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Human Bitches

Chapter Fifteen: High Times in High School

Part 3 – Joey’s Coda

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

I have been serving Mistress Esme Carlin ever since her mother bought me from the United States Morph Services, back when all morphs were being decommissioned wholesale from the armed forces of the First World. That’s been many years now, and in that time I helped to raise Mistress Esme, and I’ve also raised both her children. I’ve seen her through the loss of her husband to the whyker plagues, and together we’ve borne up through the initial financial hardship that entailed. At least until we both discovered that I had a knack for online stock trading.

To be honest, though, that wasn’t really due to my genius. Certainly, I’m a trained accountant, chef, personal trainer, masseur, bodyguard, chauffeur, mechanic, plumber, electrician, carpenter, and general “help” around the house (aided in no small part by my chronic compulsions: I have to be constantly doing something, and I hate leaving messes, so keeping our home spotless helps to take the edge off…most of the time). I was just in the right place at the right time when the People’s Republic of China finally shattered, and the yuan tanked, leaving a currency vacuum that was soon filled by that nation’s many competitors, as well as the various lesser nations that rose to try and fill the political power vacuum also left behind. A few carefully-timed purchases of rising currencies, followed by their sale right before they could fall, and my three charges were rendered financially safe, and are likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

Well, so long as the dollars of the US and Canada remain viable…hmm…I’m going to have to start considering alternatives on that front: both countries have shown serious signs of “stress fractures,” and though I think Canada will pull through, Ontario notwithstanding, the United States isn’t likely to remain all that united for much longer. It’s a wonder it lasted this long!

The reason I’m filling my head with thoughts of investing in the rumored Californian “grizzly” (as some sources claim the new currency will be called), and considering which of my mistress’ e-currencies I should dip into to make such a purchase is to ensure that my mind doesn’t focus on what’s right beneath my paws: Mistress Esme Carlin herself.

She’s bare naked before me, and she’s a lot more woman than she was back when she was twelve, when I first arrived on the scene. She still likes me to bathe her, though, just like I did when she was a little girl. Now, though, she gets more…um…into the process than before. She likes me to linger on certain places, to add additional pressure there, squeezing, caressing, stroking, and even good, hard rubbing until she can’t hold back the moans.

According to Mistress Esme, this gives her a “healthy glow.”

That may be so, but she’s a very healthy woman all by herself, tall and willowy strawberry blonde that she is…and I am a very healthy male, morph or not.

Thank goodness this is just a quick shower before she goes out for the night, rather than the full treatment she expects during one of her baths, or I’d be in more than a little agony from a heavy case of morph’s blue balls for the rest of the night. Especially since I can’t masturbate after she leaves: Master Joey’s going to be home in less than a half-hour, if the school bus stays on schedule. At least Mistress Lizzie hasn’t called, which means she’s probably going to spend her night at the college dorms (she’s got strong incentive to call ahead, too: it’s the best way to ensure that I have food waiting for her when she shows up). Not really that surprising, since as a freshman, she’s got an awful lot of work for her required classes, the college way of “weeding out the weak,” by overloading them with various assorted busywork tasks; endure that first barrage, and the rest gets easy.

But there I go again: trying to distract myself with other thoughts. The reality, though, is that a slim, beautiful young woman – a proven breeder, the dark and instinct-driven part of me promptly reminds me – is seated on a hard plastic bath stool in front of me in the massive shower-bath, bent slightly forward, her firm, heart-shaped bottom pressed with apparent carelessness against my heavy-feeling, white-furred sac. Her skin is light, delicate from her Scotch-Irish ancestry – the same place she got the red parts of her strawberry blonde hair – and is indeed flushed with that “healthy glow” as I grip her upturned breasts in my paws. Mistress Esme’s light pink nipples stand out clearly between my fingers, perked and rigidly erect, as I roll them, making her shudder, moaning even more loudly.

“That’s…just right, Morrison,” my mistress praises me, her eyes closed, not seeming to notice, or to care, that she’s leaning even more forward now, pressing into my touch, and at the same time squeezing my already painfully swollen sheath firmly between the curves of her buttocks, rocking forward and back with each palpation of my grip around her yielding breasts, and each squeeze and slow, firm pinch of my hands on her achingly perked nipples. “Now…now a bit…lower, please.”

While one of my white-furred paws travels downward, I almost grab her hair in a dominating grip. Actually, on other days, I might have – my Mistress Esme enjoys having her hair pulled – but I’d already worked so hard to get her coiffure just right, so that her straight tresses flow to either side of her face like a pair of dove’s wings, that at this point I simply moved one hand to her shoulder, using the stability of the stance to give my paws some added support on the slick shower floor. My other hand, meanwhile, moved to the center of her sternum, right between those heaving, modest-sized breasts (I’d worked hard with her, too, to get them sized down after her two pregnancies; even so, my own abilities as a personal trainer notwithstanding, without the enhanced electro-stimulation exercises available now, as well as the personal liposonics to loosen up fat cells so her body could eliminate them naturally, I doubt the extremity of the end results could have been possible), and then made its way downward. I could feel the trim muscles of her chest, tensed there beneath my fingers, and then of her belly. My blunt clawtip traced the caesarian scar left behind by Joey’s birth, before I splayed out my hand, letting the palm rest against the taut washboard of her stomach.

How couldn’t I feel a bit of pride, looking down, feeling as well as seeing a body like Mistress Esme’s? A body that I’d so carefully worked with her to sculpt, all the better to be the envy of all her friends in her wide social circle. No matter whose morphs won in the contests and exhibitions tonight, my mistress would go home a winner, knowing that she’d outshone them all with her flawless body, her flawless poise, her flawless social graces. We’d worked together for so many hours all her life to develop those skills to go with her physical training, and now they exuded from her as though she’d been born with them.

Then I let my hand stray a little lower, to the smooth mound beneath her belly, right above the juncture of her thighs.

