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Stories From The Resort:

The Grrlfriend Experience

By

Dissident Love

Copyright

November 2017

Part 1

Saturday, 9:14am

It was on the final approach that Bertie wondered if he should have taken his executive assistant's advice, and simply chartered his own plane to Ilsa Calamata. He could have arrived late on Friday night local-time that way, taking off from New Cal immediately and winging the state-of-the-art six-engine through the stratosphere, rather than truly reveling in the soul-crushing, eye-drooping jetlag he was presently enjoying.

He wished he'd asked for more than just a single cola when the stewardesses had come around. His body was still on New Cal time, which meant that to his internal organs it was not nine in the morning, but closer to three in the afternoon, and he was running on thirty-four hours jittery, high-octane stress and childlike nervousness. There had been the briefest of naps in the airport terminal, and nearly five whole minutes of unconsciousness at the apex of the transoceanic leg of his journey, but it was only caffeine and ginseng and some other difficult-to-pronounce chemicals that were keeping his nerves humming, his eyes open and his palms sweating.

He wasn't a young programmer anymore, and he knew it. The days of the three-day code jams were far in the past. He was staring down the mortifying barrel of being 'a grown up', the big three-oh... and really, wasn't that part of the reason for this trip in the first place?

The great passenger liner rumbled and lined itself up with the runway, and he was forced to admit that perhaps his palms were sweating for a couple other reasons.

Bertrand McCulloch was very close to a household name, at least in the households where the oldest contributor to the rent was still paying off grossly inflated student loans. A small number of professionally-retouched photographs bearing his profile were used and re-used hourly by global publications, editorials, articles and blogs, and in each one he was abundantly and iconically recognizable: his gleaming buck teeth with their polished golden-orange veneer, his rich brown fur streaked through with very expensive striations of glossy black, his thick neck vanishing into a pristine white cotton hoodie. He'd made just about every 'Top Thirty Under Thirty' list in the world, along with a few with titled that included 'Most Influential', 'Wealthiest' and 'Most Eligible', and every single one of those lists managed to highlight his ubiquitous choice of outerwear. Heck, his own company website sold no less than six kinds of Bertie Hoodie.

He had a collection of those lists in his palatial Caledonian Palisades mansion, along with almost every article written about him, his entrepreneurial ventures, his domination of the peer-to-peer social encryption world, and his latest interviews in the hottest and trendiest magazines. One entire room somewhere in the south wing was plastered with printouts and cutouts, and sometimes actual clippings from print media, obviously supplied by his assistants, and when he was feeling depressed he would go into that room with a paintball gun and blow off a little steam.

So while nineteen out of twenty schoolchildren could identify him on a smartphone monitor in less than a second, he was also bizarrely and blissfully unrecognizable if he wore literally anything else. With the jetliner yawing back and preparing to slam at fantastic speeds into the asphalt runway, no-one on board suspected that the slightly pudgy beaver wearing the blue crew-neck shirt and sensible black shorts could not only have bought the aircraft on a whim, but the entire airline.

The jetliner's landing gear squeaked, and Bertie was jerked forwards in his seat by invisible hands. His stomach lurched, his heart pounded in his chest, and he was mentally calculating the cost of just immediately booking a flight back to New Cal, back to his mansion, his routine, and safety.

He glanced out the tiny oval window, wondering how he could have missed what everyone had described as a gorgeous and fundamentally unmissable aerial approach to Ilsa Calamata, the world-famous tropical paradise. All he could see now was a huge expanse of black-streaked asphalt, a thin ribbon of greenery that could have been any forest in any country, and a brilliantly azure blue sky beyond. It was a sunny day, sure, but he could enjoy sunny days at home.

Inside.

Where it was safe.

There were bings and bongs and lights flashing in the overhead panels, and in a variety of languages the air hosts began welcoming passengers to Ilsa Calamata. All around him were smiling faces, eager eyes, and explosive splashes of color in the form of flower-print shirts and bright neon hats. Bertie fumbled with the seatbelt, thick brown fingers normally so dexterous when working with touchscreens of keyboards, but now betraying him with one of the simplest of furrekind's inventions.

His phone buzzed and chimed from the breast pocket of his plain blue t-shirt. This was his PERSONAL personal phone, the one whose number was such a closely-guarded secret that, to the best of his knowledge, it didn't exist in any visual medium anywhere. Three people knew it, and they'd been forced to memorize it; those ten precious digits weren't even allowed in their speed dial.

Fingers a blur, he pulled the tiny earpiece out of his pocket, running the almost invisible connected polymer wire down to the edge of his mouth. "Yeah?" he asked, just enough louder than a whisper to trigger up his phone's voice amplification, but not loud enough to even alert the young couple sitting in front of him.

"Sir, have you landed?"

Figures, Bertie thought. "Yes, Honey, I've landed. Cripes, do you have me on satellite surveillance or something?" The stocky beaver had to suppress the urge to lean his head against the small oval window and stare up into the sky, as though daring the satellites to glimmer in the sunlight.

"No, sir, this is just when the website informed me that your airplane would be landing. I trust your trip was satisfactory?"

"Hon, dammit, I haven't even started my trip. If you're asking how seventeen hours of flights and airports were after a standard seventeen hour day working with you, then yes, the trip was splendid, and is there something I can help you with or did you just call to see if you still had a job, because you know, it could totally go either way at this point?"

Honey Fielding was, in spite of the somewhat uncommon name, not just Bertie's personal assistant, but also his official (and very expensive) bodyguard. The man stood slightly over seven feet tall, a significant fraction of that in width, and although both of his parents were clearly grizzlies (Bertie had invited them both down the previous Crimbo, as a treat for Honey), there was the persistent rumor that some wolf had snuck into the bloodlines somewhere. There seemed to be too many teeth in that boxy muzzle, too much neck protruding from the dull grey suit, too much long, lethal limb ready to swing for the fences at the first sign of trouble.

Three years of steady employ, and the most violent Honey had ever gotten had been with a particularly insolent pair of tech groupies who had somehow managed to sneak into his hotel room during an out-of-town conference. Pinching their ears between thumb and forefinger, the military-grade ursine had nonetheless gently escorted the young ladies into the corridor, confiscated their phones, and wished them a pleasant evening.

"I just wanted to ensure that you were in good spirits from, as they say, the get-go."

Where did you learn how to talk, Honey? Watching old sitcoms about sarcastic robot butlers? "I'm fine, H, all right? I'm hanging up now."

"You will contact me if there are any concerns or issues with the suite?"

"Yes."

"And the tour packages?"

"Yes."

"And the-"

_"_YES, HONEY, DAMMIT!" Bertie snapped, slamming his thumb down on the End button. Or at least, he managed to get the pad of that digit on the right part of the screen on the third try. The important thing was, he was completely ignoring the startled gasps and chuckles from the seats surrounding his.

And yet, privately, Bertie was all but holding his sides to keep in the giggles. Honey was a brilliant administrator, with a schooling pedigree perhaps more impressive than Bertie's, and the bear knew exactly what he was doing when it came to those seemingly accidental phone calls. A too-casual response from the billionaire beaver, and a private security force with a bankroll larger than some small nations would descend on his location, ready to extract him from kidnappers, political terrorists, or what-have-you. There were some unfortunate predicaments that the wealthiest man in the northern hemisphere could find himself in, were he not careful.

Bertie, who was not by nature a careful person, paid quite handsomely for someone to be careful FOR him.

"Wife?"

The beaver twitched, and nearly flung his phone across the airplane cabin while attempting to reinsert it into his shirt pocket. "What?!"

Eventually his eyes settled on a long, grinning face leaning overtop of his seatback, which turned out to belong to a phenomenally stretched-out, rangy wolf one row back. The shaggy canid winked lewdly. "Wife?"

"Er... sort of," Bertie chuckled, blushing. It was an immature joke, but he still did rather enjoy getting into a shouting match with Honey on the phone, especially if it was somewhere semi-public. One such conversation, recorded candidly, had been a Trending Topic on Tweeter for two whole days.

"She know where you are?" This was accompanied by no less than three winks.

"Oh, yes. Arranged the trip for me, actually," the beaver nodded, eyes wide, the very picture of innocence.

"Oh! One of those, then, aye!" the wolf laughed, smacking Bertie's shoulder. "Well, don't have TOO much fun! Ye'll be ruined for when ye get home! Hah!"

This twist in the conversation cause a far more genuine, and nerve-wracking, blush to rise in the beaver's cheeks. Politely-obsessive bodyguard notwithstanding, he HAD just landed on Ilsa Calamata, for eight days and seven nights of... relaxation.

"Yes," Bertie mumbled, turning his attention back to the emergency water landing pamphlets and hoping there wouldn't be any further follow-up from the peanut gallery. Luckily, none was forthcoming; the wolf, replete in a loud flower-print shirt, had sat back down and was mumbling under his breath with his seatmate.

The jet liner eventually taxied around to an impressively modern-looking and airy terminal, huge laminated mahogany timbers creating a crisscrossing, interlocking maze of wood and glass that impressed even the world-weary Bertie. He'd seen the inside of every tech headquarters, every modern university, and every sports stadium that had ever been built, it seemed, and the vast majority of them simply blended together into the style he'd dubbed 'gaudy modern archaic'. A few stood out, but they were few and far between.

The Ilsa Calamata International Airport had already leaped into his top ten airports, which was a pretty remarkable feat, and he felt was a good omen.

He hauled his satchel out from beneath his seat, the small, worn canvas bag his most prized possession. It had lasted him through high school, AP extra-curriculars, college, university, basement business incubators, programming charets, explosive investment circuits and the dizzying public IPO stage that had resulted in his net worth having a half dozen zeroes added to it. Sure, it carried his laptop, his tablet, his spare phone, his ID, and all manner of valuable corporate secrets, but it was the bag itself that he would be most fraught with terror and remorse should it ever go missing. Fortunately, it was ratty enough that the casual thief wouldn't even give it a second glance. With any luck, the rest of his luggage would be waiting for him somewhere in the terminal.

The people traffic began to shuffle forwards, and Bertie allowed himself to be swept along with the tide. He glanced longingly back at his seat, heart pounding, but he doubted they'd let him stay on board.

What are you afraid of? He asked himself.

As always, he was prepared. I have a short list, if you'd like to indulge me. We have some time before we reach the door...

"First time?" the wolf asked, and Bertie managed not to drive his burly shoulder right into the canine's muzzle in fright. The voice had seemed to come from just above his ear. "You've got that 'No, I don't wanna go to the party!' look atcha."

