Saturday Matinee
I'm a dirty, dirty little slut!
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I'm a dirty, dirty little slut!
The thought crossed her mind over and over. It wasn't an angry thought, regretful, sad or even shameful. She was past shame a few years ago. It was simply the truth. A truth she was gleeful about actually, her own little special secret that no one else knew.
And she always had plenty of time to think on her way to the Theatre. She was a chubby otter, about five foot tall maybe, wide gut. 36 inch pants. Not obese, But her lifestyle wasn't very athletic. The otter loved games like most otters, sure, but she preferred tabletop games, video games, she liked her desk job even if it was a bit mundane.
She also liked sex. But life makes it hard for a girl, any girl, to like sex. She wasn't without friends of course, but the only sexually open male friend she had was bisexual, and had a boyfriend, so he didn't have an everyday libido. Dating services on the Internet often attracted.. well, clingy types. Even the ones who said they wanted one night stands often wanted some sort of relationship beyond friendship. Bars.. Bars were noisy, noisy, expensive, and the guys there were possessive.
No. She found the perfect solution. This Saturday night, like every Saturday night, she pulled up to the theatre's parking lot, located on the edge of the city's industrial area. Like every night, it looked mostly abandoned, The building wasn't lit, except for a single bulb barely illuminating the sign that read "Axle Theatres Open 24/7"
She parked her little green car near a truck. There were six other cars in the little lot. One last look in the car mirror. Not to check her makeup, That only got in the way. But she did want to look /clean/ at least. One more brush of her hair back, a little pull of her cookie ears, a push of her chest, to make sure her bra was holding them up right, and she was out of the car, and into the plain wooden door that opened into a poorly lit lobby. It was routine by now. Put 20 on the tray fresh from the ATM, get a little ticket that meant nothing to anybody, one she threw in the garbage on the way inside the actual theatre.
To the first glance, this was just a dirty, run down theatre. The carpet going down the middle had patches of missing threads, and patches of gum ground into it. The seats were mostly okay, A few with broken arm rests, broken backs or missing springs, but no one sat in those anyway. Of course, What was playing was no Monday matinee. Speakers blared with the sounds of forced, fake moaning both male and female, while a pair of minks on the screen screwed one another lewdly with practiced, barley believable enthusiasm. No one was really here for that, of course.
Most of the seats were empty. there was one raccoon I think in a baggy hoodie in the far corner, eyes wide, keeping an eye on everything else. It's dark, but she likes to imagine when that he's groping himself under his clothes. A fox and skunk were sitting next to each other. The fox was missing an war, but they both looked like a mess, fur damp and messed up, clothes hung loosely on them. They had gotten dressed quickly, but on seeing chubby otter, already paws went for one another's groins, pulling flies apart. There was a snake of some kind, staring her way with dark ruby eyes. She couldn't see his colors clearly, but she knew it was a Lamia. One of those mostly-snakes with one pair of arms. (As apposed to the half snake half human Naga.) Finally a heavy set, stout badger with "trucker" written all over him, watching the film, pants around his ankles, squeezing a fairly sizable black girth. As sticky as his pawpads were, She judges he'd already came and was working on another. He was the only one not paying attention to her.
But all those eyes. I loved it. I loved the attention. In the world, I was a maybe average looking chubby otter. But here, The hunger I felt, It was like being a goddess. And I was too. I was an angel sent by whatever dark deity they prey to, for a girl that they could just.. fuck like an animal, with no strings or stigma that society thrust onto us.
The short otter sits, without shame, in front of all the eyes, and pulls her dark sweater up over her belly, over her head, bra barley containing the soft mounds that come tumbling out of oppressive clothing, nipples peeking over the lacy bra fabric. The serpent already makes his way along the isles and rows, naturally silent, long body flowing on the floor.
She barley has her sweatpants around her ankles when smooth scaled palms push against her bra, groping her with as little shame as she presents herself. His hand rests there, eyes looking to hers, just a hint of fear in his glowing iris. When she nods through, a smile spreads on his lips. tongue flickering, close enough to touch her whiskers, and more then close enough to taste her scent. Her eyes wander, and to the fox, to the raccoon, to the skunk, she nods, As if it were all the permission they needed, Fox and skunk leap up and almost stumble over seats, just to touch their goddess. Curiously the raccoon stays in his corner, watching. No matter, He's always there, just like she is.
The snake's bolder then the rest, his palm pushing against her panties, wedging the fabric against her mound, forming a camel toe, warm, dampness already seeping thought he fabric to meet the serpent's cooler touch. white furred pawpads rest on the otter's shoulders, squeezing, a muzzle with ticklish whiskers brushing just past her ears, teeth grasping, nipping the very edges. It makes her fur rise all over, makes little nubs perk past her bra, A bra who's usefulness is cut short by another pair of paws pushing them down, the short, dark muzzle closing over her nipple with the hunger of a starved babe, teeth barely grazing.
