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Chapter Two

Later, after we've cooled off sufficiently, Riley drives me back to Aunt Iris's house, where I'm left alone for the remainder of the afternoon, to further ponder my new outlook on the future.

Aunt Iris's house is an old blue Victorian located only a couple blocks from main street, with the stereotypical white picket fence, and two apple trees in the front yard. No one else is home at this hour, so I use my key to get in, get a drink and a banana from the kitchen, and head upstairs. Before retreating into my room I pause at the mirror Aunt Iris has hanging in the hallway, studying the figure reflected in it. Red fox, 18, athletic, short fringe, tank top and shorts...briefly I allow myself to muse over what Wilfrid Falkland's "type" is, and whether I qualify.

A second later, though, I flick my ears, swish my tail, and stroll into the bedroom. What does it matter if I'm his type or not, it's the personality, oftentimes, that wins people over, and I know I'm a charmer...dad used to say I could charm a snake out of its skin. In any case, sooner or later I'll catch Wilfrid's eye, and he won't be able to think of anything but me.

My bedroom used to be Uncle Al's mancave, and when I moved in last June it seemed little had changed since then. The dusty shelves still contained books; travel guides, memoirs, and adventure stories mostly; the panelled walls were hung with photos of fishing trips or mountain overlooks, and several examples of aquatic taxidermy. The desk still had papers scattered over it, also under a layer of dust, and a large leather armchair stood next to an empty, lifeless min-fridge, which Uncle Al presumably had kept alcohol in. His turn-table still had a Rolling Stones record on it.

Uncle Al was killed six years ago in a freak climbing accident during a holiday in the Andes he and Aunt Iris had taken to celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary. Afterwards Aunt Iris tried to leave the house the same, presumably to give the false impression her husband was still alive, but I guess by the time I moved in she had decided it was time to stop letting the mancave collect dust. Anyway, out came the books, the photography, the stuffed fish, and the mini-fridge, but I kept the desk and the turntable. As I go into the room I take a The Smiths vinyl from the stack of records under the turn-table, put it on the player, and move the stylus to the edge of the disk. Then I sit down at my desk chair, thinking.

The initial excitement of finding myself in the same town, and the same class, as an extraordinarily attractive man has cooled just enough for me to all those "yes, butt" points that one's conscious has an annoying habit of acknowledging. I decide to take out a pen and notepad and write down Pros and Cons - no, that's too negative. Let's say, potential challenges. Because a challenge can be overcome. It looks a bit like this:

· He may not be gay.

· He's a teacher, and I'm a student. There are probably laws prohibiting a teacher from dating a student.

· What would people think - would people - the school, Aunt Iris, my peers - try to prevent us from being together

· How do I get his attention - do I just ask him out?

I scribble for a moment before reviewing the points I've written, so I can address him individually. Whether or not he's gay may or may not be an issue. If he is already - but how do I find out - then all good. If not....well, he just might not be aware of it yet. I have always entertained the suspicion that a lot of "straight" men just haven't discovered how fun and liberating dating - and fucking - your own sex is. I might just need to awaken his interest....once he's got his cock under my tail a time or do, he'll be hooked.

Or, I could just do a little sleuthing.

Pushing my notes aside, the other points left until later, I extract my MacBook from my backpack and fire it up. From the turn-table Morrissey is wailing about lost love in a tone of despair. In retrospect, probably not the best soundtrack for this afternoon. I tune him out and open Firefox, bringing up Google's search engine, then type "Wilfrid Falkland" into the searchbar. After a moment's thought, I add "lieutenant" before Wilfrid's name, then click search.

The first few hits seem to be news articles. I click on one: Iraq Vet Receives Hero's Welcome," and read: "Lieutenant Wilfrid Falkland, USMC, arrived home yesterday to the cheers of friends, family, and his nation. Lieutenant Falkland recently lost his left eye to shrapnel from an exploding IPA..."

I read the entirety of the article, followed by a couple other, very similar news blurbs. The gist of it is that Wilfrid left the Marine Corps because of his compromised vision, though he apparently hopes to return to service in some fashion or other later on. He'd got an education degree while serving so in the meantime the article mentions he was planning to move to "his hometown" to work as a high school teacher. There is, predictably, no mention of his sexuality.

