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Hi everybody. Another experimental piece from the Arlen. I'd love to get peoples' input on whether or not this is a good read.

The subject matter is a bit...Uh...Well, I won't say morally questionable. It's pretty much downright evil, but in an interesting way.

Also, this is my first time really trying to write from the first person perspective, so let me know how it is :) Thanks!

Also, if you're 18, don't read this. Go watch Disney Channel instead. As the furry gay porn version of that talking head on Pirates of the Caribbean might say: "Dead sperm tell no tales!"

Lastly, if you liked this, go read anything at all by Cinnamon. He's awesome at this sort of stuff.

There he was, gyrating like a whisp of fire on a candle, shaking shapely girly little hips in those not-quite-too-tight butt-hugger jeans of his. That little cheetah looked more like a girl than a boy, and more a boy than a man, lashing his delectable long tail back and forth like a fancy silk curtain over that lickably round butt, and I had to laugh a little at myself for coming out to this skuzzy little dive again just to watch him. Well, okay, a little more than just to watch him, but more about that in a minute.

Right at that moment, he was all that occupied my thoughts. I hadn't come with a date - never much cared for those in any case - and I didn't waste time spending money on bad drinks at a shitty bar in a crappy dive club stuffed solid with poor-assed college students trying to convince themselves they looked cool.

I was here solely for him. Or rather, I was here for what I had in mind for him. A grin split my lupine muzzle, evidently in a frightening way, as some little college chick that had been about to toss her half-drunk little ass at me pulled up short, drawing my amused attention. She probably wanted a drink from me. More likely, in this part of town, she wanted a sugar daddy to help pay her rent in exchange for furtive blowjobs under a soda-sugar-sticky table in a big dark club full of lights flashing off some cheap-ass half-broken disco ball.

The skinny little tiger girl let out a drunken hiccup of fear when I showed her my pearly-white fangs and wagged my tail like I was all too pleased to see her. It must be the eyes. People tell me I have creepy ones. So far as I can tell, they're just yellow. Well, the people I talk to tell me they're creepy anyway. Maybe they're right. She fucked off right quick, vanishing back into the crowd with her tail poofed out, into the arms of a gaggle of similarly slutty-looking college chicks.

Finally, distraction gone, I was able to watch my cheetah boy again.

He danced like he didn't care about tomorrow - That real nice sultry sort of thing people with good rhythm do when they're too drunk to care what anyone thinks, or don't think they'll ever see these people again. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the second, given he'd been here every Saturday for the last month or so, always showing up with some bitch or another who got him in the door. They never seemed to last long, but I wasn't really watching for them. Tits and pussy aren't really my thing, and most girls haven't got shit to say that I haven't already heard out of some vapid bubble-headed moron a hundred times before.

The weird thing, the thing that had kept my interest, was that he didn't leave with them. In fact, he never left with anyone. Sometime towards the end of those long, sultry, blue-balled Saturdays, he always ended up just sort of vanishing outside and not coming back. Like any good predator, I was curious about the prey when it acted strangely. Most guys didn't leave until they were too drunk to keep going, too tired, or tired of getting rejected. Or because they were taking some girl home to knock half-drunk boots with.

I even knew his pattern now. He'd come in right around eight o'clock. Then he would hang out swapping friendly stories with the chubby lady behind the bar, drinking maybe half a cup of rum and whiskey. His voice had some kind of accent to it, though hell if I could pinpoint where. After about a half hour of socializing, he'd ditch whoever he came in with, who never seemed too worried about it, and find his way to the dance floor. Then he'd go, like a raging forest fire, like he knew tomorrow might never come, until he was sweating and panting and grinning like a pretty little golden cherub.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he'd usually take about a twenty minute bathroom break. I figured that would be my chance to make contact with him, since he never seemed terribly amenable to talking with anyone that approached him on the dance floor. Sure, he'd sweep them into his beautiful, effervescent, swirling movements, but his response to their words and propositions was always a laugh, a tail flick, a good-natured declination.

I'd tried, once. Not much of a dancer and never one to enjoy being in spotlights, I'd nonetheless lumbered my way up there, stalking my beautiful golden boy, built like a smooth Michaelangelo youth, all lithe curves and pretty eyes. I'd found him, sure enough, and danced with his cute little button snout nearly touching my chest for hours. He was so cute I could have snapped him up right there

When I'd tried to kiss him, he nimbly put a paw to my chest, and in the sweetest angel-voice I'd ever heard said, simply, this:

"I'm flattered."

Flattered. Then he smiled, with that writhing sort of embarrassment you just can't hide eating its way through him. In that moment, I saw that gave him perfection, realized what was going on in his cute little head. He wanted me, that much I could tell - The wide nostrils, the dilated eyes, the hitching pants in his breath when I touched his wrist, the bulge I saw creeping uncomfortably in his denim.

