A "Chance" Encounter
Author's Note: the following story may contain material of an adult nature. This may contain, and certainly does anyway, yiffy stuff between a sexy husky boy and a daddeh lion in the restroom of a Bingo parlor. Scandalous! Submission, leather play, Internet tweaking and geeking make you quake in your boots, scamper away and find a safe place. Otherwise, get your paw lubed and ready to pump up the jam!
Special thanks go to Chance the red haski for being a generally oversexed puppy and texting me on the job. Inspiration can come from the most unusual of circumstances. Thanks for the idea, dude; keep up the yiffy work.
FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]
A "Chance" Encounter ©MMVII Whyte Yoté
Okay, okay, so I'm on my way to this bingo hall, right? I've been having a pretty good day so far. I mean, for once, when I got up in the morning, it was actually easy to get out of bed and get going. That never happens to me, you know. I have to kick my own ass out the door just to be on time and not get chewed out by the boss guys. But, yeah, I was up and in the shower and I was humming! Crazy shit.
I never hum, especially not in the shower.
I had to cram a couple of Pop Tarts in my snout instead of actual food, but I was still on time. So I got clocked in and I had all of five minutes to myself before my pager went off with an assignment. Somebody fucked up a LAN at a bingo hall, and of course it's the night of THE BIG GAME, so it's up to me to save all the old farts in town from becoming even more senile.
Well, I don't like sitting around with nothing to do (because I like to work more than not, but mostly because my coworkers are geeks and retards who don't have a life to save their souls) so I'm out the back and in my little company car faster than you can defrag a brand-new hard disk. I've got NIN in the stereo and I'm, like, rocking out hardcore to the new album. Just when I thought their stuff was getting a little stale and unoriginal, and Trent Reznor takes it in a new direction. So, my purchase was justified and it's sunny out and everything seems right with the world. At least my corner of it.
My little GPS navigation thing with the voice of some British bitch is annoying as fuck, but it does its job in spades and never misses a turn. Unfortunately, I miss a turn on the way but Madge (as I've affectionately named her) chimes in with a polite "recalculating, please wait" while she figures out how to make up for my mistake. No big deal. While she thinks, I lick a finger and slide a few stray hairs out of my eyes. Almost time to get a trim. Gettin' a little too floofy to manage. I mean, even huskies need a break now and then from luxuriant coats; May's getting a little too hot to handle.
Since I live in the middle of a fuckin' interstate mess, it takes about forty minutes to zip on over to this bingo hall. Pulling up in front of this building gives me a nice unsettled feeling in my gut: it looks like it's a renovated bowling alley, the way it's set up. One whole side of it is cinderblocks all the way down, and painted the worst shade of shit-grey you've ever seen. I feel my ears against the back of my head. Maybe it's better inside, right? God damn, I sure hope so.
"Four-eight-seven-seven to base," I say into my company cell phone. Nobody but me calls in, and I don't think it would make a bit of difference if I even did. I just like to be nice. Don't even get an answer, the bastards.
The building doesn't get any better the closer I get to it. It's one of those that's all wall except for the one entrance corner, and that's all plate glass with some of those shitty glass blocks you find in kitschy bathrooms, and some molded cinderblocks that look like flowers from the Sixties. Pretty sure it was a bowling alley at some point. At least there's some eye candy talking at the door. Oh God, daddy bear volunteer with a Scottish accent! And he has tats...probably in his fifties. It's all I can do not to stare at that hulking furry body as I pass through the door. Fuck, now my crotch hurts.
Going in is like day to night, at least in terms of light. The warm breeze blowing my fur around is replaced by a blast of arctic chill before I enter the building proper. Even I shiver a little. How can all those old people stand such a cold room?
It's fairly early in the afternoon, and nothing's started yet. I got a great place right out front of the hall, and in here it's mostly volunteers and young people setting up for the evening. Looking around (once my eyes adjust, that is), my suspicion about the bowling alley is confirmed: the lanes haven't even been taken out! Just the gutters, filled in with some cheap-ass veneer shit that doesn't match at all. Where the pins were once, is just wall with the graphics still intact, looking like relics from a bad disco flick. Guess they didn't have a lot of money to convert. Still, the atmosphere fits perfectly for some reason.
I shift my gear bag from shoulder to shoulder and lurch my way forward, looking for something that resembles a computer or networking room. The dark doesn't help much, but I move around empty tables and chattering middle-aged women and finally stumble upon a doorway labeled "Internet Lounge." Before I have a chance to set out for the door, I hear this lady behind me.
"Young man, are you the one who's supposed to fix the computers?" I turn around to face this older vixen, probably upper fifties but nice enough.
"Yup, is it that one behind me?" I already know, but I'm just being nice.
"Yes, right in there. Some of the players don't stay in bingo all night. Some actually like to go online. It's so nice that they can get into the Internet; they get so lonely sometimes." She's got her paws clasped and I can tell she's given this little speech many times before. I just nod and smile, nod and smile like a good kid. If they could only see my Internet bookmarks...
"I'll go see what's up with the network," I put on my best professional air and strut toward the room with purpose. My tail bobs behind me, and tugs gently against the leather around it. I feel a corresponding tug on my throat, since the two are interconnected. Probably a good time to do a decency check.
