A Long, Desperate Drive
Imported from SF2 with no description.
The trip kicked off like any Delta Tau shitshow worth a damn. I rolled up to Matt's place--our frat crash pad, a sagging two-story hellhole on the edge of campus that stank of stale beer, burnt ramen, and regret--my golden retriever tail thwacking the driver's seat of my beat-to-shit sedan. At 22, I'm a shaggy mess of golden fur, floppy ears twitching at every slammed door or shouted "fuck you" from the house, lean muscle carved from late-night keg stands, wrestling pledges in the quad, and sprinting from campus cops after streaking the library fountain with a stolen traffic cone on my head. The car was a rolling dumpster: a duct-taped suitcase wedged in the trunk, straps frayed from years of abuse; my backpack slumped against a cooler in the back seat, jammed with a chaotic stash of beers, off-brand sodas, a couple of warm energy drinks from last week's tailgate, a half-crushed bag of chips, and a rogue stick of deodorant I'd meant to use but never did. I'd been jonesing for this road trip all semester--some off-campus rager a few hours out, thrown by a rival Sigma Phi chapter with a rep for epic blowouts, cheap liquor, and a Slip 'N Slide that'd sent two dudes to the ER last year. Matt was my go-to bro for this kind of chaos--we'd been plotting it since the house got slapped with a fine for that fire alarm prank that ended with sprinklers flooding the basement, and I was dying to ditch the stench of soggy carpet and pledge puke for a weekend of pure, dumb freedom.
Matt clomped out of the house, hooves banging the warped porch boards, his 22-year-old stallion bulk filling the doorway like a linebacker who'd swapped cardio for curls and a fifth of Jack. He was a goddamn beast--chestnut fur stretched tight over a broad, jacked frame, packed with frat-boy muscle from benching kegs, tossing freshmen into the pool during hazing, and flexing for every sorority chick within shouting distance. His white tank top--stained with last night's pizza grease, a splash of tequila, and a mystery smear he swore was ketchup--clung to his barrel chest, showing off pecs that rippled with every breath, the kind of build that made pledges cry during push-up bets. His arms bulged as he hauled his duffel over his shoulder, dark mane flopping into his eyes, sweaty black tufts poking out from his pits like he hadn't showered since the last rager, which, knowing him, he probably hadn't. His gym shorts, frayed at the hems and a size too small from freshman year, hugged his hips, barely containing his stallion junk--the sheath and balls shifting heavy with each step, a bulge that screamed "dude who doesn't give a fuck" and had half the Tri-Delts giggling behind their hands at every mixer. Matt was the loudmouth bro who owned every room--rugged, cocky, with a dumb horsey grin that could charm a nun into a keg stand and a laugh that hit like a foghorn through the house. He'd been my wingman since freshman year, when we bonded over shotgunning beers and prank-calling the rival frat's president 'til he threatened to drive over and fight us, and I knew he'd turn this trip into a story we'd be laughing about 'til we were old and fat.
"Yo, you ready, asshole? We've got miles to burn," I yipped, tail smacking the doorframe as I leaned out the window, the glass streaked with grime from a semester of spilled drinks and neglect.
"Fuck yeah, bro--let's torch this road!" he nickered, chucking his duffel into the trunk with a thud that rocked the car on its creaky shocks, his tail swishing like he was already picturing the chaos ahead.
We hadn't hit the road together since that spring break disaster--puking in Daytona after too many Jell-O shots, crashing some rando's beach house with a stolen inflatable flamingo, and waking up to a cop banging on the door while Matt tried to hide under a kiddie pool--so I was hyped to ditch the frat's haze of spilled Natty Light, unwashed gym socks, and that weird smell from the couch nobody'd claimed. I slid behind the wheel, the engine coughing to life with a sputter that sounded like it was begging for a mechanic; Matt wedged his giant ass into the passenger seat, hooves scraping the floorboard, knees banging the dash as he cursed under his breath. "Fuckin' clown car bullshit," he grumbled, adjusting his bulk, tail flicking against the cracked vinyl seat, leaving a faint smear of sweat that glistened in the sunlight. I smirked, punching the gas, and we peeled out, tires squealing on the gravel-strewn street, campus shrinking in the rearview like a bad hangover fading by noon.
