What Turns You On? (Pt. 2 of "In The Beginning")
#2 of In The Beginning
"What Turns You On?", Part Five of "Under the Devil's Eye"
by H. A. Kirsch, copyright 2006.
Yeah, it's hard to read. Sorry. I'm working on a better way to get this stuff online. Unedited as usual!
http://wolfhawk.blogspot.com/ - Writings Blog
One of the reasons Hank could get out of going to high school full time - and the reason he could go to community college, as well as work as an after-hours janitor at the high school - was that he was smart. He could have gone on to take advanced math, science, and English courses, but he chose to do that at college instead. That left him with just a few state prerequisites such as government, social studies, and physical education. The state wasn't about to let its students grow fat because they had no reason to be physical. Hank didn't mind one bit, and was enrolled in weight training all four years of high school. As a junior, he was in Advanced 1, shared with the seniors in Advanced 2. There wasn't really any difference save for different goals. The end result was the same: hard strength training split with various actual gym games.
The wolf had been a runt up through 7th grade, when he started picking up his height and mane ruff, losing the puppy fluff. Hank had a knee-jerk aversion to gym class, but he needed to work out or else he piled up inside with tension. it didn't hurt that it was free. It hurt even less that he was the best floor hockey defense the teacher had ever seen.
"You beat the shit out of us," Derrin wheezed as they stumbled into the locker room.
"Well, the other guys did."
"Come on, Hank, you're murder with that stick." The coon opened up his locker, stripped out of his clothes, and headed for the showers. Hank never showered at school - he went home right after gym so it didn't matter.
The wolf glared at the comment. "Oh hell, you know it." He dropped down in front of his own locker and fished out his clothes, stripping the sweaty gym things off and replacing them with black jeans, black teeshirt, black motorcycle boots.
He looked up to see a wall of white, orange, and black. There was a tiger standing in front of him. A big tiger, clearing about seven feet, damp fur and a towel around his neck, otherwise naked. Hank immediately recognized him as one of the jocks - oddly a lacrosse player, not football as would be expected of a brawny tiger - and one who hung out with the iffier of the sports players, at that.
"You Hank?" The tiger huffed, hands at his side. He looked kind of like a big statue, with just the slightest graze of adolescent nerves.
The wolf swallowed and felt prickles starting to move under his fur. He bit them back. This probably wasn't good, especially since this cat had been on the opposing team, not to mention body-checked into the bleachers by a barrelling, defense-mad black wolf. "Yep." Here it comes.
"Derrin tol' me 'bout you." The cat had a horrific farm-boy southern accent, not particularly specific to any place. More Appalachia than Georgia plantation.
"What?" Hank was immediately confused. "Told you about what?"
"You, dumbass. Hey, so, how 'bout you an' me bump into each other out back, on th'old.. what's that, th'basketball thing?"
Hank scratched his neck. "What?"
"Ain't you know any other words?"
"Is this a fight?"
"Naw, jus' show up out there after school an', uh, y'just better do it."
The tiger padded off, leaving Hank to change in complete fear.
Kincaid had a huge playing field that butted up against the junior high, with a strange abandoned basketball court in between. It consisted of a big concrete wall with a chainless metal hoop on it, a weed-cracked court, and a lone standing hoop at the far end. Obstensibly the wall was for tennis practice, but it ended up with slackers getting high on the other side before tromping off into the woods to do whatever slackers did in the woods.
Hank normally wouldn't have obliged the tiger, except he had to come back to the school for a work shift anyway. There was no escape. He really didn't know what was in store, but he was almost certain it had to do with what he'd been doing with Derrin recently. With the possibility in his mind, the wolf sat down and retracted himself up against the wall. He ended up daydreaming, jolted out of it by a shadow. The tiger.
"Howdy," Hank said, looking at the big cat's feet. They were wrapped in a pair of expensive cowboy boots, brown and sharp toe, with straps around the ankle. The wolf almost didn't want to look up.
"Yep."
"So.. you going to kill me or something?"
The tiger just blinked. "Hurh?" The sound was like someone clearing their throat combined with the snort of a thoroughbred.
Hank looked around. There wasn't a sign of a single other person, save for the tiger. He got up and looked around the other side of the wall - nothing. "You're not coming out here to beat the shit out of me?"
"Now why th'hell'd a big nice ol' kitty-cat like me wanna do that?"
The wolf leaned on the wall. "Because...." Because I'm a fag, because... because?