Looks like the "Internet Lounge" used to be a real lounge at some point, because there's one of those one-way mirrors beside the door, where you can't see in but the people playing the machines can see out. No one has smokes a cigarette here in years, but the scent still remains. I don't really care who sees me looking at my reflection, and I do a little last-minute primping. Teeth are clean, eyes awake, fur bright and shiny and floofy like always. My name badge is pinned securely above my left nipple (I once got it caught on a piercing; that was awkward) and it's nice and straight. It says "Ecnahc" in reverse letters below the company logo. Chance is my name, and it's what people moan in my bed at night. Speaking of which...
A quick turnaround reveals nothing out of the ordinary. The full-body harness I'm wearing under my uniform is nowhere to be found. But I can feel it all over: against my throat up top, all the way down a strap to the base of my tail, around my chest to a large chrome ring on my sternum, and another similar ring at the small of my back. Tight enough to keep me informed that it's there, loose enough to allow free movement. The two items I'm trying to ignore are the leather ring around my balls and its accompanying sheath cage. Who says you can't have fun on the job? Well, it's when you try to have fun that the cage becomes a problem. Then again, denial is a favorite of mine.
Okay, time to get into the problem before my sheath swells enough to be a real distraction. The "Internet Lounge" is nothing more than a room, twenty feet square, with computers all around the edge and a bunch of those shitty stupid encouragement posters all over. I see "Inspiration," "Perseverance" and "Courage" before I become nauseous and have to look away. It's things like this that make me want to never grow old. Maybe I'll just decide to cut it off at sixty and go out with a bang. Anyway...
I take a quick look around and spy a separate desk with an "Administrator" label; that's the one I'll need to go into to find the problem if there even is one. First I have to check all the idiot fixes like power cords and resetting routers and shit. Beats me how people can buy something and just call a tech when they could save a load of money by reading the goddamn directions. Well, let's get started.
Don't get me wrong. I love my work. I'm good at it and I have a passion for technical troubleshooting. Sometimes I just like the look on someone's face when I perform some "miracle" any dumbass could pull, and they think I've saved them from certain death or something. On the other paw, if everybody knew the ins and outs of networks and servers, I wouldn't be making any money. At least, not doing this. So, in a way I'm glad for the retards.
Nobody's come to tell me what to do yet, but I try to go online anyway. Timed out. Well, duh. Could be a million things, so I start eliminating. Reset the router, nothing. Reset the modem, nothing. Unplug them both for a minute, still nothing. So I have to go inside and work the system.
As I suspected, the Administrator computer isn't password protected, because--um--this is a fuckin' bingo hall. There's no one in the room with me, because of obvious reasons, so in no time I can forget about the slight tugging in my groin and get deeply involved with the windows on the screen. Configurations, check. Signal strength, check. See, now we're getting real deep into the shit here. At least I'm having an interes--
"You here to fix what I broke?" The words rumble deep in my chest and quiver the fur in my ears, it's so low and bass-like. To top that, this heavy, hot paw settles onto my left shoulder and squeezes slightly. I can even feel a pressure change behind me; my hackles are up instantly and I fight to turn around slowly.
Holy fucking God.
It's this wall of golden fur, just hulking in front of my face. This huge lion is standing above me, looking down over this enormous belly, and I almost have a heart attack. Instead, I yip out loud and backpedal into my chair. That's a bad idea, because the chair doesn't really want to go anywhere, so it spills backward and takes me with it. In a couple of seconds, I'm on my back on the floor, staring between my spread footpaws up at this monster of a man. He's chuckling at me, and it resonates inside my head.
"Y'all right there, pup? Even when I'm just standin' I tend to scare people. 'Pologize for that." He bends over, extending his meaty paw to help me up. Well, I'm just making a fool out of myself on the ground, in the missionary position no less, gawking up at him and trying to form a coherent sentence. It's only for a few seconds, but way too much information passes between us than should between two males. I get a good whiff of his musk; it's slightly lemony with a tinge of fish. Not bad, just feline, and edgy. He's got specs on the bridge of his muzzle, and they rest just right in the wrinkles formed there as the lion smiles down at me.
Presently, I also realize my shirt's come up above my waistline as a result of my ass-over-teakettle spill onto the linoleum, and I'm not wearing anything underneath to hide my harness. There's no way even the most dim observer could miss the inch-thick leather strap and part of a chrome ring exposed for a good five seconds. And the lion is looking down, too, and I know he sees it, but before I can blush or even react to that embarrassment he just takes my paw and heaves. I come up off the ground like a ragdoll, and come close--perilously close--to the bulge between his legs. The musk down there is different, but I only get a fleeting whiff before I'm back on my feet. I just hope he doesn't hear the whimper of frustration I can't quite quash.
The lion shakes my paw before he lets me go, now firmly erect (standing!) and smoothing down my uniform shirt. Man, I'm already pushing at the cage, but this guy is fucking HOT! Huge and imposing. It's going to be a struggle not to turn submissive from instinct.
"That happens more than you would think," rumbles the feline, helping to swipe some floor-dust from my back, which I let him do freely. Of course. "Big guys who're quiet on their feet, you know. Anyway, I'm Bob. I don't run the bingo show; I only help out on the sidelines. Like with the network in this here room." Bob sweeps his paw in an arc, and I follow it gladly. Those pink pads are so damn thick...
"I think I was just about to find the problem when you startled me," I say. "I checked all the easy stuff, and what I think we have here is an unrecognized IP address."
