{"sf1_id":25833,"sf2_id":"AnKjLamE","title":"Strake Was Here","author":"Hawk","words":6310,"posted_at":"2007-06-11T03:58:00.000Z","tags":["Anal","Doberman","Gay","M/M","Rough","Tiger"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/25833-strake-was-here","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/AnKjLamE","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=25833\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"\"Strake Was Here\", by H. A. Kirsch Copyright 2007  \n  \nThis story is a one-off, but the characters may reappear in more one-offs later. It's been edited somewhat, thanks to Siphedious. Enjoy.  \n  \nWarning: this story features some slang that'd be considered anti-gay, if it wasn't being said by  \npeople who were gay and in the middle of having gay sex. If you're a whiny little PC brat, just save  \nyour anger for someone else and stop reading. Also, if you're a whiny PC brat, grow up.  \n  \n  \n  \n---  \n  \nStan popped the hood of his beat-up Dodge Ram, and just like a movie, a cloud of disgusting sweet  \nand white smoke made him jump back. The radiator cap was about to explode off. The doberman yanked  \nhis mock mechanic's shirt off and spun the cap off; coolant bubbled up into the shirt and he jumped  \nback, swearing and flinging the shirt at the ground. He growled as he picked it up, tossing the  \nshirt back into the cab. After a look up at the blinding August sun cutting through the haze, he  \nplopped his cowboy hat on and snatched his bandana, then swiped up his lunch cooler.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The rest stop was deserted, but just barely. A caravan of SUVs and minivans was leaving just as he  \npulled up, and they'd apparently had kids; the picnic tables were trashed with leftover candy bar  \nwrappers, ice cream, spilled soda, baby spit, ketchup, mustard, relish, cigarette ash. The ones that  \nweren't trashed by the horde were trashed by the flocks of starlings in the trees overhead. That  \nleft just one, about as far from the road as possible. Cooler in hand, Stan wandered over and sat  \ndown. He felt like he fit right in, painted-on Wranglers and a wife-beater clinging over his hard  \nchest.  \n  \nThe truck was going to break down. It was a given. Trying to move all of his shit in the middle of  \nAugust, A/C full on, and the water pump's tensioner kept slipping and popping the belt off. It  \nwasn't anything he couldn't fix in an hour or so, and the inter-state drive had been nagging him  \nenough that a cold beer and a sandwich break was a decent stop.  \n  \nStan fixed his bandana around his neck for a makeshift bib, and tucked in. While he was eating his  \nbarely-cooked roast beef sub, he was disturbed by a tremendous racket. It sounded like an entire  \nbiker gang all at once coming off the highway, but when he looked up, there was just one bike. It  \nroared up and thundered to a stop right next to his truck, the rider putting the stand down with a  \nthwack. Off stepped a white tiger who looked big enough to have to crouch over if he got into Stan's  \ntruck.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The dobie didn't like the fact that the big cat stopped right next to his truck. His brother had  \nbeen messed up when he wandered drunk into a biker bar once. Messed up as in, dragged for a thousand  \nfeet on ten-year-old asphalt. The dog hurridly stuffed more sandwich in his face.  \n  \nThe cat started off towards the actual bathrooms, then turned and headed straight for the picnic  \narea. The tiger took his time, wandering with heavy-booted thuds. More than just thuds; a  \nchain-rattle, the scrape of metal on concrete. Stan squinted forward, his splinted ears swinging  \nback when he realized the source of the noise. The tiger was wearing \\*spurs\\*.  \n  \nAs the feline approached, he stopped being just another biker in for a piss break. Goggles up on his  \nforehead, wide metal rings in each round ear. The upper body was a black leather biker jacket, with  \na gravel-washed denim jacket worn on top. The denim was shredded where the arms should have been,  \ntoo small for the tiger's massive upper body, held from flapping with metal chains in the front. The  \nfabric was marred with designs, flames and demonic images, tiger stripes and skulls. The designs  \nwere apparently the work of something like ballpoint pen, faded in spots. The biker jacket was  \nzipped up to the lapels, cinched up at the waist by a heavy belt whose buckle showed through the  \ndenim's opening. Each huge hand was wrapped by a pair of mid-forearm gauntlet riding gloves, the  \nhand parts looking about half a size too small.