“Lower,” Mistress Esme almost whispered, her eyes heavy-lidded. “Please, Morrison. Just…a little…lower…”

A gasp cut off her words as I did what she’d asked of me, letting my hand curl upward into her most intimate regions, a place she’d had me thoroughly explore for her as she’d grown into womanhood (with my hands only, of course: while it’s not spoken of openly, many morphs act as living sex toys in this fashion for their owners; only actual breeding with morphs was against the law until recently, and the habit seems to have stuck in the culture of the upper crust…or at least my mistress’ circle, what I know of it). My own eyes half-lidded as I called all the secret places from my memory, those little spots that made her squirm, and moan, and even…

“Morrison!”

…call out my name. In moments Mistress Esme was bucking her hips, pressing her bowstring-taut back against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder, her brilliant blue eyes staring unseeingly upward.

Then I saw my mistress’ face tighten, saw her will return, her resolve harden…and she reached down, placing a gentle hand on my wrist. Instantly I withdrew it, knowing that while the pleasure might give her a glow, fulfilling her desires completely would leave her exhausted, disheveled, and not really fit for polite company such as was expected in the presence of her social circle. Brought right to the edge, however, and then denied, now that left her energized, empowered, filling her with a potent animal magnetism that instantly drew all eyes.

While Mistress Esme’s legs were a bit wobbly at first as she stepped from the shower and I efficiently toweled her off, she soon recovered, as much mistress of her social façade as of my person. I felt a surge of pride as I helped her step into her shimmering black dress, then cinched it up in the back, before I reached for her jewelry, affixing gold chains around her neck and wrists. As a beaglemorph, it’s a bit hard for me to reach high spots – Mistress Esme is almost a full head taller than me, and she’s only average height for a human femme – so I have to make up for it with a lot of training. Training not just to develop my muscles and bone, but to move them with smooth, easy grace; agility and dexterity as well as strength. For this reason, getting my mistress dressed took only a matter of scant minutes, even with our height differences.

“How do I look, Morrison?” my mistress asked, doing a slow, playful twirl as we stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall leading toward the stairs, graceful as a ballerina even in high heels (and while I’d like to say that I’d taught her that skill as well, that would be a lie: she learned the twin arts of ballet and walking in high heels from a fantastic instructor in junior high).

“Exquisite, mistress,” I told her honestly, letting my eyes flick up and down her body for only a moment, so that she’d recognize my sincerity, and also my respect for her in not ogling her like some common street bitchmutt. “All eyes are certain to be on you tonight.”

“Not likely!” she laughed, not seeming to notice or to care as I followed behind her, naked except for a white towel I’d happened to snag on my way out of the bathroom. “Tonight’s exhibition is a match between a big elkmorph and someone’s Great Dane…um, I think his name is Magnificent.”

“Yes,” I affirmed with a nod as I opened the door for her, seeing that her friend’s car had already arrived, complete with chauffeur, who was already holding open the car door, removing the necessity for me to step too far out into the night in only slightly more than my red-and-white fur. “It’s a charity exhibition match; Mag’s master died recently, old age, and his morphs need a pension now that they’re all unemployed.”

“That’s terrible!” exclaimed Mistress Esme, turning to look at me. “You mean, the old man didn’t provide for his morphs?” She frowned. “It’s like something out of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”

“His heirs split up the whole estate without factoring in the keptmorphs,” I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral. “Fairly normal, actually. Several of your friends – people you actually like – were the ones to set up this exhibition; I’ll let you enjoy a bit of investigation this evening to find out who they are, but I’ll tell you afterward if you can’t find the time for it during all the excitement. Fortunately, Mag is the only one who doesn’t have a job of some kind waiting for him; the whole situation could have been much worse. But he was the old master’s personal servant, and nobody wants to pick him up, for fear that he’s too set in his ways.” I saw her expression as her eyes clouded, and shook my head. “He’ll be all right, at least financially. You know how well-funded these exhibition matches are, after all. As for the emotional strain,” I shrugged again. “I don’t think anything except time will help there, and that’s never a guarantee.”

“Now I’m going to have a hard time enjoying the match,” Mistress Esme declared with a furrow to her formerly flawless brow.

“I think your mood will improve after you see two well-proportioned, naked males battling each other in the ring,” I responded with a light smirk, though I had to fight hard to keep the expression at that. “And, of course, there will be human males at the party afterward; don’t forget the ongoing quest to find a suitable surrogate father for Joey.” My smirk widened a bit more in spite of myself. “Not an unpleasant chore, I should think.”

“This is true,” she replied with a grin, before she blew me a kiss. “Remind Joey that I love him when he gets home,” she added over her shoulder as she hurried down the tiered steps to the waiting car (and I did my best not to follow the way her hips swayed with each step in that sheer black dress).

“Of course, mistress,” I added unnecessarily to the empty air as the car door slammed, and it sped away into the gathering gloom of early evening. Joey’s friends would probably all be home by now; he just had the misfortune to have a family that lived on the furthest, richest reaches of the suburbs, right on the edge of the forests and fallow, forgotten farmlands that dominated the landscape at the point where the cement came to an end.

There were layers in the morph fighting rings, of course, which I mused upon as I headed back inside. This mattered to me since I’d taken part in them, but only in the upper tiers, where the upper crust of society met to enjoy some good, savage entertainment that was far different from their usual fare.

At the bottom of the heap are what are called the dogfights, even if there are more than canomorphs involved. These are street-level fights, for the most part, taking place in cage rings in warehouses and other refurbished buildings all over the seedier side of morphtown. They’re cheap to set up, and with the population crash among humans, there are plenty of buildings available, and that coupled with the loose nature of the betting that went on, as well as the prospects for prostitution by morphs turning tricks in the audience, makes for a prime opportunity for the criminal element to take quiet command of backing these bouts. They aren’t publically advertised, since they’re technically illegal (the laws involved being the complicated mess that they always are), but if you have any word from those “in the know,” you can find out where the next one is going to be held without too much difficulty. Naturally, my connections to my former friends and comrades-in-arms from my military days meant that I’d been able to make arrangements for Mistress Esme and her friends to slip into several of these matches over the years, as a way for them to get a thrill from slumming while watching some truly brutal action down in the arena.