Bertie shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "I don't travel. Uhm... anywhere nice, I mean. Well, for FUN, I mean. Vacations, and... stuff." The beaver, still a millennial as much as he hated the term, had only the week before spoken to a bevy of industry and military leaders regarding government policy-shaping with regard to theoretically-unbreakable and universally-accessible encryption, and he'd walked out of that meeting feeling like he'd chewed through tinfoil and come out the other side with a mouth full of candy. It figures this would be the day his words failed him.

"Busy youngster?" the wolf nodded, and Bertie judged the man to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Older, absolutely, but still fit and vigorous. "Ah, that's the problem with you all these days. Don't taking time to slow down, SEE some things while you're still dumb enough to appreciate it!"

"I have been busy," Bertie admitted, already detecting the first tropical hints of flowers and strange, lush jungles wafting through the door up ahead. "Your first time?"

The wolf barked with mirth. "Hah! No chance, lad. No, I spend four days here in the spring, three days in the fall, use the rest of me holiday pay on seeing a different country layover on the way to and from. I figure I'll see a little of everywhere, and a LOT of this place, before I hang up my wings!"

Bertie had read the flyers. He'd scanned the website. He'd perused vacation pictures from some of his employees' public profiles. He'd cobbled together a self-directed web trawler that had aggregated more than eleven thousand island tours, reviews, photo galleries, television programmes and livecasts, and extruded a six-hour informational presentation that had required two cold showers and three whole beers to recover from.

In short, he KNEW. He knew ALL about 'the island'.

And it was still the great and terrible unknown to him.

He stepped out into the blazing sunlight, squinting and instantly berating himself for not purchasing shades. He reached for his phone while he descended the gangway, stepping not into the jetway that would take him to the terminal, as he'd expected, but out onto the plain tarmac itself. I'll just write myself a little note, he thought, _add it to my shopping list. I'm going to need some melatonin to adjust to the time zones, too. There's probably a drug store on the way to the hotel. I wonder if they sell ginger lattes here. I could REALLY go for one. Extra ginger. Burn-your-tonsils-out ginger. Best way to relax, until I can get somewhere cool and dig my toes into the carpet. _

Most of the plane's passengers were trotting happily towards the terminal, sure to stay between the fluorescent orange stripes painted onto the tarmac. To his left, a trio of jaunty young equines were extracting the luggage from the underside of the plane, wearing only surf shorts and high-vis vests. To his right, the air hosts were standing at the top and bottom of the gangway, smiling and shaking hands and thanking everyone for their patronage, and wishing them good luck and happy memories.

He was thumbing the security code into his phone when he reached the bottom of the stairs, and realized there was one more person he'd failed to account for.

"BERTIE!" shi squealed, wrapping hir arms around his neck and hugging him with tremendous force. Shi ground hir cheek against his, and nearly lifted him off the ground in hir furious embrace.

So that's what they meant, he thought distantly, while sirens and alarm bells klaxoned throughout his body, floodgates of terror hormones slamming open and locking his body into shape so tightly he could have been used to keep the jet's landing gear from locking.

The young raccoon woman, for that's what shi so very abundantly was, had been wearing a pair of simple wraps in the common Calamatan style, one about the bust, and one about the waist that flowed loosely and comfortably in the heat. At first he'd had a hard time gauging exactly how much of the figure was fabric, for although it was a huge swath of silk that encircled hir bust, there was still a considerable amount of flesh squeezing out above it, as well as below it. Now, pinned by hir embrace, his right arm was just as thoroughly pinned between those tremendously overfull breasts, along with his phone.

"First visit," the wolf muttered, not unkindly, as he passed them. "Yeah, right!"

The flower-printed skirt had seemed fairly conventional, but even taking into account the jaw-dropping projection of hir bosom, there was a lot of mass pressed against his lower body. He seemed to sink into hir, as though shi were a wildly disproportionate statue made out of memory foam. Shi was plump and soft, with extremely ample hips and a body obviously well-equipped to carry the burden of all that extra weight. Bertie was by no means a small man, thick and sturdy as all of his castorian relatives were, but the raccoon was likely a fraction larger in every dimension.

Shi inhaled, and he felt the upper swell of one breast rise against his chin.

And a LOT larger in a few OTHER dimensions, he thought.

"Do you mind if I give you a little smooch?" shi breathed into his ear, hardly more than a whisper. Hir voice was deceptively high and sweet, with an accent that was maddeningly familiar. The wire rim of hir large glasses tickled his temples. "You left that part of the intake questionnaire blank, so..."

Bertie remained frozen; even his lungs were immobile. Blood pounded in his ears. The lovely raccoon, the vision in a two-piece wrap, was very nearly his own height, and they shared a similar burly stature, but whereas the beaver found his own extra pudge stubbornly and resiliently infuriating, he found hirs to be sublimely appealing. The fact that he was fairly sure hir bra measurement must be in the triple-digits, to say nothing of the measurement about hir loins, only added to hir beauty.

Which was why Bertie, who had been single for his entire life with the exception of an extended period of hand-holding in Grade 12, and a uniquely awkward Crimbo hookup towards the end of his college years, found himself thoroughly beyond words, beyond actions, and beyond most rational thought.

"This is Bertrand McCulloch, right?" shi asked softly, now a trifle worried. "I didn't get the wrong one, right? Beaver, young, grey satchel, and I KNOW I checked the flight number before I left the Resort. Uhm... do you need any help? Your neck is really... tense..."

People continued to stream past them, the last of the jet's passengers disgorging themselves into the wondrous and serene tropical paradise of Ilsa Calamata. Many of them chuckled at Bertie's extended cuddle, some even patting him on the shoulder as they passed.

"...hhh..."

The young woman leaned back slightly, though the motion seemed to involve a wonderful contorting of hir hips and spine which still left hir lower portions absolutely smothering his legs. Hir bust lifted even higher as they centered on the stunned beaver, until he seemed to be staring at the gorgeous raccoon's face rising above two immense grey hills.

"Bertie?" shi asked again, hir lips twitching. "Hello in there?" Shi brought hir nose closer until it touched his own, warm and wet and carrying all manner of scents underscored by the instantly-recognizable odor of wintergreen gum. Hir grip tightened, as this maneuver also pressed hir breasts against him with new insistence.

"...hhhi..."

The grrl tilted hir head to one side, ears perking. "Hi?"

"...hi..."

Hir delicate smile illuminated hir face, and shi stifled another giggle. "I don't think I've ever had quite this effect on someone," shi murred, the black mask across hir eyes wrinkling. "I've been assured you passed the physical examination requirements, so I don't think I've caused a stroke or an embolism or anything, but if you could open your mouth just a little wider and say more than one word, I would appreciate it. It's hard not to feel like I'm doing a terrible job at this..."

Bertie shook for a moment as though chilled, despite the sweat running down the back of his shirt. The heat here was tremendous, with a humidity that had to be in the high 90s. He was a northern beaver, having spent most of his life where six months of snow was shouldered on either side by two months of rain, with a nice short summer just to break the monotony.

It was only seeing the disappointment in hir eyes that snapped him out of his wide-awake coma. He would be perfectly happy, and indeed had proven himself capable of, standing wordless and motionless off to one side at the most loud and raucous events worldwide. He'd seen the loudest metal bands while happily tapping his feet and slightly bobbing his head. He'd been backstage at EDM events simulcast to thirty million people at parties worldwide, leaning up against a wall just behind the refreshments table. He'd been escorted across stages by supermodels to both give and receive all manner of awards. Any time a pretty grrl smiled at him (and they did, in droves), he would smile back, avert his eyes, and look for an excuse to leave.

Except now he couldn't leave, and he was ruining this poor young woman's day, and perhaps hir job.

"S-sorry!" he yelped, blinking away the stars that exploded behind his eyes at suddenly having control over his body again. "I... yes! Sorry! I... you must be Natasha! Hi! Sorry! Yes! Uhm..."

Bertie ran out of words, and was just left staring into the raccoon's immense dark eyes. Hir brow rose, hir grin deepened, and hir huge bushy tail began to wag happily behind hir. The breeze was refreshing. "First time to the island?" shi asked, ever word thoroughly coated with forced innocence. Shi clearly knew it was; that had been stressed in his application.

"Yes, ma'am."

A stormcloud passed across Natasha's face, and the powerful muscles beneath the fluffy softness of hir shoulders flexed noticeably. Shi pulled him closer, forcing the air out of his lungs with hir chest, and nearly pulling his toes off of the hot tarmac. "For the next week, Bertie, I'm not 'ma'am'. In fact, with any luck, for the next several decades, I will not be 'ma'am'. You can call me whatever you want, almost, but for now I think you should just stick with Natasha, hmm?" Shi arched hir eyebrow, and winked.

Bertie nodded, wondering if he should be feeling so turned on at the near-threatening manner with which this ultimatum was being delivered.

Shi sprang back, bouncing on hir heels and sending immensely exciting masses of flesh sloshing and swaying against his body. "Super! Now then, back to my first question: Do you mind if I give you a little smooch? This is Day One of the Complete Grrlfriend Experience Package, and we believe in starting things off right."

Bertie McCulloch, young tech billionaire, programming guru, global policy advisor and meme trendsetter, swallowed nervously, steeled himself, and nodded.

Shi moved with a sultry, calculated slowness. He watched, entranced, as hir eyes half-lidded, hir muzzle moving forwards inch by inch. Shi licked hir lips, and he detected the scent of grape muzzle gloss. Shi inhaled again, and he got to see the vast swell of hir bosom rising up to meet their chins once more; the sound of hir silk wrap creaking in protest was, perhaps, the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard.

And then their lips touched, cool moist skin against skin a wonderful counterpoint to the white heat that suffused his entire body. His broad, flat tail swung and thumped insistently against the backs of his legs. His eyes bulged, but soon closed, some of the tension leaving his body.

Natasha shifted one of hir legs, pressing some vast and worrisome amount of maleness against his lap, and he realized that other parts of his body had become a great deal _more_tense.

His right paw was still pinned by hir breasts, but his left very, very slowly crept forwards until it rest, as chastely as he could manage, high on hir hip. He wondered if he was supposed to use that hand as some sort of guide, to draw hir closer. That's how it always looked in the movies, at any rate. As it was, he didn't think it was possible for hir to get any closer, not without knocking him over.

