FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Author's Note: the following story is a work of furry fiction. Being such a deviant piece of literature, it may contain (May? It's chock-full!) depictions of sexual situations between characters of the same sex, sometimes dressed as the opposite sex, and just sex in general. Also, you may read about overly-masculine fathers, first times, angry telephone calls and hitting on your mark's dad. Other than that, it's perfectly safe! No, really...if you don't like the content, don't unwrap the cellophane. In any case, read and enjoy.

FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]

You Can't Teach a Gay Dog... ©MMVI-MMVII Whyte Yoté

"Trey, stay in your fuckin' room and don't come downstairs! I won't warn you again!"

Verne Kinkaid rarely used vulgar language in front of his son. It felt odd coming out of his muzzle, even when getting the point across that he was furious about something, but dammit, if saving his son's masculinity wasn't important, he'd like to know what was. The coyote stormed down the stairs to the kitchen, reaching for the cordless phone and almost knocking the car-key caddy right off its nails.

"Dad, what are you doing?!?" the seventeen-year-old wailed from behind his closed door.

"Don't you dare move! You don't want me in there right now." That was true; Verne didn't trust himself to act rationally given the circumstances.

If he knew what was good for him, the boy would stay put until Dad took care of business. The boy wasn't going to do it himself, judging by the gigabytes of evidence to which Verne had just subjected himself after confiscating Trey's laptop. Still, just below the seething anger was a deep prick of fear in his gut, warning of what could happen should word get out. Trey's reputation would be gone in an instant...off the football team and into the school play...he'd have to transfer to a public high school, for God's sake...

And Verne himself? His efficacy as a single father would come under fire, and from there the rumors would surface. What was he teaching Trey? What had he failed to do? Was he molesting the boy? The coyote shuddered hard at that last thought, remembering a few years back when the Scoutmaster of Trey's Boy Scout troop (Trey had gained Eagle and left beforehand; again, thank God) had gone to jail for possessing kiddie porn on his business computer. No abused kids, but just how far from it did you have to go? Verne shuddered again, trying to steady his fingers as he dialed 4-1-1.

"Come on, you shit," he mumbled into the receiver as he paced the short distance between the gas range and the living room and back again. His tail jerked around behind him, its bristled bulk throwing him off balance. A faint layer of impromptu sweat prickled his forehead; he scratched at it with a claw he didn't know he'd extended.

"Dad, I need to talk to you!" came a fainter, more pleading voice from Trey. It was disgusting; now that Verne knew what had been going on behind his back, everything his son did seemed sissyish.

"There is nothing to talk about," the coyote bellowed, covering the phone. "I'm through discussing the issue. I wash my paws." This was the phrase that signaled to Trey there was nothing he could do to alter his father's decision; years of various punishments for various disobediences had cemented it as the end of all negotiations. And Verne Kinkaid would not negotiate this.

"Aaauughh!" came the distraught howl from upstairs. It pained Verne to hear that sound; it meant his son had actually done a good job of convincing himself that he wasn't interested in girls.

"Not interested...Jesus Christ."

The phone crackled. "Thank you for calling 4-1-1 connect, may I have your city and state, please?" a very polite young woman on the other end of the line asked.

Verne put on his gentleman's voice. "Uh-mm, yes, ma'am." He gave his city and state.

"For what listing?"

"Oh, um..." Who, exactly, was he planning to call, anyway? During his rant down the stairs from Trey's room he'd almost forgotten the purpose of the phone call, only that he was going to make one. "Oh, shoot, ma'am, I'm sorry. Oh! Escort services, please." His face flushed after he blurted that out, realizing it must have sounded like something he did every day and twice on Sundays, and he'd foolishly misplaced his phone book. "Not for me."

"Of course, sir, one moment..." the voice hummed as if the coyote were searching for a hardware store. Being a connecting operator, Verne supposed she got many more dubious requests.

All sound from upstairs had ceased. Trey couldn't climb out his window, and both exits to outside were downstairs, so either the boy was sobbing or just doing as he was told. Verne hoped he wasn't sobbing. That mental picture became tainted too.

Click. "Okay, sir, I have multiple listings. Do you have a preference?"

"No, whatever's closest," ignoring the implications of that statement as well.

"Thank you." The girl sounded just as cheery as ever, and Verne wondered if she would joke about it with her friends on her smoke break. Small beans, forgotten as soon as she got home for sure.

"Thank you," a much more robotic voice took over. "We are connecting you to area code 992-269-4759, free of charge. Please hold." Verne complied, mainly because he didn't have a choice. His toeclaws tapped the linoleum with nervous frustration. He looked at his watch, the seconds seeming to pass like hours, telling himself he was only thinking that because he was furious and concerned for his son's health, had second thoughts of his methods to deal with the problem, and--

"Good evening, this is Papillon, Darla speaking. What's your pleasure, hon?" Verne thought this female voice was even more grating than the Operator-bot. It was purposefully sultry, smooth and selling, and it made the coyote's heart race because he knew what he was about to do.

"Well, ma'am," clearing his throat, "I have a situation at home, here, it's a bit of an emergency, um...it's about my son."

Darla picked up right away on that, but she was a little off base. "Birthday party? Bachelor party? Let me guess, the O Palace is all full up, right? We can help out. Now, just for my edification, Mister..."

"Uh, Kinkaid, Verne Kinkaid."

"Okay, Verne, was this your idea, or did one of your friends talk you into this?" Verne saw no reason why this woman, this...lady of the night...would want to probe so deeply into why he wanted a, um, a friend for his son. A little petulance wouldn't hurt.

"Not that it matters, but it was my idea. Ma'am, is this going into some database or something, because my number is unlisted and I'd prefer not to..."

"Vernie, Vernie," Darla soothed into his ear, "I'm just trying to pair your little guy up with a compatible lady-type friend, okay? So if you want to get down to business, we can do business. That sound fair?"

Verne's body relaxed, no, it slumped, from the relief of hearing that. "Of course, I'd like that. I need to take care of this as soon as possible. It's kind of an emergency."

"So you said," in a more relaxed, casual tone for a change. They were finally making some progress. Still no sound from Trey...maybe he was asleep. Well, he was in for a pleasant awakening. And if he wasn't pleased, then...Verne would deal with that later. "Your son eighteen or older?"

Shit. Oh hell, it's not like one friggin' year made a difference as long as Darla got her money. Besides, would the callgirl, or whatever you called her, really card his son? He looked eighteen. "Yes ma'am."

"Species?"

"Coyote."

"Any preference as to the species of his companion?"

Verne wasn't used to thinking on his feet; he was an analyst, for God's sake, he was used to poring over data for hours at a time at his own pace. This was akin to torture. "Not really, um...someone he can dominate." Ugh, it really did sound like he called this place all the time.

"So he's a top, then?"

"Of course! Why would you assume my son is submissive?" He was trying to teach Trey masculinity. Albeit not through the most traditional means, but still.

"It's just on the compatibility sheet, Verne. Don't have a stroke." Verne was close enough already. "Any particular outfit you'd like her to be wearing?"

"Girlish clothes, I don't care." This was getting absurd. What happened to the good old days, back in the Seventies, when you could just drive around town until you found a pretty enough girl, take her home and, for a decent fee, get your end wet as many times as you could afford? Probably the Internet's fault; everything was the Internet's fault nowadays. "Just get her over here as fast as you can."

Minute clicking on the other end; Darla had some intricate computer system for a simple hookup. A pause, then, "Alright, Mr. Impatient Coyote Man, you're information is entered in our system. I just need a credit card." Verne gave her his information. "The going rate is one hundred an hour." So much for the decent fee idea. Thank God he made a decent amount of money to make up for it. It was worth it, to save his son, and he would be seeing a business friend in a few days to go over a new investment opportunity. Maybe services such as these were tax-deductible.

"Give her twenty minutes and she's all yours. Entertain yourself, entertain your son, just have fun and don't do anything that'll get you arrested. I'm sure Tracy will do a very good job."

"She'd better, for a Benjamin an hour," mumbled the coyote, thankful Darla couldn't hear it.

"Have a pleasant evening, Verne. Say hi to the boy for me."

"Uh, thank you," the coyote said curtly, his tongue impossibly thick, and hung up the phone before Darla could continue her morbid chitchat. "Oh Lord, this is insane. Why did Trey have to go and do this?" The answer to that didn't matter now; hopefully, by the end of the evening everything would be fixed and his son would be a man. Maybe not the most romantic deflowering in the world, but Verne's father had done the same thing. And Verne had turned out okay, right?

Of course.

* * *

"Fucking bitch," the Rottweiler muttered at the ruined lipstick on the vanity in front of him. "I'll kill her, I swear I'll kill her." Estelle had swiped his Hot To Trot while he was off on a gig earlier and slathered its entire contents over his fat pony lips. Twenty dollars a tube, down the drain. Fortunately, Tracy had planned a stop by Saks tomorrow morning after he got off shift to browse the new lines. This week had been busy anyway, and he could afford to spring for it. His lips needed something. Just because Estelle had a foot-long cock did not give him the run of the makeup drawers.

Still, he wanted to teach the bitch a lesson about not to mess around in his makeup case, and right after he reported Estelle to Darla he would ask her to change the locks (or, in his case, actually give him a lockable door) to keep nosy muzzles out. Chalk up yet another reason to go over to the O Palace. They seemed to do great business on any given day.

Tracy pushed away from his desk, a cluttered mess of blushes, lipstick and lingerie, trotted down the hallway, perfectly aware of his current state of deshabille, and knocked rather rudely on Darla's door. After looking through the slit of glass that served as a window and seeing his boss shoo him away with the paw that wasn't holding the phone to her ear, the Rottweiler pushed his luck and let himself in, crossing his legs in a pout on a chair in the corner. He watched her speak, hoping to unnerve her at least a little bit. If she knew how pissed he was, maybe this time she would do something about it that would stick.

Darla didn't seem to horribly concerned, though; she had seen this side of Tracy before and would undoubtedly see it again. And, of course, she just went on about her business, asking all the proper questions to the john on the other end of the line so she could match him up with one of the girls, so to speak.

"Okay, Verne, was this your idea, or did one of your friends talk you into this?" Darla said. Jesus, did she have to sound like she was fucking interrogating her clients? Obviously the guy hadn't been taken in by the sultry little introduction with which she insisted on starting every call. Finally, she met Tracy's eyes and acknowledged him with a raised eyebrow: What do you want? The Rottie just rolled his own eyes and picked up a well-worn copy of Vogue, flipping through it without really looking at anything. It was all too expensive for him anyway.

"Species?" Darla continued, unaffected by her employee's conspicuous loitering. Nude loitering, at that. "Any preference as to the species of his companion?" She nodded, a lock of bleached hair falling over her forehead, where she brushed it off.

Tracy wasn't an impatient person. Contrary to his species, he was, well, everything a Rottweiler wasn't supposed to be. Effeminate, gentle, high-voiced, blue-eyed and very slight of frame. No wonder he was a flaming queer. No wonder he passed for a girl, and no wonder that's what most of his clients preferred. Rottweiler in a dress, in a schoolgirl's uniform, whatever got their collective rocks off. He was good at what he did, and he was proud of it. Tonight had been slowish so far, only four clients in six hours, but it was a Tuesday. Still, he wanted to grab Darla for a chitchat before he went home. He raised his head when he heard snapping fingers. It sounded like someone wanted his attention.

