The Dog's of War I
#2 of Doggin' It
Author's Note: It's short, not-too-sweet, and a bit on the serious/melodramatic side, but has enough sexual references to hopefully give you at least a stiffy.
The Dogs of War
This story contains descriptions of graphic sexual contact between underage males, one of which is not human. If this is likely to disturb you, offend you, or otherwise generate unpleasant feelings, you'll probably not be serving your own best interest by reading further. If you, yourself, are under the age of 18, or it is otherwise illegal in your place of residence for you to view sexually explicit content, then you also should refrain from reading further. Comments to [WolfeByte](%5C).
"Ah, fuck, Miles! Don't stop, I'm going to cum..! Keep going!" He whispered urgently.
Moments later, "Snack time, buddy!" His cock pulsed between my lips, and my best friend Rich shuddered beneath my oral ministrations, and delivered up a mouthful of distinctly non-human semen. I held it, and his cock, in my mouth as my hand slipped slickly over my own, bringing myself to orgasm a minute or two after my Cani-human companion. I slid my lips off of him and swallowed, as I rolled over and stared up at the barely visible canvas ceiling a few feet above us.
"Have I ever stopped before?" I asked Rich, quietly. The 'don't stop' line, in it's minute variations had been a staple of our relationship since the beginning.
"Nope, and you're damn lucky, too. Or maybe I am... you're the best I've ever had."
"You say that a lot too." He just chuckled and apologized, and rubbed my back as I snuggled into the warmth of his furry body. "Derek says the same thing, you know... We don't snuggle though. It's more like 'just business' with him..." Derek was a Shepherd Cani, and the leader of our little gang, our pack. I sucked him more often than the rest of the pack, with the possible exception of Rick.
Rich didn't comment, but just held me a bit tighter with his one arm, as I thought about my position in life - in the pack. It's a bit funny how ritualized sex can become, with people you do it with regularly. Like praying to some god of endorphins and orgasm. And like praying, it can become very impersonal after awhile, just saying the words and going through the motions.
At least with rich, it's only the words that become ritual - the 'snack time' comment coming from the second time I ever blew him, in the front seat of my parents car, in a theater parking lot, after sitting through a two hour 'Bond' film.
I had complained I was hungry and that we should have gotten snacks, either before or during the film.
"I've got a snack right here, if you want it." Rich had said, and when I turned to look at him, his glistening pink shaft was sticking out through the fly in his pants. Minutes later it was, 'don't stop' and 'snack time', and me drinking his second load of that night.
That encounter became our first mile stone, and definitely set the tone for the rest. It was always at the least likely times that rich would ask, "Hey, Miles... You hungry?" in the way that meant he'd like my human lips wrapped around his cani-cock. Over the years I've blown him is countless restroom, store rooms, change rooms, back alleys, an even elevators -anywhere where we could get time enough alone for him to drop a load in my mouth. Often I've wondered how many of those instances were just Rich trying to raise the bar of risk and excitement. I've no doubt that he's a thrill junkie, and that the greater risk makes it all that much better for him - perhaps even moreso that the risk was his life, if we were ever caught.
And now here we were risking all our lives, the entire pack, risked for the 'greater good'. Whatever that meant.
My thoughts are interrupted by Rich's voice, "Hey, Miles? You're gonna have to move, bud... I've gotta go take a piss. Sorry."
I rolled off of him, to my side of the sleeping bags. "No problem... Don't forget to take your gun."
Rich took his pistol with him to piss, and slipped out of the back of the truck, as quietly as possible. I rolled over, and thought about the past again, and what had brought me to this point. Driving through a dead-zone between the Human Supremacist's slave nation, and the Human-Cani Cooperative nation - 150 miles of devastated urban wasteland, a scar left by the Revolution, and a sign of the War to come.
Strange places one's 'sexual proclivities' can lead...
End Interlude I