"Beer?" he grunted, paw already rooting in the cooler, knocking cans around with a clatter that echoed in the cab, his hoof scraping the lid and sending a chip bag tumbling to the floor.
"Nah, I'm driving, dipshit," I said, ears flopping as a hot breeze sliced through the window I'd jimmied open with a screwdriver after it jammed last month. "You good?"
"Gonna slam one?" He popped a soda--some shitty citrus knockoff that tasted like battery acid and regret--before I could nod, foam bubbling over his paw and dripping onto his shorts. "Plenty to split, bro," I barked, smirking as he shook the spill off, flicking droplets onto the dash that stuck like glue to the cracked plastic.
He chugged it down, throat gulping like a goddamn sump pump, a stray drop sliding down his muzzle and splattering on his tank top, leaving a wet splotch that darkened the grease stain into a muddy smear. We hauled ass out of town, campus fading behind us, the road stretching wide and dusty past strip malls with flickering neon signs--Discount Tires, Vape Haven--and cow fields buzzing with flies and the faint stink of manure. The radio blared some overplayed rock anthem--Matt cranked it loud, drumming the dash with his hooves, the beat thudding through the car like a second pulse. He started yapping about the last party--how he'd blacked out after a pong tourney, woke up with a Tri-Delt's bra tangled in his mane, and spent the next day bragging about it to anyone who'd listen, even the mail guy who'd stopped giving a shit three semesters ago. I laughed, tail thumping the seat, tossing in my own tale about spiking the punch with vodka at the last mixer, watching the pledges stumble around and puke in the bushes while the sorority girls shrieked and filmed it on their phones, one of 'em yelling, "This is going viral!" 'til campus security rolled up. "Fuckin' legendary," he snorted, slapping my shoulder, his paw leaving a sticky smear of soda on my fur that I wiped off on my shorts.
We were maybe an hour in, the sun climbing high, baking the cracked asphalt into a shimmering haze that danced in the distance, when I hit a pothole--a quick, jarring dip that rattled the car's shitty suspension and sent a jolt through my spine hard enough to make my teeth clack. Matt's soda sloshed hard, splashing across his chest with a wet smack that sounded like a slap. The fabric stuck like glue, outlining every slab of muscle, those flat, dark equine nipples poking through, stark against his chestnut fur like targets on a dartboard begging for a pong ball. The cab filled with the sharp tang of citrus and damp cotton, cutting through the lingering stink of sweat, old fries, and that mystery funk from the floor mats.
"Fuckin' hell, bro!" he yelped, shaking his paw, soda dripping onto his shorts and pooling in his lap, soaking the frayed fabric dark. I gripped the wheel, fur bristling, glancing over--his pecs were stacked, no bullshit, built from endless push-up bets and arm-wrestling every drunk idiot at the bar 'til they tapped out crying. He caught me looking, snorted, "Eyes up, perv, don't get any ideas," and flexed his chest, tail flicking against the seat, but didn't make a thing of it--just wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw, smearing the mess across his face, and laughed it off, loud and brassy, the sound bouncing off the windows. "Gonna smell like a fuckin' fruit stand now--chicks'll love it," he grumbled, shaking out his mane, droplets flying onto my arm and sticking to my fur like tiny, sticky bombs.
