You Can Do Anything I Put My Mind To
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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I see a lot of people in my profession, and often times it's the kind of deal where you just don't know what to think about people anymore. I mean, I work in a bar. A gay bar, actually, and when you work in a bar long enough you kind of gain an acuteness for picking out moods, and none of them ever really seem all that positive. The best you can do, really, is to discern in a guy's nervous expression that this is his first time here, and if he only comes this time or one more time, he'll probably have maximized his pleasure, gotten his thrills, and moved onto to something less potentially soul-crushing like running for political office. Because soul-crushing is all a place like this really is if you overstay your welcome. Really, why do you come here in the first place? Because you can't find what you're looking for, really. It seems more like coming here doesn't really even help you find it, just kind of reminds you that you don't have it.
Ok, sorry, I don't want to be melodramatic. Really. It is a fun job, and people do have fun. You serve drinks to cute guys and ugly guys, and you get the cute guys drunk and set them up with the ugly guys and you feel you've done your public service for the week. Then they give you money, and then maybe you let them get a peek at your ass while you reach for a high shelf or something and you find your tip grows just a little. That's something I do, I mean, you get bored. The science isn't real firm. It's not like I have a notepad anywhere to keep detailed figures, but I have a good sense and a good memory, so I test a few theories out over time. You stretch your arms and let your shirt lift above your tummy - tip goes up a little. You show one guy your ass your tip goes up a lot, he sees you doing it for all the other patrons and all their tips go down. I don't really need the money, and in a way the kind of unspecific knowledge I get from this study is well worth whatever I might lose. You have to have a kind of careless attitude toward whether you actually make money or not and just enjoy the job for what you can learn.
The uniforms aren't that bad either, I guess. I like to think I'm not that gay - it's a silly thing to pride yourself on, I know, but it's a small source of satisfaction that I don't freak out over new shoes or whatever. But the suits they have us wearing are just goddamned adorable. Assless chaps with a black string thong, a mesh shirt if you're feeling cold. And on top of all that they've got you wearing bow ties - cute, yeah, but I go for this black-on-white collar instead. Think it's just a little more classy. The place doesn't even try to hide what it is, and not only can I respect that, but there are a few co-workers I don't mind seeing in uniform every night.
I was going to say something about how you need to be smart to hold a job like this but I don't wanna go around all blowing myself. You don't really need to be cunning and charismatic to pour beers and mix drinks, but it's an advantage. There's a saying we have behind the bar about guys sitting and drinking - There's a reason these guys aren't on the dance floor. You don't pour successive shots for happy, satisfied people. Sometimes it's your job to make sure they leave the place at least feeling like somebody took interest in them, that they at least had a good conversation, that they'll remember something positive from the night.
I'm pretty easy to remember. No matter who else is in the club, I'm going to be the only Dalmatian in the room with mutli-colored spots, so... in one way, some people expect me to be the highlight of their night. It's a little condescending sometimes and you put up with some shit from a couple customers, but what am I going to do? Buy a shitload of white out? I'm not going to throw a pity party other than to complain that apparently something about spots like these means "Unavailable." I don't think they're unattractive, I just think people see them so much as a novelty people dismiss the fact that Hey, I got a dick too. Maybe I look more like someone who'd entertain at their nephew's birthday party than someone would could bend them over a couch.
But that's not that big of a matter. I'll take the occasional piece of ass like I'll take the occasional cigarette, but the sad fact is that working in a gay club all night more desensitizes you to sexuality than anything. Not that I can't still get my eye on someone and schmooze 'em up, hoping they'll take an extended smoke break with me, as each bartender gets 20 minutes a night to satisfy cravings. But that's not the standard, really. If anything, it's just to kind of revitalize your senses, shake off the dust that collects in your mind and remind yourself how a dirty, sweaty romp can still make you feel sexy and a little guilty afterwards. The only good sex is the sex that leaves you feeling a little guilty afterwards.
Ok, I'll admit it ahead of time then, that's what I'm doing tonight. I'm exercising a few of the more atrophied muscles, letting my body stretch out a little, and my victim is the poor little skunk there at the end of the bar, the one in the Kangol hat. He seems like a decent enough target. Cute, certainly, even if it's hidden behind a hell of a lot of rum at the moment, and a little pudgy, something I can hold onto but it's not like I can't lift him if I need to. I might need to. I'll actually probably need to.