He was too shy! It was a revelation, like being struck by lightning, zapped from dome to junk and back again. That was when I decided he needed to be mine. My thirst for innocence, for unlocking him, for opening him up and seeing what lay inside, was just too strong to resist.

That, and I thought it would be fun.

He left the dancing stage, then, laughing and waving off a couple of girls who tried to follow him, making paw-signs to show he was headed to the little boy's room. With his boyish charm and good looks, I was surprised they never followed him in there. No blowjobs on the john for him, I guess. Maybe he was just gay and they just knew it somehow. Then again, if he were openly gay, he'd probably be at one of the nicer fruitier places down on Avner Street.

My yellow eyes watched him go, as he drifted across the club, still dancing in the rolling motions of his flat-bellied toned little torso, gothy little fishnet sticking to his pelt like another layer of skin. Just as he reached the bathroom, I saw a drunken bit of stumbling break through his impossible grace, and grinned my wolfiest grin as I got up to follow. The drinks I'd sent him earlier must have been kicking in finally, which was impressive given I'd paid off my old friend at the bar to slip extra licquor into them to throw off his sense of self-control.

A dirty trick, I know. Not the dirtiest I've pulled to get some ass. This boy, though, was special.

I reached the bathroom door maybe thirty seconds after he got inside, and gave it a gentle push to avoid the squeak that might scare him. Sure enough, despite all the neglect and rust on the thing, it opened just as quietly as it had earlier in the night when I'd furtively WD-40'd the hinges. Be prepared, they say, in the Scouts.

My lupine muzzle couldn't help a grin, my tail couldn't help a wag - the bathroom smelled of piss and misery, the acid reek of vomit barely dulled by water used to wash it away. The acrid stink of body expulsion added to the atmosphere somehow, the sleaziness of it, the degradation.

The club's bathroom had just four stalls, one blocked off with eye-burning caution tape ever since Black Jack tried to rape some guy in it a few months back. Cheap-ass owners wouldn't spring to repair the toilet, after the intended rape-ee turned out to be some kinda martial arts champion and smashed Black Jack's face in on the commode.

Anyway, I listened carefully for a second, for the expected sounds. Then I crinkled my brow and reached back to very quietly lock the latch on the bathroom door, when I didn't hear anything but soft, shaky breaths. Not the kind that come from puking - No, those I'd recognize all too easily. These were stranger. Alien somehow. Then I heard an all-too-familiar crumpling sound, cloth shushing on cloth, flesh slapping against skuzzy tile, and a little drunken sob.

With a yank, I had the stall door open. Sure, I'd planned on listening in for a minute, hoping he was so drunk he blacked out. Then I was going to carry him out, easy as you please, and take him home. Instead, he'd been crying, and something inside me screamed with curiosity. I needed to know why.

There he lay, an unconscious little angel sprawled out on the piss-caked floor, beautiful glossy golden fur matted with sweat and filth and tears that ran down the cute little cheetah-lines of his face. I was hard as a rock, ten inches of leaky wolf cock jammed uncomfortably down the leg of my nice slacks.

"Hey," I tested, seeing if he would wake. He didn't. The poor little dear was just sprawled out, soft breaths ruffling the downy fur under his nostrils. My grin could have been seen from space, I'm pretty sure, as I scooped him up like a baby.

He weighed about as much as one, all soft sleek fur. I'm pretty sure his pants were about half his mass, at this point, the tawny-tan jeans just baggy enough to say he was young, but not baggy enough to say he was hiding a shotgun and planning to hold up a liquor store on his way home.

The kid was hot to the touch, too, as he got semi-conscious all of a sudden and nuzzled his snout against my chest, curling up in a ball of disoriented misery. Perfect. Now I could just walk right on out like I owned him. Which, I figure, I kind of did at the moment.

Easy like pie is a funny saying. You ever tried to make a pie? I mean sure, it's not as hard as some stuff, I'm sure, but baking...Well, let's just say I'm not that brave when it comes to what I cook. Noodles are easy. It was easy like noodles. I just walked right out of the bathroom, carrying the twinky little beauty with my big powerful arms wrapped around him, angry yellow eyes glaring out a stare of challenge to anyone that looked my way.

In moments, I was passing the big burly biker they kept by the front door. He wasn't intimidated by me, despite my hulking stature and steel-like muscle. Lucky for me, he was on my side after that thing I did for his sister. So, he gave me a raised eyebrow, but let me go past, probably figuring I'm an all-around good guy.

Some people are so gullible.

Anyway, it didn't take long from there. A short walk down a shitty, dirty alley, and I was putting my cheetah boy in the car, pausing to take a quick, deep sniff of the rich leather seats of the silver-blue Lexus that was my second closest friend. Then I was in there with him, locked in there with the smell of gorgeous, sweaty, unconscious cheetah filling my snout until it was a struggle just getting the seat belt to sit comfortably with my cock trying to climb up my pants and out my waistband.

