# Backwoods

Author: Hawk
Tags: Anal, Doberman, Leather, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Romance, Tiger

 Backwoods by H. A. Kirsch  
  
Warning: this is gay porn.  
  
Featuring Stan ("Strake Was Here", "Stan Gets Fucked") and Clyde (the Hawk stories "Under the Devil's Eye" and "Force of Nature"). Not a hardcore thing like my usual style. Well, not hardcore kinky. A bit of leather stuff, aye.  
  
The setting is a real place, too.  
  
  
---  
  
Stan woke up to pounding on his front door. The doberman grumbled and trudged from bedroom to  
living room to peep hole; there was a tiger standing on the front porch. Sleeveless teeshirt that  
said "ZILDJIAN" in weird script, cowboy tooled belt and a big buckle, faded-knee jeans, work boots.  
The tiger was uniquely red and black instead of orange. The dog tucked himself to the side and  
opened the door to the chain.  
  
"What the hell, Clyde?"  
  
"Howdy."  
  
"Why are you an hour early?"  
  
The tiger pulled out his cell phone. "Looks a lot like 6:30 t'me." He pushed it back into a pocket,  
push being the right word. The tiger's jeans were a snug fit. "Now, alla Lainsville had a power  
blip right 'round midnight, probably horsed up your clock. You ain't ready, that's okay. Go on an'  
do whatever. I got me some coffee an' donuts to wake up with."  
  

  Stan smiled, barely. He was still squinting. "Okay. You can come in, my stuff's in this big  
suitcase here." The dog opened up the door and gave a big fabric suitcase a thump with the side of  
his foot. "Lemme shower and we can hit the road." The doberman then made his way back to the  
bathroom, straight for the hot water. A solid five minutes later, Stan towled himself off then went  
for his clothes, carefully peeking out to make sure the tiger wouldn't see him half-naked.  
  
Once he had his boots and jeans on, the dog snatched up a list from the fridge and bit it in his  
teeth, then scurried around the apartment putting his tank-top on. The tiger was no longer there,  
and neither was the luggage. The dog ran around the apartment, going down the list, then swiped his  
hat and ducked out into the morning. He ducked back in, grabbed his denim jacket, then headed for  
the big Chevy truck parked on the street.  
  
"Fuck, it's cold. What the hell's up with the weather around here?" He groused, climbing up into  
the cab.  
  
"Gonna wake up with icicles drippin' off your balls up in Michigan. Had a fuckin' frost last night,  
saw it on the weather page." The cat started the truck, the turbine kicking up to a soft whine.  
They lurched off in gear, the big cat's hand going from dash to donut box. "Got some caramels for  
ya."  
  

  Stan took one and munched. "How'd you know I like caramel donuts?"  
  
The red tiger shrugged. "Trash bin's at your office's got th'boxes all the time. Now you ready for  
some work? My kinda vacation ain't pettin' the sand with your ass atta beach."  
  
"I don't like being a tourist. Just as long as I don't have to shit in the woods. I shat in a patch  
of poison ivy once when I was a pup."  
  
The cat grinned. "Naw, you just gotta shit in a box on top of a hole in the woods."  
  
---  
  
Stan met Clyde Barrows when the cat came in to his job to pick up a truck in the dead of winter and  
the receptionist was unexpectedly off-duty. Something about a mange outbreak at school. Clyde was  
in charge of transport dispatch at his father's farm, Barrows Agriculture; the name was on every  
milk jug in Lainsville. Stan worked as a mechanic at Hopswith Truck and Tractor on the far edge of  
town, and had personally overseen the reconstruction of the finnicky guts of the very truck he  
handed over the keys for.  
  
The doberman almost screwed up all the paperwork. Clyde was something else. Not especially large  
for a tiger - the cat was a bengal - but his fur was a shocking deep red and he was a solid pack of  
muscle. About seven feet tall, barrel chested and always wearing a shirt and jeans that seemed too  
small, with a dumb-ass redneck accent. Stan had been very glad he was standing behind a counter  
when they first met, because his cock was leaving a drool spot by the time the cat trudged out.  
  

  Stan figured he was never going to see the tiger again, but sure enough, he popped up at the local  
gym. Clyde could apparently bench-press Stan's entire body weight with just one arm; the dog was  
only there to do laps in the pool. The two turned into gym buddies; they were both into  
racquetball, which gave Stan a great excuse to wear a cup so the tiger didn't see Stan carrying  
around a dog bone.  
  
Five months later and a year after Stan moved to Lainsville from Kentucky, Clyde happened to  
mention he was going on vacation for two weeks. Stan could sorely use a vacation. Daniel Hopswith,  
owner and proprietor of the truck shop, was a hard-ass. When Stan climbed into Clyde's truck, he  
was in for a 900 mile drive all the way to the upper peninsula of Michigan.  
  
Stan hated driving, and relished being able to enjoy a trip without being in the driver's seat for  
once. The only problem was, he was bored stiff. Plus, there was a hulk of a tiger next to him. At  
least they both liked rock.   
  
"You doin' alright, dog? Figured you'd knock off or somethin', but you look all troubled up," the  
cat said out of nowhere, somewhere in the middle of Ontario.  
  

  "Huh? I'm just thinking. I guess I'm thinking about crummy stuff."  
  
"Well now, you better not be all sour for the next two weeks. Ain't no way to spend some time off."  
  
The dog sighed and shifted in his seat, kicking at the floor mat with a boot heel. "Naw. Nothing  
really going on. I was just thinkin'. I'm fine. Just let me out to piss on a tree every few hundred  
miles."  
  
What Stan was thinking: First, that the cat's crotch always looked seriously packed, almost as if  
the cat had a perpetual hard-on. Clyde also seemed to sweat, which left him damp there. It made  
Clyde think about another tiger he'd run into, and that made him think about his sex life, and that  
made him feel the resigned sadness that led to his conversation-piece facial expression.  
  
To get the thought to go away, Stan reversed his train of thought until it was back on the tiger's  
crotch. Luckily, he had his hat and coat sitting square on his lap.  
  
----  
  
Clyde's cabin was not only in BFE Upper Michigan, but it was on an island. Moose Island was a small  
town, serviced by ferry, with a shopping district made up of a blinking stoplight and numerous  
little resorts along the coast.  To top that, the actual cabin was on yet another island, Pike  
Island in Clark Bay, on the southwest side. Clyde's end of the island pointed right out to open  
Lake Huron, while the frontage aimed at Moose.  
  

  Sleeping in tents would have been just a little more rustic. No electricity except for a generator;  
no running water except for a powered water system that Clyde described as, "A steamin' pile of  
horse-shit, that's what,"; an outhouse whose door had to stay open to let the smell out; bottled  
gas which had to be hauled in a boat one mile over water from the bay's marina.  
  
They pulled up in Clyde's Boston Whaler, emphasis on the pulling; it took both dog and tiger to  
keep the boat against the dock against a steady breeze. "Hope you ain't gonna freak out up here,"  
Clyde said, looping rope on a post. "Ain't no one around 'cept birds an' squirrels an' maybe some  
coy-yotes. Well shit, you're a dog, you go out an' howl with them sometime."  
  
"Naw, I'm alright with this kind of place. Nice and quiet. Middle of nowhere. I ain't going to  
Disney World for fun. I want to get away from people." Except tigers.  
  
The cabin smelled a little musty, like dust and pine and kerosene. Stan immediately sneezed, then  
got out an allergy spray and huffed it up his nose. He looked around the cabin; it was a simple  
A-frame, with only three 'rooms'. A great room that had the dining and living space, a bedroom, and  
a kitchen. The space up above the bedroom and kitchen was a loft that overlooked the rest.   
  

  "Aww crap, it'll get better when it airs out..." ¬†Clyde said, frowning at the sniffles.  
  
"New places always make me sneeze," the dog said. Stan peeked into the bedroom. Two double beds.  
Just the sight of a mattress, unlined with linens yet, made him yawn. "Shit. I didn't even drive  
and I'm about to pass out."  
  
