Rajdahl's Disease
(Content warning: if you have a tailhole, and like using it, you may find the premise a little uncomfortable. But if you like rimming, stay with it, if you would please.)
Rajdahl's Disease
George proofed his column to the best of his own ability, and electronically sent off to Tyrone, his editor. He suspected he wouldn't have to change much; aside from being his editor for almost 5 years, he had been his boyfriend for two of them. In retrospect, it was easy to see that emotionally Tyrone broke up with him after a year, but the reason was understandable. They had remained on good terms since.
But at times like this, the black panther would picture the white tiger receiving the draft, and smiling. He just wanted to say, in response, "I'm glad you like it." Many times, he would imagine Tyrone turning to him, and kissing him -- but always stopped there. He knew, no matter what his heart wanted, that he couldn't have more. He had been unable to give Tyrone what he wanted since the surgery, and never would be able to.
This sudden bout of loneliness made George decide to finally leave his hotel room. He was visiting New Chicago, 1000 miles from home, and the city was large enough that surely he could find some company for the evening. He got his things packed, since he would be leaving in the morning, and dumped out his pouch before he left.
It was this pouch, taped to his stomach, that collected what remained of his meals instead of a large intestine. The time before that was continuous agony from the terrible pains of Rajdahl's disease, and side effects from the drugs to try and contain it. But nothing worked, and here he was: permanently cured. Once he recovered from surgery, the biggest regret was Tyrone leaving him over it.
He was done with a major conference, having come to donate and talk to Doctors about the state of research on his former condition. They had made good progress in their research: why were only felines affected; what was the mechanism; what could be done on different treatments unrelated to the immune system. It was worth getting his deadlines shifted for, and even donating a substantial chunk of his savings to support.
But now was not the time to dwell on such things, George thought. Clearing his mind, and focusing optimistically on the near future, he headed out of the hotel. The only thing George had really noticed on the journey he took between the conference and his hotel room was a diner, which had not a single female by the window. That seemed to be a logical place to start.
It was only two blocks away, on ground level, but getting out of the skyway to that point was quite a challenge. After two winding streets, and 10 minutes of walking more than he had planned, he finally arrived at the large double doors. The Spots and Stripes had a large glass front, and dim lights, letting the ambient light from the street do most of the illumination with giant windows. Clearly, this was a place for meeting people -- any other activities required leaving.
It was a place George found quiet enough, and somber enough, that he thought he might be able to get someone actually interested in conversation. Upon his second visual search for a table from the doorframe, he came upon a lynx looking back directly at him, a gentle smile on his face. George, deciding that this was his first invitation, walked over and stood in from on him.
"George Black, I presume?" purred a soft, baritone voice.
"I should hope so," George nodded, falling into his opinion columnist's cynicism.
"Richard Lanx," introduced the lynx.
George bowed, as was customary, sat down, and then looked over the features of the lynx in detail.
The cat, over 30 for certain, and had a wide face of grey fur, sharp blue eyes, barely-tufted ears, and a surprisingly demure nose on his muzzle. He was rather bulky for his age -- a plus for George. The panther loved the gentle giant, who knew how to handle himself, but preferred to conduct himself with civility.
"Very nice to meet you," George replied, tracing the face with his eyes.
"I suspected you would be coming here," his host continued quietly, but rather more seriously in his velvety voice, "and I am here to talk you out of the article you are writing."
This took George aback a little; no one knew what he would publish next, except --
"Tyrone told you?" he asked, trying not to make it sound like an insult.
"Your editor? Yes. You see, I am on the committed for Nuclear Research, and --"
Despite the lynx's size, George couldn't resist arguing. "-- and you have some objections to my article," he interjected, "before you even know what it says?"
Richard's eyes narrowed at being interrupted. "I was told that you are not complimentary," he stated.
"I am merely suggesting that it could lead, regardless of your good intentions, to the same weapons that humans used to destroy themselves."
"In theory, but --"
"-- Then I should think you would not undertake such research for its risk."
"Now just a minute," snapped Richard, his voice changing from smooth velvet into gravel, "that's not what would happen! You have to consider the factors involved. ..."
The resulting argument lasted about 20 minutes, through a dinner of cheap steak for George and expensive fish for Richard. The debate was fairly simple: George thought any research was bad, because it might lead to a weapon. Richard thought any research was good, unless it directly produced a weapon. George and Richard took turns smiling, watching their opponent move, and then pushing back with a growl.