Ten minutes later, the little thing having barely stirred once I put the seat belt on him - safety first, y'know! - I pulled into the long drive up to my comfy little bungalo. Slamming my door shut, I took a second to savor my now-inevitable victory. Here I was, standing on my hilltop, looking down at the sparkling night-time ocean on one side and the teeming, never-sleeping city on the other, the boy of my dreams sleeping like a drunken baby in my car.

My tail wouldn't stop wagging. I wasn't about to scold it. My cock, on the other hand, could wait a damn second, which I growled at it in no uncertain terms.

Carrying him inside was easy like noodles - remember the noodles? - even though he'd kind of taken on the tension of one. Maybe I'd overdone the drinks a bit. Ah well. What's a little Everclear between friends?

Passing the granite countertops of my living room and kitchen, ignoring the beautiful panoramic view of the sea through big floor-to-ceiling windows, I stalked up the hardwood steps with my little cheetah wrapped up tight, passed through the painting-festooned hall I'd paid some designer too much for, and went right into the bathroom.

I never did believe in letting luxury sit by the wayside. Even as a kid, growing up in the projects, I'd dreamed of this life. Getting a scholarship wasn't hard, once I pulled the right tearful strings, banking on my impoverished background and straight-A attitude. Getting the M.S. in pharmacology and a PhD in biochemistry had been a bit harder, but hey? What's life without a little struggle?

My bath room was really that - a room for a bath. Which was carved lovingly from fine purple and sky-blue aventurine slabs that surrounded a white porcelain tub embossed with finely-honed silver fixtures. Big enough for three, the whirlpool device was easily big enough for my rather massive self and the skinny little twink. He got to sit in it, drunk and unconscious and looking oh-so-lovably-pathetic as I disrobed.

The good thing about having 'slumming clothes' is that I don't have to give a damn about them. With a couple of quick yanks, I'd torn the shirt off over my head and tossed it carelessly aside. The slacks at least I unbuttoned first, but really they only got such kind treatment because my aching stiffy wasn't going to enjoy having my pants torn off around it.

A couple of quick kicks and my shoes were off. Then I was into the tub, turning the water on at a lovable warm temperature that wouldn't overheat the both of us too soon. As water began streaming in, I lifted the boy up, sitting him on the rim of the tub with his back to the wall, and began the Christmas-like task of unwrapping him.

First, off came the fishnet. Trashy stuff, but for the game to work it needed to be in one piece. His arms were limp, a bit of a trick to get them both over his head to pull the shirt off. Then I indulged myself, leaning in to rub my face through the luxuriously-soft white cream fur that covered his flat, toned belly. With the adorable delay of severe drunkenness, he gave off a soft purr some seconds after I started, which got him a few gentle lucks so I could taste his fur, test his baby-soft skin beneath.

Then it was on to the shoes, slightly dirty laces lovingly untied with surprisingly nimble fingers for things that look like they fell off a sausage truck. Shoes discarded, I took his foot paws, gently kneading the no-doubt aching pads there from his long night of dancing. Even having interrupted him halfway, he'd still been there, going constantly for at least two hours.

They were calloused, as I might have expected on such an athletic young male. Well-cared-for, which pleased me to see, with trimmed claws and no detritus trapped in them. Sweaty, sure, but that was half the point of going out clubbing, wasn't it? Once I'd massaged his feet until his tail was slightly lashing and his purrs grown unconsciously loud, I knelt in the rising warm water and raised my paws to his belt.

They were shaking, my paws I mean, and I had to stop a second to laugh at myself. Here I was, about to wash this poor unconscious boy so I could have his ass all to myself all night long, and I was nervous about getting to see his cock for the first time. I'd been fantasizing about him that long, admittedly obsessed ever since that night of nose-to-chest blueball dancing, that I suddenly cared what he thought of me being so forward!

With a chortle, I unbuckled his belt, slid it nimbly out of his pants, and tossed it aside. Then, the long baggy-legged tight-butted jeans got a careful unsnapping, before being pulled as gently as I could down his legs.

I almost squealed with laughter at how adorable his underoos were. Silk boxers greeted me, bright red and covered in the cutest little yellow smiley faces. Underneath them, muscular legs well-toned from long exercise, connected to his body at that most wonderful of places. Leaning in, I placed my lupine snout on his crotch, sucking in a deep, world-spinning breath of his musky balls.

He positively stank of horniness, that wonderful reek a male gets when they've been blue-balled for hours, leaking small spurts of pre-cum from a cock stuffed up against his balls by those pesky boxers. My paws moved as if of their own accord, sliding up his silk-soft inner thighs before moving to the less-lovely softness of silk. Then, they slid inward, until I could wrap my paw around his package, rolling his cock and balls in my paw like a child weighing a still-wrapped Christmas gift.

