Willow Creek
In the dog days of summer, 1942, a wolf on the cusp of adulthood and his younger sister engage in a bit of playful exploration on a sunny afternoon...
In the dog days of summer, 1942, a wolf on the cusp of adulthood and his younger sister engage in a bit of playful exploration on a sunny afternoon...
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
_Trying my handle at a new-ish genre, which is not I have to admit one that I understand terribly well. So perhaps I have fucked it up a bit; if so, please let me know, so that I can do better next time. Otherwise, read and enjoy -- and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that! _
"Willow Creek" by Rob Baird
"Aw, sure," my brother said, and leaned back to toss a pebble at the tree that stooped, like an old man, over the burbling water below. It was a hot August day in that last, long summer before he went off to the war and came back wrong, and we were relaxing on the banks of Willow Creek. "Thing about your future though, sis, is you're the only one who can take care of it."
"Well, I ain't saying I'm scared or nothing."
"I'm not saying," he corrected teasingly, sticking out that long pink tongue of his and looking very boyish for his eighteen years.
"Fine, I'm not. It's just going to be different, not having you around..."
Different for everybody. For as long as I can remember, back to when I was just a little girl, we'd been inseparable. It was always "Art and Rosa," strung together real quick, or just "those two": "where have those two gotten off to?," or "those two are probably off down at the creek," and then finally: "you know how those two are..."
We did everything together. I was comfortable with this inseparability, certain it would last forever. But then he'd got his draft notice, and suddenly everyone was saying that one -- as in that one's going to make his daddy real proud or ah, they're gonna miss that one on the football team.
'That one' looked exactly like a wolf ought to look; tall and muscular, his silvery pelt matched every surrounding -- on the football field, in a suit at a speech tournament; being chased by his younger sister down the dirt track that ran between the Hopkins' farm and our property. His only flaw, and it was a minor one so far as I was concerned, was that he smiled too much, and when he laughed his tongue had a way of lolling like a pup's.
"You'll get by," he declared firmly. "Besides, I'm the one who ought to be worried."
"'Cause of Nazis?"
He scowled, and threw another pebble across the impatient brook. "No, not because of the Nazis. I'll lick any one of them. What am I gonna do without you looking after me though, huh? First time they send us out orienteering, I'm going to get lost and they'll probably bounce me right out of the Army. Wouldn't that be something?"
"You only got lost that once." I'd been away at camp, and he'd decided to visit me without really knowing the way. That was us, I guess; he was the impulsive one, bold and daring, and I was his thoughtful, quiet sidekick. I giggled at the memory, leaning flat on my back and staring into the burning summer sky as though at any moment it might conjure up that day, five summers gone now. "Remember how angry mom was?"
"Aw, she was just worried." He snickered, shaking his head. "Probably thought I was running away from home. Say -- d'you want some blackberries?"
I propped myself up on an elbow at the non sequitur to find him nodding his head at the far bank of the creek, where a dense thicket of thorny brambles shrouded the fat purple berries. Before I could answer, Art had stripped off his clothes and thrashed into the cool water, first his legs and then most of his torso disappearing in the deep pool occasioned by a bend in the stream's course. He emerged on the other side, water cascading from him in sheets, and a moment later a blackberry pelted me right on my muzzle. "Hey!"
He grinned and did it again, watching me as I plucked the berries from the grass and popped them into my mouth. I sucked my breath in at the sharp, tart flavor, and he laughed. "If you want any more, you have to get 'em yourself, though."
It wasn't much of a dare. I shrugged, pulling off my sundress, and my knickers, and the brassiere that mama had condemned me to earlier in the year. And then I joined him, plunging quickly into the water so that I didn't have the chance to lose my nerve at the chill. But it was pleasant enough, anyway, in the heat of the afternoon, and Art helped me pick blackberries off the vine until both our tongues were dark and stained.
When the water finally got the better of him, Art slipped from the creek, water pouring from him like a burst dam, and tumbled to the grass with an unselfconscious gracelessness. I was more measured, but presently I joined him, leaning on my back and letting the sun soak into my fur. Neither of us hurried to don clothes again; it was a hot day, and what did either of us have to be afraid of? The creek was our little secret. I poked my brother's muzzle with a sigh. "I'm really going to miss you, when you're not around."
"I'll write," he said. "Every day, pretty much."
"You'll be busy. Who's gonna walk with me to school?"
"It's not so far, is it?"
