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Accidents Happen, part two

Written by Amethyst Mare (Arian Mabe)

Commissioned by an anonymous commissioner

Gert woke slowly. Like the conclusion of a cliché flick, he wanted it to all have been a dream. The bed sheets twined about his body were not his own and stank of cheap laundry detergent and old, dried sweat, cloth caked into an impression of one body. Outside, birds sang but the song fell upon deaf ears, a fur too caught up in his own misery to consider the rare beauty around him, the touch of wildness in the home he temporarily inhabited. He did not know how long he would have to stay under its leaky roof and did not dare consider returning to his little apartment, despite the damp and the nosy roommate. That damn cat was always in his personal space but Gert found himself missing the scruffy tom, chatting over a takeaway after a late shift and grunting at one another in the morning, often hung-over. The sheepdog rolled on to his stomach and shoved his head beneath the pillow, closing his eyes against the threat of tears. It was a dream. Please let it be a dream.

Gert's new reality was only just beginning.

"Morning, sunshine."

Michael yawned from his position on top of Gert's crotch, teeth white-yellow in the sun that filtered through the threadbare, tan curtain. Nothing had changed overnight and, as it had been the day before, only Michael's head remained after his accident, transplanted on to Gert in a motion that the sheepdog now sorely regretted. It had not been worth the money, to have another fur's head stuck to him: was hindsight not a wonderful thing? Gert wagered it was mid-morning, judging by the dimly lit bedroom. It would be lighter in other parts of the house, but a North-facing bedroom did little to snatch up the morning rays. It was terribly designed. Regardless of the truth, Michael would not hear a bad word against the house he had lived in for the past god knows how many years. Nearing a feral canine in his loyalty, he defended his home with a bitten tongue.

The Akita yawned again and Gert wrinkled his muzzle, stifling a sneeze - an instinctive reaction.

"Yeuch." Gert shuddered, holding a paw over his sensitive nose to ward off the stench. "You stink. Haven't you... Never mind. Come on, let's get you brushed."

"Brushed?" Michael blinked drowsiness from his eyes: he did not sleep, only rested.

The sheepdog held down the growl building in his throat, which threatened to rip its way out. He had to be patient; he had to put up with Michael. There had to be way to separate the two of them and he did not want the mangy mutt coming after him once he again had his own legs. He was vicious enough as it was.

"Your teeth!"

The words came out more sharply than intended and the Akita shook his blocky muzzle, ears falling flat to his skull.

"No need to be getting snappy at me," he growled, lips curling back from his teeth. "I'm not the one that signed up to this - _you_fucking did. You gotta do your bit now. Or else what are you going to fucking do? Fuck all, is that it?"

To highlight his sleep-stained words, the Akita narrowed his eyes and tilted his head far back to look up at Gert, canines shining with saliva. Fear shot through Gert, dissipating as swiftly as it had appeared, and he shook his head, heart pounding from the sudden shot of adrenaline. Sure, Michael could snap and growl and snarl at him to his heart's content - did the canine have a heart anymore or was Gert's heart now his heart? - but he had already tried to sink his jaws into the sheepdog's leg. The most Michael _could_do was graze his teeth through Gert's fur and that was hardly a problem, if a little disgusting to deal with another's saliva.

The sheepdog ran a paw through the fur on top of his head. There was no point in arguing.

"Come on," he said with a sigh, swinging his legs out of bed to land on the bare, creaky floorboards. "Bathroom time."

The process of getting clean and taking care of Michael was tedious at best. Gert had gotten used to it, though he could not bring himself to enjoy it. Family members had once been care workers and nurses respectively - his sister and mother - and had returned home most nights with tales of angst-ridden furs and outrageous demands left, right and centre. Looking after the grumpy, whining Akita was something like that, except he could never get any peace from the dog. Michael did not even need to sleep, though he closed his eyes when Gert went to bed, falling into a daze of sorts that Gert was yet to explain. Driving energy to Michael's brain, a second large organ to support, exhausted Gert and consumed greater and greater amounts of food simply to function normally.