Wolves don't really purr, but at this point I would have been. He certainly was, though in that mostly-unconscious way I was enjoying so much. With any luck, if I'd dosed him right, he would have low enough blood-alcohol-content by the time I was done that a simple dose of my special little chemical cocktail would wipe out his memory of our night together entirely.

All part of the plan, which I'll get to later.

For now, he needed to get clean before we could get dirty together. My paws lovingly played with him a few seconds longer, getting a fresh surge of that salty musk to seep from the cock I could just barely not see. Then, having had enough of teasing myself, I reached up and lifted his scrumptious ass with one paw, sliding the boxers clean off with the other.

To say his cock was beautiful would be an understatement. It stuck halfway up now, about as much boner as I could expect given his level of inebriation. Even so, it filled my wonder-filled paw quite nicely. The fuzzy sheath was about halfway on, downy stuff, the kind of thing I could rub my face in all day long, and it shared color with his white-cream heavy balls that hung pendulously down. Feeling like it was somehow a well-loved obligation, I reached to support them, rolling the now-naked things in my open palm, loving the feel of soft testicle fur on my paw-pads.

Wistfully, I realized the tub was full, an auto-shutoff having stopped it from overflowing. I oh-so-gently wrapped my arms around his middle, treacherously leaving his balls and cock to languish un-warmed by my loving touch, as I pulled him into the warm water.

For a moment, my heart almost stopped, as he spoke a slurred set of words and squirmed feebly in my grip.

"shnff...wherem...hmf..."

I breathed again a second later, when his head slumped back against my shoulder. Finally, I reached for the fur shampoo, pouring a thick dollop of it into his chest ruff, where I could lather it and start soaping him down.

It was a tender thing, so loving, to look down on him unconscious in my arms. I was taking care of him, like a good male should take care of his prey, cleaning him up as a shepherd would fatten sheep before slaughter. Of course, the slaughter I had in mind would be the kind he'd live through. Maybe even come back for, if I played things right - Which I intended to!

Minutes passed, as I soaped his limp, lovely body. Being able to finally play my paws along his nipples, up his pecs and along his slenderly muscular arms was a treat. Finally having the chance to fondle his stomach, tracing the six-pac abs there, before sliding down that wonderful little V-shape of muscle pointing at his crotch...Well, I felt like cumming right then. Luckily, I have more control than that.

I gave his cock a gentle cleaning, even knowing how unlikely it was that he'd orgasm when this sedated with alcohol. It needed to be clean, for now, and that was all. As I slid my finger into his sheathe, around the base of his slowly more turgid cock, I promised myself that's all I was doing. Of course, it was a lie, but nobody's perfect.

His balls were easy enough - A few gentle fondlings with a soapy paw and they were done. His legs, likewise, took little time and a good bit of gentle scrubbing, before the sweaty smell was disappearing. Then, his long and luxurious tail received the same luscious, expensive-shampoo treatment, starting from the tip and moving down.

Finally, the prize.

I sat up, and gently draped his dripping-wet body over the tub's side. Designed so a fur could sit on the lip and wash their legs and feet, it was perfect for laying an unconscious male down on. With his legs naturally going into a kneeling position, all I had to do was pull his tail gently to one side and slide his knees apart with my own to finally, after all that time, see the puckered pink treasure I'd been looking for.

And pink it was! If ever there was a doubt to his homosexuality, his interest in taking cock up the ass like a good little twink, it was now gone. No straight male would keep himself so clean, so touchably soft as this! The temptation to rim him, to slide my tongue along his asshole until he cried in pleasure was strong. I, however, was stronger. Scooping up more soap, I gently pressed fingers against him, cleaning the already-spotless fur beneath his beautiful hanging ball sac, watching his mostly-hardened prick as it twitched against the white porcelain tub side.

When my fingers found his pink boy hole, I was done resisting temptation. One soapy paw spread his cheeks wide, so the other could soap him, gently stroking my fingertips against the pucker, which winked and puckered as if trying to hide in fur so soft it might as well have been made of clouds and gentle, fertile spring winds.

His sphincter yielded, slowly, before the onslaught. Just like that, my fingers were inside him, gently soaping and stroking, as I reached for the tub hose with my off paw. A gentle washing with very warm water later, he was so clean he smelled of soap and young cat, not of precum and sweat and that horrible piss-stinking club.

My chilly snout came to rest against his cleft, my warm, wet tongue lavishing across his freshly-clean butt hole, grin spreading across my face as it puckered again, more weakly this time, its resistance disappearing in direct proportion to the increase of his purrs. I stayed there a while, holding his cheeks apart, sliding my tongue across and over and around his pink treasure, drooling on it, stroking it, coaxing it gently open.

