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"Treat me like a slut

Little, dirty bitch

I love to fuck"

Kim Petras,

' Treat Me Like A Slut'

As I waited for an answer I thought for a moment it might be over, that whatever force had been holding back reality might shatter and all of this would be no more than an awkward, remembered-but-ignored memory in a matter of days. I hoped for it, longed for it, every bit as much as the most selfish, base and powerful parts of me desired the very opposite. Kale seemed to take an age considering what to say. I had asked - without really asking - if he was intending to leave Adrian.

A sharp intake of breath, finally. A swift, decisive shake of the head. "No." Relief and disappointment flowed through me in equal measure. "But..."

I couldn't stand the hesitation, though he had barely paused for a second. "But what?" I was on high alert, all tension and bristling fur. I was naked, next to him, the aftertaste of his cock and cum still coating my tongue, the scent of his sex still overpowering, his rod still exposed and twitching in the afterglow of orgasm.

"But maybe I need a break from-" Emotions balled up until they caught in his throat, he choked on his words, his head space a thousand miles from my own. I did my best to catch up, running hurdles at mach speed toward mature emotional engagement. "Maybe I need a break from being a fuck up, from not being good enough. He could- We could both- Fuck. I've never been what he needed, just what he convinced himself he wants. And it's not that I want to leave him, I just- I-" The wolf scrunched his eyes shut and clenched his fists around the wet towel beneath him.

It wasn't so much that I couldn't think of anything to say, more that I believed the things I had to say wouldn't be helpful. My motives and emotions were foreign to me in that moment, I knew I couldn't trust myself. I couldn't even really blame the drink, I was - we were - not sober, but not wasted either.

His fists gradually unfurled, his eyes opened. There was a fresh sense of serenity to him now. "I just need a holiday." He said, his tone laden with a finality that brooked no further query. "But, you never answered my question. Do you think tonight was a mistake?" There was a tenderness to his words, an innocence.

And then there was the taste of his dick on my tongue, and the heat of him beside me, leaning in: the wide eyed puppy and the dirty dog, one and the same as they ever were.

I didn't know what to think, so I didn't think at all.

"No."

Kale smiled, and that it was it. I was broken. It was more than I could process; my body had to make up for the mental shortfall. I stood up straight on instinct, spine stiff as a post, the well of emotion inside me bubbling, threatening to become a flash flood at a moment's notice. I took a step away from the couch, from Kale, and felt the threat of tears, of screams, of declarations of love all simmering away in my stomach at once. I stopped, gathered all of it up, all of it, and pushed it down.

"Nor do I." His words cut through my daze. I turned and looked down at him. His arms were splayed out across the backrest while his eyes unabashedly explored my body, my still-damp fur, my belly, the shame of my peeking sheath. "I've had fun."

The implication of his syntax was not for a moment lost on me. I felt giddy, nervous, guilty. I couldn't help but admire his cock. I felt my own stir. I wrenched my gaze away from him, took another half-step in the opposite direction. "D-do you want a drink or?" I asked, wanting something, anything to keep my mind off of what was happening, to remove myself from any threat of actually thinking about it. To stop myself feeling culpable.

"No, I'm fine," he said. "Though I do see something tasty."

I froze, shuddered, thawed.

"Y-yeah?"

"Yep, though I think I'd get an even better look if you bent over."

Hesitation became difficult. I didn't speak, I just did as he suggested, nice and slow, making a real show of it. If I lied to myself about what this was in that moment, I certainly can't now. I knew exactly what I was doing.

"God, Ash, your butt is _so_fat." Coming from Kale those words rung with a resounding reverence that would have been impossible to hide, had he tried to.

I flushed hot and heard rustling behind me, the sounds of movement. I bent further, sunk lower, found myself on paws and knees on the fluffy carpet. His paws found my ass and he wasted no time feeling me, squeezing me, kneading my cheeks like dough.

I shuddered, momentarily, at his touch - a pin prick of distant fear overwhelming me for but a moment, and yet the feeling faded as quickly as it came in the very way it never could since I-

Since Marty.

Kale's arrogance, though? Did he not give our shared trauma a single thought, or did he simply not give a damn? An oblivious oaf or an overconfident ogre? My heart was pumping hard, pounding.

"You like that?" He asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it.

A spitting, jealous part of me wanted to object, to scald, to tell him he had no right to touch me like that. A small, uncharacteristically quiet part of me wanted to run and hide and cry all night.

The rest was of me was in control, and it said: "you know I do."

My dick was more than peeking now, my tip had found open air and was twitching, beading.