"Far 'nough," I grumbled. "What about Watson and Holmes?" Those were our turtles, captured earlier in the summer a few feet from where we now lay. "I'll have to sing to them all by myself..."
Art smiled softly. "You have a nicer voice anyway."
"That ain't the point," I huffed, and when he saw how far back I'd put my ears my brother didn't bother to correct my grammar. He knew it wasn't the point, anyway; the point was that we had always done everything together, and I could see in his eyes he was as broken up about it as me. There wasn't any point in blaming him. "I just don't want to have to face it all myself. Won't have you to carve a pumpkin with, or carry my books, or find skipping rocks. I'm going to have to deal with boys now, if you're not around."
"Hey," he protested. "I'm a boy, too. You'll make do -- maybe even find a new friend."
"Yeah, but you're not a boy boy. It's different."
Art shook his head, and I watched a drop of water roll down his whiskers. "Boys aren't that tough, once you figure out what they really want."
"Oh, well. I know that already."
His smile was gentle, and he shook his head again. "Nah. Not yet."
I narrowed my eyes and grinned, feeling my tail thumping against the grass -- flush with the triumph of hidden knowledge. "I'm guessing they want the same thing you wanted out of Stacy Nowell, weekend before last."
Art blinked. "What do you know about Stacy?"
"I know that she made you forget that I always go down to the Hopkins' barn to read whenever mom has company over."
My brother's ears pinned, and he darkened beneath his grey fur. "Aw, cripes. I didn't know you were there. You weren't supposed to see that."
"Why not?"
"Because you're not supposed to learn it from your older brother, I guess," he said. "Traditionally."
I rolled onto my side, peering at him curiously. "Why? I learned everything else from you. Who taught me how to whistle, huh? Who taught me how to fish?"
"Well, me..."
"And how to splint the leg of that bluejay we found? And how to make pancakes for mom and dad on their anniversary?"
"I did. But..."
I cut him off with a curt jerk of my head. "Nope. No 'buts.' I'm just saying if there's something new, you oughta have showed me before you showed Stacy Nowell. I bet she doesn't know how to splint no bird's leg proper-like, nor how to start a fire or anything real important."
"No, I don't suppose so," he laughed. "She doesn't go for that."
I waited for him to take the logical next step, and when he didn't I prodded him lightly. "So are you going to show me, or not?"
"What?" He paused, and his head tilted inquisitively. I'd looked up to my brother affectionately for years, but now for the first time I saw how handsome he truly was. How his eyes danced, lit from within by a youthful spark; how his taut muscles bunched with a model's grace, and how, in the filtered light of the afternoon, his silver fur seemed to glow.
I decided that it was even endearing, how his characteristic boldness had turned gentler and more subtle. For once, I thought, I was going to have to be the one to lead him. "Are you going to do to me what you did to Stacy?"
"I'm not sure that we... I mean... she was..." He fumbled for words -- not nervously, but as though he was trying to settle something in his mind. "Stacy was different. With you, I... I don't know that I should..."
"But I want you to," I told him softly. "More than anything. More than anything I've ever wanted."
Art's gaze softened, and for a moment I felt his eyes wander over the soft caramel of my fur. He looked at me for a long time, and I smiled at him hopefully. Finally he returned it, with a soft laugh and a knowing shake of his head, and I knew he had abandoned the pretense of resistance. "Lie on your back, sis, okay?" he told me gently. I obeyed him without a moment's hesitation.
I felt his paw on my thigh, pulling my legs apart, and I watched as he shuffled over to settle between them. It took a bit; he was still too slow for my liking, and I poked him with my big toe. "Well?"
His head disappeared, and a moment later I felt my brother's breath, hot like the summer breeze, against the bare flesh between my legs. I swallowed, trying to anticipate what it would feel like. When he touched me, licking up along my slit gently, I gasped -- it felt glorious, unlike anything I could've imagined.
Then he did it again, more firmly, and I could feel my lips start to open beneath the silky heat of his tongue. Distantly it seemed that what he was doing was probably wrong -- that pastor Sanderson would probably say it was, anyway. And then I thought: well, to hell with him. I couldn't help it; I let out a breathy moan, and my hips lifted into my brother's muzzle. His whiskered tickled me, but I didn't care -- I wanted him to keep going; I wanted to feel more of that glorious touch -- more of that warm, sensuous pleasure spilling into my veins.