By then, my pointy, leaking prick was almost gushing pre. We wolves produce a lot, you know, and even the precum spurts feel oh so deliciously good. I could already feel my knot uncomfortably stretching its furry holster. So, with momentary regret, I pulled away from his ass, watching the pink bit there drip my saliva, and stood to pick the boy up so we could both get dry.

A quick trip to the fur-drying closet later, and we were both fluffing up like properly clean young males. Well, him younger than I, I'm afraid. It made no difference, really, but it was somehow sad to know that I was older than him. Years felt like they had passed by in but moments.

Moments passed by again, as I carried him to my bed, laying the mostly-unconscious young lad out face down on the thick comforter, watching him sink slightly into the mattress. For a few seconds, I considered snapping a photo, so I could go back to this adorable image of a passed-out little cheetah sprawled naked in my bed whenever I wanted.

But if things went wrong, which was entirely possible, I didn't want there to be evidence against me. Cum could be cleaned out of an anus pretty darn well if someone knew how - and I do! - but video and photo evidence are harder to be rid of. Sentimental value often trumps the functional understanding that photographing your rape victims is just stupid.

Lubricant! Of course, I almost forgot!

A quick trip to the closet, and I had the economy-sized squeeze tube in paw. A quick twist of the cap, a few swift motions, and I'd stroked my over-eager dick to a lustrous shiny reflectiveness. Ten more steps and I was back at the bed, dimpling the mattress down and shifting my beautiful little cheetah boy. I laid the closed tube down next to him then, realizing one other minor hiccup in the plan.

Luckily, a few pillows would hold his ass up properly for me, even if his knees were too noodley to do it on their own. I propped him up, gently, sliding the cushions under his belly and chest so he wouldn't end up with an injured neck. I took the time to run my paws through his luxuriant fur, too, gently stroking and combing through it just to feel the softness on my paw pads. He was purring again. Even if the conscious version wouldn't be interested, this unconscious, uninhibited cheetah boy was begging for a good, solid dicking.

Luckily I had exactly the supply for his demand. I applied lubricant first, like a proper gentlefur, getting more on my paw before sliding slick fingers against, around, and finally inside of his loosening pucker, stroking around until I was certain I'd used entirely too much. Mostly it was just an excuse to poke at his prostate - The one way to force an orgasm out of an unconscious person, generally, though I hadn't done so just yet.

Finally, the time had come. I rubbed my paws together, blew into them like I was about to lift a dead weight, then grabbed my prick with one paw and spread his cheeks open right around his hole with the other. The feel of his hot, tight little pink hole clutching at my tip brought a growl from my lips, and sent my tail flagging upward, forcing me to pause so I wouldn't give in to the traitorous tingle in my balls and blow a big sticky wad of cum all over his anus.

Slow, gentle pressure would be the way to go, I knew. Everything hinged on him remembering nothing when he woke up tomorrow, and having a bruised and bloodied asshole would wreck that part of the plan right off. The restraint necessary was intense, I assure you, but I only pressed as hard as I knew his tight muscles could take, until they slowly admitted me to that heavenly treasure, let me slid a few inches into his slowly-yielding cock holster, as he made soft, sleeping gasp sounds, and as his cock quivered beneath us.

He was tight, hot, wet with spit and lube, and oh so very accepting. The alcohol had to be helping, given that his muscles couldn't contract quite right when he was that drunk. I took five whole minutes just gently pressing at him, pushing his body forward a little but ever-so-slowly gaining ground in his ass. The urge to grab his hips and fuck him raw was hard to resist, so I gave in to one part of it - I wrapped my big, meaty paws around his girlish little golden and spotted hips, and gave the slightest of tugs.

His asshole fluttered on me when I did, and I gave a gasp loud enough that it might have woken the dead. Luckily, he wasn't dead, so it didn't work on him. He just made an urgent, hoarse murmuring sound, and balled his cute little paws into the bed spread while his tail flicked drunkenly, trying instinctively to pull back and cover his penetrated, impaled asshole. All it did was flap against my side gently, drawing a growl from my lips as I fed him another inch or so of pulsing red rocket.

Finally, after so many months of fucking him with my eyes, of dreaming and drooling and stalking, I was reaching the end of my first thrust. My knot had receded a bit, since the tub, where it had been almost ready to let me pop after I'd tongued out his butthole for him, and the surge of pleasure it gave when I forced the half-inflated thing through his ring was almost enough to break me. It made my balls tingle, my cock twitching from base to tip, my cheeks drawing back to expose my lovely set of fangs, all thanks to his yielding ring pressing down and fluttering on that lovely little bundle of nerves and blood vessels.

