Cassanova in January
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. As such, it may contain sexual acts of various and assorted yiffery including, but not limited to: consensual acts between an anthro and a feral, zoophilia, walkies, winter in the upper plains, and gratuitous use of the present tense. If any of this is not to your liking, feel free to find something a bit more palatable. Or you could read on anyway and pretend to be righteously disgusted... your choice. This story, while fiction, is based on a real-life job to which the author has taken literary license to make it a more interesting read; it's up to you to speculate what really happened and what I've made up. Enjoy!
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Cassanova in January ©MMVI Whyte Yoté
On a frigid Monday morning in January, one would think it a luxury to stay in bed and have time to oneself: to read, watch television, or do other, more pleasurable things well-suited to a single person under the covers.
Graduated from college, degree in paw, but not yet caught up in the eight-to-five world of adulthood. Working late nights at a local bar and grill nets me a good chunk of change, but it makes waking up in the early afternoon the norm. Mondays are my days off, the dinner traffic not being sufficient to justify the gas spent to get there and all. Business people don't spend their money right after the weekend.
I treasure my Mondays, for two reasons. First and foremost is the fact that my day isn't regulated by my 4:45pm in-time at work, giving me a rare free evening to do as I please. Second, Monday is the day I get to visit my sweetheart puppy down at the local animal shelter. My pastime, my friend, and certainly much more, he is the shining star in my week...practically the only time I can feel like myself because I'm happy with someone else, just living in the moment.
Drifting out of a deep, uninterrupted sleep is truly an indulgence to be taken once in a long while. Undersleeping and oversleeping both can be detrimental to the system, but this morning I wake up to a dark room almost exactly eight hours after I went to bed. As I lay there, staring up into blackness, just breathing, I try to remember the dream I had been having just prior to waking. There are fleeting images, and even more fleeting left-over emotions brought on by something I can't recall...it was vaguely menacing, and the adrenaline I feel slowly drains from my system, having no purpose at this moment of relaxation.
One last yawn forces my muzzle wide, silently, and I lick the night-fuzz from my mouth, rolling to the left to look at the time. It's 1:48pm. Just over an hour until I get to play with My Puppy, My Cassanova. It seems far away still, and I entertain the thought of being a little early today. He won't be expecting that, as anal as I am about keeping a set schedule. Will he know the difference?
Maybe.
I think about the last couple of months, and my previous encounters with Cassanova. I replay those afternoons in front of my open eyes, through the artificial night in my room. Two huskies running together in a field of long-dormant grass, one on two legs and the other on four, the long purple leash flying out behind the latter like an insane kite tail...one of them tackling the other into a black-and-white, furry ball, wrestling and fighting for dominance, two similar bodies collecting bits of wheat, chaff and snow from the cold-hardened ground...and then stopping, panting, and locking eyes. And then...and then...
But I mustn't get carried away so early in the day just thinking about the past. Should I take this fantasy too far--and it wouldn't take but a few minutes to bring it to a messy conclusion--I would be denying Cassanova the shared pleasure of watching the result of his seduction. I throw the comforter to the end of the bed, stretching and bringing my feet to my groin. Joints pop into place, relieved of their nighttime stiffness, but one part of me remains very stiff regardless. I can feel its weight against my lower stomach, rustling against the treasure trail of black pubic fur leading to my sheath. I haven't even touched myself yet. This afternoon suddenly seems forever and a day away.
Fighting the urge to urge my erection further, I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My tail, trapped for so many hours underneath my body, springs up like the spring it is, brushing my lower back with its unruly floof. It will be matted, I know, but I sleep on my back and there's no helping it. Besides, I enjoy a nice thorough grooming. My arousal has already started to fade.
My morning routine (that's what I call it no matter when I wake up) usually consists of a short brushing, then dressing and leaving. But on my Mondays, I want to be especially presentable for my puppy, so I take a shower to rinse off anything that might have accumulated during the night. Plus, it does wonders for the mats that continually plague my tail, armpits and other assorted crevices. So, after swinging out of bed and turning on the light ("Ow," I mumble as my pupils struggle to adjust), I pad over to the bathroom and get a nice cloud of steam going. My landlord has an industrial furnace, so it takes no time at all for the water in my shower to come up to scalding.
As soon as I enter, any thoughts about being early to see my puppy go out the proverbial window; I've always been a sucker for nice long hot showers, and as the knots in my back and my fur loosen, I fall prey to the water's siren song. It lulls me into a half-slumber, the kind you can have and be perfectly awake at the same time. I think of nothing in particular, just the wonderful hot pleasure soaking me to the skin and running into the drain, weighing me down by a good ten pounds but making me look malnourished all at once. Shampooing is quick and easy, but I leave the conditioner in for a few minutes to cut down on brush time. It feels like I've spent hours in there, but when I emerge with a towel around my shoulders I see only twenty minutes has passed since I stepped in. Oh, but it felt good!
I watch the weather as I dry off, happy to note that it will be a typical January day in the upper plains: cold, breezy but not cloudy, with a high of twenty-two degrees. Hopefully I won't have to wear my heavy gloves. By the time I get to the shelter, the temperature will have topped out...that's why I pick mid-afternoon for my meetings with Cassanova. If we're going to be out in the cold, we might as well be as warm as possible. I wouldn't want him to get uncomfortable when we play. Then again, I could use my muzzle this time...
There goes my erection again, one angry inch staring at me while I bend to dry between my toes, as if to say, "Quit ignoring me." I make a silent promise to it, assuring its release, and it agreeably retreats into my sheath. Never thought a dog could get me so worked up.