I've known him a little bit longer than he's known me, and I think I've got him pretty well cased out. He's a smart guy, a little lost when it comes to love and sex, which is, of course, why he's here and not out on the dance floor... but I've always said it's the awkward that's endearing. I get him a drink and he stutters between saying "thank you" or "I appreciate it," like he can't decide which is more honest. I love that. Just an innocent, polite little guy stumbling around in a world not suited for him, I can't help but smile. And he can't seem to help but smile at me. Not quite the same way, I know, I know, but that's not a big deal for now.
See, he's been waiting for some white wolf to show up for about an hour now, and it's really just not going to happen. He's been in here on similar pretenses before, and it always ends up the same, to the point that I had to ask if maybe he was at the wrong bar. "No, they said the guy with the-" the self-consciousness in his voice rose "he said you'd be here and that's how I'd know. You do have the, uh-" he bit his lip and I saved him by finishing his sentence for him, then left him be. I didn't want to start a conversation with him. I didn't want him to get to know me too well. I was the landmark he used to establish dates with men who never showed up, and that was just a fine relationship for us to have for now. At least, that's how I intended it.
I gotta be honest, and don't think I'm an asshole. There weren't other guys. It's not difficult to make an account at a dating site, send a guy a few messages, and pull him in for a meeting. "Oh, I'm a white wolf, yeah I'd like that too, why I think you're perfectly charming, why don't we meet at that bar with the dog with the rainbow spots?" If I wanted him to come down, he came down. It was a mean trick, maybe, but I have to be honest in saying I was strangely smitten with the guy and it was the only way I knew I could do what's best for him. My attraction, as well as my conviction, only grew each time I tricked him down here. His earnestness just made him seem so honest, so... smart, in a way, if you take constant despair to be a mark of intelligence at least. I'm sorry if I can't really get it across, but I guess that just serves the point that I couldn't really pin down what I loved about him thus the beauty of my love, but... I kind of felt like he deserved something special. Nobody else would treat him well, his beauty was too subtle and refined for any of the guys you'd see out on the dance floor. His kindness too bare and unreserved not to be taken advantage of-- if I didn't first; At least I could be gentle with him. Ok, I know I'm just defending myself now for what I'm going to do later, but really, don't villainize me when you see. You didn't spend hours talking to him, you didn't get to see his private side bared in desperation only to see his public countenance erased of all of that. You might not understand what I'm going to do, but at least understand that I know I'm doing it for him. My rocks getting off is secondary.
He's got his face buried in his arms on the bar, and he's looking more than just a little woozy. I give him a tap and ask if he needs anything and he's just as politely dismissive as usual, spending of course more time apologizing and thanking than actually saying "no," but I make sure to keep his head up now. I've kept my distance before, kept him alone and simmering, letting his insecurities bubble up and mingle until I felt they were most ripe. That seems paradoxical, I know, but really you can't cleanse a wound without a little bit of pain. Remember that. It's going to be important.
And... and now a brown wolf has taken a seat next to him. Just perfect. Didn't expect this. I know this guy, too, he's a shark - no, he's not a shark, he's one of those little fish that swim next to sharks and peck the parasites off of them. He's lounged right up next to my adorable little skunk, all crass and... numb. The guy's numb. Probably only can feel with his dick, I bet. "Hey barkeep," he says, and I know he knows my name, "How about you get me and my new friend here a couple of shots?" Skunky just looks forward, as if he doesn't see the fellow, but I guess this can play to my advantage. The hopeful look on the skunk's face when he felt the touch on his shoulder was only as adorable as the shattered one immediately afterwards. Perhaps that strike of faint hope was the unintentional masterstroke of my art, but at the same rate I can't let this guy be schmoozing my skunk. He doesn't know what he's doing, he doesn't know how to handle him. He just wants to pull him home and have a throw. What does this wolf know about the skunk's feelings? Does he care half as much if I do about what he wants? No.
He's already whispering in my skunk's ear, without a reaction from him. Wolf might as well not be there. The asshole breaks from his seducing to demand drinks, again.
"How about instead," I tell him, "you go find another seat?" He looks at me like I care I just lost his tip. "In fact, get the fuck out of my bar altogether."
He refuses long enough to justify my calling Security, and I give him a wave as he's escorted out.