Then I pulled back, to give myself more time, and gazed down lovingly at his back. His head was laid on a pillow, too, aren't I nice? And laid that way, his longish hair had slid to one side, framing his face in a way I felt worthy of museum art. I smiled, though it may have looked a bit feral, and reached up to brush the hair out of his face before slipping back halfway and sliding in again. His ass was loosening now, filled with lube and loving effort expended to stretch it, and his face was flushing under the pale fur there.

As his whiskers twitched, I see-sawed out and back in again, grunting softly as my balls swung a bit harder than expected and slapped into his own low-hanging pouch. He gave a little gasp, muffled and dopey, and I felt as much as heard his breathing starting to hitch.

It was adorable, just how easily I was going to make this pent-up little boy cum! I wanted to watch him spurt his pearly spray, wanted to see that cute, long skinny cock of his helplessly jetting white ecstasy all over my bed. To know that me fucking his ass without really giving him any attention was going to make him cum was better than any silly Spanish Fly.

I was fucking him, then, gently but firmly rogering out his behind with my paws clamped on his hips. He was squawking softly, sleep-talking into the pillow as my knot rubbed away at his prostate, milking a constant stream of clear fluid from his tip that was dwarfed by the pre-load I was dumping in his ass. He was leaking it, slowly, and I leaned back a bit, twisting my neck to watch the stuff drip down over his twitching balls.

With a growl, my tail wagging in long, sweeping swishes, I pulled back to the tip only to ram in again, firmly and carefully filling him over and over and over again, as his helpless tail lashed against my side.

Finally, after so long of fucking him, a simple whimpered word broke me, shattering my self-control like a ten ton hammer falling on a chintzy crystal cat statuette.

"Please..." whispered from his lips. I actually felt a jerk in my chest, hot stinging in my eyes, as I rammed myself home. Howled, as I felt my knot lock tight behind his quivering sphincter, trapped inside him. His claws were out, slicing ten little holes into my sheets that I wasn't sure I would ever replace after this.

Two more quick, hard bucks against him, and I was filling my beautiful, unconscious, yowling cheetah boy with buckets of wolf cum, spurting out months of effort and orgasm into his yielding, sucking asshole. Until he dripped with it, white jizm leaking around the knot that plugged him up.

He let out a coughing sound, and a yelp, and suddenly my knee was being splattered. Huffing, panting, still cumming as we wolves are wont to do for a while after we tie, I looked down. Sure enough, he was spraying a truly prodigious amount of cum from that dangling prick of his, balls jerking so much I grabbed them on reflex, wanting to feel as they twitched and spasmed themselves empty.

Which they took a long time to do! He kept cumming, balls set to some kind of super-ejaculation mode by my knot, as it squeezed his prostate like an olive in a press. He covered the bit of sheet beneath his cock, my knee, his own staff, my paw when it dipped down to palm around his tip. I kept grunting, cumming too, jerking my knot against his sphincter to feel it clench around me all over again.

Finally, he was done, gasping, heaving, panting, cock still twitching with nothing left to shoot. I lifted my paw full up, and grinned at the pearly cat cum that filled it, running down my wrist in a warm stream. Like a gourmand eating a delicious, messy pastry, I brought it up to my muzzle and licked my palm and fingers clean, luxuriating in his scummy, salty, somehow sweet mess.

He's a vegetarian! I realized this just by the taste. The lack of bitter fishiness. The fact made me snicker unreasonably loud, tugging against his ass because my belly was jiggling with mirth. Which made me gasp and spurt again, and curse softly under my breath.

"See what you made me...Mmf...Do?"

It was some time later that my cock had shrunk enough to pull out of him, with a soft, wet, obscene plop followed by a yet more morbidly fascinating gurgle as my cum started spilling from his asshole. Ever one for details, I quickly picked the sleeping young man from my bed and took him back to the bathroom for a second wash.

This time, I took less time. If my calculations of his metabolism were right, I'd need to administer the special cocktail soon if it was going to work at all...Which was a bit of a gamble, given I'd had no chance to blood test the cheetah boy for liver and kidney function.

I sat him down, sitting with his ass on obscene display thanks to the angle, and proceeded to use my fingers and the gentle tub hose to scoop my cum out of his ass and massage the no-doubt aching walls of his anus. Then, once I'd re-washed his fur all over, I dried us both again, then set him on the counter to try my newest bit of FDA-approved miracle.

The cream had started out as a type of insect venom, designed to paralyze a victim with a full-body muscle spasm. The boys and I, in the lab, had managed to figure out that it could be diluted and synthesized in such a way that it caused low-level muscle tension, in a way that would help to re-tighten orifices that had been artificially distended.

Officially, it was to help post-birth mothers with their lady bits. Unofficially, it sold mostly in adult stores catering to gay males. I won't bother you with why. Pretty sure you're a bright fur and can figure it out.