That thrill could get even more intense, of course, since quite often the fights would climax (pun most definitely intended) with a sex show, some victor plowing out his vanquished opponent, or perhaps being presented with a high-class bitch for his public use as part of his “winnings.” Most of the femme-on-femme fights are expected to end in some lesbian action, actually, so as to cater to the crowds, and so are regularly used either as opening acts, to get the crowd warmed up, or as the closing event, to send them home happy. A lot of arrangements for breeding services are made at the dogfights, sometimes almost as frequently with the losers of matches as with the winners. After all, the matches are traditionally done in the buff, like the old Grecian athletics, so interested parties in the audience looking for someone with the physical qualities they want in their breeding stock didn’t have an especially difficult time finding a match. For that kind of work, your skill in fighting wasn’t nearly as important as your phenotypic expression of potential genes. It helped, certainly, but wasn’t the end of your chances if you didn’t win consistently.

Next up were the “middle class” morph fights. Most of these are actually kind of legal, or at least gray enough that nobody with the ability to do so really feels like interfering with them, not with the money that could get tossed around by their backers. Again, those wanting to breed their keptmorphs hang out in the audiences, but unlike the dogfights, where the morphs in the ring were almost universally their own property, middlegrade fights have an equal number of keptmorphs as free, so a lot of the arrangements are made with human owners rather than directly with the morphs in question. The fights are usually done with minimal clothes as well, at least an athletic protective cup for the males and chest shields for the femmes; after all, they’re “respectable” fights, and you didn’t do a respectable fight in the nude, even if you were a morph. Sure, morph nudity might be all right in the movies, but not for a live audience (don’t ask me why: I know nothing about what fickle forces drive the minds of the Motion Picture Association).

Unless you’re really rich, that is. Which is just the kind of match my mistress was going to see. Unlike the dogfights, though, which are all out in the open, the audience of the upper crust fight about to take place was going to be kept in relative privacy, soft lighting and private booths protecting their identities, giving them the freedom of anonymity to properly enjoy the carnality of the show that would take place before them. Oh, Mag and that big bull elk (whose name I hadn’t been able to find out; he belonged to a Canadian, and his name was Scandinavian, and while I’m a polyglot, my primary specialty is in Romance and East Asian languages, not the Nordic ones) would be the main attraction, but there would be more than enough lesser bouts, with attendant scenes of sex and violence, to satisfy even the most debauched members of the audience.

Well…perhaps not all of the most debauched. But those were the ones who were rumored to actually have sex with morphs. Needless to say, wealthy though they might be, they weren’t accepted in the public reaches of high society. Unless they had the surname Lords, that is.

For my dear mistress, though, the after-party to such events made for a perfect place to meet human males. Mistress Esme had many times expressed her loneliness to me, and how she so missed having someone with whom she could share the most intimate parts of herself – not just in sex, but in conversation, and the deepest sharing of hearts. In those times, when the maudlin moods hit especially hard, I could only let her lean against me, murmuring soft, comforting nothings while we waited for the storm to pass. Then I’d help her select a nice film, perhaps a romantic comedy, or even one of those animated features she enjoyed as a child, then help her get her iso-trainer and electro-stimulators set up so she could jog while watching, burning off stress at the same time she burned off calories.

Only halfway up the stairs, my floppy russet ears perked on my skull: the front door was being unlocked! One hand still gripping the towel around my waist, I instantly turned and hurried back down, knowing that Master Joey was home at last!

“Morrison,” was the first word out of my red-haired master’s mouth as I reached him at the door, and before I knew what else was happening, he was hugging me tightly, his cheek pressed against my shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too, Joey,” I told him – honestly, of course – while leaving out the “master” title, like he preferred, even as I rested one hand on his back, still not daring to let the other leave the hasty knot on the towel, feeling him tremble under my touch, my nostrils working as I tried to puzzle out the complex array of emotions I could smell coming from him. Emotions and…something else. Was that…what was that smell? “How was school today?”

“Kinda complicated,” he said, giving me a shy, sheepish smile, before he threw his backpack down by the door, just like always, kicked off his shoes, and started toward the stairs. “Would it be all right if I had my bath tonight instead of Wednesday? I feel like I need it after everything I went through today.”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” I asked, following after my boy, my sense of puzzlement rising as he kept giving me these odd, shy smiles over his shoulder every few steps until he’d reached the top of the stairs. “If someone was mean to you, or you had a fight with one of your friends…”

“Nothing like that, Morrison,” he reassured me as we reached the door to his room, almost the equal of Mistress Esme’s, and equipped with a similarly-sized bathroom for his private use. “Just, well,” he stood there in the middle of his room, looking around at all the bric-a-brac that marked the passage of his life up until that moment, from sports equipment he used with his friends, and which I’d so carefully maintained, to clothes I’d folded neatly after he’d tossed them carelessly on the floor, to the floor itself, the carpet vacuumed and spotless in spite of all the times he and his friends had spilled all manner of foodstuffs during their sleepovers, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you mean to us.”

He turned his head once more, giving me another of those shy looks, even as I realized that the smell on his clothes was that of…

“Did someone…do something to you today, Joey?” I asked, unable to resist the uncomfortable shuffling of my feet at broaching a subject that I knew could be so very sensitive for humans. “I can smell…two, three, probably more male morphs on you, as well as the scent of your two friends, Thaxton and Billy. And something happened, but I’m not quite sure…”

But even as I was talking, Joey was already pulling his shirt over his head, baring his trim, youthfully-muscled chest and taut belly. I’d been the one to teach him how to play all the sports he liked, the one who’d worked to arrange those pickup games, baseball and touch football mostly, with the girls from the adjoining estates, and I couldn’t help but admire his physique, his body that of an athletic young Adonis, smooth and well-proportioned, knowing that I’d had a strong hand in his development. Almost as much as I’d had in the body of his mother, though that had been a conscious choice on her part, while Joey hadn’t realized what I’d done for him.

At least, he hadn’t realized it, past tense emphasized. Now, though, from the looks he was giving me, from the words he’d said, and the things he wasn’t saying, I was starting to think that might not be the case anymore.

