In The Wee Hours
The cigarette end burned hot and red in the dark room, like a roiling volcano, before simmering to the gentle glow of hot metal as the smoke rolled from the wolf’s nose. The gentle clack of the flipboard clock turning over made the wolf turn his head. “Fuck” he thought. The dull white of the numbers, reflecting the early morning hour, seeming to taunt him. Another cruel clack reflected 3:10am. He dragged his paw over his muzzle in an exasperated movement, as if he could wipe the excess energy away from his body. It was to be of no use though. He let the cigarette hang loosely from his muzzle, rising naked from his bed. Ignoring the slight swelling in his sheath, he padded through the dark apartment. Only the glow from the burning ember at the end of his muzzle lighting the way.
He yanked at the refrigerator door, grumbling to himself as it remained stuck. With a harder tug he finally broke the seal. The bright light from the refrigerator seemed to burn like the Sun as his eyes adjusted from the total darkness of the room. He squinted briefly as he rummaged into the back of the shelf, paw finally finding the cold metal of the beer can. He slammed the door closed on the fridge. The hum of the compressor turning back on competed softly with the hiss of the beer opening. He shook his paw to fling away the liquid that had sprung forth when the tab had broken through the can’s seal.
Leaning against the counter, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray that lay there, one of several throughout the slightly dilapidated apartment. Taking a cold swig from the can, he pondered the ways to shake the up-too-late fog from his mind. He toyed a claw through the condensation on the can, enjoying how it left a perfectly clean path through the logo of the cheap beer; before being totally swallowed by the beading droplets of condensation again. Perhaps, he pondered, he could go for a walk through the neighborhood. At this hour he was unlikely to find trouble. The roving gangs of drunk factory workers and layabout youths had usually faded into whatever hovels and dark corners of the rustbelt city they inhabited.
He tipped the can back to his muzzle, draining it quickly before giving it a customary crumple. Tossing it into trash bin in the corner of the kitchen, he sighed as it bounced off the rim and clattered onto the floor. He bent low and picked it up, dropping it into the black plastic bag lining the bin. Giving the bin a lazy tilting shake, he figured he could get away with changing the bag another time. He gave a cursory sniff and confirmed his own lazy instinct. The trash could wait; he didn’t feel having to walk down to the creepy room in the basement of the building, even when numbers on the clock reflected a sane reading of the time.
Padding his way back to the bedroom, he pulled some pants on, tugging the denim over his sheath, not bothering with a belt—or underwear for that matter. He rifled through the laundry basket next to his folding-table-come-dresser. Finding the textured cotton of an old undershirt, he pulled it lazily over his frame. He plucked his jacket from the top corner of the old door guarding his bedroom. The landlord-special paintjob made the old door stick, so he never really closed it. Like everything and everyone else in the rundown working-class neighbourhood the door had been repurposed beyond its original purpose.
Pulling the cheap imitation leather over his frame, he felt down the outside of the jacket for the tactile confirmation of his wallet and lighter. He reached over to the milk crate he’d fashioned into a nightstand and grabbed the thin cardboard container, which held its last two cigarettes like sentries waiting in the dark. He slipped one of the ghostly white sticks into his muzzle, lighting it with no particular flourish. Giving the coat a quick shake to check for the jingle of keys; he exited the apartment.
Cursing softly to himself, he went through the routine of pushing the key up into the cheap lock, the old pins inside had been worn out and bent slightly from decades of abuse. Giving the handle a twist and a push he was satisfied when the door failed to move. The dull incandescent glow of the overhead lights gave the hallway a feeling of foreboding as the smoke rolled from his muzzle, hanging lazy strands like garlands in the still air of the hallway.
