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Is he in the curvature of the bottle? His face...

_Glen.

To my shame, this is an obsession, now. A permanency of attention that threatens my natural habits with replacement by itself.

Is he in the bottom of the pint? We'll have to empty it and see. Like a mirror.

Is he in the ice in the glass of bourbon? Is he there? I need to see every one, refracted, reflected, reflexive, empty the glass. Every one of them. Where is his face? Where is he?_

At first, Faris is only aware of a lump on the side of the road, with membranous stretches of canvas crumpled under and beside it in the rain. The smell of the dark side of the city, the foul wretches walking with shoulders hunched under the weight not of water, but soulless depression. This is ugly, dirty, and unsafe, for anyone else. He doesn't come here often. Only for the games, for the games and the gambling, and the secrecy that comes with the threat of robbery and death.

It feels good, to open your mouth and drink the acid rain every now and then.

The cloth that ripples in the wind and rain is interspersed with a deep, deep blue, like the sky would be if the lights didn't pollute the air. He gives it a second glance. This is a furred being, or was. Vomit residue stains the cracked sidewalk by its head.

A predator does not often find it in himself to go out of his way to help another, but Faris feels that it may be a good idea, this once. Somehow, it will help him in the future. Call it karmic intuition. Call it anything at all. Don't forget it; don't ever forget it. It's... you have to believe it when it comes. It is inadvisable to leave this person by himself for the night. He needs another human being. He needs to be held, and to be felt.

So the predator turns from his way.

Through the rain, Faris walks to the still, corpse-like fellow being. It's smaller than he, but then, most people are. Most people are smaller than a seven-foot husky, but this is even smaller than those other, small people. It's shrivelled up, weak, and posessed of... some kind of... karmic value.

The closer he gets, the shallower his breath becomes. It seems impossible. Surely, surely this is not who he thinks it is. Impossible. A creature of such strength, a creature of such force of will and command not only of self but of others is not here, lying on the sidewalk, inches from choking in vomit, drenched in rain on the dark side of the city. Neon breaks the eyes in its harsh and wonderful light over the body. Cigarettes disintegrate in the street. Glass shards betray bare feet. And this is where he has landed?

Faris slowly, carefully, picks up the small body in his powerful arms and cradles it against his chest in the rain, water dripping off everything. Why has he thought of this man so much recently? Why, after one night, is he immutable in his thoughts? This intuition has guided him here, but why?

The creature in his arms shivers quietly for a moment and then curls closer against his broad chest and the soaked tee shirt covering it, pulling in his wings tight against his back. He is half-awake, in the midst of a half-dream of half-drunkenness and subconsciousness. "Why," comes the half-whisper of that voice, so desperate, so deeply cut, and so fresh, "Why did I know it was going to be you?"

His eyes aren't even open. He can feel Faris without having to see him. "No one was supposed to see you, were they, Siber?"

The head, face still hidden, shakes. "I've been constructed... by myself... to be esoteric and invisible. A fragment of a stain on someone's consciousness... not a drunk in a gutter..." Even half-asleep, he speaks in poetry; in carefully guided and guised half-sentences and phrases, as a form of half-gauze for the self-inflicted wound of exposure. "You can leave me. You have my permission, whatever it is it would take to make you willing to put me down and go away."

"No." Faris shakes his head. "I have my own place here. We'll go there."

One eye drifts open. There is an unreadable expression. "Suit yourself." It closes again.

The intoxicated rain pours down on the two of them, graying them out of the inebriated neon lights and drunken city gutters. An observer would watch them until they descended and faded, melted into the hammering, smashing rain that ploughs through the trash of a wasted city.

Faris lays him down on the sofa and looks at his still form. He seems tense even in the sleep of drunkenness. Nothing is enough for him. Nothing is what he is looking for. Nothing is the sense of completion he needs. Everything he does is a temporary fix; a self-made delusion so he can ignore the pain for one more hour, one more day, one more week, one more year. Faris can see that, and it makes him want to hold the wolf close to him and not let him go.

The husky doesn't know why that is. He has never been an exceptionally sentimental person; only on very rare occasions has he felt sympathy for another human being. As a predator, it's extremely difficult. Sentiment decreases the value of a meal because the pleasure is counteracted by remorse. Empathy, therefore, is what must be left for this one. "Who are you, Siber?"

I can hear the rain beating above me, but we are clearly in a basement. I feel the soft linen of a blanket protecting me from the coarser threads of an old sofa. I can see, from the light behind my eyes, that it is dim in here. I still taste the ugly tang of bile and alcohol on my tongue. I can smell... him. "I'm a scientist."

