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Kefl

The hyena bound to the chair squirmed and huffed again, nostrils flaring as his only reliable source of breath what with the gag shoved into his mouth. He tossed his head from one side to the other, tall ears perked and flicking around, trying to pick through his surroundings and figure out what was going on: the blindfold draped across his snout had had to be re-tightened a few times now for the way he wriggled and grunted and bucked in his seat, and every now and then they - mainly that slim, sleek otter in the back of the room, Lyle or Lukas or something like that - would come forward and check in to see if the room's captured prey there was still hanging on alright.

He was, of course. Ky here, having wandered in some fifteen minutes ago to find a plastic cup of beer foisted into his paw and a smack on his rump near the base of his tail, didn't even know the poor guy's name. Not past Service Top, at least, emblazoned there in fine stitching across the front of the harness he wore, the straps helping to keep him bound to the chair. They had pushed his legs apart as well, and brought him closer to the edge so that his hefty balls hung off the front, dark leathery skin moistened with the various dripping juices of his previous visitors: where he was hyena in body, down there he was undeniably equine, from the velvety pouch of his sack to the thick, supple folds and wrinkles of his sheath above, pushed out across the long, pulsing tube of his fully hard shaft, alternating between smacking against his belly with eager throbs and then hanging heavily forward into the open air, flinging glistening ropes of his own pre out across the floor.

When Ky had entered the dorm party he had managed to catch the tail end of the stud's last performance, which was to say the tail end of that same otter who now rested against the wall with all of his clothes off and his rudder out, arms above his head, mouth open in unsteady panting. Quite a show it had been, too, what with the smaller male gingerly lowering himself down, working forward and back, up and down until the distinct bulge of the hyena's equine head pressed up from the inside of his belly... he had managed to cum hands-free from it, an achievement that Ky himself had never quite been able to reach. Still the streaks of milky white could be seen across the dorm floor, splattered across the tarp carefully laid out beforehand.

Since then a few others in the audience, and there were _many,_had come forward to play around with the bound top. Another hyena had dropped to his knees and slurped up all of the dripping slickness from the various folds, creases, crevices, wrinkles, and otherwise along the stud's cock, sheath, and sack, pawing himself off in the process - until a lovely white-furred vixen came along, knelt down along the other side of the top's shaft, and assisted in both that process and the pawing-off, ending with the new hyena shuddering, gasping, and emptying out across the vulpine's already-white fur.

Afterwards the two had disappeared somewhere down the hall, and since then the stud had been left to simmer in his own desperate arousal, unable to see who was approaching him from where. Still the audience served to keep him ready for action, though, between the occasional fondle of one or both balls, a pair of paws running up along the underside of his sizeable shaft, a nose pressing into the folds of his sheath, a mouth pressed against his blunted head, a tongue teasing at his rim... Ky took another sip of his drink and stepped to the side to let someone else past, this one a tall, grey-furred wolfess in a slim-fitting shirt and a skirt.

And nothing underneath, apparently: she looked back at everyone else, grinned, winked, and lifted the hem up to show off first the sweet, wrinkled pucker of her tailhole, flexing and clenching in anticipation, and then further between her legs the humid, heavy heat of her protruding lupine space, luscious pink flesh already slick and swollen with arousal. A murmur of appreciation rumbled through the crowd, and the service top froze up when he felt a paw brace on one of his shoulders, and then the other; then his legs spread and he leaned back, and the wolfess hooked one leg over his, and then the other, and lifted herself forward. She swung her tail up, reached back with a paw to spread herself, reached down to keep his equine shaft angled up towards her, and pressed the blunted front of his head up against plump, soft meat, squishing gently back and forth, smearing his slickness around herself, and hers on him.