We kept rolling, sun climbing higher, the road a monotonous blur of faded yellow lines, billboards for sketchy diners promising "World's Best Pie," and the occasional dead possum baking on the shoulder. Matt kept pounding sodas--two, three, four, five, six--tossing empties into the footwell like it was his personal dump, the clatter of aluminum against plastic a constant drone under the radio's static hum. He rambled on about the rager we were headed to--some Sigma Phi blowout with a rumored Slip 'N Slide, a DJ who'd gotten kicked off campus radio for playing porn soundtracks during a fundraiser, and a keg count that'd make our last party look like a church picnic. "Heard they've got a bounce house too--gonna cannonball that shit," he said, grinning, chugging another soda and burping loud enough to drown out the chorus. I nodded, half-listening, cracking open a water bottle to sip while he guzzled like a camel prepping for a month in the desert, his mane sticking to his neck with sweat and fizz.
By the time we hit a gas station, an hour later, the passenger side was a fuckin' war zone: crumpled cans rolling under the seat, sticky wrappers plastered to the floor with soda residue, a half-dead can sweating in the cup holder, leaving a ring of condensation on the cracked plastic that'd probably never dry. I pulled in, tires crunching gravel, and killed the engine, the sudden silence ringing in my ears like the aftermath of a pong table flip. "Bro," I growled, half-laughing, half-pissed, "chill on the chugging or clean this shit up. We're not even close, and it looks like a frat party exploded in here--fuckin' pledge-level mess."
He whinnied, loud and smug, slapping his thigh with a meaty thwack that echoed in the cab. "Stallion tank, dude--could piss a goddamn lake and keep rolling. I'm solid--fuck thirst, dry mouth's for losers who can't hang with the big dogs."
"Your mess, your problem," I said, hopping out, tail swishing against the hot metal of the car, the paint chipped and peeling from a semester of neglect and one too many parking lot scrapes. "I'm hitting the can. Fuel us up, trash the empties--don't be a dick about it, or I'm leaving your ass here."
"On it, chief," he nickered, hauling his bulk out to stretch, joints popping like firecrackers, his mane glinting in the harsh sunlight as he lumbered to the pump, hooves kicking up dust.
I trotted to the restroom--a grimy cinderblock shack with flickering lights, a busted "OPEN" sign dangling by one screw, and a door that creaked like a horror movie prop--tail sagging when I saw dividers between the urinals, no chance for a sly peek at the truckers or locals shuffling in with their greasy hats and dip-stained teeth. I pissed quick, the stale stench of bleach and old piss burning my nose, the tiles slick under my paws with something I didn't want to name--probably a mix of spilled beer and despair. Shaking off, I padded back, the heat hitting me like a slap as I stepped outside, the air thick with gasoline fumes and the faint buzz of flies. The passenger floor was mostly clear--cans gone, wrappers sorta shoved under the seat--Matt finishing the pump, arms flexing under the flickering fluorescent canopy, a sheen of sweat making his fur shine like he'd just run a lap. "Gotta grab more," he said, tail swatting flies as he lumbered toward the store, shorts riding up his thighs, exposing more of that chestnut coat matted with dust and a little road grit.
I parked the car off to the side, flopped into the passenger seat, and fiddled with the radio--static, twangy country that made my ears itch, some preachy ad about car insurance nobody'd ever buy--while eyeing his abandoned can, fizz hissing out onto the dash in a slow, sad puddle. Ten minutes dragged by, then fifteen, then twenty, my patience fraying like a pledge's resolve after his tenth shot of Fireball. "Where's this jackass?" I muttered, hopping out and stalking inside, paws crunching on the gravel lot, the heat baking up through my pads. There he was--propped on the counter, chatting up a fox cashier with perky ears, a tight shirt stretched over a figure that'd turn heads at any mixer, and a bored smirk that said she'd heard every line before. Matt was laying on the frat-bro charm thick as the AXE body spray he drowned himself in every Friday--leaning in, flashing that horsey grin, tossing out dumb lines like, "You ever ridden a stallion, babe?" while she twirled her hair and pretended to care. His new sodas sat in a plastic bag, sweating rings onto the counter, a pack of beef jerky, some cheap aviator sunglasses, and a bag of sour gummies tossed in for good measure.