"That's not the wolf you were waiting for, was it?" I ask my skunk in the Kangol hat and glasses.
"No..." he replies sullenly, not noticing he never told me it was a wolf he was waiting for, at all.
"Ahhhh, that's quite alright," I assure him, and I reach for a special shot glass below the bar, as well as a regular one. "Anyone who gets stood up here gets a free shot, and gets a shot for the asshole who didn't show. What'll ya have?" A Jager, please, he appreciates it, thank you. I'll never get over that. I pour the first into the regular glass and the second into the trick, and into the first I drop a little something special. I don't think he notices at all when he tilts his head back and downs the first shot, then as he's still cringing sends the tricked second right onto the shirt he probably had dry cleaned just for this occasion. I think at first he's too drunk to even notice, and I actually wonder a little if I even needed that little something in the first shot, but I guess it's better safe than sorry and you can't undo things now. Would've been hot for him to fight back, but I don't think he or I are going to complain doing it this way.
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, I'm so sorry, I'm sooooooo sorry," I said, making myself seem a little more dramatic than I really intend to be. "Got it all over your new shirt too, let me just take those glasses from you and let's go to the bathroom to get you cleaned up!"
I don't know if I'm playing up my excitement a little too much but whatever, he's far too gone to critique my acting, so instead he just kinda latches onto me and follows me to the bathroom. I can tell with him on my shoulder that he's not smashed, he's not drunk, he's just downtrodden. Incredibly, incredibly dismayed, and I gotta admit I feel a small bit of pride. When you can work a guy so far down you mistake his mental state of defeat for a stupor, you've accomplished something. I'd expected him to take it badly, but I think I outdid myself. He apologizes and thanks and excuses himself the entire walk there, so goddamn cute, but I can hear in his voice that he's had it. He's had it and he's done. He wants to go home and he wants to crash into bed and he wants to jerk off to an underwear magazine, wake up, and try to set this whole thing up again with another one of my fake accounts. Remember what I said about not being able to heal a wound without a little stinging. You might think I'm an asshole if you forget.
The bathrooms here are nice; I think because management realizes people fuck in 'em. We've got rooms, we've got plenty of special rooms, we've even got more than a few dark corners, but gay guys and fucking bathrooms, I'll never know. Ok, I guess I just said something a little hypocritical, but I figured he'd be a little too expectant had I found a reason to lead him to one of the private rooms. I think I've got him so far off his guard now, though, he didn't even notice when I locked the bathroom door behind us. I do a quick double-check on the tip of my toes to make sure no one is in the stalls, then I'm back to fixing my Skunk.
"I'm so sorry," he slurs a little, "I don't mean to be a nuisance, I must have thrown it back a little too hard, just..." he sighs, looking down, collapsing against a wall, "just been a bad night. I'm sure you've seen more than a few of them yourself."
"Personally?" I ask.
"No! No! I didn't mean to- I meant- you see guys at the bar like me-" he says with hyphens in his voice. He wouldn't be incorrect either way he meant it, really. He's a little sluggish already, but not so much that I think he'll attribute it to the Jager he actually managed to get in his mouth.
"No harm done," I say walking towards him, actually wiggling my fingers now in anticipation. I just know he's going to love this. I just know it. You can say whatever you want about me, I know you will, and I know he'll do his fair share of complaining in the moment, too. Just don't forget that, to put it in blunt terms, I know what the fuck I'm doing. I think I do. "Now let's get that wet shirt off of you." I feel this sudden pang in my sides like I really am just going to clean his shirt, but that doesn't last, just kinda sits low enough under my skin not to stop my arms from moving. I never once got nervous setting up these dominoes, but now that I've got my finger on the last one...
I shake it out of my mind, and I start running some water over his shirt, earnestly trying to clean the mess. "Take a seat," I tell him, "you look like you need one, and the floor's not dirty." He slumps against the wall and thanks me for the offer, excusing his dreariness, I must have let that hit a little harder than I thought, he said.
"You know I see you in here often," I say, trying to make conversation - I'm either waiting for the drug to kick in or steeling my nerves, I couldn't tell you which. "Never do leave with anybody. Whatcha looking for?" I already knew what he was looking for, incidentally. He was waiting to be carried off, if you know what I mean.