What it did for me here was help tighten his rectum back up, despite the pounding I'd given it. Along with the painkillers I gave him a few seconds later, stroking his throat to make him swallow them, he'd be unlikely to feel any more discomfort down below than anyone with a bit of a hangover otherwise would.

Then, it was as simple as spraying him down with a bit of diluted de-scented oil so he would feel nice and club-sticky in the morning, re-clothing him, and taking the boy downstairs to sleep peacefully on the couch until morning.

Well, that and giving him the pill that would, with any luck, assist the alcohol blackout in wiping his memory of the evening.

---

I didn't have to feign sleepiness. He'd had at least two hours more of sleep than I had. So when I stumbled down the stairs like a big lupine zombie, the confused look he gave me didn't go straight to suspicion. I yawned, stretching my arms over my head, and managed to properly pretend I didn't see when he blushed and tried to pretend he wasn't watching my pecs.

I'd slept in just boxers, like any wealthy and self-confident male might do when some stranger is sleeping on his couch. Then I trudged sleepily into the kitchen, as he sat on the couch, still half-wrapped in the blanket I'd left on top of him, looking confused and vulnerable.

"Mm...mornin', Dances With Wolves."

He blinked at me, the cutest confused expression ever, as he scrunched up those pretty little black and golden brows. He had a headache, most certainly, and probably felt a bit queasy besides, based on the complacent way he was huddling on the couch rather than trying to call friends to come pick him up.

"I uh...Where am I?"

"My place. You passed out at the club, and nobody could find contact information on you. So I checked you out to make sure you weren't going to die, then brought you here."

"Y-you're...A doctor?"

I laughed, my good-hearted mask of a laugh that got used whenever I wasn't actively trying to scare anyone. He had enough good humor left, past the no-doubt pounding hangover, to look sheepish and grin at me with those big bright blue eyes of his.

"No. Well, yes, technically. I've got a doctorate in biochemistry. I'm actually a pharmacologist."

"Oh. You do medical research?"

"I invent medicines."

"Wow, cool." I could tell he wanted to shout it, but knew better than to tempt the hangover gods. He was smiling at me, actually interested despite his discomfort, his look so innocent I knew he hadn't the slightest suspicion that I'd fucked buckets of cum into him just seven or eight hours ago. I put the coffee on.

"Coffee? I doubt you're going to want breakfast, but you need to drink water and maybe some caffeine."

"I um..." His kitty ears flopped back and he looked down bashfully. "Don't want to be a bother...Um..."

"It's no bother. You seem like a nice guy. You can pay me back with conversation."

He blinked and raised his eyes back up to mine, looking surprised. Honestly surprised, like he didn't expect anyone to be nice to him. How could he not expect that? As gorgeous as he was, as friendly, as charismatic...I could almost hate him for being such a natural at things that had taken me years of therapy and artifice to learn.

I could see we were going to be friends immediately. Which was good on so very many levels. With a little more trickery, maybe I could convince him to let me fuck him silly without needing drugs and kidnapping. Barring that, I'd still fuck him to pieces whenever I could get him to come over. Plus, according to what I'd found in his wallet, he was a student at the polytechnic. Maybe even someone I could hire when he got done with college!

Fantasies of furtive blowjobs under the desk from my sweet little innocent cheetah boy gave me a hard-on I had to hide behind the counter, as he finally squawked out an awkward laugh.

"God...I'm sorry, this is awkward. We didn't...Um...?"

"Hah, no, kiddo. We didn't 'um...?' I'm not a rapist, you were pass-out drunk."

---

A week later, and we had dinner at my place. I bake a mean lasagne, I tell you. Conversation with my cheetah boy was fascinating, intellectual, fun, and informative on a dozen subjects of science and culture. As it turns out, he was studying for a degree in physical anthropology. Not something my pharmaceutical firm could really use, of course, but full of so much conversation and interest! Not to mention his passion for physical history, artifacts of the ancient world, and culture! I could have kissed him.

During our conversation about odd cultures, he very candidly brought up the fact that he'd had thoughts about males, but preferred females. He blushed adorably the whole time, while I was stealthily drugging the wine. I'm pretty sure he had figured out I was gay and interested, and was trying to figure out whether or not he was comfortable enough with his budding sexuality to delve deeper.

Half an hour later, he was semi-conscious in my bed, brain not recording memories, as we fucked long and gentle just like that first night. I came in him so hard I was worried he would notice in the morning. He came so hard I knew his balls would be sore. This time, we'd fucked missionary style, and he actually managed to splatter my chin with his cum while crying out my name.

In the morning, when he woke up on the couch, confused and apologizing for being rude enough to fall asleep there after dinner, I almost made the mistake of kissing him. If he'd reacted badly, my whole game might have ended. It wouldn't be smart to use the cocktail two days in a row - It might have injured his kidneys, and that was never my objective.