"Bro," I barked, ears pinning back, "quit hunting ass--we've got road to eat! Move your hoofed ass before I drag you out!"
Matt snorted, a deep, rumbling laugh that shook his frame and made the fox giggle despite herself. "Later, hot stuff--keep that number warm," he told her, snagging a crumpled receipt with her digits scrawled in Sharpie, winking like he'd just won a pong tourney. He swaggered out, tail swinging, tossing the cans in the cooler with a clatter that rattled the ice, the jerky and gummies landing on the dash with a thud. "Score's a score, dude," he said, sliding behind the wheel, hooves banging the pedals as he adjusted, the seat groaning under his weight.
"Why bother out here?" I huffed, buckling in as he revved the engine, the car shaking like it might disintegrate mid-trip. "Middle of bumfuck nowhere--ain't no sororities for miles, and she's not hauling ass to campus for you."
"Road cred, man," he grinned, shifting into gear, tires spitting gravel as we lurched forward. "Might drag her to a kegger--chicks dig the horse vibe. Bet she'd lose it over the Slip 'N Slide story--me and that pledge wiping out into the bushes? Gold, bro."
I rolled my eyes, tongue lolling as we peeled back onto the highway, the engine groaning under the strain like it was begging for mercy. We jawed about frat shit--last week's beer pong tourney where Matt sank the winning cup then puked in the sink, the pledge who'd passed out in the dean's bushes with his pants around his ankles and a Sharpie dick drawn on his face, the time we rigged the rival frat's speakers to blast "Sweet Caroline" on loop 'til they trashed their own porch in a blind rage, fists flying at shadows. The vibe was loose, loud, the way it always was with us--Matt belting out off-key lyrics, his voice cracking on the high notes, me cackling 'til my sides hurt and I had to punch the dash to stop. The sun baked the dash, heat seeping into my fur, the cab turning into a sauna that smelled like a locker room after a double overtime; Matt kept chugging, tossing empties, the air thick with citrus, sweat, and the faint whiff of his unwashed pits that hit me every time he raised his arm to scratch his mane. A sign flashed by--Last gas for an hour--but we'd just filled, so fuck it, we kept rolling, the road a dusty ribbon cutting through fields dotted with cows and gas stations that looked like they'd been abandoned since Nixon was prez.
Then construction hit like a sucker punch to the nuts. Lanes merged into one, traffic choked to a standstill--no shoulder, just a steaming line of cars stretching into the haze, bumpers kissing in the heat like a bad first date. Horns blared, engines idled, the air heavy with exhaust, gasoline fumes, and the distant tang of tar from the road crew half a mile up, their orange vests flickering like ghosts in the dust. We crawled twenty minutes, stop-and-go bullshit, Matt drumming the wheel with growing irritation, his hooves tapping out a rhythm that matched the headache building behind my eyes. I scrolled a dead phone battery, the screen smudged with paw prints and a crack from when I'd dropped it during a keg stand, muttering about how the Sigma Phi better have chargers or I'd be pissed. The cab was a pressure cooker--sweat beading on my fur, dripping down my snout; Matt's mane sticking to his forehead, his tail thrashing against the seat like a trapped snake. He shifted, hooves tapping faster, a low groan rumbling out, cutting through the static hum of the radio and the muffled curses from the car behind us.
"Got a fuckin' problem," he grunted, ears flattening against his sweat-damp mane, voice tight with something that sounded like panic wrapped in bravado.
"What's up?" I asked, ears perking, nose twitching at the sharp edge in his tone, my tail stilling against the seat.
"Gotta piss--bad," he said, squirming, his bulk rocking the seat, hooves tapping a restless beat that rattled the loose change in the center console.
"Bro! We just stopped! You didn't go?" I barked, leaning back, paws spread on the dash, staring at him like he'd just admitted to losing a pong game to a freshman.
