One Week
_Author's Note: If you don't like any of this stuff, don't read it. Otherwise, enjoy.
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He comes on Wednesday night, when foot traffic is slowest. When he doesn't have to worry about being seen, and when I don't have to worry about my one meal of the day. I don't count on it, like I don't count on anything anymore as a surety, so each time I see the silhouette of his trench coat it sets my tail to switching just so.Â
The nights around here are balmy, and don't change much with the seasons. When it's dry, I prefer the alley. When it rains, I prefer the bank. Everyone around here knows the lane nearest the building three blocks down belongs to me, because the last time someone challenged me I bit off a part of his ear. I hear he's in a neighboring state.Â
It's close to midnight when he comes around, his usual time. The theaters and sporting venues closed down hours ago, and I retired to my alley after making a few bucks off an old couple of bears on the town. They were my only take tonight, just enough to buy a burger or something. Since I'm not very hungry, I pocket the bills and sit, pulling my legs up to my chest. The suit I'm wearing is ratty and torn. It used to be nice, probably worth a grand or more. Heavy street living does that to clothes. And to people.
I don't look at myself if I don't have to.
I always see his shoes before the rest of him. Between a stack of empty pallets and a Dumpster, there is only me and the broken pavement, and then a pair of patent leather loafers. The ones with the tassels on them, and no laces. Ones you have to use a shoehorn to put on. They cover a pair of what I know are lupine footpaws, with no socks. He never wears socks, and I've never bothered to ask why. I grin before looking up, knowing I look a sight but not caring because neither does he.
He doesn't ever really smile, not the kind of smile you would think of as a clear definition of that word. His muzzle is kind of thick, and I can hardly tell it from the dark sky except for his glowing green eyes. But he's got this kind of look, and it's mostly centered in the whiskers rather than on his lips, but I know it's as close as he gets to a smile. His paw is extended, the fingers outstretched. My relief is backgrounded by hopelessness, yeah, but I have to live for the Now if I want to live at all.
Warm pads slide along mine, a larger paw, a stronger paw, and I'm on my feet fast. My momentum carries me into his side, and I let it become a hug. He's at least thirty years older than me, and much thicker all over, but he steps back with my weight against him. But he doesn't let go, and I'm glad for it. He tolerates me for a few seconds before gently turning us around and walking towards the street. I fall into step next to him. I know the drill.Â
He lives in the building in whose shadow I sleep. It's one turn right turn onto the sidewalk, then another into the lobby. The doorman, an African-American zebra, tips his hat to us as we approach. The wolf in the trench coat nods back, extending his arm, and the two shake. Winking to me, the zebra recrosses his arms, but not before palming the hundred-dollar bill into his pants pocket. If someone paid me a hundred a week, I'd keep quiet too.Â
A revolving door looks onto a lobby filled with pink marble and gold accents. It reeks of 1930's chic without seeming old, and that's the best way I can describe it. And it's empty. There are benches and chairs and live plants, but I never see anyone in them. I don't know if I'd like to be rich enough to afford chairs that no one sits in.Â
There's an elevator waiting for us with its door open. This time it's the farthest down on the right. That's Elevator No. 4, just as the sign says. It's one of two that go to the upper third of the building, and the only one that accesses the penthouses. A short raccoon who looks younger than me is leaning on the "Door Open" button, but he lets off as soon as the wolf steps across the threshold. The wolf inserts his key into the slot, and the crystal circle with the 23 on it glows a soft art-deco peach.
The door closes with an antique clunk as satisfying as it is unnerving. I'm in the middle of the exchange this time: the wolf, on my right, leans in and I feel his paw brush across my back. At the same time, the raccoon's paw comes around my other side and the two meet just above my rear. The rustle of money is the only sound, and when the paws part ways one of them drags its claws along the striped length of my tail. It goes to the left. The raccoon's side. I know he's looking at me, tracing his claws along the curvature of my rump, aroused by his involvement in the elicit affairs of a prominent city businessman. He's probably more attracted to the scandal than to either of us.
I try not to look at my reflection too much. I might not like what I see.
