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Between the Lines

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

4th September, 2024

All Rights Reserved.

As the rumble of the engine beneath him settled into a low growl, Brock McAllister guided his massive tractor-trailer across the border into the United States. Here, he pulled up and submitted himself and his cargo to the formalities of bureaucracy. It had been the usual routine – questions, documentation, and finally, some three hours later, the all-clear from the customs officers, who, while professional, couldn't help but give him a second and frequently – third glance. Brock was used to it – he didn't like it, but he was used to it. It wasn't every day the border guards saw a bull elk with antlers that were carved with runes that predated the oldest of Inuit tribes...

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the highway, Brock held his nerve and his patience – both just – as he kept his woodland brown eyes scanning the dashboard and the road ahead. He'd never hit a distant relative – and he had no desire to start.

As the clock crawled towards midnight, Brock's attention turned to food, a hot shower and a peaceful night's rest. He knew just the place – another dozen miles down the road was a regular stop for him and ones like him. His day was done, he'd been driving for hours beyond recall, and he knew his limits.

At last, the familiar glow of the truck stop's neon shone out of the darkness. His brown eyes scanned the road ahead before he slowed down and turned off the highway. He eased his rig into the truck stop's lot, manoeuvring the 18-wheeler with practised ease into the bay, furthermost away from the noise and activity. For a service centre, even close to midnight, the place was busy with travellers and people like him – fellow truck drivers, most human, a few anthropomorphic people scattered amongst them, but mostly human. As a general rule, Brock didn't mind humans – but he wasn't exactly a fan of many of them. It was a familiar sight, one that reminded him that no matter how far from home he was, the road had a way of making every stop feel like being a part of an extended family.

Brock killed the engine, the sudden silence almost making him feel like he was deaf after hours of the rhythm of the truck engine and the sound of the tyres on the highway. He slipped out of the cab, his cloven hooves clicking on the ground. With a deep stretch, he flexed his tired muscles and the cool night air was a welcome relief. Of course, for one such as him, whilst most got around in winter clothing, he just wore a singlet and shorts. It was like a pleasant spring day, compared to his distant home range, close to the Arctic Circle.

His ears flicked as he made his way across the lot, the scent of hot food mingling with the scent of diesel and rubber – a scent he'd long associated with comfort. As he entered, his eyes swept over the crowd. It was an atypical truck stop, with chrome accents and red vinyl booths that'd seen better days but still held a certain charm. He exchanged pleasantries with a few fellow truckers before he made his way to the counter and sat down. It didn't take long before the waitress, a young caramel-coloured jersey cow, came over and smiled up at him.

"Morning Sarah," Brock smiled, touching a finger to the tip of his forehead.

Her large, doe-like eyes gazed up at him, her wet nostrils slightly flared as she smiled and plucked a pencil and pad from the pocket of her apron. "Morning Brock, the usual?"

Brock shook his antlered head, smiling at her. "You know me well honey. A triple stack of pancakes, extra syrup and coffee – black."

As the waitress walked off to place his order, Brock leaned back and let his thoughts drift. The road had been kind to him today – no unexpected delays, no bad weather and best of all – no accidents. It was just him, his freight, his rig and hundreds of miles of open highway. Yet, as peaceful as it was, he knew better than to let his guard down, and secretly, he longed to return home.

*

With his belly full, a hot shower, and the promise of a solid eight hours in his sleeper cab, Brock knew he'd be ready to tackle the new day with everything it had in store for him. Just one thing was left – he needed to use the facilities.

Making his way around the back, Brock pushed open the door and walked into the truckers' restrooms. The space was typical for a truck stop – walls covered with graffiti, ranging from the mundane to more amusing, creative tags. As he entered a stall, he wasn't surprised to find a glory hole had been drilled into the divider between the stalls.

As he relieved himself, Brock's sensitive hearing caught the swish of the restroom door, followed by a thump as it closed. It made him realise he wasn't alone. His leathery nostrils flared, taking in the mixed scents of disinfectant, urinal cakes, urine, and the not-so-subtle tang of spent semen. His frown deepened as he caught a slightly floral scent – out of place in a truck stop restroom.

It was a truck stop; males of all species used the facilities at all hours and for any number of reasons. Yet something about the situation caught his attention. He hear the door of the adjacent stall close, followed by awkward shuffling and thumps. To his surprise, he sensed that he was being watched from the next stall over. Brock shook his dark-furred head and flushed the toilet, then began to walk out to wash his hands.

As he did, he heard the other stall door open, the scent of the occupant reached him – a floral perfume masking the usual odours. Yet something instinctive within Brock sent a shiver down his spine; he recognised the step of a predator.

"Evening," Brock grunted as he turned on the faucet and began washing his hands.