"Give her twenty minutes and she's all yours. Entertain yourself, entertain your son, just have fun and don't do anything that'll get you arrested. I'm sure Tracy will do a very good job." What the fuck? Oh, no, she just didn't...

"Darla, no." Tracy stood, sheath waggling freely, "you can't give me another job this late in my shift. I've got--"

"Say hi to the boy for me," said Darla, and hung up the phone. "You keep quiet, hun, until I finish." She typed a few last things into her computer, saved the document and set it to printing. She didn't look pissed off at Tracy, just professional. That was one good thing about her; she never actually got angry at people as much as she took care of situations before they got out of hand. "Now what were you going on about before I just got you another commission, hm?"

Tracy tried to stay frustrated as he approached Darla's desk, but the sway in his hips belied his downturned muzzle. A job was a job, and while he didn't relish the thought of being shorted on sleep, the sound of hundred-dollar bills was loud and tempting in his head. Even on a slow night he made a good living. Not having anybody to come home to helped as well. He made a crappy boyfriend, and bachelorhood suited his profession.

"First of all," the Rottie fake-pouted, "I was going to tell you I didn't want another job tonight, but a shit lot of good that would do now that you've committed me. Why do you do that?"

"You work for me, remember?"

"Fine." No argument there. "Okay, fine, I'll do it. Not because I have to, but because I want to. And I'm still horny from earlier. Damn bastard got off on orgasm denial; I hate those!"

Darla had her chin on her paw. Tracy knew she was just riding out the bulk of his bitching, like always, but he still never changed the way he went about solving problems. They had a "thing" together; it's how they accomplished anything together.

"Plus," the Rottie brought the whine in his voice down a few notches, "Estelle got into my stuff again and ruined a very impressive shade of lipstick that happens to bring out my cock very well, and now I have to spend a small fortune to replace it."

"Sorry about that. I'll have locks put on your door tomorrow."

"You...okay. Um, thank you." Tracy's ears made their way forward again, and he even felt his stubby tail start to wag. That hadn't gone quite as he expected it would, but he'd gotten the result he wanted. Now, going out on one last job didn't seem like such a hurdle anymore.

Darla smiled. "See what happens when you work together? You think I didn't care about your stuff being used? That stuff keeps you all pretty and prissy; we wouldn't want you going all butch on your johns, would we?" She tapped a pencil on the desk.

"Nope." Tracy hopped up, resting on his right hip, and twisted to see Darla's screen. Instead, she took the printed page from the printer and handed it to the Rottweiler, tweaking his nipple as she took her paw away. He squeaked in protest. "So, what and who am I doing next?" Darla read off as Tracy looked over the paper, which doubled as an invoice.

"Well, it's kinda weird, honey. You got a guy calls in because his son's having some kind of problem, and wants a girly-girl to fix him up. Not a birthday party, or a bachelor party no nothin' like that. Sounds like he's trying to teach his kid the birds and the bees, but he's all tough and shit and can't do it himself. But he said he wanted a bottom, a subby bottom, all decked out like a girl."

"He didn't care about a species at all?"

"Nope, but I figured since we were dealing with a coyote I would just pair up a dog with a dog."

Tracy scowled. "I am not a dog. I am a purebred, AKC-registered Rottweiler with papers to back it up. I just got kicked out 'cuz I'm a fag. But I'm a great fag."

"That you are, and that's precisely why I picked you for this job. If anyone can act like a girl, it's you."

"Thank you." Tracy tried to sound as much like a princess as he could muster. Only the tiara in his dressing room would make it more fitting. "Coyote, huh? And barely eighteen...I do so love teaching the boys about the joys of sex. You know what the best thing is about canines?"

"The knot?"

Tracy remained straight-faced. That was almost true. "Cuddling while knotted, Darl. That's the part I love the most. You have to be good at pillow-talk while you're tied, or it's soooo uncomfortable. Man, there was this one wolf, he was like five foot nothing but he had the biggest--"

"Can it, sweetie." Darla shushed with a finger to the Rottie's snout. Tracy snorted and backed away. "First, you have to get ready pronto for this guy; he wants his son done yesterday. Second, you've got a stiffy and you're dripping on my desk. Now go get dressed." Tracy looked down at himself; sure enough, his cocktip was staring him in the face, precum and all. He really hoped he could at least give the coyote a show before totally coming out; that was part of his routine. He considered a quick paw before he left and decided against it. If he needed to, he could find a way to pop early and work up to a second. So many ways to do that...and now he was even harder, and Darla was looking frustrated.

"I'm going, I'm going!" And got his ass swatted before he could trot away to his dressing room.

* * *

Tracy didn't know where his future client lived, but after tracing his route with Google Maps he had an idea he'd be living it up tonight. It had rained earlier in the evening, so as soon as he felt safe the Rottweiler put down the top of his pink Miata and merged onto the freeway. Headed west, he knew, would get him nowhere but the better parts of town. Granted, he lived in a nice loft downtown, but there was a lot of ghetto between his place and the outerburbs, as he called them.

Even though the stars weren't quite out yet, the smells of wet pavement and cut grass blew around Tracy's head. The wig he planned to wear sat on the passenger seat; everything else he had already done before heading out. He'd had to search carefully to put together this evening's wardrobe, because he wanted to balance his look between all-out "fuck me" and "don't fuck me, I'm just a girl." It was all hidden beneath a heavy black trenchcoat, but he hoped the reveal would get Trey's hormones going. If not, well, clothes weren't everything.

It was a bit of a ride out to the Kinkaid household, but by the time Tracy exited the freeway the houses had gotten quite nicer than what he was used to. He had memorized the final few turns and navigated the quick little droptop right up to the driveway of the address he was given. After putting the top up and locking the car (you still had to be careful), the Rottie gathered his things and gave the house a once-over. Typical middle-class, cookie-cutter nondescript home on a street full of the same, but nothing to sneeze at. He'd seen, and experienced, much worse.

The house was fully lit, the brightest one on the block, and for one fleeting second Tracy was taken back to when he was eight, and his dad took him trick-or-treating. Dad would drop him off at one end of the block and pick him up at the end, racing him onto the next street for more candy. Over the years it became more of a business than a holiday. It was a wonder he wasn't fat. If Daddy knew what his son was doing, Tracy doubted he'd approve. The Rottie shook his head of the thoughts, swearing to himself. Wow, hadn't thought of Dad in a long time. What the fuck.

"Anyway," he said. There was a mirror next to the door, and Tracy took advantage of the strong glow on the porch to check his makeup one final time. Every eyelash in place, each cheekbone properly rouged, and then he fitted the wig, teasing volume into it with his claws. He smiled, running his tongue over his teeth, posing for his own benefit. "You like cock, don't you? I like cock. In fact, you have a great looking cock. Could I...you know, suck on it?" It was part of a script, and it sounded that way, but sometimes it was what his clients wanted: the stuff they saw in movies and expected in real life, and Tracy was the fag to give it to them. He winked at himself and rang the doorbell.

Almost immediately, heavy clomping footsteps approached from the back of the house. They didn't sound happy, or horny, or even bare, and Tracy guessed they did not belong to the coyote he was supposed to be pleasuring tonight. If that was the case, he certainly had his work cut out for him. Suddenly, he heard, "Trey, shut the fuck up! You'll see soon enough!" so loud he half-expected someone to come out of the house across the street. He adjusted the pads over his chest, teased his wig once more, and struck his best pose.

When the door opened, a barrel-chested, crewcut coyote was staring down at him. He was dressed in a heather grey T-shirt and sweatpants, but he exuded an air of unnatural discomfort in such flexible clothes. The man stood a good foot and a half over Tracy's head, and the Rottweiler had to look up into his face while maintaining a sexy lean on the doorframe. This was fairly difficult when the client looked like a drill sergeant. Oh God, he thought, this better not be the guy.

"Hey, Verne. How's things?" And Tracy squeaked...almost, but kept it in check by integrating it into his "little girl" routine. After all, he was supposed to play the part until the pants came off, and even then words such as "boycunt" and "puppy bitch" were common. It didn't matter how straight his clients thought they were; it was still a guy's tailhole they were fucking at the end of the night.

Verne kept looking at Tracy--assessing him, was more like it--with what he guessed was disdain, but after sizing up the Rottweiler his gaze softened and gained some relief. The large coyote seemed to relax (which was good news for Tracy) and offered his paw. "Hello, uh...ma'am." Tracy shook Verne's paw, but there was almost no force behind it. He was picking up a fair amount of reticence from the coyote, and Verne even looked like he was already regretting his phone call. "I wasn't quite expecting...this."

"Oh, really?" Tracy put on a nice convincing pout. "What, you want someone prettier? Because I can guarantee you won't find anyone else who can do my job as good as I can. I've got a reputation to protect. Aren't you going to let a lady inside?" The Rottie motioned with his paws.

"I'm sorry," said Verne, standing aside while Tracy swished past him into the living room. The coyote closed the door. "I must admit I didn't expect someone like you from the agency. I expected a fox."

Tracy looked the room over before he spoke, tossing his handbag onto the loveseat. The room was fairly airy, dominating the front of the house with a vaulted ceiling and bright crystal chandelier. Light colors, light furniture, even light wood on the floor. Nice-looking, but hard to keep clean.

"What is it with men and foxes, hmm? You always expect the vixens to be the meet-all beat-all ladies of the night. Why is that? Do they fuck the best? Do they have the biggest muzzles to take your humongous knots? Are their tails permanently raised over their heads, or do they scream the loudest when you're making them come? Because I will tell you one thing, Verne..." Tracy walked right up to the coyote and poked him in the chest, taking the opportunity to look for a telltale bulge. Sometimes being scolded by a female (or reasonable facsimile thereof) would get 'em all nice and hard, but not so with this one. He was all professional and stoic. Bummer. "I can do all that, and more. In fact, I don't even have a tail to raise; you have twenty-four-seven access to this honeypot any time of the day or night. As long as you pay, which you already have. So, do you want a demonstration, or shall I just get to work?" Tracy had moved his paw to the front of Verne's sweatpants, and he cupped the man's package. Substantial would be an adequate descriptor. Substantial but flaccid.

Verne stepped back and cleared his throat rather noisily, looking everywhere but at the Rottweiler in front of him. Now there was a trace of a bulge, for sure. That was undeniable. At least Verne was alive. "Tracy...ma'am...I would be grateful if we could skip this whole business and get down to brass tacks. Is that perfectly alright with you? I'm paying a hundred dollars an hour for this, and talking is not...it doesn't get the job done, is what I'm saying."

Verne was trying to step around the subject like it was a mud puddle. On the rare occasions when Tracy would get called to a birthday-slash-coming out job, the father was usually happy to be giving his son such a great gift as an escort to usher him into manhood or the world of homos or something. Sometimes the guy felt bad about not being able to give his newly-outed son the love he deserved. It was sort of misplaced, but fathers try to do their best by their boys. Sometimes Tracy could finagle the dad into a romp afterwards, and even once father and son had double-teamed him until he was a quivering mass of spittle and semen on the bedroom floor. That was a banner night, it was.

"Yes, sir." Tracy saluted rather stiffly, and gave the coyote his due. He thought he must look laughable in a trenchcoat, four-inch heels and a wig, but Verne wasn't paying attention. Instead, he sat the smaller Rottweiler down on the couch and kneeled before him, holding his shoulders to keep his gaze. The air in the room suddenly became very serious.