The striped cat looked like he was thinking. "Nawwww, I ain't gonna bash you all up 'cuz you were gettin' it on with Derrin!"
Hank's ears turned red. "Say it louder."
"Why, ain't anyone here."
Hank clacked his fangs together, at odd angles. Standing before him was the single largest animal at the entire school, a solid pillar of tiger meat with wranglers that looked painted on, a dinnerplate cowboy buckle, white teeshirt, wool and leather varsity jacket. The wolf cocked his head.
"Hah, I know that look, I ain't dumb. I ain't mean, jus'.. y'know, kinda lonely. Like I ain't always hangin' out with those guys, just gotta be nice 'cuz we're on th'team." The cat put his thumbs in his in his pockets and rocked on his heels with a twin clop. Hank looked down, coming back up to see the cat meet his eyes.
"So what are we doing back here?" Oh god, he wants to hit on me.
"Jus' don't wanna start somethin', you know? Like it's cool with Derrin, I known him like since we were this big-" The cat put his hands about a foot apart. They looked strong enough to bend a steel bar. "But I don't wanna, you know, get all guys in gym all talkin', kinda embarass-"
"You've known Derrin since you were kids?"
The cat nodded. "Hell yeah!"
"He never told me."
The big cat looked uncomfortable for exactly six seconds. Hank was counting. Then he suddenly forgot. "Oh man, so I was gonna ask if y'wanna come over an' hang out, like my parents ain't gonna be 'round all fuckin' weekend an' I can get some beer from a friend, an'..."
You've never met me before. "Hmm. Well. Uh."
"Aww c'mon, you ain't got nothin' better t'do on a friday night!"
"Actually, I have work. No one else wants to work on friday night. Because it's Friday Night." Hank scratched the back of his head.
"You're gonna pass up beer? Free fuckin' beer? An' uh, you'll make me cry! You ain't gonna try that kinda let-down after seein' a big tiger-cat cry!"
Hank almost backed away. First, the fear of the always-promised destruction of homosexual deviant citizens. Then, the possibility of crazed sex. Now, the tiger was just weird. "Well. Fine, I'll see if I can get off work." Pause. "It's not like my parents are going to get mad if I stay out."
"Sweet. Bet y'gotta know where I live, huh? Made up this lil' map thing an' everything!" The cat stuffed a paw down into a pants pocket, doubling the lump in front. Out came a crumpled piece of paper. It wasn't just a scribbled map - it was practically a cartoon. Off in a cloud of question marks was a little house with a cartoony wolf head, then a dotted line over into a little maze of landmarks, an L-shaped thing the destination next to corn and a few cows. The L-shape had a tiger wearing overalls and chewing on a straw as he tipped a cowboy hat.
The actual tiger had a huge, fangy grin. "You got that? Like you know where-"
"Barrows Farm? Yeah, I know where that is. So.."
"Yep, Clyde Barrows. I'm a farm cat," the tiger said proudly.
"Yeah. Well, I gotta go. I have to go clean jizz off the weight machines."
"Cool. So big wolf, I'll be seein' ya!" The cat clomped Hank on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Oh wait." He grabbed the black wolf. "Uh, so, you're kiddin' bout that, right? Cleanin'-"
"Yeah." Hank laughed. "But you don't want to see what gets into the shower drains."
Hank went straight for his phone the second he got through the door of his trailer. "Derrin."
"Hey dude!" The raccoon sounded happy as usual.
"Did you fucking set me up?"
"What?"
"You set me up with some huge cat thing! You were telling him all about how I fucked your mouth, weren't you?"
"No, I was telling him about how I fucked yours the next day."
Hank's ears went red, even though there was no one to see for a quarter mile. "Dammnit. Are you kidding?"
"Maybe. So you like Clyde?"
"You're setting me up with someone!"
Hank ended up naked on his bed after hopping around, leaving a trail of his clothes through the trailer. "I can't believe-"
"Well, you know, I've known him so long.. I can't really do anything with him, and I don't think you and me, I mean-"
"You want to fuck him through me!"
Derrin cackled, loud enough that Hank had to put the phone away from his ear. "I'm just kidding! We were just talking, you know.. he's kind of, uh, frank. And it just came up. Besides, I didn't suggest anything, although he's kind of.. I guess he's a bit of a loner. You know, I'm sure you two will have fun."
Hank sighed. "Well, whatever. Did you say you didn't think we'd have something? You wanted something?"
"Did anyone ever tell you that you're paranoid? Because you're paranoid."