I could sense him sink to his knees behind me, then lean over me, the unmistakable bulk of his shaft pressing against a cheek as he snarled low and playfully sunk his teeth into my shoulder. I moaned and shivered as the domineering cheat tasted me and held me down under his weight. By then I had surrendered whatever sense of moral justice I thought I had stood for, and all without a single conscious acknowledgment.

Frankly I was more preoccupied with the paradox of it all. Where was Marty? Surely he should be goading me, guilt tripping me, reminding me of what he did to me and I to him over and over, making me feel unsafe and unsure of my own body, my own desires. But he was gone, absolutely nowhere to be seen. I couldn't even begin to explain it, nor did I care to make an attempt.

A rush of elation like I hadn't felt in months, years. Euphoria, pure and true, but fear too. Not fear of submission, as unlikely as that absence was, but fear of this being some trick of the light, an illusion that would dissipate on further inspection. Fear of everything going wrong.

Back up on his knees, stroking my tail, he had a question, "are you prepped for this kind of thing?"

If our precise intentions had remained unspoken, they were to remain so no longer. Still, the question struck a nerve with me. Did he think I would be, just because of his arrival? Did he think I was a needy cumslut who had been daydreaming of his dick ever since he dumped me by the wayside? I mean, I was prepared, but... I am most days; it's convenient to be ready. I never know when I'll get the urge to sit on a toy. And, well, maybe I was thinking about him, that morning, in the shower, just a little, but... I hadn't been fucked in a long time, and didn't think myself capable. And he was in a god damn relationship, and-

"I am."

He didn't need to be told twice. His entire body reacted at once. He shuffled back, grabbed my hips and stuck his muzzle between my cheeks. Gasping was about all I could manage.

I let go of fear, in that instant. I let go of Marty. I let go of whatever tenuous friendship had remained between myself and Adrian. I let go of agency and let instinct take over.

I knew I should have felt bad. I knew I should have told him to stop, even as I was backing up, encouraging him to bury his tongue inside me. I knew this could ruin our friendship, that it could ruin his love, even as he came up for air with me moaning below him. I knew for sure I wasn't a good person when he repositioned to kneeling and lined up his tip with my hole. I knew this night would change my life as I fucking _begged_for him to put it in. I knew it might haunt me, that I might regret it as I moaned out, told him to go harder, faster. It didn't matter. I suspended my disbelief. I took it for granted that Kale was making a considered decision, that either him and Adrian were over enough for this to be justifiable, or that he was allowed one slip up, just needing an excuse to stop thinking about it, to let me box the whole mess up, label it 'Kale's problem' and move on.

God, I wanted him so bad. And I let him know.

I said: "fuck me, stud." I said: "make me your bitch." I said: "my fat ass is all yours." I think I almost said: I love you. For a moment there, I'm sure I felt it. A blast of nostalgia, a rush of emotion and history hit as he fucked me. I had been in this position before, in another time, another life. I had fallen for this big, sweet, dumb wolf then. Maybe, I thought, maybe he had fallen for me now.

He railed me hard enough to make me believe it. Bit my neck with a little too much vigor and forced my shoulders down with his body weight as he rutted feverishly into me, growling through teeth and fur until he was shaking, his motions uneven, begging for release.

He lifted his head and howled when he came, still pumping into me, not quite knotted. Over time his elongated monotone converted into a moan, then a grunt. He pulled out, sprayed my back, panted as I wagged and yipped like the happy little bitch I was, spraying the carpet with pre drawn from me by pure lust. It was only when both of us were left catching our breath that I became reacquainted with fear, that I wondered what the hell would happen next, that I thought I'd crossed more lines than could ever be clawed back from.

But I was wrong, we were nowhere near done crossing lines. His paws came back to my body as if magnetized, exploring my curly tail, my curvy butt, my pudgy belly. Gently, he lifted my front end up, and I complied, coming to kneeling, as he was.

"Suck the cum off my cock," he ordered.

I didn't need telling twice. Seconds later he was laying back, propping his head up on a paw and watching as I buried my muzzle between his legs, taking his entire length into my mouth in one greedy swallow, as if I'd practiced on his dick tonight already. He was still full length and rock hard and I wasn't even surprised. I massaged his knot with my lips and tongue, tasted every inch of his cum splattered cock, his own taste mixing with my own.

He told me how good I was, how hot I was, stroked my hair and guided my head up and down until pulling me away completely. I thought he might come in for a kiss, but he didn't. He just winked, stood up and got back onto the couch.

"Worn out?" He asked. I shook my head without so much as a thought. "Great. In that case, since you've been such a good dog, you should come over here and sit on my dick."