Quietly, he made his way down the winding old stairwell, not wanting to wake the elderly otters on the bottom floor. Gerry and Glenn had always been kind to him. The steel mill that powered the city’s economy burned hot but left a socially cold environment. Critters of all kinds, too absorbed in the crushing economic reality of working-class furs, addiction, and the endless struggle of trying to make it even one rung up the ladder. He appreciated that the old otters had been a warm light of social sunshine in the darkness of the rundown city. Years ago, when the wolf had been another one of the young (and frequently gay) Midwestern drifters that rolled into town; Gerry and Glenn had found him, rain-wet and shivering. Showing the down-on-his-luck wolf a kind turn, the old couple had taken him in for a while. Eventually, Gerry had found the wolf a job at one of the local pressing plants. Sure, pressing out sheet metal into shapes that would later become appliances wasn’t glamorous, nor particularly lucrative but it was work.
Managing to close the front door to the building without much noise, the wolf’s paws found the cool and dew-damp pavement of the city. He was glad for the coolness, saving the trouble of wearing the cumbersome heat guards, he was able to let his paws feel connected fully to the ground. September in the region made for hot days and cool evenings leaving everything with a damp feeling. Passing by a darkened shop window, the wolf caught his reflection. “Getting old Tom,” he found himself thinking. The greying fur at the end of his 35-year-old muzzle sparkled softly in the ember-light of his cigarette. Doing his best to blow a smoke ring, Tom smiled a bit, recalling the old fairytale of the wolf and the three pigs. How’s that for huff and puff?
Following his own paws on instinct, they carried him down a side street and short series of steps. Opening the old wooden door, a little bell perched above gave a mistuned tinkle. The old brass beaten and worn from the drunken patrons of the bar yanking on the door, whether in or out the bell tinkled. Sidling up to the bar he was met by the familiar face of Sammy the bartender. The old marten giving him an inquiring look.
“No sleep tonight Tom?” Sammy’s voice was warm and welcoming, rough from too many cigarettes and slightly nasal from too much brandy.
“No, not really,” Tom replied as he extinguished the last of his cigarette into the ashtray. “You know me Sammy, no boy in my bed, no sandman to come calling.” The old marten gave a dry, raspy chuckle, placing a glass of amber liquid and fresh pack of cigarettes on the bar.
“Five fifty Tom, three fifty to me, two fifty to the man.”
“That’s more than five fifty Sammy.”
“I’m a barkeep, not a fucking calculator, pay me Tommy,” the marten chuckled as Tom placed the folded and crumpled bills out onto the counter. Though he pretended to be a fool, Sammy made his change quickly, dropping the coins next to the drink.
“Thanks.” Tom grinned in reply, fishing the last cigarette from the old pack and lighting it with a flame proffered by the marten. “These will kill me I swear,” he said through a slow exhale of lingering, trailing smoke. The dusty old bar was like a second home to him. Sammy had seen him through a fair number of late nights, horny flirtations with whatever cute piece of ass had taken Tom’s fancy, and a series of breakups with his on-again-off-again boyfriend Collin. The old marten never seemed to hold him in judgement though, rather keeping his ear sympathetic and Tom’s glass full.
“You win anything on that game last night Tom?”
“Naw, you know how it goes, Ironworkers shit the bed again.”
“Well there goes your plan to make it to Mexico on the winnings.” Sammy’s reply, delivered in his usual dry style, made the wolf smile as he held up his middle finger towards the marten.
“Yeah, yeah, love you too sweetheart,” the marten blew a sarcastic kiss in the wolf’s direction. A tinkling from the overhead bell took his attention away as the newest customer sidled in, a tawny colored rabbit with upright ears took a seat near Tom at the bar.
Placing a couple crumpled bills onto the counter, the rabbit ordered a pint of the cheap domestic on tap. Sammy poured it in the way that old barkeeps did, like the handle was an extension of his body. Sliding the glass to the rabbit, he took the crumpled bills, straightening them out and un-creasing the old portrait of some long-dead lion president. He placed the bills into the till and handed the rabbit back another rumpled bill and a small number of octagonal coins. Lighting his own cigarette, the marten took up an old dishrag and gave some of the glasses behind the bar a quick polish.
