certainty now, but what scares him much, much more is the fact that he knows there are things he's never heard of, or thought of, that Mr. Scotty can do to him. What lies ahead is nothing but a clean white slate of prediction, utterly terrific in its emptiness. He doesn't know what to do, but he has to do something.
So Jackie reaches down and dares to try and pry Mr. Scotty's thick, cloying fingers from his leg. They don't even budge; the hand vibrates with tense effort. "Let go!" he says with manufactured anger, his bent-over state allowing two small tears to fall, wetting the backs of his hands. The old canine loosens his grip, seeing the roo's emotionally-charged state, and Jackie looks at him, sniffling.
Mr. Scotty's voice is soft, placating. "You have to promise me you won't tell anybody, son. This is important. Everything can go back to normal, if you just keep quiet. Do it for your friends. They all like ice cream, right?" There is so much wrong with those sentences Jackie can't even begin to comprehend the perversion in the words. His leg is all but free of the Schnauzer's hand, the canine looking straight into his eyes with an intense expectancy. The roo cub can lie his way out of this, he realizes; all he has to do is tell Mr. Scotty he'll keep his mouth shut and he can go back to his life, and his friends, and his trophy.
But it won't be the same. Mr. Scotty will keep on being the ice cream man on the outside, and a sick kid-watcher in secret. If he doesn't do something now, Mr. Scotty will do something bad to another little boy. Maybe worse. Even though he could lie and tell later, Jackie's upbringing prevents him from being guilt-free, even in this dire situation. He's been taught not to lie too many times; his conscience is too big and powerful to ignore, even when lying could save him from trouble. Jackie is a goody two-shoes; Mr. Scotty sees it, and makes one last move to convince the joey. But when another hand travels up the front of his shorts and presses in on his most private parts, the shock of the touch sends Jackie into an all-out panic.
"I gotta go!!!" the roo shouts, jerking his leg up, and Mr. Scotty's hand is all the way down by his shoe before it clamps shut again, this time with no intention of letting up. Using his powerful leg muscles, Jackie hops backward, taking the Schnauzer with him for a matter of feet before the old man finds purchase in the dirt. The canine's face is a rictus of effort, grabbing for Jackie's moving leg while trying to keep the other one firmly planted. The roo gets only a few more hops in, gaining no ground, before Mr. Scotty stops it as well.
"No, no, no, you are not going anywhere until I show you," snarls the canine, trying to maintain some semblance of a connection between himself and the cub. His balance lost, Jackie has no choice but to fall backward, and his tail automatically pounds the ground to stabilize him. Unfortunately, Jackie's body is angled slightly and a bolt of pain shoots through his twisted spine before it gives out and the roo hits the ground hard, causing an eruption of stars in his head. He claws at the dirt, looking down at the dark canine between his legs who struggles to keep him from escaping.
"HELP!!!" he shouts as loud as he can, and sees the shock on Mr. Scotty's open muzzle before he takes one hand from his leg to close the roo's mouth. Mr. Scotty crawls upright on his knees, and uses them to pin Jackie's flailing limbs with them.
"Jake, you better shut up right now or it'll be worse for you, you know that." The Schnauzer's other hand is again at his groin, snaking under the closely-cut orange fabric and delving directly under his tail. Jackie's eyes widen as Mr. Scotty looks at him, looking for the reaction he wants. He feels a claw rubbing over his tailhole, pressing, sharp and promising much pain. It is an unthinkable violation, a sensation he never wants to experience, if what he feels now is any indication. His arms, until now trying to free his trapped muzzle, fall limply to his sides.
Mr. Scotty continues in a solid, deep voice: "This can hurt, or it can feel real good, son. You don't want to feel good, fine...I'll make it hurt like hell. I don't want that. I want you to know I'm a good guy, if you'll let me." The invisible claw now traces its way up Jackie's groin, brushing the underside of his little sheath. He shivers at the touch, unsure of how to react. Whatever it is, he doesn't want it, any of it. But it seems there is no more choice on his end. That said, it's obvious which way he would rather go, so Jackie stills himself and nods his head.
"You're going to be a good boy and let me do what I want?"
Jackie nods again, this time starting to cry for real. With no more anger left to fight with, all that remains is a deep pool of little-boy fear and loathing.