"Oh, just looking to meet some guys, have some drinks," he lies as he slurs a little.
"Is that all you're looking for?" I ask, trying to hint that I already know. He looks at the floor with a guilty expression. The pregnant pause would have answered everything I wanted to know, if I didn't already have all the information.
"Y-... I-... Could you keep a secret? People confide things in you, right?" Ah, fucking adorable.
"Hey, it's in the job description."
"I-... I wanted- you sure you can keep a secret?"
I giggle to myself and put his shirt in the sink to soak, turning the water off and stepping in front of him. His eyes stop at my thong on the way up, he can't deny it even if he wants to.
"Feeling guilty? You haven't even done it yet." I sense that he's staring at my spots. It happens every goddamn time. Every goddamn time I think someone's staring at my spots. It stings a little.
"I don't feel... guilty," he says, like he's italicizing the word. Not the best sign, but I'm not heading back now. Deep breath.
"Well, how about rather than tell me, you just suck my dick?"
I could punch myself for delivering a line right out of the worst pornos I've ever seen, but it gets his attention well enough. He's looking up at me with this expression of abject wonderment, a way that almost makes me think that flash of his expression was one of understanding, like in that one moment he figured out and understood what I'd done all along. But it's just his state. If his face shows anything, it's guilt. I take his hat off and turn it backwards, letting my fingers stay behind his ears and scritch, giving him that little oasis of comfort I know he's going to need.
His lip quivered. "I can't... I won't let you..." his lines are even more stilted than mine, having a tenor beneath them, him not sure how to act with the understudy. If he figures me an understudy, I can't really tell if he knows what's going on or not, but I'd like to think he's got it all worked out except for the final bit, the last blank square that only throws all the other assumptions into doubt. Even if he think he knows everything else, it's the last shred of ignorance that's going to make it all real, the ignorance you can't structure or fake. It's the ignorance that actually makes him struggle when I bury his face in my thin thong, telling him to pull it off with his teeth. It's the last unknown that makes him hesitate with true trepidation, staring up into my eyes trying to find a connection I try my best to deny, before dutifully turning back down, taking the thong on his teeth, and pulling it down with slow, sluggish movements. Quite simply, it's the kind of doubt you can't accomplishing by just pretending you didn't beg this guy to fuck you, that it's really against your will.
Maybe I should feel guilty for the fact that any guilt I had felt is gone. 'I can't, I won't let you,' how convincing is that? It's a good thing I'm not that white wolf he thought I was, I'd be here thinking he was ruining my time cause the poor guy couldn't portray a victim. He's too adorable. He's too adorable not to just naturally be a victim. Maybe that's where it all came from in the first place, his desire to have a white wolf control him. Real dommy species, think they're all special... then again I did create him, more or less, so what does that say about me?
Forgive me, here I am ignoring the tongue on my sheath just to chase thoughts down slim corridors. He's relented just as quickly as I knew he would, a lot quicker than he said he would. He's giving me long licks with the tip of his tongue, like he's taste-testing me. Not a surprise. A polka-dotted dalmatian isn't what he ordered. I tell him to pay a little attention to the balls and he obeys, balancing them on his nose and huffing my scent before taking them gently in his muzzle. I gotta say, I'm loving this. I'm fighting back every urge to simply moan and murr, but I gotta keep this persona up. He burrows into my sheath and keeps his tongue there till my dick, long and thick and slick and tapered nicely to its tip, shoves it out. I give him more unnecessary orders, telling him to suck the tip as if he wouldn't of his volition.
He's going at it with the sort of sluggish mindlessness that shouldn't be near as hot as it is. He's singularly focused, I can tell, he's got a cock in front of his nose and everything more than a foot outside of it just doesn't enter his consciousness. I keep him calm, keep him easy, scritching his ears with tenderness as I bark orders at him. Oh, "deeper you slut," and a little "tongue the balls while you're down there Skunky." Just what I think he wants. His glasses are a little skewed so I fix 'em, put his hat on tight, smooth out the hair on his forehead... fanning the magazines on the coffee table, you now? I want him to feel safe. I just try to keep my paws on him to keep him comfortable. If I pull my hands away, he begins to whine, shake a little, like he's not sure he knows what's going on, but put them back and he's back at his duty. His hands are behind his back, by the way. I didn't put them there. They're just behind his back, is all.