“So,” the rabbit’s voice lilted into Tom’s ear, an unplaceable but musical accent rolling over the wolf’s perked ears “what’s got you up at this hour handsome?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” the wolf replied, tapping the ember end of his cigarette against the rim of the bar’s ashtray. Tilting the glass back towards his muzzle he swallowed down the whiskey, the burn of the alcohol surprisingly refreshing to his smoke-parched throat. The rabbit seemed to be watching him, sizing him up. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Sammy’s place, officially ‘The Watering Hole’, was a divey sort of gay bar. This, however, did not stop the occasional straight critter wandering in; usually to find himself surprised by the quality of restroom fellatio. Taking another long drag from his cigarette, Tom eyed the rabbit in return. Tawny fur gave way to white splashes, less spots than they were pools of pure snow in an ocean of sunspot ginger. He did have to admit; the rabbit was hot. That swelling in his sheath from earlier seemed to be returning. He could feel the denim pressing against his exposing tapered length. Easy boy, he thought to himself, willing his erection down, you’re tired and haven’t slept, you’re not going to be making good decisions. Yet, as if a literal devil had landed on his shoulder, his stiffening cock seemed to override the instinct, but he is cute. Standing, Tom excused himself in the direction of the door with a depiction of a formless male, onto which some long gone patron had carved a rather lewd and girthy appendage between his generically corporate legs.
Pushing the door open with his foot paw, Tom found the foam paw covers on a rack next to the door and slipped them onto his paws. He loved Sammy, he did, but the marten was no famed maestro when it came to the use of a mop. He could hear the foam tear itself from the sticky floor with each step. Positioning himself near the urinal he unzipped his jeans, letting his semi-hard cock loose and aiming it. The weight of the earlier beer splashed against the porcelain, sighing in relief he leaned forward, cigarette dangling loosely from his muzzle. Tom’s ears perked as he heard the door open behind him, the smell of rabbit hitting his nose even through the smoke and hoppy smell of ‘recycled’ beer.
He felt the rabbit’s paw slip over his, playfully guiding his aim, but he didn’t protest. As his stream began to die off, that paw began a slow stroke, tugging the skin of his sheath back and forth over his dripping tip. Tom could feel himself growing harder, feel the heat of the rabbit’s paw working him to full mast. Tom leaned forward and groaned, involuntarily bucking into that paw as he took a long drag off his cigarette. “That’s certainly one way to say hello…I don’t even know your name,” Tom panted slightly through the smoke as his knot finally came to join the party, locking his fully hardened cock out of his sheath.
“Sean,” the rabbit whispered softly, his paws oh-so soft on Tom’s hard cock.
“Tom.” The wolf grunted, his toned hips working forward as his musky precum leaked out onto that paw. It had been since yesterday that the wolf had last showered and he was willing to bet the rabbit could smell him—but Sean seemed entirely unbothered, his paw revelling in the slickness of the wolf’s precum.
“Well Tom, I also can’t sleep tonight but I’m thinking we can help each other out. Is your place far from here?”
Tom could only grunt out a ‘no’ as the rabbit helped him zip the denim back up over his hardened cock. The tent was so obvious Tom was certain Sammy would catch eye of it, not that Tom minded, the old marten had ‘helped him out’ on a lonely evening or two. Still, it was going to make the walk agonizing as the bare unsheathed flesh of his canine cock ground against the denim fabric. The walk to the exit of the bar made him shiver, he could feel his precum soaking into the denim of his jeans. Giving a curt nod to Sammy, he butted his cigarette out at the bar’s ashtray, slipping the cellophane off the fresh pack before sliding it into his jacket pocket.
“Guide the way handsome,” the rabbit’s voice was warm and soft like caramel. Some strange mix of midwestern twang and the slow drawl of the south. Tom liked it, it made his cock twitch. The cool air helped to steady the wolf, his knot at least receding enough to let him make the walk without creaming his pants. Though if Tom was honest, he was already close just from the friction. The journey went by in a foggy haze, the booze, the insomnia and the heat of a breedable rabbit left the wolf feeling like he was lost in an ether haze.