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The jackets both dead-ended square at the belt line, the tiger's bottom half packed into a pair of  \nsimilarly faded bluejeans. Packed was the right word; the crotch was straining, the button fly  \nactually looking like it would explode apart, and the fabric was darkened by sweat. There was just a  \nsquare of denim showing, a pair of extra-heavy duty biker chaps shotgunned down the feline's legs,  \nheld up by their own belt and some other swath of heavy leather. A closer look showed a gun belt,  \nblack tooled leather and holding an impossibly large revolver. Stan' s dad had one like it, a .500  \nhunting gun, the barrel a whole foot long. Stan stared at it for a second.  \n  \nThe cat's chaps were snug enough that muscle bulges showed through as he tromped forward. That  \nwasn't a simple feat, since the chaps looked like they were made of saddle-heavy leather. The chaps  \ndidn't snap down the lower leg, but buckled instead, over a pair of knee high boots. The hide was  \ntight enough that the outline of top-buckle straps could be faintly seen just below the knee. The  \nleather ended just above the ankle, showing off spiked boot chains mingling with the spur straps.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Stan had an instant dilemma. The tiger was hot as shit. He looked like he could put a black-wrapped  \nfist straight through anything that got in his way, and Stan had a quivering weak spot for  \nwell-built men. On the other hand, the cat looked \\*dangerous\\*. No, he was dangerous: a perpetual,  \nblack-lipped scowl, teeth showing as he huffed and snorted like a wild animal in the blazing heat.  \nHead to toe leather. A gun that could put a hole through a big-rig's engine block.  \n  \nThe tiger kept up his steady progress, leaving the concrete and trudging over the worn-down grass  \nright for the doberman's table. The big cat came up, swiped a bench forward, and sat down with a  \ncreak of wood and a loud huff. He then leaned back against the table's companion tree, swinging his  \nheavy-booted feet up right on top. One boot after the other, thudding down hard, one spur down  \nbetween the table's top slats, the other scraping at it, ankles crossed. The boot treads were caked  \nwith dirt. Stan quickly downed his whole Budweiser and nearly choked. Then he stuffed more sandwich  \ninto his jaw.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The biker reached into the inside of his denim jacket and pulled something out, a metal tube. The  \ncat pulled the tube off, then squashed it into a bent strand of metal spaghetti and stabbed it into  \nthe side of the tree. Inside it was a fat cigar, black as ink and pre-cut. \"You got a light?\"  \n  \nStan quickly slapped a thigh, bony hand digging at his pocket. \"Uh. Well, uh, somewhere in here.\" He  \nhad to twist himself to the side to squeeze the lighter out of his pocket past his keys. He cursed  \nhis tight jeans under his breath, the denim having had plenty of sweaty summer days and hard-water  \nwashings to shrink-wrap to his lean legs. He finally got the lighter out, a puny little orange Bic,  \nand slid it along the table.  \n  \nWithout taking his gloves off, the tiger snatched it up and flicked it, then flamed up the cigar. He  \nbarely got it going before the flame withered. The big cat flicked it down on top of the bench with  \na guttural snarl, then hefted a boot up and crashed the block heel down on it. The lighter exploded  \nwith a pop, a whiff of gas coming over Stan's way. It made the dobie's stomach turn and he set his  \nsandwich down. \"Ran out of gas,\" the cat growled, as he sent a cloud of rank smoke towards the  \ndobie. It smelled like coffee, leather, burning leaves in fall. \"That what happened to your piece of  \nshit out there?\" The cat tipped his head towards the parking lot.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Naw, uh, water pump screwed up. Belt hopped off. I'm just you know, letting it cool down 'fore I  \nfix it,\" Stan said. He felt himself slipping into his drawl, shrugging while he talked. He leaned  \nup and fetched his second beer out, popping the tab with a hiss. He then shifted on the seat, partly  \nto scratch at his sweaty tail stub, and partly to try and move his cock around under the tight  \ndenim. 'Fuck this guy, he's making me nuts', he thought. 'And I'm just a scrawny little shit of a  \ndog.'  \n  \n\"Dodge, huh? I'll grab you by the horns, Detroit shit,\" the cat snarled, cigar in his mouth, as he  \nstuck his middle finger up and whacked a gloved hand down into his elbow for the thrust. Then, he  \ngrinned, and leaned over, snatching the cooler away. He fished out a beer, then punched the plastic  \nbox back towards the doberman. \"Beer, huh? Cold, too. Don't mind if I do,\" the cat said, after the  \nfact. Instead of popping the tab, he clunked it down on the table hard enough to make the lunch box  \nrattle around. Up came a boot again, the spur rowel punching at the top of the beer. It took a  \ncouple whacks, the effort greeted by a spray of beer that shot up over the cat's dusty, black boot  \nleather. Stan stared, ears sweeping back. He suddenly wished he hadn't gotten splinted as a teen,  \nflop ears unable to show fear so well. \"Sign says, no al-co-hol-ic beverages,\" the tiger rumbled  \nthrough his teeth.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Uhm,\" Stan said, then just dug into the last of his sandwich, washing it down with his second beer.  \nAnything to keep him from saying something stupid.  \n  \n\"Truck's fucked, food's gone, beer's gone.. hah.\" The cat crushed the can, opening his head back to  \nspray the beer in, gulping it down. He wiped the runoff onto a glove, then flicked it all over the  \ntable with a snap of the wrist. He belched loud, then kept talking. \"Not much left to do here, 'cept  \njack off, piss, and take a nap.\"  \n  \nUntil that moment, Stan had figured he was simply going to get creamed into the dirt, the victim of  \nbeing a 'tough dog'; guys always wanted to start shit with a broad-chested guard dog, even if he was  \nsure as hell not any kind of guard. Now, Stan's head whirled through possibilities. Riding behind  \nthe cat on his bike, holding around that leather-clad bull torso? That pleasant thought died fast.  \nShivved and left in a stall, face white-washed. Thrown in the back of his truck with the rest of his  \nstuff to bake in the sun, duct-taped around the muzzle. The slick-furred dobie suddenly realized  \nthat he had to take a piss, and bad. Two beers, a few hours since the last stop, and a pair of  \nblack-rimmed tiger eyes staring at him through a haze of cigar smoke weren't making his bladder  \nhappy.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"That uh, pissing part sounds like a good idea. I gotta take a big leak.\" Stan said curtly, and got  \nup. He started off towards the bathrooms, trying to look like he genuinely needed to leak and not  \nlike he was scared. Luckily, his docked tail stub couldn't pin back against the back of his thighs.  \n  \nHe had to pass the cat's bike, and almost stopped just to look at it. A massive chopper, long-raked,  \ndouble-seated, angular fuel tank painted with black and white stripes and cat-eyes up at the front  \nlike the face of a tiger, and an engine so large it was possibly bigger than the one in Stan's  \ntruck. On the tank was written, \"Strake\".  \n  \nWhen he got to the bathroom shelter, Stan found that the pay phones under the overhang had been  \ncompletely destroyed. Handsets smashed, cabling pulled out, housing painted with profanity and gang  \nsigns. The same was true of the shelter doors. Inside, it smelled like piss and mildew. Only one of  \nthe stalls seemed usable, the others either unworking or flooded.  \n  \nThe dobie stopped in front of the mirror and sucked in his stomach, striking the tiniest pose. At  \nfirst, he felt okay; he was pretty fit, even if guard-dog slender. He had a mouth of nasty,  \nwell-kept teeth and a mean snarl. On second thought... he had a stretch fit two-dollar wife beater,  \na cowboy belt with a rodeo-riding coyote on a bull on the buckle, his ass-grabbing almost  \nworn-through Wranglers, and a pair of flashy underslung-heel black cowboy boots. Bandana around his  \nneck like some country boy. Even worse, he'd tucked his snot-rag into a back pocket. He quickly  \nfumbled it all the way into the pocket; he remembered there was some kind of code for that, and he  \ndidn't want to know what having a red handkerchief sticking out of his pocket meant.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The outside door to the restroom building banged open, followed by the stomp of stacked heel, rattle  \nand clank of spurs, squeak of leather. Stan quickly tossed himself into the one decent stall,  \nsitting down on the can. He swore silently, the seat sopping wet and soaking through the jeans. He  \nprayed it was condensation.  \n  \nThe tiger's heavy clomp entered the bathroom, the boot-stomp ringing in the tile. The cat was  \nmassive enough that his \\*breathing\\* was obvious, an open-mouthed huff with a wet slap of tongue  \nmoving around now and then. Stan looked over the top of the stall, watching smoke slowly drift  \nupwards from the general direction of the urinals. Next, the five soft snap-pops of a button fly,  \nbreath intake, then a low snort and snarl. The cat pissed like a racehorse, finishing up with a few  \nsquirts, then the creak of denim. The urinal flushed with a hard thump preceding it, no doubt a hand  \npunching the flush lever. The flush didn't stop.  \n  \nStan picked that moment to realize that the stall door had no latch. Where there should have been a  \ncircular plug of metal with a little grip, there was only the internals, a metal bar with a square  \ncouple of holes. He could see right through to the sinks and the dirty mirror. The view of the  \nmirror and sinks suddenly turned black. He saw a buckle, denim, leather, then the wood-grain pistol  \ngrip of the cat's massive sidearm. Leather creaked, and the hole was filled with a yellow eye.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"You takin' a piss, little girl?\" The biker chuckled. A little smoke drifted in the hole. \"You sure  \nain't shitting in there. You got your pants still up.\"  \n  \nThe doberman leaned back, pulling his boots up, preparing for the door to explode inward. He  \nimagined it bashing his legs up, the whole thing tearing off its frame... instead, the eye  \ndisappeared, thud-rattle-clack heading towards the door. Stan looked over to the side; to his  \ndismay, he spotted a roughly-spackled spot that looked a whole lot like a hole had been put through  \nthe stall divider.  \n  \n\"You meet me out behind th'dog run out back, puppy-dog. I know what you want.\"  \n  \n\"What?\" Stan said, then shut his mouth with a click.  \n  \n\"You heard me.\"  \n  \nThe bathroom door slapped open, then closed. Stan whined with pent-up fear, the hint of a wet spot  \nappearing in his pants, a little heat as he broke the seal. He tore the fly open and unsheathed,  \nknees shaking together. The second his pink cock was free, piss arced out. He barked and yanked his  \nboots way back behind, groaning as his bladder emptied compulsively, yellow piss splattering against  \nthe inside of the stall door, dripping off and running towards the floor drain. \"Shit, shit, shit  \nshit,\" he mumbled, managing to stop the flow long enough to turn around and unleash the rest into  \nthe toilet.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Sitting there, facing the wall and its invitations for hot blowjobs and declarations of teenage  \npride, the doberman thought about what was happening. The big cat wanted to get off and was picking  \nStan for it. That had to be what was up. It didn't help that Stan had been so busy he couldn't rub  \none out for a couple days, cock alternately straining in his jeans throughout the whole day's trip  \nas his mind wandered from the endless dotted yellow lines to all kinds of hot muck. His piss flow  \nstopped, cock throbbing so hard that he had to lean over the flush handle to get the rest out,  \nswearing under his breath. He then got up, packing up and kicking the flush handle, then stepping  \nout of the stall.  \n  \nHe was shaky on his heels, almost slipping in the massive puddle that was forming by the overflowing  \nurinal, making a rude face and holding his hat so it didn't flip off. The gross bathroom quickly and  \nthankfully did his erection in. The dog practically danced his way out of the bathroom into the  \nrestroom building's lobby. Just as he was hitting fresh air, he realized that the security camera  \nhad been long busted to hell, cable snapped and lens smashed in. Just as well.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He had two options. Get in his truck and get out of there, or do what the cat wanted. He was just  \nabout to get into his truck, had the key right in the door lock, when he squeezed his eyes shut and  \nleaned forward with a thump. He sighed, the breath catching like he'd been crying for half an hour.  \nDrive away and run, sure. The broken water pump wouldn't be any match for a big-block chopper and a  \ngun-packing tiger straddling the tank. Not to mention the prospect of a hot encounter. Stan found it  \nincreasingly thrilling, having a big cock unleash into his mouth behind a tree, maybe a gloved  \nhandjob. What would that feel like, anyway? He thumped his forehead into the truck's window; \\_You  \nwanted him to get in that other stall and poke his dick through a hole, didn't you? You slut,\\_ he  \nthought to himself.  \n  \n'What the hell was a dog-run, anyway?' Stan thought, then started pacing around, weaving through the  \npicnic tables. There was no sign of the tiger anywhere, not even a whiff of cigar smoke. Up behind  \nthe rest area was a gradual slope that crested into a hill righ before the woods started. There was  \na fence with a sign on it between building and hill. Stan clopped over in that direction, looking  \naround as he got near the fence. Inside were weeds, a path lazily worn through them. The sign read,  \nin barely legible and worn out letters, \"Dog Run\". Underneath, it said, \"Please Scoop After Your  \nDog.