The hyena groaned and leaned his head back, breath and noise trickling out from behind his gag. Ky watched the way his balls stirred and pulled up towards his body, and how the base of his sheath pulsed with a throb all the way up his shaft towards his head, slightly flaring there against the wolfess. She smirked, licked her lips, swallowed, widened her stance a little further... slid her paw up along his head, tickling at the rim, guiding him in... shivered as the edge slid smoothly in between soft, succulent lips, sighed as she wedged him in further, shuddered again - and then gasped when finally her thick, slick sex slurped entirely around him, pink flesh bulging out further with the equine head, the wolfess's legs shaking, footpaws trembling.

Her paws returned to his shoulders so that she could slowly lower herself down along his length, the service top squirming and grinding where he sat trapped. Ky could only imagine how that felt, looking at the way she left him streaked in glistening wetness each time she paused and pulled slightly up, and how her sex sleeved so nicely around him, lips spreading and shifting to accommodate the contours of his shaft, the bumps of his veins, the semi-firm boundary of his medial ring pressing up inside of her, tugging out at her, slipping free.

Maybe... Over another sip of his drink Ky watched the show, eyeing the way the wolfess's rump squished and spread around the shaft pushing up into her spade, her tailhole stretched slightly against the girth. Heavy balls hung down underneath, jiggling with the rhythm as she worked herself further down, thoroughly moistened with drool, pre, natural musk and wetness. Maybe I could have a turn. Might as well, right? I don't know anyone here, and nobody here knows me.

So he looked around, handed his drink to a short weasel nearby, and continued forward, just as the wolfess threw her head back and managed to hilt herself down on the service top, plump spade lips squishing sloppily out around the already-wet wrinkles of his sheath.

SoraCasus

Galen tried to sit back in his chair, then wobbled forward again with the odd shift in his balance that such a movement made. A full week spent with this portal device and the fox still couldn't wrap his head around the intricacies of its function and technology, and how it bent the world around it - and, specifically, inside of it: this time he held still where he sat and moved his legs, and felt first one thigh shift atop his shoulder, and then the other, each in turn with his own directions, yet the actual sensations themselves seeming to come from two different areas.

Which, in a way, they did. When he looked down, there was the back of where he had opened one of the portals, resting at an angle in against his lower body: if he closed his eyes and wiggled his legs he could still imagine each one to move right there where they should be. But then if he opened them, here they were resting over his own shoulders instead, right leg over his left and left over his right. His own short whiskers tickled at the short, soft fur of his inner thigh, and reflexively he reached down to scratch at the spot, yet bumped his claws against the back surface of the portal instead.

Dizzying, disorienting, discomfiting, and yet... as long as he squeezed his own legs around his own head, as long as he focused himself forward towards the warm heft that sagged down between his thighs, he could forget about everything else. The fox swallowed, gingerly leaned back in his seat, actually managed it this time, and shifted the other end of the portal closer between his legs - which brought his own plump spade a half-inch closer to his muzzle.

Familiar musk wafted forward and across him, luring him in like a magnet drawn slowly through thick syrup. To have smelled himself at a distance so many times before, now finally tasting his scent from the source... the fox shivered, licked his lips, and leaned in a little closer, careful to move his head rather than the rest of his body, and gently touched lips to lips. He was so warm, so sleek and soft and supple, and... back and forth he tilted his muzzle, just brushing sensitive flesh across his own sex, smearing himself in warm slickness, nostrils flared, drinking down the gradually strengthening bite of his arousal.

Everything worked right back into itself in the beginnings of a delicious cycle, his arousal pulsing here against his lips turning him on even more, which made him shiver and squirm and grind forward from his hips, which made him want to dig deeper, over and over again. Sure, Galen had been in a position like this a handful of times before with others, but never with himself.

And there was definitely something different about it, something enticing and invigorating. So much to explore, so much to learn... head and lungs full of his own scent, he draped one paw over his own thigh rested across his shoulder and managed to wriggle the other up in between, then decided that going at it from the other direction would be easier and dropped it down between his legs instead. From above his paw slid through the portal opened above and in front of his head, fingers taking their comfortable place pressed into soft pubic fur at the base of his protruding spade, the gentle tension there enough to plump his lips and pull them just barely open.