In the bathroom, cleaned to the best of Gert's ability and the supplies held within the rickety home, the sheepdog's muzzle twisted and he held Michael's head still as he stepped close to the toilet, the lid of which was already raised. He was still unhappy with the remaining stench of canine waste; nothing seemed to quell it and the whole room reeked. It did not bother Michael at all, however, unlike some things.

"Dude..." Michael grumbled. "Can't you hold it?"

Gert stiffened. Stupid mutt.

"This is not pleasant for me either, I will have you know."

Grimacing, Michael pressed his thumbs to the underside of Michael's jaw, tail lifting as he released a stream of urine. In the absence of his penis, the urethra was somehow connected to Michael's muzzle - neither of them could discern the exact workings - so, if the canine's head was tilted, the liquid would trickle over his tongue around through his teeth. Angling himself over the toilet bowl, Gert pushed his hips down so that urine dripped from Michael's muzzle into the bowl, the Akita mumbling in disgust as he was used so degradingly.

"I fucking hate that," Michael muttered. "Get this taste out of my mouth! Where's my toothbrush? Clean my muzzle. Aren't you done yet? Hurry up."

Through the rest of the bathroom routine and down the stairs to the grimy kitchen - in a better state than it had been - Michael wore on Gert's patience. The Akita rubbed the side of his brown muzzle against Gert's leg as if he was a piece of furniture, slobbering all the while, talking and talking and talking. The sheepdog tuned out the majority but the droning babble toyed with his last nerve. He shook himself, blinking away tiredness from the corners of his eyes. He needed to sleep again. Eight or nine hours were no longer enough for him. Twelve would have been ideal if Michael did not shout and bark and wake him up out of his own boredom. It wasn't Gert's fault the stupid mutt got bored.

Michael barked a laugh, dragging Gert's attention back to him and him alone.

"And, like, if you're gonna be stuck with me for longer," Michael continued, oblivious to Gert's growing frustration, "you're gonna have to take better care of my fur, groom me. I can't do it myself now and it's all I've got left. When are you going to put the TV on? Turn it on. I want to see."

"Will you be quiet?" Gert heaved a sigh and leaned against the back of Michael's ratty armchair, TV box a few feet in front of it at perfect viewing distance. "Haven't you had enough of that weird Spanish show anyway? The static makes my ears ring."

The canine cocked his head, throat working with a comeback that required lungs and, therefore, would not come. He could not make some guttural sounds that he used to and that irked the dog to greater heights.

"Excuse me, princess." Michael rolled his eyes. "Now who's got their panties in a twist. So_sorry_, is this deal not good enough for you any longer? Could grab a few cents for you from down the back of the chair, if ya like. Pay you for your time."

"It's not that..."

Gert struggled to find suitable words.

"Just it's all the same," he said at last, throwing his paws in the air. "We're supposed to go back to the doctor soon, to see what can be done even though they said that this is it, it's always going to be like this."

The Akita snorted, spraying a wad of snot across the room.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine. A right comedian. Do you do stand up?"

"Shut up!"

In a fit of fury, Gert's paw balled into a fist before his mind caught up with his body. White hot anger scorched through him, lungs raw with emotion, and he drove his clenched fist down towards Michael's head with as much force as he could put behind it. It went against something instinctive, to attempt to strike something that was attached to his body, yet Michael was not of his body, so he did not stop.

His fist connected with flesh and bone, the Akita letting out a surprised yelp and jerking back and away with the blow. It was only then that the impact registered with Gert as anything other than shock.

"Fuck!"

Gert yowled, doubling over clutching his crotch - Michael's head cradled between his paws. Pain like nothing else ripped through his abdomen and he frantically rubbed the canine's head, trying to soothe away the pain, despite the only cure for such hurt being time alone. His punch had not been hard enough to cause any damage, so all he could do was hunch over like an invalid, moaning and rubbing the hurt away second by second. It was excruciating. Even getting kicked in the balls did not compare to this!