"Yeah. I'm paranoid. I get it from my mom. So don't tell anyone else anything, okay? Because I really don't want it getting around."
"Sure. No problem. Gotta go! Mom wants to me go shopping."
"Later." Hank clicked the phone off. "No problem, my ass."
Hank got off his bike on the Barrows' gravel drive. It made a nice circle around a rock garden, butted up against the epitome of manufactured housing. Two double-wide units making an L-shape, the inside of the L almost certainly some sort of patio, maybe even a pool. What was the point?
The wolf's finger was about to push in the doorbell when the door was replaced by tiger. "Evenin' Hank!"
"Hi. Can I come in?"
"Urrh, sure thin'.." The cat stepped out of the way, showing off a living room. The wolf came in and started taking off his jacket.
"Nice place."
"Aww, it ain't nothin', parents jus' got all carried away. Got th'new part stuck on when I was born, ain't enough room for me in jus' one double wide thing. You wanna beer?"
"Sure. Uh. I guess. How exactly did you get beer? You're not 21. Are you?"
The tiger laughed as he clomped into the kitchen, coming back with a beer in each paw. He also appeared to have a bottled one shoved into the front of his pants. "M'brother came by an' dropped it off. Kinda funny, he's all on probation, ain't gonna go over well if they pick him up."
Hank took a beer and cracked it, then slurped off as it almost foamed over. "Probation? I thought you guys pretty well off." The Barrows' owned a pretty successful farm, and were generally thought of as plain, good people.
"Hell, ain't no money gonna keep him outta trouble. Nice guy, jus' always doin' dumb stuff. Kinda got its advantages.. th'bad stuff got me beer, an' his probation got me his whole stash. Hah!"
Hank's ears perked up. Stash? "So.. uh, what do you want to do? Besides drink beer." They wilted back again.
"How 'bout you go an' sit on th'couch an' I'll dig up a movie. You want dumb action, dumb funny, fucked up scary or real dramatic-like?"
The wolf meandered around the living room, dropping himself onto the couch. It seemed a little stiff, and he wondered if that was so it didn't get crushed under massive tiger bulk. "Dumb action, I guess. If it's dumb enough, it'll be worth it." After a few minutes, there was a startled mrowl from the other room.
"You okay?" Hank called out.
"Hell yeah! Jus' got the perfect thing! Ain't sure if y'like this kinda stuff but this movie jus' rocks."
Hank wasn't paying much attention - he was more interested in why he didn't want to clock Clyde for talking like a hick. It sounded almost put-on, but at the same time, made him innocuous. "Cool."
A plastic disc holder landed next to Hank, and he picked it up. His ears blanched. The movie was, "Gunslinger". It had come out when Hank was in junior high, a B-list post-apocalyptic cowboy action movie centered around its namesake. The Gunslinger - who didn't have any other apparent name - carried a wicked gun and a black cowboy outfit to end all outfits. Hank had seen the movie and had never been the same. He'd instantly wanted to wear all of The Gunslinger's gear, all tough black leather, carry a big gun and mess things up. Not to mention the hard-ass innuendo that seemed accidentally splattered all over the movie... Hank had been in love the second he saw it, and spent countless nights staring at his movie poster in his bedroom, jerking off until he was sore. Now they were going to watch it again!
The significance was probably lost on Clyde, who ended up on the couch with a massive thud that vibrated the room. He eagerly flipped it open and stuffed the disc into the player, then killed the lights. "Man, this movie's totally bad-ass. Ain't no one ever seen it, so it's like a secret lil' piece of bad-ass t'cherish all by y'self."
"Yeah." Hank answered, meek as he took a sip of beer.
The movie wasn't exactly a good movie as such. It was all show and so little plot that there were arguments among cult fans as to whether it was brilliant or literally an effects showoff flick. It wasn't high budget, side-stepping fancy computerized graphics for a western-themed setting just to make use of expansive and cheap deserts.
Of course, like any cult movie, none of this mattered. The Gunslinger was played by a silver-streaked black wolf who'd gone full noir for the movie, one Karl Moul. There was a thin line between B-movie camp and utter serious drama and Moul rode it like a bronco, a perpetual sneer on his muzzle, uneven and rotten, grizzled and sickeningly lascivious. He was the definitive Byronic hero, clearly on the prowl for vengeance but so cleverly lustful and desperate that the movie didn't need a single romantic scene to make him a stunning near-porn-star. He had a nasty tendency of treating his gun like it was the thing that was just so slightly bulging out between his black chaps through more horsehide, the gun-play coming to a serious head when he tied up a lackey and gave him all ten inches of the barrel down his throat before shooting the back of his neck out.
