An Evening Tryst
An evening Tryst
By Sorin
You go to a club in the lower part of town; it's dark, loud and full of grinding bodies. You order a drink at the bar. Not because you're thirsty, but because you want to hold something in your hand. It's an offset providing a suave and sophisticated veneer; you don't get a little umbrella. Scanning the crowd looking for someone, anyone who catches your eye tonight; you're not really picky, it's your one night to play.
A fox catches your eye. Perhaps it's because of the way his shirt rides up giving teasing hints of his stomach, or the waist line of his pants, a little too low to be decent but high enough to fool the mind into thinking it's not on purpose. Perhaps it's the way he moves, like liquid, drawing your eye along his curves. He does draw you, across the dance floor, and before you realize it you've left your drink on a speaker and your bodies are entwined, dancing and grinding in an imitation of sex so close that it makes your pulse race, throbbing in your throat.
The song ends with both of you panting. The bar beckons, your arm rests around his lower back and the bartender delivers two drinks, only water this time. You feel the cool nectar slide down your throat, the fox's breath on your neck, and bliss as teeth close gently on you. The music starts again, surrounding, merging with the lust flowing from the bite and into your loins.
Panting, breathy, hardly able to stumble into a back corner you press the fox up against the wall, seeking his muzzle with yours, kissing. Breath merges with his, warm and cloying, delving deep into you, reminding you of what's to come. He presses to your thigh, arousal hard against you, his scent cloying in your nose, with a musky promise that tickles the senses.
Up against the wall grinding, pressing paws roaming, closing on the teasing shape of arousal, hands slide down the back of your pants and through your fur, against your tail. It's like a current, tingling making you growl, pressed close to the fox's warmth, heady in excitement.
Then the fox is sliding down, sinking to his knees, opening your fly and you watch his nose twitch, tail quiver in the raucous flashes of colored light. Than warmth falls over your member and none of the noise, or press of the crowds matter compared to the tingle of bliss. It's an eager blow job, full of promise, and yet swimming in dirty spontaneous desire and anonymous lust.
Time stretches, drawing out like honey running from the bottle. He leaves you wet, throbbing in the cool air when he draws back looking up at you with curious eyes. Your brain is fogged, moments seem to pass before the fox stands, throwing a furtive glance at the back door to the club, his hands tucking you into your pants an sharp eagerness to his scent.
You follow him, one hand on your pants, tail moving of its own accord now, paw on your crotch to keep your paths closed, and your pride intact. A click of metal and a cool breeze draws you out away from the throbbing heart pulse of the music, and into the sudden silence of the alley behind the club. The sharp scents of the night behind the club invade your senses, driving out the fox's lust and the smell of hot bodies. The scent is back with a passion as he presses back up close to you lips meeting yours.
Your hands fumble at the foxes pants as the kiss continues, undoing the button, hand slipping inside, forcing the zipper down with your paw's intrusion, fingers closing on the firm heat of the fox's arousal, squeezing to the moaning delight of the male pressed close to you. Hands Grope, squeeze stroke, brining you both back to fullness. Breathy pants, soft yips and growls, build with excitement, stopping only when your paw leaves him, to turn him and press him in one eager motion against the cool bricks of the wall.
He almost seems shocked by this, for a brief moment before his tail flits and your hand drops to his pants pushing them down just below the curve of his rump, leaving him almost dressed, in a sensuous parody of the teasing exposure of your first glimpse of him in the club. A long lick over your paw, out of instinct more than a need for slickness beyond what your pre provides and you grip yourself, pushing up under the silken bush of the boys tail, sliding up into him only your grunt, and his soft yip betraying the penetration to the world beyond the alley.
You clutch his hip paw slipping around his slim waist as you begin to move inside him no pretense of passion beyond the passion of lust, the driving need, scent, and pleasure. You muffle his growing exclamations of pleasure with a paw, your own buried in the scruff of his neck as your hips roll, tail flagging slightly raising with the building pressure and drive. Pleasure burns through you, building, peaking and with a sharp cry breaking in a muscle tensing release that leaves you shuddering, and throbbing in the now slick confines of the fox.
A moment seems like an hour before you slide out of the panting vulpine, feeling him tremble against you. Your breath calms, the scent of musk and sex still strong. Reaching down to his slick shaft and knot confirms to you what your nose hinted at, the eager climax spattered on the club wall. You step back, trailing a finger along his spine, over the curve of his rump, as you tuck yourself into your pants, still slick, but spent.
"Thanks Foxy" you murmur, a vague, familiar term for a, vague anonymous tryst, and with a light slap on the still exposed rump, you go back into the club for a drink...