Before long, George got tired of going around and around with Richard. Like a lost driver reaching the same landmark a third time, he just went quiet, and looked at the lynx again. He studied the now furrowed brow, inch-taller head, and strong, spotted arms covered with fuzzy fur. He briefly wondered what was under his dress shirt, until Richard broke him out of his daze by speaking.
"Well?" he demanded, "will you at least give me that?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear, what you said, but I don't want to. All I want to do now is stop arguing, and remember what we're here for."
One deep breath later, Richard turned from irritation back to the gentleness he had first displayed. "I see," he replied quietly. "I suppose you're right."
Brief silence followed, as both of them struggled to come up with another topic, watching each other's faces intently as George fell slowly into infatuation.
"I -- I suppose that wasn't a very good job of being attractive, was it?" Richard finally admitted with half a smile.
"I would say you are very intelligent to hold me off so well. But arguing is only fun when I win," teased George.
That got a good-natured chuckle out of Richard, and a head shake with rolled eyes. "Then I had better ask now, how long are you in NC?"
"I take the train back tomorrow," George answered gently, hiding worry that this might cut off the start of something good. Fortunately, it didn't.
"I suppose that means I will need to have you tonight," Richard purred, as his foot brushed George's leg, "so I can tell all my friends I slept with the famous George Black."
The idea of spreading his name around in such a manner did not appeal to George. More that that, he was worried about the part where he undressed, and revealed his secret. He wanted to get a better sense of how Richard might react.
"Can we go for a walk, first?" he asked, hiding his nervousness, "I'd ... like to get to know you a little better."
Richard smiled. "Certainly, if you're finished with dinner."
George, at his insistence, paid for both dinners, and they stepped out.
Between patchy clouds, in the night that had emerged from twilight, he could see a star or two and just enough moon that he could see. The city was far enough north that it was only 8:30, even though to George, it looked like 10 PM.
"Anywhere we can go to get a view?" George asked.
Richard thought a moment. "It's some distance, but I think so. It would let me win the argument."
George was perplexed, and therefore a little suspicious. "As long as you understand," he insisted, "that -- talking is the only objective."
Richard's eyebrows raised. "Certainly," he reassured.
Still a little uncomfortable, more from habit than anything Richard did, George followed him to the Flash station, the lighting-fast rail that covered the entire city. The one Richard got on, however, only went in one direction: further and further out.
When George suspected the city limits were nigh, he asked, "just how far is it?"
"This is it," Richard answered, as the train stopped again.
With a rather sudden look of solemness on his face, Richard ushered George to the station lobby, and then up an elevator to the top floor -- which turned out to be ten stories high. The elevator opened onto an empty room, with all glass walls on every side, even behind the shaft that terminated in its middle. The area was designed for the public, but deserted at this time of night.
When George stepped out of the elevator his jaw dropped in horror.
Except for the rail they traveled on, nothing but the purest vision of destruction and decay lay outside the glass. There were warped steel frames of buildings, whipped by a powerful force. Melted glass was frozen into shapes from many of their windows, like pouring water and melting ice. Most of the area was perfectly level, once paved, but now was covered with a thin black ash that soaked up the moonlight.
"Welcome to Chicago," Richard said solemnly.
George's stomach knotted, as he just gaped out the windows. The destruction stretched all the way to the horizon. He felt like the last human alive: someone who would crawl his way through twisted steel and broken glass to the top of this building, and find this. But then he remembered they dropped neutron bombs, meaning that even a human most protected by soil and steel would suffer the same fate as every blade of grass.
When George wandered around aimlessly, trying to work through his mortification, as he took it all in, he stumbled into the only thing that could make it worse. It was a plaque, engraved on the back of the elevator shaft. It read:
"The City of Chicago was the sixth largest city on this continent when it was last inhabited. Four and a half million humans lived lives of every design within its confines. A piece which covers less than five percent of its area has been exempted from re-forestation, to mourn for those who perished, and to never forget how they died. -- THE CHICAGO MONUMENT COMMITTEE"
George was completely overwhelmed: four and a half million! He fell to his knees. The sense of being completely destroyed was the same thing he felt, the same emotional landscape, as the empty house he returned to on the night Tyrone had left him. For the first time in over a year, he started crying quietly into his hands.
Before long, he felt two hands land on his shoulders. They reminded him he wasn't alone, but they did little for his emotions.