Well, if google fails, there's always the backup option: facebook. I bring up my facebook and search for his name: success. That's him alright, though in his profile image the Stetson has been replaced with a Marines cap, and by the look of it he's somewhere in the Middle East. I click on his profile.

Unfortunately, he has it mostly limited to "friends-only." I can see a couple photos of him standing in sandy dessert locations with some other military guys, and one photo apparently taken at a bar, in which he and another Alsatian are toasting beer glasses. His profile just lists his name, and that he is in the Marines. There's nothing that could suggest whether he'd find a male fox attractive.

Pushing myself back from the desk, I begin peeling the banana, staring thoughtfully at the art I've decorated the walls with: music posters of Fleetwood Mac, the Kinks, Journey, and Diana Ross - and a print of Hokusai's "The Great Wave" I acquired in Japan. It occurs to me I am behaving a bit like a stalker, and that if the scene was reversed - that is, if a teacher was searching up me rather than I investigating one - in any other circumstance I would find it ridiculously creepy. Touchy ground, this. The turntable clicks, and the stylus returns to resting as the last song on the Smiths vinyl finishes.

The possibility that I may be becoming a stalker is unsettling, but I find quick distraction in the consumption of the banana, thrusting it up my muzzle to see how far I can go without gagging. After all, I would put down money on a bet that Wilfrid is very well endowed. Someday I hope to see what he's got in those jeans, and demonstrate my cock-sucking abilities on it.

I feel a tightening in my shorts. My eyes flick back to the photos on Wilfrid's facebook page.

He's just so goddamned handsome. I know people talk about no one being absolutely perfection; in any individual there'll be at least one flaw, whether obvious or otherwise - some say the imperfection is even necessary. You've probably read that story by Poe about the dude who has a wife perfect in every way except for an unignorable birthmark: if I remember right, he tries to rid her of it, and the resulting perfection kills her. Something of a be-careful-what-you-wish-for-fable, I suppose, warning people not to pursue perfection too avidly. But in Wilfrid's case, at least from what I've seen so far, there just aren't any imperfections, and I can hardly believe any could ever exist, in his case.

The photos on his facebook were taken from a distance, and are vaguely grainy, but even through the strained light of an Iraqi afternoon I can see the sharp line of his broad muzzle, and the green of his eyes. This must have been taken before the IPA robbed him of his left eye. It occurs to me that some people might list the eyepatch as his imperfection, but I don't think so - it just makes him look roguish, like a detective in a 1950s black and white film noir.

I finish the banana, and toss the peel into a wastebasket. The occasion, and my optimism, calls for a more appropriate soundtrack, so I retrieve Fleetwood Mac's Rumours from the stack, and put it on. "You Make Loving Fun," seems the best song to fit my mood, so I set the stylus to play it first, then grab my notebook, and sprawl over the bed. Above me, the ceiling fan beats a steady pace, distilling the hot afternoon air. First day or no, I've got homework already, but at the moment it's far from my mind.

Referring back to my notes, I consider the other points I've written down. The comment about whether people would accept us as a couple is really not so concerning; I could care less what people think of my choice of boyfriend. If anyone tried to interfere I'd just tell them to fuck off.

Him being a teacher, and I his student, is beyond doubt the most crucial point to consider. I am reasonably certain that the school would not respond well to learning of a relationship between a teacher and a student, and considering this is the rural west, a relationship between a male teacher and a _male_student would likely be received worst of all. If - no, I dare to believe, when - we become a couple, he'll have to give up his job as a high school teacher, or at least here in Fort Greening. Though I wonder if my graduation - nine months off, unfortunately, might make things simpler for us.

Suddenly the absurdity of the situation hits me, and I laugh out loud. My tail thumbs the bedcovers as I stare at the ceiling. Once I saw a meme in which two women are talking to each other over dinner about a guy, and the first woman says, "have you talked to him yet?" to which the other replies, "no, but I've named all our children."