Most of my fur can be towel-dried and left as-is, but my head and tail usually need some brushing to de-mat, helping them dry and keep floofy. I turn to The History Channel and listen detachedly to an episode of Modern Marvels while putting the finishing touches on my fur. A pair of loose-fitting boxers, some ratty jeans and one long-sleeved T-shirt later, I'm ready to head out. My winter coat renders any other coat superfluous, and though I like the pockets and fashion of them, I rarely wear them; it just doesn't get cold enough.
One last check in the mirror before I go, just to make sure. Everything looks in place, all the white hairs where they're supposed to be right next to all the black hairs where they're supposed to be, clean and shiny and floofy. My teeth are spotless and bright white, my breath freshly minted...Cassanova likes to kiss, and I have taken him up on that multiple times.
Jingling my keys in a pocket, I leave home without rushing. I'm in such a good mood thinking about my fun-filled afternoon to come that hurrying along seems to be a waste of energy. I drive just under the speed limit, switching from preset to preset on my radio before finally turning it off and enjoying the low whirr of wind around my vehicle. My body and mind are one, relaxed and clear and worry-free, because I'm about to do something I've waited a week to do, the expectancy for which has been both tempered and unbearable. But now it's only a few minutes and a few miles away, and for me the wait is over. Soon, Cassanova will share in my enthusiasm as only a dog can.
Fifteen minutes gets me to the shelter, which sits on the edge of town, set away on about ten acres of donated farmland through which the various animals are free to roam while under supervision. I pull into a space on the side of the building designated for employees and volunteers and make my way to the front door. Someone is already out walking one of the other dogs, a Jack Russell terrier named Ozzy. I've taken him out before too; he's a nice dog, with as much energy as you can throw at him, but he's too small and too yappy. We got along, but certain breeds just don't click with me as much as others. Good dog, though; he'll make someone a happy owner one day.
I wave to the young female kangaroo who is watching Ozzy, and even though she waves back politely I can tell she's freezing her ass off and bordering on miserable. One good thing about being a husky is that I never have to worry about getting cold until the temperature reaches well below zero. The kangaroo lingers on my lightly-clad body a little too long, and I know she's telling herself I'm insane being out dressed like I am. I take pleasure in her confoundedness, turn away and head toward the front door.
As I open the outer of two glass doors, I am met by a blur of golden, whimpering, tugging fur at my legs, followed by its walker, an equally whimpering Rottweiler. "Max, stoppit before I take you right back in!" growls the Rotty, an older man who wears the standard light blue garb of the local penitentiary. It's good to see the fuzz over on the hill putting my tax dollars to work by sending their less serious offenders over here to help with the maintenance of the place. The facility, after all, is non-profit and volunteer-run. That's why they need people like me, and the inmates, to help out wherever we're needed.
The man nods to me curtly, silently apologizing for Max, the golden retriever's, obvious zeal to get outside. He's probably been itching to piss since he woke up this morning, and I feel for him. I step to the side to let them both through, and Max takes a precious second to introduce his snout to my crotch. He bumps underneath my balls a couple of times before finding the open door and fresh air more appealing, and the Rottweiler tries to scold him but doesn't quite have the heart. I'm half-hard again, partly because of that and the man walking Max...I've always had a thing for big, burly canines. I bet he's hung.
I pass the inner door, and the receptionist (who seems not to have noticed the altercation in the entryway at all) doesn't lift her head until I'm almost past her. The look of standard disinterest melts away into a bright smile when she sees who has walked in to volunteer this afternoon.
"Hey you!" the studious raccoon almost shouts. We've become fast friends the past couple of months, despite the short time I spend once a week in her company, and even then it's only walking in and out with various and assorted dogs to be walked. She's only nineteen, and I think she's sweet on me. I hope it never gets that serious, so I won't have to disappoint her with my sexuality. I'm surprised she can't tell already. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"It's only been a week," I reply, successfully faking a blush and regretting the faux pas of it. "You know I come in here the same time, the same day, every week."
Now it's her turn to blush a little, for what reason I can't tell, but her ears go back as she chews on the eraser end of a pencil. "I know that. It just seems like a long time. So anyways, who's the lucky dog today?" I try not to giggle at the double entendre.
"Well," leaning on the counter in a casual sort of way, my tail making lazy swoops in the air behind me, "I thought I'd start off with Cassanova and just go from there. Maybe take some of the newcomers out, since I haven't been around. Hoping for about three hours today." Most volunteers take their dogs out for no more than fifteen minutes at a stretch, barely time to eliminate and run a bit before being dragged back to their cages, but I've made a name for myself by taking dogs out for forty minutes or more, sometimes an hour at a time, and actually playing with them instead of standing to the side and shivering like a retard. It's about caring.
The look on the receptionist's face sends my stomach swooning. "I think Cassanova's gone," she says, confirming the three-second-old dread I already feel. I can't help my own outward disappointment; on the inside I feel about to break down in tears. They promised me they would call me if he were adopted, so I could say goodbye, I think with angry grief. How could they just fuck me over like that? But the voice of reason overcomes that sudden burst of fiery frustration and I control what would surely be an emotional outburst. A volunteer, visually bereft over the adoption of a dog? How suspicious...
"Really? Are you sure it wasn't another husky? Last week there were three in the strays' room."
"Coulda been, I didn't get a good look at the one that got adopted but it was a husky. They all look the same to me; they're so cute!"
They don't look the same, you bitch, can't you see that? I can tell this raccoon is not nearly as dedicated to her job as I am. I bet she's never even taken one dog out in the yard. The smile on my face becomes almost painful, and I struggle to end the conversation as quickly as possible. "Well, I'm losing sunlight, so I better get back there and start up. See you later," as I start toward the cages.
"Don't get too cold," the girl at the desk shouts. "I can't believe you're going out without a jacket." At least I know how to tell the difference between one dog and the next, I shoot back mentally as I push through the batwing doors and into the rear of the building, trying to quell the upset deep in my gut. I sure hope she was wrong about Cassanova.