"You're gonna have to explain it to me like I'm a four-year-old, son. I may be in charge of the computer room, but that don't mean I know what I'm doing. Best leave that up to a well-groomed young man like yourself." What the fuck?! Oh, that can't be what I think it is. Volunteering at a bingo hall means you have to assign a certain saccharin niceness to your speech, for the benefit of the old folks and the younger kids too. Don't know why, it's kind of like going to church. Even so, I can't help the blush that adds a pink shade to complement my red-and-white coloring. Bob grins wider; I know he's seen it.
Fuck, my sheath is gonna explode in this damn cage! Now's one of those times when I would do damn near anything to get off just to deflate. I left the key at home though, on purpose, and now I'm starting to regret it. How did I know this was going to go down? I didn't, that's why.
I clear my throat. "Okay, Bob. Over here you have your wireless router and your high-speed modem..." And then I begin the whole tech-talk spiel where I explain exactly what everything is and what it does in excruciatingly boring detail. There are those who throw their paws up and say they'll just call me if they need me, and then there are those who draw themselves fully into the conversation, and even learn a thing or two.
Bob is one of those guys who seems to catch on quickly, and once he gets the gist of the system he's butting in and finishing my sentences for me. He's a nice guy, very personable despite his imposing physique (i.e. huge-ass arms and belly!) and for a bit I forget totally about my initial reaction--and attraction--to him.
That is, until I go back to the Administrator computer and check the Ethernet port for connectivity. Headfirst under the desk I go, turning the tower around when I feel that paw again...on my waist. Yeah, well, I'm hard all over again and pushing against the aluminum trapping my sheath closed. Bob gets down on all fours behind me; in fact, he has to crawl along on his belly to fit, and when he finally butts his mane in next to my head his musk is stronger, more humid. It's driving me fucking crazy, smelling that lion right next to me!
"Now, Chance, you're gonna have to go slower with me a minute, okay? I can't see in the dark too good, and...well...these glasses are a royal pain in the ass." He settles on an elbow to my right, leans onto his side and places a paw on my back so the end of my tail faps about on it just so. My tail is one thing I can't stop from moving no matter how hard I try, so I hope he doesn't notice it's an enthusiastic wag of husky horniness. Man, if I wasn't so worked up I'd be nervous.
"Sure thing, Bob." And on and on goes the spiel about LANs and interconnectivity and IP addresses and stuff. The whole time, Bob is right there beside me, nodding and paying rapt attention as far as I can tell. But the more I rattle out terminology and shit, the more I suspect it's a ruse. I've been around the block too many times and had more than my fair share of guys. When you get down to it, men can be just as predictable as women are unpredictable. It's not the way Bob keeps shifting his hips closer to mine, or the way his paws brush along my forearm more than they really should. More than anything, the lion may think he's being clandestine, but I can smell his erection just as well as he can smell mine. I'm pretty sure he knows this fact, and it occurs to me much too late that if I wasn't okay with his intimate presence I would have said so long ago. My inaction has broadcast my acceptance, and there's no covering that up. Not really.
Bob's talking again. "But I don't think that's part of the problem, Chance. You said it was in the computer, right? And it looks like all these cables are connected. Do you want to go in and check for that IP number you were talkin' about?" His voice has a slight drawl I can't quite place, and it's intoxicating.
"Yeah, that would be the only place left to look. I just need to get out of here and back in the chair." As I'm saying this to Bob, I notice he's looking off to the side, as if he's heard someone come in the room. But the door's closed, and there's almost no noise from outside. He's trying to pull something, I just know it, and it's making me too hard to bear. Even if I jetted to the bathroom, I wouldn't be able to paw off. God dammit.
"Lemme see if I can get out of here without too much trouble," mumbles the lion, still looking around, and he makes a very obvious lurch against me and I can feel the lump pressing against my upper thigh. Shit, it's huge...this is getting out of control, but it's nothing I wouldn't want to join if given the slightest chance. Bob's got his eyes locked on mine, tiny pinpoints of light above the rimless glasses, and then his toeclaw is on my footpaw--Oh, fucking God!
"Ooooooooh, shhhh..." My teeth are gritted tightly together, the noise of it loud in my head. The jig is up, as they say, and this terrific weight is lifted off my mind. Certainty about a huge daddy lion feeling you up will take that weight off. Why didn't I notice he was barepawed too? That would have been the first thing I would have noticed. Either way, his toes are up and down my footpads, between my toes, and just a little bit up my ankle; he might as well be sucking me off for all the good it's doing my cock.
"I've got to be honest with you, Chance," Bob says, his foot sliding a little further up my calf. Fiery tingling shoots through my tail and up my spine. "It was iffy there for a second. I probably wouldn't have made a move if it weren't for that harness on your belly. But we both smell the same thing, right? Kinda takes the fun out of the guessing game."
My ears go down, but I'm smiling, probably looking like a jackass but I don't care. Time to take a chance. Like the worst he can do is refuse, right? "I don't know, Bob. We've cut through a lot of shit already. I never expected my afternoon to take such an interesting turn." I have to pause and bite my cheek from Bob's pressing paw on my back. He wants me down, and I oblige by getting on my tummy, propped on my elbows. He takes my tail and grips it, rubbing down to the end and watching it spring against my spine. Again his toes get between mine, and I swear to God I almost cream my pants!
