Bookworm
The skunk had a body that made me want to rush back to my dorm and jerk off. In college I always practiced a kind of conservative approach to maximizing gains, or in the lingo of my Finance class, legal theft. There was a wealth of men on campus who drew my gaze like magnets settled into mounds of generous flesh, men who sweat and huffed and could throw their shoulders into anything they sincerely wanted to move, or professors who carried extra weight like a friendly invite, a biological conceit to humility, a promise that they weren't so bad once you got to know them. And I would see these men and gaze, and admire, and they'd see me and smile so that a spark would shoot up my spine like a warning that I'm not as invisible as I think I am. And what would a dog like me do? Why wouldn't I walk up, introduce myself, make a display of my youth, my inexperience, make a coded plea for education, and wait for a burly hand to take me to wherever? Because it was so much simpler, so much more rewarding over the short term, to drag their memories back to my twin-size bed, get under the covers with my knees acting as tent poles, and pound my dick like a railroad tie. In darkness I could so easily and vividly have them mold me into whatever form I wanted, bent over this or that, my legs here or there, in so many blatantly impossible ways, with dicks so long and fat I was practically fantasizing about human rights violations. At the library, this roadmap to Kleenex was already forming in my mind as I sat and watched the skunk, his husky body contained by a black dress shirt and a white tie knotted with a kind of sloppy disregard for the importance of dress shirts and ties.
I needed an excuse to talk to him, any little request so that I could get a taste for his voice, its cadence and texture, so that my mind could work out on the trip back to the dorm how the same intonations might reform into a low, syncopated growl coming from just behind my ear. I stared at him with a hand on my chin, my brow furrowed, a leg nervously bouncing beneath the table, content to have blended into the background, despite the fiery fur on top of my head that sometimes pulled me into notability despite my best intentions. Hiding in plain view is a useful skill you develop from being typical. People see you, but you don't register, like the tile patterns in a public shower. It's nice. Or, convenient, at least.
And while I thought, he caught my eyes. He didn't do a double take, didn't scan them for a moment and turn back to see if they'd really met. He had been leaning forward over the counter, the lines of his mouth forming the impression of patient annoyance, when he tilted his head and pierced my eyes with his. When someone does this, you never dart your eyes away. You play the odds. If you don't react, they assume you're looking past them. I held my ground and watched as the skunk's lips turned into a meager grin. His stare didn't abate. He shifted his body, leaned a thick arm on the counter, puffed out his chest with a heavy sigh, and all the while I pretended I didn't see any of it. I waited for his gaze to drop, to drift off somewhere else, but every second of contact made my pulse beat in my chest.
I drummed my fingers.
I whistled.
I actually whistled. I sincerely felt that whistling would help.
I looked off to the side, only a moment, and returned them to the same spot to see the wry grin exploded into a tooth-baring smile. That's a scratch in the L column. Nothing to do about it now. My legs picked me up, they carried me to the counter, my eyes fixated firmly at my feet, and when I lifted my head to ask "Can you help me find some Dostoevsky?" the skunk cut me off with a curt "You're cute."
"I- I-" I stammered without surprise. The comment felt tremendously appropriate.
"You're a sweet little thing. You blush, did you know that? It matches your hair."
"I blush?"
"You blush. It burns right through the fur on your cheeks. Takes quite a bit to do that. Most men couldn't blush if they tried. It's considered incredibly attractive in boys your age by men my age."
"I- I was just trying to find some Dostoevsky..."
"Ha," he said, breaking his lock with my eyes finally, only for a moment, to straighten his tie and stiffen his back. He tilted his head as if taking on a new persona. "And which Dostoevsky were you looking for, Sir?"
"The, um-" I searched my mind for a moment, dug up a reading list from eleventh grade. "Crime and Punishment."
"The Um Crime and Punishment-" he tossed his head back for a moment, exaggerating his thought process, the sharp canines gleaming in the fluorescent light. "I know exactly where I left that book. Do you want to follow me?"
"Um-" I answered. His lagoon-like eyes met mine again, then wandered, or dipped really, like a slow-burning candle. My body shook. My knees nearly gave out beneath me. I wanted to gasp to the realization: He was checking me out. He was soaking me in. His eyes sunk over my body with the smooth effortlessness of sand draining from an hourglass. He examined me. He saw where my chubby arms emerged from my sweater vest, gauged how he'd grip them, surmised about how soft and lush my fur might be, wondered if the carpet matched the drapes. He saw my vest pulled off my body and calculated how my round stomach might fall, might hang, might bloom without the wool encumbrance. He guessed how big my nipples might be and whether a tweak might make me jump or melt. He filled in details where the counter cut off my body, imagined the cheeks of my plump ass resting in his hands, imagined how my legs might tremble, how they might slowly grow weak and cause me to droop against the floor. He wondered whether my toes curled. And all the while he simply sat there, a beefy arm across the counter, his tie draped over his stomach, not a muscle twitching, just his eyes sinking slowly once to the floor, and rising back up to meet mine, their task done. My spine buzzed with the sensation of it. I didn't do a thing to resist it, didn't hide myself as he confirmed every suspicion as he worked back up my body. I was frozen stiff with the very thought of being so coolly undressed and appreciated. His eyes nestled back into contact with mine as they'd never left, and I was fucked. He put his hand on mine, said "Follow me," and I was fucked.