"All the nice, fresh air, huh? Urrh, and mildew, I guess. Now, you can go an' sleep up top there,  
but I gotta warn you, if it gets kinda warm out you're gonna bake in your fur." Clyde pointed up to  
the loft. "I don't snore much or sleepwalk or nothin', so you're welcome down here."  
  
Clyde strode into the bedroom and rummaged around in the closet, then came out with a little camp  
lantern that barely lit the room. The big cat rummaged around in the closet again and came out with  
an armful of blankets, dumping them on a mattress, then fetched pillows.  
  
"You don't have to... I mean I can make my own bed-"  
  
"Now look, Stan, you're a house-guest. I got this place, I'm gonna let you have some relaxation."  
The tiger stuffed the sheet on, then spread out a few blankets. "Get some shut-eye, we gotta open  
up in the morning."  
  

  Stan kicked off his boots, then his jeans, and sprawled out under the sheets. Despite the  
nose-stinging must and the completely alien surroundings, he was out like someone had beaned him on  
the head with a rock.  
  
The dog woke up after a dream, startled fully awake. In the dream, he had been taking a piss, but  
everywhere he did it, he still had to go. He immediately looked down at the sheets, and was  
relieved to find only his erection making a lump. It had been just a dream. Except for the having  
to go part.   
  
He looked over and spotted the tiger, asleep on his back with his head rolled to the side. Clyde  
had a similar hard-on, his making a big curved tent under the fabric. Stan looked away, then got up  
and put his pants on, carefully padding around the bedroom. He found a flashlight, glowing with  
green nite-glo tape, and headed outside.  
  
It was cold, but not nearly as cold as he'd been expecting. The air had a damp clamminess that  
suggested a warm front, maybe rain. He felt a shiver from having to walk out back near the outhouse  
in the dark, unable to shake some little human fear of the dark. He pulled out of his pants, and  
started spraying around the base of the tree. It wasn't easy; like the fear, he couldn't shake the  
image of the heavy-sleeping cat with the swollen, hidden erection.  
  

  After a good two minutes of stop-and-start, Stan sighed with relief and leaned on the tree. He  
replayed the image in his head, watching as the sleeping cat's brawny chest rose and fell  
half-exposed, muzzle parted now and then. He applied a little imagination, watching as the cat grew  
his erection from nothing, a lump appearing in the sheet, tail twitching and swaying as it nearly  
touched the floor.   
  
The doberman shook his head and tried to clear it up. Thanks to the fantasy, he was more than just  
hard; he was wide awake. He thought about going back, but what if the cat saw him? What if he  
couldn't sleep? What if he came in his sleep, sheets around his ankles, groaning and whimpering as  
it splattered all over?  
  
He reached down and smoothed over his shaft, then started to tease the knot. He squeezed and tugged  
slightly, shuddering and leaning back against the tree, careful to keep from brushing a leg against  
the piss-wet bark. He imagined sliding under the sheets with Clyde, feeling all that short tiger  
fur brushing against him. He imagined rubbing against the cat's big pecs, face stroking the muscle,  
then reaching back to lift the cat's cock. He imagined sitting back, and just as the thought of the  
fat shaft entering him came up, he throttled his knot and seed started spitting out of his cock. He  
clamped his muzzle shut with a hand, hips bucking forward, seed flinging out of the tip of his cock  
and landing in lines on the ground.  
  

  The headrush of orgasm died away, leaving Stan with a gaping hole in his consciousness. Doubt and  
anxiety rushed to fill it. What if Clyde came out to the same spot to piss? How could he get rid of  
the smell? The doberman sighed and trudged back to the cabin, carefully coming back inside, padding  
silently back to the bedroom. He scuffed his feet clean on the rug and then tucked back into bed.  
One look over towards the tiger showed no signs of awakening; Clyde was all but snoring, deep huffs  
swelling and contracting his body.  
  
No longer burning with desire, Stan felt sleep overtaking him again despite the roaring silence. He  
rolled away towards the window, bundled himself up in the musty sheets, and disappeared.  
  
---  
  
Stan woke with a start, ears jerked forward. Had there been some kind of sound? The opposite bed  
was empty, sounds and smells coming from the kitchen. The dog went to pull his pants on, but found  
he hadn't even taken them off after his excursion. Drowsy, he got up and put on his denim jacket,  
then wandered into the kitchen.  
  

  "Sorry, bowl fell outta th'cupboard there," Clyde said, pointing a thick finger in the direction of  
the offending object, now sitting on a cluttered counter.  
  
"Nah, about time I got up anyway," Stan said, peering over into the skillet Clyde was working.  
Eggs. Bacon was already draining on a pile of paper towel, toast sitting on a flat griddle. "Looks  
good."  
  
"Gotta get some go in us, bunch of work today. Gotta put in the water line, get the damn fridges  
started, maybe see 'bout the cranky-ass generator thing." Clyde sounded completely unfazed by his  
task at hand. Stan nodded, then wandered out of the obscenely tiny kitchen and had a seat at the  
dining table. Looking in the door, he pretty much just saw red and black stripes.  
  
"So why do you have a cabin up in BFE Michigan, again? On a fucking island?" Stan asked, looking at  
a few knicknacks on the table. Pudding-stone coaster, agate and glass decorative dish.  
  
"Buddy of mine, big ol' nasty wolf, bought a cabin up here. Long story why. Came up with him,  
thought hell, nice little town place. Saw it was for sale..."  
  

  "Are you kidding? You just bought a cabin for the hell of it?"  
  
"Wasn't too much. 'Sides, uh, kinda got a little plan. Maybe gonna take over at the marina-thing  
for th'bay. I'll run that story later. Here we go, let's stuff things in our damn pie-holes for  
now."  
  
The first mental image that Stan got when he heard "Stuff things in our damn pie-holes" was not  
food. He squeezed his legs together. Clyde came out with two big plates holding a couple  
Texas-thick toast slices, three eggs, five strips of bacon each. Stan gladly took his and dug in.  
Despite having done nothing but sit in a truck for hours on end, lift some stuff, then sleep, his  
stomach felt like a black hole.  
  
Halfway through his second piece of toast, Clyde piped up. "So... uh, Stan, if you gotta take care  
of anythin', you don't gotta go outside."  
  
Stan stopped chewing with a piece of bacon sticking out of his muzzle, ears swept back. "What?"  
  
Clyde inserted the rest of his toast, talking with his mouth full. "Said, if you gotta take care of  
yourself, you don't gotta go outside an' do it in the shitter or on a tree or whatever. I ain't  
gonna watch. Just say somethin' and I'll roll over."  
  

  The doberman found his appetite completely destroyed, only chewing on the bacon so he didn't end up  
drooling all over the table. "Uh, hmm, uh, sure, I guess."  
  
"Just y'know, wanna make you feel at home. You ain't gotta fold up a napkin on your lap or ask all  
nice t'get some salt sent down there. If you're all riled up, just, uh." The tiger left it at that,  
returning to his food. The conversation didn't restart.  
  
After breakfast, Stan milled around in the bedroom, hauling his suitcase up onto the bed. He dug  
around inside. Clyde walked in, holding one of the dog's flashy sharp-toe boots. "You gonna tromp  
around up here in these things? Gonna wreck a fancy pair of boots."  
  
The dog felt a swell in his crotch. Was it Clyde? Was it Clyde fondling his Sendras? "Uh, well, no,  
that's dumb. I got these." He pulled out a pair of decidedly worn over-calf combat boots. Then, he  
went about pulling them on.  
  
"Whew, you an army dog?" Clyde said, eyes fixing on the black, laced leather.  
  
Stan laced up one, then started on the other, crunched over. "Naw. My brother. Well, he used to be.  
Got out on disability."  
  

  "Hurh," Clyde said, leaning on the curtained bedroom doorway. The wood creaked slightly at his  
bulk. "That why you got his boots?"  
  