The sheath cage stops that from happening, and despite the pain I'm glad for it.
Bob's got this lustful look on him now, right? Like before he was this rough-and-tumble volunteer guy for the bingo crowd, but now he's all starry-eyed and his features are soft. The paw that is rubbing along my back moves lower, starting to knead my thigh. "You good at anything besides fixing computers?" Oh, yeah, he means business. I've heard that one before; it's an oldie, but it's nice and clear.
"Good at following orders," I answer, narrowing my eyes in such a way that, combined with my natural sanguine color, makes me look like an extra-poofy fox with big paws. It cuts some of the cute out of my natural looks, and most guys, Bob included, take the bait. I sense this wave of testosterone just falling off him, and the paw on my thigh moves up and inward, gripping tighter. I'm enjoying myself thoroughly.
"Yeah, I see you got that collar there. Looks good on ya; you shouldn't hide it under your shirt like that." He's unbuttoning the top of my uniform as he says this, his claws languidly drawing furrows in my chestfur and pulling against the harness. And he's fawning over me like fucking crazy, like testing me out before deciding to buy. Like a toy. That makes me so hot, it's unbelievable.
Bob gets his fingers under my collar, looks back for intruders one more time, and says, "Maybe we should continue in the restroom?" He doesn't wait for an answer, either; instead he draws me real close in by my collar, guiding my head all the while. I have to crawl a bit on my elbows to meet him, but I go right in. First I scent a mellow, sweet cologne, then the buttery, heady odor of his breath as he takes my lips in his--no, takes my lips over.
My eyes close, naturally, as I let him nip at my lower lip with his fangs. He's got complete control over me by now (plus kissing me pretty much makes me melt), with my collar and my ass in each of his paws, and he ever-so-gently explores deeper into my muzzle. This guy is not just some average Joe out for a piece of young ass...well, he might be, but he knows how to take his time, at least. Bob treats me like a full-blown fucking lover, nosing against my snout, practically giving it a bath with his thick, rough tongue. If he had both paws free he would be holding me by my cheeks, I just know it. He seems to be satisfied with our positions, though, since he has no problem prying my lips open and delicately sliding in.
This time I can no more keep the moan from escaping than keep my sheath from swelling against its prison, literally aching for something to touch it. I start to regret leaving the key at home, but realizing there's nothing I can do about it now has an odd sort of calming effect. It kind of lets me give up more to Bob, and my tongue lashes out into his muzzle, bathed in heat and that smooth, buttery taste. It's a mature taste, and Bob's a mature guy, and if my elbows weren't the only thing holding me up I'd be all over his crotch.
At this point, I'm pretty sure neither one of us would mind if we were discovered having a moment under the server table in the bingo hall's Internet Lounge. I'm sure my bosses wouldn't like me too much, but when you've got this sexy man, this real man, all up in your hormones, you don't think too hard about the consequences of your actions. I lean into Bob's tongue as best I can, trying to show him up and get as much of a workout as I can out of this lion before he decides to break it off.
Bob is the one to moan, and I fucking feel his body rumble behind it; whiskers vibrate and tickle against my own. His tongue is into my throat, and though I have to time my breathing now it makes the kiss all the more desperate. You know, it takes over the last bits of control you would have otherwise? Like, sometimes, no matter how deep you get into sex, there's always this dialogue going on in your head, this voice of reason. But the way Bob's into me, just grinding into my muzzle with his, I can't think of anything besides matching him move for move and intensity for intensity.
Of course, time ceases to mean anything while we're locking lips under the table. It always seems to do that when you're deeply ensconced in the mouth of an older, gruffer male whose body language makes it clear he wants to completely dominate you. I don't want to break the kiss, but we've been at it so much my muzzle is starting to drip with his saliva. I revel in the result of our exploits (getting messy is sometimes the best part of sex play), and when Bob disconnects he give me a mini-tongue bath from snout to whiskers. My jaw is down, tongue lolling like an idiot, but I'm sure that if Bob were my age he'd be just the same.
"God almighty, you're a good kisser," the lion drawls, a little thicker than before. Licking his lips, he finally lets my collar go and I'm sad to lose the comforting pull against the scruff of my neck. Yeah, I whimper like a little pet, but when you're trained there are certain things you can't really help.
"You started it," I reply, in a similar (if diluted) drawl. I tend to take on other people's patois when really, REALLY horny.
Bob smiles, his eyes warm and gleaming and just fucking glazed over. "Shall we?" It takes me a second to remember to what he's referring, but when I do I nod emphatically. I forget how stiff my body's become in my position (no pun intended), and I have to help Bob to his feet, and then he's leading me out of the room. What's weird about this is that my sheath is back to normal, and I'm feeling not the least bit overwhelmed besides an elevated pulse. I watch Bob's tail swish behind him in time with his footsteps. He's got on this loose, Hawaiian print shirt over nice fitting jeans, and he's a pretty big guy, but his ass looks tight enough. I'm already envisioning my paws around that tail flap, fumbling to get it open so I can get at his junk up front. Oops, there goes the sheath again!
There's something about walking through an open public space, knowing you're going to the bathroom to get it on with one of the employees in some clandestine tryst that sets your loins afire. I mean, yeah, not the best diction, but God, am I horny watching that ass move! I wonder, does he have kids? Is he married? Because I've fucked around with plenty of taken guys who like a little husky boy on the side.