Thick strands of sticky arousal hung between parted flesh, delicious reddish-pink glistening inside. At first Galen closed his eyes and began to work at himself there, slipping a pair of fingers around his parted lips, poking up against the buried nub of his clit, smearing his fur in gathering warmth and wetness... and then he opened them again to watch what he did to himself, having never before seen it from this angle except for in the videos he had taken to send to others.

All the while he could smell himself, too, and _hear_the slick, wet squelches and slurps of inner walls reflexively squeezing around fingers pressing deeper inside, of damp stickiness slipping across his fur, clinging to his pads... dribbling down between his legs, against his nose, across his waiting tongue. Buried two fingers to the second knuckle, Galen tilted his head, swallowed, tasted himself on the air, and flicked his tongue forward into dank, humid warmth opened there, and couldn't help but kick a leg over his shoulder with the sensation of both swirling his tongue into the plump vulpine spade as well as feeling it done to himself, at the same time.

So he did so again, and again, dragging his tongue across the soft, luscious warmth from inside, then pushing over to the other side. He drew his fingers back out but kept himself spread, nose pressed up against his clit hidden inside, slurping and suckling gently, amazed at how this felt to both give and receive simultaneously. The same aroma and taste that clung to his fingers after destressing late at night, or the few times when the mood hit him while out in public so that he had to scamper into a bathroom stall, now oozing into the fur of his muzzle, smearing across his nose, coating his mouth and throat as he slurped deeper, suckled harder, swallowed again and again.

Paws slipped up and around his own thighs as though he were serving someone else sitting with their legs spread around his head, and Galen buried himself within his own plump sex, nose wrinkled against himself, drool and arousal dripping from his chin as he lapped, head swimming with scent, taste, pleasure, and delight. As his legs tightened around his head he realized that he was in control of that, and tried to loosen his grip - only to flick his tongue over his clit and shudder, tightening down once more. From someone else that kind of overstimulation could be overwhelming and blinding, yet from himself, knowing his own limits, knowing how and where to push them, it was instead exhilarating.

_ _

Panting, Galen managed to pull himself free, slick wetness coating his lips and dripping from his chin as well as his arousal-swollen spade, twitching and pulsing with clenching muscles right here in front of him. He licked his lips, swallowed, let a shivering sigh trickle out, and once more leaned in to lap up the mess he had already made.

I could get used to this, he thought.

Dotcom656

"Oh, my. Is school really out already?"

Tom gulped and reached up to scratch behind one of his floppy ears, phone clutched tight in his other paw. This is the right address, isn't it? he asked himself; she looks right, from the pics on the website, but it's...

"Yes - ah, no, ma'am," he answered. "I, uh, graduated two years ago."

The bay mare leaning in the threshold looked him over, brown eyes tired yet soft running across his ears, his muzzle, his shoulders... his waist, legs, tail, and then all the way back up. She tilted her head the other way, chewed on a lip, and nodded.

"High school?"

"Uh - yeah. I'm in community college now, and-"

"Great. Come on in and close the door."

The bathrobe she wore draped over her shoulders swished as she stepped back into the house. Tom obediently followed, nose twitching at the distinct aroma hovering around the place: it reminded him his of his grandma's house, that light, airy scent halfway between mildew and perfume, floating around on still air. The house certainly looked the age from the outside - and he thought the same of her, too: she actually looked a little bit younger in person than she did in her pictures, the silver-grey threading through her pelt not quite so sharp, the gathering wrinkles under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth a bit softer - and felt so on the inside, too.

As he followed her down the hallway his nose tickled with that air, the AC vents few and far between and also obviously put in some time after the house's original construction. Tight hallways, hardwood floor, solid construction, all the tells of what was likely an original house, purchased when it first when up for sale...

