Roscoe the Bad Doggo
This is for a writing challenge in a Telegram group I joined (link here if you're interested: https://t.me/joinchat/TXMB1RU1ETeKOakg)). At just over a thousand words, we would write a short story fitting a chosen theme. The new theme for this week is, "You are going to have to try harder than that."
I've always wanted to write a short story about a gay porn star enjoying retirement. If you think this should be expanded upon or be given a sequel, go ahead and tell me in the comments! :)
Also, extra slices of bacon go to whoever catches the subtle movie reference I have in this story. Here's a hint: name one or two Dobermans that star as bad boys in an animated feature.
EDITED FOR TYPOS: 9/8/2024
I roughly pushed my latest sexual conquest against the wall of our prison cell. His torn clothes remained in a pile of fabric near the base of our bunk bed. My flaccid Doberman cock swung against my mocha and obsidian-furred inner thighs. Cum dripped from his used and abused tailhole down his shivering vulpine legs as I leered down at him.
“Still trying to act tough, eh, just because it’s my last night?” I smugly asked. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that. We both know you’ll be missing my dick.” My eyes flickered between his intimidated face and the flaccid cock hardening again between those trembling legs. “Eheheh, well look at that! You already are, you little cockfag.”
“N-No! It’s n-not that, Daddy…” He whimpered in satisfied, if uncomfortable, submission like a pathetic bottom bitch. “W-Will I ever see you aga—”
I shoved my entire tongue down his gaping maw, tasted my spunk from earlier, and pulled out to give a slobbering, dominant smirk.
“Remember, cutie,” I growled, the dark grin along my chiseled jaw lecherous and bad-ass. Leaning down, I bit into his shoulder and felt the fox’s pained cries reverberate through my teeth. Luckily, I didn’t draw blood. He panted uncontrollably without trying to escape my grasp. Pulling away to once more gaze at the blushing, flushed fox that was supposed to be my prison bitch, I snarled to him, “My sentence might be over later today, but whether you’re still stuck in this shithole for another year or two, you’re still my bitch. You hear that, little fox faggot? Be sure to tell the others: You. Are. My. Bitch!”
For a few more seconds, my golden eyes remain locked with the wide, teary blue orbs of the red fox’s. Our tongues remained panting outward. Our noses barely touched. To an outsider or horny watcher, it looked as if we were about to kiss.
“And cut! Cut!” The director blared a small whistle, and a flurry of activity occurred all around the small studio. “That’s beautiful, you two! Great expressions, Roscoe!”
The camera pulled away from me and my younger co-star, who started to laugh as well as stretch his legs. His sudden giggling became infectious. Not only did I start to laugh, but so did some members of the stage crew who weren’t distracted by their jobs.
“Why’re we laughing, Sammy?” I asked, happy to relax my throat and no longer talk with that gruff and dangerous tone. The same one that entranced so many viewers over the years. “Did I say something weird on that take? Was it my voice, or—”
“No, no, silly!” The college-aged red fox waved a black paw, and casually walked over to grab a fresh towel from one of the less bashful crew members, “I was worried if I could keep myself together. Look horny yet scared, when I was nothing but horny...”
The two of us leaned our shoulders against the plaster wall that was supposed to look like hard and cold concrete.
“Ahh, I see what you mean, little buddy.” Chuckling, I happily accepted another warm towel from the same canine crew member and began rubbing the crusty fluids off my crotch. “I wasn’t too rough there when I marked your shoulder, was I? I did my best not to draw blood.”
“No, no, it wasn’t too bad,” the peppy red fox reassured me. “If it was, I would’ve said the safe word right away.” The younger canine winked at me, shaking his bare tush and swishing his cum-stained tail seductively. “Mmm, not that I wouldn’t mind you treating me a little more roughly…”
“Me neither,” I said, winking back.
“You sure you’re not staying longer?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but I already sent out the announcement a couple days ago, and my decision was long before. Soon as we’re done today, I’m officially retired.”
Or at least, longtime gay porn star Roscoe DeSoto (also known as Roscoe the Bad Doggo) would retire. The Doberman beneath the biker punk persona, however, planned to disappear from an active online presence on YiffHub and old porn films. In his place, Thomas Roscoe Wilson still had the rest of his adult life ahead of him; a new job that paid just as well, a loving, steady boyfriend, and the road to make money after turning that scary age most rookie porn stars feared inevitably reaching.
The cameraman and director were busy consulting with his associates and two of the producers, all of whom either nodded in my direction or gave a thumbs up if we made eye contact. At least one of them, an older rhinoceros in a tracksuit, was covering his crotch with a tablet. I could even spot him blushing as they reviewed the footage.