"Funny thing is, it was just a real nasty wound. Chest shot. He was okay, but they sent him home.  
Two weeks later, bus sneaks up on him, he turns and jumps outta the way. Uh, well, maybe like three  
quarters of him jumped." At this description, the tiger winced, tail curling up against the curtain  
and twitching with feline shiver. "After he gets out of physical therapy, wheelin' around, he says,  
'here, you get my boots.' Just gives 'em to me. Figured I gotta wear them, you know? Not like he  
can anymore."  
  
Clyde had a strange look on his face, his typical droll interest mixed with genuine brain stirring.  
He pushed off from the door. "Well now, guess that puts me out for a little dip in th'lake.  
Wouldn't wanna have you wreck 'em trompin' around out there. Besides, big cats love the cold  
water."  
  
----  
  
The tiger wasn't being facetious. He tore down to his boxers - something that was more reasonable  
as the cold snap was giving way to an alarming warm front - and waded right in at the rocky shore.  
"Aww fuck!"  
  

  "Are you okay?" Stan was standing by a metal pipe, holding a pair of pipe wrenches. Clyde waded  
over to where he'd tossed a black waterhose into the cold of Lake Huron.  
  
"Damn cold!"  
  
"I thought you liked it?"  
  
"Still damn cold!" Clyde ignored the hose for the time being, and waded out until his boxers  
dunked. Instead of a yell, he let out a roar. The sound was loud enough that Stan had to flick his  
splinted ears back, then pin them to his head. "Don't you mind that. Unh, now you gotta put that  
end'f that black tube thing on th' brass check valve..." The tiger started to instruct. Stan held  
up the two components. "Uh-huh! An' you screw it on real good. I gotta hold it down here so it  
ain't gonna flop around."  
  
The doberman did as instructed, wrenching the two pipes together. The water hose was really more  
like a really long plastic pipe, and sure enough, as he started cranking, it slipped out from where  
Clyde had been standing on the end and  rose out of the water. The red tiger wasn't looking, and  
the metal valve end swung over and whacked him in the balls.   
  

  "Hey! I ain't said t'start screwin-" Clyde started to yell, then tilted sideways. The yell turned  
into a wicked snarl as the tiger went down, crashing into the water. He actually sunk under, a foot  
rising out and sending a flick of spray out over the surface. The water kicked up, then Clyde rose  
out of it, fur pinned down by the water. "Son of a bitch!"  
  
Clyde came out of the water, but his boxers didn't. The fabric fell off his left thigh and floated  
around on the surface. Meanwhile, Stan got a very clear look at the big cat's pendulous, uncut  
cock. "That's gotta be seven inches soft," bounced between Stan's ears.   
  
"Shit! Sorry about that! Are you okay!"  
  
"Fell over!" the tiger yelled back, and started wading for the shore. "Landed on some damn zebra  
mussels! Fuckers are sharp!"  
  
Stan found it hard not to look at the tiger's crotch as Clyde made his way out of the water. The  
cold had the feline's balls snugged up tight, and the shaft even looked like it was starting to get  
hard. Before Stan could really orient himself to any kind of arousal, he happened to glance down at  
a rock by the cat's big foot. The white limestone was being splattered red. "Oh shit, you're  
bleeding!"  
  

  Clyde looked down, eyes going wide. He lifted up his hand; there was a new stripe a couple inches  
long about five inches up from the wrist. "Fuck."  
  
Stan whipped his shirt off and ran up, almost sending himself flying into the water as one of his  
boots skidded on an algae-slicked rock. Before Clyde could tell what hit him, Stan had the fabric  
wound up painfully tight around the tiger's wrist. "C'mon, let's go up to the cabin, see if that's  
real bad or just kind of bad."  
  
The tiger looked stunned and upset, tail bristled with thick spikes of wet fur. He followed without  
a word, trudging wet up to the porch. Stan rummaged around in the house, frantically digging  
through unfamiliar closets and cupboards, assembling a few bath towels and an armful of first aid  
supplies. When he got back out onto the porch, Clyde was sitting on one of the deck chairs with a  
dull stare. The white shirt bandage had a big red blotch.   
  
"Okay, off with it. Lemme see how bad it is." Stan actually had to remove the shirt forcibly, no  
easy task with the way Clyde was clutching it onto his wrist. The gash welled with a little blood,  
but not the outpouring from before. "Not that bad. No need to uh, run to the hospital. Or take the  
boat to the shore to the ferry like a hundred miles or whatever it is up here."  
  

  "Uh-huh," Clyde said, trembling.¬†  
  
"So, first, we gotta clean this off." Stan uncapped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dumped it out  
all over the wound. The cat grunted, but there was no telltale fizz.  "Oh, shit. What the hell?  
It's not expired.... maybe it froze or something." Stan set it aside and grabbed a bottle of  
betadine. "Well, big guns. This is gonna hurt." He opened the lid and squirted it right along the  
gash. Clyde's fur started to stick out - damp as it was - and the cat snarled, backing the deck  
chair up until it wanged into the side of the cabin. The tiger was beyond words for a moment,  
clutching at his arm. After a solid minute, out came a sterile gauze packet, quickly dotted brown  
by the disinfectant.   
  
"You, uh, know what you're doing," the tiger said, swallowing. Stan looked up, concerned. "Naw, I  
mean, you... you do."  
  
The dog picked up an aerosol can of something and read the label. "So I wanted to be a doctor, but  
I... I couldn't afford it, I mean my family couldn't, I couldn't even have three pairs of pants.  
I'd do things like fix up pets when they'd get in fights, uh, maybe my bro when he'd get banged up  
in sports. Ended up in community college, I mean it was free, and I was gonna be a paramedic." The  
dobie stuck a little spray straw in the can nozzle. "Went out on some drive-alongs... that was kind  
of freaky, but not that bad. I'm not really scared of blood or anything. Then one time, we got  
called out to fuck nowhere, some agro plant. Out there, uh, these guys are always stealing  
fertilizer for meth. Sometimes they try and get ammonia, like the pure stuff so they don't have to  
get it out of the other stuff. It's like... ammonia really likes water, and people are like eighty  
percent water. So if you go to siphon it, and you're all whacked out, you just.. like you use your  
mouth, and then, uh. It's really gross. I saw this guy, like this human raisin, and thought shit, I  
can't do this for the rest of my life."  
  

  Clyde made a face. "Man."  
  
"You wanna keep making that face? You're gonna need it, this numbing shit hurts," Stan said, and  
doused the wound with a frosting of the spray. Clyde yowled out, arm flexing up hard, muscle  
cording up under the damp fur, down his thighs, across his chest, up his neck. Stan stared at it,  
fearful that the red cat would piston him in the chest, awed by the moment of sheer ferocity. Clyde  
groaned and slumped down against the deck chair after a few more seconds.  
  
"Ungh. Kinda going numb now. Guess it's working." Clyde sighed. "So how'd you end up messin' around  
inside truck engines an' shit?"  
  
Stan put on a pair of oversized plastic gloves and took out a tube that said "Liquid Stitches".  
"Went to a guidance counselor at the school. Said, 'I don't think I wanna do this, I got freaked  
out.' He just looked me right in the eye and said, 'Maybe you just wanna fix stuff.' Well, I guess  
I do." Stan squeezed a bead of clear stuff on the wound, then squeezed it shut. Clyde looked away  
and flinched while the dog held on. "Hell, I love fixin' stuff. It's great. No blood unless I bang  
my knuckles."  
  

  "Wait, uh, if you gotta put some kinda glue on me, shouldn't I be gettin' all sewed up?" Clyde  
said, peering at the red line that used to be bleeding.  
  
The dog shook his head. "Naw. I've used this stuff before. If it gets all infected, we gotta go off  
to a clinic. There's a clinc, right?"  
  
Clyde nodded.  
  
"Good. Well, I guess you're all good. I can't believe you sliced your arm on a zebra mussel," the  
dog grinned, and handed a towel over. His usual anxiety was quelled for a moment at the pride of  
accomplishment. Large, brutish animal felled by injury, made well by dog. "So what else do we gotta  
do today?"  
  
"Finish th'damn water line, start the fridges, maybe fix that damn water pump unless you wanna grow  
real big upper arms, cut up some wood, some bear got into the bar-bee-que an' we gotta fix that..."  
  