"By Shakallah," he whimpered, still trying to get his voice back, "-- and for an atheist, that's saying something."
But the joke was ignored. Richard made the point George suspected he had wanted to make all along.
"Every morning, I take this very same train to work. Two stops later, the last one, is where my lab is. The train goes straight through the Chicago monument every day." His own voice seemed to be loosing strength also.
"This is no. Accident. Mr. Black. This is because everyone we report to. Everyone who funds us. All of them think the way you do. And I think that's good. Only if, because of the emotions inflicted upon us, we can be trusted to do our jobs."
Richard pulled the panther to his feet. George stood, and immediately wrapped his arms around him.
"I'm sorry," George whispered, tears from his eyes slowing down, "I had no idea. I wish I could edit it, but that was the final draft."
Richard reciprocated the hug, and stroked his back. "If you understand what we go through, no matter what you wrote, then I'm happy," Richard answered.
George nodded. "I understand. It makes me feel so ... alone. Like the time my last boyfriend left me."
"You can talk about it, if you want," he offered.
George was standing at the edge of the world, it seemed. The scenery now made Richard the last living creature on Giaya -- the only one he could talk to. And so, for the first time, he talked about it.
"Tyrone was... wonderful," he sighed quietly, "he was big, and strong, and smart ... and a little more than half my age. You seem like what he could turn into when he gets older."
George felt Richard smile, but he did not speak.
"He is still my friend, but I miss him terribly. But, he -- he wanted a sex life, and I... I couldn't do it. I needed surgery a while back. And they took -- what he wanted. And so, after staying with me through it, two weeks after I got better, -- I walked in one day, and there was no one home. Just a note."
George took a deep breath, and finally was able to look Richard in the eye, who seemed almost to tears himself. It gave him permission to cry a little more as he talked.
"Later, when I did finally see him, he said he was sorry. He couldn't love me without lusting for me, and I was unable to satisfy him. He's my editor now. Like I said, smart. I still can work with him, since we understand each other. But he's closed to me. No matter how much --" George swallowed. "-- how much I still love him."
Finally, Richard spoke up. "He really did that to you?" he asked, in a voice reflecting sympathetic shock, "he left you over sex?" "It had been coming for some time. I can see that now. I had --" George swallowed again, and whispered it in Richard's ear, "Rajdahl's disease." Richard flinched, but kept listening.
"You know it, then. It's a curse I would not wish on anyone. I had been fighting with it for some time, with good times and bad times, and when it was bad I couldn't stand to be touched -- in the tailhole. And when every drug known to medical science could not hold it back... the surgeons... removed the offending tissue. And sewed my tailhole shut."
"I'm sorry," Richard whispered, hugging George again.
"Please," George answered, wishing he could say this to Tyrone, "don't leave. I care about you. I really like you. In fact, I would be happy to mate with you -- in any other way."
Richard took a long, deep breath, and looked George straight in the eye.
"I really was hoping to mate with you that way," he answered, "but if that isn't possible, then I'm sure we can still make each other quite happy."
George managed to lift a smile from his despair, but nothing more. "Thanks," he sighed. "Now can we leave? This place is terrible."
Richard wrapped his big, strong, arm around George, silently nodded, and led him down the elevator and back to the train.
They found the arriving train almost full -- with scientists like Richard returning from their jobs. The moment George got on, and returned to the world of living, he felt immediately better.
Among these others, when the two of them found a nice spot in the back, George persuaded Richard to wrap his big frame around George, through gently manipulating his body. This, he decided, was happiness. And his companion, strong in both body and mind, was exactly the one he wanted to spend the rest of the night with.
"Just curious," asked George, his favorite question on his lips, "are there any local scandals, or corruption, or things like that you know about? Maybe, something an opinion columnist could get mad about in, say, 1000 words?"
Richard sighed contentedly. "I have just the thing: do you know why we keep getting funding, in spite of people like you? There's influence peddling big time."
"What sort of influence?"
"Believe it or not, --" He paused to look around, probably more for dramatic effect than sincere concern. "-- certain members of the NC Governing Council decide who gets money the same way you seem to get stories."
"You mean by throwing themselves at important people?" he couldn't help but laugh quietly. "Really?"
"About a third of the council can be seen in the Spots and Stripes, and I suppose the rest go for their opposite kind. Probably the worst is Liam; she's obtained every tongue around here you can think of. Sixty percent of the accountants I have worked with are female."