Another crew member, this one at a bashful cheetah who refused to look at me in the eye, handed us bottles of water. I murmured my thanks without pushing it. If there was anything that years of experience in my field taught me, it was to always treat grips well. Even if they couldn’t help but pop a boner at you.
Sammy Bottom finished chugging his bottle. “You don’t look old enough to retire,” he commented. “What’re you? Thirty-eight?”
“Just turned thirty-nine a few months ago,” I replied after taking a swig of my own plastic water bottle. “I’ll be reaching the big four-oh in several months.”
“Why retire though?” Sammy asked, eyebrow raised in speculation. “I mean, you’re not exactly my age, but you’re still a big catch. Besides, there is a huge market out there for DILFs. Plenty of studios hiring them too.”
I took another swig, smiling at the refreshing liquid. “Oh, that’s true! But I’m doing it more for my own sake. As fun as this all is, I’m just tired. Wanna focus on supporting myself with a regular job.”
“Oh?” Sammy perked an ear. “What job you going for?”
“Fitness instructor,” I said.
He blinked hard. “Roscoe the Bad Doggo as a fitness coach? That’s awesome!” the red fox whistled excitedly. “Not only do you get to keep your awesome bod, but you’ll help others keep fit too! How’d you get it?”
I grinned. “My bod or the job?”
“I’d ask both,” he said with a shrug, “but frankly, I’m more curious about the job. Aren’t you worried about people recognizing you?”
“My other half’s a gym owner,” I explained. “And we’re not worried too much. In fact, hehe, we got a pool going on how long it’ll take for a customer to recognize me from their porno stashes.”
“I say a month,” Sammy commented. “So, where’s this gym at, if you don’t mind me asking?”
A sigh left my lips. “Actually, I kinda do. The gym’s not one of those franchises, but that’s all I’m gonna say. Nothing personal, but the last thing I need is the location somehow leaking out to my fanbase.”
“Gotcha, gotcha.” Sammy nodded in understanding. “I know what you’re saying! I’ve only been doing this since last year, but I’m already getting creepy perverts sending me emails and trying to find my personal address. Like, this one guy—”
“Roscoe? Sammy?” the director, a chameleon my age named Georgie, called us over to the main camera. The two of us strolled over, nobody blinking at us being completely naked. “Joe’s not satisfied with the final shot. He wants us to get a better close-up of your lips nearly kissing, then have you—Roscoe—suddenly pull away. Then, we’re gonna integrate it with you walking out your cell naked while carrying your prison clothes as the final shot.”
“Alright, that’s fair,” I said, nodding as I glanced at our already cleaned crotches. “Do we need a fluffer?”
“No, the new shot isn’t gonna show either of you below the belt,” Georgie said, shaking his scaly head. “Just get back into position you two. Roscoe, start off from ‘You hear that, you little fox faggot’. Everyone, get back to your stations!”
Within seconds, everyone returned to where they had been minutes earlier. I was leaning against the wall with a recently bred red fox cowering before me, in a prison cell where my fictional character was done having one final good fuck before being released. Clearly, the script writers were inspired.
“Sound is good. Camera rolling. Everyone quiet on set. Aaaand, action!”
My face darkened into dominant possession, teeth bared and grin as wide as a crescent moon along my black-furred muzzle. “You hear that, little fox faggot?” I asked, baring my fangs as my expression exuded control. “Be sure to tell the others: You. Are. My. Bitch!”
I let out a snarl. It evolved into a growl. Even Sammy clearly popped an instant hard-on between his legs. Then, I pulled away from camera-view, relaxing as the final few seconds of footage focused on the fox looking scared…yet unbelievable aroused again. He didn’t need any acting for that.
“Cut! Gorgeous, Roscoe!” Georgie laughed beside the stoic camera operator. “Well done!”
Sammy scratched the back of his hot ears as they folded down, his blushing (and incredibly hard boner) visible to all. “A-Are you sure you can’t retire a little later, Roscoe?” he asked that question like a school boy with a crush.
“Like I said, I’m not backing out.” Laughing, I walked over and patted his bare shoulder, smiling down at the newcomer. “But if you’re up for it, I’ll be more than happy to exchange numbers. If you ever stop by my neck of the woods over in Crossroads City, we can go out for lunch. My boyfriend knows a killer cheesesteak sandwich shop that’s gonna make you question fitness.”
The fox’s eyes brightened, and he leaned up to peck my smiling cheek as we shook paws. “Deal!”