[A Late-Night] The Tiger’s Odd-at-sea [Short]
A Tiger on a bed, A Tiger on a raft, reality has him stuck floating on an ocean.
The Tiger's Odd-at-sea,
A short by BeaverReturn
"Tiger's hate water, everyone knows that *cough*." -BeaverReturn
The salty, moist air tickled his tiger tongue with an unpleasant tease. Its flavour trickled along the pink bit of bumped flesh, tip-toeing tiny fingers of its dry surface as he panted against the heat of the unbearable ocean sun. He closed his eyes, thinking how foolish it was that he would die dehydrated while surrounded by water. His desperation saw an entire puddle around him, and they screamed for him to lap it all up, but his survival instinct told him differently, do not drink ocean water, they said. Like a heavenly choir above, his survival instincts hymned like an assembly of women in white robes who wore plastic bags and coat hangers as makeshift angel wings. "Do not drink the ocean water," they sang to him, "The salt is no good."
"Bah" He disagreeably cried, but he knew they were right. So he rolled from his back onto his side, and let the waves of the ocean drive him: up and down, up and down. Lonely, he was isolated upon an endless green sea, lonely, he rested on raft made of vertical wooden logs, lonely it was like his bed, and lonely he stirred and rolled through the night which seemed to waste away all too suddenly.
In aggravation, the tiger grasped his covers and tossed it off his body. Had he slept for a few seconds, or did he merely just momentarily collapse into his thoughts, this he did not know. What he did know was that the night was hot; it was too hot to sleep. And so he lay on his bed, starring at the ceiling fan as though he was a father starring as his son disapprovingly,
"Do you even work?" He grumbled in a low voice.
The fan responded with a seagull's cry.
A bird in the air! 'What luck!', the tiger thought for he knew it meant there was land nearby. A jolt of energy fought through his body, a creed crossed his wit, he willed himself to resist death for but a moment longer, and life seemingly sprouted out of him suddenly as though he had become an orange carrot with leafy greens shooting out of his top. The leafy greens split in prongs, leafy greens like a display of frozen fireworks, Leafy greens that exploded, as Life exploded, as reality became bright, as he knew that he was saved! He dove to the front of his raft, his bed, and began to throw strong arms into the green sea. With what strength he had he pulled through the water, and the raft began to move but a little bit quicker. Closer he came to the bird and on the horizon a dot grew until he saw an island but so far it was into the distance.
There was a stranger on the island, a silhouette figure. He was waving his hand now. Excited, he realized there was another stranger in his ocean. The ocean pushed up, the boat creaked, and then his bedroom door creaked.
Snapping out of his daze, or waking from his sleep, the tiger reached for his outcast blanket pulling it over his naked body. The light of the hallway and the darkness of the tiger's room casted together an ominous shadow which consumed the figure within his door. But familiarity betrayed the ruse, and the tiger knew immediately recognized the shadow of his flat-mate. But even though he was recognizable in appearance, in his actions he was alien. His attempted stillness became conflicted by a drunken sway. He had intruded into the tiger's room but did not say, "Scared you," or make any proclamation of his drunken prank, but instead he stood in silence, as though waiting for the Tiger to speak.
He was in his boxers, he was in his night time wear, but perhaps in the heat of the night he too could not sleep. But, perhaps also, in the loneliness of the night, he too felt the isolation of any empty bed, the loneliness of an empty raft.
"Bro?" The tiger eventually nervously laughed, "This isn't your room you drunk."
"I..." The jackal took a step, lost his balance, leaned forward, and then fell onto the Tiger's bed. He was still, his head resting at the tiger's feet. Had he fallen asleep? Not yet! He started to crawl up the bed, he started to crawl from his island onto the raft.
The jackal, his fur black like a deathly omen, crawled onto the raft, sloshing in his movement as though he was a creature made of seaweed. He was wet, drenched in ocean. He was matted, exhausted, he was on his little pebble islands and the waves had made a game of him. He had been made like a sweater: his threads coming loose. The tiger pulled the jackal up onto his body where he held him, kept him safe on his raft, he rubbed a paw through his fur, and the jackal began to weep.
"My ex..." He slurred in his speech, "Happened sometime around midnight."
"She came to the same bar as you?" The tiger guessed, his flat-mate, his good friend, drunk on dramatics as much as he was on alcohol.
