Why I Like Whiskey
A jaded bartender with a bit of an attitude finds himself drawn to an unusual patron.
Why I like Whiskey
By Brathor (c) 2005
Notes : The characters portrayed in this story are completely fictional. Any resemblance to existing characters or people is purely coincidental. Further this story is of an adult nature and is meant to be read by adults. If you are under the age required to view this material in your particular place of origin please do not read this story.
I hate alcohol. I honestly can't stand the taste or smell, and the fact that my father was a deadbeat alcoholic doesn't help the fact. And before you ask, I work here because it's more fun than wrapping tacos and selling body-fluids, plus it gets me a slightly nicer apartment. Beyond that, I'm pretty talented, or at least I've never had a complaint except from the occasional horny customer I decline to take home with me. Not that I wouldn't hookup with half of them, but like I said, I really dislike the smell of alcohol.
It doesn't help that I'm a dog. Those not blessed with an acute sense of smell might not understand exactly what I'm talking about. Babylon's a good place to work though. The pay's not half-bad, it's close to my apartment, my sexuality certainly doesn't pose a problem, and the work is hard enough to keep me from getting too bored, which always seemed to be my problem with other jobs, though perhaps that can be attributed to the fact I'm a border collie. Regardless, to the whys, it's Friday, and already the usual crowd has started pouring through the doors. Friday's are the one thing I hate about my job, but just a few minutes into my shift, I notice that unusual for this bar, that normally attracts scores of young twinks fresh out of high school (most of them with fake ID's), there is a rather large tiger sitting at one of the tables near the bar.
He's alone, the dark looks he gives anyone looking to "have a chat" with him makes sure of that. The first time I notice him is when, while tending to another customer he pulls me aside to order a drink. Whiskey, straight up. That sticks out in my head more than his appearance. Most of the regulars here drink cocktails and margaritas. Usually the hardest things I serve are Long Island's, save for when the occasional leathermen groups come in, but this tiger doesn't fit with that archetype any more than he does with the twinks. He's wearing a suit, again unusual, but nothing I haven't seen before. Still there's something about the way the fabric rests on the tiger's frame and the quality of fabric that makes this different. I'm no fashion guru, but even I can tell it's expensive, probably worth a month's rent on my apartment.
I don't gawk at him or anything, hell I doubt I even hesitated noticeably, but he gives me an odd sort of smile and it makes me ever so nervous. Never before have I felt so much like a caught mouse. I bring him his drink, quickly, keeping the friendly bartender's expression on my face, but being around him makes me nervous-and it shows.
For the next hour he nurses his drink. There's no doubt that he could pound just as quickly as the kids around him are, he just has the look. But he seems more interested in the atmosphere-and the scenery. I see him watching some of the wallflowers a couple times, always with a distinct expression of appraisal and eventual disapproval. Several times I feel like I'm being watched myself but I never really catch his eyes on me. It's as if he knows when I'm going to look before I do. For the most part though, I don't pay attention to it. Like I said before, I'm accustomed to being sized up by my customers. One of the questions in my interview specifically asked how I felt about it. Paul, my boss, had laughed when I said I viewed it as a compliment, and I was pretty much given the job on the spot.
Eight o'clock finally rolls around and not too soon. Friday's are always murder on my feet and they've been screaming at me for the past hour to take a break. Paul, gives me 90 minute dinner breaks, a compromise we worked out for having me work longer shifts on the weekend. As usual I take off my apron and hang it up in the back room before heading to the bathroom. Someone's using the staff one unfortunately so I'm forced to go around to the bar's washroom. I ignore the rhythmic slurping noises coming from the stalls as I empty my bladder into one of the urinals. A heavy-set badger saddling up next to me stares at me-or rather my exposed decent-sized shaft-the entire time I'm pissing. I try to ignore him as he casually starts pumping his hard-on. With the slightest of sighs, I wash my paws and just shake it off while I walk back out into the floor. Like I said, I'm used to it.
I'm about to head into the back room to microwave a TV dinner for myself when something catches my eye. I turn my head slowly, and feel myself actually blushing as my eyes meet those of the stern looking tiger who had all but vanished from my mind the moment I took my apron off. He smiles again, something slight, most of the expression in his eyes not his mouth. With a large paw he gestures to the chair across the table from him. It's more rare to have someone offer to buy me a drink or a meal than it is to have someone flat out ask me for sex, but as a rule my answer is always no here. Call it what you will, but I don't like bringing my work home with me. Yet seeing this tiger here, and that powerful expression that demanded compliance I feel compelled to accept his invitation.