“They were going to,” he said with a shrug, before he kicked off his socks, then unbuttoned his jeans. “Until they smelled you on me.”

Was…was Joey actually blushing as he undressed in front of me? He hesitated for a moment, then closing his eyes, as though to better pretend that I wasn’t there at all, that he was somehow alone in the room, he pushed his pants and boxers down to the floor, leaving him as bare naked as the day Mistress Esme brought him home from the hospital.

His smooth, boyish penis was standing rigidly erect. Telling me everything that his words somehow couldn’t, even as he dared to look at me again, his wide eyes – so like his mother’s – pleading with me not to judge him harshly.

“You’ve done so much for us all, Morrison,” Joey said, the words a realization he was reaching just as he said them, awakening at last to the world of adult comprehension as he walked to the bathroom, me trailing behind, trying hard not to ogle his behind as I did so. “Earlier today, I finally got just how much we all owe you. How much I owe you.” He bent forward, and I caught sight of his dangling sac, slightly wrinkled and denuded of all pubic hair by the hygienic gels most humans use these days, as it was tugged up snug against his body with his arousal, the twin ovoids of his testicles clearly visible through his tight-stretched skin, while he turned the knobs of the bath, getting the water running at the right temperature, just like he’d seen me do countless times in the past.

Had he been watching my body all those times in the same way I was watching his now?

Stepping into the huge tub, Joey turned, holding his hand out to me. That moment was flash-frozen in my mind, his smooth, perfect young body utterly exposed before me, his beautiful penis, long and slender, still hard – even dribbling precum onto the tiles of the bathroom now! – and looking so wonderfully appetizing to me, I had to fight with all my willpower not to start drooling at the sight. His bottom was firm, squeezable, looking to be just the perfect size to fit into my paws, which are very large for the size of my body, just like my feet. Joey’s hands and feet, though, were elegant; not dainty or effeminate, but…artful, like something done by a master sculptor. They were hands that could do anything, feet that could go anywhere.

Why did I want to…to taste the fingers on those hands, to suckle on the toes of those feet?

What perversion!

Almost before I realized I was doing it, I took Joey’s outstretched hand, and let him lead me into the wide bathtub. In the process, I let my other hand lose its grip on my towel, which fluttered to the tiles. (I made another mental note to clean it up later, just like I’d be picking up and folding Joey’s discarded clothes.)

“Wow,” whispered Joey, his eyes now wide in awe. Blinking at this reaction, I looked down. Apparently I’d forgotten to keep myself tucked in, for now all the arousal I’d been feeling that night, first with his mother, and now with her son, came to an overwhelming head. Before I could do more than open my mouth – for what purpose I really wasn’t sure, though perhaps to apologize for the indecorum of my misbehaving body – Joey’s hands were cupping the heavy weight of my prick, hefting it like a weightlifter’s barbell. Those hands went further up my body, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride (among other things) at the look on my boy’s face as he began to gently handle my heavy sac, running his fingers through the short, soft white fur, then cupping the more-than-adequate weight of my balls.

Looking down, Joey’s eyes made it obvious he was comparing his own size to mine, swallowing a bit as he realized that he simply didn’t measure up. At first, I’d been struck with the impulse to stop him, to remind him of the impropriety of such acts between morphs and humans. Now, though, seeing his expression at that moment, I reached out, pulling him close, letting our respective erections press against each other as I hugged my dearest boy.

“You’re perfect as you are, Joey,” I told him, and I only hoped he could hear the honesty in my voice – and I was being honest in every word! “I’m a morph, and we’re made things. You’re a human, and you get what birth provides.” Then I leaned back, giving us some space, and regarded his rigid shaft squeezed up against my own between our close-pressed bellies. “Though, in your case, I’d say you don’t have a thing of which you should be ashamed: you’re not bad at all for a human. You’re just more inclined toward length, rather than girth.”

“While you’re both long and thick,” he answered back with a grin, his hands pressing against my chest, making me realize forcibly how muscular my compact body was, even compared to a beautiful young athlete like my fire-haired master, and even though our heights were about the same (and he not finished growing yet!). The realization made me feel protective toward him, as though I needed to use all the strength I’d worked so hard to acquire to shield him from the world and all its dangers.

“Morrison?” Joey queried, looking into my eyes, his lips parted slightly between his words. As he spoke, my back stiffened, though that was mostly because his hands wrapped around my penis, making it throb in his tentative virgin’s grip. “I…today, the morphs did things to my friends, Billy and Thaxton. They let me watch, but they only held me, didn’t do anything. It was like they didn’t just smell your scent on me; more like they smelled how I felt about you, in ways I didn’t really even realize, and sure didn’t understand.” His hands stroked up and then down my pink penis, a more bright and smooth pink than his own, something like a strawberry taffy in color and texture (his favorite candy when he’d been ten, as I thought about it). “Can you do that?” he asked with all possible earnestness, his wide-eyed innocence and total trust obvious in his expression. “Smell how people feel?”

“Yes,” I answered, honestly as always, though my voice was tense as he began stroking my shaft, his eyes straying down to watch what he was doing, his expression wonderstruck at the reality of his actions.

“Then I guess they knew that I loved you, Morrison,” he said frankly, not bothering to equivocate on his feelings. “I do love you,” he added, letting his eyes flick up to mine once more. “And I want to show it. You’ve done so much for me – for my whole family! – over so long, and I don’t think you’ve ever once asked for any sort of reward.”

“I don’t need a reward, Joey,” I told him gently, resting one hand on his, halting his slow stroking of my aching prick, his efforts just enough to keep me on-edge, but not enough to allow me any real stimulation. “You, and your mother, and your sister, you don’t owe me…”

“But what if I want to do something for you?” he asked, his hands clenching firmly on my shaft, squeezing it properly now, even if he’d done so by accident, something his expression and scent showed he realized when I sucked in a sharp muzzleful of air. “What if I want to…to explore, to try stuff out, even to…to, you know, go ‘all the way,’ with somebody I trust? Somebody I know won’t ever hurt me on purpose? Somebody who’ll teach me, and guide me, and give back even more than I could ever hope to give to him, no matter how hard I’ll try?”