The atmosphere of the movie was stark and bleak, the soundtrack so cut down that often the only sounds aside from dialogue and incidental effects were the heavy creaks of leather, the scuff and thunk of boot heels, the rattle of riding tack or a gun being cocked. It drove Hank mad, listening to it, nothing to distract away from the complete gear candy, and the director was keen on playing up every second of Moul's performance. Often a shot would never feature the wolf's face, instead focusing on a rock's-eye view of his boots, some other part of his person, gloved fingers on his laser-sighted explosive-round hunting pistol, just the cut-in of his jaw, the brim of his hat.
Hank was so enraptured, so turned-on and so embarassed that he sat almost motionless for the entire first half, straight through the wince-inducing execution of the badguy's right-hand man during pistol fellatio. When the screen cracked to black for the disc layer change, Clyde thumped him in the side with an elbow. It was rough enough to make Hank wheeze.
"Oww, fuck, what was that?"
"You doin' okay? Look kinda like you ain't movin'."
"I'm fine, I love this movie. I mean, this is one of the best movies I've ever seen."
The cat beamed. "Aww hell, shoulda said somethin' sooner!"
Hank put his beer back and set the can aside. He looked over to see Clyde shirtless from the waist up, and bulging like his fly was going to tear apart from the waist down. "Dude, Clyde, where'd your shirt go?"
"Got all sick'f wearin' it." Not, 'It's hot in here,' but 'I'm sick of wearing it.' Like that was a reason to take off your shirt.
"Oh."
The wolf couldn't keep his eyes off the cat, the big wall of muscle, slowly heaving as Clyde breathed. As tigers were, Clyde was not musclebound, just thick. Definitely in shape, but instead of broad shoulders and a narrow waist like a wolf or a fox, he was a solid pillar. His pelt was groomed properly, too, short enough to be thick but not so short he looked like a bristle brush. And the bulge... the fancy belt buckle must've been to draw attention down there because Hank's didn't want to move his eyes up to the screen despite a five-year old crush on Karl Moul's Gunslinger. Clyde must have noticed, as he leaned back, spreading his legs a bit and hauling a boot up to clomp it down. Hank slowly started leaning down, only to get a big paw on his shoulder, halting him.
"Naw, I ain't got us watchin' a movie to play 'round an' miss all the hot parts. Now you jus' sit tight."
There was no more question why the big tiger wanted a wolf to come over and 'hang out'. Hank retreated and stayed put, turning lock-still again as the movie approached the fantastic gunfight climax. Despite being low-rent, the movie had stunning choreography - every bullet went right where it should. The Gunslinger was God.
Hank stared straight through the credits, rolling so perfectly and so incongruously to "Wanted: Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi, still so intent that he didn't notice what Clyde was doing until a big hand clomped his shoulder again.
"Now, I talk dumb but I ain't dumb, wolf. An' I'm real ready to pop, so how 'bout helpin' me out?"
The wolf's blood pounded through his ears, drowning out the new silence in the room with a thrumming hiss. Clyde shifted into the corner of the couch, leaning back, hauling a leg up to plant a boot on the seat. Hank went to scoot forward, but the cat cranked his ankle and the wolf's crotch ground up against the cat's boot sole.
"How... did you know.."
"Now shush, ain't need to talk for a while after that movie." Clyde undid his fly so lazily and plainly that he could have been going for a drunk piss. Suddenly the bulge in tight, worn, maybe even sweaty denim was a monster of a cock.
The tiger didn't have a porn-star dick, but it was befitting of a hulk of a cat. As thick as a beer bottle, uncut but unsheathed, the head a fat mushroom, the length curved up and looking rock hard. It reeked of sex. "Now get that snout on down here an' we'll have some fun."
One minute, Hank was staring. The next, he had the flesh brushing his thin lips, tongue coming out to curl over the fat head. It tasted stronger than it smelled, like the cat had jerked the day away, but something about that made the wolf want it more. He grabbed around the base, pumping lightly as he kissed and slurped noisily at the head. Putting it into his muzzle barely worked - the girth had to stuff between his fangs. He surrounded it with his tongue and started to bob smoothly.