"Nah," he muttered, sheepish, rubbing his neck with a paw, leaving a streak of sweat that glistened in the sunlight. "Too busy macking on that fox--thought I'd hit the can after, but she kept talking, batting those lashes. Didn't hit me 'til now--feels like my gut's gonna explode. Can't pull over--look at this shitshow, dude, we're fucked."
"Cans?" I yipped, kicking at the floor, finding nothing but lint, a stray bottle cap, and a crumpled gum wrapper stuck to my paw.
"Trashed 'em, dumbass," he said, shifting hard, tail smacking the seat, his shorts creaking under the strain as he adjusted. "Just my empty and yours--ain't gonna cut it, bro. Feels like I've got a fuckin' waterfall ready to go."
I grabbed my soda, chugged it fast, the fizz burning my throat and bubbling up my nose 'til I coughed, tail thumping against the seat in a frantic rhythm. "Cop's right behind us," he nickered, glancing in the mirror, ears twitching at the flash of red and blue in the haze, the cruiser's grill looming like a shark. "Can't chuck it--tickets, right? Fuckin' pigs'd love to nail us."
"Piss in the cans," I barked, tossing him my empty, the aluminum dented from my grip, a bead of soda still rolling down the side. "Might hold you--better than soaking the seat and stinking up my ride worse than it already does."
Matt fumbled his shorts down, yanking his cock out with a grunt, the fabric bunching around his thighs, a faint rip sounding as a seam gave way. Soft, it was big--equine, dropping from its sheath like a goddamn fire hose slung low. A thick shaft, pink and black, hung heavy between his legs, blunt-tipped with a wide, flared head, slick with a thin sheen from stewing in those sweaty shorts all day, the heat baking it into a musky mess. No foreskin--just smooth, taut skin over a fat girth that'd choke a beer pong cup, the kind of dick that made frat bros jealous and pledges gawk during hazing showers when he'd strut around the bathroom like a king. He aimed into the first can, paw trembling, and his stream hit hard--clear, hot, banging the aluminum with a tinny echo that rang in the cab like a gunshot. It filled in seconds, sloshing over the rim, spilling onto his lap with a hiss that steamed in the heat. He grunted, pinched it off, capped it quick, sweat beading on his muzzle, mane sticking to his forehead like wet straw, his chest heaving under the soaked tank top.
"Next--fuck, now!" he gasped, voice tight, paw shaking as he fumbled the full can, nearly dropping it onto my lap. I snatched it--hot as a tailgate grill, burning my pads--and shoved my empty at him, soda dripping onto the seat, leaving a sticky patch that'd probably never come out. He filled that too, stream loud, stopping with a hiss and a grunt, more spilling onto his shorts, the cab stinking of piss and citrus, a sharp tang that made my eyes water. He capped it, slammed it in the cup holder with a clank, panting hard, chest heaving, the wet fabric clinging tighter, outlining every muscle like a second skin. I held his first, heat stinging my pads through the metal, the can practically vibrating with the force of it.
"Bought me jack shit," he wheezed, tail flicking, wiping his brow with a shaky paw, smearing sweat across his face, his mane a tangled mess. "Still feel it--fuckin' hell, it's bad, bro. Like a goddamn dam's breaking in there."
"Traffic's gotta move," I said, ears drooping, the cop's lights flashing in the side mirror, a bead of sweat rolling down my snout and plopping onto my lap, soaking into my shorts.
I yapped about anything to keep his mind off it--last night's pong rematch where he'd sunk the winning cup then puked in the sink, leaving a green mess we blamed on a pledge; the kid who ate a whole pizza box on a dare and spent the next day shitting his guts out in the communal bathroom, whining for mercy; the time we rigged the rival frat's speakers to blast "Sweet Caroline" on loop 'til they trashed their own porch in a blind rage, fists flying at shadows while we laughed from across the street. Didn't work--he got antsy fast, knees bouncing like he was riding a mechanical bull at max speed, tail whipping the seat, squirming, hooves tapping a frantic beat that rattled the loose change in the center console and sent a dime pinging off the dash. "Need a stop or a goddamn ditch," he whined, voice pitching up into a desperate neigh, sweat soaking his tank top anew, darkening the stains into a patchy, crusty mess that smelled like a locker room flood. "Gonna piss my fuckin' shorts, bro--help me out here, I'm begging, you're my only shot!"
