Foxophilia
Foxophilia by Athalon> So I was sitting in disgrace on the cement garden step that soggy morning, as Autumn drained towards the Winter of my teenage discontent. Doing nothing, a droopy-eared drop out, a bent-whiskered waste: a tool. My big brother Anews had just tossed me out of the house - not for bumming about and being moody, out of school and out of direction - but for masturbating too loudly, he said.
Some sheath! At least I don't get caught by my little brother in the bathroom with my tail up my ass.
That's when I spotted him, a snowfox kit. He was bouncing about under the hedge, scuffing the dark and crumbly earth beneath the rag-rug of leaves, ears high with interest. I could hear him squeal and churr, pouncing at pebbles, digging for dinner, or the chance of a place to den and to sleep. Or maybe to sweep something under, a cache, with his brush. The pelt was all bleached out and ready for cold, fluffy and new and heavy, tail thick with shortening days, whiskers lengthened with anticipation.
I kept still, watching, wondering what he was thinking. What he would think if he knew. If he knew what a naughty ferret I was! Or how yiffy I was that very morning... Fucking Anews - big brother didn't even let me finish my fapp!
I wondered if the fox knew that Winter was coming, and the darkness which foretelleth Death. That darkness which once took our parents away...
I didn't think so. He was only a snowfoxie, after all.
Slowly, carefully, I stood, trying not to scare him away. I didn't approach - no point - retreating discreetly towards the doorway behind. No reason to frighten off the powderpuff quaddie, I thought in my sadness.
Not that he'd think much of me, anyway.
Anews wasn't awake; he'd gone back to bed. On silent carpet paws I snuck to his door, listened in the light. Heard pillowed groans, the squeak of a yiffy mattress.
I almost laughed, that fucking wanker!
Fuck him.
My tailbrush was there on the bathroom sink, when I stepped inside for a pee. I picked it up, rolled it over, scritched at the orange fur. Messy - Anews says I'm such a slob. My shorts were stiffened, smeared with morning precum; the mirror on the wall hung streaked and askew.
I'm not a slob! What a jerk...
So I took his brush instead, hoping any blue kitty fur would be less noticeable! Serves Anews right, that tailhole.
When I returned to the garden, the foxfluff was still there - unlikely. I smiled. He did too. Or so it looked, tongue lolling from the silly muzzle as he sat.
"Here, boy," I called.
The snowie whiffled and sniffled and nuzzled the fursonal grooming aid, which I slowly held out to him. Probably smelling Anews' ass or something - I laughed out loud, couldn't help it. And the kit made an excited yip, rolling over in the leaves for play.
He was a needy little foxie that morning: I could tell by the swell of his knot.
Gently I sat, the vulpine quaddie's tongue poking out like his tip, whiskers on each side like his tweaked-up pubic fur. He accepted one paw, giving back change in mrrrs, grateful for the donation of my scratch. His tail swept back and forth; so did mine. He had on a collar, with a silver tag. It read: Vanyel.
(My collar has a paw with rainbow triangle - FurPride.)
Then I began to slick the stranger with brother Anew's private catbrush, getting quickly and inappropriately close to the sheath.
See what a nasty, randy ferretboi am I?
The snowpuff churred and whurred and relaxed, sprawling out on his back quite thoroughly and at length: he wasn't that long, the little guy. With a stretch and a mrrr, he curled paws in pleasure, with a look on his face that said, "Promise, I won't bite..."
I stopped, watching him perform. I'd heard promises like that before. From somefur I was supposed to be able to trust... Somefur who was supposed to accept me, whatever...
He wiggled and squirmed, settled patiently, waiting. Grew impatient, meanwhile. Then wriggled and wrrfed. His haste held no regard for my angst, my anger, of nothing but wants and desire.
Maybe as I'd been doing, myself, hanging at home all these months.