"Tracy, I am having an issue with my son, Trey. I'm not going to mince words with you. He thinks he's something, and I believe he's something else. He's trying to convince me otherwise, but I need someone--someone of your persuasion--to do what you do to get him to believe me once and for all."

Raising an eyebrow, the Rottie said, "So you think I can use my powers of libido to get your kid off and show him the right way to be a man."

"I know you can." Verne's grip was tight and focused, just like his green eyes on Tracy's. "Just once. I'll tell you this. It only took one time when my father did the exact same thing with me, and I was hooked for the rest of my life. I knew my place, and what I was. I just want Trey to know the same thing, and not make a mistake he'll regret for the rest of his life. Can you do that for me?"

"I can do my best, sir," Tracy was biting his lip. This guy was gung-ho about his son, and that was good, but he was also creeping him out. "Why don't you go in the kitchen and grab a chill pill, and let me work my magic, huh?" The Rottweiler skritched underneath the coyote's chin, and Verne let his fingers work their magic for a few pregnant seconds. Then he blushed hotly and stood. "You are cute when you're all set on something. It's good, what you're doing for Trey. Teaching him to be a man and all. Not many people would be comfortable asking a person like me to just step into their house and fuck their kid."

"Please, it's not..."

"Forgive my vulgarity. I will show your son the true meaning of romance. And by the time I come back down those stairs, you have my word as a lady he will emerge from his room a changed coyote. He'll know the true meaning of making sure who's on top and who's on bottom. Putting partners in their rightful place." Tracy patted Verne's thigh as he stood, slinging his handbag over his shoulder. "Trust me." And then he placed a solid smooch right on the coyote's lips. They stayed together a little longer than both of them expected.

"Thank you for assuaging my doubts," Verne said, grinning a bit boyishly. It didn't suit him, and Tracy thought he was covering up a little natural paternal homophobia. There was always some of that. "You take all the time you need to set my son straight."

Tracy giggled. "Yeah, straight. Straight as a Rocky Mountain highway."

"What did you say?"

"Inside joke." Verne waved it off. "You know, sir, if you're a little pent-up from hearing your son moaning upstairs, I'd be glad to stick around for a quickie." Before the nonplussed coyote could stammer a response, Tracy was prancing up the stairs to make a boy into a man.

* * *

Tracy's panties were beginning to ride up as he stood outside the door of Trey's room. He reached a paw underneath the trench coat and hiked them out again, made sure all of his equipment (totally soft, good deal) was in order, and knocked below a "Trey's Room" sign like those that are available at craft markets everywhere.

Verne made not a sound from below. The Rottweiler had some of the man's trust, at least.

"Trey? Trey, hon, can I come in?" He didn't know whether to play the innocent girl or the raunchy sexpot or even the whore-come-to-make-you-a-man, so the generic feminine voice would have to do to start things off. There was no answer, and that was expected; a boy in his condition, who had probably been subjected to a fair amount of fatherly lambasting, wouldn't readily open a door to a complete stranger with a strange voice.

In truth, Tracy didn't know what to expect at all, really. He knew he'd been sent here to help a father out with his son in "that way," and that Darla had thought him the best girl for the job. But Verne had been very vague, and dismissive. He'd seemed quite agitated, too, and while the Rottweiler was prancing his way up the thought finally occurred to him that maybe Verne wasn't the gentlest of dads. The big build, the set jaw, the haircut and hot blushing at his touch...actually, none of that connected in retrospect. He'd met a couple of weird families, and this one by no means took the cake, but there was something odd about Verne. Maybe Trey would be normal. Normal-ish.

Tracy knocked again, a little louder. "You know I'm going to come in there whether you make any noise or not, even if you're asleep. Your dad sent for me to make you feel better, and I'll be damned if I won't do a good job." Again, nothing except maybe the faint rustling of bedclothes. God, he hoped he didn't have a mental case on his paws.

The room was dark when the Rottie opened it a crack to peer in. There wasn't enough light from the hallway to let him see much of anything, but in he went anyway. His eyes adjusted, but the darkness was still an inky black.

"Trey? It would be real nice if you could turn on a lamp so I could see where the hell I'm going." And with that, Tracy went headfirst onto the floor. There was a split-second of horror when he realized all the fatal objects his head could fall upon, but even though he shielded his face it was just plush pile carpet he felt. "God dammit." It felt like his wig was askew, and that would ruin the whole charade. Well, now, it was the kid's fault, wasn't it? Oooh, he could sue too! Wait...he wasn't hurt. Damn!

After fumbling around in the blind, Tracy found a nightstand and managed to catch a pullstring. The room flared into being, and he squinted. It was fucking empty.

It was just a bit shocking to look at Trey's room, after what Tracy was used to on the job. From the downright dingy to the upper-class, he'd never quite been in a bedroom as...adolescent...as this one. A decent size, about that of a two-car garage, it contained an assortment of typical teenage possessions. The bed was black, and the headboard was made of solid ash. Clothes of various colors and styles littered the carpet, which was typical of ninety percent of males on the planet. Along one wall was a grid of built-in cabinets and drawers, with an L-shaped desk on the corner. PC, Plasma TV, stereo, all the stuff the kids liked nowadays. Every time the Rottweiler was privileged enough to visit a room such as this, he couldn't help but be a little jealous.

And then it was the posters that gave away what this young coyote was all about. He was infatuated with American Idol. At first it was just the posters--Clay Aiken, Ryan Seacrest, Taylor Hicks--he noticed, but there were figurines, and a list of show times. It was a fair bet that the show was programmed into his DVR. Oh, to be a young man again, so innocent and impressionable and...

"If I let you stay up here for, like, an hour, would you just leave me alone and tell my dad I'm better? It probably won't work, but...you know." Tracy turned (he was still on the floor, on his knees) and looked over at the door through which the kid had walked. His face was half-shrouded from the now-darker hall, but came into view once he stepped forward.

"Trey." The Rottweiler stood and made a show of primping himself, fluffing his wig and straightening the trenchcoat. "So, are you the young man whose company I'm supposed to be keeping tonight?" Nothing happened. No sweet little giggle, no blush, not even a tail twitch. In fact, Trey seemed downright nauseous. His fur was a paler beige than his father's, and he wasn't stepping with much enthusiasm. What was this kid's deal? He wasn't a mental case; Tracy just felt pity for him.

Trey shuffled right past the Rottweiler to his desk and sat down, seeming to deflate as he did so. This was beginning to become just a little uncomfortable for Tracy, who was used to controlling the situation--at least until he was either bent over a chair or spread on his back. Being a professional escort meant knowing how to drive a situation to its inevitable end, even if it meant snuggling after sex or psychoanalyzing a grown man with an dipus complex.

"If you want to watch something, the remote's on the nightstand," said the coyote. "American Idol comes on soon."

"Now how did I know you were going to say that?" asked Tracy. "But, to be completely honest with you, I can think of a lot more fun ways to spend our time together." Trey faced away, surfing the Web. He was slouched over, his eyes half-closed. They gleamed more than they should in the light from his monitor. No, he wasn't a mental case. He was sad about something. Trey looked at him.

"I know why you're here. My dad's an asshole and he won't listen to me. You're supposed to be his solution, but I hope you realize how stupid this is. I heard the phone call."

Tracy stood up and sauntered over to the young canine, leaning on his shoulders and pressing his painted claws into some obviously very tense muscles. He felt the coyote shudder underneath him, and he was experienced enough to know it wasn't a shudder of arousal. "Hon, in all honesty, I'm just a bit confused as to this little spat between you and your father. He seems like a nice guy."

"I wasn't in the room." Frigid. Ouch. At least Trey didn't object to Tracy kneading his shoulders. There were knots everywhere. The Rottweiler watched as the coyote checked his email before saying anything again.

"I'm only an escort, Trey, and I can't pretend to be a shrink, but I know your dad has issues and you two don't get along like the best of friends. This is making you sad, and angry, and it puts a lot of stress on your relationship."

"No it doesn't. You don't know me." That was true, but as long as he was here, the Rottweiler might as well try to do some good. He certainly wasn't horny yet.

"I don't know you, but you have the most tension in your back that I've ever come across, and I assume the rest of you is like this. You can't play a player, so just quit acting like you know everything and talk to me." He continued to rub, feeling the more accessible knots loosen under his touch. Trey moaned just slightly; it must have been such a relief.

"This is fucked up. This is so fucked up." Sighing, the coyote clicked back to his desktop and rubbed over his face. "Could you close the door? He probably thinks I'm balls-deep in you by now, or something."

"Sure," replied Tracy. By the time he'd closed the door and turned around, the coyote had moved to the bed, but not for the reason he'd hoped. Trey lay on his back, paws folded behind his head, thinking. Tracy was in the middle of something substantial. Not quite what he'd been hired to do, but it wasn't as though this sort of thing had never happened before. He rested on the edge of the bed, twisted so he could face the coyote as much as possible, and lay a paw on his chest. Trey's shirt had pulled up a bit, exposing about an inch of his creamy midriff. "Now, do you want to tell me what's on your mind? Because we're not going to get anywhere with you being all Hamlet on me."

Trey was silent a moment. "I just got done studying Shakespeare. I can relate; my whole life's a tragedy." Oh, now this was just getting into the Drama Queen department right here.

"Dogs of the house of Kinkaid move me to stand," the Rottweiler recited, and saw just the slightest hint of a twitch in the young coyote's tail. Cracking a small smile, Tracy made the emboldened move of placing his paw in Trey's. It was warm, and soft, his claws not yet fully grown in. Life was full of shit, and every teenager dealt with their own version of it, but for Trey this seemed to be different...deeper, somehow. He found his curiosity piqued more than ever now.

Snuffling, the coyote returned the Rottie's smile. "You wanna know the most fucked-up shit of all?"

"What, you have the mouth of a drunken sailor?"

Trey rolled his eyes in that oh-my-god-another-adult way. "That actually feels kind of good. Your paw, I mean. Not that I would want to...you know, but still. I guess holding paws feels good no matter who you do it with."

"Not when your father is escorting you from prison after six months of hard time." Ooh boy, that just refroze the ice Tracy had so carefully broken. Trey's ears swiveled in his direction.

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm not here for sob stories. You don't even want to know how much your father is paying just to have me sit up here on my ass and comfort you. I doubt he'd think I was succeeding in what he wanted me to accomplish." Even pussyfooting around the word "fuck" had to get tiring sometime, and that time was fast approaching.

Now Trey sat up, pulling his tail around his waist and scooting up against the headboard. His eyes searched for a spot in the room on which to concentrate; his pupils seemed to have blotted out everything around them. "You see how my dad is about stuff. There's a word for people like him. 'Overbearing.' You know? He wants me to do all these activities, and get all these things done, and I do them, but it's not good enough."

"I can relate."

"If it's not done the way he wants it done, if it's not according to his...his master plan, or something, he goes all ballistic on me and just yells at the top of his lungs. After a while you just don't care. But tonight was something else." The catch at the end of that sentence made Tracy pay even closer attention; the paw he held was quivering just slightly. He wanted to be supportive, but at the same time he didn't want to pretend to know more than he did about Trey's family life. It was best to just listen for now.

"What happened tonight, Trey? I'm just the callgirl. I don't get the whole story before I visit a client. Why am I here?"

Trey became disturbingly silent. At first, Tracy thought the coyote was trying to get his thoughts together for an explanation, but the longer Trey stayed that way, the more concerned the Rottweiler became. He stared at the far wall, a blank stare; nary an emotive muscle moved under his fur. Tracy dared not interrupt whatever thought process Trey had going, for fear whatever key information the coyote was searching for would be lost.