He doesn't look at me, instead choosing to sit sideways against the sofa and speak into the air. I can feel how close he is to me by the breath wafting through my hair. His response is soothingly unexpected. "Scientists are, by their very nature, generally alienated from those outside their caste. Their analytical minds disallow most associations beyond professional ones because after a certain period of time, pragmatism in the workplace becomes calculations even into the nature of human relations and interrelations. Despite the requisite creativity and freedom of mind the sciences require for real discovery to be made, the protocols and regulations of a laboratory frequently erode what would be a sociable, well-developed, and accepting personality, over the course of years of inurement, into cold, logical tunnel vision. Some cases are significantly more severe than others. Most retain a sense of social responsibility because their research is for the betterment of humanity. It is those whose research is for self-improvement who most often fall prety to the corrosive atmosphere of a laboratory."

I want more. "I'm an artist."

"Artists are, by their very nature, simultaneously intimately attached and fervently detached from reality. Their obsessive compulsion to communicate through whatever means are necessary the failings of the human race is engendered by frequent, personal experiences with poverty, disease, selfishness, and inhumanity. Like scientists, there is a wide range, from those who produce art only in the name of catharsis and recognition to those who wish their works to be spread across the world, hopefully sparking social revolution. Artists feel trapped except in their medium of expression and call their entrapment a product of societal limitation even in the considerably liberal political atmosphere of today. They feel that it is only through expression that truth can be obtained and shared, even though truth to any artist is as esoteric as a scientist's particular specialty. The artist is lifted to a divine level while in the midst of producing his art and production is considered to be more than an occupation or a distraction. Rather, it is a necessity as much a part of life as breathing or the beating of the heart." This whole time, he maintains a simple tone of voice and doesn't look at me. His arms are wrapped around his knees, which are drawn up against his chest. He doesn't understand me, but he wants to. And that's different.

I want him to keep talking. His voice vibrates out of his chest and through the sofa into my body; I can feel him. "I'm a writer."

"Writers are a special breed of artist because of the nature of what they do, especially those not as interested in the poetic vein of the literary arts. Poets have certain liberties embodied by the coin, poetic license.' Other writers are consigned to work within the often formal structure of language. The technique, adherence to rules, and subsequently unique ability to bend those rules is so visible that it becomes a nearly tangible manifestation of intellectual talent. Other forms of art rely less on form and more easily convey themselves without requiring as much technique. One might say non-poetic writing is more scientific than other forms. Because of this, writers tend towards elitist doctrines more easily, putting themselves on a pedestal and becoming the only artists besides performance artists to develop egos on a regular basis while still yearning to spread their messages to the masses. They are proud."

Please don't stop. "I'm a dancer."

"Dancing is beautiful." Faris stares into nothing in the quiet that follows. "Dancing... real dancing, that comes from the heart... requires no technique. Facial expression communicates... the, the body's contortions flip through a series of emotional tableaus... music is frequently unnecessary..." I haven't anticipated these responses, but for some reason, they sound natural, coming from him. He is a jock. I don't even know what color his eyes are. He shouldn't be able to address things from such an eloquent standpoint. He's a predator. His stomach should be growling as he resists the temptation to take advantage of my weakened state.

"How often does it hurt, Faris?"

He doesn't hesitate. This is something he has learned to live with. He is prepared to sacrifice one part of himself to feed another. "Once every few years. I always rationalize it sufficiently, but it still comes back..." He puts a hand to his head. "They're so... beautiful..." This is something that destroys him like a cauterizing blowtorch; without it, he bleeds out. In the midst of it, it is torture.

I can feel the hand that crushes his chest. I know this. This? This is love. Love is so painful that it feels like your heart is being ripped out through your stomach. Love is fear. But the love that crushes is not the love between two people. This is the love of the fear of losing something. A ripping, bruising of the inner chest cavity so pleasurable that you double over when you experience it because you know that when you have it, you are thinking of or seeing or hearing something so powerful that to have it removed forever would crush you; it would eat you alive and leave you simmering in acid for the rest of eternity. That is love. Love between two people is a psychological, hormonal, evolutionary lie. It's a pleasant delusion. No; true love is the most painful form of fear you will ever experience.

"Do you want something to eat?"

I keep my eyes closed for a few moments. "If you have anything, then please. Where are we?"

The friction between his legs and the cushions vibrates through me. "I have ginger ale and those little bite-sized pizzas. We're under the city."

"Bite-sized for you, or me?" I ask in a gruff humor. A laugh slips out of his mouth. I hear his steps retreat and slowly push myself up. The room is dim, as I anticipated. It is covered in bright posters, though. Some of these are of nude women; others are of nude men. They have a pornographic appeal, but most seem to have the models in strange poses. Cortez, pirouette, locked tricks, backflips, somersaults, handstands, leaps... everything is a dance. I should have known.

