After Class: Practice Proves Theory.
Written for Coyotek as an entry for his story contest.
Coyotek belongs to Coyotek at: http://coyotek.sofurry.com/
Story contest journal can be found here: http://sofurry.com/page/140253/tab/Journals
Chosen theme is a story background for: http://sofurry.com/page/51700/user
I give you After Class: Practice Proves Theory.
Hello, 2010.
Some things don't change overnight. For example, my favorite underwear (but that's because I keep them on). But some things do. Say, for example, the things one learns.
The name's Coyotek, and I was sitting in on a psychology class. According to my teacher, learning is the change in behavior. Boy, did I learn a lot in the past two weeks. For now, you're going to have to take my word for it. But really, I did.
Here's a quick history lesson:
>>> The most recent war circa 80's reduced world population to roughly about 47 per cent. How this has come to be (and why people let it) remains unknown to me. But the world, being uninhabited by so much people, isn't entirely a pretty place. Sure, there's more breathable air, and there's plenty of space, but really. It has become an empty shell.
>>> In year 2k1, there were several changes. Some significant, others not so. I'd like to think it's the renaissance for passive barbarism (if there's such a thing). Take a look at eastern philosophy, and bring in warfare, and that's what you get. They erected several monumental arcades where you drop your DNA sample (blood, spit, whatever) to create a virtual replica of your being. And then you can dock yourself on a special seat they called The Hive. It has a few suction cups that attach to the Central Nervous System (and trust me, it hurts a little), which should enable you to move your virtual being as though you would move your own. It's good how politicians see video games as the cure to racial annihilation. I mean, look at that. It's effective for pacifying the whole cat-dog scene. I hope you believe me that this is one of the less important changes.
>>> Anyway, there's a new world order. Eighteen is legal. By eighteen, one has to find a mate. Procreation. Proliferation. Generation. Whatever you want to call it. They say that the world wasn't given to you by your parents, but rather loaned to you by your children. We live in strict compliance with this world order.
Hello, 2010.
I recently hit eighteen, and it was just right before the start of the school year. No big deal, I have plenty of time do get myself around it, and such. I remember my parents telling me way back then, at the age of eighteen, everyone had to go through military protocol. It isn't much different, now. The school has its fair share of militarization, and now we're pulled out of the more academic classes for year twelve.
First three hours, anatomy. It wasn't a good idea, really. I guess this is a shocker to me. We grew up in a small town we called Verdant Hope (and yes, we're really eco-friendly), and these people are the same ones I grew up with. See, this English teacher of ours had become an anatomy teacher overnight. She also teaches bare.
In these two hours we spent with her, what we saw was just about what one could get. Doe. Maybe twenty-seven or summat. Dirty blonde hair. Pale, violet irises. C-cups. Nice, long legs. Extremely horny (one way or another... she's a doe with small horns, what do you expect?). Like a sex object that's all wonderful to look at. But really, it's hard, because since the start of high school, she's been teaching this about subjects and predicates.
Anatomy class with Miss Larsen has always been fun. What goes where and what for. We've been told from top to bottom. This is moderately difficult, considering we come from a Christian background. By the end of our first week, our single teacher has changed overnight, too. It seemed that anatomy class had just been a front for her to find a mate. It happened just around the hallway, and we saw Mike (hot, golden wolf) bang her through the jalousie. A couple of months by now, we're about to see cute wolf pups with horns.
She explained that like the military, you are exempted from being fucked or fucking if and only if you have a job that's in demand. And I think she knows what she's talking about. Because of this, we got our verbs in check. It doesn't entirely mean you can't fuck, but it does mean you're not forced to do so.
We have an hour and a half for lunch. This is twice as long as any other high-schooler's. Well, unless you're eighteen. I swear to God, my balls must be aching so bad, because I had to relieve myself. I'm not the only one, though.
Each male has been lined outside the cubicles waiting for their turn. Behind the boys' room, the girls'. Pretty much a chorus of unified exaltation in separate locations. Good, I just creamed the toilet seat, in case anyone would want to lick that. If you ever wondered, it smelled of sex hormones. I remember busting my nuts two times in a row.
Lunch was over; got to jack off, snacked a bit, and talked with my buddies how lucky Mike was. It would seem that that's the real purpose of one class, but in a way, it fulfilled two. It taught us a thing or two about anatomy, and Mike has found his mate. Not to mention, Miss Larsen was also lucky. I've never seen a cock as powerful as Mike's.
Brett Bartee, they called him. He was our next instructor. Sex Education. He congratulated the wolf for his mateship, and told the class that we might just get lucky, luckier, in his class. What it meant, I really didn't know, but I had a feeling that we will be having some fun. Considering the class location was in one of the biggest arcades.
Before we were made to step up to have ourselves genetically replicated into virtual form, we were asked to strip. I've been popping a boner long before we were asked to do this, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one nervous about it. We all had a laugh, anyway.