I never thought I'd be one of those people who's planning an entire lifetime with someone before having so much as spoken with them, but here I am, plotting out how a relationship between myself and Wilfrid could be possible. And yet, absurd though it may be, I have no intention of ceasing my scheming.

The song has ended as the stylus moves on to another, so I get up, lock the bedroom door, and yank off my sweaty tank top. My shorts follow, leaving me in skimpy red Wolf & Coyote briefs. The briefs have a special pocket in the crotch area for your dick and balls to fit into, which makes your bulge hang out obscenely. Being of a vaguely exhibitionistic nature, I have a fondness for overly revealing underwear. Jocks, open-backed briefs, briefs that emphasise your bulge, drawing eyes to a man's nether regions...I've spent an excess of my spare change on these in the past, and now, I reflect, as my paw drops to fondle my bulge through the fabric, it might come in handy, soon enough. Lounging back on the bed, I indulge myself to imagine Wilfrid's reaction if he saw me in these briefs. Or one of my jocks perhaps...the kind that contains my junk in one ridiculously obvious bulge, with my cute butt exposed for his eyes to feast on...

My paw reaches down to where my dick is outlined in the fabric, and I trace a claw along its shape as my mind formulates the fantasy. We're in the classroom where I first saw him, the one part of the school that will forever seem special to me now, except all my classmates are gone, and its early evening. I imagine him standing at the desk, packing up his satchel, as I walk up to him...

"Do you have anyone to go home to?" I ask.

_ _

The beautiful green eye turns on me. The straps of his eye patch curve over his forehead, but the black fabric blends into the ebony of his fur in a way that makes the eye-patch look oddly natural. I step up to him and put my paws on his hips, whispering, in my fantasy, "I could be the one to make you feel that way....I could set you free tonight..."

Yes, it's corny. There's a reason we very rarely let anyone else into our sexual fantasies, isn't there?

My cock has stiffened and is now forming a pleasingly-large bulge in my briefs. I grip the outline and begin to stroke myself as I envision my paw reaching out to caress not my own bulge but his. It will be large, that I guarantee. He's a prime specimen of maleness....

He moans very lightly as my paw grips his erection through his jeans. Man, how does he manage to wear tight jeans when he's got such a cannon down there. I bend down and sniff the bulge, nuzzling at it in a way that makes him squirm. He's been trained to maintain his composure in a wide variety of situations, but I doubt this was one of them. He smells very male and very horny, just as I expected....

It's my own musk I'm scenting now, in truth. The friction of the fabric grating against my shaft is making me start to pant again as I jerk myself, but I want to admire myself out in the open, to see what he would be seeing, and imagine him being pleased with it. I jerk off my briefs, tossing them aside, and firmly grip my cock. It's mostly out of my sheath now, and while it's of average length, I imagine that as I get a little older it will thicken a bit. A drop of pre glistens at the tip. I reach down and swipe it off with a fingertip, bring the finger to my muzzle, and lick it clean. I've always liked the taste of my own pre, subtly sweet. Somehow I suspect Wilfrid will pre more than I do. I bet there's a leaky faucet hiding in those tight jeans. How I'd love to lick away the drips....

He puts his paw on my head as I nose his trapped erection, the calloused paws roaming over my skull, fingers tenderly rubbing at my ears. So he's been with foxes before, and knows how to make us shiver. My nose fills with scent, encouraging me on, as my paws climb up his legs and grip his ass, feeling those plump muscular cheeks flex beneath my fingers. Okay, I admit it, while I love cock as much as any other gay man, it's ass that really makes my dick throb. Let a dude with a fine posterior walk by and you can bet my eyes will be following his behind with an intense, hungry expression. So I massage Wilfrid's butt with the tenderness of an expertly trained connoisseur, sighing in satisfaction when he turns around, lifting his tail as that hot ass pauses just before my muzzle. My ears prick forward to the sound of him unzipping his jeans. When the material slides down a moment later, I see he's wearing a jock...