...the gentle rustle of her bathrobe slipping free from age-softened shoulders and slipping to the floor, wrinkles cresting and shifting between the mare's shoulders, stretch marks visible through her pelt along her waist, tail showing evidence of past binding but now left free to swish and sway along her generous backside.

Tom swallowed, cleared his throat, reached up to tug at the collar of his shirt, pretending he hadn't noticed. "Nice, uh, nice place-"

"Thank you, dear." She continued forward towards the bed, then sat down on the edge. The mattress sank beneath her weight, springs inside - of course it was a spring mattress - creaking and popping. She brought her arms forward, squished her sagging breasts forward, then sat back, letting them drape over her chest; Tom watched out of the corner of his eye, already able to see the stretched, leathery skin, the hanging wrinkles, the bumpy, ridged areolas and nipples likely long since dried out. "Carpet matches the drapes, you know. Same set that's been up for - oh, fifty years, now? Since my first husband..."

The dog's tail flicked and he froze, and was just about to ask what she was talking about when he realized that he had indeed turned his head toward the window, and - surprise, surprise - the curtains did indeed match the rug spread out underneath the bedframe. "Ah," he said, once more scratching behind his ear. "I see. Miss, uh-"

"Missus," the mare purred, leaning back a bit. She spread her legs as she did so, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress. "Gloria."

"Missus Gloria. You are - a beautiful woman." Finally Tom turned to face her, in her full, nude, mature splendor. Brown pelt tinting silver in spots, slashed with grey and white in others; thighs, breasts, belly all folding in over themselves from spare weight as well as older wrinkles. In terms of age, she could be his grandmother; in fact, that had been the first thing he had looked for on her profile page. "Wow,_you _are."

"Thank you, sweetheart. But I got over standing on ceremony for this kind of thing likely before you were born. Get over here."

The arousal had been stirring since she had first opened the door, and he saw that this was indeed the same mare with whom he had been chatting over the past week. Just like in her messages - slow, plodding, careful; she had her phone set to the highest magnification setting - she was direct and to the point, and seeing her spread her legs like this, equine sex on full display...

...hanging slightly down, lips pulled out to, he hated yet loved to think of it, something like wet roast beef, as so many of his friends had joked in the past. The loose yet still pert wrinkled flesh, reddish-pink towards the center, more of a warm, lovely tan along the fringes, like thin-stripped, damp leather.

He swallowed again. "Yes, ma'am."

"That's a good boy. At least you know how to respect your elders. Come on, get these-" Mrs. Gloria reached forward for his waist, spindly fingers hooking into his beltloops and tugging him towards her. She looked dainty and fragile, yet at the same time strong, determined, driven... she easily unbutton and unzipped his fly, his shorts falling easily down his legs, and then tugged his boxers forward and down - and leaned back as his fully hard shaft sprung up in between them. "Goodness me. Eager, aren't we?"

"Y-yeah..."

Even if all his friends wanted juicy, succulent filets cooked rare, where was the harm in liking a good, well-done strip steak every now and then? The last one had indeed been a cow past her prime, udders slightly deflated with her age, but... on that particular night, Tom recalled, I came twice just from grinding against them...

"Did you bring some lube, dear?"

"Yes, ma'am." He reached around for his pocket, remembered she had undressed him already, and halfway crouched down, then slowly dropped down further once he realized he was so close to her. Mrs. Gloria spread her legs further and came forward, one hand sliding down across her gently hanging belly to spread herself: she had shaved at some point in the past, perhaps a week or so ago, so that now the rough, curly darker hair sprouted up in places around the center folds there, themselves glistening with the same tacky wetness. "Or - I could..."

The bed creaked again as she leaned back. "So nice to treat a lady," the mare murmured, hand coming to rest between his ears. "Where was someone like you when I was your age?"

Back in, what - the seventies? Sixties? he thought, another shiver going down his back. Tom wet his lips, swallowed again, drew in her scent so much like that of the rest of the house, and dove in.