There is no announcement of our arrival at the penthouse level like every other floor. There's no need, when the entire floor belongs to one person. The wolf ushers me out into the hallway, takes his key from the slot and nods to the operator, who nods back (and winks at me dramatically) before the door closes.Â
The whole concept of the hallway is pointless when there's just a single tenant. Over a hundred feet of carpeting, wallpaper and lighting, with a single door right across from the elevator. A president stayed here once, I don't remember which. A couple people died here, too. Well, it's a big city.Â
He uses a different key for the door, a heavy brass one with a long neck. I have no doubt it's the original. The rest of the building, I've noticed, uses electronic cards. Nice to know some people still have eclectic tastes.Â
Eclectic would be the word of choice for the penthouse, too: its lines are art-deco like the rest of the building, clean without being overwrought, in a warm pastel shade that I can only describe as the color of the inside of a husky's ear. I've wondered what its real name is.Â
An anteroom gives onto a hallway with three doors that I know are the laundry room, the office, and a spare bedroom with its own full bath. I've never stayed in there, though. At the end of the hall it opens up on the main living area, which is huge and tall. I remember crying the first time I saw it, partly because I was blown away and partly because I was afraid of dirtying up the ultra-clean surfaces. I don't worry about that anymore. He has cleaning ladies for that.
The closer we get to the main room, the harder it is to control my salivary glands. Meat is in the air, red meat, and I'm so used to the Dollar Menu that I forgot the intricacies of the odor of properly-prepared carrion. We enter the main room and the smell hits me like a solid thing. He grasps my shoulder to hold me up while I compose myself. I had no idea how hungry I was until I smelled real food. I can't even remember what was on the table last Wednesday. That was a lifetime ago.
In the kitchen, a very rotund woman, another cat but of mixed heritage, is busy preparing what looks to be way too much food for two people. The wolf who guides me past the feast has told me on occasion that he takes the leftovers to the nearby homeless shelter the next morning, on his way to work. I've heard stories from acquaintances of some mystery donor giving high-class chow to the soup kitchen, and how the lines are slightly longer on Thursday because of it. I can't smile because there'd be questions.Â
I smack my lips loudly at the food, and all the woman does is crack me a genuinely warm smile. She's on the payroll, after all, and she probably enjoys the gossip she gains from just one night a week. The wolf obviously trusts her, and I have nothing to lose.Â
My stomach growls in protest as we turn gently away from the kitchen and pass the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that give onto a commanding view of the city skyline. As always, I'm mesmerized by the feeling of power and separation they give to anyone who looks out of them. Even me. That I live in an alley is the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I'm grateful for the amnesia.
The wolf's paws are solid on my shoulders, the heat from the pads finally soaking through the three layers of clothing that I wear. We enter the bedroom, a massive open space with windows and mirrors and perfect bedding and carpet. It looks like he hardly stays here, even though I happen to know it's his main home. He says his places in Colorado and Cancun are smaller, but I really don't care if they're the size of a Dumpster. I'd like to go someday. Maybe the Mexican breeze would clear my sinuses for once in my life.
I'm afraid to ask.
He stops me by the side of the bed and turns me around. At first, I avoid his eyes. It's a natural reaction for someone like me, both because of my status and species. Years and years of evolution still can't breed away the temptation to honor a superior race, though that concept was abolished hundreds of years ago. Instinct takes longer, though.
When he tips my chin up with a claw, I have to meet his gaze. And it makes me want to cry all over again. He's taller than me, so he has to look down his muzzle, through the pince-nez spectacles at me. But those green eyes are warm, if you can call green a warm color, and they bring an instant smile to my face as well. I could melt into those eyes and never want to leave. It's a dangerous thought.
He tilts his head just slightly and closes the distance between us in a quick move, pressing his lips to mine. It's a kiss of deep affection, nothing false about it, and though he's no longer holding me to him I feel as if I'm glued to this spot, and nothing can tear me away except for the wolf. When he pulls back he has to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. No words need be said, though. He knows why I do it. It's not nearly as bad as the first time he brought me up here, a broken and sick wreck of a tiger.
I wait for him as he goes into the bathroom, expecting and then hearing the rush of water. If anything, he is a man of continuity and discipline. Though he adheres to the same schedule each Wednesday night, I find comfort in the sameness of it all. On the outside, life is a series of surprises, the bad far outnumbering the good. Knowing what will happen next, while boring to the rest of the world, is a dream to me.
His paws rest on my shoulders once again, his fingers curled under the collar of my jacket. Closing my eyes, I feel it lifted up and back, letting the dirty fabric peel away from my arms in a cathartic kind of disposal. It makes a slight swishing sound as it piles at my feet. My shirt follows unceremoniously, the wolf preferring to pop each button instead of fumbling with it. Not out of eagerness, but because these clothes will go into the incinerator after I've left. Still, the abandonment of civility, however small, sets my heart to beating faster.