I should have known. He's a jock. He wanted me to know his name. It means he likes to dance. Athletes have the bodies for dancing; they're good at it. Not all want to learn, but any level of sentiment in one translates to some sort of art, though it may remain closeted for decades. More than that, many are required to take ballet at the very least to help them with coordination.

The walls are faded, but the posters are bright. The carpet is brown, but the rug on top is purple. The table is oak, but the books are a conflaguration of greens and yellows and oranges interspersed with passionate red. A microwave hums in the kitchen area. The smell of pizza fills the air. He's dancing, right now. I can't see him, and his body isn't moving more than it takes to put drinks into glasses, but he's dancing, and he's beautiful. He's dancing in the scents and sounds of this place, in the sights and feelings and tastes. This is where he goes to cry. I am here. This matters to him, and I am here, with him.

Other people feel my madness, I realize in that moment. Some have a place to go for it. I have my episodes of frenzied catharsis; he has spent hundreds of dollars furnishing and renting this place. This is his shrine to the love he feels. As infrequently as he feels any kind of remorse, it is so powerful that he needs an entire abode to deal with it. And we aren't alone. This is brushing his teeth in gasoline. This is grinning into a chemical burn. This is laughing while he takes a razor to his shoulders. This is clutching his arms in a barren room and biting himself until he bleeds. This is kneeling over a broken conscience.

"Thank you, Faris," I say, loudly enough that he can hear me. He doesn't speak as he brings in the drinks, hands me mine, and sits on the sofa next to me. The timer goes off.

"I thought I had longer," he murmurs as he returns to retrieve our food. When he comes back, we eat and drink in silence. This is our communion; our coming together. I never thought I would experience this with someone who was not identical to me. I remember Glen and Teva, when we had moments like these, becoming lost in time, but we're identical, separated only by race and gender, respectively. He's different. He is me... in a totally different context. Who is he?

"I don't think it's everyone," he says, as though reading my thoughts. "I think there are only a few of us who can do this. It's just... we're drawn to one another. We feel one another dancing out there in the ether of what isn't and what can never be, and we're sucked in by that sense of impossibility."

"What happened to the Faris who's been eating other human beings since he was young?"

"He and I are the same. After today, I will eat again. Don't pretend I just came to some revelation or another. I consume those too weak to resist me."

"That's... almost everyone."

He shakes his head. I raise an eyebrow he can't see. I can almost feel his fur on mine, we are so close, but we don't look at one another. "I give them a chance. You gave yourself to me. The others, I seduce. They're adulterers, abusers, addicts, escape artists, anything. I'm not a monster. I'm not my father, I don't... I don't murder people. They make the decision to die. By the time it's too late for them, most are drunk on lust. It's their fault; you can't tell me it's not. Sure, I'm the executioner, but they have the chance to avoid it by just acting like rational human beings in the presence of other rational human beings. It's simple."

I think about it for a while. What he says has sense to it, but it feels like, even though he accepts this rationalization, it's something I will never accept. But... I let him accept it. Usually, I would try to convince him he is wrong, but here... he gives a good reason. He's rational. He eats those who are too weak to resist him psychologically and to him, that's enough. And for me, it's enough that that's enough for him. His victims die for the sins of drunkenness, untempered lust, and unfaithfulness. Those are accompanied by a general moral stupidity and insipidity, so it's good to be rid of them.

"So why does it hurt this badly? I mean... I can feel you, Faris. It's something I do. I know how badly it hurts." One of my hands lands briefly on his knee. Somewhere inside, I am grinning. I like to see people hurt. But I stifle that for now.

"Because they could all be dancers," he answers. "Even though they're terrible people, even though they taste... insatiably good... they could be dancers. Fat people, short people, old people. All of them. They could dance, and once I eat them, they can't. Because dancing is outside of morals. Some of the most beautiful women in the world, who dance as though God put them here for that reason alone, would fall into my bed at a moment's notice. Even though they're beautiful. There was this boy once on a dance show who took my breath away. When the show was over, I practically ran here to get him out of my head. A few days later, I was prowling and I saw him, and I thought I would just give him a little test... see if his passion and talent could dissuade me or him." He pops a pizza in his mouth.

"It didn't." I sip my soda. We are facing a carefully-juxtaposed pair of a solidly built tigress en point in arabesque posture facing an ocelot in a mirroring position, his erection just as aesthetically a part of the picture as his arms and legs.

"I'm not even sure he was gay. He was so drunk and so desperate to get the biochemical high that sex gives that I took him home that night and he was convinced he would sleep soundly when I was done with him." He still stares into space. I get the feeling that's what this place is for. "You dance phenomenally well, Siber. I've been watching you." Somehow, without saying it, we have both made the jump successfully to speaking metaphorically. "I tried to eat you because despite how well you dance through what you've made of life, you still ended up in my bed, purchasing sex with money. It wasn't until... after... that it occurred to me that you weren't after sex. Not for sex just for the high."