Peegus

Back here between the tall, close shelves, where the sounds of the city and everything else faded away through thick sandstone and dense papyrus, vellum, parchment, treated leather, woven cloth, Mo felt as though she were in a different world entirely. There was no sand, no scent of the rampant populace and the thickly-spiced food served along the streets; no odor of greased mail armor and sweat, of tannin-laced water from the processing vats further down the street, of rendering tallow, livestock stables, of general everything.

Just herself, and her books, and the occasional visitor to the grand library here, few and far between despite the prominence of this city's treasure. She was just one of many attendants here, and sometimes the sleek serval had to wonder why fate smiled upon her so, to place her here in the same spot she would rather be, over any other alternative. Her own little world, rife with so many other worlds if she were to just run her fingers along the organized spines, tug one out, and let it drop open.

And, even better, he had come to visit today, too. Kopa, the rambunctious, loudmouthed, uncouth, somewhat raggedy leopard from the world that stood outside these library walls, where the sun passed over the sky and one day stood distinct from the next. Mo had always imagined her prince to be like the ones in the books she kept in her little alcove, hidden away from the floor of the library nestled near a window, but instead, somehow, she found herself with him. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

As she turned the next corner, a short stack of thick tomes clutched lovingly in her arms for sorting, one of the serval's tall ears perked. Her nose twitched a moment later, and then the rest of her noticed as well: there he was standing further down in the aisle, nose downward, tail swinging behind him, the leopard still clad in the thin, minimal leathers and airy linen of his for-hire guard duty, piece by piece acquired with his meager pay as the months had gone by. The work was good for him, too, even though - thankfully - he rarely saw combat: even from here in the dim lighting of the stacks Mo could see the lines of muscle beginning to work their way down along his arms and threading up his bared thighs, shifting and twanging like the strings of a piano as his adjusted his stance.

He held a book propped open between a paw and the shelf itself, lips pursed, eyes focused, whiskers forward. Mo stepped slowly forward, holding hers to her chest, tilting her head to see: both pages bore a combined spread of a detailed etching laboriously copied by hand from some greater source, the dried ink glistening across the texture of the paper.

"I didn't know you were interested in mythology," she began, her first word sending a shock of surprise through Kopa's shoulders. The leopard blinked as though just now waking up, glanced at her, then back down at the book. "Are you familiar with that story?"

He paused, looked down at the page, wet his lips, took in a breath, seemed to think about it for a moment, and then shook his head. "No. I... don't think I am."

"It's about Howling Woods." After bending to prop her stack along a nearby stepstool Mo pressed herself in close to him, wrapping herself in the dank, pleasant humidity of his presence. Reflexively his tail wound its way around hers. "You know how when the wind passes through trees, it makes them - well - howl, sometimes?"

He nodded. His eyes bounced back and forth across the two-page spread.

"In the northeast, during the winter the rain turns to snow that falls from the sky. Like - like ice, but softer. Like cold sand, almost. It piles up and stays for days, or weeks, or even months, sometimes. There's a small, isolated culture up in that area, in the depths of the woods..." Mo reached across and turned the page, the crisp material crackling gently with the movement. Kopa lifted one paw to allow her to do so, but kept the other propped underneath. "Where they believe that, during winter, the realm of the dead comes so close to our own world, that they can hear the moaning of lost souls echoing throughout the barren woods on windy nights. They believe that the gathering snow is something of a... residue, I suppose, of that close contact. Like steam gathering on a pot lid. And so..." Again she turned the page, and tapped at the next etching. "That culture developed special footwear, to allow them to cross over the snow while disturbing it as little as possible. Remarkable."

Kopa frowned. "What about the woods?"

"What about them?"

"Is it true?"

"Well... that's what makes mythology so enticing, isn't it? The wind in the trees, it's..." Mo thought for a moment. "The same phenomenon that makes breath through a flute turn to music. Sure, there might be something_more_ there. Just in the same way that things that you or I take to be pure, simple fact today, may turn out tomorrow to be mythological superstition."