The restroom is straightforward and simple, just more evidence of a renovated bowling alley. I can tell it used to be your typical three-stall, poorly-appointed space before someone took a can of paint and a grout sponge to the thing. It's bathed in full-spectrum light, maroon and burgundy with some nice stone tiles; whoever redid this space knew what they were doing. Too bad they couldn't have done the rest of the place. Bob holds the door for me, then closes it and twists the lock. Part of me wants to be concerned about people wondering why the bathroom's locked, but I can't really be bothered by other people right now. And neither can Bob, evidently, since he wastes no time pinning me body to the wall opposite the sinks. The thud and pressure of the harness against my back is invigorating, that whole 'giving up control' thing.
Bob gives me another of those deep, meaningful kisses, but this time my paws are a bit freer to explore. He's petting me between the ears, which makes me whimper unabashedly. I can finally feel the strength of his biceps, easily defined under the thin material of his shirt. His belly is substantial, typical for men of his age, but solid and not at all cumbersome. I can tell he's had experience with other males by his body language; there's a certain way you can tell after a while.
Only so much time can pass before I have to find out exactly what this guy's packing. I mean, isn't it the cock that we're all after in the first place? When you get right down to it? Maybe not for everyone, but today, certainly for me. Oh man, his belt is set just underneath his belly, and it's got one of those overhangs you can just drive your forehead against when you're sucking somebody off...
Yeah, the bulge is there, made even more obvious by the way his briefs cup everything and bring it up and forward against the fly of his jeans. It's pleasantly warm, and Jesus...hard as hell! I can feel the entire sheath against my palm pad, and even an inch protruding beyond that. It's almost funny the way my muzzle starts to water, but maybe that's Bob's tongue at work again. He grunts and grinds into me, pinning my paw between our crotches, a whole new take on frottage.
"Let's get you comfortable, huh?" Bob murmurs around my teeth. I agree, and let him go button by button down my uniform until he's gotten my shirt open, not even pausing before going on to the button on my pants. Now I can finally feel my heart in my throat; Bob's quite eager and he's going a bit fast for my taste, but I can't wait to get my mouth around that cock of his, so we're even. His fingers slip and catch, trying a few times before succeeding in getting my fly open and diving in.
"Uhhhnn..." Yep, that's all that comes out of my mouth when someone is rolling my balls around in their paw.
"What do we have here?" Purring so loud that it echoes off the tile, Bob has discovered my lack of underwear and my sheath cage. He gets on his knees (motherfucker, if only I had that damn key!) and helps my pants to the floor. I have to push against the wall hard to keep standing. Oh man, when an older guy is kneeling, worshipping your cock, and you're supposed to be the pet, you get an odd mix of disobedience and pride. And, if you mean poking out of your sheath against the end of a metal cage, that too.
Bob pulls my sac down with two fingers, warmth spreads the length of my tail, and I'm wagging like crazy. I'd let him fuck me...well...yeah, definitely let him fuck me if he wanted to. But that might be more mess than we want right here, right now, so I'll try and suck him off. And when I'm passionate about something, I can get right down to it with the best of them. "I've never seen such an elaborate setup before, Chance. You didn't strike me as the type, but that's pretty hot."
"I have my secrets," is all I say, but I'm thinking You should see me at Folsom. This getup I've got on now cost me a pretty penny, but that's nothing compared with my leather mask, studded vest and dog bed. Takes a lot of tech calls to buy that much gear.
"I'd like to find some of those out," Bob continues, "like if you're as good with your muzzle on other things as you are on my throat." He's still playing with my balls, skritching underneath them and between my thighs, and he leans in to lick at my erection through the bars of the cage. Now, that's fucking unfair; I grunt and push back at him, but all it gains me is pressure on my shaft. It's worth it for the tongue.
Good, he's up for some oral after all. Getting down on my knees now, I say, "You read my mind, Bob. Let me help you out." I go for his shirt, but he pushes me down to his jeans instead. Okay, fine, I can still run my fingers up his belly from below. The button is a bit tight to get undone, but once it pops the zipper's already halfway down. Nice: the briefs he's got on are black and they hide the bulge of his erection a bit, but black's always a nice color on a guy. Tighty whities should be outlawed after puberty. I can't help but dive right in, fabric and all.
"Fuck, kid," I hear Bob say, the bulky muscles under my paws straining to hold the lion vertical as I gnaw on his covered sheath. After that, he doesn't say much. The whole point of my efforts is to keep him from being able to talk. He starts driving my ears, turning the tips in his claws. One way you can tell if you're giving someone decent oral pleasure is if they stop talking or if they start driving you by your ears. I pity the otters and bears out there with less to grab onto; it's so much fun to be a puppy.
The lion shimmies around me and his jeans fall below his knees, revealing the fur-hugging briefs underneath. They're as tight as cycling shorts, made of silk so it's just stretchy enough to show every little detail of Bob's package, yet constricting around the top and bottom, accentuating his thighs and love handles. The sheath is a true muzzleful and getting harder by the second. I feel his balls drawn up tight against my chin as I work him over; I think the time for playing games is over. Bob wants me to give him some mouth action, I want to give it as best I can, so as long as we're agreed on that fact I've got no problem whatsoever.