I shake my head. "Everyone is searching for the same escape that I was. Some just feel it more tangibly than others. We're all afraid of having nothing to do, because only then do we think about what it means to be alive. To be alive, we will die. It's necessary. That's what this comes down to. Even looking for Glen, for me..." I shudder painfully, feeling the hand in my chest. This is why love is fear. Because love is contemplation of what is eternal, something our simple minds shy away from. "He's just a reason to live forever. An attempt to escape death. We're inherently selfish creatures. People believe that people are altruists, but that simply is not true. Everything is an act of selfishness, of 'how can I make myself eternal?' because none of us actually know the answer. We will act as insanely vicariously as we have to to fulfill our immortal fantasies."

"But when we dance, even when non-artists produce art, we are lifted above and beyond life. It's the most effective escape we know. It's why when we can't sing, we listen to singers. When we can't paint, we go to art museums. When we can't write, we read and watch movies. Vicariously touching immortality. And everyone... everyone dances. Some are just... better than others."

We sip quietly. The rain falls above us. I wish I could know what the ceiling is. "When did it become an obsession for you?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I think it was eleven years ago, when I saw my mother dance with my father. They are cruel people who consume others as often as I do, but they are beautiful. I saw them dancing and I went out into the woods and I wept for an hour. I didn't eat anyone for almost two years." He takes another pizza. "What about you?"

I stare into my glass. "Glen and I met our sophomore years of high school. He lives on the other side of the Crossover. He's the only person in the universe who experiences life like I do, and I've lost total audial contact and most visual contact with him. He's the only human being... I've ever truly loved." And it hurts. Every day, it hurts.

"I'm... accustomed to my own form of pain. A passing one; one that will subside for a time. I don't know what it would be like to be in your situation."

"I'm afraid that I may end up using you. Without paying you, I mean," I correct as he starts to smirk. "I don't want to turn you into less than you are. Because I can see quite clearly now that you are... well, perhaps it isn't that clear." I begin thinking about angels and Thoughts. I wonder if it's appropriate here. I decide that no, it is not.

"Are we in any of the same classes?"

"No." I shake my head. That was one reason I had chosen him. "I didn't want to have to look at you more than was necessary after that night."

"I'm a business major; I doubt you went into that vein of study."

Another shake. "Definitely not."

"The amphitheatre is always empty on Monday nights from about one to four. That's when I practice capoeira."

"I wondered if that was you out there. I wouldn't want to intrude on your practice time."

"There are other days..."

"Faris, do you know what you're doing?"

He pauses. He knows what I mean. "What do you mean?"

"I won't ever feel any connection to you. You will be something peripheral in my life. The only advantages you will have over a pet cat is that I can converse intellectually with you, which surprises the hell out of me, and you're big and fluffy."

He smiles, then looks at me, but I don't look back at him. I hope that he realizes that is how this relationship will work. "That's okay with me."

I clear my throat. "You're sure about that?"

He brushes aside the question. He has known his answer since I first paid him. "My classes start late on Fridays."

"My body doesn't believe in Circadian rhythms." He blinks. "Biological patterns." He nods in understanding. "I'll see you this Thursday?"

"How does this benefit me?" he asks.

I blink at him. Very deliberately, I answer, "It doesn't. Not in the long run. Short term, you get to pretend you're doing a sociophobic introvert some good, but with your level of intellect, that will fade when you realize how little I care about you, which won't take long."

"So why am I doing this?"

"You're psychologically damaged and unwilling to address the reason why. I plan on taking advantage of you until you change your mind about what this means to you."

"So you will be using me, then."

"You are the least of a great many evils. Yes."

"That doesn't matter. Why?"

I look at his chest. I reach a hand over and feel it through his shirt. I can tell a rush of rippling goosebumps has wafted over him at the touch. I lean back with a tired sigh. "Because you love me."

"I shouldn't."

I shake my head, still refusing to look even in his direction. "No, you should not."

"But I do. It's the way you dance. It's the opportunity to hold something like that close to me, even metaphorically, because you are an object to me. I love you because I love dance; not because I love you."

"And you are equally an object to me. Your love is exactly as artificial as I need it to be."

He laughs ironically. "We sound like machines." His laugh is like liquid amber rolling in my ears.

"You are so much more than a machine... you can't even imagine how much more you are."

He puts a hand on my shoulder, the tremendous paw easily enveloping my less muscular physique. "More than loving what you are, I want to help you. I'm not sure why, but for the same reason I picked you up today, I want to help you survive until you can see him again. I know I'm peripheral. For some reason, that really is okay. In fact, I prefer it. Because I will be as close to intimacy as you will ever get until you find someone who better resembles him."

