Revelation and Consecration: A Binding of Souls
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction involving two consenting males in a sexual situation. This story may contain yiffery, so if this squicks you or you are not allowed to read stuff like this, please do not continue. Otherwise, read on and enjoy! This story is dedicated to my mate, Tym. Happy six-month anniversary, you silly puppy. You are my world and my love and my life.
FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]
Revelation and Consecration: A Binding of Souls (c)MMIV Whyte Yoté
In the middle of winter, it is hard to find warmth amid so much cold...
A freezing New England wind whips around the old Victorian house, one among many on the silent cobblestone street. Most have retired early to wait out the storm for the night, and those unlucky few to be caught outside hurry home.
Only a few lights show from inside the narrow three-story structure. A light mist is carried aloft by the wind, freezing on contact with anything it touches. A thin sheet of clear ice has begun to form at the eaves and corners of the house, like wrapping a Christmas present for the next day.
Just off the main parlor sits a huge library, holding thousands upon thousands of books, ageless and dusty on the shelves. Bach plays softly from the phonograph in the corner, accentuating the soft ambient light. The bulbs glow dimly, the first to be used in a house on this street.
Like a living being, a fire roars silently in a hearth made of mahogany and brick. In front of the fire sits a leather wingback chair. Both the chair and its occupant are shadowed from the fire, but there is still enough light to read by. The form sits cross-legged, twitching one long footpaw in time with the music. Just under and to the right of his feet lays his pet, snoozing lightly in the warmth.
Tym's eyes are tired. It has been a long and trying day, physically and emotionally. Life has not been good to him lately. Despite his intelligent wit and creativity, his days have been plagued with setback after setback, and the stress has taken a toll on him. He is on the brink of sickness; a visit from his doctor only served to let him know that bedrest is the best remedy. The obvious is not lost on him, but there is no rest for the weary.
The jackal with the unicorn tail shuts the book, stands and replaces it among the ancient tomes of his collection. As much as he has read tonight, there have been other things on his mind. He sighs, tends the dying embers of the fire, puts on his robe and pads upstairs to the master suite. The coyolf remains sleeping by the wingback chair.
Yawning fiercely, Tym enters his master suite and flips the switch to his newly-installed electric system. The room is lit, but in a half-hearted, romantic way. He doffs the robe, thinks for a moment, then his pajamas follow suit. Even though the temperature continues to fall outside, the jackorn prefers his own fur to clothes. They have never seemed comfortable, in all the years he can remember.
He climbs onto the maroon silk comforter of his bed, relishing its slipperiness beneath him and the gentle give under his weight and slim frame. Eyes closed, he tries to clear his mind, tossing this way and that, listening to the whistle from outside. Clarity refuses to come; there are too many thoughts pressing for attention, too many details to be attended.
Soft clicking approaches the room, then enters. Tym smiles, eyes still closed, and he knows the source of the noise. He feels a gentle tug at the edge of the bed and rolls over, not bothering to hide himself. If anyone should not be embarrassed, it is his beloved pet.
The hybrid coyolf sits on his haunches, looking at his master quizzically, as if to ask Is something wrong?
He chuckles to himself, amused at his pet's concern. So loyal and understanding, that one. That he had found the canine, sparkling clean and wearing a mourning collar at an estate sale just a month prior, was a blessing. It may just be the best thing to ever happen to him, he thinks more and more each day.
"Well, boy. It seems as though you just can't resist my charms," Tym says mock-haughtily.
His pet rests his muzzle on the jackorn's paw on the bed. His master revels in the sight of his bright, snowy-white fur broken only by gloves and boots, eartips and tailtip that blend the white to black through a progression of blues, from glacier ice to deepest indigo. His ears perk up, his gaze transfixed on the male before him. There is something he must do this night. He bends down, meeting his pet in a nuzzle of affection. The coyolf murrs under his breath.
"I take it that was a sound of satisfaction?" he asks. His pet nods against the bed. Tym closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift, feeling the softness of his pet's head against him, and when he comes back to reality it is with a start.
"Is something the matter, master? You seem distracted," asks the coyolf, and when Tym checks the clock on the wall he sees that over five minutes have passed.