Brett Bartee. Remember the name. He used his pre-come as his DNA sample. Instructor, setting an example for his students. None of us were bold enough to do this, but we spat, rubbed, and sweated our way into virtual reality.
Brett Bartee. Naked. In virtual space. Within our reach.
"OK, class, I need you to find a partner."
Mike and Miss Larsen weren't there. I heard they were fucking some more, in some hidden classroom. True story.
What do you do in a class of two and thirty? What naturally follows is looking for someone to mate with. There was a small problem.
"Oh, leather boy and strap girl, I like that. Book worms, good pair. Jock and muse." Mister Bartee was in sing-song appraisal.
"Andi. Coyotek." Fifteen pairs of boys and girls.
Hands-on, much. I shouldn't be complaining, but gosh, this course has been making me edge on my seat, literally. The only sad thing is that Priscilla, the rabbit I wanted to be paired with, was snagged away that easily. I haven't even made a move yet.
Andi and Coyotek. Two left-over males.
But I can feel a cool paw stretching me open, my tight ring, still tight, but not as tight. A finger had probed in me, and I squirmed. Brett Bartee, my high school faculty fantasy, gripping my arms splayed, as Andi Fuller explored my most private spot.
"Anchor up, Andi." Instructor Brett Bartee instructed.
I screamed. I felt Andi rubbing something unimaginably pleasurable, the sort of pleasure that made my eyes roll. That made me scream. Moments after and I felt my tool pulse, my hot spunk spattering all over my chest, and Brett Bartee's treasure trail.
By the time we were done with our class, I had Andi assist me off my simulator. My legs were wobbly. My fur was damp. I was sticky. And oh, my hole hurt a little. Others were like this. Nut and jizz made me feel so woozy. Also, the scent of females made me want to fuck them crazy.
The next couple of days, I was called in Brett Bartee's room. It was after class, and the room had an exam table, with a pen and paper resting on top of it. Click. The door locked. And I was alone with Brett Bartee. The inadequacy of the simulations we ran were to be made up for with this test, he explained.
But he had flipped me over before I knew it. The fluorescent light bounced harshly over the brim of my spectacles. This hulking wolf had torn my denim jeans, and didn't bother getting the other leg off my calf.
"I'll show you how it's done."
"I'm not rea-" Is this happening? I had to protest.
"Your grade depends on this."
Anatomy lesson says that the prostate is something girls don't have. This lesson makes that point.
There was shuffling on the table. Scratching noises my claws made upon the tabletop. Brett Bartee. He's a fantasy, but this is just too much. Was he really going to do it?
Anatomy lesson says that the ass is a one-way street. This lesson makes that fact fallible.
He did. He strapped my thighs with his large hands. His wet tip against my entrance. He pushed it all the way in the same way Andi and I practiced on one another in his class. If the virtual thing was good, this was just too much.
Splitting pain. The sort that made your gut twist. I grimaced as he fed my tight, hungry hole. Beads of sweat and tears formed on my face, making my fur damp. I cried softly.
There was just too much to enjoy. I could feel him rub into my prostate the same way Andi did, and now I knew what it was like to have a cock inside you. Instructor talked along as he went.
"You make them cry like a bitch."
"You make them cry."
"You make them a bitch."
Take it, was something that resounded in my head. Sure, Brett Bartee just said that about five times in the last five thrusts that he made, but this time, it was me convincing myself to take it like a bitch.
I'm not really submissive, either, but when I squeezed him tight as though to shut him out, he growled and just rammed me with a force so hard, I had to come.
Like my fucking nuts can't hold my baby batter anymore!
He came outside my hole. As though I didn't earn him. He didn't even knot me. I was just a bitch he made cry. And it made me feel so dirty.
So dirty that I just want to crawl out of my skin and cry some more, like it's the only thing I knew. The next couple of days, I got even. And I got him fired. Just because I can. He was so huge that no one could deny that the hole I had in my rear end was large enough to be made by Brett Bartee's thick, juicy cock. Mmm.
I got my A- in that exam, and in meeting our new teacher a week after the incident, Andi told the class how it shouldn't matter if he doesn't find his mate, because he's going to be enlisting, and that's something that doesn't become anyone's top priority. I immediately revealed that I shared the same motive.
"Mister Fisch," Andi mumbled. "Do boys ever get pregnant?"
"No."
"Just wondering, sounded like a cool thing to ask, you know?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Andi Fuller smiling at me. I began to formulate the things I was about to tell him. I TOLD YOU SO. Not that fucking him senseless until I made his eyes roll to the back of his head would make him pregnant.
Because after this incident with Brett Bartee, I've made Andi feel what it was like to feel so dirty. And he gladly returned the favor. Every night.
So for the next couple of years, after graduation, Andi Fuller and I will be on a new workout regimen. Protein shakes. Drills. Total body definition. Thank goodness we had anatomy and sex education lessons.
This only proves that some things change. Overnight. True story.