Hooking a claw into my undershirt, he pulls it away from my back, tearing it neatly down the middle so it merely melts off me. His fingers don't pause at my belt; the second it comes undone my pants slide all the way to my ankles. They're much too big for me, but they were expensive, so I don't complain. I'm not wearing anything underneath. After three days or so the itching gets to be too much, and I end up having to throw any underwear away.Â
I can feel his eyes on me. Nonjudgmental. Appraising. Admiring. The first time, I don't know how many months ago, he bent me over his giant bed and took me as I stood. He was loud and dominant, waiting until he was finished to ask if I was okay. I told him I was. I lied. But I came back.
Now, he turns me with him and leads from behind. Dark hardwood floors give way to the black marble and mint green rugs of the bathroom. We pass under an archway with an elegant but simple molding and enter a world of timeless spartan beauty. It takes my breath away every time my bare paws click along the heated floor, thirty or so feet past a claw-footed Jacuzzi, linen closet and double sinks to the capacious green-tiled shower comprising the entire far end of the room. The commode and bidet, I know, have their own space. Everything is glass and stone, true workmanship if there ever was.Â
Coming around in front of me to open the steamy door, I see he's already doffed his clothing and stashed it somewhere, perhaps down the laundry chute by the linen closet. He looks his age, but just that and not a year older. Firm but round compared to my scrawny frame, taller, more imposing, definitely with power. White fur from chin to inner thighs, a pattern befitting someone of lupine heritage. Finely coiffed all over. Tail making slow patterns behind him as he ushers me into the water.
One like me rarely has the opportunity to experience the pure joy of a shower. This is arguably the part I most look forward to. It is almost more personally intimate to be cleaned and groomed than to be made love to. And when You get that chance only once a week, the feel of hot water cascading down your head and back makes you forget you're hungry, and homeless, and caked with city grime.Â
The water turns brown as it circles the drain, carrying all the memories of the past six days with it. My burnt-sienna-over-dishwater fur slowly turns back into the orange-on-white it was, the black stripes darkening to a deep shine. The wolf comes up behind me with the bottle of shampoo, fairly drenching me with it. Smells of tea tree oil and peppermint infuse the steam around us as his claws work me to the skin, squeezing the lactic acid out of knots I didn't know I had.Â
This is the only time he varies from his normal routine. Sometimes he'll kneel in front of me and work between my legs, coaxing out an intense climax. Other times he'll pin me to the floor and keep me there until he's done. But tonight he takes his time with the shampoo, running his fingers through my fur, over my tail, around my torso and between my legs. Being thorough, not sexual, always sensual. We can both hear my purring over the sound of the water. When I finally rinse off I feel pounds lighter, physically and mentally.
I leave him to wash himself, because he knows I know how he does things. Were our relationship anything but what it is, I might ask why he never lets me return the cleansing favor. At the very least, I'd like to stand in the corner and just...watch him move. But I am his guest, among other things, and I need to respect him in his own home.
My stomach churns again, reminding me how hungry I am. An old, base part of my brain tells me all I have to do is go through his closet, yank a dish off the table and run like only a big cat can, but I dismiss it almost immediately. That would be the easy way, wouldn't it? But what if he came down to look for me? I'd have to move, and even in a city like this it's harder than you think. Not the easy way at all. Shaking my head and smiling at my own chagrin, I quickly towel off and brush myself down.Â
Two robes hang by the archway. The black one, the smaller one, is for me. He bought it for me after my second visit. I saw the tag before he had the chance to remove it. I don't dare mention it, though. The bamboo polyester is softer than silk, and warming to the fur. I love it, and I've told him so.Â
I still don't know what to feel as I enter the dining room, hardly dressed for a meal, even though this is how things are done. The table is set for two, though I can tell it's one of those that can accommodate a dinner party with added sections. It's a sea of plates, glasses and silverware, totally unnecessary but very impressive. That's what wealth is, though. As I sit in a chair so plush it should be in an office instead of at a table, the plump woman comes over and pours a glass of Gewurztraminer next to my glass of water. I like it because it's sweet and doesn't dry my mouth out. He likes it because I like it.
The woman comes back and pours merlot across the table, anticipating his impending arrival, then returns to the kitchen to start bringing out the first course. By the time she sets down the bread and butter, he comes from around the corner, fastening his robe and twitching his whiskers at the scents in the room. He sits, tucking his tail carefully to the side, and nods at me. I know I don't need to wait for him, but just because I live on the street doesn't mean I have no manners. But when I dig in, it's hard to hide my desperation.