Stan just whistled.  
  
----  
  
The tiger had a mini TV, which Stan watched while Clyde was turning a few steaks over on the  
re-assembled grill. The weird weather was explained by some unusual early-season tropical  
disturbance that had run into Texas and hurtled on up to the Great Lakes. The cold snap was busted  
by a warm snap, which had some kind of cold front inside it, in between really warm and not so warm  
but not so cold. Stan tried to figure out exactly what the weather forecaster was saying; he had a  
strong Upper Michigan accent and didn't seem to have the poise of a regular newscaster. Plus, the  
picture kept freezing.  
  

  Picking up the TV, Stan went out into the back yard, walking around until the picture cleared up.  
Against his logic, he had to lean right up against a large tree. While the weatherman blabbered on  
about Severe Weather Potential and late-night small-crafts advisories, the doberman leaned and  
watched Clyde tend the grill. The tiger had all the subtlety of a brick wall. Clyde reminded Stan  
of another tiger the dog had met, but without the extreme personality deficit. Where the other  
tiger had been a supreme prideful jerk, Clyde was just stoic and no-nonsense.  
  
The red cat was also approaching. "We gonna get twisters or somethin' with all this muggy air?" he  
said, coming up the path and past the doberman.   
  
"I guess there's a storm watch tonight. Maybe early morning. That's kinda odd for bad weather,  
ain't it?"  
  
The big cat shrugged as he stood up to a tree. Stan's ears swept back when he realized what the  
tiger was doing. Both hands disappeared in front of the cat, followed by the dull pop of metal  
buttons through denim, then an intake of breath, then a groan and the hiss of urine splattering on  
the ground. Stan instantly grew hard, the image of the tiger's hooded cock entering his mind,  
attached to a thick body, pissing like he had no cares.  
  

  The dog turned around before he was spotted and started waving the TV around, as if it wasn't  
working right. "Never seen a waterspout. Plenty of tornados," he said. Ears still back, he clearly  
heard the cat's flow waver, then turn to a few squirts, then the rustle of heavy denim and the  
crack of sticks as the cat turned and came back. Instead of going to the grill, Clyde stopped at  
the cabin, coming out wiping his hands. That made Stan feel a little better inside; that other  
tiger surely wouldn't wash his hands after taking a piss.  
  
Stan's day had been packed. He ended up finishing the waterline, with instruction from Clyde, then  
spent the better part of it literally tearing the generator apart. The engine hadn't been  
maintained by the previous owner, and by late afternoon it was puttering along quite well. Stan had  
needed a bath, which he took in the frigid lake; thankfully, Clyde busied himself with something  
else. Stan had been afraid of the cat showing up just in time to see a very naked dog emerge from  
the cold water.   
  

  Dinner was more than satisfying; despite literally being meat and potatoes, the steak was perfectly  
seasoned - if a little rare - and Clyde had some magical recipe for home fries. Then, more work.  
Clyde dug around for all the extra boat rigging for the Boston Whaler that ferried them back and  
forth to the mainland, lashing the craft up well enough to survive a hurricane. Stan, who was going  
around with brush trimmers, came out onto the dock for a break.  
  
"Wow. Got enough rope?"  
  
Clyde paused, crouched next to one of the dock posts. "Always kinda freak about this stuff gettin'  
away in a storm," the cat replied.  
  
Stan looked out around the bay. It was shockingly quiet in terms of other people; no boats going  
by, no jet-skis, no shore fires. Out towards the lake, the horizon was covered in clouds. The light  
dimmed out a little as the sun blotted out behind one. "Yeah, I guess that'd suck."  
  
"So you like this place so far? Or a lil' too rough?"  
  
The dog completed his 360. "Kinda quiet. But I like it. Never been much for city kind of stuff.  
Even Lainsville's a bit too uh, bustling?"  
  

  "Well, we got a one-stoplight town up here. Well maybe two, it's kinda in two pieces. I mean like,  
over there." Clyde pointed a thick finger towards the 'mainland'.   
  
"That's just about right," Stan grinned, and went back shorewards.  
  
---  
  
Stan was completely beat, but as soon as he dropped into bed, he couldn't sleep. Once Clyde was  
settled in, after all the bed creaks and rustling, it was painfully quiet. Every so often, the  
trees bustled outside in a little breeze, but no surf crashed against the rocky shore. The dobie  
drifted along, slowly approaching half-awake, then the dizzying swirl of sleep, only to stir for  
some reason. Maybe it was a sound from across the room; even though Clyde didn't thrash around, the  
tiger made noise simply by virtue of being large and lying in a shoddy bed. Maybe it was something  
outside, the eerie rush of a breeze through aspens, the occasional squeak of boat rigging or  
water-slap on the hull.   
  
Unlike Clyde, who stayed in the same position for tens of minutes at a time, Stan couldn't stay  
put, rolling over and over. Finally, he sat up and grabbed for a bottle of water on the floor,  
slugged, then lay back down.  
  

  "Kinda hard t'get used to up here, huh?" came a low, pillow-muffled growl.¬†  
  
"What?"  
  
"Th'quiet. It ain't loud up here. No cars, no boom systems, no sirens, no shit."  
  
Stan shrugged against the sheets. "I guess so." He looked over to Clyde, the tiger facing the wall,  
pillow clutched under his head, tail lying along the sheets. Every so often, the tip curled up,  
then down, or perhaps the whole thing moved enough to droop off the bed and then rearrange itself.  
Stan found it hard not to look at the red and black tail. All his stub ever did was itch and wiggle  
back and forth.   
  
"I uh, I gotta apologize for this morning," Clyde said, rolling over just enough that he could look  
upwards, craning his head around. Stan felt water pour down his spine, fur trying to prickle up.  
Not only were Clyde's yellow eyes just black pools in the dark twilight, but there was only one  
thing the tiger could be referring to. "I'm damn scared of blood. Bet you thought you were gonna  
get all sliced up tiger-style."  
  
Stan's ears perked. That wasn't what he was expecting. "Oh. Oh!  Yeah, no problem. I'm kinda  
surprised I did a good job... does it still hurt or anything?"  
  

  "Kinda hurts inside, all weird. But it ain't bleedin' or nothin'." The tiger felt at his bandaged  
wrist. "You sound all funny 'bout somethin'."  
  
Stan sighed. "Naw, it's nothin'."  
  
"C'mon, I don't want you thrashin' around tryin' to sleep. You eat somethin' funny? Water  up here  
sometimes ties you up in knots for a few days. You need a lil' nightcap or somethin'?"  
  
The dog chuckled. "No, no, I just thought you were gonna say something else."  
  
Clyde was quiet for almost a minute. Stan felt stupid, ears hot, and rolled to face away, looking  
out the window. He thought he saw the horizon above the trees flicker faintly. The tiger finally  
piped back up. "Oh. Well... now, Stan, you're just m'guest. You know, I want you all comfy about  
stuff. I don't want you goin' out to shiver your balls off just 'cuz you got wound up in a dream or  
somethin'."  
  
Stan listened, head swimming. It was impossible that someone was actually saying this to him.   
  
"I ain't gonna look if you wanna do that. Hell, I'd go upstairs or go fix a snack or somethin' if  
you said so. Or you could go upstairs, but I tell you, it kinda echoes up there."  
  

  "I just don't really know what to say. I mean, thanks," Stan said, clutching at the sheets. "Just  
kind of a weird thing to say."  
  
Clyde shifted more, the bed clunking hard against the far wall. "Naw, it ain't really. I ain't all  
tabboo and shit. It don't matter what you like, you got balls, you wanna work 'em. Maybe you think  
about givin' some busty girl a pearl necklace-"  
  
"I don't really think so," Stan laughed.   
  
"Okay, well, maybe you think 'bout a lil' dip in the pudding."  
  
"Dip in the pudding?!" The dog rolled over to face Clyde. The tiger rolled back to face the wall,  
obviously as restless as Stan had become.   
  
"Oh, you a back door man?"  
  