Clyde was growling, or purring, or something. Hank hadn't spent much time around tigers - the sound started and stopped, like someone trying to start up a big truck and having no luck. Hank wasn't exactly sure how to go about pleasuring the cat just right, due to the size conflict, and considering he'd only done it once before. It didn't help that he had a cowboy boot grinding at his own cock through his jeans. In moments he was slobbering and pumping the shaft, ears twisted back, fingers tugging and jerking, straining the cat's balls down, and-
"Aww fuck!" Clyde snorted, and a sound like every movie cat roar at once made Hank pin his ears back. His mouth filled with pungent, spicy seed and he yanked back, the slime dripping off his lower lip, sticky pulses shooting from the cat's head onto his jeans for a few shots before it just oozed. Clyde hurrrowled and let his head thump the back of the couch.
"Damn," the wolf growled, wiping his chin. The cat didn't seem to go soft, despite being obviously spent.
"Hah! Rrr, how'd you learn to do that?"
"What, that was good?"
"Now look, I'm a cat an' all, gotta jus' do it all day long, over an' over, kinda go off fast too but ain't got a rush like that in a while."
Hank wondered how often the cat got a rush like that, and from who.
"An' you gotta wreck up my pants, too. Now I gotta change.." Clyde laughed, and suddenly got up, lurching up off the couch and clomping off out of the living room.
"Uh, should I... where are you goin?"
"M'room! Now you c'mon an' get over here too. An' bring that real hot biker jacket you got there hangin' up by th'door."
Hank swallowed and stood up. He had to pause to adjust his cock, shoving the head off to the side instead of painfully curved downwards. The black of his jeans was darkened in a spot where his cockhead had been.
The wolf made his way over to the door and hefted his jacket off the hook. He'd never noticed how heavy it was before, road-worthy black leather, a red stripe down the front. It was a sleek, straight-zip jacket, like toned-down racing gear. For some reason the wolf had never fetishized it before, but now...
He wondered if he should just put it on and go out the door, get on his bike, go home. Maybe pretend nothing ever happened. Maybe drop out of school, take his savings, skip town...
Instead, he slid the jacket on, pulled the gloves out of the pockets but didn't put them on, and made for the tiger's bedroom. The wolf was suddenly conscious of everything, the thud of his engineer boots on the wood floor, the creak of his jacket, his size. Hank was not small - he was a full head shorter than the tiger, but that still put him at six and a half at least and that wasn't shabby. With the way the jacket was cut, it showed off his broad shoulders and made him feel like he could wield some power.
He wondered what was wrong with him... was it being horny, was it seeing that powerful movie again, was it the fact that everything he'd thought about was coming true?
He peeked into a room and saw a few lacrosse trophies, an old TV, stereo, bed, endless posters. There was no sign of the cat. He kept moving, around a corner, past a bathroom, another bedroom, finally dead-ending into what had to be the master bedroom.
"Clyde? You in here somewhere?" The wolf peeked around, creeping in. The floor was carpeted, the bed made neatly with expensive sheets, a california king. There was a wide mirror along the wall, a dresser, a flat panel TV facing the bed, a fancy headboard, all the hallmarks of a 'real' bedroom. No doubt his parents-
"Hah, gotcha!"
Hank snorted and jumped into the room, swinging around, hackles raised, baring his fangs. "Jesus fucking christ! Asshole! Don't sneak up on me like-" His eyes adjusted to the low light, the hallway spilling past the hulking figure of Clyde. "...that." Blood boiled up into the wolf's ears as he made out just what the cat had gotten changed into.
Top down: a brown leather cowboy hat, shaped up just shy of rock guitarist - tan bandana around his neck - brown leather cowboy bar vest stretched over a massive chest - brown deerskin gauntlets with fringe tassels - a pair of shotgun brown horsehide chaps that were just barely snug on the cat's legs, the narrow crotch packed side to side with the cat's bare cock and balls - the cat's same fancy cowboy boots under the chaps, but with a pair of spurs strapped on, the chaps leather cut high enough to show off the fancy concho-studded spur strap around the ankle. Hank's cock stung inside, like the tingle when he started getting drunk, like that too-fast rush that nearly brings a climax.
"Oh God," the wolf groaned through his teeth. Clyde had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, gloved paws clomped onto his hips, moving to grab the chaps belt, adjusting it.
"Aww, now I ain't no God, Hank. Jus' a big kitty-cat."