When the pain subsided, it left the memory behind. Gert was slow to uncurl from his hunched position and straightened cautiously, as if he expected the deep throbbing to return with a vengeance. For a moment, he felt utterly stupid. He should have thought of the implications of striking Michael. The outcome could never have been good and he had acted out of anger like a puppy throwing a tantrum.

Massaging his scalp (he had a pounding headache), he looked down with a sheepish twitch of his lips that did not quite make it into a smile.

"I won't be doing that again," he finally managed to gasp out.

Michael stared at him, eyes watering.

"Ya think?!"

The sheepdog looked from left to right and twisted his paws together. It had been stupid. He wanted nothing more than to flee from the scene with his tail between his legs.

"Yeah, yeah," Gert waved his paw, unwilling to face the embarrassment of his actions. "I'm sorry, all right? You're getting to me."

The Akira stared at him, muscles twitching with fury beneath his short fur.

"Oh, sure," Michael growled. "Ya'll are sorry, like that makes everything all fine and dandy and great again. That hurt, you cock!"

"Watch your language," Gert retorted, cheeks noticeably hot. "It was an accident."

"Look who's talking about language and like hell it was. If I wasn't stuck here, I'd give it to you. You wouldn't be fucking walking now dog, no one hits me."

Biting his lower lip, Gert knew full well that Michael was right and was acutely aware of the helpless situation he could not help but believe that he had put the dog in. Michael would likely have been able to flatten him in a fight, leave him half for dead and more. And now Gert was the one throwing punches like a bar brawler after too many drinks. Perhaps it would have been better if Michael had died in the accident, if being made weak, unable to ever do anything for himself, was the end result. Gert could not imagine being put in the same position, never having a say in the matter.

No, he had to wait for further hospital appointments to decide on the future course of action. They would know better than he and, of course, Michael would have a say in what happened. He was half of the decision.

"Let's not do this right now," Gert turned to trot up the stairs in search of clothes, though he did not bother with them around Michael's house. "We have to go out, there's no food left here."

"You gonna shove me in your pants again?" Michael muttered.

"You bet."

*

"I can't believe you fucking hit me," Michael muttered.

Gert ground his teeth together and stared out the car window at the furs passing, gauging how busy it was. The little grocery shop was his goal, though he doubted Michael would take too keenly to the fresh fruit and vegetables he wanted to purchase. Then again, Michael would not be the one eating them. He had tried spaghetti hoops from the food cupboard, enjoyed the taste and spat them out on the floor. Swallowing food led to a non-existent stomach and an evidently intact gag reflex.

"It wasn't exactly a walk in the park for me either," he replied, tugging his loose jeans up a little higher.

Sitting in the car with his jeans pulled low to allow Michael space was far from comfortable and Gert flinched anytime another fur plodded too close to his car, shrinking back into the seat. He had parked in the furthest corner of the tiny parking lot for privacy and dreaded the minute he would have to set paw outside the vehicle. The bulge in his pants was sure to draw attention and there was no possible way to tell how random furs would react.

He guessed he would soon find out. Taking a deep breath, he tapped Michael's head to get his attention.

"You ready?"

"I suppose."

Ignoring Michael grumbling, Gert lifted his rump from the seat and pulled his jeans up, tucking the Akita's head down into his loose boxers and under the denim. He shook his head, swallowing his nerves: the bulge left by the head was even larger than he remembered. He looked like some grotesquely hung stallion, to the point of being terrifying.

He would have to be quick.

Scrambling from the car, Gert fumbled for his keys and slammed the door shut, making the vehicle shake. Bravery that he had not known he possessed drove one paw in front of the other and he trotted at an awkward, brisk clip across the parking lot, trying to keep his legs a normal distance apart. Though he bumped Michael's head - to a melody of grumbles and growls - several times, he found that normal movement could be obtained if he was careful.