Then he shook, violently and bodily, as if ripped from a daydream. Direction came back into his gaze, and he looked directly at the Rottweiler, who still hadn't doffed his trenchcoat since he'd set footpaw in the Kinkaid household. Even in the low light of the bedroom, Tracy could see the welling up of tears. He knew the action well: flat ears, dead tail, squinty shining eyes. Inwardly, the Rottweiler cringed as he prepared for the worst-case scenario.

Instead, Trey just kind of collapsed into him, a fuzzy, shaking ball of beige fur. In a way, it was almost worse than a full-on breakdown. He had no idea what was running through Trey's mind, only that it was big and scary and serious. The young coyote lay that way for some time, long enough for Tracy to wonder if Verne would think they were through. No knock came at the door, however, and Trey made no move to bring himself under control in a quick manner. For now, it was perhaps best to just hold and reassure the kid. What was there to say that didn't sound contrived?

So they just held each other. This was one hot date, all right.

When Trey finally pulled away, Tracy's chest was cool in the absence of his body heat. He didn't look too much like he'd been crying, just a little wet around the eyes and snout. The Rottie searched around, and handed the coyote a tissue box when he found it. "Here, hon. Dry yourself off."

"He acts like I asked for this," Trey blew his nose. "Like it was a bubble on some test or something, and I filled it in."

"It's not a choice. We both know that. There's no use in beleaguering that issue."

"Then how can I make him listen?" Trey was high-pitched and plaintive.

Tracy clutched at the kid's paw harder. "Honey, with some parents, there will never come a time when they'll accept it. Your dad might have gone off the deep end tonight, but you have to give him time. I bet you that he'll come around if you just give him space and patience."

"And what am I supposed to do until then, huh? Pretend to be Daddy's Good Little Boy and do whatever he wants me to do, and put on a face for all our friends when we go out? If I let him control that, he'll never want to stop. You don't know him..." The tears were coming back again. The coyote looked like an animal trapped.

"You need to assess what, for now, would be in the best interest of your relationship at the point where your father is. I understand this might be hard to accept, but sometimes it's better just to fake it for a little while until he gets used to the idea, and let it on him slowly." It took a moment to realize that the noise coming from Trey was a building snarl, deep and low in his gut.

"I am not going to pretend to date some fuckin' bitch so my dad can look good!" the coyote blurted loudly. "I'm sick and tired of him running my life every day, day in and day out, like a prison guard. Sick of it!" He sniffed. "I want out..." And he visibly deflated again, as if he'd let out all the bluster inside of him and he didn't have the will to maintain it.

Fucking bitch? What was all this "bitch" stuff? And when it hit, almost like a ton of bricks, Tracy had to fight not to look like he'd just received a boot to the head. While Trey leaned into him, softly breathing into his trenchcoat, the Rottweiler was milling around in his head why he'd been such a retard this entire evening. Verne had been vague in his embarrassment, Trey in his innocence, and together they had both fooled him completely. Suddenly he felt very exposed, but remembered that he was well-covered head to tail in heavy fabric. This was definitely something else.

Putting on his best feminine airs, Tracy patted Trey on the shoulder closest to his paw, hoping that a less intimate touch would keep him from blubbering anymore. He could see the coyote was stubborn, like his father, and emotional as well. But while Verne was prone to an egomaniacal mean streak, Trey was kind of all over the map. The Rottweiler hadn't experienced quite as much turmoil in his teenage years, but he'd seen his fair share of drama in friends and lovers.

"So your father, in all his world wisdom, has it in his head that hiring a hooker for a night is going to turn you straight?"

"Something like that," replied Trey, snuggling into Tracy's paw a little more. "His way of thinking is so black and white...it's A's or I'm grounded, football and basketball or I lose something else."

"I know how that can be. It's not fair, to have so much expected of you. Especially in the sexuality department. I mean, come on. Having me come over to spread my legs for you will help you blow a load off, but it certainly won't turn you straight," said the Rottweiler, extending the ruse a bit further.

Trey giggled, not quite the response Tracy was expecting. Kind of refreshing, actually, to not have to deal with awkwardness like he would a typical client. He was getting a little hard, too, but that was probably because the 'yote was acting so naïve and cute. It wasn't Trey's fault, not wholly.

"Hey, Tracy?"

"Yeah?"

"Even if you did come over to...you know...thanks for talking anyway. I mean, I don't really know if Dad'll be satisfied after tonight, but maybe he'll stop if I just agree with him." The coyote's forward-tilting ears looked expectant, hopeful even. As if he were trying to make himself believe what was essentially an egregious lie.

Turning to the coyote, Tracy murmured, "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Of course not," Trey replied with a bitter smile, "not for a second. But I don't see what choice I have."

"For a coyote, you're not very wily. From what I observed downstairs, I think your dad could be a pushover. You just need to know what buttons to push."

"I'm sure you know everything there is to know about family dynamics."

"No, but I've been around the block...a lot..and while I don't think I qualify as a therapist, I've seen 'em all and dealt with 'em all. Your dad seems like a typical case of overbearing homophobic parent, and it's easier than you think to butter him up."

"I want to show you something." Tracy watched the young coyote roll off the bed and pick up a black backpack from next to his desk. He took out a small leather case and unzipped it, hopping back up next to the Rottweiler. "This is what really bothers me." The object sitting in the case, behind a mesh divider, turned out to be a PDA. Trey depressed the power button with the small stylus, and the LCD screen lit up white before a picture of two men came up. It was simple: an otter and a wolf, shown from the back, holding paws as they walked down a beach bathed in mandarin sunset light. It looked like a stock photo, and the two were fully clothed.

"Big deal. Wait...did your dad see this?"

Trey shoved the device up into Tracy's face; it was shaking slightly, though the coyote's voice was calmer now. "This is what started this whole bullshit. I was finishing up a lab report for Biology class on the laptop, and he came in the room. Stupid me, I turn around to tell him to knock and the stupid fucking document minimized and this was the wallpaper! They're not doing anything! But he saw it, and got all mad, and we just started fighting."

Taking the PDA from Trey to study the tame image, Tracy said, "Does he overreact like this often?"

"All the time," replied the coyote meekly. "But this was different. Dads get all bent out of shape when their kids don't turn out like they want. So he ripped my laptop out of the cord and took it with him. I could hear him swearing down the hall as he looked through my stuff. It was mine! Who cares...it's not like he can force me to like girls."

"No, not really. You let him go through your computer like that?" Tracy was searching through the folders Trey had on the device, scanning images that ran the gamut of gay sex, from vanilla to sounding. He tried not to linger on any one picture too long, because he was still supposed to be a girl as far as Trey was concerned. Too late he felt his sheath squeezed tight inside his panties. "You got some really good stuff on here, stuff other people pay to see."

"Yeah, I usually have a ton of torrents going...when I have my computer. Dad took the laptop and filtered the PC. And what am I supposed to do, just go in there and take it back? He's the one who bought it. Ack, shit!" Before Tracy could even think about reacting to Trey's outburst, the PDA had been snatched out of his fingers and turned off. But the Rottie had seen the last picture, and it was still fresh in his mind.

"That was you, wasn't it?" And of course Trey said not a word, answering the question anyway. It had only been up for a moment, a mere second, but Tracy's perceptive eyes had caught the seductive pose--neck exposed, arms behind back, crotch thrust forward to give just that little bit more to what Trey was sporting anyway--and noted every detail about it. Obviously, that one wasn't meant to be found, or it wasn't meant to be found easily, but just because it was hidden on a hard drive didn't make it invisible.

Trey had gone over to his desk and set the PDA next to where his laptop would have sat if it weren't in his father's room, and palmed his face. "I think, maybe you should go." But he didn't really want Tracy to leave, not a bit. In fact, he sounded scared to be alone, left with his father. When he took his paw away, his eyes were shining freshly.

"Oh, Trey, don't be like that," said the Rottie, gliding over to the coyote to hold his shoulders. Things were bad enough that Trey's father was trying to straighten him out, literally, with a prostitute, but the kid was starting to doubt himself. No, there was no doubt about which side of the fence Trey preferred, but all the drama going down tonight had him feeling shitty about being who he was. Tracy had had friends just like that. Friends, yes, but never clients.

"It's not fair," the coyote mumbled, a strong waver keeping him from breaking down.

"Not fair that you're gay, or not fair that your dad has to be such an asshole about it?"

"My dad," Trey replied, to Tracy's relief. His ears itched under the wig, but he wasn't about to blow his cover--not just yet.

"You can't change the way your father thinks," the Rottweiler embraced the quivering coyote who, he just realized, was taller than him even in those heels. "But I know you're not about to let him win, are you? He took your laptop away, but what's he gonna do with all the porn? Use it himself? What's the worst he could do?"

"Delete it, but I don't care about that. It's just..." Trey stopped resisting the close quarters, and Tracy took the opportunity to lead him back to the edge of the bed, where they sat. The coyote looked glad to relinquish that small amount of control.

"You didn't like me seeing that picture of you, did you?" Tracy knew it was exactly that, and he respected Trey's altruistic reserve despite it eating him up inside. The coyote nodded into the other canine's leather-laden shoulder, his ears flickering around in the wig's locks.

Even in low light, Trey's fur was more pallid than it should have been. He looked weakened by their discussion somehow, as if Tracy's seeing him nude took away from his efficacy as a person. "I guess I'm still not used to some things," he said. "Weird; I exchange pics online all the time, and I use that one the most. But you seeing it...I don't know, I just...I saw your eyes moving, and it scared me."

"Why? Because you're a very cute young man?" Of course, Trey blushed hotly even if he did not smile to accompany it. Tracy was still turned on, a little bit; he could sense the time of unveiling approaching. He began skritching away at the back of Trey's neck. "You don't have any reason to be scared, honey. Look at me, look at what I do for a living. A lot of the time the whole game is deception, like when some guy wants a sexy secretary or a little girl to rape or whatever. They're paying me, so I do what they want.

"But yeah, you're a cute guy, and you shouldn't be ashamed. You look like you keep in decent shape; have you been asked out yet?" The Rottweiler rubbed over Trey's chest in large, general circles; he could feel he definition of each abdominal muscle through the coyote's shirt. He mentally traced each one from the picture in his mind as he went over it, until he felt the indentation that was Trey's navel. Trey gasped, lowering his head; obviously no one had ever done that before, and it made him feel special.

"One guy, this German shepherd, he was talking to me at Starbucks, and we were having a nice conversation, and he...put his paw on mine and asked me, um...what I was doing that evening. I told him I had homework to do, and I was only sixteen. I got up and ran off. It was scary being talked to like that." By the way Tracy could feel the coyote's tail flapping lazily about on the bedspread, he wasn't scared right now. The trust Trey had in him at this moment meant a lot, and he tried hard not to go too fast. It had been a long time since he'd had such an emotional investment in a client. He hoped he wasn't becoming a softie.

Tracy moved along, feeling about with his claws around the side of Trey's chest under his armpit. He wanted to go much farther south, but he forced his paws to stay put for now. "I bet he wasn't the only one looking for a night with you. For every guy who talks to you, there's probably ten or more who don't approach. I'm not surprised; from what I saw in that glimpse I had, you have no trouble showing off for others." Tracy couldn't help the huskiness from creeping into his voice; keeping it in a purely female tone was going to be impossible at this rate.