The wolf shuddered and dropped straight to his knees. Clyde laughed and stepped forward, grabbing the wolf's upper arms and hauling him right back up, before toppling Hank back-first onto the bed. The cat was right on him, chaps-clad legs inside the wolf's knees, long-gloved fingers undoing the wolf's fly. "What are you doing? What-"
"Hush, wolf, ain't gonna hurt you. Jus' gettin' you out of these pants." Soon, Hank's black shaft sprouted out. "Holy shit. Damn, that's a nice fuckin' cock! That's movie-star cock. That's, aww man, an' it's black!"
"Yeah, yeah," Hank said, turning his head to the side. Something warm washed over it - he looked back, and the cat had plucked off his cowboy hat and was swirling a pink tongue around the head. Surprisingly, it wasn't the rough sandpaper he expected. "Urrh. So... w-why are you wearing all that?" Hank's breath caught as he spoke.
"Urh? Well, 'cuz you were gettin' rock hard watchin' that movie. Bet you got th'hots for that cowboy stud, huh? I jus' think it's a fun movie."
"Uh, yeah. I guess you could say I... yeah." Hank felt embarassed, and hoped his erection would fade so the cat would just apologize and send him home.
"You always dress like this?"
"Pants OFF!" The cat grabbed Hank's legs and hauled a boot off each.
"Okay, okay! Answer the question, dammnit!" Hank stripped out of his pants.
"Boots back on," the tiger grunted, turning to clomp out of the room. "So, I think this kinda shit is real fuckin' hot. An' I'm bettin' you do too. So I figured, first time you get all fucked, might as well make sure you're really gonna get into it." The cat's voice grew louder as he rummaged somewhere else, then came back holding a little bottle and a furbrush.
"So you're going to what, groom me until I come?" Hank laughed, a twinge of nervous.
"Naw, see, m'parents got like a buncha dildos an' stuff, but I ain't gonna use my mom's dildo on you. Thas' just weird. Gotta loosen you up first."
The tiger brandished the brush, and suddenly it was obvious. The handle was a smooth and round, tapered to a blunt point at one end, swelling in the middle, tapering back to the head of the brush. It was sizable, but hardly as long or thick as either dick in the room. Hank had never put anything aside from a finger in his tailhole, and the brush was definitely bigger than a finger. Too big, maybe. "Whoa, you're going to put that in me?"
"Yep."
"Uh, Clyde, I've never-"
"I ain't gonna put it in fast. We got all weekend t'get you where this tiger-dick's gonna fit."
The wolf swallowed. "Fine." He rolled over onto his chest. "Get it over with."
Hank felt embarassed, in his biker leathers and naked from the waist down, exposed for someone he'd met a day before and had spent only a few hours with. He felt scared of what Clyde might try to do to him - the cat was definitely left of center, not to mention immense. From over his shoulder, he watched Clyde squirt out what he assumed was lube onto the handle of the brush, then smear it up and down with gloved fingers. The big cat tromped over and grabbed onto Hank's tail. "C'mon, show me your.. damn, Hank, you got a black everythin'!"
"Yeah. I'm a regular ink blot. A black hole."
"Naww, you're a hot wolf. Now jus' relax."
Something slippery prodded the wolf's tailhole and Hank cringed. The prodding was a slow massage, the cat's gloved fingertip running around the pucker as the wolf's muscles flickered and tensed. Just a little more pressure, and Hank's worldview suddenly changed. The massage was severely arousing, moreso when Clyde pressed in, and the fact that the prodding finger was wrapped in smooth leather and belonging to a cat in cowboy fetish gear made Hank groan and splay himself apart, leathered arms clutching up a pillow.
"Wow. That feels... I like that. I always uh, play with myself like that, when I'm jerking off."
"Bet you do," the tiger said softly, the fingertip slipping in. Hank clenched up immediately and let out a low groan, then started to breathe slow and heavy. His leathers creaked now and then, the room dead silent except for it. Clyde's slick finger went in a lot easier than the wolf expected, a burning tingle shooting down his cock as it prodded his prostate.
"Mmmmph." The wolf snorted and tightened his grip on the pillow. "You can put it all in... I think I can take-"
"Hah, already up to th'knuckle. Lookit you, you like gettin' fooled with, huh?"
Hank's ears reddened inside, the wolf growling crossly. His grouch faded in just seconds to more burning lust, muscles quivering as the finger suddenly left. "I was really worried... that you won't be able to... I mean, I don't know. Are you going to put that thing in me now?"
The question was answered with something cold prodding his tailhole. The same slow massage as with the finger, then muscles clenching against something. This time, it was unyielding and Hank hissed, a slow twinge of pain. He looked over his shoulder to see the cat let the brush slowly tug out, only an inch or two of the handle reappearing before a faint squelch as his tailhole closed. Then the soft massage, and the slow entry again.