Stan found himself right at the edge. There was one thing - well, a lot of things, but this was  
important - that Clyde didn't know just yet. The dog started opening his mouth, but the silence  
provoked Clyde.  
  
"Ohhhhhhh."  
  
The dog felt slightly dizzy. The groan could be the sound of realization, or it could be the sound  
of...   
  
"Well, I ain't gonna mind that one, nope." Clyde said, and yawned with a rowr.   
  

  The room turned to silence again, and Stan simply tried to will himself to sleep. The flickering  
outside was growing brighter, and was now obviously sheet lightning. After a good twenty minutes  
passed, a low rumble welled up from the rocky island. Stan sat up, thinking that maybe he should go  
work out some piss before whatever storm showed up to soak everything. Clyde wasn't breathing with  
the heavy huff of a sleeping cat, but he wasn't doing anything to move, half-underneath the  
sheets.   
  
Stan found himself simply sitting on the edge of his bed, watching the cat lie there. Clyde was  
frankly attractive. Broad shoulders, well-packed muscle, the heavy thickness of a tiger curved and  
cut in just the right places. The dog wondered if Clyde was simply being a nice host, as the cat  
claimed, or if he was dropping hints. Stan tried not to drop hints about his own sexuality in any  
way, and as a result was unusually sensitive to it in other people.   
  
With each passing minute, the doberman found himself growing more and more irrational, thoughts  
slipping from simply tossing Clyde a loaded question sometime, to flatly asking, to trying to  
flirt. His thoughts ended on the idea of sliding into bed behind the red and black tiger. It was a  
terrible idea, with potentially grave consequences. It also made him so hard that his knot ached.  
  

  The dog slid off his bed, wood floor cold under his feet, a tremble from another roll of distant  
thunder. He moved towards Clyde's bed, then stood there, unsure of exactly what to do. He'd never  
gotten in bed with another man, despite the encounters he'd had. Clyde was oblivious, breathing  
slowly growing heavier, tail slapping as he twitched before sleep. Stan contemplated just touching  
the big cat's brawny shoulder, feeling through the thick fur, touching the curves of muscle, but if  
Clyde woke up it'd be all too easy to move back and pretend nothing happened. As aroused as Stan  
was, giving up seemed worse than giving in.   
  
Stan carefully put a knee down onto the bed, then tilted himself to the side, slowly fitting up  
behind the tiger. There really wasn't any room, although Clyde seemed to want to flatten himself up  
against the wall so Stan could perch right at the edge of the bed. Clyde smelled good, a kind of  
spicy scent of fur and sweat, male sex. Stan pressed his comparatively slender body up against the  
broad tiger, a thrill swelling his cock even further. He tried to keep his hips away, but it was  
too hard to resist, tip poking at tiger fur. He lifted a hand and gently slid it down the tiger's  
side, and Clyde stirred. The tiger let out a big whuff of air, the familiar sound of someone waking  
up, then a low rrruh as he shifted, moving to roll onto his back.   
  

  The doberman froze, hands prickling as he went from terror that the tiger knew what was happening,  
to a realization that he'd either have the huge cat rolling on top of him, or pushing him right off  
the bed to land on the floor with a thud. Either way, he'd be found out. Conflicted for just a  
second, Stan grabbed around the cat's hips so he at least wouldn't get toppled off the bed. His  
hand settled right on Clyde's dick; the tiger was hard as a rock, hot and swollen. The feline moved  
again, another low rrruhhr, tail impacting Stan's thigh, but with no intent to push the dog away.  
  
The dog slid his fingers along the length, flesh moving with them. He slid up off the head, taking  
foreskin with his fingers, then let  the flesh slide back. He touched the tiger's dickhead,  
feeling the enormous bulge of it, fat like a mushroom, wet already. He gripped at the skin behind  
the head and started slowly jerking it back and forth over the swollen crown. After a few moments,  
Clyde stirred, body stretching, Stan forced to quiver to stay in place.   
  

  "Aww, fuck, Stan... you go get outta here an' get back in your bed," the tiger said.  
  
Stan froze, hand yanked away from the cock. He did or said nothing.  
  
"Go on, git!" Clyde rrowrled. The dog slinked back out of the bed and quickly dumped himself into  
his own. He faced the window, looking out into the dark night, punctured by lightning. This time,  
it wasn't sheet lightning; a few seconds after the bolt tore the sky, thunder cracked down to a  
rumble. Another few seconds, and it started raining hard. Stan thought that was appropriate; his  
face heated up and he felt like he was going to start to cry. With all that noise, he thought...  
  
A big hand grabbed him by the shoulder and stirred the dog from his moment of rejection. "Go on,  
lie on your back, we ain't both gonna fit."   
  
"Huh?" Stan rolled over, accidentally following orders. As he rolled, Clyde filled his vision, the  
big tiger climbing into his bed and straddling over his legs, lit up now and then by the storm.   
  
"How th'hell am I gonna jack you if you're all lyin' behind me? Huh?"   
  

  Stan had gone soft when he was ordered out of Clyde's bed; now the dobie's cock was ballooning up  
again, just in time to be seized by Clyde's big fist. The tiger gave it a couple of shakes,  
wobbling the shaft around, then squeezed. The dog squirmed, a low mrr coming out of his throat, the  
sound of a playful struggle. "No, let me go, I want..." he said, staring down at the hard cock  
jutting from Clyde's crotch. Stan succeeded in wrenching his own erection away from Clyde's big  
hand, then grabbed at the tiger's, one hand fondling the hefty sac, the other pulling foreskin.  
Clyde grunted and sunk forward, both arms turned into pillars at either side of Stan's chest.   
  
The dobie stopped his eager handjob just long enough to struggle out of his shirt, Clyde's hands  
roaming all over his chest and shoulders in the process. The dog went back to work, his hard  
pumping turned audible even over the roar of rain on the roof and the pound of thunder, wet flesh  
slapping wet flesh. Clyde's tail curled and lashed, smacking against Stan's feet.   
  

  Clyde's orgasm came suddenly, the cat's cock swelling and starting to jerk, the tiger's body  
arching down close to Stan's chest, head twisted to the side, muzzle gaped open. Stan barely had  
enough time to wrestle himself further down before wet gouts of seed erupted from Clyde's swollen  
dickhead. The cat didn't have the firehose squirts that always filled porn videos, just healthy fat  
arcs of white mess. Stan stared, ears pinned back as he watched the hot fluid pump from the tiger's  
cock all over his pecs. Much of it squirted right down the trough between his flat, hard muscles,  
dribbling over his shoulder, over the front of his neck. The dog panted hard, cock swollen, pushing  
up against Clyde's tail and rump.  
  
After a few heavy breaths, the big tiger climbed off Stan and perched at the side of the bed. He  
seized Stan's cock again, thick fingers of one hand hooked around and behind the knot, pulling and  
squeezing. The other made a tight fist-hole and barely stroked back and forth. The doberman's  
instinct took over, hips pumping upwards, jerking Clyde's knot-squeezer up and down, shaft fucking  
into the tiger's fist. Stan's sense of self drained into wild abandon, hands pawing at his chest  
and face, feeling slick and cooling seed against his hot chest and satin fur, the mess smeared onto  
his own muzzle as he absently switched hands. He started to yelp, seed erupting out of his cock,  
thin jets flinging up and splattering down on Clyde's arm, the dog's own abs. Clyde hunched down  
and licked at the stream of seed as it squirted out, rough tongue touching the dog's cock and  
making Stan yelp like a puppy.  
  

  As soon as Stan's climax waned, the dog yawned. With no more sexual need and no more burning  
anxious excitement over Clyde, the day's fatigue came right back. Clyde looked up at him and  
smiled. "I'll get y'a towel or somethin'," he said, then stood up and padded into the closet. He  
emerged with a blue towel and handed it to Stan. The dog mopped himself up lazily, tongue hanging  
from his muzzle. "Whew. Ain't thought I was gonna get all woke up like that."  
  
"Yeah, sorry," Stan said, looking out the window as rain drizzled down it. "I just..."  
  