It was truly heaven for the otter, to be worshipped, touched, lusted over. The scents around her grew stronger, drowning out that sharp feminine scent of hers with the saltier, musky manliness, pants around ankles, her paw reached up, and found a slick shaft, black flesh in her webbed paws, while a serpentine snout had pressed firmly against her groin, inhaling her scent. She could feel a throbbing warmth on her back as well, fox behind her just pushing, marking my back with his preseed. She pulled on the skunk's meat, and her muzzle parted, Skunk only too happy to oblige, sliding his shaft over her tongue. She could smell and taste the earthen, darker scent on his cock, The taste and scent of ass, one that she's grown to like surprisingly, burrowing her snout firmly into the skunk's groin, inhaling through her nose, through the filter of musky groinfur as her throat well practiced by now, gulps and swallows.
She's so focused on giving the horny skunk good head, she barley notices how her own hips instinctively lift form the chair while a greedy serpent peels them off her hips, replaced by his snout, cool tongue tickling around the edges of the otter's exposed, slick snatch, fingers trying to spread her so his little ribbon of a forked muscle could dance over her sensitive hood, making the otter jump, tense, and nearly gag, squeaks through her snout muffled in the skunk's fur.
The striped lad doesn't last long. She can feel that throb, that pulse, so familiar, greedy otter paws seize his hips, holding him in place, making it no question she wants to swallow, and she's not disappointed, paws grasp her ears possessive for a moment as slimy seed pours down her gulping, hungry throat! She lets his hips go, And the skunk fall back, braced to the back of the next row, leaving one rope of milk on the otter's whiskers, with one satisfied, dopey grin on the skunk's muzzle.
The fox is always present of course, and infinitely patient, satisfied with leaving the otter's back sticky. The lamia is less patient. Possessively, his arms lifts her body off the chair and plants her chubby rump down on a nest of coiled muscles. His fingers try to twine with otter paws, through her webbing acts as little pockets for his digits. His intent's clear, a pair of slick, rubbery textured serpentine shafts gliding back and fourth along the otter's well tended, slick cunt. She can feel her thick tail pushed to her back, and another vague, warm pressure wedging between her rump, nudging jsut under her tail. Boys willing to share their goddess, conspiring with grins and winks over the girl's head while her eyes were closed, basking in the lust, musk and sensations.
Together, the boys pushed, sinking into the soft, chubby body all at once, Serpent's twin lengths sliding deep within until scaled hips ground against her spread groin, Fox's flesh SURGING deep, deep into her guts, even his forming knot poped past her pucker. It stung her rear, being taken so quickly, but it was a sting she loved in away, one that mixed so well with the squishy, juicy feeling the serpent gave her.. The snake never pushed or pulled, His head layed back, maw parted.. The fox did most of the work, pulling back, a wet, lewd pop forced form her each time his knot pulled out and slipped in, louder as the fox's knot grew larger and larger, his thrusts forcing the pillow body to lurch back and fourth over the nameless scaled man, riding him, milking and squeezing his girths together.
It was obvious then the fox was getting close. They yip and get gruff, teeth nip and grasps the loose scruff of her neck, knot lodged past her backdoor, too large to pull back, and so he just pushes and pushes, until a familiar warmth rushes within the otter's colon, The otter girl shuddering, grasping the scaled body underneath her tight while she tenses and convulses, thick claws dimpling into his body while riding out her little orgasm over the snake's body!
The fox collapses over her shoulders.. The first words she hears all night, and the last, whispered across her ears, simple words, and utterly sincere, free from bullshit. "Thank you."
The otter can feel smooth scales slide along her thighs, flesh slipping from her snatch, soggy and sopping with juices.. When the serpent came is anyone's guess, but his seed leaks from her thighs, marking the scales gliding between her legs. He was her first snake- Perhaps they just don't go into convulsions when they spooge. She can feel a wet pop, and moisture drizzle down the crack of her rear as the fox pops out of her. That's when the goddess-for-an-hour stands, dripping down her thighs, down her rear. Males get dressed quickly, between scratches of grateful paws, and soft smooches to ears, to lips. And it's when she picks up her sweater as well, leaving her bra, her panties.
But she walks to the raccoon in the corner, who's been watching the entire time, and bends over the seat, dipping her digits within her own juicy flower, drawing out creamy white mixed nectar on her digits, making sure the raccoon has good memory of her dribbling dark puckered backdoor as well before she slides her sweater back over her body, covering herself up.
Another Saturday night at the theatre over, another night utterly satisfied, dripping evidence of lust into her own clothing. The musk and taste still lingers in her snout, on her whiskers, in her mouth, and it will linger with her all night. Come Monday night, she'll get to tease and flirt with that same raccoon at the gaming table, until next Saturday.
Laying in bed that night, the clock glowing with the hour of the wolf, lust drying in her pelt, she grins, digits seeking out her own seed slicked lips for one more little peak before bed, falling to sleep with a thought that brings her no shame, no regrets or sadness. It's her own special little giddy secret no one else knew.
I am a dirty, dirty little slut!