The question was there in his eyes as he looked up at me again. I couldn’t answer, not with words: my throat was too tight, almost as tense as the knot of arousal somewhere in the general vicinity of the pit of my stomach. So I nodded, trying without words to let him know that it was all right, that he could do what he wanted, that he could experiment with me.

That he could lose his virginity with me.

I reached out with one white-furred hand, cupping Joey’s chin, and guided his lips to mine. For a moment his eyes opened wide. Then my tongue slid into his mouth, and they widened still further…then grew heavy-lidded, then closed completely as he began to moan softly. Youthful eagerness showing, his hips started to buck, rubbing his rigid flesh against me as though he was an overeager puppy having his first good hump. In spite of myself, I growled dominantly, my big hands seizing his bouncy boyish bottom and squeezing until his whole body was shuddering, and he broke our kiss with a gasping cry.

“Morrison!” he panted, gasping for breath, before his eyes turned downward, fixing with laser intensity on my throbbing penis. “I’ve…I’ve just gotta…” he murmured, letting his fingers trail down my chest, then my belly as he sank to his knees before me.

He was breathing hard now, raggedly, as he leaned in close, nuzzling the side of my pink prick, making it bob, before his lips parted, and he began to mouth my balls, each of which felt so swollen right then that I could have screamed if not for a monumental effort of will. Sucking on first one, then the other, not seeming to notice or care when my length bumped against his forehead or the bridge of his nose (or how comical those moments made him look, something about which I decided I wouldn’t enlighten my young protégé, for fear that he might not continue what he was doing – it felt fantastic!), Joey breathed my scent in deeply, his cheeks growing steadily more flushed with every passing moment.

I do believe the poor boy was getting drunk on my pheromones.

“Need this,” he murmured suddenly, closing his hands around the base of my prick, holding it steady as he stared straight down its more-than-significant barrel – beaglemorph I might be, but my penis looks positively disproportionate when compared to the rest of me! – an expression of momentary uncertainty crossing his face. He opened his mouth for a moment, then frowned and tilted his head to one side, then the other, trying different ways to part his lips, to somehow try and take me all in, all at once. Finally, though, I could see something snap, and he just spread his mouth into as wide an “O” as he could manage, and crammed the swollen glans inside.

“Mmph!” he exclaimed, realizing a little too late that he had indeed bitten off more than he could comfortably chew (thankfully only in a metaphorical sense!). Then he felt my hand on his head, stroking his soft, thick red hair, soothing him, calming him. His body relaxed, and slowly his eyes closed, and he began to move.

“Mmmm…” he moaned happily, tasting the first spurt of my precum across his tastebuds.

That…that felt exquisite. Oh, don’t misunderstand: he was obviously a novice, and he was handling a lot more than a virgin was ever meant to tackle all at once. But he was eager, energetic, and very, very enthusiastic (and once again the puppy metaphor came to mind – and I’m supposed to be the dog here!). As his lovely eyes opened, looking up at me for approval, I wagged my tail and smiled down at him in response, though I had to do so through my panting, which was considerable at that point – he’d gotten to me, and even a clueless virgin like him could tell it!

The sight of my obvious pleasure made his pupils dilate, his expression becoming slightly mischievous, though only slightly; most of his attention had to remain fixed on the more-than-significant task of just keeping his rapidly-tiring jaw working as he bobbed his head at a prodigious pace, obviously trying to bring me to a similar peak of pleasure that his own fullmast erection betokened. Acting on that spirit of mischief, I felt one of his hands reaching around, then slipping beneath my tail, and my eyebrows immediately raised as I felt him probing around for my tailhole. Goodness, what had those naughty morphs been teaching him at that school!?

Ultimately, though, it was a bit too much for him on his first time, and I decided to put a stop to his efforts even as I felt his hand poking around aimlessly, and saw the strain on his trembling neck, even as he fought with all his might and will not to give in until I’d been fully satisfied.

“That’s a prodigious effort for a first-timer,” I reassured him as I guided him to leaning back on his haunches in the tub, and then knelt before him in the water, which had risen almost to our ankles in the time he’d put into fellating me. “But I think it’s time for me to take over while you rest.”

“O-okay, Morrison,” he panted, his eyes still wide as he watched my big paws press against his chest, caressing the delightfully firm muscles of his upper belly, and then his pectorals, before he sucked in a sharp, sudden breath when I teased my blunted clawtips over his nipples, which soon turned into a fully arched back as I squeezed down on them rather firmly. That arched back soon turned to a slow, sensuous squirming as I began to run my tongue up and down his front with long, loving licks, and him surrendering to me, trusting me utterly in the way that long-time lovers learn only after years of mutual effort.

The kid was a natural!

“Let’s start with getting you clean first,” I suggested as I drew back, my smile only a little bit teasing as I looked over my boy’s beautiful body, unable to keep myself from admiring his proud erection, and the way his firmly toned buns depressed slightly against the bath’s bottom, his legs splayed in a wide, inviting “W.” “Then, when we’ve got the scent of those morphs off of you, we can replace it properly with mine.”

“Sure thing, Morrison,” Joey agreed eagerly, his cock actually throbbing, jetting a long spurt of precum at the thought of my hands touching him everywhere. Of course I’d touched him in all those places before, but that was in my role as a morphservant, a common enough act in every house that could afford one or more keptmorphs to properly spoil its scions rotten. But I like to think that I hadn’t spoiled my beautiful Joey, and now he was showing me the truth of my hopes by giving me his precious self, completely and utterly, as his way of showing what he’d learned about love from our longterm relationship.

“Whatever happens, Joey,” I murmured in his ear as I rested a paw on his shoulder, turning him around, then letting him rest his arms on the edge of the tub, his chin settling onto his crossed forearms, “I love you, and I’ll stop if you feel at all uncomfortable. You just let me know if this gets to be too much for you, or if you feel any serious pain. All right?”