Clyde put a big hand on the dog's shoulder, gave him a little shake. "Naw, don't you worry 'bout  
it. We gotta go on back to sleep, got more shit tomorrow."   
  
Stan nodded and laid back down, tucked himself into the sheets. The wave of the storm had crested  
and past, leaving a pattern of rain and distant flash-rumbles. The sound lulled him to sleep.  

* * *
  
  
The dog woke early, just after sunrise, and dressed himself while Clyde slept. The tiger seemed  
able to sleep through anything except a handjob, but Stan still tried to be as quiet as possible.  
He threw on jeans, a battered flannel shirt, his cowboy hat and a pair of woodsman's boots and set  
off for a walk. He had the urge to get away from any living thing that could open its mouth and say  
a word.  
  

  The storm had brought some kind of front through, and the morning was damp but sunny, everything  
soaked through with rain. The dog carefully picked his way through overgrown paths and slippery  
rocks as he went west to the end of the island. After about five minutes, Stan broke through the  
edge of a clearing at the island pointe and found himself on rocky shore, facing the expanse of  
Lake Huron. The wind blew up from the south, bringing rollers in that created a constant white rush  
at the rocks. It was a little intimidating for Stan's mood, and the dog would have tucked tail and  
turned back if he had a tail. Instead, his stump twitched and he explored a little, then went back  
into the clearing. The sun had beat down through a gap in the trees and dried off one rock, and he  
perched on it, leaning back onto the tree behind it. No matter what else had happened in the dog's  
life, sitting in the raw woods made him feel good, nose turning this way and that to pick up on the  
smells. Gulls, rocks, algae, damp, the fresh wet breeze off the lake.  
  

  Something approached from the left, cracking of twigs and grunts. At first, Stan thought it might  
be a wild bear and seized onto the rock. Then Clyde barged into the clearing. "Well shit, found ya,  
all run off, huh?"  
  
"I needed a walk," Stan said.  
  
"Damn, an' I left m'leash back home, too." Clyde stuck his big hands into his  jean pockets and  
sauntered over, then sat on the next rock over. "Aw dang, rock's wet!"  
  
Stan looked away, scanning over the clearing, sighed.  
  
"Hey now, what's got you all down? Lookin' all thoughtful in my  truck, now you're wanderin'  
around in the woods." Clyde leaned over and closed the gap with a big hand, putting it on Stan's  
shoulder. The dog almost flinched away, then just sunk forward a bit.  
  
"I don't wanna go on vacation just to fuck," he said.  
  
"Huh?" Clyde's ears perked up.  
  
"I mean... I just, I don't want this. It's always been the same way. Some guy, we do our thing,  
then that's that." Stan's voice caught, and the dog found himself almost crying.  
  
Clyde rowrled and gave Stan's shoulder a squeeze. "Well, y'got almost two weeks t'come down easy?  
Whaddaya mean always the same? You ain't had much luck with uh, other guys?"  
  

  Stan shrugged, stump twitching against the rock. "First it was this wolf I knew back home, when I  
was still in high school. We'd go over to his place before his parents got home, look at porno.  
Tittie stuff. Then we'd start jacking off to it. I pretended not to look at it...  One day, he  
said, he said... 'maybe we oughta try doing each other, you know, so we can feel like it's a girl.'  
So we did. God, he had a nice dick. Never talked about it, just... did it. Then I ended up sucking  
him, then I even fucked him once. Right after we both, uh, came, we kissed. And that was the last  
time I saw him, he went off to college at some big university. I think he got married, he's a  
businessman or something now."  
  
Clyde nodded.  
  
"So I was moving to Lainsville, and I stopped at this rest stop... big white siberian tiger on a  
bike came up, followed me into the john. I thought he was gonna mug me. Told me to go out back, to  
the edge of the woods. Went out there and he fucked me like, eight times? I don't know, he just  
kept coming and coming and coming in me. I went to a porn shop in town and saw this deer, and he  
was so hot. Full thirteen-point rack and all. Ended up following him to a bar, and he was making  
out with this pony. I kind of wandered around the place and ended up getting done by the pony guy  
in the back room. And that's that. You know, that's, it's sad?"  
  

  Clyde didn't nod, but perked up his browspots.  
  
"All the guys I've met, were just... dicks." Stan then lowered his ears, as much as they'd lower.  
"I mean, you're not a dick. I guess I meant it in both ways." The dog looked around the clearing,  
then down at the rock he was sitting on. He remembered Strake, the white tiger who took him out  
back to get a few things done. He replaced white stripes with red, and started getting hard. What  
would Clyde look in all that biker gear?  
  
"Well, you ain't that unhappy," Clyde said. Stan snapped his head over; the tiger was looking at  
the bulge in his pants.  
  
"Ungh. I was just.. I was... I think I want to have breakfast. Maybe I'm just out of brainpower."  
Stan stood up, pushed off hard from the rock. The tiger joined him, the two barging through the  
woods.  
  
---  
  
The two settled into a routine. Hard repetitive things, like wood chopping or cleaning, were  
Clyde's area. Anything mechanical had Stan puttering away at it. The generator and water pump  
absorbed a lot of time. "You ever think about getting solar?" he said, to the passing cat.  
  

  "Uh-huh. Ain't done it yet. Island's deserted, heard some rumblin' that some guys are gonna buy it  
up down there, get some new cabins in. Maybe I'll make a lil' wind mill, sell them power. Rich  
guys'll pay, no one's gonna shit in a hole up here 'cept you an' me. They want their TV an' runnin'  
water an' a toilet that flushes."  
  
Stan had the entire generator engine ripped apart. Whoever had owned it before had filled it with  
years and years of cheap gas stabilizer, and now the inside was coated in burned-on carbonized  
gunk. "Jesus, this thing's shot," he said. When he looked up, the tiger wasn't there to see him.  
From the other side of the cabin came the staccato putt-putt of a starting chainsaw, then the whine  
of wood getting sliced up. Stan went back to trying to clean off blackened metal. After a good half  
hour, he gave up and grabbed a few bottles of filtered water and went around to see what Clyde was  
up to.  
  
The red tiger was dressed strangely. His upper body was clad in a heavy oilskin raincoat top - it  
had been visibly cut short at the waist - and each hand had enormous heavy deerskin gauntlet  
gloves. They looked like metalworker's gloves, or maybe for a falconer's bird hand. Below the belt,  
Clyde's usual cowboy-cut jeans were underneath horsehide shotgun chaps, feet in the tiger's logger  
boots. He had quite a cowboy look.  
  

  "What the hell are you wearing a raincoat for?" Stan piped up, as Clyde stilled the chainsaw. He  
tossed the tiger a bottle of water. Clyde lifted it, and instead of uncapping it, just chomped on  
the top and bottom. He then sucked the water out, gulping but not fast enough to keep twin streams  
from running down his neck. Stan thought about the time at the rest stop, biker cat - was his name  
Strake? - puncturing a beer can with his boot spur, and the hiked his jeans a little.  
  
"Keeps all th'sawdust off my fur," Clyde said, dropping the empty bottle down and squashing it  
flat. He then picked it up and stuffed the refuse in a pocket.  
  
"You're by a lake, you can just go wash it off."  
  
"You think I'm gonna go jump in the lake today? You go an' dip a toe in, see how you feel 'bout  
it." Clyde grinned. He started stripping the coat off, leaving behind bare, sweat-drenched fur.  
Stan wanted a smell of the cat, even if it was going to be mixed with the stink of chainsaw  
exhaust.  
  
"Okay, what about the chaps?"  
  
"I reckon this horse-hide'll stop a chainsaw blade pretty well. Had 'em around up here, not gonna  
bother with that expensive kevlar stuff. 'Sides, kinda sharp-lookin'."  
  

  With Clyde facing him, Stan got a good look at the tiger's front. The crotch of the jeans was damp  
with sweat, dark patches on either side of the bulge. Stan had never seen someone sweat like that  
before meeting Clyde. Stan turned hard. "I think I'm gonna jump in the lake. I got naptha and shit  
all over me."  
  