I put my hand over his, staring at the floor. "Thank you. For understanding." My mind is still. "Very few have the will to." I almost feel some remorse for what I have done. My logic is an insidious poison; it will take him a very, very long time to find a person who truly makes him happy.

We stay like that for a few minutes, silently revelling in one another's presence. The comfort he offers me, the knowingly temporal serenity I have just from his touch, is irreplacable. Unlike so many others, he is an irrevocably unique individual. After a while, he asks, "Do you want to go to a club?" His hand is warm and soft on my shoulder.

I take a moment to answer. "Only if you can guarantee no one I know will see me besides you." He nods. I have a way to thank him. "Then let's go. We should go separately. The rain's stopped, and I doubt you brought your car all the way out here. I don't want to be seen."

"You know," he says with a sly smile, "we don't have to go separately for you to go unseen."

Finally, I look at him. A smirk has crept onto my face in answer to his widening grin. "That's true. You have the proper shielding capabilities?"

"As long as you don't try anything funny, and I don't think you will."

I turn in my seat so my feet are resting in his lap and stare at him expectantly, with just the glimmer of a smile. "Or would you prefer head first?" Our relationship settled, I'm ready to have some fun with this beast.

He chuckles at the pun, his deep laughter vibrating through both our bodies. I can feel his hard-on growing underneath my heels as I lean back on one arm of the couch and kick my shoes onto the floor. He peels off my socks and begins softly massaging my feet with his tremendous paws. In gratitude, I knead them against his groin, getting him to mmmf for me. One of his hands goes to his zipper. As soon as it's down, the swelling bulge opens the fly the rest of the way, revealing a tremendous sheath aching to break out of the boxers there. I grab the waistband with my toes and slowly pull it down, letting the monster slap against his chest. Every one of his heartbeats pulses the black shaft hidden within further out, thicker, and harder. Even now, it is as thick as my arm to my elbow. I use my foot to caress that length while he slips his pants and boxers the rest of the way off.

My own hard-on is pushing against my pants, and he notices when he looks back up. With my feet still rubbing his now-visible, massive balls and shaft, he lowers his head to the tent I've pitched and licks along the bulge, making me pant with need. He licks and licks with more and more desperation as I begin scratching behind his ears, along his throat, and down his back, trying not to thrust up against that broad, strong tongue of his. After a little while, he licks from my groin, to my waist, down beneath my waistband to make me gasp, slowly up to toy with my navel, up, and up as I take the hint and start removing my shirt off until he's slurping along my throat.

My shirt off and discarded, I thrust my head all the way back, instinctual submissive feelings welling up in my whole body as he covers mine with his larger one in a dominant straddle, wets my cheek with his tongue, and ends by kissing me with his hands working at my zipper, his huge balls heavy on my thighs and his erection falling on my chest as his kiss starts to open around my muzzle while I suck on his tongue. Soon enough, my entire head is in his maw and he's humping slowly against my groin and chest with that warm cavern encompassing my skull, making me moan into his throat, the sound echoing through his huge body when he pushes me just far enough in that I can feel the peristaltic rippling of his powerful muscles on my neck and cheeks, even as I initiate the magic to let me breathe in that stifling chamber.

His tip is dripping precum, so his movements swiftly become less controlled as he pulls his mouth back away, now that my head is covered in his saliva. I open my eyes to see his tremendous length nearly at my face, its head very definitely more than half the size of my own. He draws it away and thrusts forward again, and I meet it with a kiss and a lick. My tongue teases inside the slit, and I feel the muscle there grab me, then let go as he lets out a deep, gruff chuckle. He takes it away again and sits up to finish taking off my pants and skivvies, letting loose my dark, throbbing hard-on, adding my precum to his as he humps against me again. I have to harden my abs against his heavy movements, but he somehow knows what I can take and braces himself on the couch to begin thrusting in earnest on my slick body while I hold onto his shoulders and massage his thighs with my feet, feeling the corded muscle there as the blood rushes to it, giving it so much power, power pleasuring me alone. Power... for me.

Suddenly, I feel his weight leave me. I look up, and there he is, hovering over me using only his arms for support as he does some capoeira technique to swing slowly over and behind me. As I follow his movements with my lolling head, I feel the couch tip that direction, but at the same time I see the gaping maw of his hungry cock open wide and take in my muzzle, slip over my spit-slickened fur, and cover my head. He has landed at the lower end of the couch and is effectively pouring me into him, even as he approaches orgasm. I feel his huge, firm grasp around my shoulders as he shouts with climactic pleasure and hot seed shoots against my face, which is blocking the way. Some gets out around my face, but I open my mouth, knowing what's coming, and prepare to swallow and stretch.