With a heavy, jarring metallic clang, another luggage hatch dropped open. Bertie jerked, nearly leaping out of his fur, but Natasha's strong fingers were there, digging subtly into his shoulders and keeping him snug and close. "There," shi said, grinning and leaning in to boop his nose once more. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Myerk," Bertie agreed, staring into hir deep, dark eyes, and catching sight of his own ghostly reflection in hir glasses.

Incongruously, he noted hir rather strong prescription must be similar to his own, obviously designed to correct severe shortsightedness. He'd long since transitioned to contacts, but there were two pairs in his satchel in case he decided that the tiny prosthetics were too much work (and, since they weren't his idea in the first place, he almost invariably did).

"Myerk," shi said slowly, savoring the word. "You're going to have to teach me the language of your people, Bertie. I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with that one."

Bertie's body sagged slightly. "I'm sorry, I just... I mean, I didn't expect... uhm... the itinerary said you'd meet me inside-"

"Bah," Natasha said airily, waving a paw. Shi slipped sinuously around to his side, taking his free hand in hirs and squeezing tight, gently guiding him between the painted lines towards the terminal. "The itinerary is, like... a guideline. A loose_guideline. Really, I haven't even read it. Look, this is our first vacation together _ever, Bertie, you can't PLAN something like that!"

The beaver opened his mouth, frowned, and closed it. He mulled hir words over, backwards and forwards, recalling as much of the explanatory Ilsa Calamatan travel package material as he could.

"Well, ok, maybe YOU could plan something like that," Natasha giggled, squeezing his paw again. "You always were the organized one. A little too organized, if you ask me."

The GFE, as it was referred to between himself and Honey, had been planned for weeks, to coincide with a projected lull in the firm's mergers and acquisitions schedule. Honey was the only other person who really, properly knew about the little vacation; as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Bertrand McCulloch was on a personal retreat.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and he realized with a start he was still clutching it to his chest hard enough that his knuckles were sore. He wasn't surprised, however, to realize he could still feel hir breasts pressing against that arm, even though they were now bouncing quite enticingly to his left as they walked.

"Already? You're getting messages from work already?" Natasha asked with mock exasperation, clearly enjoying playing hir part. "Who is it? Is it that darn bear again? What's his name? Horny?"

In spite of himself, Bertie snorted, and then laughed, actually laughed out loud. The sound startled him, and his small muzzle slammed shut, except for his freshly-buffed and polished incisors. "Er... maybe," he managed, glancing down at the device.

A single message floated on the lock screen for a few seconds before fading.

H. Fielding (Official) - 9:24am

Say hi to Natasha for me, and have fun! That's an order. Turn your phone off.

I mean it. If I check your remote local and see you're online, I'm forwarding your

itinerary to all of the tabloids.

Bertie's eyes widened, but he supposed a promise was a promise.

His chest tightened as he held his thumb down over the rarely-used power button, but after a few moments the phone buzzed again, flashed some rainbow patterns, and bade him a technologically impersonal farewell. He stared down at the silent, lifeless brick of metal and glass, feeling as though a part of himself had died, and slipped it into the small velcro pouch on the side of his satchel.

_"_There," Natasha cooed, leaning against his side and resting hir cheek against his shoulder. From this perspective, walking lockstep with the gorgeous and surprisingly tall raccoongrrl, he could see just how much hir bust projected from hir ribcage, much farther than he would ever have guessed possible, but even that was dwarfed by the tremendous prow of hir skirt. He could have laid his satchel out on that broad, flower-print tract of land, and still had enough room to set up his laptop. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Still staring while trying not to stare, his eyes swimming as he struggled to act casual, a billion pubescent fantasies come to life and now grinding up against his hip, Bertie managed to nod. To his mild shock, he found that, in hir presence, he didn't miss his phone, the connectivity, the linkage to his network, as much as he feared he would.

"I'll manage," he squeaked. Blessed cool passed over him as they entered the shadow of the terminal's overhanging wooden roof, itself a flowing series of curves that reminded him of Natasha's skirt. He had the feeling that a lot of things were going to make him think about hir skirt.

"Yay!" the raccoongrrl bounced, nearly sending one of Bertie's eyes on an endless spiral. "I'm so proud of you! You're going to enjoy yourself, really you will. There's everything to do on this island, and there's even more on the other islands!"

Shi paused, one white eyebrow very slightly arched, hir ear nearest him twitching. Bertie, as Honey had indicated to the Calamatan during their e-mail conversations, did not disappoint.

"So there's _more_than everything to do here?" he asked.

Bingo, Natasha thought. "Let's just say, no-one has ever complained there wasn't something exciting to do," shi grinned. "But you, Bertie, are still wound up tighter than a hair metal guitar."

"I've been awake for... what day is it, locally?"

"Mmmmm, oh, jeez, I forgot!" shi said, hir expression fraught with dismay. "You worked all Friday, didn't you? And this flight? I know you can't nap on those things! Oh, jeez, ok, well, first things first, we are getting YOU to your suite, and we are getting YOU a shower and a nap!"

The interior of the terminal was warm and bright and airy, and Bertie was pleased to see his luggage, a single oversized black suitcase, was already parked next to a gigantic potted fern with a dainty squirrel-like attendant standing next to it. The clerk waved to Natasha, who waved back.

"A nap?" Bertie said, moving to grab the suitcase. In a flash the squirrelboi was on top of it, however, zipping around with the luggage to keep pace a few steps behind them. "But... I mean, I just got here. I don't want to... you know, waste my whole first day just because I'm a little-"

"A nap." Natasha said firmly. "It will do you a world of good. I'm not going to let you oversleep, don't worry! Just a siesta, then maybe a late lunch, and then you get the ten-cent tour of Ilsa Calamata."

Shi tilted hir body marvelously, still somehow managing to walk straight ahead while pressing an irresponsible amount of soft, dense flesh against his chest and legs. "Besides," shi asked in low, husky tones, steepling hir fingers against enough cleavage that shi could probably carry his satchel between hir breasts. "Don't you want to curl up and... sleep... with me? I make a very good pillow."

The squirrelboi chittered with amusement as a wide-eyed, shallow-breathing, utterly silent Bertie was guided out the far side of the terminal and into the back of a drop-top convertible taxicab. Natasha slid in after him, taking up the vast majority of the back seat, while the clerk popped the luggage into the trunk.

"See? You're already half asleep," shi chided him, scruffing one paw through his hair and guiding him to lean against hir. Bertie made a warbling, keening noise, as his head was brought to rest against the upper curve of one breast, which was quite a bit larger than his head, but became silent once more as shi stroked his cheek. "Just relax. Enjoy the ride. This is Ilsa Calamata... there's nowhere else in the world you can feel this good while doing absolutely nothing."

The taxi driver, a pretty and pert pink-haired bunnygrrl, nodded in agreement. The taxi accelerated smoothly, and soon the little yellow sports car was just another speeding little shape on the wide, sunny freeway, heading for the city.

Part 2

Saturday, 10:22am

Bertie remembered very little of that cab ride, from the standpoint of specifics. That struck him as odd, since he normally remembered all of the little things that happened around him. It was a lifelong talent, gained from decades of hard work, perseverance, and avoiding eye contact while struggling to examine all text for potential clues to subtext. He'd always been... funny, with subtext.

With his face pressed against Natasha's breast, a soft and exotic-smelling swell considerably larger than his own head, he was starting to have some suspicions that shi might be into him, even if only due to the extremely steep pricetag his vacation was going to run his accountant.

He was in a cab, he knew that much. The cab was a convertible; that explained the sky above his head and the breeze whipping through his hair. His awareness hadn't wholly suffered, clearly. He was on the ball, as Honey would say.

The cab hit a small bump while taking the highway offramp, and Natasha bounced wondrously against him. For a moment, surely no more than a moment, he forgot who Honey was. He knew he'd been thinking of a Honey, he knew a Honey worked for him, but he couldn't exactly remember in what capacity. That was odd. Especially given that this cab had no roof! That was terribly unsafe! He should-... oh, wait, this cab was a convertible! That was right. He knew that.

"Now we're heading through Parailla," Natasha murmured into his ear, tugging hir dexterous little fingers through his hair. Hir nails sliding along his scalp sent electric tingles right into the roots of his teeth. His eyes crossed, and his face seemed to go numb. He worked his mouth a little bit, but it didn't seem to be responding properly. "This is an upscale neighborhood, lots of little gated sections and private cul-de-sacs, and some of the more expensive boutiques. Now, you'd think that the most upscale locations would be beachside, but you'd be wrong! Well, ok, you'd be SORT of right, there is a really fancy stretch right along the better beaches, but we've got so many beaches that they can't ALL be super expensive! So, little spots like this, where there's a natural bowl carved out of the side of Mount Kalapallailli, these become the, ah, _exclusive_neighborhoods. We'll definitely have to head up here sometime this week, there's a chocolatier you are going to DIE if you don't try!"

Bertie nodded, then suddenly froze up in a panic. The simple act of nodding was causing a LOT of friction between his stiff-bristled muzzle and hir heavenly bosom, and he worried that would be taking things a little too far. After all, they'd just met! There were rules of decorum to be maintained.

Weren't there?

Whoever Honey was, Bertie wished they were there, maybe in the front seat of the cab, to give the young billionaire a little advice. He had the impression that Honey was very knowledgeable in these sorts of things.

The cab driver, pink ponytail streaming between hir long rabbit ears in the open air, glanced back and chuckled. Shi recognized that shell-shocked look of the smart, confident, worldly traveler reduced to adolescent awe and nervousness; many of hir fares seemed to acquire that look shortly after landing.

"That's all for later, though, Bertie, dear," Natasha rumbled, leaning down and nuzzling hir nose against the back of the beaver's head. "We are going to get you settled in, we're gonna get you unpacked, we're gonna get you cleaned, and we're gonna rest you up for a BIG night!"

Bertie's mind couldn't help but wonder about Natasha's focus on the last two words of that sentence, but he didn't have much time to ponder it before shi wrapped one slender but deceptively strong arm around his shoulders and squeezed him tight. His vision was almost completely obscured by the miraculously soft and warm flesh that seemed to billow out of hir simple silk wrap, but he was most alarmed when this motion caused his hands to tumble into the extremely amply-endowed racoon-grrl's lap.

He was in the middle of pulling them back when hir other paw slipped snakelike beneath hir bust and seized his wrist, replacing it very firmly against the broad upper curve of hir sheath. He tugged, but it was futile; he was just going to have to get used to his fingers being splayed across the surface of a soft maleness that was bigger around than his thigh.