The door to the building opened easy enough, Tom guided the rabbit slowly up the steps, two floors up and to the left and he was home. He repeated his earlier ritual of jimmying his key around in the lock. Finally finding the sweet spot, the deadbolt opened with a squeaky clunk. He tugged the rabbit in, kicking the door closed softly. Tom turned the deadbolt closed and turned to the rabbit. He noticed the soft hazel of Sean’s eyes and fell into them. Without being aware of it, he was kissing the rabbit, hot and heavy as his paws tugged at the rabbit’s shirt. Managing to get it past the rabbit’s tall ears, only breaking the kiss for a second, his tobacco flavored tongue pushing past Sean’s soft lips, grazing along the underside of his buck teeth.
Sean whimpered as Tom’s paws roamed down his body, the rabbit was in shape but still soft in places, no hard muscles distracting his paws from their goal. Tom tugged at the rabbit’s belt, pushing him through the kitchen and towards the bedroom. They fell onto Tom’s bed, the clack of the flipboard clock letting him know it was a little past four in the morning. Sean moaned. Tom had moved his muzzle away from the kiss and had the rabbit’s neck scruff between his teeth. Sean’s paws scrabbled at Tom’s pants, popping the button at the top. Tom’s cock came free again. Hard and bobbing softly in the warm air of the apartment.
“Fuck me,” the words rolled smooth from the rabbit’s lips, that buttery caramel voice driving the wolf wild. With a tug, Tom relieved the needy rabbit of his pants. Hard, circumcised flesh met the air, the rabbit’s glans swollen with need and excitement, precum drooling slowly over curves of his head. Tom couldn’t resist; he gripped the rabbit’s hard cock and gave it a few teasing strokes. Sean writhed underneath his ministrations, that caramel voice filling the wolf’s ears with heady, wanton moans. “Please!” Sean begged.
Tom couldn’t deny the boy any longer. He lifted those long tawny colored legs around his waist and was surprised when the tapered tip of his length found the coolness of lube at the rabbit’s ring. “You came prepared,” he panted down at the rabbit. Sean’s face flushed, those pools of white now a soft cherry blossom pink. “I told you I couldn’t sleep,” the rabbit moaned, Tom had begun to press his length past that tight ring. It was like he was fucking silk. Tom was reminded of the sensation of the first blowjob he’d ever received from Jeremy, a swift fox, behind the school bleachers.
Slowly his hips began to roll, each rocking thrust shaking his cheap bed frame. Tawny ears lay spilled over his pillow as caramel moans competed with the creaking of the old bed. Tom took his time, whatever lube the rabbit had used seemed custom made for canines. His cock moved easily in the rabbit, he could feel every hot gripping squeeze Sean had to offer. Tom’s own moans joined the caramel ones in chorus. He could feel the sweat rolling down his heavy balls as they slapped against the tawny down of the rabbit’s rump. Over and over the bed creaked and groaned. Over and over his cock gave that tight hole no quarter.
“Please! Please! Please!” Sean implored, his rigid length ready to erupt without so much as having touched it. He looked up at Tom, finding the cool steel grey of his eyes but seeing only fiery, hot heat. Each of those solid thrusts nudged the rabbit up the cheap bed. He could feel his ears touching the old headboard now. He gripped the sheets tight, the whole place stunk of wolf and heat and sex and smoke.
Tom’s roiling growl signaled what was going to happen, with a none-too-gentle thrust, the wolf battered his knot against the rabbit’s soft, slick hole. He pushed and pushed until finally it sank in. His hot and sweat soaked sac pressed hard against those tawny cheeks as he pulsed his hot load deep into the rabbit. Collapsing into a sweaty heap with the rabbit, he felt Sean’s cock pulse, hot sticky rabbit cum flooded the furs around both their stomachs. The clack of the clock read 5:15 as they both fell into the gentle land of dreams.