As soon as I enter the rows of cages, a cacophony rises up through the chain-link and cinderblocks at the recognition of my canine scent. It starts with the black lab in the first cage (there are plenty of labs in this part of the country) who sees me, smells me and barks out a loud "Please walk me!" At least, that's what it looks like he wants. The rest of the dogs don't even have to see me to know there is a two-legged husky in their midst, and that means someone gets a few precious minutes of freedom.
Holding my ears flat to muffle the sharp sounds, I walk quickly past the first row and around the corner to where Cassanova was last week. Sometimes they decide to move their tenants around some, so I take a passing glance in each cage as I go by, just to make sure. Nothing in this first row, which is normal, as my puppy was located on the other side of the room. My heart races as I round the corner, mentally counting five cages down and keeping my eyes fixed on that spot. I even lean down as I approach, attempting to see something before I can physically see it.
There is such a sudden lurch in my stomach when I see the shivering Chihuahua in Cassanova's cage that my tongue does a moonwalk and bunches up against the back of my throat, and I gag silently. He's gone...my darling Cassanova is gone; to a better home, of course, but gone without ever having said goodbye. I have neither the means nor the time to own a dog, but we were brothers, dammit, we were...we were...but I can't say it. Not yet. Not now.
"Bark!" comes from the end of the row, a single attention-grabbing shout now that the other dogs have quieted. My tongue slides back into a normal position and I somehow find a way to clear the words from my throat.
"Hey, boy...is that you?" Gulp. Ordering my legs of rubber to move, the last cage in the line comes into view. This time I don't lean over, because if my mind is playing tricks on me I'll just give up and go home. I hear rustling, and all of a sudden a single paw latches on to a link, claws extended from dirty black pads, with just a little spot of black amid the white fur there. I've studied that paw, held it in my own, run it over my face, and I know who it belongs to. That bitch was wrong.
Cassanova knows me well...I mean, how could a dog not after all the time alone we've spent together? He dances around on his hind legs, blue eyes wide and bright and always focused on me as I kneel on the stone floor, relief momentarily sucking most of the energy from my body. I say a short, silent prayer and put my snout up against the links, allowing my husky to get up close and personal with his energetic kisses. Jumping, up and down again, not barking up a storm but just panting happily, now that I'm here to take him out. "I'm glad to see you too," I mutter in a breaking voice, and give his lips a swipe with my tongue. Nothing more serious yet, not while I'm still in the building. Cassanova seems to read my mind and settles down. As he sits, I can see just how happy he is that I'm here.
Several other dogs announce their protest of my weekly preference for their inmate (no doubt they can sense the building arousal) but they know they may get their chance later on. I make sure to take at least four out every week, because the other volunteers tend to give up early on account of the freezing cold of January. Sissies.
Standing back up, I unlatch the cage door and open it slowly, filling the gap with my body so Cassanova, in his excited state, won't take it upon himself to escape and run around the room, getting all his furry friends into a frenzy again. But he remains where he is, always watching me with what I know is barely concealed hyper energy, shifting his weight from paw to paw, one always off the ground. I reach into a pocket and bring out the purple leash, pull Cassanova over by his collar and clip him up. As soon as he hears that sound, he starts up again with the dancing, letting out little huffs and wuffs, urging me to go ever faster.
With little further jealousy-fueled complaining from the peanut gallery, us two husky boys reverse the course I just plotted, back through the hallway, around the receptionist desk ("Oh gosh, is that really Cassanova? I guess I was wrong," says the girl bemusedly, unaware of her own stupidity, and I feign a smile and hurry along) and out one, then the other, door.
Harsh winter sunshine stings my eyes, and I have to fight against the weight of Cassanova's pulling while fumbling through my pockets for my sunglasses. My puppy fairly drags me off with him; even though I weigh a great deal more, we are almost an even match. "Whoa, whoa!" I try to calm him down, or at least try to make him understand I want him to curb a little enthusiasm, but just like every time he won't listen. Huskies are notorious for their boundless energy and curiosity to explore everything under the sun, and something as niggling as a leash won't stop them.
At least Cassanova knows to head toward the fenced-in exercise yard first to blow off the majority of his steam. He lets the lead out to its full length and keeps pulling even when it snaps his head back, and I jog forward some to put the slack back in. By the time I reach the gate, he's already pawing at it, prancing around on his hind legs like a circus performer and giving me a good view of his enthusiasm...all two pink inches of it.
Licking my dried-out and cold lips, I slide the latch away from the bar on the fence and push it inward. With a yelp of joy, Cassanova darts in and I have just enough time to wrap my hand around the leash before it runs out again, saving my puppy a sore neck. "Give me a second, okay?" I scold him, pulling him closer to look up at me with wanting eyes, ready to run but frustrated at my holding him back. I put two fingers underneath his collar and pull it up, open the P-clip on the leash and slide it off.
Cassanova sees the empty clip and knows he is free to run around as he pleases. I make shooing motions at him, and he does a very cute canine double-take to make sure I mean what I say. Then he's off like a shot, bounding over the flat cedar-strewn ground, making wide circles in the forty-by-eighty foot pen. There is one lonely chair in my corner, the chair where the other volunteers sit, shivering, and look at their watches in between half-hearted throws of a squeaky toy. I sit down, adjust my wagging curlicue of tail behind me, and observe my wonderful happy dog running his heart out. I wonder how long it's been since his last excursion outdoors.
For the first ten minutes of our walk, there is little I need to do save for watching Cassanova burn off energy and relieve himself. Practically the only way to have a nice, sane walk is to let him tire out by himself in the pen, where he can be off-leash, and then take him outside for a much slower walk into the long brown grasses on the property. Every once in a while, Cassanova comes up to me, snuffling into my hand or my crotch, which I let him do as much as he pleases.