"Dunno how I was supposed to keep it a secret. From Dad, I mean." Closed, darting eyes meant Trey was starting to enjoy himself more than he wanted to allow.

So many chances to get laid, thought Tracy, and he was scared. He was really still just a kid, too. Usually, it was the Rottweiler's policy not to screw with (or screw) virgins, but he had the opportunity to open him up to the world. Not to mention the hourly fee he was earning by being here in this bedroom. Hell, there were a lot worse people Trey could find out there to pop his cherry.

"That would have been hard. In some way, you must feel glad that it's out in the open, even if it happened the way it did." Tracy moved one paw up to twirl his fingers over the thin membrane of Trey's left ear, which was trying to lay itself flat. Meanwhile, his other paw finally found the waistband of the coyote's shorts and he teased there, sliding in just enough to feel the warmer, more moist fur beneath the two layers of cloth. Tracy knew what the result of that would be, and he heard it a moment later: a low, guttural murr, a sound of innocence and of desperation, a sound that begged to be coaxed into something more substantial.

"Y-yeah...what are you duh...d-doing?" The question was posed so meekly that Tracy wondered if Trey even wanted an answer.

"I'm going to give you what your father is paying me for," Tracy replied matter-of-factly, clawing at the longer pubic fur just beyond his reach. Trey shook visibly at the touch, obviously experiencing emotions the Rottweiler had long ago forgotten, but sharing it with the coyote brought him a little closer to recollection. "You wouldn't want him to waste his money, would you?"

Trey started to push Tracy's paw away, but it was halfhearted at best. He was warmer than before, flushed. "I...I don't know. I appreciate you wanting to do your job, and I...really liked talking. Made me feel a whole lot better. But, if you want me to be all right with being gay and stuff, I mean, I don't think you're the person to do that."

"You seem excited enough," said Tracy, anticipation helping to make things even more uncomfortable.

"That's just from the touching. Doesn't matter who it's coming from, it still feels good."

"I don't think that's entirely true, Trey. I know people who can't get it up with a girl, no matter how much they try."

"Does that mean I'm bi, then?"

"That's up to you. But you should probably know something; it'll make you feel a whole lot less confused." Tracy's paw was the one to shake now, as he pulled the coyote's fingers through the folds of the trenchcoat and laid it over his groin. He didn't realize how much he had been looking forward to that touch until he felt it; the weight of it against his sheath reminding him of how aroused he really was, the shivering of Trey's fingers and the way they curled around its contours as the coyote found out what it was, the look on his face as Tracy watched all of this come to light.

The coyote was staring into space, the end of his muzzle rounded in an understated and slack "O." And then he was staring at Tracy, who grinned seductively to hide what would have been the exact same expression on his own face. The Rottweiler took no small amount of personal pleasure revealing himself in this way, and as he felt those fingers move on their own between his legs, exploring the definition of his package, he knew he'd done the right thing.

"You were faking...the whole time." Tracy nodded against Trey's shoulder, snuggling up closer for more fondling. "Why did Dad do this?"

"He actually didn't. I don't know what happened, but he called my agency looking for an escort. I guess he never specified what gender he wanted, though it beats the hell outta me how my dispatcher could miss that. I thought Verne wanted me to show you that you were gay."

"And he still wanted to set me straight the whole time...and he never found out you were a guy, even when you talked downstairs?" Trey suddenly became aware of how openly he had been groping at the other canine's junk, and withdrew. Tracy wouldn't have complained, but didn't say anything. There would be more to come, eventually.

Smiling and shaking his head, the Rottweiler said, "Honey, you forget this is what I do for a living. I dress up and pretend to be whatever my clients want me to be, even if it means dressing up as a girl, or a guy in a dress, or anything in between. For some straight men, the clothes make all the difference. If they don't want to see me as male, I don't care. They're still paying me the same."

"Yeah. I just...wow," said the coyote, massaging his temples. "This is too much. I can't believe we were all fooled. It's like somebody's version of an ironic love story, where they couldn't figure out how to write a complicated scene and just pulled it out of their ass."

"They call that a Deus ex Machina, and it tends to be overused in fiction. I read a lot when things are slow in between appointments. But this is real life, Trey. And I really do think you're cute. I want to see more of what I saw in the picture. Verne's treat."

"God," the coyote giggled, sounding a few years younger, "my dad has no idea this is happening. It's so cool!" But when Trey paused to look Tracy up and down, when he took the time to really let it sink in, a cloud came over him. He must have just realized in what a serious position he was. The Rottweiler knew it well; it was the kind of half-nervous half-horny excitement, where you can hear your own heart in your ears and you think this is it, this is it, I'm finally getting down and dirty with a guy.

Suddenly Trey didn't seem quite as sure of himself.

"Scared?"

"Shitless."

"Good. It helps. Be glad I'm here, Trey. I know how to treat guys like you. In my line of work, it's common." Tracy was also becoming glad to be there. At first, with Verne's diatribe about setting his son in the right direction starting things off with a nice dose of family dysfunction, followed by a bawling teenager upstairs. Up until now he'd prepared a mentality of tolerating these two warring coyotes and trying to do what he was being paid to do. But that was before the revelation; that was before he and Trey had found out Verne's original intent. And now that it was all cleared up, the two canines' purposes had become much clearer.

Trey's paws were sitting on top of his thighs, the fingers tapping out a nervous, syncopated rhythm. The kid was looking anywhere but at Tracy, as if he'd performed some ribald, gauche act but didn't know what it was. Giving away his actual disposition, though, was a plumpness between his legs that promised to reveal just what Tracy had seen on the PDA. So he wasn't too put off to keep it up; that was good.

Throwing his faux locks over one shoulder, the Rottweiler said, "I'm afraid it's your move, hon. Daddy's got the finances, but you're the client. What do you want to do?"

The coyote shook his head, the picture of confusion. "You want me to to order you around?" he giggled. "I'm not...really...used to that. I thought you were the one who was supposed to run the show."

"Only when men want to be dominated do I give the orders. Otherwise, it's not up to me what I do."

"I don't understand." And he might never understand, even if Tracy explained it. The ups and downs of the escort profession wasn't the most stimulating of conversation topics, and he doubted hearing about it would give Trey a clear perspective on love and relationships. He didn't want to be responsible for traumatizing the kid any more than his father already had, so it behooved the Rottweiler to move the evening along.

"I know you don't, and it's perfectly okay." Tracy scooted closer and placed his paw on one of the coyote's, squeezing it. Maybe some more bodily contact would take their minds off the nitty-gritty.

"I mean...it would help if you weren't all dressed up. Now that I know the truth and all, it's kind of screwing with me."

"Well then, would you like to help me slip into something more...naked?" The blush that immediately followed this, creeping up into Trey's creamy cheekruffs, was entertaining to watch. You just didn't get an unadulterated blush like that from old naughty men and horny college boys with blue balls. Trey wanted him naked, and Tracy knew Trey wanted him naked. Hopefully it wouldn't be dental surgery to get the yote to take the lead.

"Take your time, sweetheart. We've got all night. The worst thing you can do is rush right in without knowing how to go about it. Now, why don't you show me what you want?" Tracy kicked his stilettos onto the floor by the foot of the bed, wriggling his toes (with perfect, hot-rod red claws) to air them out after being so unfairly trapped. Trey watched with focused eyes, as if it were the beginning of a striptease. And that's exactly what it was, except it was up to Trey to keep it going.

Too tight-lipped to say a word more, Trey finally drew a deep breath, letting it out in a long, audible ragged sigh as he scooted closer along the edge of the bed to Tracy, now cross-legged. He licked his lips, his eyes unable to stay on any one part of the Rottweiler's body for long. The black and brown canine felt like a museum display, except there was no protective glass case, and touching the artifact was the whole idea.

The coyote's paws were trembling as they came closer, and Tracy fought back to hold a giggle at how cub-like it looked. Trey seemed afraid that he might damage something, that any sudden move might throw the whole thing into chaos and, thusly, force its end. But he closed the distance, gripping the top of the Rottweiler's wig and taking it from his head, allowing Tracy's hair to fall over his forehead. His ears were suddenly cold, but he felt a whole lot better to be rid of that thing. Transvestism only went so far.

"That better?"

"Y-yeah," Trey muttered, his awkward smile turning into something more genuine, more effortless. "You're much better looking now. I mean, you were always good-looking, just I thought you were a girl, so, you know." Tracy nodded, and the yote sighed. "Why does this have to be so hard?"

"It doesn't, really. First times are hard by definition, Trey. Usually, nobody knows what they're doing, and there's a lot of fumbling around until you finish. It can be real awkward, depending on the person, and a lot of people regret it. But it's all a game of chance, hon." Tracy doffed his trench coat and let it drop to the floor behind him, going for his top next. He wasn't horny, not in the traditional sense of the word, but he realized Trey was in a position of naïvete that could keep them here for hours if he were allowed to ask all the questions and do all the introspection he wanted. Tracy, however, subscribed to the school of thought that experience often was the best teacher.

"I thought I was supposed to do that," the coyote interjected, though by the way his eyes were flitting about he wasn't about to slow anything down.

"You don't look disappointed. Shall I put it all back on?"

"No, no, that's okay."

"Thought so," said the Rottie, hopping to his feet and stepping out of his skirt, kicking it across to the foot of Trey's desk. Finally he was free of that gaudy get-up! Tracy wasn't used to having his costumes on for so long; usually it took less than half an hour before he was naked or nearly so, on his back or his stomach, holding on for the ride. He knew he still had claw polish, makeup and lace panties on, but he wanted Trey to do the big reveal. "Now it's your turn. Stand up. Come on, come on, let's help you out of those nasty clothes."

"What do I do?" Indeed.

"You be still and let me earn my fee, how does that sound?" Tracy cooed, tracing a finger along the side of Trey's muzzle as he stood. The yote nodded, gulped, and waited. "Now, what do we have under here, hmm?"

It was nice to have a man younger than him for a change. During his employment as an escort, he'd seen everything from young to old, well-to-do to ghetto trash, OCD to flea-ridden. For the most part, he served mature males to lithe, twinky boys or boys pretending to be girls. The seductive son, nephew, scout, acolyte, student...he could be all of those, as well as the seductive father, uncle, patrol leader, priest and teacher, though some of those were a stretch at his age. Trey was a baby, though, and it was going to be a joy checking off this position and that tongue technique and the other way to kiss.

At once Tracy felt taut muscle above the thick leather belt as he went up under the coyote's shirt. Trey's muzzle was slack, lowered, his breathing quiet and regular. Up went his paws, surveyors researching some unknown topography, pads over the gently undulating abdomen, the solid and sloping pectoral, the rounded peak of nipple. The two canines swayed in the center of the room, Trey's arms weak but raised as Tracy lifted his shirt over his head and sent it to join the other clothes.

Trey kept in shape, and it wasn't the result of just his young metabolism. He would have no trouble getting laid, if he ever ventured out to do the club scene. "These are nice," he said, paws around the yote's waist, his fingers just under the belt enough to tease.

"Thanks," Trey replied. "Dad's got a gym downstairs, and I go down there every other day."

"It shows." Without so much as breaking eye contact, Tracy worked the coyote's belt loose and undid his fly. Trey's cheeks fuzzed out on end, making him look like he'd just emerged from a hot blow-dry. It took little effort for the pants to meet the coyote's feet, leaving him in boxers. "Wow, you can stand to wear those baggy things?"

"I don't like tight underwear. Makes me feel trapped."