\" The dog let out a huh, and then turned red in the ears. At one time, dogs were let out of  \ntheir owners' cars, walked around on leashes so they could do their business; now Stan was going to  \ndo his.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Stan stepped inside the fence and made his way up the low hill. The actual dog run area made its way  \nback closer to the parking lot; the doberman had to push through a hole in the fence to keep going  \nup the hill. He didn't really need to ask himself why he was doing it; the biker cat was hot no  \nmatter how he sliced it. Dangerous, unpredictable, unknown, a stranger, but it didn't matter. The  \ndog had been on the road all day and he needed to do something about it, and the lure was too great.  \n  \nCresting the hill, he saw that it led down into a ravine by way of a ratty nature trail. There was a  \nState Property sign, but it was split in half. Beer bottles and caps littered the ground along with  \ncigarette butts and shotgun shells, nitrous cartridges and even a needle or three. The trail took a  \nsharp dive and met a little plateau, strewn with decaying stumps. There were a few used condoms, one  \nblack and horse-sized hanging off a branch. Stan fingered at his wallet, taking it out, looking at  \nthe one inside there; \"Cerberus\" brand, for dogs, by dogs. He started opening it up, then dropped it  \nwhen someone grabbed his shoulder. The hill was at his back.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"You gonna wrap that on my dick so you don't get a mess on your shirt, faggot?\" The voice was the  \nchest-rattling snarl of one large, white, leather-wrapped white tiger. Stan yanked and spun around,  \nhaving to stare up to even meet the cat's eyes. Then back down at the huge, obscene banana curve in  \nthe cat's pants, a big wet splotch in the denim where the crown would be, shining with slime.  \n  \n\"Wh.. what'd you just call me?\"  \n  \n\"I called you a faggot. You wanna know why, huh.\" The cat brought a gloved hand forward and down,  \nclocking Stan on the ass. \"You're a faggot because you put on these pretty bot ass-jeans this  \nmorning, this showoff shirt..\" Black-clad fingers molested the strap of the shirt, pulling on it  \nuntil Stan started to stagger. The dog snarled and snapped, grabbing up at leather-bound muscle.  \n  \n\"Hey, I thought you were just gonna you know, make me suck you off!\" The dog growled, lips back.  \n  \n\"What the hell's your name, doggie?\" The tiger growled, and grabbed Stan by the scruff. The dog  \nfroze up as the biker withdrew the dobie's wallet. \"Says here your name's Stanley. Stanley's a puppy  \nname. Here boy, here Stanley!\" The cat bellowed, tossing the wallet back, then stuck his fingers in  \nhis jaw, whistling so loud that Stan barked and flatted his ears. \"Yeah, little Stanley the  \npuppy-dog's gonna get a nice doggie treat.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The tiger grappled for Stan, one hand pulling the dog's shirt up, the other feeling over the sleek,  \ndefined chest. The dog flinched, his nipples sticking out through the remainder of the shirt, boot  \nheels scraping at the dirt. The cat bent down, face so close that Stan got a whiff of cigar smoke,  \nbeer, and the gross wildcat smell of raw meat. \"You ever kissed a real man, faggot?\" the cat  \nrumbled, and tried to lick his rough tongue at the end of the dog's pointed snout. Stan huffed and  \nbolted his head back. The tiger snarled instantly and spat all over the doberman's muzzle.  \n  \n\"You asshole!\" Stan growled. He was about to lurch away, when a gloved hand grabbed him by the neck  \nand scruffed him again. The tiger aimed the dog at a moss-covered boulder about knee high, then  \nstarted walking. Stan found himself shoved forward onto the rock.  \n  \n\"You get your pants off, faggot. I'll take care of my end. Look what I got out of your pretty little  \npuppy-dog lunch box to grease my dick up.\" The biker's black-clad hand squeezed into a jacket  \npocket, then pulled out a wad of white objects, dumping them onto a dimple in the rock. They were  \nmayonnaise packets.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Ears flat against his head, Stan undid his belt buckle, the metal clanking against the rock. Then  \nthe fly, a rush of snaps. He didn't scoot his pants down, instead just clutching onto the rock, back  \nstraining, heaving as he breathed. He'd been fucked exactly once, the only experience with something  \nthat didn't have tits, and it had been an abrupt pounding in the back room of a gay bar he'd  \nwandered into. His hole puckered up at the thought.  \n  \nThe tiger took one of the packets up, put it into his gloved palm, and punched at it with the other.  \nThe end exploded open with a wet splat, white slime splattering his curled-up fingers. Then another,  \nand another, until there was a thick, uneven mound of off-white on the glove leather. \"This'll work  \nreal good if I decide to eat your ass back out after I dump a few loads in it, you hot little piece  \nof shit.\" With the clean hand, the tiger yanked down on the dog's loosened jeans, skinning them off  \nthe slender black rump. \"Look at this, ain't even got a tail to get in the way.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Then, the cat undid his own sweat-soaked jeans, grabbing in and pulling his dick out. It was fat and  \nstuck out almost perfectly straight, foreskin rolling back behind the slimy, black head. The whole  \nthing was black, Stan looking over his shoulder and clutching down onto the rock, squeezing his ass  \ntogether. He winced at the thought of the color shots needed to do that somewhere so sensitive. \"Oh  \nfuck, I can't take that! Go fuck someone your own size!\" he growled, clacking his teeth.  \n  \nThe response was a wet squelch as the tiger throttled over his massive cock, spreading the makeshift  \nlube until it looked like he'd jacked off all over his own cock. He fishhooked the dog, a couple  \nslick fingers pushing straight through the pucker. \"I like this nice little brown patch you got  \nhere, faggot. Shows a big cat like me just where to find the puppy's tight little hole.\" Once the  \ngloved fingers were inside, they were much more gentle, thrusting and twisting, curving down. The  \nstabbing, cramping pain turned into an intense need for Stan to piss, then a body-relaxing  \noverheated pleasure. The dog's cock slid out of its sheath and into the cool brush of the moss, his  \neyes wide, face open in a toothy, surprised sneer.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Out came the fingers, the clean hand grabbing up at Stan's shoulder. The tiger lined himself up,  \npushing at the pink star, shoving it left, then right, then denting it in. The pucker disappeared as  \nhe crushed forward, the dog whining and yelping. With a wet, oily squash, the head pushed through.  \nThe tiger's leather creaked as he pushed in, then tugged back, working himself up until the dog  \nbarked and pulled away. The first ten or so thrusts were slow enough that by the ninth, Stan was  \nmoaning, slowly squeezing himself forward, cock leaving wet spits of precum all over his shirt as  \nhis cock pushed up underneath the dangling fabric.  \n  \n\"You better not come while I'm just startin' out, faggot. Or it'll be a rough ride.\" With that loud  \ngrunt, the tiger started working for real. Stan squeezed his eyes shut as hips crushed him forward,  \na few tears squeezing out, smeared onto his face along with dirt and green specks of moss. The  \nthrusts were over almost as soon as they began, the cat letting out a muffled-up roar, a sudden push  \nof heat inside. The tiger stopped thrusting so abruptly that Stan ended up with his face thumping  \nthe rock.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"You ain't never been fucked by a big cat 'fore now, huh, faggot?\" Strake growled, and slowly pulled  \nout. Just as his cockhead was about to pop through the dog's rings, he sunk back in. He was still  \nrock hard. \"You're gonna shit cum for an hour when I'm done.\"  \n  \nWhen Strake started thrusting again, it was just as hard as before, hips smacking into the dobie's  \nsmooth-furred rump, jostling the dog forward. Stan's cock alternated between getting hard and  \nslacking off, leaving huge wet splotches of preseed in the moss. After a while, each time he was  \nshoved forward, there was a wet squelch. Now and then, the cat would stop, groaning and snorting, a  \ndistinctive hard jerking coming from the fat-headed cock inside the dog's asshole.  \n  \nThe pain gave way to a numb sort sense of awe, and by the fifth pause-grunt-jerk climax by the  \ntiger, the thrusts were well-lubed by slimy spunk. The dog's hole was loose enough that the  \nthrusting was clearly audible, making Stan flat his ears back out of humiliation.  \n  \nThen, Stan realized something. Up above, over the crest of the hill, there were the squeals of kids.  \nThey were apparently playing frisbee. One of them swore, and something flew over the hill, bonking  \ninto a tree with a plastic thump and landing on the other side of a thick bush. The thrower burst  \nover the hill, rushing after it, a young fox.