S3: Take Your Pick
It had started as a mere dare really. Two furs, one bottle of vodka, shot glasses, and one bad decision later, it had resulted to this. From the living room, where discarded empty bottles dripped upon the carpet and the television played some muted porno of a rhino screwing an otter, clothes lingered in their trailing line towards the bedroom. Perhaps it would be a pair of musky boxers here or a stained jockstrap there, but it was unmistakable that drunkenness and lack of inhibitions had led to more than had been anticipated.
If you were to creep up the stairs, you'd slowly begin to hear the sound of fumbling; bodies thumping against a mattress, the soft, lingering moans of heady men as what you assume to be lips meeting another's as the sound repeatedly muffles itself. It could just be the walls, but deep down you wish it to be more. You know it's more.
The door to the bedroom has been left ajar - a silent invitation that beckons you over. You could tiptoe the landing to the crack that's been left open just for you, and you'd peer inside. How could you resist? The sounds are in your ears now, echoing about in your head like a bullet's ricochet; it's driving you insane. Your throat is dry as your eyes twitches about in the slither, looking this way and that for the sight you long to see, the sight you're hard for.
That's when you see them. They're tumbling about in their stupor of giddiness, their minds inebriated and relaxed, almost like pups were they not nude and sporting the product of their manhood. A dog and a fox, making out as they roll about on the bed, bodies pressed so tightly together you begin to wonder where you might fit into it all, whether you could make room. You let a paw wander down to grope your crotch, barely containing a grunt of pleasure as they entice you. Whoever could resist? The male form in all its elegance, of rugged beauty and handsome frames, is alluring in the most primal fashion, and here are two ripe for the picking.
The Pitbull lands upon his back, and he hikes his legs up. You believe now this fox might go straight for the kill, sliding his oozing length into the dog's shapely rump, to ride him on to glory and forever after. But you watch, mesmerised, as the fox climbs atop him - to ride his cock instead, perhaps? No? Then what...
The fox stands upon all fours over the coiled body of the dog, their dicks pressed to one another's once more and slipping in such delectable ways. You moan again, your paw now acting on an agenda of its own as it's long since pushed into your underwear. You have to hold yourself back from whipping it out and stroking yourself then and there, as the two kiss once more, balls mashed against each other's and tails raised to reveal pink stars that beg to be filled. They look tasty already, juicy and mouth-watering, winking out a Morse code that calls to you to fuck them. You would take both if you could, but you're confined to the voyeur, left wanting and blue-balled by the door.
But they knew you were there. They heard you coming. The bottles, the shot glasses, the faked liquored haze, were all a ploy for you. They knew you'd come, heavy footfalls trudging up the steps as though you believed you could sneak, the door left open to lure you over. You had believed you were the stealthy pervert, coming to watch them rut each other to heaven, but really you were their prey for the night. The typical myth that bottoms were susceptible to a top's charisma and nature has exploited your defences and left you open to their charm. You hear them now, just faint murmurs but encouraging nonetheless, goading you inside. You push open the door. What else are you to do when sirens call? You step across to the bed and already your mind acts upon its own, dropping your pants and kicking them away without a thought. Next comes the shirt and soon you stand there naked as the day you were born, your member already in paw and primed for some fucking.
They ask you to choose.
Which you do...
First you take the fox. It seems only polite to go in descending order, and so you push into him swiftly, sinking in right to the hilt. He moans and grunts like a bitch in heat, and you love every sound. Your body hunches over his and arms wrap around his torso, not wanting to leave your canine friend to suffer the brunt of a third wheel. You take each nipple between finger and thumb and pinch them, making him squirm and yip against the fox. Their movements are intoxicating, overwhelming, as the gyrations lead you to reach the edge far quicker than you expected. It's time to share though, and you exit him, who whimpers in disappointment, but it's a must.
The dog is next. He's needier now, spurred on by your torment, but you make sure to remind the fox of his position currently. As you ride into the second hole, newly fresh and taut, you slide a couple of your fingers into the other's rim and push in deeply. You tap the hidden button inside him that has him a drooling mess upon the dog's body, and you know that it would take little work to have them both crying out your name. But they're bodies are too much, even for you. You have to blow your load at some point - it's inevitable, when you think about it - but it's a matter of where and when. The when is already predestined for you; you can't resist their tight backsides for long, their warm enveloping depths, so you pull back, grunting, realising your limited choices. Where to go? Where to go?
You lean back, dick in paw as you feel the orgasm rush, and then spurt, across their behinds, spluttering between the clefts, dribbling across smothered balls and against their pulsing holes. You bit a lip and moan loudly, wondering just how long you reckon it'll be before you're standing upright and primed once more.