"You don't need to be that polite, Bertie dearest," Natasha giggled, wiggling his wrist with an almost admonishing tone to hir voice. "This is Ilsa Calamata! This is considered perfectly acceptable for public displays of affection. Sometimes folks here are too big to properly hold hands, so you just... hold whatever's convenient."

Bertie's vision clouded, and he worried he was going to pass out from asphyxiation, when the cab rounded a steep corner and began a much slower, much steeper climb. This shifted his weight just enough for his nostrils to get fresh air, staving off his nap for a few more minutes.

When they pulled up to the huge curved portico of The Resort, Bertie was feeling light-headed. His paw had not been granted surcease from the wonders of his 'grrlfriend's lap, and indeed shi had begun guiding his wrist around like the planchette of a ouija board. While he could see almost nothing beyond the horizon of hir decolletage, he had gotten a very Braille-like idea of the outline of hir lower regions, with special attention paid to the immense sac that forced Natasha's legs out wide. All things considered, there was barely room for Bertie in the back of the cab at all.

"Aaaaaaand here we are!" Natasha concluded, and Bertie suddenly realized that shi'd been talking for the last several minutes. He couldn't remember a single word of it. "Your home away from home for the next week. Bertie? You awake? Sweetie?"

He didn't want to move. He was, as far as he was concerned, already having probably the most thoroughly enjoyable time of his life, with his cheek nestled against hir breast, his paw absolutely dwarfed by hir loins, and the droning white noise of the cab and the island's exotic breezes tickling his senses. If he moved, he wouldn't be doing any of those things anymore.

A satiny-smooth hand brushed his cheek. "Bertie, I know you're cozy, but we're blocking traffic," shi whispered into the petite shell of his ear, giving it the tiniest of nibbles. "Come on, up and at 'em, big fella! There's a private steam shower upstairs with our name on it..."

He didn't precisely leap to his feet, but there was a definite snap to his motions as he exited the cab. Natasha laughed and blushed prettily when he managed to get around to hir side of the cab, holding the door open for hir and extending a hand to help hir out. "Why, thank you, kind sir!" shi giggled and winked, swinging one leg out of the cab and heaving hirself upright. Hir immense swells joggled and bounced, settling with tremendous weight against the flimsy restraints of hir silk wraps. If he was any judge (and he was), there was now more of hir testing the limits of that fabric than there had been when they'd gotten into the cab, back at the airport.

One of the Resort's porters appeared, a tall and lanky weasel wearing the standard uniform of black shorts and a white vest, and hauled Bertie's luggage out of the trunk with expert speed and skill. Bertie thanked him offhandedly, always ready to acknowledge anyone and everyone around him, but he did a double-take and could only manage a faint yelp. The golden-hued weasel's shorts were almost comically oversized, straining against two heavy spheres the size of beachballs, and yet even those phenomenal curves dwarved by the barrel-like mound of his maleness, crammed so high it pressed against his own belly button.

"Bertie? Bertie, honey, I'm over here," Natasha chuckled, tweaking the tip of Bertie's nose.

The weasel glanced up and grinned, seeing the expression on Bertie's face. "Your boyfriend's looking a little peaked there, Natasha," he said seriously. He moved with easy grace, not apparently discomfited by the luggage or his own vastly oversized bulges. "Jet lag?"

"I hope so," Natasha sighed, slipping one paw down his back and squeezing the heavyset beaver's backside. "He keeps zoning out and staring. I wouldn't mind if it he was staring at me, though!"

Bertie shook his head, turning back shamefacedly to Natasha. "Sorry, I-"

Shi silenced him with a finger pressed against his lips. "Don't be sorry, silly! Ronaldo is very eye-catching," shi snickered. "But you're gonna have to get used to that around here."

The front of the Resort didn't seem particularly busy, the huge sprawling complex of steel, mahogany and bronzed glass glittering like some jewel-encrusted treasure chest in the late morning sun. The cab scooted away from the curb with a little honk, and the front-heavy weasel was already heading through the sliding glass doors. Bertie noticed with some interest that those doors were large enough to let the three of them side by side, with ample room to spare. It seemed excessive, but the cool air flowing out from the lobby interior was quite welcome. He was a cold-weather beaver, after all!

Air conditioning notwithstanding, Bertie began to flush and perspire as soon as they were within the Resort's shady interior, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Welcome to The Resort," Natasha murmured into his ear, steering him to the huge half-moon reception desk. The racoongrrl had worked at the Resort for almost a year now, and Bertie's slack-jawed awe was a fairly typical response; shi wasn't upset or jealous in the slightest.

Shi knew that shi had ways to turn their attentions back hir way, and they hadn't failed hir yet.

Bertie didn't know where to look, and every time his attentions were caught, something nearby dragged his eyes away anew. He knew all about Ilsa Calamata, he knew all about The Resort, he knew all about the national policy of size acceptance and a respect that bordered on worship, but it was still a lot for his rather technically-obsessive and business-minded demeanor.

He stared at the receptionist behind the marble desk, a long and lean jackal lady with inky black fur that seemed to absorb the light. This was made especially apparent by the fact that her head was only mostly visible, peeking out above a pair of breasts that Bertie doubted would have fit in the back seat of their cab at all, convertible or not. She stood easily six feet tall, Bertie assumed, and there had to be at least eight feet of pure breadth to her bosom. It was only when they were a few paces from the desk that Bertie realized she was wearing a remarkably scoop-necked halter top that did its very best to provide cover and support, but left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

By the time they were that close, though, he was staring bug-eyed at a skunkgrrl walking by with a grinning male polar bear on hir arm. The skunk was clearly a local, wearing an eye-wrenchingly purple silk wrap almost identical to Natasha's, except shi seemed to be dragging some sort of luggage behind hir. He realized with a start that the skunkgrrl was quite substantially super-numerary in that regard, with more than a dozen oversized testes wrapped in silk snuggled up against the backs of hir legs, shaded by hir tail.

He turned back to Natasha, intending to point the skunkgrrl out, but along the way he got sidetracked by a tall and slender, almost delicately-built, equitaur clopping past, his underbelly obscured by a too-tight pouch that stretched from his hind legs all the way to his front legs. The white vest of a Resort employee made Bertie worry that he might see than gleaming white equine taur again.

"Hey, Pol," Natasha waved.

"Hey, Nat!" the taur waved back, his irresponsibly-oversized sheath creaking and swaying from the motion.

Bertie ended up walking heedlessly into the reception desk, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Ronaldo, hovering just a step or two behind, luggage concealed by his capacious sac, just snickered under his breath.

"Hey, Jenelle," Natasha greeted the receptionist, and Bertie realized that there was indeed a tiny nametag on the outer curve of one gravity-defying breast. "Checking in at last!"

"Not a moment too soon," the jackal rumbled smoothly, typing from somewhere beneath her bosom. Bertie wanted to examine the space behind the crescent-shaped desk and figure out exactly how she was managing to pull up their information, but he felt anxious enough just standing this close to a woman whose breasts probably outweighed him. Each. "He looks a little... peaked."

"I was just saying that!" Ronaldo laughed. "I'm glad it's not just me!"

"He's had a long flight!" Natasha proclaimed, leaping to Bertie's defense and squeezing him tight. "He works hard all week, long hours, slaving away, and then he's dragged through airport after airport, just to land in my loving arms!"

Jenelle's eyes sparkled. "Yes," she agreed, stonefaced. "Your arms."

"You hush. Don't listen to them, Bertie dear," the racoongrrl sighed, wrapping hir arms around him and giving him a little shake that started hir own assets sloshing. "SOME of us appreciate how hard you work."

I'm working hard right now, Bertie thought, acutely aware that his shorts were rather awkwardly constricting him. I should say that! It would be funny! Well, it might be funny. It might be offensive. Crap, I waited too long, now it would just be weird. Maybe I can tell Natasha later. Oh, good, shi's leading me towards the... looks like elevators over there. Yes, elevators! Hah, going up! Oooh, that's another good one. I should say that. Naaah, that's kind of low-brow...

Natasha looked quizzically at him, wondering what was going on in that furious little mind of his. Everything shi'd read about him indicated someone who was brilliant, meticulous, fiercely competitive, relentlessly driven and even, yes, visionary. Since most of those articles were written by people that were paid, if at all, by the pageview, shi was also fairly certain that they were exaggerating ever so slightly, and the truth was somewhere between those exhilarating words and the nervous, possibly comatose beaver currently clinging desperately to hir elbow. He was proving to be a little tougher to draw out than some of hir previous 'boyfriend experiences', but no-one was an island.

They were halfway to the 37th floor when Bertie said, apropos of nothing, "Going down?" and immediately smacked himself on the forehead.

---

"How hot do you like your showers, Bee?"

Little puffs of steam were drifting out of the huge, glass-block shower enclosure. One small part of his mind was still trying to grok the opulence of his suite, which was more spacious than even the Imperial or Presidential suites he'd enjoyed across the world. The sitting room pushed out of the building's envelope into a crescent of floor-to-ceiling glass, that ceiling so high he doubted he'd be able to hit it with a thrown baseball. The bedroom was every inch as large, but instead of six sectional couches built around a combination fireplace and home theatre system, there was simply a custom-built circular mattress capacious enough to park both of his cars.

But the bath room...

He stood against one of the black speckled granite countertops, apparently the 'his' to the white granite 'hirs', with his fingers knotted together and his tail flat against the backs of his bare legs. It was too grand to be described simply as a 'room', though. It was an oasis. It was a grotto. In ancient times, despotic emperors likely had spas for their harems that were less decadent. The glass-block shower was every inch as large as the bed, but it overlooked a river-rock descent to a hot tub that could have been a naturally formed wellspring, were they not several hundred feet above ground level. Ferns and mosses sprouted and clung to every surface, cloying scents of lavender and bergamot filling him with strange impulses. Wrapping around the hot tub, and framed by another crescent of glass that stretched to the ceiling was a warm pool where hidden jets kept the water constantly circulating.

Privately, he wondered what it would cost to install something like this in his own New Caledonian mansion.

"Bertie?" The beaver squeaked when Natasha poked hir head out of the cloud of steam. "How hot? I'm the 'scalding waves of lava' type, myself, but I know you're probably used to polar bear swims."