So I sat down with him, and in my most friendly, non-judgmental manner, told him how it was totally and entirely okay for him to fall asleep here, given how much wine he'd had. Of course, he only remembered having one glass, which he told me several times. It was the truth, actually - one glass of my specially-tailored sedatives would knock just about anyone on their ass.

Or on my cock, if I wanted.

As the sun began to set on that fine Saturday night, he ended up consenting to letting me hug him. Hugging an unconscious male is quite different from hugging the real, awake, nervous, adorable person. He looked up into my face with such confusion and vulnerability that I almost kissed him. I almost made that mistake, instead diverting myself at the last moment to kiss his forehead.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm gay, and you're really cute. If you ever want to experiment, you let me know, okay? If you don't, that's fine too. I like hugging almost as much."

He laughed, that adorable heartfelt guileless laugh of his.

Unbelievable, how gullible truly bright young minds can be.

---

Months later, I was sitting in the office after a long, boring meeting, fantasizing about my cheetah boy in his clubbing clothes, bent over my desk and drugged, and me fucking the hell out of him while he came into my handy-dandy trash can. Which had never happened, of course. I wouldn't take that risk in the office of all places!

"Sir?" My secretary leaned her head in the door, looking perplexed. With a quirk of my eyebrows, I sat up and reached for the phone, seeing she had someone on hold.

"Who is it?"

"Some young man. Says he needs to talk to you. I think he's crying."

My heart lurched in my chest, as I snatched up the phone, waving the secretary off. Wisely, she retreated back to her desk, closing my soundproofed door behind me.

The cheetah boy was crying all right, and somewhere in my cold, calculating, sociopathic heart, I felt a wrench of feeling so strong I almost slammed the phone down and started booking tickets to Brazil to run away. Instead, I spoke, trying to break through his tears long enough to get some kind of answer.

"Hey, it's me, what's wrong? Talk to me, you sound awful."

"I...I j-just...I n-need someone to talk to...C-can I come over tonight?"

Can he? Can he! I grinned, and wondered to myself if sex would help him feel better. Willing sex or unconscious sex, it would release endorphins in his body that had a tendency to fight depression and stress. A worthy experiment no matter how it turned out!

"Absolutely, my man. Six o'clock. You need me to send a driver for you?"

"N-no...N-no, don't trouble anyone f-for me...I'll drive."

My poor, sweet cheetah boy had such poor self-esteem. He never saw himself as anyone important. Maybe it was part of his charm. I'm not sure. Low self-esteem was as alien to me as quantum physics to normal furs. It certainly had come from his abusive parents.

He was a foster kid at the age of fourteen, I'd found out in one of our more recent scintillatingly interesting dinner conversations. While we ate cheesecake desert at a wonderful sea-side restaurant, he told me how his father had beaten him so badly he'd been in a coma on his fourteenth birthday, alive only because of modern medicine and blood transfusions.

Somehow, I now equated his current tearful state with what I'd done to his father, and how much it had cost me to have him tracked down. I love my life. Money and a sick love for watching people die makes life so much more fun. I had to be sure he hadn't somehow connected me with his estranged father's disappearance. How could he? Nonetheless, certainty is a form of perfection, and I love perfection.

"Okay, if you're sure. Driving while agitated is almost as dangerous as driving drunk."

He coughed once, the kind of cough a person gets when they've been in tears for too long.

"N-n-no...I'm f-fine..."

Then he hung up the phone. I caught myself staring at it, perplexed at my own inexplicable reaction to the boy's pain.

Now that I thought about it, I hadn't even tried to fuck anyone else since the night after I first screwed his senseless body into my bed.

Is that what love feels like? To not care about anyone else's beautiful, sculpted ass, because you already have the perfect one to fuck whenever you like? To not be bothered about trying to meet interesting people, because the most interesting one is already yours for the asking?

I hurried home that night.

---

As he came in the door, I noticed just how terrible he looked. We hadn't seen each other in two days, but it was as if a year had somehow passed. A hard year, the kind of year one spends living under a bridge, fighting sharp-toothed feral rats for scraps of food.

I couldn't help it. I was across the room, wrapping him up in a hug before I knew what was happening. He broke down, right there on the doorstep, sobbing incoherently until well after I'd nudged the door shut, pulled him onto the couch, sat down with him curled up in a tiny ball in my lap, and let the dinner go fuck itself half-cooked.

Finally, he looked up at me, eyes bright red around the rims. His paw had gone to his hoodie pocket, that silly damn grey hoodie I kept trying to convince him to replace, the ragged old thing. I could get him much better, if he'd let me.

What he pulled forth was a paper, folded up, which he held up to me with a shaking paw.

I unfolded it, carefully, as he shuddered in my lap, arms wrapped tight around his body.

It was medical paperwork. A diagnostics sheet.

Furry Immunodeficiency Virus.

Shit.