He pulled me across the floor, or maybe I followed dutifully, I'm not exactly sure which image would be more accurate, but he made a burlesque show of me. A man alone sinks into the background, but two men together draw attention, especially when one leads the other with an arm around both shoulders like an oil sheik showing off a palace. I don't think I would have minded it, if not for the stares. I felt my red accents drawing their attention and I couldn't help but burrow myself into the skunk's soft body, like a comfort to protect from the glares, a vicious circle. The more I felt those piercing glares, the more I wanted to retreat into his assuring embrace. The more he pulled me into it, my hand settled neatly onto his stomach.
"Please, God," I prayed to the mystical otter in the sky, "Let them think that's a calculator in my pocket."
The muscles of my legs twitched. They wanted to rush me back to my dorm, get themselves out of my pants, and dive under the makeshift tent of my bedsheets; but the twitches were empty protests quelled by the police-state fervor of my senses. So close to his body I could detect that slight and distinct musk of a body that I've only ever before smelled on examining doctors and over-helpful gym teachers. The sensation of being nestled into his plush body, the warmth of his body rising my own temperature. The brusque bass of his voice as he intimated the direction of our journey to me, "just down this set of stairs, sweet cheeks," in a voice so low and dreamy I wasn't sure I hadn't imagined that last independent clause. The dotted line leading back to dorm room changed dynamically; the door I'd exit the library from, the less-public path where hiding the bulge in my pants wouldn't be quite the risk, the brisk pace I'd carry myself with- and as the path became more abstract and demanding it became impossible. An overbearing sense struck me that I was already on that dotted line leading down the stairs to the seldom used government records floor to terminate between two high shelves.
He pushed me against an unmarked door (made my glasses go askew, I could hardly even see what was going on) burrowed his nose in the crook of my neck, and huffed my fur like he needed ID. He gloried in his naked lust, his hands closing tight around my body as his chest puffed against me, releasing it all with a satisfied sigh like after gulping wine. "So many of these college kids these days wear cologne," he said as he took another abbreviated huff of my scent, cutting it off with a couple soft pecks leading to a brief kiss on my lips that sent such a powerful shock up my spine it might have scorched the fur off the back of my neck. I tried to pull back from it, an instinctual jerk that only presses me against the door. When our lips broke, a whine seeped from my throat, and for the life of me I couldn't tell you why. My heart was racing, my prick was hard, and the sound of jingling keys as the skunk opened the door - not once letting his eyes break their communion with mine, I still can't believe - and pulled me against his chest so he could open the door to the microfilm room.
I might have been glowing, for all I know. Heat is the only way I could describe it. Nervousness, excitement, awkwardness, those are just the words I would have put to it afterwards, with the luxury of a clear mind. At the time, I just felt like I was burning. My red hair, I may as well have been a candle. I wanted to get my clothes off, I just didn't want to be seen naked. I wanted to let my body breathe, but my clothes were the one thing anchoring me to sensibility. So I didn't move, I let myself flicker like a fire, climbing only to the most comfortable spot or where the skunk would have me be.
And he looked me in the eyes and he loosened his tie and he rolled up his sleeves and he unbuttoned his shirt and he let his plump body bare and he unbuttoned his pants and he let them fall to his ankles and I fixed my eyes on his stout dick already hard and fat and curved to the heavens in wanton blasphemy.
If I could have done one thing, I would have reached to my right and tested that the door was locked. I thought that would have been offensive, so the doubt just simmered in my mind.
There was no sense of urgency behind the closed door, none of the rush of the library floor, or maybe it had only felt so with those eyes piercing me, but in privacy he allowed himself to lean back against the far wall of the claustrophobia-inducing room and allowed me to soak him in. His loose tie followed the contours of his generous body, the stomach protruding from the free panels of the cheap dress shirt. The black fur soaked in the dim light of the room. He cradled his cock - and oh my God, those balls - in his hand, not quite stroking it, just making sure my attention was where he wanted it. But my eyes scanned over every gracious inch, every bulky slab of indulgent meat and each gentle curve of his body, and - oh my God, those nuts - couldn't quite get through my head that I didn't need to memorize, that it was all right there, to touch and feel and ply and handle, and studying wasn't necessary. I got to my knees in front of him, took it all in again from a new angle, and - Jesus Christ, those balls, I took them in my mouth just to satisfy my painful curiosity with whether they'd fit.