He shuffled his feet, staring down at his stocky, bristle-furred body, nude except for a pair of white jockey shorts. He'd stripped, as per Natasha's polite but firm orders, but he didn't think shi'd meant all the way just yet. Shi was still fiddling with the shower, after all! It just made sense that he'd want to maintain a modicum of decorum. They had only known eachother for, what, an hour and twenty-four minutes? Who was counting?

"Hot's fine," he agreed, watching lilypads, actual green probably-alive lilypads, circulating in the currents of the pool. His pool.

Natasha scowled, leaning forwards against the shower side of the glass block wall, creating several exceptionally large impressions against the translucent, steam-soaked surface. "You're not going to be like this for the whole trip, are you? We hardly ever get to see eachother, and you're still on 'yeah, like, fer sure, whatever, dude, bro, fine' mode. I HATE that mode. I tried to get something into legislation to OUTLAW that mode, but apparently it violates some silly civil rights."

Bertie kept tripping over his own second thoughts. This was the Grrlfriend Experience, after all, with the conceit that they were indeed romantic partners seeing one another after a long absence. The Resort was world famous for their employees, their website plastered with euphemisms like 'companions' and 'playmates' and 'partners' and even 'chaperones'. It was common knowledge that they were escorts in the strictest sense of the word, in a nation with quite liberal laws regarding personal liberties. He should know; some of the notes for his speeches to industrial bloc nations concerning ubiquitous body politic encryption had been cribbed from the law books of Ilsa Calamata. They were, in spite of their reputation, a very... sensible people.

It was still a little hard for him to keep up with the fact that Natasha kept referring to a relationship that was clearly, in hir own mind, a good deal more enjoyable than the reality must have been for hir.

"Sorry," he mumbled, the small voice screaming at him to dive into that steaming shower still sitting way at the back of his subconscious. "Uhm... no, definitely hot showers. Didn't have a good hot water tank growing up, and somehow had a worse one in college, so I... kinda made a point to have really, really hot ones once I could afford to."

The racoongrrl's eyes softened, and shi pressed hir cheek against the glass bricks framing the somehow ominous entrance to the shower. "You never told me that before!"

"Well, I mean... we just-"

Natasha, well-trained for these little foibles, cut him off expertly. "THIS is why we need this vacation together! To reconnect!"

Apparently deciding that subtlety wasn't getting hir anywhere quick with the reticent little beaver, Natasha straightened and swayed hir hips out from behind the glass bricks, striking a pose and leaning hir shoulder against the shower ingress with all the swagger of a bouncer checking IDs out front of a club. "And speaking of reconnecting," shi murmured, crossing hir arms beneath hir bust and thus completely obscuring those limbs from Bertie's sight, "get your butt in here, boy."

Bertie's throat closed, and he once again went through the mental symptom checklist of anaphylaxis, strokes, deep-vein thrombosis and hysterical blindness. Natasha stood less than six feet away, but it was all he could do to keep his eyes on hir own open, gorgeous face, and not to let them meander down to hir torso-spanning breasts, a dark walnut hue across the outsides transitioning to a rich shade that reminded him of pewter down hir sternum and belly. Freed from the bonds of hir floral silk wrap, they seemed to sag very little, but still moved and swayed with each breath in a manner that bespoke tremendous natural weight. Hir waist was surprisingly trim, given hir general plumpness, but it widened out to an impressive set of hips, ample enough he could imagine hir getting stuck in the old-fashioned post-war doorways of his childhood home.

Oh, gods, don't imagine hir getting stuck in your door when you were a kid!!!!

The tiny voice in the back of his mind piped up with Why not? That's when I started imagining grrls like hir!

Even those thick, soft hips seemed outclassed by the sheer amount of steam-slicked fur standing unnervingly full and proud against hir thighs (which he assumed had to be back there; he could see nothing of hir legs above the shins). Hir sac bulged to either side far enough that they could easily be seen from behind, something he'd become exceedingly aware of during the tour of his... of_their_ suite. Several of his offices had instituted ergonomics programs for the employees that included three-piece keyboards, standing desks, natural light tubes, and of course yoga ball chairs to assist with posture and core strength.

He'd seen enough of those yoga ball chairs over the last year to realize that they could have used Natasha's impressive seed tanks as references. This was causing him another momentary panic attack, since shi'd surely not been so endowed in the cab ride, had shi? It had been a tight fit to cram all of hir into the back seat, but he didn't think it had been THAT tight... of a fit...

STOP USING THOSE WORDS! he thought madly, his gaze circling back up from hir delicate little footpaws, dainty claws painted bright purple, and back to hir loins. Stretched out across the top of those silver-hued balls was a dark brown velvety pouch possibly as wide as his own hips, and pushing out so far from the short fluff of hir lower belly that it was actually hanging at least a foot down the front of hir sac, as well.

"Bertie?" Natasha asked, batting hir eyelashes.

Oh, right, I was supposed to keep my eyes on hir face.

Moving with a bouncy, saucy grace that shi simply should not have been able to balance safely, Natasha stepped out of the shower, drawing with hir a flowing trail of steam like a superhero's cape. "You seem chilly," shi said with some concern, stopping close enough that the front of hir sheath actually bumped against where his hands were still clasped in front of his undershorts. "Hot shower, Bee. Right there. A hot shower full of me," shi added, as though it were madness that shi even needed to mention that last bit.

Bertie wanted to step forwards now, fairly sure he'd somehow summoned the courage to actually accompany the vision in earth tones... but he found that the slight pressure of hir sheath against his lap was preventing him from quite literally taking the first step. Even moving to either side would cause him to collide with hir sac, something he wasn't entirely sure was allowable, or even comfortable. He blushed, but his multilayered pelt kept it secret, a family trait he'd used to great advantage during his more lucrative and stressful business dealings. He didn't sweat, he barely needed to blink, and he could hold his breath for close to half an hour should the need arise; there were very few staring contests he'd lost, especially where negotiations were concerned.

He was definitely going to lose one now, though, as he fought to keep his eyes from hir cleavage.

"Oh, jeez, looks like we're just going to have to do this the hard way," Natasha groaned with what he hoped was exasperation of the mock variety. His thick, paddle-like tail shot straight up for a moment when shi added, "I was hoping I'd get to say that at least once this week..."

Grabbing his wrist, shi turned with a whoosh of dense flesh through steamy jungle-like air, and dragged him to his fate.

His fate, as it turned out, was very hot, and actually quite enjoyable.

"Oh, and get these off, dingus!" the racoongrrl laughed, hooking a finger into his shorts and somehow descending to squat on hir ankles, removing them from his body with an ease that alarmed him. He stared down at hir, working blindly around hir tremendous assets. In that ungainly position hir maleness forced hir breasts up into hir face, which didn't stop hir from smiling radiantly up to him. "That better?"

Bertie took another hesitant step forwards, leaving behind his last scrap of clothing, and started in surprise when blissfully, blisteringly hot water cascaded down onto him from above. He hadn't noticed that this was an overhead shower during Natasha's quick tour of the facilities, and he'd been more than a little distracted by hir sudden abandonment of hir own clothing. In spite of the island's tropical temperatures, he'd been feeling a bit chilled standing on the verdant green tiles of the suite's bath room, the same sort of chill he seemed to draw forth from memories of his brisk sub-arctic youth whenever he was overly stressed.

Natasha rose to hir full, unimposing height behind him, like a predator getting ready to pounce, but hir expression was one of pure delight. Shi could actually see the muscles of Bertie's shoulders relaxing, his chin tilting up to meet the high-flow showers pouring from the ceiling, his entire posture straightening and then sagging into something that could almost be considered approximating comfort.

"I said," shi purred, reaching out and stroking hir paws along his thick, stubby neck, leaning forwards until shi was quite unsubtly pressing some extremely noteworthy swells against him, "is that better?"

Bertie inhaled, tilting his head first to the left and then the right, hearing the loud, hollow pops of his neck. Honey always hated when he did that. "That's... better," he managed, glancing back over his shoulder, but once again afraid to move. With the slick tiles beneath them, he feared affecting hir no-doubt-precarious balance and sending her tumbling! Still, it wasn't as though it was a great sacrifice to stand beneath the sweltering downpour, feeling his muscles unclenching, feeling some impossibly full anatomy working the kinks out of his back side.

"Are you happy to be here?" Hir lips were dangerously close to his ears now, the plush raccoon pushing him forwards, deeper into the deluge.

"Very happy," he agreed.

"Are you going to spend the entire week giving me two word answers?"

"Quite possibly."

Natasha growled and flexed some hidden musculature, and Bertie found himself shoved forwards rather pleasantly by the broad girth of hir sheath. Shi took a few tiny steps, following him into the downpour, and the tiled walls around them seemed to fade into the distance and disappear. Steam shrouded them, swirling endlessly and carrying a myriad of scents distilled from the island's countless unique species of flora. "Don't get me riled up, Bertie," shi giggled, a peculiar counterpoint to hir intensely assertive rumble from a moment before. "Don't forget, it's nap time after this."

Bertie stood stock-still, feeling Natasha begin to move around him. Hir sac weighed heavily against the backs of his legs, and then the side of his right, before shi seemed to appear out of the mists like some great heavy-bottomed galleon of old. With water coursing down hir luscious curves shi seemed almost sleek, though hir sheer dimensions would make any journey slow and turbulent.

He opened his mouth to point that out, but caught himself when it occurred to him that might not be the sort of thing pretty grrls liked hearing, especially when they were naked in the shower. Gah, I need to say SOMETHING!

"Bertie, sweetheart, you need to say something," Natasha winked, standing broadside against him, hir sheath pressed casually, almost innocently, against his own maleness. He was no slouch in that department, but it was a little daunting to realize that if you considered the whole square-cube law shi was very likely more than a hundred times larger. "Otherwise I'm going to have to introduce you around the island as 'Bertie, my mute manservant'. Although that could be fun..."

Bertie inhaled, knowing that shi was right. Really, he'd been telling himself the same thing since they'd gotten into the cab. According to the news, both print and electronic, Bertrand McCulloch was an unstoppable juggernaut of technical expertise, the wise oracle that would be leading the charge against government and corporate control of mass communication going into the next decade, with the power and influence to make him utterly unassailable by lobbyists, special interests or unfriendly governments. That didn't mean that his entire romantic history couldn't be summed up on the back of one of his speech-prep cue cards.

"I'm shy."

Natasha just stood there for several moments, hir paws wandering aimlessly across hir tummy, an area which was mostly protected from the shower's coursing streams of scalding water. "You're kidding me," shi deadpanned. "Oh my gods. I need to alert the press."