I'm not going to say I'm a bane to my species, but being a good little pet has always come naturally to me. Call it an inherent need to please, call it advanced empathy, but I just call it being a fucking bottom. Having this chubby dom of a lion urging me to get my tongue around his cock makes my heart (and my you-know-what) swell, and a kind of haze comes over me. I've never been able to explain it, but it suspends my disbelief just enough so that I can focus on the task at paw without making such a big deal out of it. Neither embarrassing nor exciting in itself, I feel it more as a sense of duty to finish what I started. A bunch of bullshit, right? Welcome to my world.
"You going to sit there tasting it, Chance, or are you going to put your muzzle on it like a good boy? Huh? You want a treat?" Though he speaks as if talking to a pet, the bass never leaves his voice. I whimper in response, giving the answer both of us want to hear. I have to pull my paws away from sexier things, but it only takes a moment to expose him.
Suddenly there's a beer can-sized sheath bobbing in front of my face with a pink, glistening head poking out at me, and the lion's musk hits full force. He's a hard-working man, I can tell, and he's been moving around all day to build up a scent like that. You can't get musk as thick and as downright complex as Bob's without carrying the extra weight he's got. So much fur and body mass working up that amount of heat, and at the end of the day you carry around a cologne-sized version of your natural odor. I stick my snout between his balls and his leg and just...just...inhale.
Delicious.
"You like that scent?" Of course I do. So I nod before licking over his balls. I'm so damn worked up, and I can't even touch myself! Bob collapses partially, driving me back into the wall to compensate; when my head hits it resonates with the force but it's okay. A little abuse only adds to the experience, just like dragging me around by the collar does. Bracing his paws on the wall above me, Bob takes the stance he'll most likely stay in until he's done nutting down my throat.
As I slather all over the lion's nuts, each the size of a golf ball, his erect shaft presses its wet length against my cheeks, emerging from Bob's body inch by throbbing inch. I can see it in my peripheral vision, a shiny sanguine idol just waiting to be worshipped. I don't know how much of a hurry Bob's in, so I don't want to go too fast too soon until I'm damn sure he's getting enough head from his temporary slave husky. But, as I root around his crotch, I can feel his fuzzy golden sac tensing up against his body. If I wanted to, any minute, I could bring him over in no time. No fun in that, though.
But I've just got to have that in my mouth! I mean, come on: Bob's average in length, but in the width department he is one hell of a grower. His sheath just stretches and gives way to more and more lioncock like it was going out of style. A fine, glistening line of pre shines between the moving layers of flesh, lubricating as it goes. I can't believe Bob hasn't even touched it. The thing hovers directly in my vision, and there really isn't anything more important to do, or touch, or lick...so I go for it.
Bob could be married, or he could be single, or he could even be straight for all I care (which is highly unlikely). The reaction you get from first going down on someone tells you all you need to know about that person's oral sex history. When you're an experienced cocksucker like me, that first sigh, or grunt, hip-thrust or silence lets you know how to conduct yourself and your muzzle for the rest of the head-giving. But what Bob tells me, in his initial snarl followed by a hoarse moan and trembling knees, is that he is used to being on top and in control. He relishes making others work for their prize, and he likes the feeling of power he gets from stuffing a mouth full of his manhood.
He's not much of a talker though, which is fine because I can read enough body language to tell me where to go and what to do next. There is precious little space between his pubic fur and my snout, and also between the back of my head and the wall, so I have to keep my motions slow and deliberate for now. Bob sits still and lets me do as I please, to please him, and from his heavy breathing and slow, deep purr I can tell I am not lacking in my skill.
The thing fills my muzzle with no room to spare, and there's still a little left out. I love being able to take a guy down to his root and lick around in his sheath, right at the base where it enters his body. The length is incredibly smooth, slicker than I've had in a while and very hot. Just as tense as the rest of his body, his pulse is against my tongue and cheeks as I swirl around the head and right below, where I know he's sensitive. The growl he gives me, plus the jet of pre against my throat, says it all.
And, just when I think I have Bob under my powers of oral persuasion, he goes and runs his toeclaws up the inside of my leg. Fuck; he knows just as well as I do the finer art of picking up on buttons and pressing them. He wants to make it a contest of wills, I know that; I've got my work cut out for me because it's infinitely harder to keep up a good blowjob when you've got a fuzzy foot full of toes pressing so gently against the bottom of your sac. It's almost an unfair tease, because I also have to deal with my cock's fight against its metal prison. Even though I can't unsheathe, my knot seems to want to swell up anyway.
"You like that, don't you?" coos the lion, and I nod slowly around his dripping length. Adjusting my kneeling stance for comfort (and to give Bob more room to play with my balls, who am I kidding?), I can now get both paws up to direct things where I want them to go. Grasping the base, squeezing it and stroking in time with my muzzle seems to speed up the delivery of sweet fluid into my mouth, which I lick up eagerly like a hungry orphan. I'm getting into that state where it's no longer about playing the game; it's about being slave to this massive golden-maned man, fulfilling my place underneath him and satisfying the need to please I so enjoy satiating.
I hold my breath and go down as far as I can, and I'm surprised when my snout actually meets the auburn bush of pubic fur under the apron of Bob's belly. He lets out a wet grunt above me, and his balls hitch upwards and nestle against my chin. I could keep this up for about a minute more and have him shooting, but I back off as slow as I dare and cup his sac, rolling its boiling contents between my pads. His toes do the same; he knows how to work around his claws as well as use them without causing a trip to the emergency room. I feel him slip up on either side of my cage, just behind the top, and tease my knot a little further. After this, my cock might look like a Belgian waffle.
