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Chapter Sixteen

Saturday July 5, 2008

8:51am

The room was silent and sunlit, his body faint and fluctuant. While Firecrackers barked, bottle rockets hissed, exploded, Tyson lay awake, lay underneath the slight layers of his bedding and a very unsettling image.

Dark eyes. All-over black fur. Black, glistening canine lips. Lips pressing against his.

He flung himself from his bed and rushed to leave, donning shorts and shoes for his morning run, glad to slip unnoticed from the house. Not sure how he would face anyone else. Outside, while he veered from smoke clouds, showers of sparks, downed branches and vast puddles, thoughts of the kiss followed Tyson. It mattered not how hard nor long he ran.

This isn't normal.

He shook his head, shaking cool water of the shower from his fur. He tried to shake thoughts of the previous night from his mind as well, but a part of himself made that very difficult.

"Feeling pent up?"

Swearing, the shepherd snatched a towel to cover himself and to dry his soaking fur.

Perhaps it had been the alcohol. Purely accidental. A way for his mother to mess with him.

Those arguments made it no further than the hallway upstairs.

Yawning, the sleeves of her baby-blue robe coiling down her arms as she stretched, Patricia emerged from the master bedroom as her son, a towel 'round his waist, entered the opposite end of the hall. "Good morning," she groaned, and she slowly moved forward.

"Morning," grunted Tyson. "You're up early."

Patricia smiled tiredly and opened her arms.

"Let me get dressed," said Tyson, and with one paw clutching his towel he sidestepped his mother.

Undeterred, Patricia grabbed hold of her son by an arm, pressed herself against his hip. "Out running again?"

The strange, prickling sensation Tyson had noticed the previous night ran down his spine, ran from one shoulder to fingertips as his mother's claws stroked his arm.

"Mmm," hummed Patricia, admiringly, smiling wide, looking up and into her son's frozen eyes. "Good morning."

* * *

Sunday July 6, 2008

10:41am

"Now open your hip, keeping length from your toes, through your neck and your fingers . . ."

Synthesizer pads swayed, drifted through the wavering clinch, the heavenly pluck of sitar strings while the white stoat contorted herself on a palm-lined beach, her voice sedate, smooth as the glassy ocean waters resting at her back.

Patricia held the same lunging pose between the couch and the television upstairs, framed in a mark of late-morning Midwest sun which peeked through the yawning curtains. At the sound of footsteps rising on the stairs, her head turned from her forward-reaching fingertips, and she smiled quietly. "How was your run?"

Towel wrapped about his waist, eyeing the stoat on the television screen, Tyson shrugged, muttered,"A bit windy. How's your yoga?"

The mother shepherd smirked. "You tell me."

Graceful as acetone, with the ease and sheen of fuel oil, Patricia spread her legs wide and folded her torso, bending forward and down until her big, black ears brushed the red surface of her yoga mat. A raised tail granted view of a tight rump and fit legs fastened within black stirrup leggings. "Not bad, huh?" the mother said with an inverted smile.

Tyson said nothing, tore his eyes from the presentation and trotted towards his room. His heart was back and running again as he slammed the door behind himself. The towel was growing tight.

There were no more excuses, no assurances against his mother's intents. He understood the progression, knew where he was being led. And he hated the part of himself that wanted to follow, the part of himself that was letting this happen, the part of himself that was, at that very moment, considering those subtly-contoured calves, that small but shapely ass, that smile of pure sex and self-assurance. And in that same moment, that part of himself strayed a further step into the shadows.

Next, Tyson laid his muzzle in the warm, black pads of his paws.