Bertie chuckled ruefully, and with considerable effort brought his hands up from his sides. He scrubbed them back through his hair, remembering how good it had felt when Natasha had been scribbling hir blunt little claws across his scalp. Obviously, it wasn't nearly so enjoyable when he was doing it. "It's dumb, I know," he started. This was a speech he'd rehearsed in the back of his mind many times, tweaking it over the years. "Everyone always says there's no reason to be shy. There's no 'reason' to be anything, but that doesn't stop everyone from being something. There's no reason_for my Dad to be afraid of deep water, but he is. There's no _reason for my assistant to be afraid of any drinks over body temperature, but he is. And I guess there's no reason for me to start panicking whenever I see someone attractive, but-"

"You're not panicking now," shi pointed out.

Bertie started to panic, his speech derailed by the comment. "But... I mean... I kind of... I mean, there was always time to, you know... I figured eventually, someone would... uhm, guys don't always have to... uhm..."

Natasha frowned slightly and stepped backwards into the mists. Bertie's stomach lurched and his heart fell, knowing with an absolute certainty that he had finally offended hir beyond the point of no return, as he'd doubtlessly done so many times in the past. That expression of confusion and dismay flashing across the faces of those he'd sought to chat up, get to know, maybe even impress. He _was_fabulously wealthy, after all. That should have been the best icebreaker ever! Obviously it didn't define who he was as a person, and it certainly wouldn't be his plan to just BUY people's interests or affection, but it was all he had to-

Shi reappeared a moment later, carrying a small green bottle in one paw and a small purple rectangle in the other.

"Don't talk," shi smiled, pressing hirself very gently against his front. He felt himself twitch and nearly leap to attention down below, although his arousal was completely smothered by hir own snoozing and still overstuffed sheath. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later. Right now, let's just... enjoy the shower, ok?"

Shi handed him the little bar of soap, swirled through with a nebula of bright, sunny colors. It smelled like every fruit he'd ever tried in his life all together, somehow quintessential and undefinable. The racoongrrl then squirted a little dollop of shampoo into hir free paw and wedged the bottle into hir cleavage, where it absolutely wouldn't escape. Shi worked it into a bit of a lather and then began to massage hir own mop of coppery brown curls, each pump and flex of hir arms causing hir bust to rise and fall hypnotically.

After a full minute, Bertie was still clutching the bar of soap and watching Natasha's cleaning ritual. The amused little grin never left the racoongrrl's face, and it was only after rinsing hir hair out that shi took hold of Bertie's wrist and began to manually guide the bar of soap hirself, doodling little designs on the beaver's chest. "You're gonna be one of those guys that likes chicks to bathe him, aren't you?" shi snickered.

This snapped him out of his admiring reverie. "No! I... no, I was just... watching..."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Shi began to guide the soap lower, across his belly, and it was only when shi discretely wedged the bar of soap between his lap and hir sheath that he twitched and decided to take control of his own limbs once more. He lathered himself up swiftly, his cheeks burning far hotter than even the scalding shower could match. Natasha managed to suppress another giggle. "I'll just return the favor then, hmm? Check out my sweet boo gettin' all slick and soapy?"

Bertie clenched, shooting the bar of soap into a high ballistic arc. It vanished from sight almost instantly due to the mists, and it was only the faint distant splash that indicated it had touched down somewhere safe.

He looked from his empty paw to Natasha's hysterical guffaws, down to hir quaking bosom, and then back to his still somewhat sudsy chest.

"I'll just... rinse myself off now, I guess..."

---

It was just shy of 11:30am when Natasha eventually, and with great reluctance, fumbled hir way through the shower chamber to the knobs and turned the tempest off. Bertie, who was used to living somewhere that had eight months of winter and four months of terrible skiing, had expected the sudden rush of ice cold air, but instead was just greeted by the pleasant return of the tropical island's perpetually warm breeze.

Of course, when the steam started to dissipate he was immediately on the hunt for a towel, even though Natasha had already helped to make sure the anxious beaver was very, very thoroughly cleaned. It took him three tries to actually get out of the shower stall, having apparently picked the wrong direction in the fog every time, so by the time he located the exit Natasha was already there, waiting and amused.

"I thought all you northerners had that good sense of direction," shi grinned. "Able to walk up both sides of a mountain blindfolded and find your way home, all that jazz."

Bertie started. He hadn't heard that expression in a while. "Some of us traded it for dashing good lucks." He paused, blinked, and sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Dashing good looks. Gods, the one time I try that line, and I fuck it up. That's me."

"Swearing in front of me! My my, you've come a long way!" Natasha clapped approvingly, which only drew Bertie's attention down to where hir dexterous little paws were seemingly backlit by hir bright, fluffy belly. "My delicate virgin ears, and all that."

Water beading and sluicing off of Bertie as off the proverbial beaver's backside, he was unable to pass Natasha and step out into the main room in search of a towel. The portal through the side of the glass block shower was tremendously wide, large enough for three Berties, but the overendowed racoongrrl was taking up quite a bit more width than he did. "Are there towels? I mean, I guess everyone could just sort of drip-dry and evaporate here. Or is the humidity too high here for that?"

Natasha just rolled her eyes, and in what was apparently becoming a familiar action between the two, gently took him by the wrist and led him out of the shower.

"You know, there's something to be said for a hot shower on a tropical island. The air actually is kind of cool by comparison, once you shut off the water and the steam clears. I'd probably have goose bumps, if you could actually see bare skin. Kinda feels like I do."

Shi led him into the bathing room, still chattering away. He felt good, now that he was apparently able to speak without panicking. It seemed peculiar that he couldn't stop, though. "I wonder if anyone here even gets goose bumps. Except geese, of course. The term is actually horripilation, but that probably doesn't sound as cute as 'goose bumps'."

Natasha's fur was already fluffing up from the warmth and humidity, making hir appear even softer and more plush than before, if such a thing were possible. Bertie, on the other hand, with his coarse outer coat, was already virtually dry, though he could feel the trickles as droplets meandered down his undercoat, heading for his toes. "Fascinating," shi agreed, pulling him through the circular mirrored walk-in closet that separated the bedroom from the grotto.

Bertie glanced around. "Hey, all my clothes are put away already! Wow, that's some service you got here. A few places I've been do that, but they usually ask first, and they've got just _armies_of folk in matching uniforms keeping them running. Hey, are all those clothes yours? Crazy, you have less clothes here than me, and I packed light. I guess you just won't be wearing much, ha ha ha."

"Did you know," Natasha countered, interrupting Bertie when his train of thought seemed to derail of its own accord, "that there've been studies done regard situational displacement and anxiety disorders?"

"Really?" Bertie replied. It seemed to be the only answer that made sense at the moment; he was still thinking about watching Natasha getting dressed. That struck him as quite funny, since he was quite actually staring at a very naked Natasha, and imagining hir clothed. How bizarre!

"It's been observed that there's a distinct and measurable time period between being immersed into a new and potentially stressful situation, and considering one to be a part of that situation, rather than an outsider. This is only for situations where one is seeking acceptance, I should note," Natasha added, sounding very professorial. "Where one is _demanding_acceptance, indeed _taking_acceptance, there is no such delay."

"You don't say."

Still holding his wrist, though only between thumb and forefinger, Natasha reached the edge of the huge oval bed and rolled hir hips with practiced ease, heaving hir burdensome sac onto the mattress. Shifting to one side, shi knelt alongside hir dense pair of balls, so heavy that they were sinking a good six inches into the bouncy memory foam, and drew Bertie as close as shi could manage. As shi shifted onto hir rump and began to scoot backwards, hir eyes just barely visible over hir bosom, shi continued speaking. "It takes six hours for the cortisol and corticotropic hormones to trigger the release of sufficient polypeptides to post-transitionally modify the hormones into the proper and much less psychoactive residues, though it can take still more time if there is a prolonged period of distress. Follow me here, Bertie."

Bertie was entranced by the impressively athletic feat of the immensely endowed racoongrrl wriggling hirself backwards across a bed the size of his private boardroom back in New Caledonia. Hir legs were almost completely obscured by hir maleness, hir sheath swaying left to right as shi scooted hirself towards the mound of pillows at the heart of the bed. "Hmm?"

"Follow me. Like, _literally_follow me," Natasha giggled, eventually heaving hirself up against a bracing wall of willingly-sourced eiderdown cushions. "Onto the bed, Bee."

The beaver blinked and glanced down at himself. His naked self. His naked, brightly-lit-by-the-nearly-noonday-sunlight-streaming-through-the-panoramic-floor-to-ceiling-windows self. His naked, semi-aroused, and sort-of-mostly-in-shape self.

Bored of the view already, he turned his attentions back to the lounging vision that was Natasha, the sort of creature he'd idly dream about while national security advisors were droning on to him about national security, or whatever it was they thought they were paid to do.

Surprised by his own boldness, he crawled onto the bed. Natasha nodded in satisfaction. "Good boy. Now then, where was... right! See, there are some things that can speed along this transition from a stressed cortisol state to a... less-stressed state. There are numerous links to the circadian rhythms of many species to these states, and to stimulated responses to increased production, so with all that in mind... c'mere, you."

Bertie was less than two crawling paces away from Natasha, but his paws had started trembling again. He kept moving forwards, though; at this point, even Honey wouldn't have been able to keep him from closing the gap between himself and the nigh-perfect hyper-herm that was his 'grrlfriend' for the week. He placed one paw on hir ankle as he moved closer, and shi grinned hir approval.

But when he was about to place his other across hir huge and wonderfully-inviting sheath, shi shifted hir weight, causing it to tumble to the mattress with a heavy 'thwump'. Hir paw caught his, and shi brought it up between hir breasts, giving it a little smooch. "Ah ah ah," shi purred, drawing him closer but guiding him to lay against the pillows just as shi was. "We're just having a nap right now, sweetie. Your body is jacked so high on stress right now I could probably tap your spine with a tuning fork and get a high C."

Bertie nodded slowly; shi was probably right. "But the shower was-"

"The shower was what your body needed, don't get me wrong. Hot water, local botanicals, steam forcing you to sweat out the free radicals you've been swimming in thanks to seventeen hours of flights. You're a little dehydrated right now, but that's just the ticket for helping you get to a deep, restful sleep. C'mere, Bee."

Bertie wasn't much for sleeping on his side, finding it much more comfortable to sprawl out on his back or his belly, but when Natasha's arm appeared from around hir bosom to draw him closer, he decided that he couldn't imagine anything more cozy than this. At least, until one of hir legs scooted out from beneath hir sac to hook his footpaw and drag him even closer down there, as well.