“All right, Morrison,” he agreed, his head turned so that he could continue watching me as I squirted a liberal dose of sweet-smelling soap in a zigzag down his spine, and then in a hefty dollop on my palms. “I love you too.”

Those words soon devolved into a long, pleased-sounding moan, my boy’s eyes rolling up into his head as I let my fingers squeeze their way into his tensed young muscles, starting at his shoulders as I took long, slow, deep breaths, letting them out in measured bursts with each exertion of pressure. When you do it right, really put your whole self into a good, full-body massage, your hands heat up, and that warmth transfers right into the deepest core of the muscle fibers of your recipient. I’ve had morphs do it to me, just the same way I’ve done it to Mistress Esme, and Mistress Lizzie, and Master Joey at various times in the past. The reaction then was quite different, however: normally Joey would go completely limp, just letting me pour healing energy into him, relaxing his whole being and getting him ready for a sweet night’s sleep. Now, though…now he was like some cat! He kept arching his body up into my touch, shivering, shuddering, twitching like he just couldn’t hold still with every slow caress down his flanks, or around to his chest. And he kept thrusting his firm backside toward my groin with its projecting penis, trying to make our contact just that much more intimate.

Finally, growling softly in my chest, I let him have what he wanted: I leaned over his body, my thick cock slapping right between his boyish buns, and sank my teeth into the hollow of his shoulder!

Well…no, not really. I mean, yes, I did close my muzzle around that weak spot, knowing perfectly well from prior experiences with other morphs just how sensitive it can be when you’re turned on and somebody pricks your flesh with the hint of teeth, Of course, if Joey had been a canomorph, or even a felimorph, there’d have been some loose flesh there, something left in by our designers to make us more effective at grappling, but which also contains some pretty potent nerve clusters if you get really rough with it, just the sort of thing to drive another morph, male or femme, wild. Since he wasn’t, and all he had was tender pink skin, I didn’t bite down, just…gripped him. Firmly.

Instantly, my boy’s whole body seized up, shuddering and jerking under me like a ship’s cable in a high wind, his hips arching violently forward and back, grinding the heart-shaped swell of his buns against the underside of my cock.

“Morrison,” he panted, barely able to get out the word – any words. “It’s…it’s…I can’t…it’s so…”

Releasing my grip on his neck, I licked his delicate flesh in the place where I’d seized him, nice and slow, my body continuing to grind against his now glistening, soapslick self (and glad I’d been saving his shampoo for last: that would have been a serious turnoff to get a muzzlefull of suds), leaking a trail of my precum across his lower back. One of my paws slid around to his chest, teasing one perked nipple, while the other cupped his aching young cock, then wrapped around it, taking a nice, firm grip.

It was time to show my boy a little mercy: he’d held on for much longer than any youngster really ought to be forced to endure.

“MORRISON!” he yelped as I began to pump his lovely smooth penis, good and fast, his buns clenching down on my cock, gripping it tightly – and I hadn’t even penetrated him! – as he began instantly to squirt a clean jet of white boycum, which splattered against the side of the tub.

“So healthy,” I murmured in his ear, before nibbling the lobe lovingly, then sucking on it, just a little. “That’s it, Joey: let it all out. I want to clear out all your old lust.” I leaned forward so he could see my fangs as I grinned ferally. “When you cum in my muzzle, I want it to be all from me, not some leftover of watching your hot friends getting sucked off by a bunch of hot morphs!”

Those words gave him the encouragement he needed to not hold back, his body shuddering with the raw force of his orgasm, his whole self going into the explosion of sensation that burst through his whole being. I could clearly remember my own first time in the grip of my morph mentors, three of them, all of them so careful with me, afraid my smaller body couldn’t take everything they wanted to do with me. Of course I soon proved their fears groundless! And somehow I knew that Joey wouldn’t want me to be overly gentle with him, either.

Finally, I felt Joey’s body slump, his trembling slowing. Oh, he was still alert and eager, but he was in his refractory period, his penis needing a bit of recovery time, even if the rest of him was more than ready for still more stimulation. Probably just as well: the body has those natural cutoffs for a reason, after all. I suppose I could have overcharged him, slipped a finger into him to massage his prostate, maybe worked some pressure point magic to keep him going like a femme…but that wouldn’t be responsible. I didn’t want to blow his mind, turn him into a needy sex slave; he was my boy, and I wanted him to fully experience the emotions as well as the pleasure of our time together.

Oh, don’t get me wrong: I’d blow his mind later – I just couldn’t resist! But right now…right now, I wanted us both to savor this first time to the fullest. So I rested on his back comfortingly, letting the pressure of my body act like a weighted blanket (though I admit, my raging hard erection probably negated a fair amount of the comfort qualities of that contact), letting my hands loving caress his naked skin, working the soap into his hair, making sure to get my fingertips down to his scalp, then lifting palmfuls of warm water to rinse him off. Nice and slow, no need to rush, and Joey accepted my gentleness with good grace, even though I could tell he didn’t want to take the break, no matter how much his body might need it.

“All right,” I chuckled, straightening to my knees and giving my boy’s bottom a light spank. “Hop out and we’ll towel off. Then we can move this to the bed.”

“Yes, sir!” Joey exclaimed eagerly, very nearly scrambling to obey, while I followed at a more leisurely, dignified pace…somewhat reduced by my bobbing erection, I’m sure, but there’s a certain decorum that needs to be followed, even in the deflowering of one’s boy. Especially in the deflowering of one’s boy! Of course, being covered in smooth skin, Joey was soon buffing his lovely body to a ruddy glow in a matter of minutes, his own erection swiftly returning as he kept looking me over, obviously impatient at the way I insisted on stepping into the fur dryer while I toweled myself off…though I admit, I did make a point of waggling my hips as I rasped the terrycloth against my back, making my rigid erection bounce back and forth along with my heavy balls, knowing perfectly well that his hungry eyes stayed on me the whole time. But that was only fair: I was eyeing his beautiful body like he was raw, juicy steak!

Finally, though, I tossed my towel into the hamper by the bathroom door, and let Joey grab my hand, eagerly pulling me into the bedroom.