Back to the head now, just the first four inches so I can give it my full attention. I'm aware of the hot spot on the underside of his glans, and I work it over with the full length of my tongue. Bob's whole body goes still, and I hear claws scraping against the bathroom wall. "Sen...sensitive." I back off as he relaxes again...mostly.
I could literally stay here for hours, worshipping this manhood and its power to supplicate me at its will. But this is a public bathroom, and there's bound to be someone who needs to take a piss sometime. Backing into the wall a little, trapping my wagging tail between my spread feet, I use the extra room from my position to move into a more natural thrusting motion, back and forth in a straight line as I get down to business to bring this to a messy close. Lucky for me, Bob senses the same and takes over for me.
Now, it's one thing to sit there on the floor and slather over someone's cock until they pop, but it's another entirely when they use you as a convenient orifice to their own end. "Just sit there," Bob says succinctly before pulling out of my muzzle. I do whimper; I've been so focused and expectant of my reward that for him to take that warm girth out of me is like a slap in the face. "You'll get it back, see?" The lion shifts forward, taking his paws from the wall and stroking himself indulgently in front of my face. I'm mesmerized by it, wavering just inches away, its tip glistening with clear pearls of preseed.
"Open," as he practically steps on my groin, mashing everything down and pressing so hard that I feel my belly become wet with my discharge. Fighting hard not to just rise above my station and gobble him up, I part my lips just slightly, looking up at his smirking face. He knows he owns me, and I can see the satisfaction and power he takes from that. He steps forward, and I feel the welcome flesh spreading my jaw for me.
"There you go, pup. Just sit still and be a good boy." Oh, God. I shiver bodily, and I know Bob can feel it on his cockhead. I wouldn't call it humiliation by any means, because for it to be humiliating I would have to dislike the treatment being given to me. I don't; in fact, it's making me leak like a racehorse to have him use me.
Once he's satisfied about his placement in my muzzle, he places both paws on my ears and starts to drive again. This time, though, he's not taking his sweet time. He's enjoying himself, sure, but his balls are doing an impatient dance, telling him he better finish what he started. The good thing (besides everything) about sitting still is that I can hold myself relatively level and watch Bob's body while he finishes.
He uses only his hips to thrust; the rest of his body is mostly stationary save for the rippling of muscles in his legs and lower chest. From first glance, the lion's build would suggest he's not capable of much physical flexibility, but watching his legs tense and relax, his belly scrunch up, and his tail whip about in dominance, it's clear Bob is proficient in at least one physical activity. It occurs to me that I'd like to go to the gym with him, if not to spot or work out, then just to watch.
A kind of mild disappointment settles over me now, like it always does, because the magic of the moment is kind of gone, you know? We were all nice and lovey-dovey under the desk in the Internet Lounge, but now that we're good and into the sex, well, you know how mechanical it can get. It's not any less sexy--holding on to Bob behind his knees so he can concentrate on my muzz--but I guess you have to give up the intimacy some time, right? It's honestly not all that bad, because lion balls slapping against my chin keep me more than occupied.
I yelp as Bob stabs the back of my throat with a particularly deep thrust, throwing my attention back onto him. That wasn't just a random thing; that was Bob throwing on his heavy-duty boots and climbing another level on the way to climax. I open my eyes to the wonderful sight of the man's gyrating belly, his groin shining with big-boy perspiration, and inch upon inch of powerful cock as it pistons back and forth, coated with my saliva and just begging to let go. I swirl my tongue along its underside, waiting for the final approach.
"Haungh...huh, huh, huh...gah!" Bob growls, for lack of something more intelligible. I don't blame him; if given the chance to get myself out of that damn cage I would be uttering the same exact thing myself, were my muzzle not stuffed full. Out of empathic respect for Bob's personal space (or, more likely, from sheer horniness), I allow my paws to roam over my own bits, getting as far into the sheath cage as I can and rolling my fuzzy balls, tugging down as I open just a little wider. God, why didn't I do this sooner! I can't possibly come this way, but at least can fondle myself while Bob empties his long-overdue load.
Well, that doesn't last long. Bob keeps trying to say something, and I have a feeling what it is. It sounds like, "Kih...k-k-kihhhhhhd..." which I'm sure is short for, "Kid, gonna come," and I cup his sac to show I understand. He just favors me with a long, low monosyllabic grunt to which I respond with a paw on his receded sheath. Kind of a "tying for cats" thing, if you know what I mean.
And Bob just goes crazy. He pulls back so just the head is entering my lips, in a fucking blur, and it goes in and out easily since it's harder than a rock. All the fur in front of my eyes is matted down with sweat, and when I take a nice long whiff of that heavenly scent the lion shakes his head and showers me with a healthy dose of the same from his mane .
I almost come right then and there.
Almost. My trappedknot just won't let me. No dice.
But I suppose vicarious orgasm can almost be as good as the real thing, because the whole of Bob's body seems to shift gears. He pulls out, grasping his meat with thick fingers, squeezing and flopping it about just far enough away to where I can't quite reach it. I should know better than to go diving for it again; for my troubles I get a white rope across my forehead.