His ears flicked again, and the thoughts visibly stirred behind his eyes. Kopa tilted his head, turned the page a few times, went a little further, then turned back to the previous. His eyes danced across the page... and Mo realized, this one too bore a wide, detailed etching, while all the surroundings held dense fields of text, explanation and description and context.

"That's a rock," he murmured, more to himself than anything. A short-clawed finger tapped at the page. "In an ocean."

"Yes. It is."

"At the foot of a cliff. There's clouds in the sky, and it looks like there's someone-"

"A child." So read the text underneath.

"A child, standing at the edge of the cliff. And, there's..." He frowned again, gaze moving back and forth as he took in the art, this one an original rendition of the author's understanding of the folk tale. Finally, after a silence: "...I don't understand."

"...Rumors of Whispers heard within the Crashing of the Waves," the inscription said, in the odd, stilted capitalization and syntax of the older school of learning, "said to grant great Knowledge to Those who could properly discern the Secrets. The Author must already hold this Knowledge, for He heard Nothing."

_ _

Mo turned her muzzle to Kopa's again. His eyes met hers, then just as quickly leapt away again, and then slowly, hesitantly, returned once more. She smiled, rested her paw over his, and drew his fingers down towards the text.

"I could teach you," she murmured. "How to read."

A small intake of breath, a little flick of the tail... and Kopa bumped his shoulder to hers. "Would you?"

"Of course. But we should start with more local mythology. There's a wonderful compilation just over here..."

Thewonderingcanine

Smack recentered himself while he ran, focusing in on the rhythm of his breathing, the beat of his footpaws on the treadmill, the bounce and swing of the music trickling out through his headphones. Mouth sticky, throat dry, lungs rasping in his chest, he opened his eyes and glanced down at the console to see that he had almost hit his goal, but hadn't quite made it there yet.

That was the worst part, really: the time spent working out. The result was the best part, the act itself was whatever, but just _how long_it took... the loose fabric of his gym shorts bounced and slid across the short fur of the foxwolf's thighs, while the underwear he had picked today hugged snug and comfortable around the rest of him. The one downside for that was that it kept all the sweat in, simmering and soaking among thick fur already dank and humid: he bit his lip, groaned, and reached back to work a pair of fingers beneath the waistband, taking the moment to press through that discomfort and rub at a spot that felt like something had gotten caught, right underneath the base of his tail. On reflex he twitched, pushed, clenched again, sighed... and then the sensation was gone.

Really Smack just couldn't wait until he got back home tonight. That thought was what spurred him on, from the previous machine to the treadmill to the weights afterwards, though he knew that he could forego the squats today; that part of his routine he had handled before heading out. He and his boyfriend Mike, sleek black-furred wolf, had picked up a cheap plastic chair from the story for that specific purpose - plastic because it held in scent and warmth and moisture, and cheap because they were likely to break it anyway.

Most of the time Mike stood no taller than Smack's paw from wrist to fingertip. Sometimes smaller, about the length of his thumb; very rarely a little bit bigger, more like the entirety of his forearm. That was only for when Smack felt particularly needy and confident in himself. But in that regular size, all of six-ish inches, he would stand there along the seat of the chair, look up at the foxwolf... and Smack would look back down at him, lift his tail up and to the side, reach back to spread himself with both paws, and smoothly work himself down along the small lupine's entire body.

Earlier today he had done so knowing that he had to make it out to the gym later, and as such once he felt the familiar sensation of Mike's head and shoulders pressing up into him, coaxing his tailhole open and sinking luxuriously into slick, soft meat inside, filling him with that deep, distant pressure from within - once he felt this he shifted his paws to his knees and held there, deliberately keeping himself halfway down, letting the muscles of his thighs and legs tighten, tremble, and shiver. And then he pulled himself back up, careful to push instead of clench, squishing all of that internal softness against Mike's shoulders to squeeze him back out into the seat of the chair, and Smack had straightened up, took another breath, paused, and then started down again.