He walks a few feet away from me and sniffs the ground in a circle, and I know what's coming next. Grabbing a plastic baggie from a bin close by, I watch as my husky gets comfortable, squats down, and lets go what must have been long stored in his body. Just like his bipedal relatives, he makes this concentrated face every time he bears down and strains, but the best part is watching his cock emerge while he's doing it. With every push a few inches come out, waggling and steaming in the cold air, and retreat when he's done. I mimic the action in my own pants, albeit for a different reason. It's all the more fun because Cassanova doesn't even know he's seducing me.
Looking very much relieved, and glad to be rid of his burden, Cassanova proceeds to run around me while I clean up what he left behind. Sometimes I think dogs harbor some secret satisfaction in the fact that us bipeds have to clean up after them, what with our opposable thumbs and all. Whether that is true or not, Cassanova continues his speedy orbit as I take the plastic baggie to the trash bin and turn my attention back to him.
I look around, spot a bright orange squeaky bone (I remark internally that the color doesn't much difference to a dog, and find that funny), rear back and throw it hard. The thing flies through the air, tumbling end over end and bouncing off the rear perimeter of fence, only to be picked up in capable jaws.
"Come on!" I urge him, bending and patting my knees in a gesture any dog that's been around bipeds will know by heart. Cassanova comes bounding like a bat out of hell, the orange bone giving a falsetto death knell from his muzzle, breathing hard and happy. He stops just short of my feet, spits the toy out and immediately begs for another round in his prancy way. I treasure every view I get of that black-tipped white sheath, now sans-arousal, and his sac, shapely but not overly large. They look much like my own: a light coating of short snowy fur covering the black skin underneath, just waiting to be caressed into rigidity...
Smiling to myself, the cold of the day forgotten for the moment, I pick up the toy and hurl it in a different direction, again far enough to reach the back fence but not quite pass it. The sight of Cassanova's curly tail ruddering over that perfect dark pucker sends a fresh supply of adrenaline to my cock, and my pants are now past the uncomfortable stage. Giving myself a quick adjustment and gratuitous fondle, I figure it's about time to take my puppy out into the grasses. Maybe, if I get him comfortable enough, I'll be able to convince him to give his virginity to me. I would be honored.
Cassanova is sniffling around the ground now, about twenty yards away, evidently not able to find the orange bone. I can't even see it; maybe it bounced somewhere out of his range. Oh well, it's not like I was going to throw it a third time. Instead I call him over, falling to my knees and patting the ground in front of me with open palms. My tail is the highest part of me, my rear wagging back and forth in a traditional and unmistakable play bow. When Cassanova finally pays attention to me, his face changes from mere happiness to ecstasy. Another husky wants to play with him, and he knows how to show it without talking in some impossible-to-understand voice pattern! Needless to say, he runs full-tilt toward me.
Wait for it...wait for it...until he's only a few feet from me, seeming as if he could take off if he went any faster. Then I sit up on my feet and hold out my arms for him. Cassanova doesn't falter in the least, seeing an opportunity for a jump and taking it. The full force of a grown sled dog hits me squarely in the chest and knocks me into a backwards somersault. Cedar chips dig into my back and neck as I roll with my puppy, clutching him tightly to me as I go. My legs leave the ground, but I have the presence of mind to spring enough force into the roll to give Cassanova room beneath me. The tuck-and-roll idea may be successful, but my landing leaves something to be desired. I twist coming out of my gymnastic maneuver and land hard on my side, spilling my husky alongside me.
Cassanova, being the agile four-legged canine he is, stands almost immediately and begs for more. "I'm not that fast, you silly dog," I retort with a smile to his unsaid taunting, meeting his eyes before launching myself at his neck. He darts away about ten feet and bounces a bit, never content to have all four paws on the ground. "How about we take this outside?" I ask him instead, knowing he doesn't understand my words. He does, however, understand when I move toward the door in the fence, leash in hand. When Cassanova gets close enough I grab him by the collar, quickly securing and leading him out to the far reaches of the property.
My erection, which has flagged little since arriving here, still pulses dully behind the fly of my jeans. I try to tell it to be patient, that relief will come soon enough, but thoughts of my husky (not to mention that sexy floofy rear end of his bouncing around in front of me at the end of the leash) keeps the blood from draining. I settle into a trot, which Cassanova finds just fine.
The property consists of a few rolling hills, a frozen stream with fallen logs, a stand of trees and a lot of tall, dead grass. Trying to keep pace with an energetic dog while skirting patches of ice and dirty snow is tricky business, but I manage to make it over two hills and halfway down a third before slipping and falling, quite ungraciously, onto my furry ass. I figure this is as good a place as any, and keep my rear planted, catching my breath as Cassanova walks around exploring as far as the leash will allow.
I could sit here and just watch him forever. His body seems to have an endless supply of fuel, rippling just beneath the surface of his skin, feeding the sinews of his muscles that have somehow survived despite the generic food they feed him here. I envy his metabolism, and the fact it will stay more or less like it is now for the rest of his life. He sniffs around everywhere, as if there is always a new scent to discover. I have a sensitive nose myself, but I can't smell a damn thing compared with what Cassanova can detect. He looks at me again with those frosty blue eyes, panting slightly, and I nearly melt. I need to have him soon.
He walks over to me and nuzzles the side of my face, and it's almost too much to control myself. "I know what you want," I say, nibbling his neck lightly, and he responds with a lighthearted growl and a snap back at my own neck. "Not so fast!" And then I tackle him, pushing his head into the ground (like I know he hates, to be put into such a weak position) and clamp my jaws over his throat. Cassanova squirms underneath me, all four paws flailing to get a swipe at me, and he succeeds in cuffing my ears a couple of times before I let him go.