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The tiger froze, leaning his body over the dog's, pressing down hard enough that Stan found it hard  \nto breathe. The fox rooted around, trying to find the frisbee. Stan silently prayed the vulpine  \ndidn't come over their way. He tightened up inside, causing enough pain that he had to squint his  \neyes shut, tears oozing out of them. After a few moments, Strake took a huge, slow breath, his cock  \nstarting to jerk again. \\_Holy shit, he's coming in me right while that kid's over there,\\_ Stan  \nthought. He felt like the whole world was draining away.  \n  \nThe fox found the frisbee and ran back up the hill. Strake didn't move away immediately, starting to  \nrock back and forth with long squeaks of leather. Stan felt hot breath against his ear. \"Bet you was  \nscared that lil' fox-boy was gonna see a big ol' cat tooling your queer ass, huh faggot?\"  \n  \nThe tiger abruptly pulled out, Stan lifting his head, slumping against the rock as the fat glans  \nleft him wide open. The dog rolled over and started to get up; Strake responded by punching the  \ndobie in the sternum, sending him sprawling back against the rock. \"Now, you tell me somethin',  \nfaggot. You think I look good?\" The tiger kept his voice down to a hoarse whisper.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Huh?\" Was all Stan could mumble.  \n  \nThe cat leaned down, grabbing Stan by both arms and pinning him flat back against the rock, drooling  \ncock leaving a wet trail on the dog's denim-clad thigh. \"I said, you think I'm fuckin' hot? You  \nain't complaining much. Figured you must like somethin'. You like a big fuckers like me?\"  \n  \n\"Uhh, I guess,\" Stan mumbled. His cock was fully out of its sheath, knot bulging at the bottom, the  \nfurred skin slowly slipping back behind it and bunching up.  \n  \n\"Good. I like to be appreciated,\" the cat said, drawl heavy around his cigar. The hands let go of  \nStan's arms, then grabbed at the dobie's pants, yanking them down past the knees, then over the tops  \nof the boots, bunching them at the ankles. He then cantilevered up, the dog forced to lie  \narch-backed on the rock. \"Now I'm gonna fuck you like the pretty little girl puppy you are, get in  \nthat loosened-up pussy hole good and hard.\"  \n  \nStan struggled as the tiger split his legs apart, shoving the knees up until his booted feet were at  \nthe cat's chest. He tried to kick, but the tiger just lifted further. Without touching himself, the  \nbiker cat shoved forward and mounted again. This time, there was no gentle push, just one swift  \nmovement and he was pistoning like a machine.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The doberman arched back, teeth showing as his muzzle gaped open wide. From behind, it was  \ndegrading, but on his back, he wanted to come right away with the huge, bulge-headed dick cramming  \nup against his prostate. He moaned and yowled, tongue hanging out over his teeth, stub twitching  \nhard enough that it would have been audible slapping against the rock if it weren't for the wet,  \ngreased up squelch from behind.  \n  \nThe stabbing pain of entry qucikly into a dull ache, then the numb overstimulated burn of before,  \nthe dog's insides now hypersensitive to the wet sensation of flesh sliding against flesh. His feet  \ncurled, booted toes pointing up, hands trying uselessly to push the tiger off, neck crinked as the  \nheavy fucking pushed him further back on the rock. His hole started to buck and he whined out a  \nloud, shrill whimper, white gobs of seed starting to drool out of his dick in a reflexive,  \npleasure-less climax. The tiger pulled back, cock straining so hard the veins bulged out the sides.  \n  \n\"You fuckin' come just now, you queer-ass fuckrag?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"N-no, I... it's just... fuck, your cock was hitting me in there-\"  \n  \nStan tried to get up off the rock again, but slid down the front, knees up, rump sitting on his  \nbooted, denim-covered ankles. He was leaning forward when the tiger lifted up a huge boot and  \nstomped him in the shoulder, pinning him to the rock. The dog trembled and looked over, the top of  \nthe square boot toe smeared with a gob of what he thought was semen. It stank like vinegar and egg;  \nmayo.  \n  \n\"Well, puppy, if you think I look good in all this biker shit, then you're gonna sit there and jack  \noff lookin' at me. I ain't lifting my leg up until your dick's making a nice mess out of that shiny  \ntwo-tone fur over your pretty tits.\"  \n  \nThe false climax had Stan's knot swollen, a dull ache inside from the need of the real thing. Ears  \nsplayed, he grabbed onto his wet cock and started to pump it slowly. Soon, another hand was joining,  \ncaressing the bulging red knot.  \n  \n\"I like watching you puppy-dogs jack off, working that freak faggot dick like you got your mitts on  \na doorknob,\" the tiger snarled, each word coming out with a puff of cigar smoke. The tiger was  \njerking himself, gloved hand slicked up with the greasy lube and spunk, milking his cock so the head  \nflared out shiny each time his hand pulled forward.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Stan was working himself for show; after he couldn't stand it, he squeezed his eyes shut and started  \njacking his knot. He barked and arched his back, shirt meeting the stone, head thumping against the  \nboulder as his seed started spraying out. He felt it slap up against his neck, his chest, his arm.  \n  \n\"You motherfucker!\" the tiger roared, and Stan's eyes popped open. All along the side of the cat's  \nboot were strands of wet seed. The dog's cock was still spurting in his hands. \"You fuckin' clean  \nthat up or I'm gonna crush your neck in and you'll make a nice, quiet fuck for the rest of your  \nfaggot life!\"  \n  \nThe dog just stared, hyperventilating, climax immediately mixed with fear. The tiger unholstered the  \nmassive gun, then poked the dog's chest right over his heart. \"You lick, faggot, or you get a nice,  \ntight new hole for guys to shoot off in.\"  \n  \nStan whimpered and shoved his face against the leather, furiously licking at it. His spurts came up  \nagain, slapping against his shirt, then died off. The tiger roared out again, the dog yanking his  \nhead away from the now drool-wet leather, expecting a huge torrent of seed to hit him. Instead, the  \ntiger's black cock pumped and throbbed, the slit swelling open as sticky, oozing drools of seed came  \nout and rolled down the cat's heavy black glove.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; With a grunt, the tiger pushed past the crouching dog, holstered his gun, and shook his cock off  \nonto the boulder, seed landing on it with a wet splat. He took a few last puffs off the cigar, then  \nplucked it out of his mouth and crushed the ember down into his own puddle of semen with a crackling  \nhiss.  \n  \nStan slumped against the boulder, letting go of his knot. The bulge subsided, cock shrinking down,  \nsheath flesh slowly covering it back up. He could feel the wet ooze of seed out of his used-up  \nasshole, and stayed crouched for a few moments until there wasn't anything left to let go of. He got  \nup slowly, taking his pants up, haphazardly buttoning.  \n  \n\"Hmmf,\" the cat growled, and pissed all over the side of the rock. He shook off and stuck his cock  \nback into his jeans, doing the package back up as well. Then he grabbed Stan by the shoulder. The  \ndog flinched, but the grab didn't lead to much. \"Hey. Puppy-whore. You know...\" the cat's hand went  \ndown to his side. The fingers kept moving, to the back of the cat's jeans, and tugged out a riveted  \nleather wallet. \"Here's a hundred for your trouble. You know, hire a tow truck for that broke-down  \npiece of shit you got.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The cat stuffed the bills into the dog's front jeans pocket, then just pushed past, stalking up the  \nhillside, spurs rattling. The denim of the cat's over-jacket was cut out neatly in the back, the  \ncutouts hemmed, making up the word \"Strake\", black leather showing inside. The bulk of the cat  \ndisappeared, leaving Stan alone. After a good ten minute wait, Stan stood up and brushed himself  \noff. His shoulder was caked with drying, yellowing mayonnaise, chest and shirt stained off-white and  \ncrusting over with his seed, dirt and moss scrubbed into his face and jeans. He wandered back over  \nthe hill, past the dog-run, past the bathrooms, and straight for his truck.  \n  \nThere was no sign of Strake or his massive bike. There was a little Honda with a fat badger in the  \nfront seat, seemingly asleep, and a dirt bike that couldn't have been road worthy. There was the  \ndog's truck, hood still open. The dog just silently started messing under the hood, banging around  \nuntil he had the cooling belt back on. He was just getting into the driver's side when he realized  \nthat there was a faint smear of something by the handle. He stepped back. In just the right light,  \nin block letters, someone had smeared something slimy around on the dust-covered paint job. It said,  \n\"Strake Was Here.\" The letters puckered out near the end, and a new message was written underneath,  \nthe paint scraped off by a set of keys. \"Keep the change, faggot.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \n  \n  \n  \n\n"}