Winner Takes All
#1 of A.M.
You got the damn thing recording yet? Alright, give me a second. Hand me some water and I'll start.
Damnit, late again. I dive onto the couch a full second behind the lovely raccoonette whose apartment I've been shacked up in since last year, still slower on the draw after all this time together. Whoever gets there first gets control for the hour, and I've gotten the remote a full three times since I moved in, mainly because she always arranges it so she sits closer to the couch than I do. The familiar groan of defeat is given and I reluctantly sit up from where I landed, rolling off her ankles to let her dig herself out of the crevice between seat cushion and armrest. "Damn you, Alyssa!" I concede defeat with a last reluctant sniff, then pry the remote from under my rump and hand it to her with a submissively bowed head.
Dictating this thing is a bitch and a half, so I'll skip all the exposition. Not too important for the topic at hand. Basically, we're both in this apartment with nobody else around and the sexual tension broke five months ago, right? I don't think you'll care too much about the color of the wallpaper or the prints hanging on the walls...but 'cause I'm such a nice guy, I'll throw you a few bones about what we were wearing. Alright, back on track now.
Life in our love nest had grown stale, with the money from our investments pouring in hand-over-fist without us having to leave the condo, and we'd finally gotten sick of it and hit the clubs. We raccoons get cabin fever in a hurry. Always separate, not even sitting next to each other at the bar, cringing at every check of IDs- we're both legal, we have other reasons to fear these officials- and never, ever touching each other. Eyes fixed on scanning every attractive specimen of the appropriate sex, and believe me, there were hundreds. We must've hit every club in a four-block radius, wandering from dance floor to dance cage, posting lookouts in the bathroom stalls, and intentionally denying everyone coming on to us: result, we have hours of pent-up sexual tension by the time we finally get home, where we have hot urgent sex until we break the bed. I'll tell you that story another time, but right now we're focusing on the day after, just a few minutes after dinner.
I'm dressed impeccably for the occasion, of course. Extra large boxers- I'm more of a pony than horse, but I like the bagginess- in a tasteful Petronas Towers motif, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt in bright laser blue to show off my cute pudge, and nothing more. The apartment's cold enough to make socks a good idea, but I'd rather suffer than wear those foot-gloves. The beautiful femcoon next to me, meanwhile, is in love with the old idea of scent-transfer. She tries to make me wear her clothes as often as possible, and vice versa, so our scents rub off on each other through clothing as well as hot vigorous sex; corny, I know, but it actually does feel nice to put on my clothes in the morning and smell her so close. Right now she's trying to let her aroma soak into another shirt like mine, unbuttoned to expose the skimpy grey bra that cushions her breasts, a C-cup I think is the foreign measurement. Very good pillows. Panties would be a bit too revealing even in this setting, but she's wearing an old pair of denim boxers with nothing underneath, bare paws resting on the couch as she tucks knees up to her chin, grinning back at me. Because as I was saying earlier, she's just beaten me again.
"Come on, Max, you know what this means..." And I know it alright, ever since we made that change of the couch-racing rules last week. It didn't surprise me to see what she chose as her additional prize. I lift my hands up a little until she finishes turning around, limbering up my fingers to prep for what's coming up. Nobody's got fingers nimbler or more sensitive than a coon's. She turns and flops against the armrest, looking between her breasts at me with a grin, hands folded under her head. And most importantly, her legs stretch out enough to plant her paws in my lap, ever so lightly nudging my cock. She does that on purpose, damnit.