Chastened, I stroked the ice-creamy pelt, teasing the fuzz of the quaddie's foxness into furry ripple swirls. He squeaked a soft surprise, looking up with expectation, childish challenge, and demand. "You just love to tease," his expression said, as he floofed himself shamelessly beneath my greedy gaze.
I reached down, used a paw to express the length of pink canid flesh from its fuzzy genital cover. His penis was wet.
Vanyel groaned as I slipped his furry skin back, the tapered tip quivering in cool morning air, shiny and twitching at the tickle of breeze as the lips of his prepuce parted. His muzzle opened slightly, too, and breath escaped like a sigh, whiskers twingling as the sun caught them, reflecting the brightness of yiff in eyes.
Then I covered him quickly again, looking about, my orange muzzle smutted by ebony guilt. Wiping sweat from my face, I smeared Vanyel's kitscent - the smell and taste of his sheath - on the fur of cheeks and ferret nose.
It just isn't nice for young boys to play with quaddies in such nasty ways!
But Vanyel, oblivious, flushed with arousal, growing pink under his pelt as the penis in his sleeve. "That felt nice; I will not tell anyfur," the conspirator smirk on his muzzle said. He shivered with sincerity, kissed my nosie with an insinuating flick of his tongue.
And tasted his own juices, surely, as any foxy must.
My breath came quicker, then, the torment already astart. I scritched at the snowie again, exposing the now-reddened object of my teenage yiff, my imagination and rebellion. It was slender - foxlike, rapacious, enticing - its profile, an erotic finger, penetrant against the pure whiteness of belly.
He fucked his own tummy with gentle, yiffy humps.
And Vanyel shivered, a quiet mrrr squeezed from him - testicles like grapes - as his length flushed with heat, grew to violet, claret. The heavy weight of Iao's arousal spread his rear legs vupine-wide as it descended upon him like a swan. Submissive, he was Ganymede, a catamite to the my brother's catbrush, and my own foxipaedic need plying back the fuzzy foreskin.
I was possessed, as by a demon bird.
In lust, I scritched around and beside, rolling and teasing his fluffy white testes in the snow-covered valley between sinewy legs. Vanyel's sensitive penis tensed, struggled, cowered from the heights of my stimulation: Leda beneath the flapping Jove; my fangs nipped his cock by the neck. But at his cry, I backed off fast, fisted his prick in one slick paw, slipping the other over soft, fluffy crotch right onto the foxie's tailhole.
The sphincter there spasmed as, close-eyed, he swayed.
A quiet rrrgh, a soft sigh. Peace. His shaft jumped and twiggled at a light dilation of his opening. I was gentle, unusually so. Explored. Slow. His sac drew up tight in wrinkles, and small fangs showed at his muzzle. The foxykit quivered within the grip of my paw.
I knew he was mine.
Roughly I milked the snowie, then, tugging the tubes of his quaddie maleness, coaxing forth the secret fluids about which only another boy knows. Requires. Demands, as payment for being a boy! Vanyel bucked and arched beneath me, fighting needily with all four feet, as I forced him towards the cage of his pleasure.
He trembled with fear: of feeling and restraint. Meeped softly and yiffed into my paw. Pree welled up in runners from the tip of his dick as I jacked the snowfox off. And he gaped helpless, paws flexing - useless - with each pant which we shared. A heavy, wet and nerveless tongue rolled into one vulpine ear.
Then with pads so gentle undertail before, I popped the tiny balloon knot. His tailhole puckered and writhed in pain.
Vanyel tensed and barked aloud; his thrashing swelled to spastic shakes. The tailring betrothed itself unto my finger, his once-virgin ass now wed to my paw. Foxy with slitted eyes and a babbling, yipping chatter, he rode his own rectum and rod like the third rail of a runaway train derailing over Niagara Falls.
My cock was so hard in unwashed teen boxers and sick-sticky fetish, that I just couldn't help myself!