As I sit at the table I push down the rational voice inside asking why I'm doing this and offer a courteous smile. The tiger leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and folding his paws as he leans in close to me. I had heard his voice earlier when he had ordered his drink-which I notice is still over half-full-but having him address me like this make the deep almost rolling speech feel like a sensual embrace. I'm stunned by this, so much so that I nearly miss what he's saying.
"-your name?" Thankfully I'm able to catch enough of the question to know how to answer.
Still, I hesitate. Common sense still tells me that this is far from intelligent, yet again; his appearance and the general aura of dominance demanded my truthful answer. "Dalton," I say softly, forcing my mouth to form the syllables.
The tiger stares at me. It's the first chance I've had to get a good look at him now. He's built, that's the first thing that strikes me. It's strange for me to see someone so massive wearing something so tame. Usually the builders do everything they can to accentuate their bodies, but the tiger seems to care little for this, again making it hard for me to determine what exactly his game is. Perhaps this is why I've let it go this far without telling him off like I usually do. I also realize for the first time that this tiger is not as old as I first had thought. At best I would place him at 35 or so, but maybe even younger. His eyes are green, brilliantly so in fact, they remind me of the bottle of Midori in the back of the bar.
"You don't like liquor." He says it with such a definite period I don't even bother to nod. I don't question how he knows this, or at least not aloud, I just wait for him to continue. "Why didn't you go to school?"
The question seems out of place, and alarms in my mind tell me that this is wrong, that I shouldn't just tell someone my life story just because they asked, and more importantly I should wonder how he knows these things about me, yet I find myself answering him all the same. "I didn't have the grades for a scholarship and my mother could barely afford to feed me; just wasn't really an option," I say as measured as I can. I don't want to sound hurt over it, but it is a sore subject for me. I always feel a pang of jealousy when a group of college kids come in and spend their parents' money on Jaeger and beer.
The tiger sits back up and picks up his drink to sniff it idly. "Do you want to go?" he says as he sets the glass back down.
The music in the bar is usually pretty loud, and it wouldn't be the first time I've mistaken one word for another. "Come again?"
"I am planning on making a sizable donation to the University in the next few weeks. If you'd like to pursue a different kind of life I can make it happen."
It's now that I finally realize his game; we're once again on familiar territory, albeit it's a bit of a larger field this time around. I remain cordial, but I'm no longer feeling compelled to submit to his whims. "What's the catch?" I ask.
He wants me to whore for him, he's a pimp. Or something like a pimp. I've been approached by them before, canines are in fairly high demand on the street, and something different from the usual wolf and fox hustlers can usually fetch a decent price. This tiger though, he simply doesn't have that same aura about him, that greasy feeling isn't here with him. Instead I feel comforted in his presence, warmed by his focused gaze. Even his measured breaths seems to add a certain warmth to his otherwise somewhat cold eyes.
The tiger offers a slight smile. "I don't think it's as bad as what you're thinking. I've already spoken to Paul, he's given you the day off with full pay. I want you to come with me to my home."
Again I feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under me. The fact that Paul hasn't given me a paid day off in the two years I've been working for him should make me question his words, yet there's no doubt in my mind that he has the ability to make even my penny-pinching boss submit. He looks at me with those burnished glowing eyes, and I realize that the brief moment of comfort I felt was only allowed by his grace. I have never gone home with a customer before, and god have they tried. Yet here, with this person I've spoken to for less than five minutes, I'm going to. I swallow, nervous and completely uncertain, yet inevitably the word wrestles itself from my throat. "Okay."
Twenty minutes later the limousine I've been riding in pulls up to a house the size of the motel near my apartment. I don't even bother wondering how large the property is, but we've been moving down the tiger's driveway for over a minute. The entire drive the tiger hasn't said anything to me. He's poured himself another glass of Whiskey, but as he was at the bar, he nurses the drink, only tasting it. Its quality liquor too. I don't catch the brand of it, but I've been in the business long enough to tell by the smell and color.
For once in my life I'm actually not repulsed by the scent, and, embarrassingly, I'm finding myself mildly aroused at the entire situation. I've never been much for dominance and submission games, but this is no game, and there is no question that I am subservient to this tiger. I don't even know his name, but I know that it's not my place to ask - not that it would matter.