"Shh, don't be like that," murmurs the Schnauzer, now a seemingly completely different person than just a few moments before. Jackie's muzzle is freed, then stroked, those chubby fingers wiping his tears away. At the same time, more fingers work at his shorts, popping the snaps and pulling incessantly down on them. Mr. Scotty reaches around and undoes the tail snap, and his shorts and briefs go to his knees easily, leaving him naked and humiliated in front of a grown-up. How could he let this happen? The roo's body shudders at the licentious hunger in Mr. Scotty's dark eyes.
"I-I won't tell, I promise," Jackie sputters, trying one last time to save himself from whatever the big old canine has planned. Mr. Scotty is not paying attention; instead, he is fluttering his fingers over the roo's genitals with admiration, causing a stiffening in Jackie's penis that is not unfamiliar, but different somehow.
"I know you won't, not after I'm done with you." The words would sound more sinister if Mr. Scotty wasn't rolling Jackie's tawny sheath in two fingers, muttering, "Eggs over sausage...I like that. Didn't I tell you you were special?" The roo cub is puzzled over the reference until he remembers his reversed genitalia, and suddenly he doesn't want to be a wolf, or a fox, or a tiger so badly. The little lump of fur is beginning to stand up on its own, bringing a tightness not felt ever before. To Jackie it feels like something should be wrong, but it doesn't hurt, so it must be somewhat natural. He remembers how Mr. Scotty looked when he first came around the bushes, and makes the connection.
It occurs to the roo that this is something very adult that Mr. Scotty is doing to him, gently caressing his small, hardening member from its sheath like grown-ups do when they like each other. There is no unliving this memory, no forgetting that he lies unclothed, letting a full-grown man touch him in a way no one should for years and years yet, so he decides to act like an adult, if that's what is happening to him.
"Don't touch me there, Mr. Scotty," he speaks flatly and evenly, despite a growing tingle between his legs that isn't all that bad. "That is wrong. I don't like it. Please stop." There, he said every line the videos told him to say, in a mature voice. Mr. Scotty looks up from the roo's groin, still mesmerized by what his other hand is touching.
"You don't like it? Well, you will. See if you like it now," the Schnauzer retorts, having had enough of Jackie's meager protests, and applies pressure to the roo's sheath, smoothing it down so it opens around the hard little cock, red and slightly curved and only three inches long. Those three inches seem like miles to Jackie, who's never had such an erection before. He looks down his chest, his shirt bobbing up and down with quickened breaths. Mr. Scotty leans in close, so close that his warm breath falls upon the exposed roo-flesh, and then he just...swallows the whole thing.
Like Adam and Eve after the forbidden fruit, carnal knowledge is born in Jackie's mind. There is warmth, and smooth wetness, and a pleasure so intense it makes the joey arch his back and curl his toes like someone twice his age out on a first date. The tears that are at the edges of his eyes from crying a few moments ago now are squeezed out and run down the sides of his head, but for a different reason. Mr. Scotty has to clamp Jackie's mouth shut forcefully after he utters a way-too-loud shriek into the late summer afternoon.
It's like someone has shoved the roo cub into a box and erased any hope for escape, except the box is no longer filled with horrors and nightmares and paranoia, but friends and candy and a new body to try on, just his size. There is no denying Jackie likes the feeling, but it's the way in which he is feeling that is wrong, but he likes it so much, but none of that matters anymore. What matters is how amazing it is to have his mind turned inside out so quickly, and what could come of Mr. Scotty's ministrations at his groin. He feels about ready to explode, but kept back from the edge of that explosion by some intangible, infinitely strong filament. The scent of freshly-turned earth, dug by his small fingers, assaults his flared nostrils.
Intermittent sounds of satisfaction come from both man and cub; one of them fulfilling a lifelong fantasy he never dreamed of achieving, the other busy erasing his conscience in favor of grinding up into a skilled and dexterous tongue. Jackie bites down on Mr. Scotty's hand, and hopes his teeth don't do too much damage to the skin underneath the charcoal fur. Keeping his mouth where it counts, the Schnauzer manages to fumble his pants open, freeing a renewed and uncomfortable erection. He lets it hang in the muggy afternoon air and goes back to balancing above the squirming kid.