“Come on,” he laughed in his eagerness. “Don’t be so slow!”

“Some things are meant to be savored,” I told my boy with dignity, even as I brought him up short at the base of his twin bed, pulling him into my arms, my hands going to his hips, while his went to my chest as our rigid cocks squeezed together once more. “This…this is one of them,” I added in a low murmur, right before our mouths met.

I…well…I might have moaned, too, this time. I’m not really sure, the way Joey was making all that noise, his body trembling against mine, the smell and taste of his sweat so heady, so intoxicating to my senses. It was like…experiencing all of him, all at once! And he was active, too, so responsive to my every touch, his tongue working against mine in all the same ways, mirroring me, learning from me as we turned our heads to the side, giving each other a kiss as hot as any that ever graced the silver screen. I know I left a spurt of my precum in a slick trail across his trim tummy, and felt my ears turning down in a blush as we broke the kiss, and he grinned down at the obvious sign of my so-very-undignified excitement.

“No puppy talk,” I growled, putting a finger to his lips to forestall any of the jokes I knew he was tempted to make. “This is way too serious!”

“Too serious to be taken seriously?” Joey asked, cocking his red-haired head to one side as he smirked at me, kissing my finger as I drew it back. I blinked, cocking my own head as I mused on the question (probably where he got the motion, as I thought about it).

“Probably,” I admitted finally with a sheepish grin, then put a hand on his shoulder. “You want to watch?” I asked, gently guiding him down, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands now stroking down his chest, then his belly, before slipping beneath the undersides of his thighs. “Or you want it…uh, ‘doggystyle’?”

“Doggystyle sounds hot,” Joey exclaimed as he scooted up the bed, letting me lift his legs, then reaching down to grab his knees, hugging them up against his chest at my unspoken urging, baring the tense little pucker of his anal ring. “But…but I’d like to watch it go in,” he added with a flush to his cheeks, a little deeper than the aroused glow that was already there. “What are you doing now?”

“Getting you prepared,” I told him, cupping his full-feeling sac in one hand, then gently lifting it up and out of the way, before bending forward to give its plumpness a good, slow lick, making him wince in pleasure. “You don’t want me going in dry, trust me: I want this to only feel good for you.”

Joey was probably going to say something, judging from the way the cupid’s bow of his lips were parting, but whatever it was got immediately cut off when I began sucking on his balls, first on one firm orb, then the other, taking my time and being very careful as I did so: I knew perfectly well how sensitive those tender organs could be, after all! Instead, all that came out of his mouth was a high-pitched, very puppyish-sounding whimper, a sound that only grew in pitch and volume as I started nibbling my way downward, around the curve of his balls to the seldom-touched rear part, and then into that little cleft right behind, where the prostate can be stimulated from the outside of the body, at the very start of the perineum. Since I’d never done something like this with my boy before, it took me a little gentle probing before I hit the perfect spot, but once I did…

“AAAH!”

Yeah, that’s the spot. Now to keep my fingers rubbing it, pressing in just a little – not too much, not yet: I want my boy to last a while yet – while my other hand keeps his balls up and out of the way, caressing them slowly. At the same time, I’m moving my muzzle along the crease of his perineum, nibbling it, licking it, tasting the body of my boy, young and healthy and so full of life, his voice rising and falling in a sweet acapella performance just for me.

Then my tongue found his anal ring, so tight, so tense. Instantly I started to work my tongue against that little ring, rimming it, slathering it up until it was nice and slick. Where I was, I couldn’t hear my boy’s cries as well, not the way his thighs kept trying to close on my floppy ears (but he was fighting hard to keep them spread, I could tell – good boy!), but I knew he wasn’t in any pain. Anything but!

And when my tongue finally slipped inside…

“Ngh,” grunted Joey, his back arching, his jaw clenching the same way his bottom did. He was clamping down on my tongue until I couldn’t move my head! Fortunately, though, this didn’t last too long: healthy, smart boy that he was, he adapted quickly, fighting hard to relax, to let me keep working him over, turning my head to one side and then the other, working my tongue against one side of his prostate even as my finger stroked the other until Joey’s fists balled up in the sheets, wrinkling them mightily (but then, I’d been planning to do laundry day tomorrow anyway).

“Plef,” I got out as I popped my tongue free of Joey’s squeaky clean bottom, then grinned down at him as I rested one hand on the backside of one knee, my other hand gripping the base of my raging erection, angling it slightly downward as I leaned over him. “You ready for this, Joey?” I growled, low and husky with my arousal.

“Oh yeah,” he panted, his eyes huge as he watched the swollen head of my glans pressing forward. Tilted back as he was, both from his own hands hooked behind his knees, and my hand on his leg pushing him back just a little more, until his knees were touching the mattress (and I couldn’t help but admire his flexibility – those soccer stretching exercises had certainly paid off!), he could clearly see all the action. That fat mushroom head, big and even more pink than his lovely smooth skin, prodded against his slick little sphincter, and he gasped at the contact. The gasp soon turned to a long, low, drawn-out moan as I worked my hips forward, then back, forward, then back, each time pressing in just a little more than the last, opening him up, parting that tense ring a bit more, stretching him before me inch by slow, meaty inch until, finally, suddenly…

POP

“Ha,” gasped out Joey as the corona of my cock passed the final event horizon, and popped inside his fiery hot, tight body. “Ha…ha…ha…”

“Just breathe, Joey,” I told him, kissing his chest, then his chin, then giving his nose a lick which made him grin silently in spite of the rush of sensory overload he was experiencing right then. “Take deep breaths, nice and slow. Your cock’s leaking all over your tummy, and there’s no way you’re going to last very long if you don’t get some control back.”

“R-right,” he got out, his voice sounding so tense, even as I saw his chest, once fluttering like the beat of a bird’s, start to slow…well, a little, anyway, gradually coming under some semblance of control. “Sorry, Morrison,” he said slowly, obviously fighting to keep himself from losing everything to raw instinct and sensation.