The chauffeur opens the door for me first. I step out, tentatively, into the warm night air. Crickets' songs and wandering fireflies meet my arrival as the tiger steps behind me. A soft pat on my rump puts an end to my gawking and I walk up the dozen or so stairs before reaching the large set of double doors. The tiger makes no motion of opening the ornately carved doors, but before I can lift my paw-thinking he was waiting for me to do so-the door opens with the sound of a heavy latch being lifted. A servant, perhaps a butler greets us. He's a mouse, no more than 5 feet tall, and a complete twink. He sets of my usually nonexistent "gaydar" stronger than anyone ever has before. I ignore it for now, not that anyone besides the tiger could hold my attention for very long right now.
The butler-mouse leads us to a room that I would describe as a den, but only in the strictest sense. Decorated primarily in earth tones, each chair and cushion seems specifically designed to be as inviting as possible; the lighting is warm, placed to keep the entire room uniformly illuminated at a medium level. Along the walls are shelves lined with hundreds of books, some of them look to be quite old. The tiger motions towards two high back leather chairs. I gratefully take the offered seat, and wait for him to join me. I find it a bit odd that the mouse remains in the room, but I don't comment on it. After all I've never had a servant and I certainly wouldn't know what proper behavior for one is.
As the tiger sits he smiles warmly, this time it's a bit less reserved. It makes me feel more relaxed, and I don't doubt that that is his intention. I smile back, though I'm still nervous. I'm usually good about hiding my emotions, but tonight has been too much for my usually calm demeanor. It surprised me, when the relative silence was broken by the deep voice of the tiger. I haven't heard it outside of the bustling bar, and the way it washes over me is even more intense in this room.
"My name is Amos, a few years ago my father passed away and left me and my older brother with his hand-crafted corporate empire and a ten billion dollar fortune to split between us. I was only 28 at the time, and had only been living on my own for a few years. My father and I had never really been on good terms and so I hadn't been expecting much if anything from the will.
"I was shocked honestly. My brother had been planning on inheriting the family fortune and had plans already in motion. He didn't hesitate at all in assuming command of the company. I had just graduated from law school, and I had little interest in business so I allowed my brother to run that part of things, while I deal with things that require legal prowess," the tiger pauses in his story and looks at me carefully.
"The point of all this is, I have a lot of money, but the truth of the matter is, I have nothing to spend it on. I had no need of my father's servants so I dismissed them. I inherited the house and everything in it is completely mine. So aside from the meager utility bills, all of this money has been doing nothing but accumulating interest and lining my stock-broker's pockets."
I don't bother to ask him why there are servants here, since he had dismissed them all. The truth is I already know the reason, and now I understand why he's asked me here and what he wants to do for me. "You've built yourself a harem," I say quietly. The words sound much calmer than I expected them to, and I realize that I'm not feeling the least bit repulsed by this.
Amos pauses, and I blush. Shame, rather intense too, washes over me. Not because of my words but because of my interruption. He smiles once again, nodding. "In the strictest sense of the word, yes. I look for boys, men, who like me were estranged from their families and offer them my protection and money in exchange for services. Anthony," he says gesturing towards the mouse, "is my butler, and you met Louis, my chauffeur."
I bite my bottom lip to keep from speaking out of turn again, but a nod from him gives me permission to speak freely here. And, like before in the bar, I feel like I'm coming up for fresh air so I can take more of what is to come. "So, this is not really a. . ." I hesitate, not sure how to phrase it, but Amos knows.
"It is sexual," Amos says, no hint of modesty in his voice. "But that isn't required or expected of any of them. If they ever say no I will oblige and they will lose nothing I've given them. But," he says exchanging a brief, coy look with Anthony, "None of them ever have."
Anthony bows respectfully to Amos; before he gives me a quick wink. I can't help but blush deeply at this. ". . . How many others are there?"
Amos leans back a little more, looking more casual then I've seen him. Casually he loosens and then removes the black tie around his neck, handing it to Anthony. "You would be number seven. I don't make this offer to many, and, like I said, no one has ever said no to me before."
Anthony smiles at me. "If I may, sir?" he asks, receiving a quick nod from Amos. "Don't misunderstand what he's offering. He's not giving you anything for free, you have to work, and you have to work hard, but it's worth it."
"I'm not unaccustomed to working hard," I say quietly, "What is it that I would be doing here?"