"Yea, she just reminded me, after I lost her, I lost everything." He pushed his back further unto the tiger's chest, but at the same time the tiger had reached his arms around him, holding him tighter, and it became impossible to tell who fell into whom first. This was not unusual, they were childhood friends, they were like brothers, they were...close.
"Can I sleep here?" The jackal curled his head into the neck of the tiger.
"Sure thing, you had a rough night." The tiger laughed, "But I'm naked under these covers."
"I've seen worse..."he mumbled as the tiger pulled him to his side, re-arranging his drunken friend so they were in a spooning position.
"Think all friends..." The jackal sighed, "Sleep like this?"
"Only the best ones."
They held each other on the raft, and together they floated on the sea. Thoughts of dehydration diminished, dreams of death evaporated, a call for survival resided, the jackal did not bring much onto the raft, but he brought his companionship and when isolated on the ocean, such gifts became worth their weight in gold. If they died a float on this expanding watery abyss, at least they would die together.
A hip grinded against a hip, a tail swished against a pelvis, something became excited, and the tiger became nervous. Was it intentional or had the jackal merely been adjusting himself.
There it was again, a hip against a hip, a tail swished against a pelvis, something was hardening, the tiger was becoming aroused. But was it intentional; was the jackal aware of what he was doing?
A third time, rump against hardened shaft, up and down he pulled, he had felt the tiger's erection for sure against his back. The tiger shifted himself backwards, but then the jackal did the same. The tiger thought quickly, he knew the jackal had felt his erection, and speaking dumbly the tiger spoke quickly,
"I...am a little sensitive. I haven't gotten laid in a while. Heh..." The tiger whispered his breath seemingly all too warm, all too hard against the jackal's neck.
"Please." The jackal, half-asleep or maybe fully drunk, moaned.
The tiger wanted to speak, but what words were there to say? Instead, the paw which he had wrapped around the Jackal in the spooning position started to move itself downwards. Over the waves of the sea, or perhaps over the flow of his abs, his paw seemed to glide. A sailing yacht, or perhaps a submarine, his hand started to sink under the jackal's underwear, until he was deep into depths unexplored....
...A thousand leagues under the fucking sea.
The bed became heated, the tiger was shaking, he felt excited, but yet a choir of garbage-wearing angels told him of his sins. He played with the hardening member in his paw, massaging it in exploration as it grew only more solid from its touch. Orange against black, the ocean waves pushed the bed up and down as shining silver fish swam submerged beneath them. The sun slinging slight shots that reflected off their scales like stars becoming free from a solitude lifted during the coming shade of a falling dusk. The jackal's moans melted the air into a loose butter, the larger tiger was arranged to be on top, and yet he was the one who felt like he was submitting.
A slick print of pre pasted itself on the tiger's paws as he came to feel the peak of the jackal's prick. He made his paw wet within the access discharge and then descended his grip slowly, spreading the spurt liquid down the shaft: transference from furry paws onto an elongated red shaft, impromptu lubrication. His paw rose again, descended again, and then in fast paced rhythm he was beating his friend off.
The ocean pulled his bed in so many directions, side to side, up and down, in and out, tight and loose: the tiger's paw propelled itself. The jackal's moans was heavy, his body had caved in deep into the tiger's. They became like two crescent moons pasted against each other, they became like children of the moon, they became lunatics possessed by the clear night. When the jackal shifted back, he pushed feline cock against the behind of his boxers. Like a reverse tenting, the tip of the fully hardened tiger head hungered to break past the fabric barrier. Like a duelist's spear it begged to penetrate into its opponent.
The tiger let go of the Jackal's arousal and rolled his body over, and as though he was indicating a primal regression, a sudden predatory lust had overcame him. His erect penis spoke the only truth, and its truth only had one demand. The tiger on top, the jackal beneath him, jacked muscles pulled the smaller jackal into his presence. His boxers, an annoyance at this point, was quickly thrown away. The jackal exposed, anus bare, table-top moisturizer was all he had before he pushed his hips into the jackal, his anus expanded and then he felt the feral presence of the tiger intrude him.
"F-f-fuck" The jackal winced. His virgin tail hole had become awakened.
Ocean water! Liquid fingers made of ocean water flooded the raft. They grasped the side of the bed and began to pull it down. The tiger did not care, his mouth was full of neck fur, hips gyrating in and out, pace increasing, as he rolled his thrusts against the bare opening of the jackal. His muscles were tight, he strained as he humped, and even though there was more and more water on his raft, he cared not for how he rocked the boat, he only wished to dive deeper into his friend's depths.