Immediately he's on me like an angered wrestler, not about to be upstaged by a mere biped. I am knocked onto my back by the force of his attack, and there he sits, paws on my chest and thighs, daring me to move, daring me to challenge his superiority. I am not about to do any such thing. But...from where I'm laying I have easy access to what I desire most of Cassanova, and I decide it's time we got down to business.
It's not like I haven't touched him there before; I've taken him out at least half a dozen times, and each time I've pushed the envelope just a little further, taken just a little bit longer. But the initial contact of my finger pads with the warm, tense flesh between his rear legs never gets old. The excitement of the contact as I lightly stroke the loose skin on each side of his sheath is all I need to become knotted in my briefs, the response so strong it can no longer be denied. Cassanova stops moving as he takes in the moment too. I study his eyes, looking down at me with that familiar mild surprise and realization that he's being given pleasure willingly and lovingly. His pupils dilate until the irises almost disappear; his tongue a pink ribbon folded back neatly into his muzzle as he settles into my groping hand.
There is always a moment of silence when playing around actually crosses the line into intimacy. I don't see the need to waste time talking when my actions can just as well speak for me. I watch my husky's face as he grows familiar with my touch yet again, perhaps remembering other days spent doing similar things in this selfsame field.
"Good boy," I murmur. I know it's a clichéd thing to say, but Cassanova knows the timbre of my voice no matter the words. He knows I no longer wish to wrestle, and he's perfectly fine with that, because he lowers his crotch into my hand and I increase my pressure until our bodies touch and I can no longer move. This is just fine and dandy, so I unceremoniously shove him off to the side and he makes no effort to get up. His slightly lifted rear leg is an added indication that his need is just as great, if not greater, than my own. We both want the same thing, it's been communicated clearly enough, and I can't wait to start.
"Wuff," he says, and I blush because of how goddamn cute it is.
"Hi," I reply, brushing quickly over his sheath and giving it a nice firm squeeze. Cassanova lays his head down in a previously crushed bed of grass and lifts his leg higher in acquiescence, and now I finally feel free to fall prey to my inner desires. But I must relieve the growing pressure in my pants; pausing from my ministrations, I quickly open up and pull out my equipment. The cold air causes me to flinch, but only for a moment, because now my bits finally have room to breathe. I look down at myself, almost all the way emerged and three-quarters knotted, and decide to just pull my sheath down and get it over with. It's an exquisite pleasure, my ears held back selfishly, and then my own musk hits my nostrils and begins to mix with Cassanova's more natural scent. Testosterone and arousal tinges the air.
"Now, where were we?" I ask the perfect dog lying beside me in the grass. He looks to me as if to tell me I'm a dumbass and should know the answer to that question, but I don't need to be told twice to resume my attentions between his legs. Still as hard as when I left him, it takes but a few strokes to get him to grow enough so that his penis bone disappears underneath engorging flesh. Someday that bone will be lodged deep inside my tailhole, I think wishfully, and maybe by that time I'll be able to adopt you and take you home with me forever. Wishfully.
With my other hand, I begin to stroke Cassanova between the ears, grooming his fur with, then against, the grain with my claws. He bends and nuzzles against me, struggling to increase the contact, and I try to get all over his head and neck without leaving any hair unturned. One hand on his sheath, another on his head: what more could a dog ask for?
A kiss, maybe. I've been teaching my husky to kiss for a few weeks now. Most people don't know how to properly kiss a dog, even if they want to show the littlest signs of affection for the animal. Most people, when confronted by a lick-happy dog, will make a big deal about shoving the canine down, sometimes forcefully, and punishing them for merely wanting to please. There is nothing more exciting to watch than the way a dog reacts when you reciprocate their unrequited love. They lick your face, and you push them away, but me--I open my muzzle and let their tongue in freely. Once a dog discovers you like to kiss them back, watch out.
Cassanova leans forward, my hand guiding him gently closer to my lips. Then he lashes out, the warm and slightly wet surface of his doggie-biscuit breath slathering over the end of my snout, lifting my upper lip and sending shivers to all parts of my body. "Oh," I moan, and realize that it will take no large effort of Cassanova's to make me lose control. A low droning sound perks up all four of our collective ears, and I look toward the road, barely hidden by the crest of the hill on which we sit. From there, we are a blob of darkness in the grass, but paranoia suggests everyone down there has a set of binoculars in their passenger seat.
Whimpering encouragingly at me, Cassanova gains my attention once more. One look into his face, that broad nose pad, those intelligent blue eyes, and all danger is forgotten once again, a danger in itself. He spreads his legs wider to give me better access, and I know he's feeling the pleasure I want so badly for him to feel. Warm under my caress and warm under my nose, my husky lets out the most satisfied of grunts, and I close the distance between our muzzles until they touch.
Just for a second, I can feel the wet rough texture of the black pad, accompanied by soft warm puffs of air into my nostrils, then Cassanova licks between my lips again. I accept him. I let his tongue slide around over my front teeth, as if cleaning them, lifting the flaps of my lips and getting all the way to the end of the gum line, struggling with me, pressing ever harder at the entrance to my mouth. It's best to just allow him to do his thing, since there's no way I could tell him differently and make him understand; I enjoy the attention no matter what it is.
My husky's ministrations are hardly interrupted when I switch from merely squeezing to actually stroking him up and down, and I'm satisfied when his pumping foot taps against my shoulder in helpless abandon. He's already starting to knot up, a mirror image of my own flared member, and I don't need to see it to know what it looks like. Instead, my tongue lashes out against Cassanova's, persuading him to open his lips against my efforts to return the favor so willingly done for me.