He grabbed his cock through his shorts, squeezing hard, eyes wild, darting around the cab--out the window at the cars boxing us in, at the ceiling like it'd sprout a toilet, at me with a pleading glare that was half-terror, half-prayer. "Need something--anything--I'm dying, dude, fuckin' dying, it's gonna come out whether you help or not!"
"I've got a last-ditch," I said, grimacing, my stomach twisting at the thought, knowing this was about to get stupid.
"DO IT!" he neighed, half-yelling, desperation cracking his voice, his mane shaking with the force of it, sweat flying off like a sprinkler.
I popped a can and chugged his piss--hot, salty, rough as hell, like a flat beer gone rancid, the taste clawing at my throat and making my nose burn. His jaw dropped, eyes popping out of his skull like I'd just pulled a live grenade, but he was still fucked, squirming harder, his hooves scraping the floorboard in a panic. I sucked at chugging--too slow, the bitter sting gagging me, my throat closing up--so I ditched the can, letting it clatter to the floor with a hollow thunk, leaned over, and yanked his cock out of his shorts, the fabric snagging on his thigh with a faint tear. My muzzle clamped on it just as he lost it, no time to think, just pure frat-bro instinct kicking in.
Piss hit hard--hot, sharp, blasting my tongue with a force that made my eyes water and my ears flatten. The head was big, flared, barely fitting past my lips, pink and black, slit wide as it sprayed like a busted faucet in a dorm shower. The shaft was thick, smooth, no loose skin--just taut hide, warm and firm from stewing in his lap, slick with sweat and soda spill that'd soaked through his shorts. It tasted bitter, musky, like Matt after a three-day bender with no shower--flooding fast, overwhelming, a gush that hit the back of my throat and made me choke. I gulped it down, spit and piss dripping onto the seat, my golden fur matting against his sweaty thigh, the cab reeking of it, the stench cutting through the stale air like a knife, mixing with the citrus and sweat into a cocktail from hell.
Matt's yell rattled the windows--half-shock, half-terror, loud enough to wake the dead pledge we'd buried in the backyard as a prank. "Dude--what the fuck are you doing?!" His hoof jerked the gas, car lurching an inch, the bumper kissing the truck ahead, a horn blaring behind us like a pissed-off foghorn. It kept coming, a steady stream I chugged, ears pinned back, drool soaking his shorts, my throat burning as I forced it down, coughing between gulps, the taste sticking like a bad shot of bottom-shelf vodka. Finally, it trickled off, a last weak spurt hitting my tongue, and I pulled back, panting, wiping my muzzle on my sleeve, coughing hard, the taste lingering like a punishment. His cock twitched, half-hard, flare wet, sheath tight at the base, a faint drip landing on his lap and soaking into the already-ruined fabric.
"Bro, what the actual hell?!" he barked, mane plastered with sweat, eyes bugging out, tail stiff as a board, his voice cracking like a pledge mid-hazing scream. "You just--you drank my fuckin' piss--shit, man, that's beyond fucked! What's wrong with you?! Are you possessed or some shit?"
"Chill," I woofed, grinning through the taste, tail thumping weakly against the seat, trying to play it off like it was just another frat dare. "Saved your ass from a wet seat--would've stunk worse than the house after taco night, and I ain't driving in that. Done worse for bros--pledge week was a goddamn circus, remember the hot sauce chug?"
"You've done that?!" he sputtered, voice cracking again, leaning away like I'd catch fire, his paw gripping the wheel 'til his knuckles paled under the fur, his muzzle twitching like he might puke or laugh or both.
