Doin' the dirty.
The moral of the story is; Be concise in what you want in your story. Or I will write about the first thing that makes my muse go; "Ooohh.. there's an idea!"
Kiriban Prize for Jag; Doin' the dirty.
© Tsumi Moogle 2009. Characters © their owners.
Streams of neon light cut through the hazey and dusty air of the darkened room. Striping across the kid's back, he's bobbing, but his heart's not in it. Why should it be? The room smells old, abused. There's a lingering, burnt smell like so many cigarettes and something less legal, the earthy bite of old weed would ruin the mood, if one had been set. "Mind the teeth, kid." I murmur, adjusting my spotted palm atop his hair. That weird antennae thing of his is a little awkward, skewed to one side, and his... do they call it a pompom? It's bumping against my belly with an odd flickering light. It keeps changing. Blue. Red. Green. Yellow. White. Looking up at me with blood-shot and baleful eyes, I can tell the kids not all there. I can't do it. ...Not with him watching, anyway. Those lifeless eyes.
I ease him off, frowning at the strand or two of saliva joining the tip of my dick and the kid's lips. Standing up from that lumpy hard mattress, I let my pants collapse in a heap on the old, musty green carpet. A small plume of dust rises in the beams of the sign flickering in the middle of the motel's carport below. It's a shitty view, a shitty room, and a shitty fuck. But it was cheap. Pointing at the bed, the kid lays down, his baggy pants pull down easily at my grasp. Crawling over him, I sigh at the more tasteful touch of the flesh of his backside spreading over my dick, he squirms a little and murmurs with a stir. Frowning, I push on his back, between his wings baring a hole or two in the membranes. "Knock it off, kid, or I won't be paying." I frown and sink in one fluid go to the hilt. He's done this plenty before, even tonight. I can feel it. It's lucky I make sure to wear a rubber.
He goes still, and I settle in, thrusting in a smooth and timed manner, purring my pleasure and waving my tail through the rank air. The old bed creaks, with old springs groaning their protests as I make use of the kids ass. He'll be back here again most likely. Hour or two, with some other dude who'll hand him a 50. Probably not even worth that. I groan as I build myself up steadily, toe-claws gripping into the splotchy carpet, a faint cracking rip from my feet tells me there'll be a patch or two more of electric tape used to hold the carpet down, next time the cleaning service comes. If they ever come.
The sound of my cock plunging all the way has an odd sound; squelching and squishing as I stir who knows who-else's jizz in that poor ass. I don't care though, and arching my back with my breath catching in my chest with steady building pressure, I slam home, banging the headboard of the bed against the dreary green, creamy walls, indented with cracks and peeling paint. Not like anyone'll notice another dent now. I save the kid another load, feeling it pooling at my tip and groan softly. Gingerly easing my thumbs to the edge of the rubber, I withdraw, and let it slide off, before discarding it in the rusted bin in the corner. Stooping to fetch a handkerchief from my pocket, I clean myself up with a soft wrinkle on my muzzle, I'll need another one tomorrow. It too goes in the bin as I watch the kid. He's laying there on the bed, not moving. I haven't told him to.
"Interested in some ass? C'mon! Anything you want! Only costs a 50." He'd said, as I'd parked at a red-light. I knew the district, and I knew what it was popular for. Through the tinted windows, he'd looked half decent. I'd grinned to myself and thought; 'why not?' Inviting him into the car had been the first mistake. The first look, the first smell. He'd been selling on the street for days from what I could tell. Without hazey tinted glass I could notice the worn look on his youthful face. Green eyes that had lost their shine, and unkempt cream-coloured fur. I wondered with the faintest wince if I'd be able to get the smell off the seat.