He shakes his head. "I'm not distracted, just tired." He knows it's a lie, and hates himself for saying it. But he doesn't want to let his pet know, doesn't want to let his feelings show just yet.
"All right," the coyolf says, but he doesn't quite believe his master.
Tym looks at his pet and sees the troubled look on his muzzle. It breaks his heart to see such an expression on a creature of such extraordinary beauty. The canine had been grateful to find another master so quickly after the passing of his former owner, and had showed it at every opportunity.
The jackorn realizes that for the past month he has done little more than take care of the hybrid and keep him company, but a seed has been growing in him over time. He knew what it was inside himself, and just recently he had recognized it in his pet as well. There was lust, and it scared him, but as time passed he grew more convinced that love was growing underneath that lust. He can't bear to deny himself anymore, knowing that once he has taken this step there will be no withdrawing it.
"Alright then," he says. The coyolf turns at the seemingly random words, and receives a kiss on the snout. Tym doesn't let it linger, but instead licks over his chin, pecks his lips, and back up to the tip of his muzzle. A cascade of emotions, unsaid declarations of love and wanton lust, and the stress of the past few weeks flow out of him like the spring thaw and he slides onto the floor where his pet sits, startled.
The coyolf leans back, unbelieving what's happening. Tym pushes onto him, forcing the white canine to lie on the floor. He breathes shallowly in rising anxiety, but does not turn away when the long, slender muzzle meets his own in a deep, passionate kiss. The pet loosens his mouth and lets his master's tongue inside, roaming, feeling inside of him, touching where nothing has ever touched but his own tongue.
The two lay on the floor, master on top, holding his pet close, pressing his naked hips into those of the coyolf, spurring new feelings inside both furs. The coyolf breathes through his nose, feeling his owner sigh into his lungs as his arms run up and down his furry back and along the plush carpet underneath them both. The coyolf's arms remain on the floor, their owner still too surprised to react in any way.
Finally Tym pulls back to see the result of an act not befitting a male of his stature, yet unavoidable after all this time. His pet looks past him to the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, blissed out and blown away, and Tym pats him on the top of his furry head, between his ears.
"Good boy." Those words! It has been so long since the coyolf has heard those two words spoken by anyone! They pierce his soul, opening up memories, both painful and joyous, of his past owner and the special love they had shared for so many years...how well he had been treated for his submissiveness, and feeling that his place in life had been fulfilled. Those two words, spoken by this beautiful male on top of him, the ultimate admission of love and domination...
"Master..." the pet closes his eyes and buries his muzzle in Tym's neck, drinking deeply of the musky scent and triphammering heartbeat, strong and steady.
The jackorn bends, smiling, into his pet's neck, licking the fur into neat little furrows of the same direction. More memories flood the white canine's mind with the warm, wet touch on his exposed neck, resting in his master's embrace as he has his way. Each pink nipple, ringed with short white fuzz, falls victim to the intense and meticulous lips and teeth. They harden instantly as they are licked, sucked gently, tickled, teased.
A breath of ragged air is let go, smoothly and heavily from the coyolf's mouth; the familiar tightness of arousal sparks in his loins, and he feels inhibition slipping away as if taken by alcohol. He knows there is flesh between them, knows there is no way of stopping his body.
Smiling at his loyal pet's reaction, Tym backs off and pulls away a bit. His smile turns to a mischievous smirk and all of a sudden his paws are scritching the coyolf's chest, down over his sides, into his armpits, flying over the fur. His pet wriggles and squirms underneath him, trying futilely to writhe out of the stronger canine's grip on his body. Claws roughly comb down to the skin. Tym snorts and growls with the exertion, caught in the moment.
The coyolf drums his footpaws and curls his toes, trying his hardest not to laugh out loud. When the torture finally stops, he comes to rest facing up, panting heavily and grinning serenely at his master. His mismatched eyes lock with the jackorn's piercing pale gaze, their muzzles only inches apart. Again there is a kiss, but only with lips touching lips this time, and nothing deeper.
"Don't want to spoil you," Tym manages in a husky voice, more so than he would have wanted heard. A thought comes to him, its suddenness and importance moving him to sit up jerkily. His pet looks on, concerned.