Clyde followed the dog into the cabin, lingering on the porch to bang off sawdust. The dog went  
behind the bedroom curtain and stripped off his clothes down to his boxers. The day had warmed up  
nicely after the storm; the lake couldn't be that bad. Stan was about to put on his wader shoes  
when the big tiger barged through the curtain. Before Stan knew what was going on, those rough-hide  
gloves had him by the shoulders, then one pushed in at his back and the other at his knees. "What  
the hell?" In seconds, Clyde had the dog held up as if he was a bride going over the threshold.  
"Hey, lemme go!"  
  
"Nuh-uh, you wanna go get a lil' cold shower after eyeballin' my kitty parts, I'm gonna go give you  
a big ol' hand."  
  

  Stan's ears flattened and heated, stump wiggling around. "Oh come on, let me down! I can jump in  
the lake myself!"  
  
Clyde heaved the doberman over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and marched out of the cabin,  
tromping down the path to the lake. Stan growled and tugged on Clyde through the heavy coat, but it  
did nothing to stop the inevitable. Soon, Clyde was right out at the end of the dock and simply  
dumped Stan in with a huge splash. The dog howled from the cold shock, thrashing in the water for a  
moment. "You son of a bitch!"  
  
Clyde just grinned and dusted his leather-covered hands off, turning to lumber back up into the  
woods.  
  
---  
  
Dinner was grilled steak, which both animals devoured after a day of hard work. "Got a surprise for  
you," Stan said as he scraped his plate clean.  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Stan paused, looking over at Clyde's reaction. There was something funny in the way the cat  
responded. "What? No, I mean, I really have a surprise. You stay here," the dobie said, heading for  
the back door of the cabin. Clyde shrugged and put his dishes in the sink, then hiked his jeans and  
scuffed his heels into the other room. The dog went outside to the generator hut and hunkered down;  
a few wood on wood groans came from the cabin, the sound of furniture being moved.  
  

  The dobie poked around at the generator, then mashed on the start button. It turned over with a few  
clanks, then roared to life with a whining diesel clatter. After a few seconds, Stan flipped the  
power breaker and the cabin lit up from inside. Clyde was in the bedroom and his shadow popped up  
in front of the drapes, before a big red hand reached out and yanked them open. "Thought you said  
that thing was all gone!" he hollered. Stan closed the door on the hut.  
  
"Naw," the dog replied, smiling. His stub waggled and he reached back to itch at it. "Thought it  
was, but I guess it's not."  
  
The tiger looked down at his bandaged wrist, then out the window again. "Shit, you're all fixin'  
everything. Oughta hook you up with a jet-ski or somethin', marina guy buys 'em up busted an' fixes  
'em." The tiger disappeared from the bedroom, followed by the bang of the front door and the thump  
of work boots on the stone porch. "Gonna lash up th'boat," he said, lumbering down the path towards  
the dock.  
  
Stan washed his hands off in a bucket outside, then made his way into the bedroom. He pulled his  
boots off, set his hat on the chair, and climbed in. He wrestled up a paperback from his duffel  
bag, a sci-fi novel with a library stamp pad on it. After a few minutes, the red and black cat came  
back up the path and paused by the window. "Fine's gonna be real big when y'take it back," Clyde  
said, completely deadpan as he kept on going and banged into the cabin. Stan turned the book  
around; the last stamp date on the book was from two years before he was even born.  
  

  "I got it at a book sale. This old stuff's great. This one's 'bout the millenium, how it was gonna  
be the end of the world."  
  
"Hunh," Clyde said in the great room, then grabbed on the bedroom curtains and yanked them shut.  
  
"What's up?" the dog said, nose poking out over the top of the book's spine.  
  
"Surprise," Clyde said, then started banging around in the other room. Stan, worn out from a hard  
day and full of dinner, pushed the hidden tiger's grunts and huffed profanity aside in his head,  
replacing it with pre-millenial fiction angst.  
  
The dobie looked back up when he heard cabin-shaking pounds from the other room, the hard clop of  
stacked heels. Clyde didn't bother to pull the curtain apart; the hulking cat just barged into the  
bedroom, head ducked down, hand splayed atop the crown of a worn brown leather cowboy hat. The rest  
of Clyde followed, ancient fabric curtain swishing back into place behind him.  
  
"Holy shit," Stan said, ears tucking back at the sight. Clyde had replaced his usual blue collar,  
backwoods denim with cowboy gear. The same burnished brown saddle-leather chaps from earlier; a  
tooled brown leather cowboy vest; the big, unevenly curled leather cowboy hat; brown deerskin  
roping gauntlets and gloves; sharp-toed boots.  
  

  Clyde tipped his hat. "Howdy, Stan. Couldn't handle seein' you all alone in here."  
  
Stan laughed, half nervous and half amused. "Oh my god, what're you wearing all that for?" The dog  
crossed his legs, hiding the rapidly forming tent in his bluejeans.  
  
"Sure would be sad t'bring it all on vacation an' just leave it in the closet," the tiger  
responded. "I don't think you brought any kinda gear like this, so you go on an' take off all that  
smelly stuff from workin' all day."  
  
The dobie stared at the leather-clad tiger. Clyde had nothing on under the vest or chaps, leaving  
the white patch of fur between his massive pecs in plain view, not to mention his steel-hard hooded  
erection. Stan didn't argue about taking his clothes off; he quickly shimmied out of his jeans,  
then pulled his shirt off over his head. Clyde stepped up and helped him finish the job, yanking it  
out of the dog's grasp.  
  
"But, I mean, why're you, why are you wearing it-"  
  
A big, gloved hand grabbed Stan's shoulder. "I ain't a dumb cat, an' you ain't a dumb doggy. Every  
time I hit th'showers after workin' out, I was thinkin' of you real good. I seen how you look at  
me, how you crawled up into my bed an' started pumpin' cat-dick. Well shit, that's jus' an  
admission." Clyde used his grip on Stan's shoulder to turn the dog and push him chest-flat against  
the bed.  
  

  "Clyde-"  
  
"Now you shush your mouth-hole, I ain't gonna hear you whinin' an' mopin' around here 'cuz you got  
bad luck with every cock you meet. We got two nice weeks all alone-like an' I'm gonna fuck your  
ass-hole 'till you've forgot all 'bout how unlucky you are." With that, Clyde snarled hard, the  
gurgling grunt-snort of someone about to cough up something from their chest. He slapped  
glove-leather down on Stan's rump and yanked the boxer shorts down, then splayed the dog's tight  
cheeks. Stan groaned and squirmed his tail stub as Clyde snorted again, then splattered the entire  
cleft with a hot wad of tiger-spit. "You ain't gonna yelp or nothin', are you?"  
  
"Shit, shit, shit," Stan whispered, ears hot and tucked back, stub trying to tuck down, barely able  
to do more than nestle into the top of that wet fur. The dog slowly tucked his knees up under his  
body. "Just do it."  
  
"Uh-huh," Clyde said, big hands grabbing the dobie's thighs and adjusting the height a little. The  
tiger then kneeled one knee onto the bed with a low creak of leather, and palmed right in the  
middle of Stan's back, whuffing air out of the excited dog's lungs. The other gloved hand milked at  
its owner's straining cock, moving the foreskin and milking out a long drool of precum that got  
wiped up around Clyde's dickhead. The cat leaned down further, grunting as he guided himself right  
to the spot.  
  

  "You don't have to uh, you can.. just push it right in," Stan whispered.  
  
"Uh-huh," the cat repeated, and nudged against the warm, squeezing pucker. He pushed forward and  
Stan shivered, the dog trying to lift away, then settled down, muscles giving way and admitting the  
fat dickhead. "Unnrh. Whew, you ain't-"  
  
Stan squeezed his eyes shut and lurched his body back, taking the remaining eight inches with a  
soft yelp. He slumped forward, sliding away from the invading cock, but Clyde closed the distance,  
settling down against his back, leathers squeaking with every little movement. The cat didn't  
thrust hard at first, only subtly pulling back and forth.  
  