"You do that on purpose, damnit." A deal's a deal, and that lovely coon just keeps grinning as I submit to her will and lift one of her feet, thumbs firmly pressing into the cool pads that adorn the bottom. They warm up in no time, but I keep working, rolling a fist along the bottom of her sole to squeeze out the tension still lurking in those aching muscles. I don't let on that I'm looking, but I can see her pink tongue lolling out of her muzzle as I gently pinch the smooth pad of her heel. She scratches her fluffy stomach as I work, and I know what's next, so I go ahead in the daily routine to what she loves best. Each of her adorable little paws gets a hand wrapped around it, my palm fitting snugly into her arch, and I rub back and forth until those tootsies are toasty warm. That gets a soft chirring out of her, along with what I've been waiting for all this time: the hand resting on her stomach slides up, teasing me with how slow it travels, and she hooks her fingers under one cup of her bra. I can't help shivering a little, but I know she won't slide that fabric up until I move on to stage two.
I give her feet a final rub and let them go for a second, just holding them up while I marvel at how she looks. She's beautiful. The delicate wrinkles in her sole, perfectly trimmed toeclaws in soft pink, held right out for me to stare at. She has to wait a few seconds while I look back and forth between her adorable feet, the soft tan fur I can just barely see where the boxers give me a peek down her leg, and prettiest of all, her face. The only time I don't laugh at sentimental romance-novel schlock is when I look at those soft wet eyes, summer-sky blue, with a chocolate-brown lock of headfur always dangling over the right...I'm sorry, I got carried away for a second. It's enough to say she's the most beautiful girl God put on this earth.
All romance aside, she needs a little action, and I'm happy to provide. I lightly pinch her first toe between two fingers, wiggling it back and forth, then repeat the treatment for each of those lovely digits, flexing it through to ease out the muscles, then gently popping it, each pop accompanied by a satisfied grunt. Every time I look up at her she's giving me a gentle teasing smile, wordlessly telling me to do better. Once her toes are worked over, I lower my head and nuzzle firmly against the curved underside of each foot, warming it up with my breath while I peer at her between her toes, waiting for her to fulfill her half of the bargain. And like the sun rising, I watch her slowly pull her bra to the side, and the heart-stopping curve of her coffee-colored breast and the firm peak of its light nipple is Heaven unveiled.
She's so beautiful. I kiss her arch, her sole, lips pressing against the firm bottom of her foot. All the while I watch her through her toes, watch as she thoughtfully studies her exposed breast and ruffles the fur on it with her breath. She's an expert at this, and I can feel myself getting hard enough to tent my boxers. She knows it too, I can tell from the way she smiles. And she lets one foot fall to the sofa cushions, her toes just barely touching my erection, and it's like an electric shock. My boxers get a damp spot. I can't stop myself, I hold her other foot to my muzzle, breathing in her beautiful scent of clean fur and fresh clothes. Then I give it a soft lick. I can see her hand settle on her breast, and I can't help whimpering as I draw my tongue to give her foot another lick. First the arch, kissing between each lick, then my tongue washes over her heel and the pads just behind her toes, warm and smooth. My eyes are fixed on the way she starts rubbing herself, gently cupping her breast in her hand and massaging it.
I give her a long, slow slurp from heel to toes, smiling at her, then lavish attention on her toes with a few quick, soft licks. Every few seconds I dip my tongue in the soft skin between them, washing it clean. She brushes her fingers over her breast, circling in, getting close to the nipple. Meanwhile her foot presses down, inching forward until it's pressing my cock against my stomach, the pink head of it just poking out past the waistband of my boxers, trapping it between my soft belly and the firm pressure of her warm sole. She knows me too well. With that kind of attention I have to skip right to the finale, scooping her toes into my mouth and pursing my lips around them, suckling on them with long, slow tongue strokes that just about lap the pink off her dainty little claws. I want to close my eyes and give in to the pleasure of it, but I can see her slowly reach up, fingers trailing over her breast, and stroke at her nipple. On cue her foot starts rolling forward and back, kneading against my cock, teasing and teasing until I start to shake, fervently massaging as much of her foot as I can't fit into my mouth to suckle and lap at...
And we haven't even turned on the television yet. Christ, I love my life.
You can put in a fresh tape, I'll grab some coffee and be back in ten.