Shyly, the other occupant slid in next to him. Brock caught a glimpse of black-furred paws, darker than his own woodland brown. As he reached for some paper towel to dry his hands, his ear twitched, and he turned his head. To his surprise, he found himself standing next to a young red fox.

The fox's sleek black fur contrasted with his vibrant red pelt, and his eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He wore a revealing tank top and very short shorts, that'd not leave much to the imagination. Brock raised an eyebrow in curiosity, gazing down at the young vulpine, who flattened his ears and shyly looked down at his feet, his brush of a tail swishing slightly in nervousness.

Brock turned about and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and raising both eyebrows inquisitively. Despite his appearance, Brock wasn't a typical bull elk – he'd had his share of both bulls and cows whilst on the road – and more than a few other species mixed in. He could smell the nervousness of the vulpine, his clothing and body posture speaking more than his words could – or would.

His posture dominant and his slightly narrowed eyes piercing, Brock merely flicked his head in the slightest gesture, as if in unspoken invitation. Without hesitation, the young fox moved back into the stall, Brock following and latching it behind them. Inside, the small space permitted just enough room for them to maneuver.

Eyes wide, the fox nervously swallowed, as he sat on the closed toilet and gazed up at the imposing bull elk. Brock grinned and reached down, lightly placing the index finger of his three-fingered hand under the vulpine's chin and lifting his head up to look into his eyes.

"You're not my usual type - " Brock grunted, already feeling the first urges starting to take root within him.

"I'm -- " Come the quiet voice, lilting but not the atypical Hollywood stereotype movies often portray.

Brock gently pressed his furred fingers against the fox's lips, silencing him. He raised an eyebrow expectantly. Taking the cue, the fox swallowed again and timidly reached out, lightly cupping the firming bulge before him. His eyes widened slightly as he felt the growing firmness and warmth.

Brock helped by unfastening his belt and then his jeans, the fox's furred fingers sliding them down to the floor. As the fox looked up, his eyes widened even further, a shiver running through him as he gazed at the impressive, twitching penis emerging from the pale-furred sheath, with large, pendulous furred testicles hanging beneath.

"They breed 'em big up north," Brock chuckled, his voice low and rumbling. "Where I come from? I'm considered average..."

"Average?" Came the shocked whine, the vulpine's ears flattening. "You call that average?"

He gently placed first one paw, then the other, on the firming member, his tremble making the elk shudder as it was transferred into his still-firming length. His eyes firmly fixed on the venison tube steak before him, the vulpine nervously licked his pale lips and once again, swallowed what felt like a baseball that'd been thrust into his throat.

Brock grunted and stepped carefully from one cloven hoof to the other, letting his partner touch and explore with a mixture of encouragement and patience. He let the fox's curiosity and desire build, offering subtle, encouraging touches and playful grunts and murmurs.

With skill and care, the fox's fingers slid up and down, quickly becoming slick with the pre-ejaculate from the elk's penile head – which aided in the careful masturbation. His movements were graceful and deliberate, building anticipation and pleasure in equal measure. His breathing grew ragged, his own body starting to respond to the sensation and intimacy of the bull elk's increasing scent.

"Mmm," Brock grunted, twitching slightly and tenderly placing his paws on the vulpine's shoulder. "I like someone who knows what they're doing..."

With a playful brush of his lips, the fox opened his muzzle and titled his head, as he ever so carefully manoeuvred the firm penis into his muzzle, his amber eyes gazing up through long eyelashes, as his lips curled into a knowing smile.

A feral-like grunt escaped Brock's throat, his primal instinct within him urging him to lunge there and then – but with great effort, he repressed the instinct, both aroused and surprised as the fox's tongue swirled and tightened like a moist, wet glove just below the penile head. Inch by inch, the fox's muzzle seemed to effortlessly slide downwards – until Brock felt himself pressed against the back of the vulpine's throat.

Word's failed him, as Brock shuddered. He'd had his share of foreplay over the years, even some amazing oral sex – but nothing compared to the skill and talent of this enigmatic, obviously experienced, young vulpine. He grit his teeth, the large molars grinding with an unsettling noise, his cloven hooves clicking and clattering as he began to quiver. Already, he could feel his scrotum tightening – pulses of pre-ejaculate spurting into the fox's throat, only for it to be eagerly swallowed as the vulpine continued to bring Brock closer and closer to the edge.

He thought he'd hold out...

He thought wrong...

With a smirk, the fox's head bobbing in a steady, intense rhythm, Brock began to pant – then quiver – before he slapped his paws on either side of the vulpine's head and gave his partner his well-earned reward.

As the fox's eyes widened in surprise, he tasted, then felt, the first explosive release of elk semen. His lips formed a tight seal, his ruffled cheeks puffing out as he fought to contain the intense and surprisingly hot jets of ejaculate from the bull elk. Each surge of Brock's release was powerful, a torrent of salty warmth that filled the fox's muzzle and throat.