Amos' tail darts behind him, briefly, almost like a whip or a snake. I dismiss the imagery my mind is sending me as I wait for him to answer, though I again feel just a pang of nervousness. "I need a bartender, someone smart, someone quick, and someone with experience. You'd serve me personally as well as any visitors, the only time you'd ever be really challenged would be at parties where you'd be expected to tend bar, and some of them can be rather particular about what they drink."
I ponder on this for a moment. I'm vaguely amused when Anthony leaves briefly only to return with a glass of Whiskey and I smile. "Why do you have the glass if you don't drink it all?"
Amos seemed taken aback by the question and he shrugs. "I love it, I love the way it tastes and the way it smells, but I don't want to, nor can I afford-well, I suppose I could, but that's beside the point-to go around rip-roaring drunk all the time. So I savor it."
I don't know why, but the scent of the room, the light Whiskey scent, and the presence of both the small mouse and the large tiger suddenly seemed much more comfortable to me than any place I have ever been in save my own bed and apartment. It's something in the way they hold themselves, in how they seem so happy in this odd but convenient relationship. At this moment I realize there is no point in holding back any more, and that everything I have ever wanted in the way of companionship and more is here at my fingertips. It's an amazing sensation, and when it occurs to me that there is no reason to say no to the powerful tiger, this place is no longer just his home, but mine too.
I've always believed that the sense of touch is underrated. Looking at a tree and saying its beautiful doesn't do it justice. Feeling the rough bark along your fingertips, the soft leaves between your fingers, in conjunction with all your other senses can give you new experiences if you allow yourself to take the time. And this is what I'm doing now. The scent of Whiskey is in the air, powerful and poignant, especially when mixed with the smell of three males' arousal. Amos stands behind me, his large paws roaming over my slim and lightly toned muscles. I can hear a rustle a bit further behind me. I quickly place it as the sound of fabric sliding over fur. Amos' paws continue to roam, slowly wandering to my waistline.
I'm still wearing my uniform from the bar. Paul doesn't really want us to dress provocatively, so I wear a thickly woven, white collared shirt and black dress slacks. It took me a while to get used to the clothing; I used to think of these clothes as confining. Now I'm feeling out of place as they're being removed. I realize that this is the last time I will be wearing this particular outfit, and as Amos and Anthony remove the old uniform I feel as if I'm emerging from some kind of cocoon, about to enter a new phase of my life.
I'm surprised when I see that the rustling I heard a few moments earlier was not specifically from Anthony stripping. The white mouse has simply removed the "excess" of his clothing. He now wears what I can only assume is the preferred outfit for Amos' servants. Around each arm is a metal band, possibly silver judging by how polished they are. Intricately engraved into the metal are ornate designs. For a moment I mistake him for being naked beyond this, but I was mistaken. A very delicate looking chain holds a white loincloth at his waste. The cloth hangs low enough for me to see the mouse's waistline but adequately covers anything beneath. A thin choker collar, also silver but backed with black leather compliments the bands and the chains, and I can just make out the name Anthony is engraved into the choker's silver. The final things I notice are cuffs encircling each of the mouse's ankles and wrists. The black leather is intricately cared for, no scuffs or marks of any kind, yet they look soft to the touch and extremely comfortable.
Anthony finishes folding my clothing and carries it out of the room. Amos stops rubbing me and painstakingly paces around me several times. He examines my body from head to foot, and despite his calm expression I can tell he is noting all my imperfections and strengths, deciding where and what I need to improve. From his gaze I once again recognize that I have no say in anything that's about to happen to me. But this is how I want it. It's odd, I've never really felt this before. On the few occasions I've played with BDSM I've never had this feeling of power exchange. I had decided that the feeling was a myth, that it was all an elaborate illusion. No longer do I feel that way.
I hear Anthony return but I fear shifting my gaze from Amos. I hear him walking behind me, while Amos stops in front of me. He speaks for the first time since I accepted his invitation and the rumbling undulation in his voice is in itself erotic. I swallow and strain to keep my exposed sheath from swelling any more than it already has. "You will wear these things at all times in my presence. You may wear them under other garments, but they will be on when I see you or you'll be punished."