Not a white wolf, but it seems he's getting all of his fantasy that he wanted. He won't look me in the eyes. That's how I know I've done this right. He's lavishing in my short, soft fur, rubbing his face in it when he deepthroats me, but he won't look up at me. I think... I think he knows what's going on. But the worst thing he could do is ask. Just keep his mouth shut and he can go as long as he wants, thinking he was taken advantage of in a way he's never thought was possible. It's a good thing he met a guy like me.
I should rough him up a little. I grab him just only as firmly as I need to bury my cock in his gullet, all the way up to where my knot's already forming. He wraps his lips around it, nourishes it, letting it swell in his muzzle whenever I'm not humping his face. "You've got no other choice," I say to him through some sense of obligation. He nods and accepts this with no issue in his beleaguered, susceptible state. As I pull out I take his muzzle in my paw and force him to look at me. "How's my dick taste?" I ask. He simply looks up at me, like talking would interrupt the movie he was watching. He's completely lost in the moment. You could mistake his complete immersion with a sense of distance, of being apart from it all... or maybe that's the mistake I could make. But at any rate, he needs a little shake and a firmer question for me to get a "Great, sir," out of him.
My knot's just about as full as it can usually get - though there are times, let me tell you - and I figure now's about as good a time to let him feel like things aren't quite as fun as he thinks. I shove my knot in his muzzle until I can feel him gagging on it, hold it there until I feel him grab my thigh and try to push himself away, and only a few seconds more until I finally let him have a breath. Ah, the beauty of a plan that works perfectly. He looks up at me with a new face, his eyebrows deeply arched, his mouth agape, his eyes full of worry. I simply shove his head down and give him another good choking. He beats on my thighs now, then grips them tight and simply holds on until I let off, and he falls gasping on all fours to the tile floor.
I have a brief moment of doubt - there have been things I've gotten myself into before and wanted immediately removed from, and seeing the poor guy coughing on the floor, I can't not wonder. He asked for this. Fuck it, he begged for it. He went through at least four guys until he finally got it. Yet I guess anytime you see a guy rolling around on a bathroom floor you have to wonder if he's having a good time. I straddle him and turn him over onto his back, holding his arms down while I sit on his soft stomach. His hat's fallen off, his glasses are so adorably askew. I'm surveying him. I'm studying him. And I think, the way his look softens, he knows that's what I'm doing. We share a silent moment, no talking, no coughing, no rustling. I stare into him with the severity of a bond warden. I'm waiting for him to say "I'm done," I'm waiting for him to choke back a tear and say "Can we stop now?" It doesn't come. His lip trembles a little, he sniffles his nose, but he says nothing. I pull his pants off with gruff, rude movements.
He doesn't fight, and the bulge in his underwear should be a decent indicator why. And I had my doubts. He's probably harder than I am, got a knot of his own that's thick as a fist. I'm almost tempted to give it a lick, but I don't think that's really what he's expecting from me. Instead, I turn around and allow myself a few more moments to stare in appreciation as I force him to rim me. "Taste that ass," I say to him, and he certainly does as he buries his tongue a little deeper with each order, but really my mind's not in it. I'm enjoying his body, soft like it's his goal to be inoffensive as possible. It's a kind of soft, chubby body that makes everybody happy. The kind of body that, looking at it, you can almost forget there's a tongue in your ass. I press back against him and feel his tongue deep inside, then sit back up and pull him with me, standing him up on weary legs, then tossing him over the counter, next to the sink, where he can see himself in the mirror.
For a moment I'm lost in his bushy tail, so wide and plush and fluffy and all these other words I'd feel just a little bit fuzzy using. I let it shroud me for a moment, rubbing my nose in it, nibbling at it, almost forgetting for a moment that I'm supposed to be holding him down by the neck or something, not snuggling his tail, but hey I get distracted by things I enjoy. I even murr a little and I worry he heard me, which could shatter the whole thing for him, but fuck, I think he's probably got bigger things on his mind right now than listening to me murr as I snuggle up in his tail. I'll just play it off with a firm bite like that's what I wanted to do all along.