"Artie," I shivered -- I hadn't used that name on him for years. He grunted questioningly, and the shock of that little bit of movement against my sensitive flesh fetched another moan that banished whatever thought I might've been trying to form.
He licked faster, pressing his muzzle to me and letting his tongue slip just inside, teasing deliriously wonderful sensations from me with such skill that I was quickly finding myself overcome, drawn towards an unseen precipice. He was wonderful -- perfect, even. But then... he excelled at nearly everything he tried. Why not this?
I gasped his name again; he had me whimpering like a little pup, my breath hitching in shallow pants, and still he kept going. He worked his way slickly into my body, stroking me in ways I'd never even conceived of touching myself. I was starting to seize up; I struggled against it, not even knowing what I was fighting, as the world shrank until it was just the two of us -- and then just where his tongue was pressed smoothly inside me.
Art's tongue flicked upwards, and as I trembled desperately he closed his lips about my clit, sucking ever so gently. I think -- maybe he never quite made it. I don't know, because suddenly I was consumed with pleasure, waves of ecstasy coursing through me in jolting convulsions that left me a helpless and poorly strung marionette. Just when I thought the sensations were starting to ebb he would touch me again, and they crashed back on me until I was crushed beneath the weight of it all.
I think I must've howled, because when I came back to earth my throat felt raw and I was panting heavily, staring blankly at the trees that stretched up in supplication to a sapphire afternoon. He wore a wry grin, but there was genuine concern in his voice as he gave me a gentle nudge. "You okay, sis?"
Jerking a little at the touch of his finger at my side, I tried to form words and could only manage a wavering growl. It took a few breaths more before I could talk: "Wh-why didn't you do that before?"
He chortled, and shrugged weakly. "I dunno. I never thought to. Did you like it?"
I nodded. Then a thought occurred to me: "Did I make a noise, Artie?" He rubbed at his ear, pretending I had deafened him, and my ears went back, digging into the grass. Stacy hadn't done that; she'd been restrained, prim and quiet, and I suddenly feared that I had done something terribly wrong.
At my countenance, he tilted his head. "Aw, no," he said, and propped himself up on one elbow so that he could stroke my cheekruff with his paw, calmingly. "It was cute. You always are, Rosa."
Turning to look at him brought my muzzle a half-inch from his, and our eyes met. It was the expression that captivated me -- the unquestioning, boundless affection in his gaze. The look said, you have never, ever been able to do wrong in my eyes, and I found myself smiling again. "Will you kiss me?"
He did; his lips were gentle, and I canted my head a little further to the side so that our muzzles came closer together. I could've stayed like that for hours -- years, even. It was Art who took the next step, probing my lips until I opened my muzzle for him and our tongues met. He tasted of blackberries, and a salty tang that I realized with a thrill was my own.
Art growled -- a deep, possessive sound -- and as our tongues wrestled he shifted, so that the heavy weight of his muscular body pinned me. He parted my legs with his foot, and I felt something warm and hard nudging against my thigh.
What was happening was not really a mystery to me; the Hopkins raised sheep, and in any case I had watched my brother as he performed approximately the same act with Stacy Nowell not two weeks before. But it was different when it was me beneath him; my body that he so plainly craved. Our bare flesh met for an electric moment and I tensed up by reflex.
He pulled away from the kiss; he was out of breath now, too, and the skin beneath his silver fur had darkened. "Relax," he murmured to me. His paw slid down my side, past my hips, coaxing my legs wider. Fingers teased at my wet lips, and when I shuddered again he smiled. "Calm down... just relax," he purred gently.
It took an effort -- more willpower than I had, almost. He guided himself back to me slowly, letting my slick juices coat the tip of his hard, straining shaft, so that when he started to press himself into me it took no effort at all. I felt myself opening up around him; then he nudged against resistance and stopped, holding himself perfectly still.
"It... it might hurt a bit, sis," he cautioned. I gave him a smile that I hoped didn't seem too worried, and was cheered when he answered it in kind. Then his hips pushed forward again, and I was aware simultaneously of a sharp, burning pain and his comforting, soft whispers of reassurance against my pinned ear.
The pain eased slowly. He moved his hips in short, gentle strokes, an inch or less at a time, and by the third or fourth the discomfort had vanished completely, replaced by the breathtaking feeling of his hard, strong heat filling me. Steadily his thrusts became deeper, and I sighed his name gratefully.