Aggressive paws pushed down on the jackal's shoulders, the surrealistic notion of his friendship turned fuckship unimposing, as he gave himself harder and faster into the raised rump of the jackal. He was growling, his feline teeth sharp and glaring in the dark night. Growls became met by the jackal's extended loud moans. His sounds of orgiastic pleasure so dense that it as thought the tiger could taste it in the air.
Cold ocean water flooded over the surface of the raft, the bed became wetter, the tiger had dug his claws into the jackal, and flesh underneath fur had started to become scratched. And yet the pleasure of the pain was intoxicating for the jackal. His brute of a friend was sexually vicious, his ravage pumping beyond the gentle capacity of any women he had ever been before. He enjoyed being put in his place, he thought perhaps it might be a bit too masochistic, but what did that matter? This is what he wanted.
There was a pulsating of cock and suddenly the tiger's orgasm was released within the Jackal. It shot like a pirate's canon, it pushed like a tsunami wave, it came down like a torrential downpour where each drop of tropical rain became like an acid that burned its mark into his flesh. The jackal had became branded by seed, masochistic in submission, broken into, fucked heavily, a cream filled hole. The tiger was pent-up, he spurted hard, and the jackal took all he could. Then feline fell onto canine, the raft become waterlogged, and the ocean waves swallowed the couple whole.
They were underwater now, but they did not drown. They had forgotten they had gills, and as the tiger ran his tongue over the mess he had made, he found that salt-water was not as poison as he thought.
That night, there was no consequence; they were too tired to think smartly about what they had done. Instead, the moisture of their sweet sex had cooled them down, the night lost its heat, and they fell asleep holding each other in the tiger's bed.
I wrote this actually last night for a number of reasons. One, I was working a REALLY rigorous schedule for Montreal's annual celebration of phallic-displacement in form of borderline homoeroticism, or Gran Prix, which I believe is the Race-Car enthusiasts equivalent to "comparing sizes" in a high-school shower room, and I just needed to unload. Two, after living in a real-life adaptation of Top-Gun for a weekend, I found a need to immediately vomit the heterosville corruptions from within myself. And Three, I had not written something for the furry community for quite some time and hankered to write something smutty.
In the absence of my submissions, I've been focusing my writing elsewhere. I've been writing NUMEROUS short stories but none of them are particularly furry (try more sci-fi and horror...you know more serious, accessible stuff...), and the only furry story I have been working on so far is a longer piece, a fantasy story about a band of "queer" knights. It's been on hold because of my work schedule and because Game of Thrones Season 2 has ended and it was like a major inspiration to write a lot of it.
Explaining some the absurdity of this piece without ruining the fun of it, I'll explain some of my thoughts I had while writing this. The more I played this dreamscape of an endless ocean the more I found myself thinking back to a dance video I had once seen called La La La Human Sex, (Seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajpBI-GQlZ8), particularly the use of water, and the idea of what I think represents a kind of fluidity (gender fluidity) but also sexuality (an orgasm). Had I more energy, more inspiration, and the will to write a longer piece, I think I would have played with this idea more in the story instead of Tiger doms Jackal, but again it's a short smut piece that I wrote in a night, obviously it's an experiment, and if anything is just a meditation on the beginning of fluidic sexuality and fluid sex. The ocean then, as the counter-balance to the "real-world," is a symbol (for me), of uncertainty. I wanted not just ocean versus bedroom, but also propositions of surface and underwater worlds.
Also, I had this constant image in my head, which comes from Rosemary's baby (1968, Polanski) during the "impregnation scene," of a bed floating on ocean waves. I think it's probably one of my favourite dream sequences in film (outside of anything by Felini and Last Year at Marienbad (1961, Resnais)...) and the surreal image of that bed floating on an ocean really obviously had its impact in this piece.
I tried to play with space once again.... Uncertainty with ambiguity, but not with total inaccessibility.
Finally, I don't like how ultimately I sacrificed character development for something much more generically built. True, using the best-friends hidden love trope is good because of the assumptions I think the reader can make through generic understanding, and true this helped me keep it short, but it bogged down the story in the end. This piece definitely could have been longer, but for now it's an experiment, I had fun with it, and take it or leave it, I'd love to hear your comments, see your ratings, get your watches, or favourites.
Just remember, I wrote this in a night.
-BeaverReturn