They did. Individually. Good enough for me. He moaned this grateful moan and buried his hand in my mat of red hair, and I continued to experiment, gently pulling on the pliable sack with my lips, just happy for the moment to feel the squat shaft against the bridge of my nose. Then I sucked his dick. I can't think of a more elegant term for it, I don't think it'd be deserving of one. How does a curious guy suck a dick for the first time? What part of instinct educates a man on blowing another? I sucked his dick, sloppy and content, conscious of the way I'd gag when the head plowed into the back of my throat, though slowly I was able to warm my nose in the wiry fur at the base of the skunk's dick.
And my thoughts go: I'm sucking a dick- there's a dick in my mouth- are my lips wrapped tight?- am I drooling?- is he enjoying himself?- he's so thick- is that pre on my tongue?- is he leaking already?- i can barely get my lips around- Jesus Christ I'm sucking a dick how how how on Earth am I sucking a dick?
My hands stayed on his thighs out of respect for his privacy, a limitation I constructed wholly myself, I guess as if I saw myself as a guest on this man's prick and I ought to be on my best behavior. He grabbed my hands and put them against his stomach, and I loosened up, l reached behind him and grabbed his portly cheeks, gave them a squeeze, and kind of accidentally pulled my chin against his nuts, made myself gag, then did it again.
He helped me out my vest, I helped myself out of my pants. "Read head to head," he joked, the shock of fiery hair seeming to drop down my chest and stomach to end in a pool or amber fur around my modest manhood.
I buried my face in his crotch. I don't think there could be more accurate words for it. I couldn't get my nose, my lips, any closer to his body, couldn't stand the resistance my body put up to having his dick in my throat. Any barrier was unfair. I broke them down as best I could, working myself into a frenzy as I began to whine on his dick, hungry for all the sensation I'd starved myself of for so long.
A yank on my hair - only forceful enough for me to part lips from the stout, short cock - lifted me to my feet. A moment passed, my mind still flooded with thoughts of dick, before I found myself turned around, bent over a table (the sole piece of furniture in the room, a sturdy oak desk that would have invited carving if kept among the general student population). I tried to look behind me, but a burly paw urged me to look forward and relax. Large, capable hands kneaded my cheeks, even slapped me playfully (at first I yelped with vulnerable shock, I think it invited the succeeding slaps), and finally pulled them apart so that a warm nose and a slick tongue could bear against my hole. A pang of politeness, some reinforced response to what had always been my guiltiest of fantasies, raised a whine out of my throat, as if I'd stop him. But he shut me up with a lashing of his tongue against my pucker, panting it slick before wriggling it inside. "Tight," he said, just loud enough to be overheard, the meaty muscle working deeper into my ass. His method differed starkly from mine, absent of any impulsion, bereft of inexperience, it probed me with a muted curiosity. He savored my ass like a hors d'uvre, a treat to suckle at, as if you want to pamper your tongue with its taste. All the while his strong hands squeezed my cheeks, ran along my thighs, touched areas I never felt a man could be interested in touching, exciting every nerve with an energy few of them had ever had pretensions to expect. He grabbed my dick as a curl of the tongue grazed against a sensitive spot and I nearly shot my load, I groaned on the table, shut my eyes and thought about football, came up with football players, and tried again with mathematical computations. I gritted my teeth through it, and when the wave of pleasure subsided, my chest heaving with the effort, there was a cock now grinding in the slick spit under my tail.
He yanked my tail out of the way - it had been wagging so much as to interfere, I guessed. He tested my ass, humping as he slid his dick along the deep crack of my plump ass. "Now, you seem like a smart kid," he intoned with a sense of importance. "And I don't mean to scare you here, but I'm gonna be honest here - I have to assume you know of inertia, right?" I nodded and squeaked a shy "mmhm." "Objects with great mass, when they travel in one direction - let's say, my body shoving my fat dick up your ass - spread those cheeks for me kid, I don't have inches to spare on your chubby ass you know" The vulgarity of it alarmed me, something so base and direct had never hit my ears; it sent a shudder down my spine, my arms obediently reaching back, controlled by an outside instinct, and spread my cheeks. "I'm a thick guy," he continued as he pressed his head against my pucker, the pressure building slowly, waiting to find the proper amount for it to relent, "in more ways than- oh shit!" he found it, sinking in the first few inches. "Jesus you're tight," I think he said, though the sound of my own exasperated groaning and moaning was flooding my ears. "Easy, easy, easy," he calmed me, stroking my sides as he let me relax around him.