"You can wear form-fitting stuff and not feel trapped, hon. Or you could go commando, though it's almost the same thing as these." Tracy tickled under the coyote's balls, making Trey giggle, then gasp, then blush. "Feels good when it's someone else, doesn't it?" The answer was obvious. Tracy was reminded of when he was a kid, experimenting for the first time, though he had been much younger. Trey's reactions were virtually identical. The Rottie motioned to the bed, and Trey followed.

Once they were lying on their sides, facing one another, another awkward silence fell over the room. Tracy smiled, and Trey tried to, but he couldn't quite make it work. His paws fiddled over his navel. It wasn't that he didn't know what to do, it was the starting part that was the hardest.

"I'm sorry I'm not doing this right," said the coyote. "I'm really, really nervous." Tracy put his paw over the other canine's heart, feeling its racing beat. Soon that would change to a light, fluttery feeling as arousal became more a cause of that rapid pace.

"You're fine, Trey. Just let that nervousness fuel your passion. It's okay to be anxious. God, my first time...my first real time...I was a wreck. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I'll be damned if being scared didn't make it feel incredible. That's a feeling you miss once it's gone."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah. You do something enough, you get used to it. No matter what it is. Especially your first time, since there's only truly one of those. Doesn't mean it's any less fun, Jesus no. Always new stuff to do, new people to do."

Trey chuckled. "I bet you see everything. How old were you?"

"When I had my first? Ten, I think."

Trey's blinked. "Ten? You were only ten?"

"It's more common than you think," said the Rottweiler, reaching over to Trey's nipple to tweak it a little. The coyote closed his eyes dreamily, dusting the bed behind him with his tail. "He was also older than me. Like, thirty."

"Whoa! You got molested for your first time?"

"I wasn't molested, Trey. He was my babysitter, and he didn't force me to do anything. I pretty much knew I was gay back then too. It just kind of happened. I had taken my shower for the night, and I'd just got done kicking his ass at Sonic the Hedgehog. It was new back then, you know, so when I wasn't doing homework I was playing Sonic. But anyway, he was pissed because I beat him so bad, so he shoved me off the bed. Then we started wrestling, and before we knew it, he was lying on top of me and we both had hardons."

"Sounds like every porn story I've read."

"That's because it happens a lot. He asked me if I was hard, and I said yes. He asked me if I liked it, and I said yes. He asked me if I'd like to kiss him, and I said yes. By the time my parents came home three hours later, we were both zonked out in my bed. Thank God they just let us sleep or they would have noticed his cock buried inside me when they pulled the covers away. That was a close call." Trey was looking down, and Tracy didn't even have to move to know what he was watching. Recalling that fond memory had done wonders.

Licking his lips, the coyote said, "You must have had fun."

"It's not going to bite you, Trey," said Tracy, shuffling a bit closer. "Touch it if you want. You'll never get an easier shot, that's for sure."

"Okay." Trey's voice was tiny, but he reached over anyway and hooked two fingers under the panties, brushing the tip of the Rottie's cock. He jerked slightly, but in a good way, silently rooting the coyote on as the last of his clothing came off. This was one of his favorite parts of the evening, the big exposé. The time when things got down to business and the teasing was over. As Tracy shucked the panties away from his feet, he stretched, allowing Trey a luxurious look at his bits.

"Now you." The Rottweiler threw a leg over the coyote, pulling them face to face, nuzzled the nose in front of his own while pressing their erections together. He smelled the faint aroma of tomato and basil lingering behind the spearmint gum Trey had apparently been chewing before he'd arrived, as well as their respective musks rising into the room around them, and then the warmth of the kid's tongue over his snout. More surprised than anything, Tracy moaned into the coyote and twisted his head into the kiss Trey had begun.

Age, by no means, is the equivalent of experience and skill. Many of the naughty old men in Tracy's career had been terrible kissers, which may or may not have been the reason they had required his services in the first place. Contrarily, some of his younger clientele had swapped spit as if they were in a competition, with all the passion and intensity one might expect. Trey didn't start out very well, but he learned quickly. His roaming tongue and nipping jaws were a marked contrast to his previous reserved state, but when Tracy slowed him down and used his mouth as an example, the coyote caught on and worked with the Rottweiler instead of fighting. As their bodies joined top to bottom, Trey's paws circled Tracy's back in a natural, less stiff posture. His hormones were finally working in his favor.

Tracy noted with satisfaction the effect all this intimacy was having on the yote: Trey ground up against him, not in a lewd way but in an undulating slow wave, as to make the most of the contact between their sheaths. Trey wouldn't let the Rottie pull away from his mouth, locking teeth and lips desperately. Finally Tracy had to physically push back to get some air.

"Let me breathe a little, my Lord!" he pawed at his half-exposed maleness, licking off the few beads of pre stuck to his finger. Trey lay, panting hard, flushed and drooling. He looked like his brain had just exploded upon finding out the body it was attached to could be used as a sexual tool. Though he seemed to be staring at the bedspread, it was with the detachedness of the highly aroused. When Trey finally got his breath back, he looked at Tracy with shining eyes, and Tracy realized what a big thing this must be for the young canine.

The Rottweiler had only his own experience to go on, but he remembered how he'd felt when Rod, his babysitter, had admitted his erection after seeing Tracy's small member. Something had been bridged in that moment that had erased the line between child and adult, between Just Us Guys and The Two Of Us. And Rod had smiled, Tracy had nodded bashfully, and they had kissed. The beginning of a wonderful, carnal evening.

"I want you out of those," Tracy pointed to Trey's boxers, and the coyote had them off before another word. It was a nice little package, made even better by the fact that Trey was making no move to hide himself. In fact, he had a knee up, making a nice furry frame for the plump girth of his cock to slide halfway out into the open. The Rottweiler bypassed the usual tease and just held it by the sheath, sliding the skin over the middle of the shaft, and listening to Trey's shallow breathing.

It was a nicely-sized cock, pretty much what Tracy had seen in the picture. On the PDA, he had been on his knees, arms behind his head, and fully erect. The pose did justice to the strong, shapely frame and well-manicured muscles. Trey had looked confident, almost seductive in his posture...a marked difference from the disgruntled horniness he now exuded. But part of the sex was losing yourself to the feeling anyway, bringing out that true inner animal to take the place of the everyday face, if only for however long it took to get off.

Trey wasn't going to get any softer, so Tracy went on and slid the remaining yotecock into the open. A full seven inches, it lay heavily across one thigh, pink and smooth and wet.

"Very nice. I knew I saw something worth exploring in that picture," the Rottweiler almost whispered.

Again, Trey blushed. "Thanks. Every time Dad and I go work out, or swimming or something, he makes a joke about how I'll never measure up to him."

"Was he joking, or really being serious?" Tracy knew the kind of man Verne Kinkaid was, and with no mother in the picture, what he could do to Trey to poison him against his own masculinity, not to mention sexuality. The tough love thing didn't always work the way the books described.

Stroking himself lightly in thought, the coyote said, "I'm pretty sure he was joking. I mean, I know he's trying to make me a real man, all macho and chauvinist and shit. I can see through that, I just don't let on because I know he'll argue it to death." It was obvious this weighed heavily on Trey's mind a lot of the time, but he was mature enough to take the passive abuse.

"I have a feeling you not only measure up, Trey, but you probably surpass your old man. I saw that BMW outside when I pulled up, and he's gotta be compensating for something. You think?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe...maybe I should give your dad a free bonus when I'm done with you, hmm? Just enough to get his pants down, so we could see who's who," the Rottie grinned an evil grin. It would be sweet revenge to go down on the old man, then show off the goods at the end. He might get booted out of the house, but he would still get his money...and Trey would still be Trey.

The coyote rolled his eyes. "That would rock so hard. But he might kill you afterwards, heh."

"Worth a thought, though," Tracy replied, rolling toward Trey and his boner. "But I came here for you." Without all the drag getup in the way, there was no problem bending double and taking Trey's tip over his tongue. He enjoyed the snarl-growl-moan that so often accompanied a very good start to a very good blowjob, and the weight of paws on his head only made it better. They groomed through his hair and around his ears, a fitting reciprocation for the moment.

Only a few passes of his tongue and Tracy was able to slide easily to the coyote's knot, still unswelled, and hold his snout there while relishing the core of Trey's scent. The top of his throat tickled from the leaking organ, but the thicker mucus back there made it easier to slide his lips. At Papillon, the girls (some of whom were actually guys) would swap stories about who did what with whom, who had the biggest cock, who'd taken the most cum that night. Tracy couldn't understand the emphasis on huge members; in his opinion, a nicely-shaped cock was more valuable because he could make more use of it instead of gagging until he got his muzzle filled. Where was the fun in that?

Trey's knot bumped at the Rottweiler's closed teeth, urgently seeking an entrance it would never be allowed. No way was he going to be able to fit the rest of that in. After a few tries, whining in frustration, the yote seemed to calm down and settle for letting Tracy do the work. And work he did; once he knew how Trey liked it and where his sensitive spots were, the rest was only a matter of manipulation.

As the minutes passed, Tracy fell into the same kind of routine he had developed working at Papillon. He was enjoying himself, because he wouldn't be doing it if he didn't, but his primary purpose was pleasing his client. While he didn't have an oral fixation, he had developed a strong jaw and Trey's cock was a walk in the park. He could do this forever, or until the coyote came, and maybe then some. No moaning or vulgar language was needed; the wet sounds of lips and precum and flesh was more than enough to keep them both hot.

So concentrated were they that it almost came to an abrupt end. If Tracy hadn't been gripping Trey's knot, massaging the bulk against its sheath, he wouldn't have felt it surge full of blood. He pulled away in time to see the coyote let out the breath he had been holding for who knew how long, shudder bodily and say, "Wuh, why in the hell'd you do that?" Tracy had stopped the climax, but Trey showed remarkable self-control by keeping his paws off of his groin and rolling onto his back. His chest rose and fell over his ribs, making him look thinner.

"You didn't seriously think I was going to get you off that quickly," said Tracy. "We would've had to stop all the fun early."

"I don't need that long to rest," the coyote panted, paws on his undulating stomach. His cock rested under his navel, undeflated and shining. "I'm seventeen."

"What? You're how old?"

"What, what's the problem?"

"Nothing, except that the age of consent in this state is eighteen."

Trey was flabbergasted. He sat up. "So my dad lied to your boss?"

Tracy wanted to shake the Mature Finger of Tsk-Tsk and chastise Verne for not only lying to Darla, but breaking a state law to get his son a hooker. But he was having too much fun, and since he was already in for a penny... "Guess so. Doesn't really matter to me, and your dad's not going to tell, being as he was the one who started the ball rolling on this whole thing."

"Huh. He really doesn't want me to be gay, does he?"

"Like I said, you might have to give him time," said the Rottweiler, reaching for one of the coyote's paws. "You're never going to change, so either he'll get used to it or he won't. If he doesn't, he's losing a great son."

"Thanks. I hope you're right. It's not like I can go up to him and tell him I like having cocks in my ass more than banging some chick's vagina." He laughed a little, and Tracy joined in.

"Not really. There are more ways to come out. Lots of better ways. How do you know you like having cocks in your ass, eh? I thought you were virgin," Tracy waved his paws around with an emphasis on the virgin part.

"Well," Trey stuttered, "I haven't actually had sex, but I like how it feels. I put other stuff in there sometimes."

"Don't we all. Like what?"

"Oh, you don't want to know that; it's boring." The coyote was stalling now that he'd gotten himself into a corner, but Tracy wasn't going to let him off easy.