That got another eyebrow raised from George, and a giggle.
"Do they... take them back to their hotel rooms?" he asked suggestively.
"Of course," Richard answered, his eyes trying to imitate how theirs might look.
"Well, then, I'll have to write about that. Perhaps we could talk more." George offered, bringing his muzzle so close they almost kissed.
"I would be happy to," Richard purred.
As they arrived at George's room, he was coming up with amusing titles. "How about 'strange bedfellows?'" he giggled.
"That's been used already," remarked Richard.
"How about 'tongue tied?'"
"Hey!" playfully chastised Richard as they went in the door, "don't knock getting your tongue in interesting places!"
And the moment George closed the door behind them, Richard tried to do just that. He locked their muzzles in a kiss, and with his bulk, started guiding George into the room.
He playfully pushed George onto the bed, the primary fixture in the room, continuing the kisses. But even as George's hard-on was at its tallest, the touch of his belt made him stop.
"Let me do it," he insisted, feeling self-conscious about his pouch.
Richard let him, probably because of the sudden tone change he used.
George slid off his pants, and pulled down his oversized boxers to reveal his secret. An opaque plastic bag hung off him, taped about six inches away from that which Richard sought. It held about a pint, and was an eighth full at the moment, most likely the start of working on his dinner.
"Just forget about that," George suggested. "My tailhole may be sealed, but it's still -- quite sensitive."
"Let's have a look," Richard growled, and slid down the underwear from the panther's hips.
George leaned back on the bed, as Richard examined what George had seen in the mirror many times: it was a perfect tailhole, in every respect, except that it had a small seam of stitches instead of an opening. George's prediction of sensitivity was correct: the first three licks got George to groan in pleasure.
"Unh... cleanest you'll ever find..." was all George managed to get out before his mind melted into a puddle.
George started clenching his anal muscles -- which, now attached to nothing, had little effect on the would-be intruder. Wave after wave of sensation hit him as the sensitive skin was teased to no end by the velvety tongue of the lynx. When his prick was dribbling precum, he was getting impatient.
"Thank you," he gasped, "but how about at least doing something about my hard-on?"
Before he knew it, Richard's head was between George's legs, slurping and licking furiously with the feline tongue, keeping the pesky pouch out of the way with a free hand.
George was completely overwhelmed by the feelings his skin was giving him. The lynx just purred and did his best, seeming to enjoy it as much as George did -- at least, that was until George climaxed with a groan. More muscles kicked in, as he felt the seed pumping out of him, pleasure with every squeeze. Richard just slurped it all down.
"Don't get it on your shirt," mumbled George, as he saw the white shirt contrast with the gray head fur his paws were still in.
"Don't worry about that," reassured Richard as he finished licking up the cum left on the surface of George's dick, "just relax."
When George finally stopped dribbling, he murmured, "is there anything I can do to make it up?" as his afterglow faded slowly.
"Two things," whispered the lynx, getting up, and stripping off his shirt, and leaving George's alone at his nonverbal request, "first, blow me."
George nodded with a mischievous smile.
"And second, next time you're in New Chicago, promise to come see me."
This got George somewhat worried; he didn't want another relationship like his editor. "This is a one-night thing, right?" he confirmed.
"Sure it is. I don't think you're the type to settle down with, I suspect."
"You're right," he purred, as the lynx stripped off his pants.
"All I want is to see you again. Whether we do this is up to you," he whispered as George got up and Richard took his place on the edge of the bed.
The panther got quickly down to work on the tall piece of meat in front of him. In spite of the complex of feelings Richard seemed to have before, the grunts, gasps, and growls from him now indicated his mind had focused quickly into a new purpose.
It was only two minutes before precum came up, which George licked away, adding his tongue to the former work of his cheeks. This got Richard so excited, it was only another minute before the lynx gave a long, guttural growl and ejaculated. George licked him clean, doing just as good a job as the lynx had done.
"May I stay with you tonight?" Richard asked, when he had settled into the afterglow.
"Certainly," George replied, emulating Richard's mannerism -- well enough to get hit with a pillow.
After the laughter died down, they both got the rest of the way naked, and curled together tightly into the bed.
George felt wonderful. He focused on soft fur that encircled him, and whose fingers stroked his chest. He felt this was the moment: the moment he had in every relationship, no matter how short, that he would remember forever. Pain or pleasure in that memory would come later. For now, it was time to sleep in the safest place on Giaya.
The End.