Thump, thump, thump, the rhythm of his footpaws on the treadmill; eyes closed, ears back listening to the music he had one, Smack could instead pretend that that rhythm was the motion with which he had ridden his boyfriend back at home, paws shifting back to the malleable plastic arms of the chair to hold himself up while he squatted down, worked his tailhole around Mike, and then pulled back up. Five squats, then ten, then twenty, and he paused for a break - and could feel the sticky wetness of natural mucus and the saliva he had used as lube dribbling around the rim of his parted tailhole, muscles flexing and clenching in the sudden absence of the stretch, wanting to bury him deep again.

So once the burning in his thighs had receded somewhat he had gone for twenty more squats, and that time the hardest part was coming back up after pressing down: Mike knew just where to twist and press himself to make the foxwolf squirm and shiver, and by his tenth of the second set Smack's knot was pulsing in his sheath, squirts of fervent pre jetting out across the floor. Even now while finishing up his run he could feel it a little bit, the deep, invigorating sensation of pressure shifting inside of him, sleek wet walls slurping and squishing, arousal tingling.

Once more he reached down while he ran, this time to adjust the fit of his tight underwear in front. Humid heat oozed out through the stretchy fabric underneath, smearing across his fingerpads as he went; Smack held there a moment, fingers spread across the bulge of his half-hard shaft poking out of his sheath, and rubbed across the damp fabric. The natural rhythm of his body bouncing with his pace caused him to rub back and forth across himself, muscles twitching, clenching, tightening, as though Mike were still inside of him.

Pace faltering, Smack gripped the handlebars of the treadmill and swept his footpaws off of the machine, heart pounding, breath coming and going in uneven, raucous gasps. Every muscle in his lower body thrummed like piano strings, his knees threatening to knock together, his tail hiking up at the base: the more he clenched, the more he could distinctly _feel_that familiar sensation from earlier, of Mike's body and arms and paws squishing up inside of him, rubbing against him from within, pressing around as the insistent pleasure bubbled and swelled and wrapped together and-

Machine still running underneath him Smack gritted his teeth, grunted, and couldn't help but buck forward, the first spurt of milky white just barely managing to ooze through the fabric of his shorts, the second arcing out across the treadmill, the third and fourth following, the fifth dribbling out and around his pulsing sheath, his heart pounding both from the exercise as well as the exertion. Dazed, a little bit dizzy, he flopped his paw forward to turn the treadmill off, watching the way the trickling streaks spread out with the motion of the belt; still shaking, he then reached behind himself, worked a pair of fingers under the waistband of his pants and underwear, poked around underneath his tail... and just barely inside, felt the recognizable shape of a pair of tiny footpaws, still shoved deep.

Lomidepuzlo

"It's like - I'm trying, and I have to go, but..."

Radia swallowed and bore down a little harder, knees bending underneath her, tail hiking at the base, hands reaching back and sinking into the warm, plush folds of her rump to keep herself spread. Underneath her Lolo scooted further down into the tub, bringing one knee up and tilting himself to the other side; he reached down, ran a paw across his still hard shaft, and then reached up to gently touch at the sphinx's ankle, her footpaw braced against the side of the bathtub.

She heaved a sigh and relaxed, once more straightening up. "It's just not happening," she went on, disappointment simmering beneath her words. "Sorry, Lolo."

"It's okay. It's alright. It happens." He sat up straighter and bumped his head carefully against the softness of her thigh, sharply aware of the humid heat wafting down from above. If he tilted his head and opened his eyes he could see the dense red pubic fur mounding around her, glistening wet with something between oozing arousal and perhaps the first beginnings of the relief she strained so hard to reach. "There's plenty of tricks you can do..."