My eyes are glazed now, not so much taking in the atmosphere of the bedroom as being lost in my fantasy, imagining Wilfrid's ass hovering temptingly in front of my muzzle. My hand jerks up and down along my shaft, occasionally inspiring another burst of pre, which I quickly swipe away and taste. My knot pops free of my sheath, beginning to swell. I envision Wilfrid touching his fingertips to it, testing the weight and thickness, and approving. For the vaguest second I question whether it's creepy to jerk off to a fantasy about one's high school teacher, but this concern is quickly dismissed. Wilfrid won't be my teacher long; soon enough he'll be my boyfriend. My thoughts return to his bubble butt. My tongue slurping it would be an excellent way of helping him relax after class....

His rump swells before my face now, seeming bigger than it did before; he certainly doesn't skip leg day when he works out. I thrust my muzzle between his cheeks, scenting horny musky dog, which makes my cock throb all the harder. Fantasies are so much more intense when the person you're envisioning isn't a creation of your mind but someone very real, with whom this could potentially actually happen, sometime in the future. My wet cold nose presses against his tailhole, nosing at this sensitive spot as I drink in his scent. Under my paws, still gripping his rump cheeks, I can feel firm muscle, my fingers absently press and massage, enjoying the strong but pliant feel of his butt. As I press my nose harder against his hole, I feel his paw reappear on my head, harder this time, shoving my face into his ass. My cock pulses. "Get your tongue in there, bitch," he growls, his tone both affectionate and forcefully dominant all in one...

Would Wilfrid be the kind of man to use such dirty talk during sex, or for that matter, in general? My perceptive fox senses have, this time at least, drawn a blank on the answer. Judging by appearance, I'm quite reasonably certain that he's a strict top; there's something about him that spoke more of a man who likes bending other males over beds than one who likes being bent over them himself. Likewise I would bet you he likes being rimmed; you can't have an ass as hot as he does and not have other guys wanting to shove their muzzles in it at least occasionally. But how dominant might be while in the act itself? I puzzle the possibilities as I continue to stroke myself. At this rate I'll be cumming soon enough; I can feel it in the distance, as my fingers squeeze around my swelling knot. Admittedly the thought of Wilfrid using dirty talk on me isn't helping. Maybe it's because he's so much older than I, and certainly far more experienced, but the thought of him getting really dominant with me, calling me his bitch, but in an affectionate sort of way, makes me shiver with anticipation and delight. I grip my knot tighter...

Horny dog musk and the raw scent of a hot ass fill my nostrils as Wilfrid's paw holds me tightly against his butt. My muzzle opens to plant a solitary kiss on his asshole, he sighs contentedly and encourages, "more tongue, bitch. I want your tongue in my ass." My tongue slips past my fangs, escapes my muzzle, and wetly slurps against his hole. His grip on my head doesn't let up, if anything he pushes me in even further. My eyes are closed, pressed against the soft fur of his butt, as my tongue slathers his hole with saliva. My cock seems to be on verge of climax. I reach around and feel for his own shaft, still trapped in his jock. God he's good, just as I imagined, I could worship his ass for hours...I press my tongue against his hole and begin to push inward....

My climax bursts out of nowhere. One moment I'm lost in my fantasy, and then it's too much; my shaft pulses in my grip, I whine sharply, and with a jolt hot fox spunk erupts from my dick. "Fuck," I grunt to myself as my paw continues to slide along burning flesh. My whole body seems tense; torso and arms rigid; tail all poofed out as if in distress; ears flatted back. Sometimes a really intense orgasm makes a man forget to breathe. My cum splatters over the soft white fur of my chest but I hardly notice, too busy gasping as my cock continues to spasm. For a few moments my mind can't really process anything beyond the sensation, not even to think about Wilfrid, though with time my paw slows, and then stops, simply holding my erection as cum spurts over my belly, or oozes over my paw. I can smell it now, the sharp scent of fox cum. My balls feel intensely sensitive as I relax back onto the bed, satiated, if only physically.

Out of nowhere, my phone begins playing the intro to "Bittersweet Symphony" - my ringtone. I grab for the phone with the paw that isn't covered in cum, and glance at the screen. Riley. I answer.

"Are you done stalking his facebook yet?" the coyote's voice questions.

"Bitch, I just jerked off thinking about his ass," I say.