Oh, yeah: if there's one thing that can bring you out of a sexual trance, it's cum on your face. And I mean all over; Bob doesn't need to stroke the jizz out as much as grip his cock at the base and pump a little while aiming it. I help him by massaging those substantial, dun-colored testicles as they all but disappear into his body. Since neither of us has much control over where the mess goes, I close my eyes, face upturned, and stick out my tongue, smiling to catch the bulk of his seed.
I do a pretty good job, too. After the first volley, I've got spunk on my left ear, all across my muzzle and a fair amount on my tongue. I'm glad I closed my eyes; semen tends to sting like a bitch no matter who it comes from. Bob's free paw digs furrows in the wall while his other finishes coating my head, the whole while silent as you please. It really wasn't what I was expecting, given his prior performance, but I've brought him off and now that he's done it doesn't matter how it happened. Too bad I can't do anything about myself.
When I lean back on my heels and look up to him, Bob's got this goofy fatherly expression of satisfaction on his face. Like he knows he totally owns me, and I'll do anything he asks. Which is true. He lifts my chin a bit, wipes an ivory runner from my nosepad, and says, "You better get cleaned up. I can't leave the door locked forever." But he's smiling, so we're both amused at the past fifteen minutes or so and what two people can accomplish if given a private space and proper incentive. We don't need any affectionate gestures or cute tiptoeing comments to dispel the awkward moment because it isn't awkward. Not to us, certainly not to me. Guys will be guys, you know?
I have to laugh at myself in the sink mirror. I look as if I've just been an accomplice in a first-grade glue fight. Most of it's already sunk to the skin, so I just wash my entire head and dry it with paper towels the best I can. What I get is unruly floof and plenty of mats. It doesn't look pretty, but at least most of the scent of horny lion is off. All Bob has to do is pull his pants on and buckle up. I have a feeling my boner will not go away until I get my paws on that fucking key.
We make small talk as we walk back to the Internet Lounge to fix the problem I was sent there to fix in the first place. It's stupefyingly easy; all of five minutes later, the entire room is connected and the Wi-fi bubble is as big as it's supposed to be. As I'm going through windows and screens, Bob is right there next to me asking questions in all the right places, and it's as if nothing ever happened. He's keeping it on the DL, as they say, which is fine, because being the only one to know you've been naughty somehow makes the crime that much more erotic in hindsight. Secrets tend to exploit themselves in that way.
"So, Chance, since we have an account with you guys, you can just put it on the tab and send us over a bill, right? Is that how it goes?" He stands and I follow; nothing in his body language suggests even the slightest interest in me. I'm having a much harder time keeping my urges in check, but the lion's body language is enough of a guide to go by.
"Yeah," I say, "you should get a bill in three to four business days. But you shouldn't have any more glitches of this type."
Bob pats me on the back, but no lower. I get even more excited by the extent to which he's masking our illicit affair. "I didn't expect it to last this long. Hmph, silly. I really don't know shit about these things."
I see an opportunity and take it. "I could help you out with the computer things, and I'm sure you wouldn't mind me making a personal house call." Yeah, it's bold, but Bob strikes me as the secure type who acts like a duck in most formal situations. Nothing to get out of him anymore. Not here, but I'm okay with that.
"I may take you up on that. My PC's been getting slower and slower and I hardly use it for anything. Damn spyware and shit." He's walking me back to the front door, but I can tell that he'd ask me to stay a while if I weren't working. Given the atmosphere, I don't expect much. "Hey, that'd be great. You'd have to do it after hours, the way your company works."
"It's okay. I don't have to be working to fix your machine. Besides, that won't take long. It's the waiting that kills me." Bob gets my gist and gives me a slow, deliberate nod. He stops at the first set of doors and opens it for me. I've been scrambling to get at my wallet, and finally the thing opens and I take out a card.
"For when you need me." Bob's smile is warm and genuine, understanding the entendre and putting the card in his own wallet. I'm pleased to see it go in sideways so it's sticking up prominently between the Chase Visa and his Discover Platinum. We shake paws and I go out into the bright heat of the day, much more happy and a little drained. Weird.
How is the rest of my day going to go on, now that the highlight of the week, the random act of man love in the bathroom at the Bingo hall, is behind me yet just as fresh as ever? I check with my boss and he tells me to go all the way back to the hub, nothing else on call.
The car is molten when I open the door, so I get the thing going and wait, leaning against the door and watching the rest of the world go by. It's times like these that I'm glad I can make my own kind of fun, and there are other people out there, like daddy lions, who know the rules of the game well enough to play by them and still win.
I hear a familiar tune through the window; the player has changed to the next CD in line. Still NIN, but now it's a much more apt tune. Fucking-A. Is that serendipity, or just the order I had playing? Ah, who cares. It's funny and that's all that matters. Humming at first, I gradually begin to sing along with the lyrics to "Meet Your Master:"
Bow down in position
Against the polished steel
This is something different
You'll like the way this feels
No time for asking questions
No time for wondering
We've heard enough from you now
We've heard everything
We're going to play a new game
You'll put on this blindfold
You'll do what we tell you
You'll do as your told
Used to be the leader
Now comes the time to serve
Maybe we show some mercy
Maybe you get what you deserve
Yeah, sometimes it feels like that.
FIN
5/6-5/21/07