Shi angled hirself so that his head lay against the inner swell of one breast, his nose bumping against its twin with each of the racoongrrl's exhalations. Shi guided his hand to hir hip, and wriggled hirself closer until his entire world seemed to be taken up with enjoying how hir fur felt against his.

"Close your eyes, Bertie," shi whispered, leaning forwards and briefly smothering him in hir cleavage, which wasn't something he was entirely opposed to. "Just... close your eyes, and focus on my breathing."

He wasn't just tired; he was exhausted. How long had it been? Friday, all day, as usual. He hadn't even taken lunch, he'd just gotten a burrito from the machine in the hall. Honey liked to joke that he was the only person in the building brave enough to eat those things, and the great Bertrand McCulloch was single-handedly keeping that company in business. Then an Uber to the airport, but he was answering e-mails the whole time. Heck, he was answering and queuing up e-mails on that whole first flight, too. Cola, energy drinks, a few granola bars, layover, security checkpoints, and another flight. A five minute nap, more cola, some little flower biscuits with the Ilsa Calamatan flag imprinted on the flaky dough, and then landing only to find it was still daylight. The hairs on the back of his head had started twitching just from the relentless hours beneath the sun. Of course, seeing Natasha had made some of the aches and pains fade away, hir merest presence making him feel happy, but his body was having flashbacks to all-night study sessions, and not the good kind.

He opened his mouth to say that, perhaps, a nap would indeed be a good idea, but all that came out was a yawn that ended with a popping of his jaw-bone that they could both hear clearly.

"I'll take that as a yes, sweetie," Natasha murmured, stroking hir fingers through Bertie's hair. "We've got a wake-up call scheduled for four. Then it's dressed, a little light dinner, and then I'm gonna show you the sights. And then we're going to find out about the real Bertie."

"'n the real you," Bertie mumbled from the depths of hir decolletage, giving hir hip a little squeeze. "Wan' know all about... my grrlfriend..."

Natasha blushed, hir tail fluffing out at the unexpected comment.

"Sweet dreams, lil' Bee," shi breathed, delicately moving his paw from hir waist to the side of hir sheath. Bertie inhaled slightly, but his only other response was to begin snoring gently.

Part 3

Saturday, 3:03pm

Bertie woke up to several very perplexing sensations.

He only owned one house that he considered to be his 'home', even though he also technically owned residences in a dozen palatial estates worldwide. He had several pre-reserved suites in all of the world's finest hotels, as well as several of the more exclusive, cozy, and out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfasts when he was allowed some time away from the hustle and the bustle of the city. Despite wealth that could be measured in terms of GDP, he was moderately indifferent to the size or quality of the bed, the thread count of the sheets, or the grandeur of the bedroom itself.

What he did insist on, wherever he happened to find himself sleeping, was the ambient temperature to be turned down as low as was feasibly possible, and for extra blankets and quilts to be laid out. Being a cold-weather fellow, raised in a house that needed fresh plastic wrap stretched and taped across the windows to keep the snow out, he'd never found himself anywhere he would consider comfortable if he could not burrow himself to the bottom of a thick pile of down comforters, and periodically stick a toe out to confirm the air was still freezing.

So waking up stark naked, without so much as a top sheet to cover him, and still finding himself smothered in warm, heady air...

"Wha' the..." he mumbled, pushing himself upright. His paws sank several inches into the plush, foam-topped mattress, and the way it flexed beneath him indicated it was much, much larger than the standard King-sized he was used to. His other paw groped for a sheet, something, anything to draw across his naked body, but the silk slipped through his fingers like so much water.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead!" came a voice that was eerily, frighteningly familiar.

Bertie's ears shot up, and he spun around on the bed so quickly to track the voice that he lost what little traction he had on the silk, sending his head one direction and his butt zipping in the other. The faceplant was quite harmless, though; memory foam had certain advantages. He pushed himself up, carefully, still trying to come to grips with what his eyes were showing him.

"Sleep good?" Natasha inquired, hir eyes huge with concern behind hir thick glasses.

"Yark," Bertie replied, and he was rather proud that he'd gotten that choked sound to be mostly in the affirmative.

"Yayy! Normally I'd clap, but you know... gotta stay centered."

Bertie could only nod dumbly, glad that his hips were facing down against the bed, though also rather frustrated that the sensation of his erection sliding against the silk was not making it go away.

Natasha was on the far side of the palatial bedroom, and Bertie was truly appreciating just how much open floor area there was; the high ceilings had made it difficult to properly capture the proportions. The late afternoon sun cast long, bronze-hued shadows of hir across the floor, though the general shape of the shadow was a simple triangle. Natasha, apparently, had needed less nap time than he, and was now embroiled in a rather difficult battle with hir body by forcing it into different yoga positions.

Never before had Bertie thought of 'downward dog' in quite this way, and he doubted he ever would again.

Natasha's tail waved gaily to him, hir rump standing proud and poised high atop the A-frame hir body had become. Shi stood on hir tip-toes at the rear, and hir extended fingertips at the front, while the entirety of the interior of that pyramid was crammed full with the wonderfully resilient bulges of hir breasts, hir sheath, and in particular hir sac. Grey and hazel fur jostled and squeezed out to either side, swaying enticingly as shi struggled to maintain the pose. Really, he wondered if shi could take a deep breath and completely remove all four paws from the carpet.

"C-centered," Bertie huffed, feeling his own paddle-like tail stiffening in sympathy.

Somehow Natasha managed to lift one sleek arm from the bright blue yoga mat, and shi tapped the mat that had been set up next to hir. "Care to join me? I hear all you executive types are really into this sort of thing. Meditation Over Medication, wasn't that a speech you gave year or two back? You've done like half a dozen Tedd-Talks, and between you and me I've watched about half a million, but I'm pretty sure that one was you."

Dammit, it was me! Bertie thought in a panic. I did that speech! I mean, Honey wrote a big chunk of it, but still, it was my idea, kind of...

"I'm gonna pick your brain about that later, Bertie, I feel you glossed over a few important points..."

OH NO NOW SHI HATES ME!

Shi glanced back, which was no mean feat considering the sheer volume of flesh between hir muzzle and the bed. Hir eyes widened comically behind hir glasses. "Oh, jeez, I'm not MAD at you or anything!" shi said, a mixture of concern and mirth. "You look like someone just stepped on your tail in church! I... ah, jeez, one sec, hon..."

Bertie watched, his attention as raptly held now as it had been at any point in his adult life, as Natasha somehow righted hirself. Hir paws sank deliciously far into hir own swells, pushing against hirself in a fashion that somehow bent but did not outright defy the laws of physics, and when shi was finally upright (with a triumphant huff and the faint look of surprise on hir face), shi sauntered over to the bed.

And that only confirmed that shi was now a great deal more, er, 'filled out' than shi'd been when Bertie had dozed off.

Shi deftly turned sideways, giving him a profile view that near caused him to stroke out, and artfully perched hir pert derriere on the edge of the bed. "C'mere, Bertie," shi purred, patting the silk sheets. "You remember what I said about cortisol processing earlier?"

It was unusual to hear what sounded like a university lecture spoken in the sort of tone that normally caused clothes to disappear, but Bertie was rapidly becoming used to that aspect of hir. It raised a few questions in the back of his mind, but they were ones to deal with later. "Mmm hmmm," he squeaked.

"And how it takes time, and sleeping helps to reset things, and blah blah blabbitty blah?"

In spite of himself, Bertie chuckled. "Yeah, something like that."

"So I want you to take a deep, deep breath for me, Bertie. A deep, deep breath, like this." Shi inhaled, giving him the sort of visual aid he'd always wanted as a child. "Diaphragm out, belly out, chest expanding, back STRAIGHT, you see?"

He saw a great deal of expanding, and nodded rapidly. He started to inhale, but shi raised a finger like a snappy headmistress. "Not laying down like that! Sit up!"

He blushed vibrantly, extremely aware that he was naked and probably hard enough to support his luggage, but he had to come to grips with the fact that they were going to be sharing a bed for a week and he'd already seen enough of hir naked body to last him... well, not a LIFETIME, but a decent chunk of one, certainly. No point in getting greedy, was there?

Bertie crawled forward the rest of the way, marveling at Natasha's breath control. The tops of hir breasts were essentially level with hir eyes in this posture, looking as though shi were being inflated by some concealed air tank. Shi made the 'get on with it' hand gesture, and he slipped his legs forward, his knee pressing up against hir own.

He inhaled, deeply, stretching his back, straightening his shoulders. His neck popped, his hips made a 'pok' noise, and he found a little more room to breathe in through his nostrils. His hands twitched, rising an inch now and then, but he fought down the urge to cover his lap, to cover his erection. One that, he noted with renewed awe, seemed almost hilariously small just when compared with Natasha's sheath.

"Hold it for ten seconds," shi said, licking hir lips. Shi hirself had to have been holding hirs for close to thirty. "Stillness. Feel the muscles of your chest, the striations against your lungs, turning orange with effort, then red with exertion. Feel it."

Besides, his internal monologue continued, look at hir breasts right now. Shi can't even see your NECK, let alone your CROTCH! And furthermore, how many has shi seen? How many has EVERYONE except you seen? Sometimes he hated the voice of reason, which seemed to exist just to remind him that his fears, while crushing, were largely unfounded.

"And... exhale slowly,_keeping your chest expanded. Diaphragm in, belly in, back straight. Slowly! Feel all that redness leave your body, feel it drawn out by the exhaled air. When your stomach wall is touching your spine, only then can you exhale from your lungs! Two... one... and _out."

Together, Bertie and Natasha whooshed themselves empty over the next thirty seconds. His head spun, his eyes blurred, and by the end he found he was focusing on the 'redness' leaving his body, imagining that it was all of the stress he'd built up since... well, since waking, really.

It was only when he inhaled once more he realized that hir paw had slipped across his, squeezing it reassuringly. And it was only when he glanced down to note hir grip with surprise that he realized that it wasn't just hir knee that was pressed against his, but a significant portion of the immensely gravid sac that was forcing hir legs apart.

"Now then," Natasha grinned, leaning forwards, an avalanche of quivering bosom threatening to tumble into his lap. "Do you still feel like you need to panic around me?"