"But, I'm pretty heavy," I weakly protested, cheeks flushing, practically salivating.

"The only butt I'm interested is yours riding my knot until you squeeze it right in."

For every one of the infinite branching timelines in which I reached this point, precisely none of them split here. There was absolutely no way I could refuse. I genuinely don't believe I was capable.

I did exactly as he asked, like the good dog I was. I took him into me, riding slow at first as he touched me, handled me, bit and licked me, growled at me, told me how well I was doing, how he was going to fill me up and up until I was leaking. I touched myself while I rode him, held off on my climax until his knot finally popped in and then I sprayed the carpet as he sprayed my insides.

We sat like that a while, panting, exhausted and high off of the moment. I was sobering. He must have been too. Fear, emotion, context, consequence all played at the edges of my perception. It was late, we were tired. We didn't really speak, not words of any import anyway.

We waited out the worst of the swelling, disentangled, became two again. I told him: "I'm tired."

He took hold of one of my paws. "Lead the way."

Of course I took him to my bedroom.

Of course we lay together, in silence but for our breathing and the rustle of fabric. But we didn't lie still, he couldn't keep his paws off of me, or his muzzle. Soon we were less lying, more spooning. Without a word he grabbed his sheath and shoved it between my cheeks. We just lay there as he humped and humped until his tip peeked, teased at me and I could do nothing but reach back and pull him closer, grind my ass against him until it was inevitable, until he cuddle-fucked me, quiet and slow, all muffled, murmured moans and the intensity of his gradual, almost teasing thrusts, pushing so deep into me without a hint of haste, and dragging himself almost all the way out with - what seemed to me - a sense of sadistic glee, until he pushed in deep all over again. He didn't rush, and I didn't ask him to. We must have been at it an hour by the time he'd grown tired of playing with his food. Then his grip tightened, his pace doubled, tripled in speed as he found himself in an urgent, primal flurry of need. Seconds later he was pulsing inside of me and I was squeezing around him, gasping as he filled me up all over again.

Only after that, once the haze of bliss had cleared and he had pulled free, did exhaustion overwhelm me.

Although my sleep was conspicuously dreamless, waking was a trip: an assault of sense and thought and memory on an utterly ill-prepared mind. The cold paw of fear gripped my scruff and pulled me to sitting in a single jerk. The knowledge that a new day can take place on an entirely different plane of existence to the previous night lay heavy on my mind. What kind of world had I woken up to exactly?

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I foresaw nothing but drama: packed bags, scrunched-up leaking eyes, anger and shame and despair. When I looked again I found something quite entirely different. Kale was stood beside the bed, naked, fur fluffed from drying but still somewhat damp from the shower, smiling at me as he rummaged through his luggage - which he had evidently taken from the guest room to place on my bedside table while I was asleep.

"Morning," he said as he worked on picking out an outfit for the day, already wearing the lived-in smile of a long term lover.

"G'morning," I mumbled back in the croak of the still-waking. "I, uh..."

My uncertainty lifted his gaze from the clothing. He elected to pause his search and focus in on me entirely.

"I'll figure it out when I'm back." He said, delivering the statement with complete authority and finality. To question him would be to pull at the seams of this elaborate, impromptu collage of ours, to argue, to delve any deeper would be an act of dismantling, of destruction.

I considered it anyway.

I wanted to hurt him for being a liar and a cheat, I wanted to force him to stop and talk and make some goddamn sense, I wanted to know what was on his mind, to know if his time with Adrian was over, I wanted to know what he thought of me, if he loved me as I dared allow myself to think I might love him. I don't know if I'd ever truly been in love, but the fact that I thought of him so often, that I let him do things to me that I couldn't allow from any other, that I felt about him differently than I'd ever felt about anyone made me think that, just maybe, he could fix that.

But more than I wanted answers, retribution, or anything, I didn't want this to end.

"Okay," I said.

And I stretched, watching him resume his task with complete nonchalance. I stood and turned toward the en suite.

"Should I hold off on getting dressed?" He asked.

I stopped. A shiver ran down my spine and up my tail, culminating in a nervous flick that could only read as a wag.

I made one final, half mustered, internal effort to change my course of action, to swerve this obvious downward spiral. It failed miserably.

"Yeah, hold off."

Less than an hour later we were tied on the bed. A few hours after that I sucked a load out of him in the kitchen. I swallowed his pups again, between his knees, not long later, a movie playing behind me on the TV. His dick was poking at my hole as he spooned me while the credits rolled. By the time our takeout desserts arrived his knot had gone down enough for him to slip out, throw on a gown and answer the door.