"I haven't given you a name yet." The jackorn says it matter-of-factly. Reason escapes him how he could have neglected this most basic of things. And yet his pet never brought the subject up. Either it must not be important to him, or he has been afraid of speaking out of turn. But for the last month? If that is so, then that noble coyolf has loyalty and obedience the likes of which is immeasurable. "Why didn't you remind me? I feel absolutely terrible. I'm a cad."
The pet immediately comforts his owner. "Master, no...I was waiting for you to name me, but I also didn't want to pressure you; I knew you had a schedule to keep and I didn't want you concerning yourself with such a low priority as myself."
Tym wants to hug and strike his pet at the same time. Never has he seen such a show of selflessness. It is truly becoming of a pet and he now realizes just how valuable a friendship such as theirs can be.
"Well..." the jackorn idly scritches the coyolf's white belly, which seems to incandesce under even the dim light. It's so simple when it comes to him. He looks down at the canine and smiles. "Why don't I call you Whyte! It's easy, it's self-explanatory, it's..."
"Me," the coyolf replies.
"What?"
"It's me. I am white; therefore I am Whyte." He realizes how profoundly silly this must sound as soon as it is out of his muzzle, and he can't suppress a giggle. He looks more sensual than ever in that moment. Whyte realizes this and its implications and he bites his lower lip, showing just his fangs in a goofy smile, fighting back the urge to scream from loving his owner so much, eyes shimmering on the verge of tears. The sudden rush of emotion scares him deeply.
Tym wavers on the brink of breakdown. "I do love you, my dear pet." He pulls the shivering coyolf into a hug, wrapping his arms around the fragile body, nuzzling his neck. Looking beyond Whyte into the twilight of the room, he whispers into the long, beautiful black-tipped ear: "Now, hold still boy..."
The pet can't move, can't open his eyes; there are too many emotions, too many feelings flooding his senses all at once. The face of Tym melts into that of his former master, and back again. He shuts his eyes from the world, and can't think...
Breath falls on the canine's lips, then contact; deftly the muzzle above him moves from neck to chest, to navel along his treasure trail of pubic fur. Whyte shudders violently as Tym pulls downward, and tries to keep his legs from kicking out. The most sensitive part of him is brushed, exposed. He stiffens in body and member, moaning inwardly to mask a growl of lust.
Down to the tip of the black canine cock, grinning, Tym sniffs at the head. Male musk, the scent of precum and the essence of the being next to him...his mind races at the primal recognition of it. He thinks, This is my mate. He is mine, and I am his. He feels himself swelling as well, feels the gently pressure as his sheath retreats before his own flesh.
He places a fleeting kiss on the coyolf's member, but the intoxicating aroma drives him to taste his pet. A soft, rough tongue is drawn over the ebony surface, up and down, underneath and above, and soon the entire member is engulfed in warmth and saliva, a familiar yet new sensation rising through his belly. Whyte keeps his eyes closed, spreading his legs wider, now willing to do anything to make his master happy, glad for all the sudden attention.
Tym snuffles under his pet's balls, eliciting a surprised yelp from the tortured canine. With a deep, uneven breath, he speaks his question, hoping against hope: "I think I'm ready to try, boy. You ready?"
The coyolf stops thinking. His chest rises and falls with his panting, his pulse strong and pounding at his temples. He flushes all over; did his master just ask for his approval? He looks at Tym, then consciously averts his eyes, but ends up staring anyway, dazed and nervous and very happy indeed. He needs to say nothing to indicate his assent.
The two furs gain the bed, startled by the seemingly loud rustling of satin sheets. The jackorn strides to the wall and flicks a switch. Darkness covers the room; the only light comes from the streetlamps through the driving drizzle outside. It patters against the glass, seeming to have increased in volume with the darkness.
Whyte quickly turns over onto all fours, lifting his tail over his back and presenting himself to his master, eager to please and be pleased. He has waited so long for this consecration, wanting no more than to see the act to completion, to finally be a part of his master. His paws shake on the bed in front of him in pure expectation. He remembers a day not two weeks ago, during his walk, how Tym had playfully pushed him into a mud puddle...and later on, how he found out it was purposeful, just so the jackorn could get the chance to stroke his sheathed member under the pretense of a thorough bath scrubbing. That day seems so distant, so innocent, and he wonders just how they came to be. His growing arousal distracts him.