His throat muscles worked furiously, contracting and relaxing with each pulse. His breathing grew ragged as he struggled to keep up with the seemingly endless flow of Brock's climax. Heat mixed with pleasure, pushing his limits as the bull elk's pleasure flowed into his own.

Despite the intensity, the fox's resolve remained, his body adapting to the rhythm of Brock's release. His eyes fluttered, reflecting a mix of surprise, desire and submission, as he eagerly took every pulse of the elk's offering. It was both exhilarating and daunting, a testament to the bull elk's ancient feral ancestry.

As the fox's lips maintained their seal, his tongue enfolding Brock's iron-like member in his muzzle, he couldn't help but think to himself. This is a deer, he'll be done with me now, as pleasurable as it was, right? The thought was fleeting and naive, quickly overshadowed by the fact the firm length of elk-hood that was in his muzzle, showed no signs of abating.

Brock's heavy breathing echoed in the small stall, each pant a deep rumble as he shuddered in the afterglow of his orgasm. His large fingers lightly tapped the fox's head, a gentle but firm signal. He then slipped his fingers down to carefully lift the fox's head, their eyes meeting.

The effeminate fix blinked, a mix of surprise and pleasure reflected in his wide eyes. His brush of a tail swished back and forth with a hint of eagerness and delight.

"I've never -- " the fox panted softly, his voice tinged with awe. His black-furred paws still encircled Brock's iron-hard length, his eyes looking down in bewilderment. "I thought..."

Brock raised an eyebrow in amusement. Without a word, he reached down, lifted the fox to his footpaws, and then turned him around. The fox's eagerness was palpable as he grinned and lifted his brush of a tail revealing his rump. As Brock slid down the fox's shorts, he discovered a pair of crotch-less panties, which brought a chuckle to him.

With a snicker of his own, the fox reached into his discarded shorts and produced a small bottle of lube. "Never hurts to be prepared," he said with a mischievous grin, passing it back to Brock.

Brock admired the fox's foresight. He carefully squirted a generous amount of lube onto his left paw and then applied it to his still slick length. The anticipation in the air was palpable, the scent of Brock's musk almost overpowering, as both of them prepared for the next stage of their intense and spontaneous encounter.

Brock's breath came in deep, rumbling pants, as he prepared himself. His movements were deliberate and powerful, as he guided the equally aroused young fox into position, his hand gripping the vulpine's hips firmly.

As Brock thrust into the fox, the sensation of the tight, warm passage enveloping him drove him into a primal intensity. Each thrust was a potent blend of dominance and passion, his powerful hips driving forcefully, and rhythmically.

The fox's body trembled under the relentless assault, his fur quickly becoming slick with a mixture of sweat – and after a few frenetic thrusts from Brock – his knot retracting the last of his sheath, his slender, red length squirting – the fox's belly suddenly grew wet as he himself reached orgasm, a low, moaning whine escaping his constricting throat.

Brock's nostrils flared, scenting the release of the vulpine, which triggered his own – his furred testicles slapping against the fox's own as Brock gurgled and slammed himself to the hilt inside the fox. His mind reeled, his chuckles mingling with his sharp, panting breaths as he took a perverse pleasure in the predator's helplessness and surrender. He continued to rut with a determined fervour, each powerful thrust drawing more gasps and moans from the shivering vulpine before him, as he reached the brink of exhaustion and endurance.

Finally, the vulpine gasped and his spine crackled, arching inwards, as another orgasm ravaged him and his body went limp, his muzzle open, tongue lolling and saliva dripping from it to spatter on the closed toilet seat.

Brock, feeling the increasing flaccidity of his partner's muscles, slowed his pace. He held the fox close, feeling the limp muscles and the weak moans. With one last, forceful thrust, he released again with a deep, satisfied groan, pulling the vulpine's rump hard against his, leaving the vulpine panting and his fur drenched with sweat and semen.

Brock grunted as he withdrew slowly, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of their unexpected – but not unpleasant – lovemaking. He chuckled softly, a sound of contented satisfaction as he carefully turned the vulpine around, slumping his limp body on the seat. Reaching for a few sheets of toilet paper, he scribbled his number on them with a spare pen from his jeans pocket. As he tried to hand the note to the fox, he snickered as the vulpine had passed out cold. Instead, he draped it over the vulpine's head, as he redressed and backed out of the stall, gazing at the vulpine with a look of amusement and then shaking his head, muttering.

"If you're ever ready again," Brock chuckled, his voice low and teasing. "call me."

Brock turned and left the bathroom, a slight stumble in his cloven hoof steps, as he made his way back to the truck. Exhausted, he unlocked it and barely crawled into the sleeper, pulling the door shut behind him.

He was deep asleep in moments...

END