Bertie opened his mouth, prepared to squeak in terror... but the terror wasn't there. He was stressed, to be sure, his heart was pounding and his blood was rushing in his ears, he could feel the individual carpet fibers through his toes, he could see the incongruously tiny shapes of pleasurecraft scuttling back and forth on the syrupy ocean waves miles away... but he wasn't panicking anymore.

"I guess not," he said, scratching the back of his head like a scolded schoolchild.

"Do you still feel like you need to answer me with monosyllabic cave-beaver grunts?"

His eyebrow arched, and he stared at hir challenging expression. "T'would be the furthest thing from my current predisposition, mi'lady," he grinned, wondering why he felt so thrilled, so elated. Sitting on the edge of a bed, in a quiet room, lit only by the sunset, and he was flashing back to his first time skydiving.

"And do you think that I'm still just the prettiest gosh-durned grrl in the whole wide world?" shi rumbled, now leaning forward so far that the forefront of hir bust was just starting to brush his chest, hir nose inches from his own.

He wanted to answer with some sort of expansive, flowery affirmative, but he was suddenly seized by the most remarkable of urges. He'd been aware of this impulse before, but usually at the absolute most inopportune times, situations where it would have gotten him slapped, or fired, or worse. He thought it was just another way he was wired wrong, another way he was a square peg in a world of soft, round holes.

But this time, THIS time, he trusted the urge.

This time, he leaned forwards. This time, he pursed his lips the ways he was almost positive they did in the movies. This time he inhaled slightly, so he wouldn't find himself awkwardly gasping. This time, he kissed first.

It was only a pity that his eyes were closed after he'd finished gauging the distance, else he'd have seen Natasha's eyes bulge with surprise, and then delight, before half-lidding as shi returned the affection with the sort of dangerous excess only a hyper-herm can truly summon.

Hir grip tightened around his wrist like a vise and he was dragged forwards, quite willingly if unexpectedly. His other arm pinwheeled as he fought to keep from tumbling off of the bed, but shi caught that one with expert skill, relocating that paw to the side of hir breast and pinning it there with authority.

Bertie, ever the quick learner, didn't protest.

When shi was sure he wasn't about to claw his way to freedom, shi allowed hir center of gravity to shift to where it most naturally desired to be. Shi tumbled against his body, driving him back onto the bed with a whoosh of suddenly-compressed memory foam, to say nothing of the suddenly-compressed Bertie. He was a stocky, sturdy, and these days surprisingly fit young man, but he was shocked and incredibly delighted to feel the sheer, palpable and altogether staggering weight of the young raccoon woman. He sank several inches into the mattress, and several more inches into hir plush anterior. His mind roiled, trying to properly isolate the sensations of hir sac against his legs, hir sheath against his belly, hir breasts against just about everything else, very nearly engulfing his head.

Just when he thought that he was on the verge of some cataclysmic climax, light and air suddenly returned to his world and he found himself floating back up to the surface of the bed. Natasha, who was easily twice his mass once all of hir wonderful curves were accounted for, was bouncing hir way back to hir yoga mat, bushy tail swishing like the quill on some wondrous artist's pen.

Bertie twitched, glancing down his body, surprised at his lack of self-conscience considering his exceedingly advanced state of arousal. "Mwah...?" he asked, retreating into the safe, comfortable land of monosyllables.

"Don't start that again," Natasha threatened jovially, returning to downward dog. "I've got a few more poses to get through, and then, Mister McCulloch, you and I are going to go on our first date as proper boyfriend and grrlfriend! Which is what we ARE! For the next... seven and three-quarters days."

Bertie's mind was used to tackling concepts of daunting complexity, and in fact tackling several such subjects at once in order to determine overlapping processes, synergies, conflicts, and manners that waste and redundancies could be eliminated. It was a knack that had elevated him to the position he now enjoyed, that of the technical advisor who could wear eight-dollar t-shirts in front of oil tycoons, military contractors, stock market billionaires and heads of state, and get away with it.

That mind was now filled with countless overlapping images and fantasies, most of which involved Natasha still perched on top of him. He was finding it difficult to change gears back into the mundanity of hotels, restaurants and yoga.

"Awww," he managed, the barest hint of frustrated disappointment in his voice.

Natasha's hair flew like a wave breaking over a granite boulder, hir eyes blazing with mischief. "Darling, if we go any further than that right now, trust me... you are going to be in absolutely no shape to go anywhere!" shi leered, baring teeth that suddenly seemed predatory. "And I'm not going to miss out on our first night on the town!"

The combination of threat and promise in that statement sent Bertie's stomach tumbling down to his feet, and the sudden drop in blood pressure managed to relieve some of the pressure in his throbbing arousal. His toes curled, his tail straightened, and he swallowed nervously, wondering just what exactly his beautiful 'grrlfriend' had in mind.

"And besides," shi continued, arching hir lower back with a dancer's flexibility, hir exceedingly ample rump quivering invitingly, "don't you want me all nice and... limber?"

And just like that, Bertie was back at almost painfully full attention. "Y-yes," he nodded, scooting very, very slowly to the edge of the bed.

"Do you want to join me for the last few poses?" Shi sounded as casually unconcerned as anyone in his office would have been remarking on the arrival of the coffee cart.

"Er... uhm... no, that's..."

"Awww, come on," shi wheeled, hir eyes suddenly enormous behind hir wire-rimmed glasses. "I wanna see what I'm gonna be working with, after all! A grrl like me needs to take... certain things into account."

His eyes were still drawn from hir eyes, across the capacious orbs stuffed between hir body and the floor, and over to hir backside, the faintest hints of pink womanhood visible through the rich brown and fog-grey fluff. "Well, I... uhm... sure... suppose... why not..."

"Breathe, honey, breathe," shi snickered, patting the yoga mat again.

The sun continued to lower, the western horizon starting to acquire the first hints of pinkish-purple blush. Bertie and Natasha's shadows stretched out further behind them as they moved carefully through warrior poses, pigeon poses, side angles, and resting poses. Bertie thought that some of those would be just flat-out impossible for the spectacularly-endowed young woman, but nevertheless shi persevered. He lost sight of hir face completely for a few of them, but shi occasionally flashed him a thumbs up when shi seemed in danger of suffocating hirself.

And ye gods, shi IS limber! Bertie thought, hoping he had even the most basic physical requirements to keep up, let alone to properly please and satisfy hir.

While they posed, when Natasha was sure that his breathing was proper, controlled, and serene, they chatted. Bertie found that, awkward erection or not, he was growing far more comfortable around hir than he would ever have imagined. He'd entertained, or perhaps endured, several daydreams during their travels from the airport to the resort, and in all of them he spent the entire week physically unable to talk to Natasha, unable to open up, unable to do anything but scuff his feet with his hands in his pockets. The thought of forcing hir through an entire week of THAT, eight days of being stuck with a billionaire dullard, had horrified him.

But now, with their noses nearly touching and their bodies twisted like clovers perpendicular away from one another, he managed to make some sort of observation that caused hir to laugh, and even his most introverted scrutinizing couldn't find anything fake or forced in hir mirth. I did it! I said something witty! ... fuck, what did I even SAY? I can't remember! Gods, shi's pretty...

Something on the far side of the room bleeped, and Natasha nodded. "Three-forty-five, sweetcheeks," Natasha chirped brightly, rolling out of hir pose and coming to rest, eventually, on hir front. Shi sloshed back and forth as though sprawled out on an overfilled waterbed, and Bertie found the sight almost unbearably adorable. "That means we got fifteen minutes until our chariot arrives downstairs! And by chariot, I mean I rented us a cruiser cart for the night. You drive, right?"

"Like the wind," Bertie said, inching his way closer to hir, even if it meant leaving the safe territory of his yoga mat. "Is that one of those golf cart things I've seen puttering around?"

"You betcha. All electric, perfect for getting around. There's big chunks of downtown where they don't allow gas vehicles, and likewise the resort premises." Hir grin deepened. "And besides, some of us don't like to spend too much time on our paws. That's a lot of weight, you know. Things get sore."

"Perish the thought," Bertie winked. "Nothing is too good for my... uhm... grrlfriend."

Natasha dug hir toes into the carpet and rolled hirself forwards, bringing hirself close enough to give Bertie's nose the briefest of smooches. "Sounds good to say, doesn't it?"

"Mmm hmm. I could get used to it..."

"You'd better get used to it quickly, hon. Sunlight's a-wasting, and you and I need to get dressed. All your duds are set up in the closet, which, by the way, I am suddenly jealous of. I need me a closet like that."

Bertie lunged forwards, trying to return hir affection with an ardor he could scarcely believe he possessed. Once again, though, Natasha rolled just out of his reach and in a flash was on hir feet, swaying and churning and sending a primal thrill right down his spine. Quite incongruously, he found hir speech patterns almost as interesting, in that moment, as hir physique. Shi spoke like a doctor, when it suited hir, but shi also had the same sort of trailer-park drawl and patois he'd grown up around.

Somehow, it only attracted him more.

"S-so, where are we going?" he called, after watching hir saunter off towards the giant circular closet, which was more of a mirror-lined antechamber to the palatial bedroom than anything else. "I know that, uhm... some of the nights were pre-planned..."

When he walked in to the closet, catching sight of a dozen reflections of himself dancing to and fro with a dozen reflections of Natasha, shi already had one of the sliding panels pushed aside and was pulling out hanger after hanger, holding up incredibly skimpy tops to hir bust and posing. "What do you think, the blue or the green?"

Bertie's eyes widened, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. It would be grandiose to even call those bikini tops; he was severely doubting they had the raw fabric to properly cover hir nipples. Ever the fast learner, though, he did not point that out. "Gre-e-e-e-en," he eventually managed, heading reluctantly to his own side of the closet.

"Good choice!" shi sang, tossing the blue one back heedlessly. It bounced off the rod and fell to the floor. "What about skirt? Any preference?"

"Sh-"

"And don't say short!"

"Sh-h-h-h... shell pink?"

Natasha laughed. "You think fast! Don't worry about over-dressing. We're casual as fuck here. And you'll wanna wear something you can get out of in a hurry."

Bertie froze, halfway through the process of removing a pair of neatly-ironed boxer shorts from a hanger. "W-w-w-w-why?" he warbled.

Before he could turn around, tiny paws and soft, plump arms encircled his waist, and far, far too much dense flesh was crammed up against his backside. "Because, silly," shi growled into his ear. "You're still too tense! We're booked for massages on the beach. You're gonna relax, or die trying."

"...," Bertie breathed, uncrossing his eyes. "Let's... try for the first one."