"Mmmmfph," I manage when his tongue slathers over my upper palate and tickles my uvula, ridding it of saliva.
"Mmmrawrf," Cassanova replies, bracing himself so he can delve ever further. My patience, already worn thin by the company of one sexy dog, is almost gone, and despite my previous intentions I find myself pulling his sheath down, eager to get at that slick length, wanting to make its exposure to the harsh winter elements as short as possible before my muzzle takes over. It hardens exponentially, and I smile around Cassanova's tongue at the thought he might be anticipating my next move. He doesn't even look like he minds the submissive posture I've put him in.
Alternating between my own needy member and my husky's, I eventually succeed in maintaining a decent level of erection; Cassanova prods my hand with short little jabs of his hips, and if he feels the cold air, he sure doesn't seem all that uncomfortable about it. I squeeze the base of his knot, and get a lip-nibble in response; I know that sweet spot by heart and my four-legged twin's lower belly is sticky with encouragement.
As much as I love the feel of muzzle-on-muzzle action, there is just no more putting off what I've already waited a week to do. There is a point within sexual excitement beyond which the mind considers anything is possible, that your boner allows you powers of limitless libido and moral immunity. That point is upon me, making me almost drunk-feeling, and I have to remind myself not to overstep my boundaries and do something my puppy doesn't like. I wouldn't be able to come back after that. So, with one last lick and a deep nuzzle (Cassanova must be making it slow on purpose; it's so gentle!) I break away and scoot down for a snack.
Cassanova's foot scratches up between my ears as I go down, a pleasant sensation I'm sure he didn't mean on purpose, but it feels good nonetheless. The sound of my weight crunching down snow is deafening in the still air, made sharp by its temperature, but my husky makes no sound, other than his amorous pants steaming up the space above him. Even his cock sends up a thin plume, evidencing its need for release. It stares at me almost angrily, and I decide to take action before my overactive mind can conjure up more silly metaphors.
Even my much more less sensitive nose can pick up the heady musk of Cassanova's huskyhood, rising up with the steam. Maybe that's what's been intoxicating me this entire time. All I know is that I haven't felt this way, this eager and downright sexual, in the time I've known this dog, and I want it to last forever before I have to go home later. I take a few indulgent seconds to rub my nose over his tip, down his length and around the edge of his sheath, breathless with something akin to wonderment that two very different beings can share something so intimate and universal.
Cassanova paws at my head, whimpering frustratedly, and I know I have my permission.
"Are you ready, boy?" I look at him with puppy eyes of my own, climbing up his body again, and he licks his own essence off the end of my nose. I smile and go back to work.
Of course, there is nothing hard about fellating a dog like Cassanova. Some other breeds tend to get nice and fat when they're aroused, but huskies tend to stay more slender, more manageable no matter how much you pay attention to them. So parting my lips and sliding down my puppy's length is no problem, all the way to the knot, where he wriggles and spasms, already trying to tie with my muzzle. I comb through his belly fur, grooming the pre out of it before it hardens; Cassanova is free to lubricate my mouth as much as he wants now.
Even though I know it's dangerous, I let the outside world cease to exist, focusing only on the object of my desire. Scooting around the other way gives me a direct line to deep-throat, and I complete the move without missing a beat or a swipe of the tongue. I'm straddling Cassanova's front leg now, on my side, and the pleasurable tickling from his fur on the underside of my cock affirms my good decision. So does my puppy's licking of said cock, which is unexpected but not at all unwelcome. Try as I might, I can't quite get down far enough to try for his muzzle without compromising my stronghold on his member, so I'm perfectly content with what I have.
Propped up as I am on my left elbow, my left hand has ample room to cup Cassanova's sac and tease underneath it, between his balls and tailhole. The feel of that warm loose fuzzy skin, and the thought of what I'm trying to coax out of its contents, drives me further into a mental frenzy, though my actions remain gentle and tender. I gauge my puppy's level of pleasure by listening to his huffs and growls, in between licks of my bulging sheath, and adjust my moves accordingly. A few light licks of his tip here, a long, slow travel down the shaft with a squeeze behind the knot there, all bring a different sound from his muzzle.
"Good *lick* boy." It's pretty much all I can say, or need to say, at the moment. I venture a finger down to his hole, which is infernally hot against the chill air, and run a claw around its rim. Cassanova jumps, almost choking me, and even though a heavy splatter of precum coats my throat he lets out a low growl that tells me he's not quite ready for that kind of play. I am undaunted, however, and if I can't have his hole today, then he'll at least have mine. It's a good thing I came prepared. At this rate, neither of us will last long.
I never want to let go of him, never want him to leave my muzzle because he feels so good in there, like it was meant to be...but I'm a hopeless romantic with rambling thoughts of what I would like compared with what I can actually have. The skin of his cock is smooth, and all this time he's remained a respectable size, which is good because I haven't had much anal practice. Now that he's nice and hard and worked up (like me, and I've hardly touched myself yet), I want to finish us both off most efficiently. I don't know about Cassanova, but my balls feel just about to burst...maybe I should have pawed off this morning. Oh well, more cum all over my puppy's chest.
Cassanova doesn't even protest when I pull away, making sure to lick as I go to keep him clean. One final squeeze to his scrotum ("Muff," he says to that) and I roll backward to shuck my pants, underwear and shoes in one quick motion. Yes, I'm getting grass in my pretty fur, and yes, I'm going to get awfully cold awfully fast half-naked out here, but it feels oddly natural to look down and see seven inches of pink meat jutting from my crotch, matched by that of the dog laying less than two feet away, patiently awaiting my next move.