"It's just - frustrating, since..." She adjusted her stance, took another breath, and then tightened down again, squatting down a little further. Lolo blinked and sat back, gladly looking up at the show above him: the sphinx's tailhole pulsed and crested outwards, ring of muscle straining along the same key as the rest of her, while she kept her rump spread with one hand and now slid the fingers of her other right through those dense pubes, showing slick, succulent pink flesh hidden among the red. The slightest of small trickles welled up amid that meat and rolled down, then finally dripped free, warm and gentle against Lolo's belly. "Like. I have to go, so bad. I'm thinking I might just go sit on the toilet until it starts, and..."

"You can do that! If you want, that's totally reasonable. I know some folks that do that to get it started, too. Don't worry about it - you can do it, and if you can't, we can save it 'til later. What if you just..." Lolo leaned back again, resting his head on the rim of the tub. Piss or no piss,_he thought, _still a hell of a view. "Close your eyes. Take a breath. Pretend I'm not even here. Pretend this isn't the bathtub. See if you can trick yourself into thinking, I dunno..."

Above him Radia did as told, once again straightening up, tilting her head back, letting her jaw fall open. "I'm down at the river," she said out loud, and sighed. "Or maybe... maybe at the pool..."

That one made him smirk, and also sent a shivering twitch down through his shaft. Lolo positioned himself more fully underneath her, careful not to make any noise; he wrapped his paw in around himself and slowly stroked, smearing that single bead of piss across his fur. Radia kept herself spread and slowly began to lower herself down further, muscles visibly working and tightening again.

She hummed softly to herself, swallowed, took in another breath, sighed again... and then came another drop, and a third, and fourth, which grew into a few trickling squirts pattering out across the surface of the tub between Lolo's legs, and then finally a full, forceful stream. Relief poured from between the sphinx's parted lips just as her mark streamed free: her tail flicked and she sighed again and, looking down underneath herself, she repositioned and scooted her footpaw further back along the tub to get herself right above Lolo, so that - that sharp, delicious heat poured right down across his twitching arousal, quickly soaking through his fur and rolling along his belly in pale yellow rivulets.

"There you go," he purred, lifting up into the simmering heat. Stray dribbles and drops flowed down along her inner thighs, catching in the folds of flesh and skin and fur, continuing down; warm yellow pooled out underneath Lolo's body, slowly running in towards the opened drain of the tub. "See? That wasn't so hard..."

"Harder than it - should've been-"

The stream briefly pinched off and then began again, with another shuddering sigh from the sphinx. She took another half-step back, then another, adjusting her aim further up along Lolo's body so that she now soaked his groin, then his belly, and finally the center of his chest, her warmth and scent wafting up around his senses; he let his eyes close and sank into the sensation, her mark pouring down across him and soaking him to the skin, the slight tug and heat of her fresh piss slipping along his length as he continued to stroke.

As though sensing his thoughts she then adjusted again, returning her aim to that same spot between his legs. Warmth pouring down across him, dripping between his fingers, pooling atop his balls and then flowing down towards the puddle continuing to spread out underneath him, Lolo drifted into the sweet pleasure of the moment, eyes fluttering halfway open to look up at her as she doused him.

"I-I hope that this is..." She paused to center herself, stream jumping once more. "Okay. It still just - feels weird, you know?"

"Oh, I know," he purred in response, arm bumping against the side of the tub with his rhythm. "Some folks just - hah... don't get used to it. That's fine. We can keep on practicing, if you... want..."

Radia giggled quietly. "You certainly seem to want that."

"Well, sure. But I don't wanna push you into anything you don't want."

"It's just, I gotta say..." Bit by bit her stream began to trickle away, until finally all she had left to give was a few more rough, messy squirts across the side of Lolo's leg. Still he reached down to smear that wet warmth across himself. "Not so bad, once I got started. It's just getting there that took some trouble."

"So..."

Radia ran her fingers between lips and pubic fur dripping with piss, shivering with the sensation. "Ask me when I gotta piss next," she rumbled. "And we'll see how I'm feeling."