The substance is thick, salty, and rich as it gushes down my throat. In my lightless world, having the stuff flow and flow more into my stomach is heavenly, like drinking ambrosia, and I feel it begin to swell my stomach as with each thrust, he presses me with his titanic arms deeper into his cock, closer to the source of this nectar and I just open my mouth wider to take it all in. I reach down as I feel him claim my shoulders and wingtips, feeling his deep moans of pleasure waft through my body as he pulls me in further and further, so I can hold my belly while it gets pumped fuller, and fuller, his huge balls emptying their load into me.

After nearly two full minutes of this pure ecstasy, with the pulsating cock pushing me out and his strong, firm hands pushing me in, I can tell it's dwindling. Not long after, it finally stops, once more allowing me to breathe freely within the confines of my spell again. My stomach feels close to bursting, but I feel wonderful with his heavenly essence inside me, and that's before his member suddenly, in one, fluid motion, makes good use of the seed that had spilled to suck me down, still with gravity, until he bends down so his tremendous tongue can tease my hard-on. He lets me fall until my boner is hooked like an anchor over the edge and the hungry pulses of the shaft wash over my body, swallow after frustrated swallow, while he licks heavily on my needy member and soaks my balls before pulling off and blowing cool, cruel air on them.

Laughing, I hump up at nothing, trying my best to blindly keep my legs from looking like a drowning spider of some kind. I want to say, "You jerk!" but it comes out muffled and unrecognizable. He touches me with his tongue, then sends the broad muscle wiggling into my sheath, right behind the flesh so the hot air as he breathes bathes my balls and glans in wonderful excitement even as I moan in lusty impatience. My groin is set on fire as pleasure radiates through my body, but he's having fun; his tongue is an evil, wicked thing, jiggling down and stretching the shaft as he teases around and around again, and ever time he gets near the front I shove upward, though blood is rushing to my head, trying to get some friction, but he just pulls up and I can almost feel the mischievious smile spread his lips as he does it.

Without warning, he takes the whole of my shaft and balls in his mouth and sucks hard on them, so my cockhead flares, my hips spasm upward, and electric ecstasy pulses chaotically through my body. I positively thrash in orgasmic undulations while he drags his thick, warm tongue up and down my shaft, taking everything I give in his mouth and swishing its warm wetness around as I gasp and twitch with the soon-fading high before swallowing powerfully enough that I can hear it. It turns out, though, that he is not done with me.

He grabs my hips and begins twisting them, rotating me while I'm inside him so that I'm finally facing down, and I assume I'll be finishing my journey then. My expectations are unceremoniously foiled, though, when I feel that warm, wet tongue start playing around my tailhole. "You're determined to get me to pass out, aren't you?" I murmur mutely into the smooth flesh around me.

Ladies and gentlemen, the tongue is a wonderfully versatile tool, and he uses it with an adeptness I had never known. He loosens it into that broad, stroking flesh that washes over the opening, lubricating me and pushing hard against the sphincter, though not nearly hard enough to penetrate. Once I've loosened up some from the touch, he flexes it into a pointed, hard muscle and, lifting my tail towards him, thrusts it into my depths with a strength some men's hips couldn't produce. I let out a sharp cry of combined pain and pleasure, but he knows a man's body and knows I like it. He swirls it around with slow deliberateness, tasting my insides as he has already tasted my outside. My muscles relax over it, knowing that resistance now makes later fighting futile, and I know he wants to fight, from the way his free hand is covering and clenched against my shaft and balls, which are slowly beginning to recover from their ordeal.

He loosens the muscle again and steadily pumps it in and out of me, and I know it's because he's readying me for the next level of exploration. I'm panting through my spell, my muzzle having pushed somewhat into his balls and the squishy chamber there as he continues to slurp noisily in and out of my anus. Once again, I feel that incredible organ stiffen, and this time, I clench down against it, knowing he can take the pressure, and I fight his steady advance with everything I have as I feel him just smile again. I'm grinning as I strain to resist his invasion, but to no avail. I gasp and groan as he breaks past my defenses and sends that slick, serpentine appendage sliding through my insides. He thrusts deeper and deeper, shifting tempo, rhythm, and angle to frustrate my attempts and soon press against my prostate, making me flex my cock against his imprisoning hand.

In my lightless room, I have guess what he's doing. With my sight stripped from me, my other senses are on high alert and it just makes every touch and pulsing thrust that much more electric as he spreads me further, and further. Having found my prostate, he lets go of my member, choosing instead to stroke his shaft and my chest through it as I wonder if he's going to climax yet again over and into me while his tongue still ravages me. I shudder at the thought.