To this I can only nod, and in response I feel blessed soft fabric resting against my genitals as Anthony fastens my new outfit around my waist. It feels like it's barely staying up, yet somehow it doesn't slip. It's a strain to not move my eyes from Amos' but I manage to. Anthony's small paws guide each arm to a position perpendicular to my body as he fastens the armbands and cuffs. They fit perfectly, but I'm not surprised. Part of me wonders how long Amos has been watching and judging me, but I quickly decide that the answer to that question is irrelevant. Amos smiles at me, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. I can't help but blush-I also realize he likes it when I do. I feel Anthony gently fastening my ankle cuffs snugly, and it's at this moment that Amos places his sizable paw on the back of my head and kisses me. It's an incredibly tender kiss, again something new to me. I close my eyes and open my mouth to him, allowing him to explore his servant as freely as he wishes.
The kiss lasts for only a few seconds, and regretfully Amos pulls his head back. His smile is more evident this time; offered as a gift to me. I know that that may sound silly, but after observing his nearly emotionless face for several hours seeing him smile unhindered is incredibly satisfying to me-I've pleased him. He places his arms on either side of my head and Anthony hands him my new collar. Amos expertly fastens the silver and leather ring around my neck, then, with a large step back he examines me for the first time as his possession.
The tiger's orange and black frame seems to be barely contained in his shirt and slacks. Abruptly, as he's standing here, examining my mostly naked body I feel an attraction more powerful than any before. I want him-and I feel as if he can read my thoughts. "Anthony," Amos' deep voice says in a gentle but commanding voice, "leave us."
The mouse smiles at me playfully before giving a respectful bow. The words "Yes, Master," are spoken sincerely before the mouse steps out of the room, allowing me to catch a rather thorough glimpse at his small but firm looking rump.
Amos stays one step out of reach from me, but a low rolling purring sound begins to emanate from him. This is the last straw, I look at him with pleading eyes, unable to form the words to ask for what I lust for, but Amos knows. Without a word passing between us he steps forward once again and wraps his arms around me as another kiss is shared between us. The difference between this kiss and the previous is astronomical. Our tongues play against each other gently; mine slowly giving way for his as his paws roam freely over my body till they come to rest on my rump cheeks. He breaks the kiss, letting a powerful lust pass between our gazes before he unceremoniously begins undoing the buttons of his shirt.
Every muscle of his body seems like a sculptor's masterpiece as the white fabric slides to the ground. I'm entranced by his upper body, so much so that I don't realize he's also removed his slacks until he moves once again towards me. The entire time I've remained standing in the same spot. My skin feels as if it's on fire as my naked master steps up behind me. I feel as if I might melt as his paws once again land on my hips, this time; however, he takes the time to undo the small chain that had been so delicately placed a moment earlier. The thin white fabric falls to the floor with a barely audible jingle and now the two of us are completely nude. I hesitate to let my eyes wander from his, but I curiosity slowly overrides my sense of being entranced. Dark nipples protrude from his perfectly toned, white chest, and I follow the contours of his stomach muscles down to his waste-line and then beyond. His fur is luxuriously cared for, no doubt one of his other servants jobs is to keep it as such; even without touching it I know it will be quite soft to the touch. As my eyes view his penis I feel the usual surge in excitement, but my eyes don't linger. The organ perfectly matches the tiger's large physique.
Even still encased in the cream-colored sheath, it's easily eight-inches long. While this is certainly larger than average, given Amos' size it's doesn't seem at all odd to me. Continuing the perfect proportions, his cream colored scrotum sits nestled between his thighs and beneath the deliciously plump sheath. Black and orange stripes resume past his inner thighs and cover the rest of his body. As I finish my observations, struggling to find any comparison in my mind short of ancient sculptures, the relative silence is broken by my new master's deep voice.
"Dalton," he says my name, for what I realize is the first time, "come here."
No hesitation. I step forward. The steps are deliberately measured, I don't want to seem too eager, but nevertheless before I even realize I've covered the distance I find myself kneeling before the tiger. As I look up to Amos's eyes I find myself blushing yet again, but there's a comforting expression in his face and all sense of shame vanishes in the deep green ocean in his eyes. "Good boy," he says placing a large paw upon my head and rubbing just slightly. The warm pressure from his paw brings me almost as much joy as the words of praise. The scent of Amos's arousal is quite strong. Though the dark flesh within his sheath has yet to emerge, a steadily growing bead of pre-cum has been forming on the exposed tip and I find myself struggling to not lick it from him immediately. Still, with a swallow and clouded thoughts of determination, I wait. He laughs, just a bit. "It's alright Dalton, go ahead."