Hank tried to figure out how to relax - obviously breathing deep helped, and as the brush handled slid deeper, pushing out helped as well. The cat tilted the brush up a bit, the wolf's body tensing with sudden urgency. "Shit, this feels.. it feels so huge, it's so big," he mumbled, the brush handle wider and wider as it slid in, stretching the wolf farther than ever before. The pain and sensation reached a sudden peak, his muscles clamping down - he filled suddenly, the handle prodding him somewhere he'd never been prodded before. "What happened, what happened!?"
"Oh man, hah! It's kinda stuck in there! Like a buttplug'r somethin'!"
Hank got up to his knees, the handle pushing inside, muscles clenching and relaxing. "Holy shit, holy shit! You fucking stuck a hairbrush up my ass!"
"Y'know, this really ain't th'time to complain, uh, 'cuz you knew it was comin'." Clyde was standing back, apparently admiring his handiwork.
Hank grabbed onto his coat, arching his back, cock half-hard but drooling a strand of precum onto the sheets. Clyde immediately rushed up and stomped a sharp-toed boot up onto the bed. "Now wait, you ain't gonna come on my parents' bed!"
"I'm not coming! What are you doing? You're gonna get it all over-"
A big gloved paw clomped the wolf on his shoulder. "You make a mess, you clean it up. Gotta let you get used t'something crammed up your ass-hole." The paw started pushing Hank down.
"Wait, what? You want me to lick it up or something? No way, I'm not going to lick your boot." Hank's ears burned inside again, humiliated and secretive. He didn't want to let the cat know he wanted it.
"C'mon, wolf. You ain't never gonna forget this, so you jus' go all th'way."
Hank didn't lean down to the boot leather - it and the bed came up to meet him, the stench of warm leather mixed with his own salty musk. His nose pushed against the cooling slime, tongue washing out - it was a peak experience, so humiliating that Hank wanted to curl up and die, so impossibly sexual that he thought he'd go off right on the spot, the brush handle seeming to stimulate him on its own as his muscles tugged and shifted it. After what seemed like forever, his own gloved fingers cradling the cat's boot, the wolf rolled over.
"Unrgh, I feel like I'm gonna spray right now or something, I can't help it. Clyde, what the hell is this?"
"Aww, here, lemme fix that-" The tiger growled, and grabbed onto the furbrush. He tugged steadily.
"Wait, no, that feels really weird!" Hank complained, eyes widening, spots appearing in his vision. His tailhole pumped and squirmed, trying to keep the intruder inside. Hank climaxed and groaned, slug after slug of seed pulsing from his cockhead. It didn't spurt, just drooling out, and he clapped a paw up to catch it. "Urrgh. Oh man.. what the hell, I still.. I still gotta do it! Like that wasn't it? Is this normal?"
"Mmm, maybe, ain't never had that happen, don't got a lot of dudes big 'nuff to really get me goin' 'round here. Bet you're gonna like it when you really do fire off, with a big ol' cat in there."
In the sudden ejaculation, Hank hadn't noticed that Clyde was now holding the fur brush. The tiger turned and disappeared again, something clanking in another room, possibly into a sink. The cat came back, stopping in the doorway, a silhouette again.
"You ready, wolf?"
Hank swallowed. "Yeah, sure."
"You get on y'back, it's kinda fun that way, feels nuts for you an' I get to see your face while I'm fillin' up your hole." A gloved paw thumped the wolf in the chest, Hank crashing backwards.
"Wait, on your parents-"
He was cut off as the big tiger got his gloved fingers around the wolf's ankles and hauled them up as far apart as he could, lifting them straight up in the air. Clyde then leaned forward, his curved shaft angling down and down until it was level with Hank's tailhole. "You ain't gonna make a mess if I can do somethin' 'bout it." With that, the fat head pushed in and right through the wolf's ring.
Hank barked and grabbed Clyde by the vest, the leather creaking under his gloved fingers. "Shit!" The cat pulled back, the invader popping back out. The wolf huffed and puffed out his nose, his cock twitching and slapping the wet fur of his belly. "Nnrgh, not so fast!" As fast as the tiger's cock left the wolf, it prodded his tailring again, then pushed inside. This time, the head just as slimy as before thanks to one solid stroke of a gloved paw, half the shaft went in.