I settle between his cheeks and dig my nose in, huffing that heady aroma, indulging a little more than I've indulged yet so far. It's strange to think that this has been almost like work for me. It was tough as hell setting it all up, tough as hell pulling it off... it's almost like it's taken me this long to realize I've got an ass in my face and Goddamn-- I love it when there's an ass in my face. I bury my tongue with the kind of forecefulness I think he expects from me, not pretending like I'm doing anything sensual, not pretending like I'm gonna give his ass tender lovings, no, from the first start I'm being about as rough as I can be with my tongue. Not exactly a muscle built for being forceful but hey I try my best. I wriggle it in, curl it, open my mouth wide to bury it as deep as a thick tongue can go. His tail brushes against my forehead so I grab it at the base and lift it up, anything for that extra little fraction of an inch wide I can spread him, get in deeper, taste his hole... Oh God, he's got such a nice ass too, I'm practically muzzling him between those two generous cheeks, nosing him as I sink my tongue and curl it, searching for spots that make him tighten around me, and goddamn I've got my paws on his hips pulling him closer like I'm gonna sink all my cold nose in there. Suddenly I feel my heart beating fast and my eyes are closed and my ears are laid back and my toes are curling and my hands are holding tight onto him and my head feels light and...
... He's moaning. Loudly. There's a knock on the door. They must hear. Then I realize I'm moaning just as loud. I compose myself. I got lost, ok, I can admit it. I was a little overwhelmed.
"Bathroom's closed!" I yell. Don't even want to give a real excuse. I'm still catching my breath, in fact, and sucking at my own tongue. It's sore. Ha, my tongue is actually sore. I stand up now and as the room returns around me I see him still panting, still looking at himself in the mirror with a critical eye, maybe wondering how he ever got here. Every little expression on his face is just the most adorable thing. His many moods just tug at my heart strings. Self-doubt, self-criticism, self-pity, self-derision... all of them just put the most ironically irresistible look on his face. And now I figure I'll make it strain, too. I lean over him, look at him in the mirror while I whisper in his ear, the tip of my dick already against his hole.
I always think there's just something a little naturally degrading about being fucked by a guy with rainbow spots. Maybe that's what throws people off. Maybe that's why no one ever wants to bend over for me. Maybe that's the root of all the frustrations I get from those spots. But if it's humiliating to be fucked by such a colorful guy, I'll use that my advantage tonight.
"It's gonna be a hell of a time for you," I say, and sink my rod with a curt thrust, a long and forceful push all the way down to the knot. He wails. He wails in the most unrestrained, pathetic voice, expressing all of his dread in those notes, and to me it sounds less like an expression of all those negative feelings, and... the point of it all, really... it's a catharsis. You can't cleanse a wound without a little stinging, and oh man does he sting like hell. He drains himself of all his woe, all his sorrow, every bad thought about himself he's ever had, and lets it go. I pound them out of him, thrusting with heavy aggressive thrusts as he cries on his troubles, interspersed now with panting and moans as the clog of his mind dissolves and lets the good times flow more freely. Each painful thrust, every sharp sting from a spreading asshole brings another distraught, beleaguered exaltation. It's music, really, and I've never felt more vindicated in my life. Perfect. Goddamn I'm good. I knew it all along, too. While he has his catharsis, I'm having my own good time, stretching his hole around my thick cock, my thrusts hindered only by my knot that doesn't quite yet dare to force itself in.
He watches himself in the mirror, and I watch him too, and he smiles. For one shining moment his whole body seems to vibrate, his back arches, his ears perk up and his mouth opens into a wide grin. He's loving it. He's letting out this low "ohhhhhhhhh" like this isn't anything more than getting a foot rub. I give him a particularly harsh thrust, press my knot against him to spread his hole without letting it close around my bulb, and he's back to playing his submissive self, seeming now more than ever to be playing a role.
"Hope your ass can stretch cause I'm not holding back this knot," I tell him through the mirror. He whines.
"No... I can't..." he says. He seems sincere, actually. Almost like he's breaking face, pulling out a safe word we never agreed upon. "I don't think..."
"You can take it," I reassure him. I lift his tail at the base to watch as I hump, my knot the only think keeping us at all apart. "You can do anything I put my mind to." He looks unconvinced.
"Spread your cheeks," I ask him. Doesn't look like I've persuaded him yet, he acts almost like he didn't hear me, moaning and grunting as I pound his ass. "I said spread your cheeks so I can bury this!" He wails again, just like the first time, a new look of concern on his face. He keeps his paws on the counter, curled into tight fists.