"Try me. I have the patience of a saint. See?" pointing at the invisible halo on his head, though Tracy was sure they both knew if there had to be something up there it would be a pair of sharp-looking horns. Trey smiled nervously, blushing another of those young-boy blushes that went up into his ears, tinting the beige there pink. "Come on. What's the weirdest thing you've stuck up there? I bet, whatever you can come up with, I can match."

Trey pulled his knees up to his chin, clasping his paws in front to hold them. His balls poked out like a fluffy apricot above the inviting cleft between his legs, left bare by his limp tail. "The weirdest thing...the weirdest thing I can think of is, um, a bottle of my parents' wedding wine."

"Jesus, ouch! How the hell did you get that in there?" The Rottweiler bent over, brought his muzzle close to the coyote's tailhole, and parted his cheeks in mock inspection, gaining a gasp and a tail thwack in the back of the head. Trey fell onto his back and spread his legs.

"It was, heh, tapered and empty. Ooohhh... Easier than I thought once it got in."

This was different. Tracy was eager to see where this conversation was leading. He was traditionally a versatile bottom, but that didn't stop him from giving his dick a workout when it was needed. Trey sounded like a very anal-centric person, and though the Rottweiler had been expecting to get stuffed, he could more than readily satisfy the other side of the equation.

"How about a piston from a 1968 Camaro?" No response, either from bewilderment or the fact that Tracy's nose was now nuzzling under yoteballs, savoring the teen's strong, spicy musk. So much stronger, compared with older men. He had no idea what he'd been missing in younger clients. He might have to speak with Darla about this. Either way, he began to lick at the tender, not-so-fresh-but-just-right skin, which twitched welcomingly.

"Aaaahhh, man," the coyote moaned/whimpered, pawfuls of bed held tight. "You...got a fuckin' piston in your ass?" Tracy pushed Trey's legs apart, and they fell onto the bed, spread wide and relaxed, while his tail dusted the back of his neck. He tried to ignore the tickle of thigh fur on his black, floppy ears.

"I was getting my car fixed," the Rottie paused to answer. "The conversation got around to pounding pistons, lubing rods and dipsticks. Mechanic used too many metaphors to ignore, and I called him on it. Said he would tear up the bill if I let him fuck me. Laid me out on the work bench with some 10W-30 and warmed me up with his piston. Then he put his cock in. I miss that little shop; they gave me great deals on repairs from that day on."

"Sounds...dirty and hot at the same time. Oooohhh..." Tracy held Trey's tail still, digging the tip of his tongue into the center of the coyote's vulnerable spot, slowly winning against the strong muscle. The more he licked, the stronger the scent became, so much so that it was intoxicating. Trey's scent glands were right down here, and they were not having a production problem. The fur was still relatively straight, clean and short, and made for easy access. Coyote balls made for a nice snout warmer while he worked his way into the other canine's body.

Those balls bounced around every once in a while, as (Tracy assumed) Trey pawed at himself. Slick and not quite virgin, the yote's tailhole gave way completely, and the Rottweiler was able to taste the very essence of his client. Like feasting on a fine dinner, the explosion of tastes and scents on his palate was of exquisite complexity, all male and all Trey. He found himself wondering what Verne tasted like, fresh from a long, involved workout. He would certainly try to get in the older coyote's pants, whether it was by old-fashioned seduction or other, less underpawed, means.

Once he had a good amount of saliva in and around the coyote's hole, Tracy replaced his tongue with a finger, not surprised in the least when it slid in nearly to the second knuckle with no resistance. Trey moaned and bore down against the intrusion.

Tracy kneeled next to the writhing canine on the bed, wriggling his finger against the hot solid prostate. "This is what you want, isn't it?" he asked one folded-back ear. It took a few moments for the question to register, but Trey nodded weakly.

"Yes, please...I can't stand it."

"You realize I'll be taking your virginity."

"I don't care. I wouldn't want it any other way. Who better than you to do it?"

Tracy winced. Folly of youth, not thinking a few inches past Go. "You could wait until you find someone who loves you, who cares about more than just having sex. You could wait until you have a boyfriend."

And Trey turned his head and kissed the Rottweiler, hard, with more passion than he'd felt in a long, long time. He knew Trey was too smart to fall in love with a prostitute, during one night of wild doggy sex.

"You're the one teaching me, right? So when I find that boyfriend, I won't have to fumble over everything. I want to be good for that. You're good, and I trust you."

Tracy kissed the yote's nose. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"You mean a lot." Trey smiled, his eyes shining and bright, then grimaced as Tracy pulled his finger away and leaned over, coating the tailhole and his cock with a fair amount of spit.

Trey said, "I keep some lube under the bed."

"Believe me," Tracy said matter-of-factly, "A cock is a whole lot different than a carrot or a wine bottle. For the first time, lots and lots of spit is best. Otherwise it stings like hell if you decide to stretch too much. See?" the Rottweiler presented his cock to Trey's wide eyes.

"I want my mouth on that," the coyote practically drooled.

"Too late. It's reserved for other places." With that, Tracy pulled the coyote to the edge of the bed, entertained by the noises he made. "Ready?"

Trey was by no means ready, but he nodded and looked the Rottie in his warm brown eyes.

"Your wish is my command, Master." Holding Trey's legs up and apart with one paw, Tracy struggled to maintain a grip on his slick member as it settled in that magical joining of thighs, balls and tail, and met warmth. He spread some pre around with his tapered, leaking head and pushed forward with muscles more accustomed to backing up against another cock than pushing one forward. Neither canine made a move or sound, and they soon felt very exposed in the silence. The pressure gave way, finally, and Tracy slid in up to the knot. But it was uncomfortable.

"Is it all the way in?"

"Mostly. Relax for me, if you could. Don't clench so tight." With concentration, Trey was able to let go of most of his tension, and the vice-like grip turned into a snug, soft fit. Tracy knew the coyote was adaptable, and this would be sweet and enjoyable. He nudged forward and back, using the first small movements to lube a path for his shaft. The feeling was heaven; it'd been practically forever since he'd had a nice young tail. That's when he noticed Trey was crying.

"What's wrong? You need to tell me if I'm hurting you." Tracy stopped and bent over between Trey's legs, touching nosepads. The gesture was more intimate than he liked to be with clients, but this was different.

"No," Trey blinked, sending twin tears down into his ears and flicking them away. "It doesn't hurt. It's the best feeling. I'm just thinking about Dad. He wants me to be straight so bad, and Tracy...this feels right!" His lips started up in a sob snarl, but he just sniffed. "This feels right. I can't explain it any other way than that. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," replied the Rottie. He was buried to the knot in an underage coyote, unbeknownst to his overbearing militant father, naked with the exception of a pair of hose, but he knew exactly what Trey meant. It didn't matter what Verne wanted, or expected. His son was this way, and he would just have to get used to it or risk losing the relationship they had. There was that subtle feeling when things felt the way they were supposed to be, and Tracy felt it too at that moment. Not for himself, but for the canine under him.

Trey was pawing at his sheath, and looked desperate, his eyes dry and back to glowing their more natural fiendish glow.

"Don't hold back," said Tracy.

"You too," answered Trey. "It feels so good."

"It gets that way." It was as if they'd been practicing for hours instead of a few fleeting minutes. Tracy was by no means extraordinarily well-hung, but he was still pleased with the amount of maneuverability he already had. He was glad to skip the awkward breaking-in stage where every other thrust was accompanied by facial expressions that could be interpreted equally as pain and pleasure, thereafter followed by questions and assurances, and finally a workable rhythm. But the Rottweiler was able to get into that rhythm right away, with Trey nothing but a drooling ball of pleased coyote.

"You can go faster, if you want," Trey huffed, eyes slitted and glazed, his paw grasping the base of his cock as if it were a doorknob. He was holding back already, afraid to touch himself for fear he would set something off.

"Whatever you want, Trey. Depends on if you want to make this last. If you want to come, you go ahead and let it happen. It's not like we can't do this again." Tracy knew it was a mistake to talk like that; not against his employment agreement, but asking for trouble just the same. But he couldn't help but feel a kinship, like that of an older brother, for the coyote. There was still so much more to teach him.

"I don't think my dad would pay anymore after tonight," Trey's voice was strained with his legs up as they were, but he looked like he was glad for the distracting conversation. The pleasure would not last, but that didn't mean they couldn't drag it out as much as possible.

"Who said I had to be paid? I like you...and I kinda feel responsible for opening you up to all of this." Tracy looked down to watch the last three inches of Rottie meat sliding in and out of Trey's body. God, that full-contact friction was exquisite; fast or slow, it was quickly becoming a moot point. Pushing the yote back onto the bed, Tracy climbed up and settled on top, taking advantage of the shallower angle and easier thrusting. From here, he only needed to use his hips instead of his whole lower half, and he could reach Trey's member with his muzzle if he wanted.

Trey stiffened, grasping Tracy around the middle and grooming the short black fur of his back. "Oh, God, wow..." If he'd gone lower, he would have felt the Rottweiler's stub of a tail wagging as much as its truncated length would let it. "You would come back for me?"

"As a *grunt* friend, yeah...heh...you're something special. You'll make some guy really *unf* happy one day." Tracy sped up slightly and nibbled at the coyote's neck, finding little purchase on the young, tight skin but finding enough. The hot length of Trey's cock pressed into his stomach, wetting him down to the skin.

The yote's reply melted into a monosyllabic groan as Tracy leaned in with increasing urgency. To hell with holding back; that prospect had long been thrown out, even before they had lost their clothes. He wanted more of that alluring musk, and since he was currently plugging one source of it he would have to get it the only other way he could. Leaving Trey's succulent neck, albeit reluctantly, Tracy shuffled and bent down, finding and engulfing the top half of the coyote's member, grunting as his taste buds thanked him.

Like a fine cigar or an expensive tequila, Trey's pre was the ghost of a promise of things to come, quite literally. Strong but not pungent, reminiscent of cedar and sage, it told a story of ancestry, of wilderness and craftiness, of desire and innocence. So different! he kept saying in his mind over and over again, because it was, and it was irresistible. The Rottie could only go down a few inches, but his tongue made up for the rest of the way. Making no move to stop Trey's climax, he attacked every surface he could reach, under the head, over the tip, the edge of the knot, everything.

Trey was squirming bodily under Tracy's thrusting form, impaled and none the worse for it. A dog possessed, no sound issued from his muzzle but uneven breaths and hissed air through fangs. Chest heaving, tail held stiff on the bed, he reached down as far as his arms would allow and helped the Rottweiler pound into him and his prostate. His groin was afire, taken over by a professional muzzle and tongue, unable to resist the growing heat and pressure of imminent release.

"Guh, guhnna...huh..." Tracy heard the failed attempt at words, but their meaning held nothing for him until he felt his mouth being widened by the coyote's swelling organ. It was a good thing Trey was relatively quiet, because the sound of him shoving as many inches as he could down the Rottie's throat was wet and loud, loud enough to be heard through the door. If Verne happened to be passing by, he would most likely hear it, but he would at least assume the action included a vagina. The one good thing about making noise was that, straight or gay, it sounded much the same.

Tracy held his knot just outside Trey's hole as the coyote began to spasm against the roof of his mouth; the constant pressure was more comfortable than humping through an orgasm. That didn't last long, however; as soon as the heat of seed splashed over his tongue, the resistance against him fell inward, and so did he, practically sucked in by the coyote's spasming muscles. Keeping his eyes open, in case Trey started feeling pain, Tracy worked through the rest of the load, using it to his advantage. He was already too swollen to move much, but that no longer mattered.