He was resting on his elbows, to either side of me, and I had the perfect view of his handsome, boyish face, strained with such obvious pleasure that I felt giddy. I'm doing that to you, I thought with a secret thrill -- it was me that was making him gasp and growl as he pulled his hips away and then rocked forward, sinking himself into my needy body until his hips were flush against mine and I felt him nudging at my walls from the inside.
Art moved faster, and as he pumped inside me I could feel those little, delightful sparks returning -- sizzling out at first, then slowly catching, smoldering for longer and longer until I was nearly alight with it, and my arms wrapped around my brother in a desperate vise.
Nobody had told me how amazing it would feel to have a man inside me -- and nobody had hinted at the immense power I would hold over him, as he bucked and groaned in my embrace. He was trying to be stoic -- his teeth were gritted -- but I could see the aching need in his half-lidded eyes.
It distracted me, though, and I gave in first. One moment he was thrusting urgently inside me and the next I was shuddering, wracked with spasms and jolts of pleasure. My toes curled; my paws bunched into fists at Art's shoulders, and he stopped moving until at last I sagged back, gasping up at him, grinning with the shock of it all.
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a grunt, and I hugged him closely as he started to move once more. His shaft began to feel thicker and thicker, and his thrusts had changed -- he pushed deep into me, and when he withdrew it was only an inch or so each time. Yes, he was definitely growing bigger; I felt my lips closing around the base of something firm, swelling almost larger than I could bear.
He was tugging his hips back, straining at my lips, but he seemed locked to me. He pushed in again, hard, and let out a guttural, low groan, going completely still. I looked at him curiously; his eyes were wide and unfocused, his lips curled. Then I felt his buried length quiver, and a sudden wet warmth blossomed from his tip.
I knew he had reached his own peak, and I moaned encouragingly to him with that certainty. His was different, more visceral, and I let myself savor every second of it as he filled me in a hot torrent, his grinding, firm movements working the sticky, spreading warmth deeper inside me.
At last he collapsed, and his bulk was so reassuringly warm that it took a moment until my desire to breathe won out and I gave him a gentle shove. He rolled to the side, which made it easier to snuggle up against his solid frame, and when it seemed the right time to speak again I kissed his nose. "I love you." I meant those three words more than I had ever meant anything before; more, I felt certain, than I would ever mean them.
"I... I love you too," he managed weakly.
"You had to be the one to teach me," I told him softly. "You know that, right?"
"I know," he mumbled. The energy was starting to drain from him, and we were motionless for a time, as I marveled at the perfect feeling of his body.
He was still twitching inside me, every few seconds, still pulsing into me with fresh heat, and the swelling of his shaft kept him trapped inside. I nuzzled against him. "I suppose I'm really a woman now," I mused.
This roused him, and he arched an eyebrow, giving a severe shake of his head. "No. You're the same old Rosa, sis. Only difference is you've been with a guy now."
"So I know what to expect next time?"
"So you know what to expect," he echoed.
I smiled, and glanced down between us to the place where we were joined. His grey fur blended into the soft tan of my thighs, and the soft pink of my lips clung to the deeper crimson of his maleness like a loving embrace. It was strangely empowering to think of this, and of the heat of our earlier coupling. There was no shame at all in our nakedness; to be ashamed requires the knowledge of sin.
"You should be careful," Art told me, drawing me closer. "Not all guys will be like me. They'll be pushy. They might try to call it an obligation, you know? There's no such thing -- none. Don't ever let anyone make it out like you owe them your body. It's the only one you have. We're all responsible for our own futures."
I frowned. "Ain't you been drafted?"
His face darkened, and I knew I had crossed a subtle line, so I didn't push him when he said only: "that's different."
And I didn't tell him how much I loved him -- how I burned with it; how his every word and movement and touch made my heart swell until it ached. He already knew it -- it was just another part of being those two.
Eventually he softened, and slipped from me, and we waded back into the creek to clean off. Then we sprawled beneath a cloudless sky, as the heat of sunshine and youth spread through our fur. When you're a kid, summers -- like moments -- seem to last an eternity, until suddenly they're gone forever.
But I would treasure that one, even if I couldn't know yet what the future held. I couldn't know that he would go away, and something would change; that he would come back, and I would still be young, and he would be impossibly old. That we would sit together, and I would tell him that everything was going to be alright -- and that he would lie to me, too, and say that he believed me.
And that all the while, in the hidden depths of our eyes, and the secret corners of our thoughts, we would think back, longing for innocence, and an endless summer afternoon on the tender banks of Willow Creek.