“You a little more there?” I asked after a few short minutes like this, just holding myself inside of him, keeping him stretched wide, the wrinkles of his anus completely gone now from the sheer thickness of my cock’s fat, rounded circle. “You think I can move a bit now?”

“A little bit,” he said, his eyelids half-shut, his cheeks so very deeply flushed, endorphins running rampant in his system, leaving his young brain hopelessly overloaded. “But…slow, please, Morrison.”

I gave him a nod, my teeth grit together tightly as I fought instinct and won. My hips started to move, slow and steady, pulling back, exposing the glistening length of my penis…and then sliding forward, disappearing into his tense, tight-stretched tush, angling my thrust just so, in the way I knew would provide the maximum stimulation to all his most sensitive inner parts, giving him the most pleasure.

“Stop!” Joey yelped, near-panic, and I stopped right then and there, only halfway back inside as one of his hands pressed against my belly, right above where his cock was spurting copious little jets of precum. For a moment I was afraid I’d hurt my boy…but no, there was no smell of pain coming from him. Quite the opposite! “All right,” he finally gasped out. “Just…it got to be too much for a moment, is all,” he admitted with a sheepish grin of his own.

“I know the feeling,” I growled, giving my hips perhaps a little more of a thrust to them than I should have as I hilted myself in Joey once more, my balls nestled right up against the heart-shaped curves of his toned, tense buns.

Blinking up at me, Joey’s eyes suddenly filled with understanding, a comprehension I’d seen in him a few times before, when he really got something I was trying to teach. Usually homework, but sometimes the really important stuff, too, like why his mother was trying so hard to find a replacement father for him and his sister.

“Morrison?” he queried, his voice a little hesitant, as though not wanting to hurt my feelings. “Do you want to just…let go?”

“Yeah, Joey,” I growled, my voice almost too far gone right then to completely count as words.

“I want that, too,” he said, his voice so astoundingly calm, as though he’d gone right through the storms of his passion, and reached the eye at the center, an eye that had given him perfect clarity. “Don’t hold back any more, please.”

That was the end of my self-control.

Snarling like a beast, I twisted Joey onto his side, hoisting his leg up onto my shoulder, and started to thrust. No, I started to hump him like an animal! Like the beast that I was right then! Somewhere off in the distance I heard Joey’s cry of orgasm, and with a frantic motion I snaked my head down, my muzzle engulfing his delicious boy sausage, sucking and slurping on it with a primal hunger as I tasted his sweet juices squirting out onto my tongue.

Delicious.

Then my spine snapped back, and I was baring my fangs to the ceiling as I pounded him with all my might, his precious penis and perfect balls bounding, his toes curling, his fingers knotted into fists in the bedclothes as he screamed my name again and again and again until my orgasm blasted through my body…and another…and another…shaking me right to the core, flooding Joey’s insides with thick ropes of gooey morphcum until it was splattering out all over the sheets, soaking my groin, staining his flawless pink skin with my mark.

And then we were both lying side-by-side, me flopped on my back, him flopped on his front, too dazed, too utterly spent to really do more than feel each other’s gently cooling heat.

“You okay, Joey?” I asked, a little tentatively, looking down with more than a bit of guilt at my penis, which was standing at halfmast against my belly, as though making up its mind whether it wanted to rise fully, or slip quietly back into my sheath.

“Yes, Morrison,” he murmured sleepily.

“You have any homework?” I asked.

“A little,” he admitted.

“I’ll help you with it once you’ve had some time to rest up,” I told him, slowly sliding to the edge of the bed and getting back to my feet.

“All right,” I heard Joey almost whisper as I padded softly from the room. “’night, Morrison.”

“Goodnight, Joey,” I said almost as softly, before I quietly shut the door to his room behind me.

After such an intense experience, of course, some might have wondered why I didn’t just stay where I was, and cuddle alongside my boy, comforting him with my presence while his body and mind wrapped themselves around the realities following the afterglow of his first time. Those who might wonder such a thing, of course, would be the ones who didn’t hear what I did just as Joey was starting to slip off to sleep: a car door slamming in the front drive.

I didn’t bother grabbing a towel, or even trying to slip on any sort of clothes: with my penis poking out like it was, it would have been a wasted effort anyway. So when my dear Mistress Esme came in the door, I was holding it open for her in nothing but what I’d been wearing when I’d popped her son’s cherry.

She didn’t notice at first, of course. Somehow I knew she wouldn’t, even as she went past me, knowing that I’d trail along behind, listening to her as she described the night’s events. As she spoke of the battle between “Those magnificent beasts,” to use her own words, I could smell the eagerness, the arousal, the primal passion that sparked in her body at the memory of two powerful, muscular, bare naked males fighting it out before her in a contest of savage might.

An arousal that soon soured to disappointment and frustration as, once again, the scant men to be found outside the arena event were buttonholed by other women long before she’d had any chance to reach them, those that hadn’t already been spoken for in some fashion.

“I just don’t know, Morrison,” Esme lamented as I opened up the back of her dress, then stroked my hands down her body, feeling her gentle shudder as my touch took her dress with it, leaving her quite bare before me, my eyes resting on the perfect dimples at the base of her back. “All this searching…it seems like a waste of time. I’m never going to find the right man to fill that hole in our family.”

Interesting choice of words.

“Mistress Esme,” I spoke up, one hand closing on her hip with a forwardness that actually made her gasp softly, looking over her shoulder at me as she blinked in surprise. “What if the right man has been here all the time?”

She blinked again, and then Esme’s eyes widened, her mouth – her lips almost exactly like her son’s, I couldn’t help but think – parting as she almost said something. I turned her around with ease, though, and pressed a finger to those flawless lips, before my hand caught her hair, making her moan at my firm grip before I pulled her down into a kiss.

“Morrison, we…we shouldn’t,” she whispered as we broke the kiss, her hands on my chest…but not pushing my away, I couldn’t help but notice.

“Why not?” I growled, no longer in the mood for nonsense. My eyes met hers, and I gave her more than enough time to process the question, and try to find a reasonable answer.

When no rebuttal to my question was forthcoming, I dragged her forward and kissed her again, holding nothing back.