Toeclaws scraped along his back, flexing and contracting over and again. There was no telling if Trey had gotten off earlier today, but judging by the amount of cum flowing into his throat, just now abating, the answer was most certainly no. Little eeps and whines accompanied the last of the coyote's climax, and as Tracy's hips caught fire he let the member fall to Trey's belly with a slurp. With a straightened back came added thrusting leverage.

"Did you...?"

"Gimme a minute." And a minute was all it took, really. After the evening's activities and revelations, Tracy found he'd actually been holding back. Without being distracted by bringing Trey off, just the feel of the kid's well-used insides against his cock made for a short trip, and soon he was hunched over, emptying his balls and spraying spittle all over the bed. For all the cross-dressing, sashaying and limp-wristing, this was when he felt the most male. When he was using his body as it was intended; no bending over for old men, no little schoolgirl, no waitress, no nothing. Not even a sissy-boy Rottweiler. Just a man, albeit dressed in pantyhose, pounding the guts of another man. For money.

Maybe not totally male.

"Fuck..." He held it as long as he could strain, and when he let it out Trey was lying there to catch him bodily. There was really nowhere he could go, not for a little while. Opening his eyes to see Trey smiling stupidly down at him, he said, "Feel good?"

"It's really in me, isn't it?"

"For the next thirty minutes or so, yeah. Are you comfortable, or do you want to switch to sides?" Tracy rested his chin between the coyote's nipples, so his head bobbed up and down with his words.

Trey straightened out his legs with a groan. "Hrrgh, this is fine for me. I can't believe...I--I'm sitting here, and--and--you're here, inside me. This is unreal. That felt so good! I've never felt anything that good before."

"Pretty powerful stuff. It can get you in trouble easy, hon. Be careful. There is drama everywhere, if you care to look for it." Trey clenched, making Tracy jump. "Hey, naughty boy."

"Sorry." Yawn. "Feel like I wanna take a nap. What time is it?"

Looking over the coyote's shoulder to find the nearest clock, Tracy said, "It's quarter after one in the morning, Trey. Either your dad is deaf, or he's got deep pockets."

"The last one. I can't even paw off without him hearing. He's got military-grade hearing. I really love him, you know." Trey's voice had gotten softer, more confidential, as if no one would take him seriously if he didn't sound grave.

"I don't doubt it. I could tell that by the way you two act and talk about each other. Almost certain he'll come around eventually, but in the meantime I don't think he's going to give you a bunch of trouble about it. If you ever need anyone to talk to, as soon as we get unstuck you can have one of my business cards."

"Wow, really?" Trey asked. "You really weren't kidding when you talked about teaching me and all, were you?"

"This is not something I do often, but one thing this world needs less of is kids with fucked-up relationships with their fathers."

"He's just gotta come around. He's the only friend I have." There seemed to be more truth to that statement than anything Trey had said the entire night. A lot of pain behind it, too. Tracy had a feeling he was opening a Pandora's box that didn't even belong to him, but, after deflowering the kid, he kind of felt an obligation.

Stretching up to lick along the yote's chin, Tracy said, "Give it time, like I said, and you'll make it work. Trust me."

* * *

Verne hadn't heard any appreciable noise since that Rottweiler had trotted upstairs in her oversized trench coat. Though he held the newspaper in his paws, in between the lines of text he could imagine all sorts of bad situations, all the things that could backfire in his face. That the most serious of these was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, was not lost on him. He could go to jail for hiring his son a prostitute; that one little year made quite a difference. But, as a father, Verne simply could not live with himself knowing that, after finding that illicit, homosexual material on Trey's computer, he did nothing to show his son what a mistake it would be to continue down that path to destruction.

The lights were low, a fire crackled from the hearth, and the sports page was spread out before him. Once he signed Tracy's invoice and bid her goodnight, Verne planned on having a nice long discussion with Trey about what had gone on, and what he had learned. As much as he wanted to lambast the gays and their lifestyle, he knew it would be more productive to have a real man-to-man, a real down-to-earth. The older coyote hoped to God they had done more than just talk the night away. It all looked good on paper and in theory, but nothing took the place of a cock in a nice, tight pussy to change the way one felt about sex.

Not until he was roused by footsteps did Verne realize he'd let himself doze, wooed into dreamland by the warm flames at his feet and the words in front of his face. He folded the paper and stood, tracking the steps with a rote memorization of every squeaky board in the house.

One long, thin stiletto heel descended the first riser, then another, quickly joined by a pair of dust-colored footpaws that could only be Trey's. They descended together, side by side, giggling and talking in low voices like lovers with a shared secret. That was good in itself, at least.

Verne waited until they reached the bottom before speaking. "You have fun, boy?" he asked, trying to bridge the line between concerned father and best friend. The younger coyote, still smiling, looked up and blushed, which was still a bit sissy, but forgivable. He glanced at the Rottweiler, who was whispering in his ear, and they both giggled again. Trey's bathrobe fluttered slightly; he hadn't even bothered to dress.

"Yes, sir." Funny, Trey hadn't called him that in years. Felt nice. Maybe the kid had learned some respect, too. Tracy had one arm over Trey's shoulder, and the other one twirled the patch of chest fur showing between the folds of the robe. Hmm, it looked like she might have done her job too well, and gotten his son wrapped around her finger. He could clear that up afterwards, quickly and efficiently.

Tracy sidled up to the older coyote, sliding an arm around his waist and squeezing him into her. "Trey was a very good boy, Mr. Kinkaid. At first I thought we were just going to chat away like a feel-good episode of Oprah, but once I started putting the moves on him it kind of took off from there. You should be very proud of him, he'll break all the girls hearts one day." Trey winked at the Rottweiler with arms crossed over his chest. Tracy was a bit too close, but Verne couldn't quite get up the nerve to shrug off the touch, especially since it was so low on his waist.

"I'm glad to hear that my money wasn't wasted tonight," said Verne, venturing an arm around the Rottie. He had to admit that, for the last three hours, he'd entertained any number of scenarios between Trey and Tracy. Fueled by hope for his son's future, they were all overwhelmingly successful, and they all made him at least a little hard. Not that his son excited him; it was more the idea of the boy passing into manhood the same way Verne himself had...except Verne had been fourteen, and the year had been 1978.

"Oh no, not at all," said Tracy. Her right paw crept lower, and Verne found it harder still to say anything to stop her. He couldn't be setting such a promiscuous example in front of his son.

"I'll go in the kitchen and get your checkbook," said Trey with a roll of his eyes, and padded out of the room. Verne watched after him with a pleading look as the younger yote disappeared and Tracy's hand slipped into his pants, cupping his testicles. He whimpered, but suppressed most of it.

"My my, seems the son was a good indicator of the father," the Rottweiler said as she played around with the tip of Verne's sheath. "I just knew you two shared the good genes."

Verne steeled his nerves and cleared his throat. "As much as I would like to take you up on your generous offer, I can't have my son thinking this kind of behavior is appropriate. As a father, I have to be mature and set a good example." His cock wasn't setting any kind of example whatsoever, with its yearning to be free of his body. Tracy stroked at him harder.

"Come on, Verne, you're getting the two-for-one special right now...I usually charge a premium for doing multiple family members, but since Trey was such a good boy I'll forget about it tonight." Trey clattered around in the kitchen, thankfully unaware.

"Dad, where's your checkbook?" he called.

"Just grab my wallet; I'll use the credit card I put up before." And, lower, to Tracy: "Please, ma'am...I'm indecent."

"You're also leaking," Tracy replied, withdrawing and making a sultry show of licking her pawpads clean. "You even taste the same. Tell you what: I'll give you a rain check for half off next time, if you promise to call me up real soon. I want to spend more time giving little Trey...lessons, and I want to finish what I started with you, big boy." Trey came back in from the kitchen with Verne's wallet.

"I didn't know which one you wanted, so I brought 'em all."

"Thanks."

"She got you too?"

"What do you mean?" Verne followed Trey's gaze to his crotch, which was visibly tented and stained. "Well, as you surely know by now, that's an entirely natural reaction."

Trey rolled his eyes. "Boy, do I ever."

Pulling an invoice book from her purse, Tracy said, "So the card you want to charge on is the MasterCard, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So that's three hours at a hundred an hour, well worth it if I may speak for young Trey here." The Rottweiler wrote on the top sheet and tore it off, handing it to Verne. "Wish I could stay longer and be the filling in a yote sandwich, but I must be on my way."

"Are you sure you don't want to, Dad?" Trey was smirking in a way that told he was being facetious, and it irked the older coyote. It wasn't disrespect, but it was budding ego.

"I thought we fixed that problem, son. I expect to hear no more of that."

"Yes, sir."

"But Verne, he was such a good lover!" exclaimed Tracy, her voice suddenly more feminine...a little too feminine, too lispy. "Showed me that I didn't have to be a bottom to love sex. It's been so long, I forgot how good it feels to stuff a hole!"

Wait. Something does not follow.

"Yeah, Dad, you should have seen us!" Trey was wide-eyed and excited. "I was just there, on the bed on my back, and Tracy was pounding and pounding, and he was sucking me while he did it! Isn't that the most awesome thing?" Verne shifted from his son to the prostitute he had just called a "he." What the hell?

"Just talking about it's got me all hot again, see Verne?" Tracy stood on tiptoe and locked lips with the older coyote before Verne could figure out that's what he was aiming for. He was a bit taken aback by the Rottweiler's warm breath, and the wave of perfume and makeup that followed. The slight greasiness of lipstick got into his whiskers, and the thought of sucking on the tongue that had probably been in Trey's muzzle was more than a little revolting. Not to mention the solid bulge he felt when Tracy took his paw and jammed it between his panty-clad legs. That was no camel toe, that was a scrotum. As he tried to look over at his son with a combination of rage and helplessness, Trey actually had the gall to adjust himself while watching the vulgar display.

Tracy ground into Verne's fingers before letting go rather dramatically, panting with paws fluttering over his chest. "My stars and garters, but you are one helluva kisser, Verne Kinkaid. "What a man! Every fag's dream." He turned to Trey and kissed him as well, giving his bare crotch a squeeze. "I'll see you next time, sweetie, okay?"

"Thanks for everything, Tracy. I can't thank you enough."

"Now comes the hard part."

"Yeah, I know," the coyote looked over at Verne, who was still at a loss for words. He couldn't get the taste of Tracy's tongue out of his mouth. At least he could maintain some semblance of decorum until the fairy Rottweiler left. Then it just occurred to him: What had they done for three hours up there? Oh, my God, what did they do?

"See you later, big boy. Be a good doggy," Tracy lisped and winked as he sashayed out the front door, shutting it behind him. Trey watched him go, tracing an upper fang with the tip of his tongue. Verne's half-erection should have subsided by now, but Tracy's fingers around his waist, around his cock...they wouldn't go away. The charade had been complete.

Verne shuffled backwards until he met the back of the sofa, swearing as he pinched his tail. As he balanced himself, Trey tightened up his robe and took in a deep breath. Something told him the boy had a lot on his mind, and it wasn't women.

"Trey, what just happened? Would you mind explaining it to me, because I'm really not sure right now."

Paws in his pockets, biting his lip, the young coyote looked his father straight in the eyes and said, "Dad, I think we need to talk."

FIN

11/13/06-12/17/07