As he pushes over and over on that sensitive organ, I begin flexing and struggling to find release again, but to no avail. He lifts me up and tucks my member securely in his shaft, then holds a leg in each arm and, still pleasuring me with his glorious tongue, chases me down into his shaft as it claims more and more of me, enough so that my head is now in an even warmer region. I can feel his heartbeat all around me as his massive cock pulses with hunger, sucking me down and down until he has to remove his tongue and allow it up to my ankles. He begins licking those, as well, and then begins sucking on them while he strokes his shaft harder and harder, while I begin humping against the inner wall of his member, and while his gigantic balls churn and shift around my head.

Suddenly, I feel his second climax near and simultaneously feel the tremendous power of his jaws clamp down around his shaft. He's going to swallow me as his cock ejects me. I'm nearing climax for the second time, as well, and as soon as the undulating rhythms of his begins travelling in muscular contractions up his huge length, I open my mouth in orgasmic pleasure and accept this second load that shoves me back out of my place, into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth feet first. I feel him swallowing hard to take me in, his awesome throat sucking me down, soon stretching around my bulging midsection as it pumps even fuller of his divine seed. My mouth is in ecstasy as the thick, tangy fluid fills it again and again, forcing itself down my throat even while I try not to choke from my climactic gasps.

Before I know it, I have slid nearly all the way down his throat and he pulls my head out of its prison into the open air, his teeth predatorily pressing on my neck. I finally open my eyes. The residue of his climax is drooling out of his cock tip as it pulls away from me. His heavy breathing can be heard around my form. With one long, heavy, hard swallow, he drags me the rest of the way down his throat and clicks his teeth after with a satsified gulp. For the second time, I am his. An explosive belch fills through the small room and rumbles through my body as I laugh at him.

I then curl into the fetal position in his belly, sighing and basking in an afterglow to outshine all afterglows, and feel his predatory magics pushing on me to make me as small as possible, hiding me behind the slabs of muscle in his chest. He can walk down streets now without a single soul suspecting that inside him, I am there, holding back his hungry magic with my own while he masks it all. I am invisible.

I am invisible.

I feel his heartbeat, his lungs, his voice, his movement, and the fear of love that pushes down on me; I feel everything from where I am in my lightless, pseudo-embryonic world. "Are you comfortable in there?" he rumbles out. In response, I push soothingly against the muscle clenching in his abs. "The place is about twenty minutes away, walking; I'll tell you when we get there. Don't go to sleep."

Thus begins our strange journey. Every movement, every bounce, every sound, comes muted to me. The rain has stopped, and even as warm and close as it is where I am, I can feel the chill wind reach through his skin and caress the both of us. I am comfortable and safe, protected... invisible. Someone is taking care of me, and as childish a notion as it is, it soothes my so often tormented mind and I feel at peace. I can think about Glen without thrashing around; I can think about anything with a serenity I have not felt since that short time I knew with the human. I try not to think about anything too deeply. I just want to be there; to presence the world without attaching things to it; to be without thinking. Here, I can do that. The only distractions are muffled my flesh and muscle, and the heartbeat is constant, rhythmic, like the rocking of a cradle.

He walks, and for me, the passage of time is irrelevant. I just feel him. Now and then, he touches me through his chest, faking hunger or a cough to the surrounding populace. I murr and push against the tender hand each time. What apparently was twenty minutes passes far more quickly than I want it to and I suddenly feel the steady pulse of a bass beat shock through his body as he walks in.

Not one to attract suspicion, he sits at the bar first and orders a drink. I think I make out "dry martini." Soon enough, I can smell the alcohol as it comes down and feel it on me. A few minutes later, after conversation that I assume is his evasion of admiring furs, he gets up and finds a bathroom. Luckily, this club is apparently small enough that he can find a private bathroom. He pats his belly to warn me before I find myself pushed and pulled smoothly onto a hard floor.

I open my eyes. It takes me a few seconds to adjust, despite the dim lighting back here. The first thing I see is his warm, smiling face looking down at me. "It smells terrible in here," I tell him quietly. He laughs softly to avoid unneeded attention and helps me to my feet. I see that he is clothed, whereas I am not. I cast a quick spell to dry myself off, but notice the humorous smile on his face and the way he's shaking with mirth.

"I assume that you brought my clothes?" I ask, trying not to look down at what I know is a severely swollen midsection. He reaches into a massive pocket and brings out what I had worn into the rain. I swiftly clothe myself, but find that my shirt is struggling to fit over my over-stuffed stomach. Giggling silently, Faris pokes my cream-filled belly and stifles a laugh at the way it jiggles. My ears go scarlet, even though I have to mask my laughter as much as he does. I ask him to get out and, holding his side and his muzzle, he complies. A few minutes later, once I've set up a spell to let me eject it just by relieving myself and filled the bowl, all while trying not to crack up over the silliness of my predicament, I compose myself and follow him out, much more normal, but hungry. He meets me, sees my belly, and puts on a mock-disappointed face before grinning. "Man, I had never had a Siberian cream-filled wolf. I'll have to get another somehow." I can tell he's hungry, too, after our... exercise.