Finally, Tym can see his pet as he is supposed to be: submissive and wanton, acting out of necessity and love. He snuffles under the coyolf's tail, reeling at the much more intense scent and slowly getting used to this new part of his pet. Slowly, tentatively, his thin tongue exits his muzzle, hesitates...and gives the pink tailhole a flick with it.
"Mmmmpf..." Whyte moans into his crossed arms, breathing hotly into the bed. His tailhole flexes involuntarily from the contact, the sensitive flesh having not been touched in such a way for too long. The white tail rises more, exposing the canine as much as possible in front of his master, a signal of his acceptance.
Tym pulls back a bit, giving the hindquarters an appreciative pat. He tries to maintain an air of domination, of dignity: "Truth be told, boy...I could get used to this." And he dives back in, licking quicker and deeper and longer. The pucker is spread wider and warmed over, clenching and wanting more of the skilled tongue. Small slurping sounds issue from between Whyte's spread legs. A paw moves from the bed to the jackorn's cock, and he begins to stroke himself off, slowly and deliberately as he inches his tongue inside his pet. It is just like he would kiss anyone he loves, except different in some fundamental way besides the obvious.
Prostrate on the bed, the coyolf obediently waits without doubt, muzzle closed against a deep rumbling from within him. He ruts rudely with the air, against the tongue behind him, mmmming to himself, stretching his lithe form to lift his shaggy head up in a silent panting howl as he gives up more and more of himself to another. A tongue has never touched him so forcefully, so without reservation, he can hardly believe anything could feel so good in places other than his muzzle. The tail remains lifted, and wags back and forth just above his master's head.
Suddenly cold air replaces the warmth, and Tym finishes by licking the cleft between the coyolf's tail and his buttocks. Whyte's legs jerk and collapse.
"Oh, Gods!-" Both furs smile at the discovery of a new sweet spot. Grinning, the jackorn gives one final sucking lick, making a mental note of it.
Tym pushes forward and leans over his pet, making sure to line his bobbing cockhead up to the already well-lubricated hole. He studies Whyte's back, the sinewy lines of lean muscle working just under the fur, waiting, knowing what is to come...now is the time for both of them to cross from being friends to becoming lovers, united in the most literal way...
The head enters the first ring. For a moment, doubts swirl in his mind but he drowns them out with another push into his pet, trying not to think but just to feel and do. More of his length eases in. The jackorn blinks at himself, surprised beyond belief, still pushing with little resistance.
"Unhn, you're...so...-pant-...hot!" He grabs Whyte's tailbase with one paw and pulls it up and back as he keeps pushing.
The coyolf recognizes the pressure in his hind end and eases back onto his master, furthering his entry and enjoying every second...high yips of pain and pleasure seem to come from a mouth other than his own as his tail is pulled on, adding to the feeling of being more a thing than a person, a pet in a pet's place. His head feels as if it weighs a ton as he struggles to lift it, his tongue lolling, his eyes blank and staring unblinkingly ahead into the semi-darkness.
From the sweating and trembling form above him: "Good boy...gooooood boyyyy..." Other words are muttered but are lost to the moment and the night.
Tym stops, his legs threatening to give out as he hangs within the coyolf, realizing he's hilted inside the searing passage. His erection feels about to burst, and through the heat pleasure builds slowly despite the lack of movement. There is no going back, no stopping what is going to inevitably bring him over. He gives a gentle hunch and his knot presses against the tight ring of flesh, bringing another moan from his pet. Pleasure sparks his system and he lets go, withdrawing and plunging his length back in.
The coyolf braces himself, knowing this will be short but intense...with every inward thrust of his master's cock he clamps down hard, adding friction to the already overwhelming sensations.
His mind a blur of nothing but raw and instinctual power now, the act takes over for the
actor. A warmth, comforting and encouraging, surrounds his member which now pistons into his loyal pet, his arms clutching at the heaving ribs as if he were about to fall off the world. There is no point of no return, merely an ever-growing pressure behind his cock as spurts of pre pave the way for him to mark his prize.