As the cat slowly started to move back and forth, Hank felt a kind of pleasure he'd never felt any other time. Instead of an obvious burning lust through his cock, the feeling was so deep inside him it was like Clyde was fucking straight up under his heart. He wanted to stare with open eyes, his muzzle hanging open, uncomfortable but not daring to tell the cowboy tiger to stop.
Seconds went by, then minutes, pain shifting to complete pleasure. Hank lifted himself, arching his back, Clyde responding by leaning down, grabbing the wolf by his coat, and starting to jackhammer. "So fuckin' hot, you're th'goddamn fuckin' hottest wolf I ever laid eyes on-" The tiger mumbled, the force of his thrusts enough to make Hank beat his muzzle to the side against the sheets.
The wolf didn't hear the tiger's roar, only his own desperate need to climax, a fist finally grabbing his cock and pounding the skin up and down, painting his chest straight up between his pecs with ropes of watery seed. The tiger yanked out right in the middle of his climax, the sudden sensation of that fat cockhead yanking out through his bowels, through his tailhole, made the wolf strain upwards and then slump back to the bed.
"Oh shit, oh shit oh shit-" Hank muttered for a few seconds, then jumped out of the bed and bolted to the bathroom, winding toilet paper around his paw and mopping himself off. Clyde sauntered up to the door, leaning on the frame.
"Well you ain't dead yet, so I wasn't too rough. You have fun there, wolf?"
Hank stared. "I don't know what I had. I feel... empty." The terrible pang of emptiness was not there - this was physical, the true sense of containing something, then losing it.
"Yeah, that's always kinda fucked up, feels like you got a big fuckin' hole. Bet you do, hah, ain't really small in th'dick department." Clyde gave his half-slack cock a swat with a paw.
"So now what?" Hank plopped himself on top of the toilet, leaning back and thumping his head into the wall. "Do I just go home? Or do we, uh, cuddle or something?"
"Hell, y'don't gotta cuddle.." Clyde rolled his eyes and smiled, clomping out of the bathroom and down the hall. "Stick 'round, we could get high, watch some more shit, stare at th'tv, whatever."
Hank spent a few moments cleaning himself up - his asshole felt like a huge dent instead of a snug star - and then headed off down the hall. He grabbed his pants up, putting them on, carrying his boots with him. Clyde was in his own room, rooting around under his dirty laundry. "Aha!"
"Did you say 'get high'?"
The tiger deposited a jewelry box on the bed and flipped it open. "A'yep."
"You just said... wait, you said something about your brother earlier, right? I thought you were exaggerating." Hank stepped up to the bed and leaned down. Instead of jewelry, there were plastic bags, unlabeled, a small mirror, several glass vials, a metal hash pipe, and a syringe. Seeing the syringe, Clyde bared his fangs.
"Yarrh, now I'm gonna take care'f this right now." he swiped it up and the baggie next to it, rushing out of the room. Banging sounds came from the kitchen, the thud of some appliance door, and then a groaning whirr. Clyde came back in, dusting his paws off together. "Always wanted t'see what happened when I put a horse in a trash compactor."
"Did you just throw away -heroin-?" The wolf coughed.
"Now y'know, I'm pretty fuckin' open-minded, but I ain't dumb. So m'brother's out on probation' and he came on over an' said, 'Clyde, you here take this an' make sure I don't get near it.' Jus' handed me this box. So hell, best way t'make sure no one's gettin' near is to use it all up!"
"That has to be the stupidest thing I ever heard."
"Well hell, ain't gonna jus' do it all at once. If you ain't into this I can jus'-"
"It's fine, I guess there's pot in there, right?"
There sure was pot, and by one in the morning, there wasn't any more. By four, Hank and Clyde agreed it was time to either hit the sack or split up. Hank took the split, and a bag of something that looked a whole lot like dried mushrooms. He also got the advice to chew them up good, take half a shot of vodka, and hold it all under his tongue for as long as physically possible.
Still toasted, Hank went out and got on his bike after doing a shot of something Clyde swore was espresso. He waved off to the cat, kicked over, and took off.
Hank had been riding a motorcycle since he was twelve, and had gotten so used to it that it was just how he got around. But buzzed and coming down off being stoned, not to mention the supreme fucking his virgin asshole had taken, gave him a new perception. The world shot by, lit by the moon, by streetlight, by nothing. The air roared past his helmet, and the wolf imagined himself a hurtling black shape in the night, a shot in the dark.
For the entire ride home, he was at peace.