He said he had a place, and lead me there, what did I expect for 50, really? Snapping myself away from the memories, I watched him blink and tense a little, with his pompom glowing red as the sound of sirens blazed past suddenly outside. Fading into silence as they tore down the street, he relaxed, and sat up at last, watching me again with those blood shot eyes. He didn't say anything and Neither did I, as I retrieved my pants and boxers, giving them a firm shake to displace the dust that clung to them. Turning my back to him I stooped to slip into them and blinked as a sudden blow to my back brought my unbalanced form crashing to the floor. The little punk had tackled me! Atop my back, he was grabbing my pants, tugging at them with an anxious and ragged breath. There was a tear, and I swore as with a rattle, my keys and wallet thumped to the floor. I made to grab at them, but he flung a paw aside, scooping them up and away from me. "What're you doing you little bastard?! Get off me!" I shouted, before one of his hands closed on my mouth and held it shut. He was looking at me with a twitchy, fevered manner, breathing to match. I noticed along the crook of his elbow, ruffled fur, matted and slightly bare. Pin-pricks. Oh shit.
He didn't voice anything, regret, thanks, want, need. He just stared at me. And grabbed one of my ankles. Pulling it up, he yawned his maw wide, and closed it over my ankle, foot held entirely within his muzzle. I felt my eyes widening, tail thrashing as I mewled my terror at the sight... His handpaw gripping my other ankle, he crammed it in beside the first, and swallowed. I realized then in my shock that my arms were free, and I took a swing at him. My fist, connecting with his nose made an awkward crunch, and blood trickled down his muzzle. But if he felt pain, he didn't show it. Never punch a crack-head. Ever. He in turn, grabbed my arms, and stared at me, breathing hard through one working nostril, as he swallowed. I could watch, with one of his hands holding mine to my belly, crossed at the wrist, the other holding my mouth tight as he swallowed. Inch after inch, I felt myself being pulled in. He was practiced and determined, and gaffed as I was, I couldn't pull or thrash without sinking myself deeper.
Tears of terror welled in my eyes as thighs after knees, the kid kept swallowing. His shirt was ripping as I bulged out his chestfur steadily. The fell of slimey gullet-flesh leading to a tighter ring, The swallow that claimed my hips pulled my feet into his belly, Hot, and slick in a tingly way that his throat had been, My pawsoles squelched into the dimpled lining of his belly. There was no smile on his face. No churr, nothing. He took no joy in doing what he was doing, but he didn't stop, bolting me, as if he had a schedule to keep, My hands were caught. I'd told him to watch his teeth! They scraped softly along my arms as I gasped in a breath of pain and shock, through the rank fur of the hand covering my muzzle. He leant up, his shirt tearing clean in half as my legs began folding into his belly. It churned already, mooshing and sloshing something that made my fur itch against my lower body as it emptied in. I started to scream into that paw gripping my face, started thrashing as my last means of escape, hoping I could get free. It was as effective as that punch, and I just kept vanishing. Swallow after swallow. Shoulders after chest, until my head was in his jaws. The rank breath of his unwashed muzzle about me, uncared-for teeth stained with his years of abuse. The sight of the Dank hotel room, the bed, with my wallet atop it, where the kid had laid. Where I had envisioned him in months, maybe years time, Staring again, but no longer moving. The final swallow rang in my ears as the kid finished the job. Down into the churning pit of his gut, his heartbeat above pulsing in a non-rythmatic, fluxuating pattern. He was moving already, an odd hissing gurgle of a burp drawing my breath away, I sank into unconsciousness with a final mew.
The moogle staggered as he looked about hazily. Grabbing his shorts, he tugged them on awkwardly beneath his bulging and twitching gut, grabbing the wallet he'd stolen, he pulled out the Driver's liscence, regarding the spotted, smiling muzzle looking up at him from the plastic, illuminated in the light of the neon sign outside, and his blinking pompom. "...Sorry guy, I need my fix. Kupo." And drawing out the wad of cash inside, the kid dumped the wallet in the rusted wastebin besides the used handkerchief and condom, padding with his torn shirt and bulging gut, back onto the street again.