Almost instantly I dart forward, I don't remember, but as one paw wraps around that beautiful sheath and tugs back, my tongue gently pulls that salty liquid from the rapidly swelling and now exposed cock. The velvety black flesh stands up from Amos's perfect body and with an eager smile and an experienced, but recently neglected tongue; I perform the work I love. I try to savor the first taste of my master's cock, slowly moving my saliva-slick muzzle down the dark flesh, and letting my tongue explore each exquisite inch of the veiny organ; yet my lust fights against this. All too soon, I feel my nose bump against the soft fur and the firm flesh of Amos's stomach. He lets out a pleased grunt, and again praises me; the feel of his thick fingers behind my ears drives me wild. I'm vaguely aware of my own maleness; the dark red flesh standing out boldly from between my legs, harder than I ever remember it before.
I know it's been only a handful of seconds since I first tasted Amos's pre, but it seems like an eternity. My tongue gently caresses the member in my mouth as I wait for it to finish swelling completely and slowly-agonizingly slowly-I pull back till the shaft is free of my muzzle with an audible pop. A thin string of pre leads from the tip of the turgid dark member and my lips, which I eagerly lick away before looking back to my loving master. The sight of his beautiful cock framed by this beautiful tiger is so incredibly arousing that I begin to worry I might be close to orgasm already. An Amos smile down at me, the pleased expression on his face is more than I ever could have wanted and with a final repetition of "Good boy," I really get to work.
The next few moments go by in a blur. I know I'm doing a good job, as I said, I had a lot of practice in my youth and I'm using every trick I've ever learned here. I note each time my ministrations seem to have a strong response and adapt them into my movements. I learn to please my master as easily as I would please myself and when I finally here the words, "Get ready," I am all too eager to use all this to make sure my master's orgasm is as enjoyable as possible. I bob my head back and forth, twisting my head ever so slightly to one side while flicking my tongue along the underside of Amos's glans. One paw gently cups Amos's creamy sac, squeezing gently to coax forth his seed, while the other traces its blunt claws down the back of his thigh. Within seconds I'm rewarded with a wonderful growl, followed by the first taste of my masters cum. It's strong, tasting ever so slightly of Whiskey, but I take it into my muzzle, letting it rest on my tongue for the briefest of seconds before moving my muzzle back to the base of his cock and letting my tongue coax the remainder of his seed down my throat.
The sensation is incredible. The spreading warmth from my throat to my stomach is familiar, yet here, knowing that this is a symbol of my submission-and more importantly Amos's devotion to me is incredible. Though I don't climax myself, I feel very pleased with myself, and I know I'm close. I rest my head against my master's groin, letting the pleasant aroma of his sex lull me into a kind of torpor. I don't know how much time as passed when I finally pull myself free of my master's shaft and look up to him for further directions. It seems like forever, but could not have been more than a minute. Amos smiles again, before crouching down to my level and wrapping his large arms around me. I hadn't realized how cold I am until I feel his warmth and I feel just the slightest warming in my cheeks. He whispers into my ear, "Good boy, Dalton," before standing and gesturing for me to do so as well.
I'm still quite hard, part of me wants to cover it up, but I now it would be bad form. As such I'm forced to simply stand with my arms to my side, waiting for instruction. "You're going to fit in here quite well, Dalton," Amos says softly as he moves to a nearby table. It's made out of very nice wood, maybe mahogany, but I know even less about home décor than I do about fashion. He gently takes the few books resting on it and sets them on a nearby chair before patting the table.
I move up to it, and as he has asked, if not through words, I climb on top. Amos says only one command, and I do as he asks, lying with my hands to the side on the hard table. "I won't always do this," he says as he very slowly kneels at the side of the table, "But you deserve a reward for tonight." With that, Amos's smooth paw grips my almost painfully neglected shaft and begins slowly masturbating me to orgasm. Given my state it takes almost no time for me to reach my climax, and far too early I feel my cock unloading my pent up seed. I know I'm cumming hard, but I don't realize how hard until the first burst lands squarely on my nose, I feel another on my chin, my neck, my chest, and finally the remainder of my orgasm pools on my stomach, but I enjoy every second. More enjoyable than every ass I've fucked, every muzzle I've filled, this is he best orgasm I've had in my entire life.
As I come down, I open my eyes to Amos. The tiger gently pets my headfur, leans in, and licks the cum from my nose. "Welcome home Dalton."