Keeping quiet may be what Mr. Scotty wants, but obeying that order proves much more difficult with the old man hard at work on his cock. Jackie knows what is happening, and at the same time he can't believe it, can't possibly begin to appreciate the powerfulness of this act, only that it is what's going on here and now. He gets one good look at Mr. Scotty's busily bobbing head, sees flashes of dark pink, raw flesh revealed and rehidden, then another rush of pleasure sends his head back onto the ground.
Looking for the sky through the canopy of oak leaves, now a deeper blue than before, Jackie can only keep still and moan as Mr. Scotty's tongue does indescribable acrobatics on his member. First it loops around the tapered head, its rough surface teasing the strongest bolts of bliss from the roo's very core. Then the canine's rubbery lips slide down the short shaft and it feels so right, for some reason, followed by that nimble organ curving and cupping the whole of him with easy strokes, tip to sheath, tip to sheath and then down even further, until the pressure threatens to collapse his pelvis. The Schnauzer makes no effort to hide his horny snorts and slurps.
It is during one of those downstrokes, when Mr. Scotty bumps his snout up into the roo's small testicles and massages them, that something finally does break inside Jackie. Through everything else he's feeling, there is a sharp spike in pleasure, then a two-second doldrum before his little penis starts to pulse of its own accord. Goosebumps break out under the fur all over his body, tingling from the tips of his fingers and toes and converging over his lower belly.
The rush is the most intense and mind-blowing thing Jackie has ever felt. Nothing before has taken such forceful control of his mind and body, making both behave in ways inappropriate for a nine-year-old boy. But Jackie didn't have much of a choice, and at the moment, while stars of light explode behind closed eyelids, the roo can't even remember his own name. For all he knows, his cock is God.
Apparently, Mr. Scotty knows exactly what is happening when he feels Jackie's frame shiver and spasm, so he bottoms out and settles for gentle licks on the underside of the preadolescent meat in his maw. The young roo has lost the ability to speak, or even move, as tense as he is during the first orgasm of his life. The big old Schnauzer hums quietly, adding vibration to the experience.
Just as quick as it came on, though, the climax peaks and tapers off markedly. Sound returns to the day, and Mr. Scotty stops humming. He takes a few more loving licks of that flaming shaft and pulls off, the shock of air to wet flesh bringing Jackie the rest of the way back to reality. A heavy veil lifts from his mind, and suddenly he is again just a kid, half-naked in the bushes with a dirty old pedophile. The sudden rush of guilt and fear that pounce on his post-coital mind is unexpected and unwanted.
Mr. Scotty takes his hands away, letting Jackie sit up on his elbows and survey his groin. The Schnauzer looks back at him, expressionless, satisfied but just as guilty as the roo himself. Fur is matted between Jackie's legs, and correspondingly, Mr. Scotty's mouth. A thin, crystalline strand of saliva connects his still-hard dick with the man's moustache, dripping with moisture, and he thinks it's the most disgusting thing he's ever seen. Funny, he thinks, you would've thought that was exciting a minute ago.
A voice, yelling but still far away, rebounds off the trees and hits both canine and marsupial ears. Jackie knows it is the voice of his father, and by the look on the roo's face Mr. Scotty knows it too. The two exchange expressions of chagrin and shame, but Mr. Scotty is the one who takes advantage of the moment.
"Uh-oh," he murmurs, crawling toward the little joey's still-spread body, intimidating him. "You're in trouble now, boy. Look what you've done, all messed up. No doubt about it, so much trouble. Your dad's going to be so disappointed in you." There's that word: disappointed, more than upset, more than furious, the worst thing a parent can be with their child. As those horrible words issue from Mr. Scotty's mouth, the roo can also see a concrete terror in the dog's eyes, as if he's every bit afraid of Jackie's dad as Jackie himself. No matter what Mr. Scotty's game is. It's clear that he has finished what he wanted to, and no harm will come to him now.
Jackie scampers backwards and stands up, almost tripping over his doffed clothing before pulling it haphazardly over his (amazingly) unsheathed member and snapping everything up, wincing at the ultra-sensitive nature of his genitalia. Hopefully what Mr. Scotty did to him isn't permanent; how will he explain that to his dad? As bad as he feels, though, he doesn't think his father will ever know a thing.