I tugged and coaxed that fuzzy, foxy taint, rolling the pucker of tailhole towards balls, the knotted sac of maleness up towards the quaddie sheath. With spasming paw and drooling muzz, I jerked the looseness of his prepuce over the pree-covered tip, twisting the vulpine phallus so tight, squishing the mess across pelt and snow-white belly. I kneaded the desperate stiffness within his furry flesh, tumescent need beneath the tenderness of fur - nearly as thick and yiffy as my own prick had been, me kneeling on the floor before the bathroom mirror that very morning.
Sliding the supple fur up and down, up and down, over the slippery foxmeat inside, I reached into my own pants, found myself beyond the point of no return. I jerked down my zipper, pantsed myself to scarred skater knees, drew back my furry foreskin, and docked the fox deep.
A silent purr rose from Vanyel, his wriggles dying away with a short, sharp stab of: "Yfff!" He gasped and throbbed within my paw - inside my sheath - against my bareness - and thin strands of watery kitseed spurted between fingers and furskins and across the pads of my paw. I lost control and my ejaculation - a wicked cry - gushing forth adolescent cum to plaster the foxcub with squicky, sticky spooge.
I mrrrd and milked him, masturbated away, taking all he had within my sleeve, giving all I had into his furry sheath. Vanyel twisted, fought, pushing me off with his paws, yapping and thrashing his tail. My own pads, super-slick with the sum of our semens, wanked away on the combined circumference of cock. He squealed and wriggled, desperate to get away, as the sensitivity of his male passage - violated! - and the overstimulation of our marvelous, mutual climax - cornered him like a wild thing in a shed.
Dizzy and disjointed, I let Vanyel go. The foxie withdrew a pace or two, lapped, getting himself together.
As I needed, too: underpants around my ankles and polluted with leaves and dirt, school jacket rucked up on belly and stiffening with shame and the smears of our seed. My soul in much worse condition! I groveled in the garden, panting and gasping, to recover breath and self. My muzzle dripped yiffiness onto the loam, my dick drained its spoo out for roots in the soil.
And then the snowie was back, not bouncy nor yiffy, not friendly at all.
Cautious.
Hesitant.
I hated myself.
He exposed belly, doubtful of the outcome. Doubting my intention.
Maybe I did, too.
But gently I scritched his sodden pelt, claws carving arroyos of apology in the cum-soaked, fuzzled fur there.
Vanyel squeed a sound too much like a giggle, ears flicking back and forth of a sudden. He hid his muzzle between paws, as if to say, "Look at me: I am such a bad snowfoxie!" His peek from under pads belied sincerity, gave meager warning of truth to come.
With a swish and leap, the foxiefluff pounced me, squeeging my own fur with a huge splash of chilling, clotting cum. He gave me a big canid kiss, thick and hot and exhausted, licked at my steaming nose like an icy ferret Popsicle.
I lapped and lickied and giggled back, getting snowie slobber and ferret splooge all over my grinning muzz. The flavor was wonderful - awesome! Vanyel curled his floofy tail around me sweetly, nibbling at musteline whiskers as a delicacy of delight.
He sat on my chest, claimed his just prize.
I fed him a FoxSnax™; it's amazing what a boy finds in his pockets sometimes.
The screen door banged shut.
"Anews! Goddamnit!"
Vanyel squealed, ran off yipping - as I leapt to my paws, spilling him to the ground, the last magic herald of my own degradation. When I jerked the porch door open, my right paw was raw and fisted, ready to flatten my big brother's muzzle for humiliating and using me so! For catching me in the dirtiest, filthiest, fucking-goddamned thing I'd ever fucking done!
I was so hardcore!
And that's when I spotted it. Kitty jizm. I recognized it from under my tail, all those times he was "just wrestling" me. Yeah...
I know what it's like to be a cat.
Anews had spunked off, all over the garden door. I had that fucking furvert now!
"Anews! Ah-nooz!" This ferret was certainly going to make his own big brother pay.
The last time I saw Vanyel, it was in the remains of the garden, the snowfox balancing a strawberry right on the tip of his nose.