Dinner doesn't take as long as a course-by-course meal should, but I taste every bit. Lobster bisque, followed by an arugula Caesar salad. He gets a Kobe ribeye, rare, and I get ahi tartare, encrusted with coconut and basted in lime glaze. It sounds fancy because it is. I remember him acting surprised last week when he found out I like fish, contrary to the stereotype of my species. I don't think I've ever tasted fish this fresh from anywhere around the city, and I tell him so. He says he bought the steak in Kyoto, and my dish just outside of Honolulu. Yesterday. The only reason I don't spit it all over my plate is because I can't bring myself to waste such expensive food.
I'm quiet for the rest of the meal, which is capped by Belgian chocolate gelato. I don't even dare ask where he bought that.
When I fold my napkin on top of the dish, he's still finishing his dessert. But he nods toward the bedroom with a slight smile, and my heart jumps a little like it does every week about this time. He knows I don't need to thank him, but I do it with my eyes instead of my voice. All it takes is sincerity.Â
The room is dim when I enter, the bed turned down. It smells faintly of wolfâ€"noâ€"it smells of him, but not in a bad way. It's the scent of living in a place for long enough to infuse the carpets and bedclothes with an irreversible musk. I crawl onto the bed, first waiting, then dozing, waking when I hear the click of the lock and paw-steps to the bed. It shifts away from me, and I roll slightly, my neck sliding along a lupine nose and tongue.
He's said that sex was never part of it, but the more I get to know him the less I think it. I'm willing to let him believe that if it makes him feel better, because the lie doesn't matter as much as how he treats me. I have no idea if his purpose is philanthropic or just plain sexual, but consent is no longer a question. I don't have to say yes to mean it.
I'm still tired from the wine and the food, but not too tired to turn over onto my back, my robe falling clumsily open. He's already nude, and I can feel his heat on my side. He starts to nibble my ear, which he knows is the key to bringing me off quickly. I don't stop him, though; I just let him pick the pace. Some weeks he holds me down while he thrusts hard, others we never go past kissing. He loves order in most things, surprises in others. Not knowing what to expect heightens my pleasure.
Sharp teeth tease the base of my ear while his paw settles directly on my sheath, which needs no further encouragement to split around my shaft and expose it to his attentive finger pads. The grip is strong but soft, from skin treatments only people like him can afford, and sure: there is no doubt he knows what he's doing, and he's had years of practice. There's no fighting it and no helping it along. When it comes, it comes, and it won't be long. Â
His muzzle moves from my ear to my chin, coaxing me to face him. Then his lips tug at mine, and I cease being a guest, a bum, and become a lover. His breath smells of chocolate, gentle against my whiskers, his tongue soft and warm. I melt into him, not knowing if he's trying to fulfill his desires or mine. But his paw never wavers, never slows or speeds up, just keeps stroking, building the pressure between my legs. I hold onto him as he holds onto me, our tongues interlocking languidly as I release over my belly and his fingers. My previous shower has been effectively negated, but neither of us minds.Â
He lets me lay there, catching my breath in the afterglow, for as long as I need. I can feel his sheath against my thigh, hard and ready but never forceful. His heat is tempting me to fall asleep again; I could, and he would let me, but I know there's something else he wants. He doesn't have to tell me because it doesn't need to be told. So when his paw strokes along my thigh, I spread my legs and let him in.Â
There's not too much I need to do, except lay there for him. Actually, he prefers it that way, not being one to enjoy the more aggressive side of lovemaking. He takes pleasure from giving pleasure, he's said, and I've been the recipient of that truth many a time. Still, there's an urgency to him as he slides his paw along my torso, collecting seed and transferring it under my tail, where he's able to open me up easily with a well-placed claw.
I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I refused him. If, for whatever reason, I became disinterested. In the end, though, there wouldn't be much difference. I get a good meal, a shower, and the physical attention so many more fortunate others never receive...and I always enjoy myself. I'm just starting to accept it graciously, but I'll never take it for granted. The last time I did that, I ended up homeless and alone.Â
He scoops up the rest of my cum and uses it to unsheathe himself; the strong scent hits my nose mere seconds later. When he rises to his knees and crawls atop me, I'm ready. And when he pushes, I meet him force for force. Even now, I can't control the gasp of penetration, or the pure feel of his dominant nature even as he's more careful than he needs to be with me.Â
The rest all blends into a series of motion and emotion. I let him take me, and I move with him, slowly as he goes, bent over and panting into my neck, arms splayed out like guy wires into the pillows on either side of my head. It doesn't pay to think too hard, or invest too much into the act itself. Tying the physicality with the fragile state of the psyche is dangerous for anyone, especially when it's far better to just feel the pleasure instead of wondering why you feel it. My paws clutch at his sides, trying to pull him into me farther than he can go without hurting me. There are times when I wouldn't mind the pain.