"I'm a thick guy, bodywise and otherwise," he said as he slowly sunk the rest of his slick tool into me. I spread my cheeks dutifully, wanting every inch of it, which didn't take long to find itself inside me. "And when a big guy gets going, he's kind of hard to stop." He was massaging my shoulders now, as if trying to quell the whine in my throat. "What I mean to say, kid, is that this is going to be a little rough," and with that he gave me a firm thrust, enough to make me yelp, almost like a hiccup. I didn't complain, I only yelped, and in all my fantasies there had always been a distinct difference. Good thing he understood it, too. He pumped again, I yelped, and he settled into a steady rhythm, like the rocking of a boat. "Keep those cheeks spread, kid, it's for your own enjoyment."
Every thrust seemed to shoot straight through to the tip of my cock. I never would have expected it like that, I don't know quite what I expected. But corridors of pleasure seemed to shoot out from the spot on my ass the fat curved cock prodded so professionally. It made my toes curl, it made the back of my neck tingle, but most of all it made my dick pulse with ecstasy. Every thrust, as casual and determined to imply a luxury not unlike biting grapes off the vine, had my balls tremble in their sack, had my shaft throb against my stomach. I sprung a leak.
He turned me over, bent my legs back about as well as my body could allow. His tie draped over my prick, shorter and thicker than his, but enjoying the most intense experience of its otherwise boring life. Free from the cloistered space between the table and my stomach, breathing the musty air, the electrical shocks as the skunk plowed his dick into my ass seemed purified, refined, and as the force of the skunk's body started to plow me with the dense thuds of soft weight against soft weight, it pulsed and pleaded. The occasional, impossibly slight touch of the silk tie against the oozing head shook me like a cutting taunt.
We did our jobs. I kept my cheeks spread, and he threw his weight into my ass with boundless energy, the mass of his body seeming to carry him like a perpetual fucking device.
"Harder!" I surprised myself. I never thought I'd be the type to beg for it. But, "Harder!" I pleaded, "Oh, fuck me," I demanded. Not original, but a simple message. "Unh, harder," and he fucked me harder. I was insatiable. "Harder, HARDER," the rises in my voice giving it all more of a sense of urgency than I wanted, egging him on. The desk creaked, moved in slight starts across the floor. I can't say it didn't hurt, I can't say I wanted it to hurt, I was just mesmerized by the sharp sensation in my gut, like a cut on your lip you can't stop biting. I spit the words out in exasperation, "Oh God, so good, more more, please more," none of it making sense, who cares if any of it made sense, it got the point across and the skunk has holding me firm against the desk, the power in his thick torso and commanding thighs driving into my gut. It wasn't heavenly as I'd always fantasized, it wasn't hellish like I'd always feared, it was like being in limbo, a fevered state of not knowing. I couldn't tell you what felt good. I couldn't form the sensations into words. The only concrete thing was an overpowering sense of privilege, of specialness, of something that needed to be grabbed onto and milked for everything it could offer. "Harder, harder, harder," and the desk knocked against the near wall and stopped there.
His tie grazed against my dick, and like the breath of wind that dislodged the leaf, I knew it was over. The certainty of it hit me immediately, like a brick to the temple, it silenced me. If a crumb of doubt were in my mind I could have stammered an exhortation, a demand that he hit that spot, keep that pace, but it wouldn't be necessary. My cock was rushing, pulsing, priming itself, and I could only dribble a stammer in expectation, an untranslatable warning. I arched my back and (though I didn't mean to) pulled myself off the fat dick before immediately dropping myself back onto the fat tool, a cruelty like taking a wrecking ball to a dribbling dam.
I burst. I burst in thick, impatient gobs. I painted my chin. "Oh God," I heard from the skunk, who held himself deep inside me, luxuriating in my squirming. I popped all over myself, jaw agape and an unrestrained groan of overflowing passion accompanying each new spurt. The cum soaked into the red fur that creeped up my stomach, nearly saturated it with my juice that poured from my dick in an endless torrent.
The skunk pulled out, climbed onto the table, straddled my hips. He tossed his tie over his shoulder, put a paw on my shoulder to hold me down, and before I could say "wait!" spurt his warm seed over my muzzle. He creamed my glasses, thick ropes streaking across my face, and probably onto the desk, crisscrossing my slack jaw with his seed. His whole body seemed to spasm as he squeezed every drop out of his nuts, wordless now as he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and aimed his prick with almost frightening accuracy. I lapped at the thick spooge, excited myself with the first taste of it, delighted in it even, licked along each side of my muzzle with an absentminded hunger. That most certainly had been pre I tasted earlier. The last few drops dripped onto my chest, mingled with mine, and if the skunk took a moment to admire his work I certainly wouldn't know with my glasses smeared with cum.
I felt the frames lifted off my nose. The skunk held the lenses to my lips and I cleaned them happily. I didn't even worry about the smears.
Laying back, I couldn't help but trace the path I'd take to my dorm room to jerk off.