He pushed open the door to the grocer's - there was no automatic sliding door - and stepped inside with a sigh. Though he had not encountered any other furs in his mad jaunt to the store, he quailed at the thought of navigating the aisles. Could he be sly? Nimble? The sheepdog rose to the challenge, resolution solidifying into a steely thought. Snatching up a basket, he spun about, scanned the fruit and vegetable aisle and froze.

"Hey there!"

The cashier, an otter clad in a green store uniform, stood up straight with his paws clasped on the counter before him. Tilting his head to the side, he fiddled with the roll of receipt paper, appearing to make no headway on a problem that was not entirely evident to the terrified Gert. Angling the basket in front of his body, he raised a paw in a half-hearted wave.

"Er, hi," Gert fumbled and answered as politely as he was able. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you!" The cheerful otter chirped. "Is there anything I can help y'all with today?"

"No, nothing at all, thank you," Gert hastily beat a retreat. "I have everything under control!"

"Oh, well, just let me know if I can help with anything..." He said, trailing off as if disappointed that there would be no further conversation.

It was a friendlier area than Gert was used to and he felt guilty darting so swiftly into the aisles.

"He was nice!"

Jerking to a halt, Gert's back went ramrod straight and his muzzle flushed as he glared at the bulge, legs bowed.

"I can't talk to him now," Gert hissed out the whisper between his teeth. "I'm sure he was nice enough really. But I couldn't talk. What if he had seen you?"

The bump moved and snorted, a rush of hot air brushing over Gert's inner thighs.

"He's short-sighted anyway."

The sheepdog rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his neck. Michael always had to have a comeback, didn't he?

"How do you know that?"

"He's my friend, idiot!"

"Don't call me that," Gert growled, showing a flash of teeth, the intimidating factor of which went unseen. "And fucking be quiet, you got it?"

The lump fell still.

"All right, all right. Boss."

Yes, that's right, Gert thought. I am the boss.

Michael would do well to remember who was really in charge and it was with a bounce in his stride that the sheepdog dove into the aisles, tossing products into his basket seemingly at random. Gathering the basics was easy for the kitchen-savvy dog and he had a practiced paw when it came to picking up bargains, though the small town grocer had fewer of those than he was used to. The produce, at least, was fresh and he was sure he would be able to whip up something delectable from it. Money, after the transplant, was admittedly no objective and he could afford to treat himself marginally, even if his student days still stayed his paw from pricier lines.

As a quick nod to Michael, Gert grabbed a bar of dog-friendly chocolate and a single pack of cheetos from the snack shelves on his way to the checkout. He was not partial at all to junk food, but figured that Michael would enjoy the taste, if the cheeto dust around his home was anything to go by. Perhaps it would keep the canine sweet towards him. Otherwise, it was something to occupy his gob for a time and would keep the blasted mutt quiet.

Holding the basket over his crotch, which proved to be a surprisingly natural position, Gert licked his lips, heart hammering madly. Normally, he would have made use of a self-scan machine - no fur on fur contact necessary - and be done with the whole sorry ordeal, leaving with his goodies in minutes. The little grocers did not boast such a checkout. He wondered if he should make a run for it, yet his sense of integrity kept him rooted in place, unable to dash out the door or make his way to the otter cashier.

Well, if the otter was indeed short sighted, he hoped it would work in his favour. If not, it was not as if he would ever see the cashier again...right?

His attempts at self-reassurance fell on a frantic mind and scattered thoughts, comfort shattered. Trembling as if he had run a race, the sheepdog walked slowly enough to draw attention towards the checkout, angling himself away from the curious stare of a young, brown polecat. Only the elderly walked with such a plod in their shuffling step and it drew notice for such a young fur to be doing the same. He didn't mind if they thought him disabled in some manner. It was better than the truth.

Walking up to the same cashier with all the bravo he could muster, Gert shuddered and placed his basket on the designated counter space, scraping over the top.

"Just these, please," he squeaked at the otter, voice unusually high pitched.