There's a brief pause, then I hear his muffled chuckle. "Then it's worse than I thought."

I laugh. "Dude you can't tell me you've never majorly crushed on anyone before." Absently I bring my wet paw to my muzzle and lick away the cum.

"Not like this," he says. "Don't forget before you showed up there weren't any other gay guys in town to crush on. And you don't know yet whether he is."

"He could be gay for me," I muse, my ears pricking the sound of a car pulling up next to the house. Probably Aunt Iris coming home from work.

Riley makes a sound probably intended to imply I'm a lost cause. "Anyway buddy - I wasn't calling to interrupt your fap session. Though you really could have invited me over for it..." I suppose I should mention Riley and I have traded blowjobs or pawing a few times. Bro helping bro out, you know. "...I was just going to say, maybe look him up on Gindr. If he's just moved to a new town he might update his profile."

"If he has one..." I muse.

"If he's gay," Riley says, matter of factly. In my mind I picture him rolling his eyes at Bianca, who's probably in the same room as him.

I decide to ignore the implication. "I'll check it out," I say. Admittedly it would be swell to find out he had a Grindr; that would at least confirm interest in men. In the meantime...I find myself eagerly looking forward to the American Government class's next session on Wednesday. Two day sounds almost too long to wait.

"You do that," replies the coyote. In the background I can vaguely make out someone else talking to him. "Hey bro, dinner's on. Catch you later."

I say a quick goodbye and then toss my phone on the bed. He's right, Grindr is an excellent idea - a long shot, maybe, but worth trying, at least. I don't have an account myself, so I'll have to make one, but I do know that it has a location-sensor of some sort, so presumably if Wilfrid is gay, and if he has a Grindr account, he'd update his location to Fort Greening. A lot of ifs, certainly, but it's something to go by.

And in any case I'll get to see him in person again on Wednesday.

These happy possibilities put a wag in my tail as I use a spare towel to wipe most of the cum off my chest. I toss the towel in a clothes basket, crack the door open a crack to make sure no one else is in the hall - I can't see anyone, but I sniff the air carefully nonetheless, then trot quickly to the bathroom, to shower off before dinner.

Over dinner I am questioned about the day's events, of which I give a somewhat less exciting report.

Fort Greening Elementary starts the same day as the high school, so for the first half of the meal - a chicken and rice curry - both myself and my cousin Ralpie, Aunt Iris's eight your old son, are grilled with questions about school. Ralphie is a quiet, rather shy kit, the kind of boy whose temperament somehow hints at the lack of a lasting father figure in his life. He's nowhere close entering puberty yet, but it has occurred to me several times this past summer that if I come back years in the future and find he has a hunky boyfriend I would not be in the least surprised. Today what little he says about school mostly involves the local little league baseball team, of which he is apparently a member. See, there's another hint, being into baseball. All those men in tight uniforms...

Alright I know, he's just a kit. Enough reading things in where they may not be.

As for the assessment of my day, Aunt Iris tries to be a good aunt and ask all the appropriate questions - what my classes were like (boring), have I made any further friends beyond Riley and Bianca (nope), or did I like my teachers (I venture to admit that "one of them seems alright)." After this however the conversation largely switches over to chatter between Aunt Iris and her hunky boyfriend, a Doberman attorney from Cody - a larger town about 30 miles north of Fort Greening - called Deputy Defoe. Deputy Defoe is exactly the kind of man casting directors in typical soap operas would pair a fox with, as he's a good foot taller than Aunt Iris, and probably twice her weight, and has a kind of noisy good-old-boy manner. Today's chief topic seems to be a fishing trip he and some friends are planning. I take it they want to invite Aunt Iris along.

Listening to them argue quickly loses charm, so as I munch on curry, my mind slips back to remembering Wilfrid. I've never had a crush this powerful before, and honestly am almost a bit weirded out by the intensity of my own interest. It is best, I decide, not to second guess or overthink this too much, and just to see how things go. For now I'll keep on scheming about how to catch his attention....

As I finish dinner and slip away nearly unnoticed, I decide it's time to create a Grindr account.