"You better get out of here quick, Jake. You dirty, depraved little slut." Mr. Scotty's face twists into something scrunched, awful as he slurs those last few words. It scares Jackie to whimpering, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the old dog doesn't follow him out of the bushes with more on his mind. It will be years before words like "transference" and "justification" mean more than extra credit on spelling tests.
He tries to run out of the woods, but stops when the tight cotton of his briefs rubs painfully against the little tent in his shorts. Settling for a quick walk, he breaks through into the still-strong late afternoon sunlight, seeing his father almost immediately. The tall kangaroo makes long strides over to his son, his body silhouetted as he bends over and picks the boy up, smiling.
"Hey, champ, I was beginning to think you fell in. What took you so long?" Jackie's father sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose and gingerly setting the cub back on the ground. "And what've you been into? You smell awful."
Jackie looks at himself in a panic, afraid there might be something egregiously incriminating on his clothes. All he sees is ground-in dirt, a few leaves and his own sweatstains. "I went to the bathroom, and then thought I saw something neat by the river. I guess I was checking it out too closely, I lost track of the time. Sorry," he lies, feeling proud and awful simultaneously at the ease with which his words came out.
"Well, you dirty boy, where do you want to go to celebrate?" his father asks, starting off back in the direction of the bleachers, guiding his son along with him. "It's not every day you win a whole championship with your tail." The big roo tousles his kid's hair, and Jackie giggles, feeling even horribler on the inside.
"I don't know. Where do you wanna go?"
"What do you mean, 'me?' Don't you want to go down to Baskin Robbins for a triple-scoop waffle cone, huh? I bet they'll have all three of your favorite flavors this time. They really should stock all thirty-one, you know."
The thought of ice cream is not one Jackie wants to entertain at this moment. His stomach turns over itself, his mind replaying bits and pieces of the last ten minutes against his will. Fighting for an excuse, he stammers, "My stomach's kind of upset, Dad. I don't think ice cream is a good idea."
Jackie's dad stops, looking at him speculatively. This gaffe is so totally unlike Jackie, refusing an offer of ice cream when it is just about his most favorite food on the planet. But, an upset stomach is an upset stomach, and it seems the young roo's father believes him. After all, Jackie wouldn't lie, would he? Not about something as silly as that. "Then what, kiddo? You hungry for anything? Your choice, anywhere you want."
Anywhere but here, Jackie thinks, but says instead, "How about just some leftovers?" As his father snorts a chuckle at a joke that was never there in the first place, the roo ventures a look back and swears he sees a pair of hidden eyes watching him, their owner doing dirty, unmentionable things...and that wrong but wonderful tingle returns between his legs...
* * *
Jacob Donnelly's hand sped up with masterful strokes, a technique honed by years upon years of practice. He waited until just the right moment, then thrust his hips upward as he felt the first spasms rack his cock. His eyes were closed, so the splatter of warm stickiness across his face was a complete shock, both in its sudden presence and the fact that semen rarely traveled so far when he masturbated. Smiling and continuing to lewdly hump the air above his bed, Jacob waited for the rest of his front to be likewise covered in cum before he let the collected breath from his lungs.
Within seconds, afterglow began to set in and the kangaroo carefully opened his eyes, making sure not to get any seed in them. If the splatters he felt were surprising, seeing the thick strings of white crisscrossing his head and chest was downright flabbergasting. His hand was matted all over; most of his load was already soaking in to the skin and some dripped from his chin. The number of wads he had shot with that volume he could count only on both hands, and that was saying something, since Jacob had lost count somewhere above ten thousand when he was sixteen years old.
"Well, Jackie, your son is--oh, for God's sake, would you at least have the sense to lock the damn door when you're jacking off in here? Anybody could walk in." Emily, his loving but often too-prudent wife, had entered the door with a load of her own, whites fresh from the dryer, when she spied her husband with his spent erection in his hand. "Besides, you're making me feel useless."
Jacob sat up, bending over himself before realizing there was no point in front of Emily, who had seen him nude and aroused (not to mention masturbating, which was a frequent thing though their sex life was very active) plenty of times. Her tone was scolding, but she couldn't help but smile as she talked. It was cute, seeing her big man of a kangaroo stroking himself to a quick come every once and again.