Whyte senses the tension and abruptly quickening climax and continues clenching, now matching each thrust with a thrust. Not daring, or even able to talk, he marvels at how fast Tym picked up the pattern and settled in. The knot presses into his hole, stretching it wider and wider each time, closer until it is harder to pull out than to push in...then climax blots out everything.
"I'm...uh..." there is a gruff, guttural noise from the jackorn, his knot finally popping into the coyolf with ease, his eyes bulging at the inexplicable ecstasy from his spurting loins. A low moan begins in the back of his throat and rises until his head lifts to the unseen moon in a mighty howl of domination, which fills the room and dares silence to return. All movement ceases except for Tym's traitorous legs and shot after shot of seed entering his pet.
The coyolf remains silent, marked by his master's declaration, reveling in their combined pleasure, tied with him body and soul as property and, finally, as mate. He is filled with an unearthly heat, and still the cock twitches and pulses within him, more than could ever be achieved with paw alone. Both are beyond rational thought, supported only by pure muscle and will...at last Tym collapses on top of Whyte, still gripping the fluffy tail. He is supported effortlessly and proudly. The pet is happy to have brought so much pleasure to his master.
Remnants of the howl still ring in their ears. His mind slowly waking up, the jackorn manages to speak in a husky, cracked voice: "Did I just...I mean...um..." Tym's eyes open and focus on the straining back of his pet.
"Master, you did," grunts the coyolf under him. There is a dull throb from underneath his tail, and Whyte thinks he can feel every vein in his master's member, and the diminishing flow deep within him. It is the ultimate fullness and closeness, the most complete feeling in his life. He finally knows that he belongs. Furry hips wiggle from side to side, eliciting a shudder from Tym.
"Oooohhh...d-do that again."
Whyte attempts to raise his rump even more, squeezing his master with all the power he can muster from his abused tailhole. His own black cock slaps against his chest in angry determination to find its release, but the coyolf is content to be tied for the moment. A juvenile giggle and triumphant smile cross his muzzle at what he has done.
"Oh, please...don't. Stop, don't...oh, no...more, stop." The jackorn puts his thoughts in order, a feat still nearly impossible. "Please, pet. No more. It...it feels so good..."
The clenching stops, the coyolf obeying dutifully. One leg relaxes and master and pet fall onto their right sides. Smooth satin billows out like scarlet phantoms. The white canid's erection is finally exposed and juts from his groin. Tym grips it with a paw and squeezes lightly, gaining a short gasp and another milking clench.
After a few minutes their heartbeats settle down, and the afterglow draws down to slumber. "We should do that more often," Tym mumbles after a yawn, idly pawing his pet, who murrs into his side. And, more quietly into the black-tipped ear: "Thank you."
Tears sting Whyte's eyes. He thinks of his old master, who would also thank him after making love. It was the only way he knew he was needed and loved, that he made a difference. A couple of sobs rack his frame, but thankfully Tym doesn't notice. He clears his throat and whispers, "I live to please, master. Especially you." He says this last as he tilts his head back to look into those pale eyes. The jackorn licks the tip of his muzzle, and he feels like a cub again. Love warms his soul in that moment.
"Master, I love you." But the words are lost to the night. The form behind him is motionless, his breathing heavy and regulated. An arm is still draped over the side of his chest, rising and falling, every once in a while twitching and skritching the fur underneath the paw.
The pet kisses the first two fingers on his left paw, reaches back and touches his master's muzzle, silently sealing his promise as long as he lives. It is an easy thing to do, now that he has the love of someone again who will take care of him and accept his love and devotion in return.
"Goodnight, my love and my life." Whyte grins, yawns and lets himself fall into a deep sleep as well. Tym's breaths put him under in no time. Soon the two furs slumber, blissfully unaware of the snow falling just outside.
The jackorn shifts closer to his pet, keeping the tie for just a little while longer. Even through the haze of a dream he can feel the coyolf's steady heartbeat through their connected flesh. He hugs the male tight, the corners of his muzzle curling into an unburdened, contented smile.
FIN
9/9-9/24/04