I lean forward onto him, my cock sliding around and hooking under Cassanova's, and I shudder against his body, immediately warmed again, burying my nose in the crook of his floofy neck. It smells of wet fur and faintly of urine, but what can you expect from an animal shelter? A few more pecks to the end of my husky's nose and I just can't wait anymore. I'm in just the right position, too, except that the tube of lube I brought is in my discarded pants.
Opting for a little frottage to keep my puppy hard, I reach sideways and dig through my pockets before finding the little purple bottle way down at the bottom. As much as I try to keep it clean, it still puts up a fight before I can grasp its slick outer surface. Once retrieved, I squeeze a bit on my member first (I don't need near as much as Cassanova does) and rub it all over both of us; a much more ample amount goes under my tail and into my very tight hole. Just how long has it been for me, anyway? Well, it ends now.
My husky watches from his position below me (I still can't believe he's letting me straddle him like this; he must be a bottom at heart, and I make a note to explore this possibility on future walks), panting slowly. I lift up on my knees, reaching behind with a greasy hand and grasp him firmly...still as hard as ever. I watch his face for signs of discomfort, placing his tip (Jesus, this dog is hot!) against my opening and settle down. Pressure gives way to a slight stinging, and I remember every other time I've been mounted and felt the same thing. I want to clamp down, but I keep pushing and it's a moot point when my hips settle and his length fills me.
The position is awkward, especially with a quadruped underneath me whose legs bend up against my chest. But I ignore the physics of our coupling and concentrate on the fullness in my rump, its pulsing girth formerly wild but now tamed by my accommodating tailhole. I wriggle my hips back and forth, and I slip further down onto his knot, gaining mutterings of approval from my canine lover. There is no doubt that he knows what's going on, and that he's feeling pretty good right now, and if I were him I would just sit back and enjoy the ride, which he seems to be doing, leaving the pace to me.
I pull myself into a prone position above him; squatting as I am, my knees could give out after a short time, but even on the frozen ground it seems they could go on forever as long as I have this dog buried in me. I see the moving shadows of cars along the road down the hill, know that even if they could see me they wouldn't know a thing, and smile, bringing myself up a few inches and down again.
"Muff," says Cassanova.
"I love you too," I reply, in the raspy sort of baritone my voice turns into when I'm all up into a good fuck. I want to pop that knot of his into me so badly--it's among the many dreams and goals I have with Cassanova--but when you're in an open space, and there's a chance another dog walker could come romping over the top of the hill and see your bare ass connected to one of the residents, you don't want to get hung up for fifteen or twenty minutes.
It's times like these I wonder why people think this sort of thing is harmful to the animal. I mean, I'm grinding myself over my husky's erection, he's laying back, rolling his head around in the snow, his tongue flailing everywhere, hind legs pumping the air as he tries to hump me from below, and people think I'm taking advantage of him or being cruel? Really...it's a backwards society when showing a dog a universal sign of loving affection is cruelty. And I don't think Cassanova's whimpering in pain, not by the increasing slickness I feel below my tail. He's well on his way to the finish line.
This could either turn out to be a mind-blowing affair in the grass or a desperate search for climax, and I don't quite know the best way to make it the former, so I'm just playing it as I go. As much as I've played with my husky, and gotten him off before, he remains a difficult card to read. I can tell he's enjoying himself, but as to when he gets close, I'm going to have almost no idea.
Perhaps it would be best if I kept myself on the edge until I'm reasonably certain he's going to blow. That shouldn't be hard, being as every time I move my hips my member plows through Cassanova's belly fur in a most tactile, delightful, feathery way. It's already gotten the white fur all yellowed and sticky, but I'll be making it even more so soon enough, so I don't worry. I just keep thrusting. My thighs burn at the position I'm in, lending a pleasant warmth to my lower body.
From now on it's just a straight line (well, not quite; Cassanova's got a little curve to him) until one of us decides to let go of his load. In a way it is a competition of sorts; I doubt my husky is aware of the time-sensitive nature of our activities, but I'm sure he can tell I'm doing all I can to make his peak quick in coming and long to leave. As I look into his blue eyes (when they turn my way, wild with animal passion), I wonder if he feels the same attraction for me as I do for him. Can dogs be gay, or does it even matter? Whether or not that's the case, Cassanova's lips clamp down on mine all the same when I lean down to plant a kiss on his muzzle.
I shouldn't have done that. Until now, I had managed to keep my lust relatively under control, but that little added stimulation (you know, that long, hot tongue deep in my throat again) kind of acts as an aphrodisiac I didn't need. My hips move of their own accord, fueled by instinct instead of my own deliberate actions. The need to tie is still there, still strong, but I must ignore it. I'm getting close enough just feeling that tapered shaft sliding freely inside me, unhindered now that my puppy's opened me up good and wide.
Yipping as he bites my tongue, I lean back to see his face drawn up into an odd little grimace, and I notice the lower half of his body has stopped moving. Pretty sure of what that means, I continue to raise and lower my rump, albeit a little slower than before, and place a couple fingers under my tail. They come back thick with the stuff; I smell its musky husky odor, just like my own except for a meaty undertone, lick one finger clean and give the other to Cassanova. He likes his own taste too, I see.
"Such a good boy," I coo almost in baby-talk, not wanting to patronize my very grown-up puppy after giving me such a wonderfully fulfilling gift. I place my hand back at the area of our coupling and get a fair amount of husky seed, smearing it over my member in a slick gooey film that sends sparks of pleasure through my spine. Now that Cassanova has taken his turn, it's up to me to finish our ordeal. He has no objections to my continued impalement, so I relish the assault upon my prostate and begin a feverish pawing.