"Sorry, hon," replied Jacob, bluffing. "You know how nervous game days get me. All great soccer players have to relieve tension every once in awhile."
"Get off it, Jackie. You played soccer as a kid, for three years. You don't expect me to believe that thin vicarious excuse again, do you?" Emily sat the pile of freshly-cleaned white laundry down in an oversized wicker chair and walked over to the larger male, placing each of her hands on one outstretched knee. "So who was it this time, that made you cream all over yourself? The girl next door? Some bimbo you saw down at the stupid striphouse your buddies drag you to? A guy, I don't know."
"Emi-lee, it wasn't anybody," her husband lied.
"Was it me? Because I'd be flattered for once."
"Your cynicism is duly noted," muttered Jacob, pecking his wife on the nose.
"Anyway, you had better start getting ready. Your son has a game in an hour and we have to stop by the photo place and pick up the birthday pics, and a new battery for my camera. That digital thing eats them up like nobody's business."
"When do we have to leave?"
"Pretty much as soon as you can get your ass cleaned up and presentable," said Emily, and bent to take a long, deep draw from Jacob's spent shaft. He yelped and grabbed at her hair, but made no move to pull her off. She came up licking her lips, and made a face. "Bacon and eggs, yecch. Remind me to cook you something sweet for breakfast next time."
Jacob laughed and swatted her with a pillow. "Bitch."
"Fag," Emily shot back, exiting the room before he could retort. Jacob hadn't heard that term in the longest time. God knew the times he'd called himself that, in the first few years following that fateful soccer game. It was all so stupid, so immature. But it never failed to get a rise out of him when Emily wasn't around to lend a helping hand, despite the passing of twenty-six years.
The kangaroo heard the voices of his wife and son downstairs, getting things ready to go for their big day. Jake Jr. had been waiting a long week for the Fairfield Junior Soccer Championship of 2005, and today was going to be his big chance to defend the goalie, just like Jacob had done. Jacob loved his son, and was very proud of him, but he was careful not to live his life through Jake Jr.'s achievements. The boy was a natural athlete, being a kangaroo, and Jacob's trophy case served as a constant incentive for him to try his best.
Quick footsteps came up the stairs, and Jacob had barely enough time to pull the bed around his nudity before his son bounded into the room, a ball of seemingly endless energy. When he saw his father still in bed, at ten o'clock in the morning no less, he looked disappointed. The worst thing a son can be with his father.
"Daddy, come on! We gotta go, or I won't get to warm up! Mom says you're gonna get in trouble real soon." Jake Jr. hopped onto the bed and tried to pull Jacob off, but his father stayed put for obvious reasons. The little roo was already dressed and waiting. The uniform was the same color as his had been, but the style had evolved much. Now, the clothes looked positively baggy...but very comfortable to play in.
"Hold your horses, son," said Jacob. "Why don't you scoot downstairs and help your mom pack the car, hmm? I'm sure she would appreciate it. I'll be down in five minutes, I promise, or else you can play with my tail all the way to the field. Deal?" Jake Jr. had a habit of pulling his father's tail any time he could reach it, and it annoyed the hell out of him, which is why the kid had so much fun doing it.
Jake Jr. jumped down and pointed at his father, yelling, "Deal!" and ran back downstairs. Jacob chuckled and slid out of the bed, locking the door and hurrying to the shower to wash the spunk from his fur. As the water warmed, he did a few yoga stretches on the floor, satisfied every time a bone cracked and the sound resounded in his head. He stood up and went to the window, looking out the second story of the modest house he and Emily had saved two years to finance. The sun shined powerfully over the neighborhood, the heat already promising to be sweltering by early afternoon.
He turned, and just before he entered the bathroom he gave one last look at the trophy he had won in 1979, sitting dust-covered among other dust-covered objects. The excitement, the joy, the dread, pleasure, humiliation and guilt of that day...all were there, just like they always had been whenever he looked at that trophy. Why he kept it in plain view, especially in his bedroom, was a mystery. Perhaps it was one more way of staying young. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was all a bunch of bullshit.
Nevertheless, as Jacob stepped into the steam of the shower and directed the spray to his head, giving in to the familiar rejuvenation of it, he decided that he would keep a close eye on his son, during and after the game.
FIN
11/2-11/11/05