"Sure!" He smiled, happy to have the conversation. "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"

The otter made no move to unpack Gert's basket and the sheepdog shuffled closer to the counter, hoping he could hide his condition with the close proximity and angle. He lifted one paw to the basket and then uncertainly returned it to his side. Was he to unload his basket? What was going on? Nothing was happening the way he expected it to. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaking into the streak of white fur.

"Er...can I get...checked out here?"

Gert fumbled with the words. It was still sometimes strange to speak English instead of German, but he was becoming more used to the unusual language patterns after so much time in the country. He thought cashiers would usually unload baskets in such a store if they were manning a checkout without a conveyer belt, in which case he would absolutely be expected to unload his own items. Why were things suddenly different? The sheepdog's breath acme in short, harsh pants, stress clouding his mind with irrelevant thoughts about shopping and every past experience he had had in the states. What was he to do?"

The otter's eyes brightened as if he had been abruptly reanimated.

"Sure!" The otter smiled and tapped the counter before him. "Pass me your items please, sir, and I'll have them checked out for y'all now."

Small town quirks... Gert shook his head. Only one cashier and they expected him to hand the items to them personally? It was most peculiar. Gert was not in a position to complain, however, and handed every item from his basket to the otter, who zapped the barcode or keyed in the item code for loose groceries whenever needed, making small talk that Gert answered with the vaguest string of 'mhm''s he could muster. After scanning his items, the otter slid them down to the other end of the counter where a pile of paper bags awaited Gert. Apparently he was meant to bag his own groceries too. Did he have to do everything himself?

His irritation made him clumsy and, as he paced to the other end of the counter, he stepped away too far. The otter, smiling, glanced down at the unusual protrusion, caught only by the corner of his eye, and faltered, eyes going wide and lips sucking into a thin, speechless line. The swell in Gert's jeans twitched, occupant unaware of the attention he had garnered. The otter took a step back, dragged his eyes away and tried to look anywhere but directly at Gert, traitor to his own curiosity.

Gert's flushed a shade of scarlet that was visible through the white fur on his cheeks and he shoveled his groceries into paper bags at lightning speed, mixing up items that did not belong together. Though he stepped as closer to the counter as possible, even bumping poor Michael's head into the hard surface, the damage had already been done. He could not bring himself to look at the otter as he flung some notes and coins in his general direction, knowing that it was more than enough to cover what he had purchased.

"Right!" Gert's voice came out in a high-pitched squeak. "Goodbye then! Thank you! Take care!"

The otter raised a paw in half a wave, muzzle twisting as he tried to regain a neutral expression and failed dismally. Gert dashed for the door, tail tucked between his legs as he dared not look around to take note of anyone else that had observed the exchange. He could not think of the consequences. Would the cashier talk? No! He had to get out, get home to where he'd be safe. In his jeans, Michael grunted as he was unduly jostled.

The otter shook his head at Gert's retreating back.

"Um...have a good day, sir. Don't you need your receipt?"

*

"Gavin's gonna think you're a freak," Michael gloated.

Once home, Gert freed his 'guest' from the confines of his jeans, tossing the clothing over the back of the cleanest, straight-backed, wooden chair he could find. Sure, it was broken, but he would take broken over filthy when it came to storage at Michael's place.

"You are a freak," Gert muttered in retort, still sore over the experience.

"Oh shut up."

It made Gert feel better to snap at Michael, but did not neutralise the memory as he wished it would. Day by day, his aggravation mounted and the incident at the grocer's was the cherry on top of the glorious cake of humiliation. He hoped things would not get any worse, yet did not dare to dare the gods to do their worst to him. He had tempted fate more than enough.

Sighing - he seemed to do a lot of that of late - the sheepdog flopped into the armchair in front of the TV, one paw on top of Michael's head as if to keep him in place. Without thinking, he ran his fingertips over the Akita's skull, hips pushing up into the touch when an unexpected shiver of pleasure emanated through his body. Confused by the strange sensation, Gert repeated the motion, a tremor wracking him as the feeling gleaned could only be described as...sexual. Sitting up straight, Gert looked down at his crotch, wide eyed.