"You can cum in me, I don't care, I'll even stay here and let you use me again if that's what it's about, but I can't take that knot, I just-"
"It's not about anything but splitting open your ass and burying my knot, now spread your fucking cheeks so I can do it already!"
His hands almost immediately turn back and grab his cheeks, spreading them wide for me. Already it feels like I can tear that hole open, and I try, a quick and forceful thrust that fails immediately with a sharp cry from my skunk. Maybe he's playing it up, but he wouldn't be the first guy I met not used to taking a knot. There's a sincerity in the urgency of his yelps that makes me think he can't be faking.
"I can't do it," he says, "You can do anything else to me, I'm all yours, I just can't take it, it's too much." I can tell with his sudden energy to protest that what little of the drug I gave him is wearing off. Good. He'll remember this part for certain.
"Listen," I tell him bluntly, "you can take this knot if you just keep your cheeks spread and bite your lip for three seconds, that's how this has gotta end and I think we both realize that. Neither of us is leaving until you're stuck on me!"
I try slower this time, unfortunately for the poor skunk. I lift his tail and watch as I slowly pry him open to the sound of throaty cries and grunts, pushing with my hips and seeing the hole open wide at the force, and finally, close around it as the skunk gasps in surprise, his eyes and mouth opening in surprise, then deep breathing as he realizes just what he's done. Almost lost in the moment, my body begins to spasm, my dick tenses inside him, and my cock unloads, filling him to the brim with thick cum. "I'm cumming," I say rather inelegantly, "Fuck yeah doesn't it feel good to get knotted and filled to the brim with cum?"
He nods, still panting. I'm panting a little too, less heavily, not with the same sense of relief or surprise, but my pleasure is still obvious. It feels good to cum deep in someone's ass, from my perspective, too. Job well done, I say so myself. Not bad for my smoke break, even if I extended it a little. Manager won't mind, I'm the best bartender he's got.
I wrap my paw under him and he gasps like he's almost surprised he gets to cum, too. "You've been a great little Skunky for me to get my rocks off to," I tell him, "You've earned a little for yourself." I paw him, a warm sensation like a glow around me lifting me up and making me feel like I'm just floating. Damn this was a good time. He's moaning, still. He moans a lot, and hell I'm letting out a few of my own little surprised moans here and there. I love having a dick in my paw, after all. I prod him with my cock, what little movement I have, pressing against his ass like humping as I pump at his dick. His moans build, his eyes shut tight, his ass clenches around my knot, and he shoots powerful squirts all over my paw. I shakes every drop from his dick, which empties like a silo in huge gushes into my palm, and bringing my dirty paw to his muzzle he cleans it for me.
We've got time to kill. As my knot slims down, I whisper in his ears such wonderful things, and finally, the most important thing. A little bit of a monologue I've been writing loosely in my head for the past few days, the words dropped in his ear:
"I'm sure you're a little confused right now. That's fine. That's good, in fact. I'm not going to explain everything, the doubt is pretty much the entire point, after all. But I'll let you be certain of a few things. For one, you're just the most adorable guy I've ever met, and your personality, your expression, everything about you just mesmerizes me. You've got an appeal beyond being ripe for fucking, even if that's all we've gotten to so far tonight. You can also be sure that if you clean yourself up, and go to my apartment above the bar - the key's under the mat - I'll make you feel this all over again, just the way you know you want it, just the way you and I both know you deserve. As far as I'm concerned, you're my skunk. My little project, my little success. I bet you feel a little guilty, a little bad. I do, too. But the best sex always makes you feel a little guilty afterwards."
I pull out, maybe a little early but it wouldn't be the roughest thing he felt all night. I clean up and leave the rag for him. He's laid still on the counter the entire time I've been washing up and puttting my clothes back on.
I leave the bathroom. A line of guys has formed but I tell them the toilets were out of order, and if they need to they could pop into the bar next door, we'll let them back in, no worries. I lock the door behind me and flip the out of order sign. He can get out when he feels he's ready to.
Not long later I see him. He leaves the bathroom slowly, looks left and right, then at the bar for me. He smiles with his face to the ground. It's almost like he was trying to hide the grin, but can't. He opens the door to the bar and turns up the steps to my apartment. I'll be off work in about an hour. Just enough time for him to be ready again.