Sometimes it gets annoying being a hair trigger, but in this case it works in my favor. I can feel it churning in my balls the second I bring my hand to my cock, and from then on it's just a matter of minutes until I give way. Holding my breath helps concentrate things into one area, namely my nether regions, and I just watch my husky lay under me, deep in afterglow, a satisfying sense of fulfillment radiating through my body when he tilts his head and looks at me with glazed eyes. It's like he's thanking me.
And then that pretty picture is spoiled by a low grunt from my throat and suddenly Cassanova's chin is bathed in semen. Hot, long-stored ropes of it all over his snout and upper chest, then the rest of the way down his body as I wind down. My left hand rhythmically squeezes his side, and now I regroom the bunched-up fur there back down into place. I gradually stop moving altogether, and finally the January wind decides to gust around the area of my tailhole. Cassanova shivers, and so do I. Winter coats don't cover exposed, erect flesh.
I take a moment to stroke the side of his face before we separate, trying my damndest to communicate my thanks for this afternoon. Looking into his eyes, licking his nose pad, giving him little kisses on the tongue: I hope he knows the depth of love I feel for him. And I sure hope it's love; if it's not then I'm a very confused husky. I carefully roll us over so now I'm on the bottom, and Cassanova stands out of reflex, and suddenly I'm empty all over again. He starts to clean himself, obviously taking his sweet time, and I wonder how many bipeds like myself have coveted that particular feral skill. Some of us can, but I'm not so lucky.
Sitting there for a moment, legs against my chest, I long to pull him down into another mating, but my role has turned from lover to walker again. Huskies are known for their short attention spans. If I only had more time with him, I bet I could calm him down some...
Before I freeze to death, my clothes come back on (thankfully Cassanova got the brunt of our combined loads; I giggle as I wonder who gets to bathe him next) and I'm up on my feet in time to see my puppy eliminating some other fluids from his body in a copse of bushes not too far away. I pick up the end of the leash and call him over, to which he responds with his usual vigor and energy. Unfortunately, he's already resheathed. Well, it has to go back in sometime.
The return walk to the shelter is a delayed and meandering one. Already, as my watch tells me, I've spent most of my scheduled time out here with Cassanova, and while no one will bat an eyelash at such commitment to one dog, they really do like you to take out multiple pets when you volunteer. I don't know; after all the energy I expended this afternoon, I think it's a good idea to just go home and ruminate on this afternoon's events. Today should provide enough fuel for the coming week's paw-off sessions, until I get to come back and renew next Monday.
Traffic has mostly tapered off, the snow on the ground turning a shade of pale pink as the sun sinks toward an early sunset as Januaries are prone to do. Cassanova leads the leash, stretching it to its limit, but I stand my ground and hold him back without being pulled in every direction but forward. Eventually we reach the front door, and, sensing he's back close to where he lives, my puppy noses his way back into the building.
"Well, hello dere!" squeals the raccoon bitch from across the counter. I can't believe she's still here, and wince inwardly, but fake a smile. Cassanova, not knowing my loathing of her and not caring, rears up and noses her cup full of pens and pencils, cute as can be. Now, who wouldn't want a dog like that? Why is he still here? "Did you have fun? Did you have fun? Oooh, yes you did, yes...you...did!" Her saccharine speech is nauseating, and I thank God Cassanova is just a dog. Just a sexy as hell dog who, in his current position, is renewing my hardon with a great side view of his sheath and a little meat. I'm hopeless.
"We had a lot of fun. Took him on a long walk; he needed the exercise," I mention for her benefit, because I knew she was going to ask anyway. I also want to mention how good a fuck Cassanova is, but I hold my spiteful tongue for good reason. The raccoon has her fill of doggy pets, and eventually sits back in her chair, taking pains to apply a liberal amount of antibacterial gel to her hands. Friendliness only goes so far for some of us. If she smells any signs of sex on either of us, she doesn't show it. She's probably too young or stupid (or both) to even add it all up if given the chance.
I lead Cassanova back to the kennels with a growing sense of leading an inmate to death row. The dogs are oddly quiet, and I know they can smell the entire story of our lurid affair as we pass. I bet they all wish they were on the end of my purple leash. My mood becomes darker and more oppressed the closer we get to my puppy's cage, and I pause before the door, afraid to open it. It is a no-kill shelter, but I still feel like a cad leaving him here. Someone could come and adopt him, someone who could never love him the way I do, and how could I live with myself if I deprived him of that? I get on my knees and sigh, already tearing up. Love makes you think crazy things.
"You *sniff* be a good boy, okay? Eat all your food, and don't let anybody push you around." I know I sound silly, but dammit, I care about him! The door opens, my puppy walks back into his prison, and I unhook him and latch the door behind. Cassanova circles his pen a few times, and I can see some confusion on his face. He comes back to the door, and we touch noses to the fence. Somebody whimpers, I don't know who, but when my husky lashes his tongue out he takes a tear back with it. I don't want to leave him.
"Muff," he says, and I want to know what that means in dogspeak.
"I'll be back for you, okay? Don't worry. I'll do something, I promise." The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back, but I have no intention of taking them back. Yeah, it complicates my life, but some things are more important than being easy. I stroke Cassanova's forehead, and he looks at me one last time, and for once I think I know what that look means: Thanks for making me feel good. You bet.
One last wave and I make my way back to the front desk. That awful nit of a raccoon is gone now, the lights off except for a side office where someone is no doubt working some late paperwork. The sky casts a dull orange glow into the building, and it almost feels warmer when I push through the doors and into life again.
There is a row of vending machines set off to the side of the building, and I almost pass right by them before stopping. Right between the USA Todays and the classified ads, I snag an apartment guide from the top of a snow-dusted pile. It looks pretty comprehensive from the way it's laid out, and I think as long as I have the evening free I might as well take a look at the offerings within. After all, I'm going to be needing something with a pet policy sooner rather than later.
FIN
5/15-10/20/06