"Yeah, dumbass," I said, shrugging, wiping my muzzle again, the sleeve damp and sour now. "Drunk bets, dares--shit gets weird at 3 a.m. Jake made us chug hot sauce 'til we cried, and I still say this wasn't as bad--least it's not burning my ass tomorrow."
He shook his head, muttering, "You're a fuckin' lunatic," still rattled, rubbing his face with both paws, smearing sweat and disbelief, then letting out a shaky laugh, high-pitched and nervous. "Fuckin' hell--see if I'm good, though--gonna burst again any second, this trip's cursed."
"Stay hard 'til we stop?" I said, paw up, half-joking, leaning into the absurdity to keep it light.
"Dude--no gay shit--I'm straight as fuckin' steel--" he stammered, then groaned, shifting, his shorts creaking, letting out another awkward chuckle. "Fuck, whatever, try it--ain't letting that happen again, though. You're on thin ice, bro--I'll punch you if I piss more, I swear."
I grabbed his cock--still warm, damp from my muzzle--and stroked slow, keeping it basic, no bullshit, just enough to keep him up. He flinched, muttering, "This is so messed up, bro--don't tell nobody," but it got hard anyway, stretching to fourteen inches, thick as a damn bottle, the weight heavy in my paw like holding a pong paddle wrong. The head flared out, pink and black, wet with precum, slit dripping onto his shorts, staining the fabric darker in a messy splotch. The shaft was smooth, veins ticking under the skin, hot and firm in my grip. I rubbed it, no frills, ignoring his grumbled curses--"Fuckin' hell," "This ain't right," "You're a freak"--his voice a low, constant whine with a nervous laugh tacked on, like he was trying to convince himself it was a joke.
I leaned over, gave it a quick lick--salty, musky, head big enough to stretch my muzzle, the taste sharp and lingering like a bad pong cup. It was firm, slick, ridge catching my lips as I moved. I bobbed once, jaws tight, drool spilling onto his lap, soaking into the shorts, then pulled off--short and done, no screwing around. Matt groaned, tense, "Bro--fuck--this ain't my thing, you're killin' me," but his hooves shifted, tail smacking the seat, breath hitching, a shaky laugh breaking through. "Fuckin' weirdo--what's next, you gonna propose?"
Switched to jerking, keeping it steady, other paw wandering--squeezed his bicep as he flexed, annoyed, muttering, "Quit it," then brushed his chest through the tank top, the fabric crusty now with dried soda and sweat. His nipples perked up under it, dark patches showing through, and his cock jumped when I grazed one, a twitch that made him hiss. "Shit--sensitive--" he grunted, voice rough, paw tightening on the wheel 'til it creaked.
"Yeah?" I said, flicking it through the shirt, testing him, smirking. Too much--he tensed up, yelling, "Fuck--stop, you dick--" and blew hard, his whole body locking, a laugh choking out mid-yell. Cum shot up, splattering his muzzle, dripping into his mane in thick, sticky strands, then his chest, soaking his tank top in a messy blast of white that hit like a pong ball gone wild. More hit my paw, warm and sloppy, dripping between my pads as he shuddered, cock still stiff, muttering, "Goddamn it, bro, fuck you," his voice a mix of shock and a nervous chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "You're banned from my dick, dude--fuckin' sniper shot me!"
I wiped my paw on my shorts, casual as hell, the mess smearing into my fur, leaving a tacky streak, laughing loud enough to make my ears flop. Matt swiped his face with his sleeve, growling, "You're a fuckin' psycho, dude," panting, eyes darting around the cab, then cracking a grin, awkward but forced. "Shit, man--guess I owe you a beer for not letting me piss the seat. Don't mean I'm marrying you, though--fuck that noise!" He laughed again, high and jittery, punching my shoulder, the hit weak but playful.