"Hey...that feels kinda good," Michael said. "Do it again."

Gert gulped, but his own curiosity was too great for him to stave off the touch of his paw. Tentatively, he stroked between Michael's ears, gritting his teeth together as a rush of pleasure flooded through him, something that he had almost forgotten in the turbulence of the transplant and all that came with it. The Akita turned his head from side to side, growling softly as he was petted, feeling a different kind of pleasure to Gert that induced a feral desire for more. He was half-feral as it was, if truth was told.

"Oh god..." Gert grasped the arm of the chair, rubbing the Akita's head with the flat of his paw.

It was good, too good. It was like...no, no. It could not be like pleasing himself, masturbating. But every stroke sent such ripples of pleasure through him that the sheepdog could not find the heart in him to stop. He had not gotten off since the whole ordeal had began and his body craved release. It could be the reason behind his snappiness, or at least part of it. Gert bit his lip to hold back his pants and thrust up into his paw, working over Michael's head and throat with a gentle, firm touch. Beneath his palm, the canine huffed, nudging into the petting with the insistence of a house dog given the treat of attention by his owner.

Michael whined in a high-pitched, plaintive note, a dog begging its master for more attention. Gert tried to ignore him, thankful only for that fact that Michael allowed him to treat him as such. If the dog enjoyed it, there was little to no objection to the matter and Gert strove to ignore the stirrings of guilt in his chest. Was he using Michael? Was Michael using him? He shook himself, fur fluffing up from his body. He couldn't think like that. He had more important things to take care of. Scratching carefully down the sides of Michael's throat, Gert shivered at the sensation, so unlike anything he could have ever done with his penis, too sensitive to handle the touch of claws or teeth.

In his mind, Gert slipped away from the scene, imagining his lover in his arms. He, of course, was the more dominant party in the relationship and took great satisfaction from pinning Jay down to the bed, driving into his rump with deep, rolling thrusts. As his paw worked more fervently, Gert's tongue lolled from his muzzle, moving behind Michael's ear as he tried to glean even more pleasure from the experience. Need rose in his stomach and he tried to stave it off, resist the animalistic urge to orgasm, hump his way to a quick climax. There was no way for the needy to hold off, however, and Gert gave a growl that turned into a whine, squeezing Michael's head to a soft moan.

Using both paws, Gert rubbed frantically over Michael's head, ruffling up his fur the wrong way. Neither of them cared for the discomfort, though Gert felt the same background irritation from having his fur stroked in the wrong direction. Both focused on the on rush of ecstasy, welling up behind the damn, and Gert whimpered softly, shuddering as the strange climax crept closer and closer.

Orgasm hit the sheepdog and he arched up from the chair, whole body trembling at the sheer, overwhelming force of it. His tail shook as if grabbed by another fur and he yelped out sharply, shoulders pressed to the chair and hind paws planted firmly upon the crusty carpet. Blood seemed to rush from his extremities and Gert's fingers tingled with cold, though he bucked through the remnants of his climax, thrusting as if he was driving into his partner's tail hole, his hot depths. Ropes of cum shot from somewhere deeper than would have been natural, pouring into the Akita's mouth and flooding over his tongue. Michael gulped, throat working, as viscous cum dripped from his lips and no further, due to the angle they were in upon the chair. He licked his lips, cleaning them of the moisture and grunted in satisfaction, half-feral mind thinking no more of the act. The release drained Gert as if he had worked in the sun for a whole day, leaving him glowing with tiredness and slumped in the chair, as limp as a rag doll.

Panting, Gert groaned and let his head fall back against the back of the chair, eyes closed. Just what had his life become? Was that sex for him now? He did not want to think about it. In the afterglow, he flipped on the TV, letting the static of the Spanish soap opera lull him to a sleep filled with uneasy dreams. Between his legs, the Akita was unpredictably quiet, eyes lidded as he rested in a canine half-slumber, somewhere between the world of waking and dreaming.

In the pocket of his discarded jeans, Gert's phone buzzed.