It went on like that all week. For the entire duration of his visit he couldn't keep his paws off of me, and I never once considered discouraging him. We didn't leave the house half as much as we had planned. In fact one of the few times we did go out I ended up sucking him in a bathroom stall like a drugged out, horny youth on a wild night out.

We didn't exchange another word about any of it, it just happened, and kept happening, as easy as breathing. We didn't talk about him, or his life, or his feelings either. In fact, we didn't talk much at all. Instead of talking we fucked, over and over, and when we were too tired to fuck we watched something or played a game or went out or drunk or ate or slept, and after that we fucked again.

It wasn't until I was driving him to the airport that I could feel my week-long stupor wearing off. Something was changing in his manner, he seemed more distant somehow. It wasn't the quiet that tipped me off, I was used to our general lack of conversation past the passingly flavorful or decidedly functional. It was the stiffness of his neck, the tension in his muscles. It felt like waking up from one of those dreams you're not quite sure whether or not to call a nightmare. For the first time since the night Kale arrived I could feel Marty's presence. As I pulled up he was laughing. He didn't have to say anything, I knew what he was thinking: Kale and I were both broken, fucked up messes, and it was all because of him.

But I knew that wasn't true, because it was my own damn fault too. And it was Kale's.

The moment I stopped the engine I knew whatever spell had been cast on us had broken, and I knew nothing good was going to come of it, but I hoped against hope anyway. Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

He made to exit the vehicle, but I put out an arm. He stopped, turned to me, caught my eyes. I matched his stare.

"All week," I said, uncertain, my heart thumping, voice faltering. "All week we- we did what we did, and- and you never once kissed me."

He sat there, stony still and statuesque for an infinity of time, and said: "Ash, I've got a boyfriend."

The comment caught me so off guard I couldn't even think to flap my maw, my jaw just hung half-open like I were a half-wit engrossed in drying paint. He frowned, stared at me blankly, then - for the first and only time since the night he arrived - let me in on the real him. His face screwed up, he let out an involuntary whimper, buried his face in his paws, resisted, resisted, resisted tears.

"I'm sorry," he said, choked up, straining. He reached toward me, my mouth twitched without intention as if in an aborted attempt to form a word. His paw never made contact. He undid his seat belt instead. An awful surge of urgency cajoled me into action.

"Why?" I said. It was all I could say. All there was to say. It was everything. My heart was beating against the cage of my ribs, begging desperately for freedom.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. And when I couldn't find words he added: "I don't want to lose you." His statement the antithesis of his actions. "But," he began, implicitly admitting the lie. "I don't want to lose Adrian either." My jaw finally clamped shut. His eyes glistened as he took me in, the faint damp of fought-back tears. "I'll let you know when I'm home safe."

I didn't say anything. He got out of the car, took his luggage from the trunk, waited for a minute, two, five maybe. I didn't move. He walked toward the open doors of the airport.

Only when he had been out of sight for a good ten minutes did I let myself break down.

I sat there, crying my eyes out, sobbing and wailing with Marty laughing at me from the back seat for I honestly don't know how long. All I know is that, when I came to, I had a message from Kale telling me he had made it to his gate. I didn't respond. I dried my eyes, sniffled and moaned, and pulled myself together long enough to drive home.

Later I got a message from him telling me he was home safe. That he hoped I was okay. That I could call him whenever. That he didn't regret what happened. That he'd had a good time.

I replied with two words: I'm glad.

We didn't talk for weeks after that. I wondered every day what was happening between him and Adrian, if they would split up over this, if Kale had told the whole truth, part of the truth... or none of it at all.

When I next heard from him it was like nothing had ever happened between us. He sent me memes, new music, talked shit. I took it as a peace offering, tried to do the same, to act like nothing was up, to be his friend, but all of me was aching for more. Or, if not more, then closure. His socials still listed him and Adrian as an item. We didn't discuss what happened, he never brought it up. I didn't talk about it with Eve either. How could I? I was ashamed. She would hate me if she knew. Or, worse, she would hate Kale.

Kale and I talked less and less as it became clear that while I wasn't interested in maintaining the charade, he wasn't interested in breaking it. In the two years since his visit the only person I ever told about what happened was Saph.

"And now you," I conclude, dragged back into the present in an awful, shuddering instant. I can't bear to look long at Feather, the brief impression I get of their down-turned, twitching muzzle and restless demeanor is already too much for me. I don't know if I'll ever be able look them in the eyes again. I stare instead at my stomach and await judgment.