Never speeding up, never faltering, his passion is steady and reserved, like the rest of him and his life. That helps me control myself when I feel overwhelmed with sensation, settling for burying my snout in his neck ruff and breathing in the scent of shampoo, left-over chocolate and perspiration on his fur. When he stops breathing and gives a sudden hunch, it is me who cries out as we both resist the urge to make the tie that would surely injure me. His shaft slickens anew, and I am warmed from the inside out.
We remain precariously intertwined for as long as it takes his breathing to return to normal, and when he pulls away I'm left with a satisfaction instead of the usual emptiness. As he sits on his calves between my legs, one pointy ear flops down and he looks twenty years younger. Glowing. Happy.
I feel too tired to move from the bed under my own power, drained and content to remain within the confines of order and luxury. But eventually I'll have to, and not after I've shared sleep with him. As much as I would like it, there are some things I guess he can't or won't do. After all he's given me, I don't question that which I don't understand.Â
He pads to the bathroom and comes back with a hot towel, proceeding to wipe me down from chest to knees and everywhere in between. It's the most clean I'll feel for a while, and I savor it. After sitting me up, he opens the bedroom door and stoops down, and I can't help but admire the view below his temporarily-raised tail. A pile of neatly-folded clothes sits atop his paws, and they look familiar, as they should. They're the clothes he was wearing when he came to the alley just five hours ago. And they're for me. It's hard to believe that, despite their sturdy tailoring, I seem to tear through them in just a week. But then again, the streets are unfair and unkind.
It all goes on over black silk boxers that caress my fur and cling to it at the same time. Washed, pressed, and starched, the ensemble fits me as well as it fit him. It's another one of those miraculous occurrences about which I don't ask, because I might not be better off if I did. I would rather remain ignorantly blissful of those kind of eccentricities.Â
When I have finished knotting the tie (I usually end up hawking it for twenty bucks or so), I look up and see him in a black polo and khakis that blends well with his fur. He smiles and dusts off the arms of my jacket, admiring how well I shine up. Maybe that's part of the reason. Maybe he gets a kick out of rinsing the dirt off and making me new again. Still, it's not my place to know.
He leads me out of the bedroom and into the living space, which has been put away and cleaned almost to a level of sterility. The womanâ€"who most likely speed-tailored my suitâ€"is gone for the night. It doesn't even smell like food anymore.Â
The elevator is empty, the raccoon having gone off shift for the night. The way I'm dressed right now, with the simple addition of a hat, I could probably act civil and do that job just as well, for the ridiculous amount of money they pay for him to stand there and go up and down all day. But not having a place of residence gets in the way of the application process.Â
We step out into the lobby, which is devoid of people with the exception of the security guard at the desk, who pays us no more deference than he would any other tenant. The doorman, however, gives us both a knowing smile and a wink so awkward that I feel my shoulder squeezed as he turns me away and down to the alley. The guy might not have a job tomorrow.
My heart sinks a little as we round the corner and I spot my box halfway down. Immediately I feel guilty; my stepping in puddles is muddying my feet all over again, and as soon as I sit down my pants will be ruined. But his arm is around my waist and it feels so, so good and reassuring. I might be able to get four hours of sleep before the sun wakes me.
I cried the first time he took me back to the box. I couldn't understand why, but back then my emotions were uncontrolled and I had no direction in which to send them. He became my anchor for that, and although he tells me this is the way it has to be, I don't ask him why anymore. There are just some things that have to stay as they are. But as we stand there face to face, him looking slightly down at me, I can tell that he'd rather it not stay as it is. Before I can allow my heart to break at that thought, his lips are against me again, the embrace that saves me every time, that renews me just enough to make it. And when he lets me go, I'm smiling, just like always.Â
He rubs a thumb across the bridge of my muzzle, and I have to work hard to stifle the purring building up somewhere in my throat. My smile makes him smile, and when he turns away his tail is swishing big, wide arcs behind him. I watch him go, holding onto that feeling like a cherished thing. The sounds of a city asleep slowly return to the fore, and all I'm left with are memories. But they sustain me. I'll make it through, like I always do, some way or another. I have clothes on my back, food in my belly, and something to look forward to: a wolf, whatever his reasons, who sees enough in me to be willing to share even a small part of his life. And for that, I have all the patience in the world.
After all, I only have to wait one more week.
6/14-8/30/09