I was hard as shit, the whole mess lighting me up, so I yanked my cock out--six inches, red, knotted at the base--and jacked off, knot swelling in my paw, the cab's stink and chaos fueling it like a frat dare gone nuclear. Matt glanced over, awkward as fuck, muttering, "Uh, you do you, I guess--fuckin' animal," then laughed, loud and dumb, "Shit, bro, save it for the Sigma chicks--don't waste it on my ugly ass!" He kept his paws glued to the wheel, staring ahead, shaking his head with a grin like he was trying to unsee the last hour but couldn't stop finding it hilarious.
We crawled another fifteen minutes, traffic a dead-end nightmare, the cab a swamp of piss, cum, stale soda, and the sour reek of Matt's pits that hit like a punch every time he moved. The heat pressed in, the windows fogging slightly, every breath tasting like a locker room after a double overtime gone wrong. Matt shifted again, tail flicking, voice low and shaky but cracking into a laugh. "Need you again, bro--fuckin' hate this, but damn, you're clutch. Don't get any ideas--I ain't tipping you for this shit!"
I sighed, leaning in, muzzle on his cock, jerking myself as piss hit--hot, fast, sour, a fresh wave that burned my throat and made me gag mid-laugh. I swallowed quick, no fuss, hammering my knot 'til I came, cum pooling in my paw, sticky between my pads, dripping onto my shorts with a wet plop. Matt's stream stopped, a weak dribble hitting my lip, and I pulled off, wiping my mouth on my arm, spitting out the taste onto the floorboard, coughing and cackling. "Fuckin' A, bro--you owe me a whole case now!" I said, grinning. He wouldn't look at me straight, muttering, "This is so fuckin' wrong, man," then busting out a laugh, "Shit, dude--you're like a human toilet! Sigma Phi's gonna hear about this and die!" His ears were flat, hooves twitchy, but he punched my arm again, lighter, snorting like it was the dumbest, funniest thing he'd lived through.
Traffic finally broke, the road opening like a goddamn miracle after another twenty minutes of hell, cars peeling off in a slow, groaning exodus that felt like a jailbreak. We rolled another half-hour, Matt cracking dumb jokes to shake it off--"Guess you're my piss bro now, huh? Fuckin' gross, man!"--grinning wide, his mane still a sweaty wreck. I slouched with my head out the window, letting the wind cut the stink, my fur ruffling in the dry breeze, laughing every time he tried to play it cool. At the next stop--a grimy trucker joint with a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying bug and a lot full of rusted rigs--I stumbled to the bathroom, pissed out Matt's load in a long, shuddering stream, the tiles echoing with the splash, shaking my fur dry 'til my paws ached, still chuckling at his dumbass comments. Matt barged in after me, didn't even hit a stall--just yanked off his soaked tank top in the open, cum and sweat crusted into the fabric, his cock swinging loose as he rummaged for a spare shirt in his bag, a faded Delta Tau tee with a hole in the armpit and a bleach stain shaped like Florida. A couple of grizzled wolves at the sinks stared, yellow eyes glinting; he growled, "Fuck off, creeps," then laughed, "What, you want a taste too? Get in line!" tail swatting the air, tossing me the jerky bag with a grin. "Here, bro--payment for your nasty-ass heroics."
The rest of the trip was loud again--Matt back to his old self, awkwardness buried under dumb laughs and frat bravado, blasting the radio and yelling, "Sigma Phi ain't ready for us, dude--you're a fuckin' legend, but don't pull that shit again, I'll puke!" I hit a couple more stops, bladder whining from recycling his mess, stumbling into gas station bathrooms that smelled like diesel and despair, shaking off the weight of it all with a grin. He never touched a toilet, though--my muzzle was his out, and he played it off like a champ, slapping my back at every stop, "You're fuckin' insane, bro--gonna tell everyone you're the piss king!" his laugh echoing as the miles ticked by, the horizon swallowing the last of the day's light, the rager ahead promising a night to top even this.