Immediately, I am in awe of the disco lighting. It's dark, with strobe lights and rotating colors sliding and pumping through the entire place. Bass beats through my body in a heavy, dance rhythm. It's small; there are forty or so patrons, and while it isn't crowded, it's not a slow day, either. Most eyes are glancing furtively over to my colossal companion and most flicker at least once to his groin. Most then turn to me, mostly just to gauge how hard I'm willing to fight for what they perceive to be my catch.

"You said you like dance," I murmur. "Do you tango?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know how to follow?" I nod. "In here?"

"They'll make way," I assure him. I snatch his hand and lay my other on his shoulder. More slowly, he looks at me, his expression serious and calm as he places his free hand high on my side. I smile coyly up into what becomes almost a posessive scowl, he taps off the tempo on my shoulder, and we dance. Impromptu is always the most real.

The tango is a sepulchral, burning thing, like a hot coal on someone's back. Normally accompanied by the screech of burning violins, the lead battles his partner for control. The woman's, or in this case, my, feet track dangerous, liquid fire trails between his legs. She doesn't spin, but she turns like a prowling panther, whipping her head around, never really acknowledging that her partner is there unless he isn't looking. He, in the meantime, tries to ignore her thin, commanding face as he roughly pushes her into dangerous, possessive positions, daring her to resist him with his unbreakable chain of ferocious power. Lifts are rare, but when they happen, she is as stiff and graceful as he is surely strong. The story is a man who wants a woman who will never let him have her without a fight.

From the looks we get, I am sure that none of the couples there, all homosexual, have ever considered dancing anything that would be seen in a ballroom with their partner; certainly not in public. Because niether of us is wearing a skirt, good form is requisite for it to look good; rather than making beautiful poses, we have to create structures of lines; sculptures, for brief moments before he flicks me into a series of ochos or bends me like a bow in a cortez. I am weightless in his embrace. I feel like I'm flying when he moves me, and it feels good to let his fingers and palms tell me what to do and where to go. I am lost in the dance.

The song goes on, but it has to end, and people are staring in awe. We are not professionals; we are good enough to look good. We have shown them something they haven't seen before. As the closing chords and fade-out of a techno tune diminish, he pulls me out of my fall and up into a powerful kiss. I let myself melt in his arms, but before I do, I murmur into his lips, so softly that none of the spectators can hear, "I don't love you." He just smiles.

"I love you, though," he rumbles, "but you're nothing special." There is applause, and we give up the floor with a bow from him and an ironic curtsey from me. I'm willing to play the female in the public eye to feel his protection while alone. We are soon the center of attention for those who aren't interested in dancing, and I bask in it for a while, as does he. We play it off as though we are a couple; it's easier that way. I pray that no one here attends my school, and lie about where I go. People are interested in learning to dance from us. We say we'll consider it. I could use the extra income; I don't know his situation.

After an hour or so, I excuse myself, claiming I have to get home early. I have been bought two drinks by separate men who think they can steal me for the night. Those suckers thought they could pull me off him? He just smiled a toothy smile at them, and they backed off. I slip into an alleyway and wait for half an hour. In the darkness, waiting for what I know is coming, the time passes agonizingly slowly. In the cool night air, I yearn for the warm, dark confinement of his body. Luckily, he goes the same direction and finds me.

"Lucky guess?" I ask.

He shrugs. "That was amazing, in there. You, I mean."

"Do you really want me to say it?" I smirk.

He returns it. "It takes two to tango. There. It's out."

"Good." There is a small pause. He wraps his arms warmly around me and I revel in their powerful security. I back away a bit, out of the embrace. "I have to get home unseen, you know." I look up at him slyly.

He licks his lips. "That's true."

"Although you've more than worked off your wages."

He growls and steps close. "Have I?" My nose is quickly touching his. I can see his eyes. For the first time that night, I look. I see what color they are. I know as soon as I notice it that I've made a mistake. I know he can't feel the blow that passes through my frame. Nothing I try to do will wipe out that I know his eyes are blue. But I don't want to know. I know him, now. I didn't want ot know him. But I don't let him know that. I just hold that knowledge clutched tight to my heart. I only want to know him as much as is necessary. But I have to respond to him.

"So this, you'd be doing it for free."

In answer, he kisses me and covers me in his tremendous arms again. I raise mine to his sides and return the kiss. We both smile into it as he opens his jaws again. His eyes are blue.

It will be a fun ride home.