"Aww Stan, you're a damn nice dog, all ripped hard an' slender an', an' kinda shined up an' tough  
lookin', an' you got a real nice asshole," the cat purred, the sound a rattling rumble that only  
came out when his chest collapsed. The tiger's leather-clad fingers roamed around Stan's body,  
feeling along shoulders, biceps, sides, underneath at the dog's chest. "I ain't said nothin'  
because I didn't wanna ruin anythin', you know, I ain't all pushy, I jus.. you were gettin' hard  
lookin' at my sweaty ol' crotch, knew you needed, needed somethin'."  
  

  "Clyde-"  
  
"You wanna cat to shut up an' fuck, huh?" The tiger said, changing his tune and lifting up, pulling  
Stan right to the edge of the bed, cock almost slipping out. When Clyde dodged forward again, the  
ridge of the head pushed right back through, the dobie's shoulders lifting as he arched his chest  
into the sheets. Clyde pistoned in, body colliding with Stan's rump, a thump of fur and muscle.  
Then, the tiger started to jackhammer, chaps-clad hips lurching back and forth, bringing the dull  
clap of rump against hips each time.  
  
Stan squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough that they started to water, then opened his muzzle as the  
tiger changed angles slightly. Stan's mouth gaped open, pink tongue hanging out against the sheets.  
The dog's wiry, bony hands clutched at the bed linens, hard enough that one corner of the sheet  
popped off its keeper; Stan kept clutching, balling it up in his fists.  
  
Clyde wasn't quiet either; every few thrusts, he uttered a deep grunt, a feral growl, or a panting  
slurp as he cleaned drool off his stout muzzle. He slowed every few more thrusts, rocking on his  
heels, leathers squeaking from the strain, boot heels thumping down against the floor. Then,  
without warning, Clyde sucked in a deep breath. "Aww fuckin' hell, fuck, fuck!" he hollered, and  
clapped his hands down over Stan's ears. The red and black tiger bellowed out a roar so loud that  
it rattled the bedroom's kerosene lamp mantle to dust. Each shot of seed fired off into Stan's  
clenched tailhole, until Clyde pulled back with a grunt and skinned a hand along the shaft. Another  
shot fired out, splattering the dog right up between his shoulderblades. The final dregs came out  
as a sticky ooze down the tiger's fist.  
  

  Stan, panting hard, ears still tucked from the violent sound, turned his head back. He saw that  
drool of seed, felt the rapidly cooling mess on his back. "I almost, I almost came," he mumbled.  
"God damn."  
  
"Rruhh. Guess that ain't a complaint."  
  
The dog sat up and winced. "I have to piss so bad, I'm seeing things," he panted, and quickly got  
up out of bed, rushing to the back door. Clyde tromped along, boots pounding the cabin floor, and  
burst out the back door. He flicked his hand off, sending flecks of tiger spunk into the little  
evergreen bushes by the dining windows.  
  
Stan was already out by a tree, tailstub lifted and twitching. "Ahh, ahhh, you really, really fuck  
hard," he groaned, finally starting his stream and hosing the tree bark down. The dog's tense  
posture drained, shoulders drooping, ears lifting back up. The dog ended it by leaning on the tree  
as he shook himself dry. "If you kept going, I would've gone nuts. Would've soaked everything with  
dog come."  
  
"Aww. Sorry bout that, I can go an' fuck you again," Clyde offered.  
  

  Stan turned around and found himself almost head to chest with the huge tiger. "Well, I don't know  
about that. I mean, I gotta come. But..." The dog turned his torso, looking over his shoulder as if  
he heard a sound. Clyde looked as well. Stan spun back and leapt at Clyde, chest crashing against  
the tiger's. That simple impact wouldn't have sent the tiger back more than a few steps; Clyde had  
more than double the dog's weight on him. It was when Stan's jaws seized the tiger's throat that  
Clyde crumpled backwards and crashed to the dirt path with a heavy thump.  
  
The dobie let go and yanked at Clyde's chaps belt, then wedged himself under the tiger's legs and  
hefted knees up on his shoulders. The stunned tiger growled and snapped, one hand clutching his hat  
back onto his head, then gave up and let it fall to the side. "Pull your god-damn knees up!" the  
dog barked, then finally splayed the leather-coated muscle apart. Clyde's cock was hard as a rock  
again, coated in leftover seed; Stan slathered his fingers with it, then wiped them around Clyde's  
tailhole. Before the tiger could even take another breath, Stan was trying to mount like an excited  
stud dog on top of a bitch. His shaft slid in easy, clutched up by hot muscle, wrenching a grunt  
from Clyde.  
  

  The tiger reached up to push at Stan's chest, but the dog just dipped his head down and grabbed the  
gloved hand in his jaws. The bite ended with a lick, then another, Stan slathering the cowboy  
tiger's hand with spit and then rubbing it back all over his face as Clyde stared on. The dog then  
repositioned himself, hands clutching the tiger's booted ankles, and started pounding his knot in  
against Clyde's tailring.  
  
Clyde struggled his legs against the hard grasp, trying to work his body back against Stan's swift  
canine thrusts, but Stan ignored the attempts. He chewed on Clyde's boot heel, tongue wiping the  
stacked leather, then slurped around the back of the cowboy boot's smooth leather, ears burning red  
inside, cock pouring precum into Clyde's passage.  
  
"Thought you said you gotta come," Clyde grunted.  
  
"Ain't gonna... my knot..."  
  
The tiger wrenched his leg away from the eager dog's face and stretched it out,then folded the knee  
again. The back of the boot wanged down on Stan's rump. The tiger freed the other leg, and repeated  
the maneuver, chaps leather straining against heavy muscle as Clyde pinched on the dog like a vice.  
Stan's muzzle strained, lips curling back, the sheer force able to pop his knot right into Clyde's  
tailhole. The dog arched back and howled, barked, yelped, hips jerking and bucking the swollen  
bulge back and forth against Clyde's squeezed-up ring. The dog's seed emptied out into the tiger,  
and Stan slumped down against Clyde's chest, muzzle drooling on vest leather.  
  

  "You ain't a tough guy my ass," Clyde grunted, arms grasping around Stan, holding the dog there. He  
let up when Stan struggled a few minutes later, then pulled back. The dobie made a funny face, neck  
cording up as he strained to remove his still swollen knot, then barked and fell backwards into a  
bush. As he stared at the lazy tiger, white spunk squezed out of Clyde's hole and landed in the  
dirt. The tiger stood up and whacked cedar needles off his chaps. "Well partner, I reckon that we  
got a lot done today."  
  
Stan stood up, limping a little - there was a rock under the bush. "I'll help get the dirt off," he  
said. The two stood on the back porch, taking turns slapping dirt off with the aid of a dish towel.  
Clyde lumbered back inside, while Stan pumped himself a filtered glass of water and gulped it down.  
  
When the dog returned to the bedroom, the still-cowboy'd tiger was pushing the two beds together  
with the grind of bed frame against wood floor. "Hey, what're you doing that for?" He asked,  
pushing through the curtain.  
  

  "Ain't no fun fittin' in that tiny lil' bed, ain't fun sleepin' all by myself," the tiger answered,  
before dropping himself into bed with a grunt. Stan came up and took the spot between tiger and  
wall.  
  
"Aren't you gonna take that stuff off?"  
  
"You want me to?" Clyde said, taking his hat and putting it over his face. Stan picked it up and  
moved it aside. "My house, my rules."  
  
"Well, no, I mean... " Stan looked down over the burly tiger, red and black stripes hidden by  
smooth saddle-weight leather. The dog felt a twinge of excitement swell his cock, even so soon  
after.  "No, I don't want it."  
  
"Gotta say, didn't really know you'd like it, but.. uh, I dunno, was hopin' you would, I guess.  
Yep." Clyde was starting to sound sleepy and grabbed onto Stan, dragging the dog's torso up against  
the side of his vest-clad chest. The dog struggled, then clutched around it.  
  
"I do. Jesus christ, I can't believe..."  
  
"Don't you go all off on that. You jus' go to sleep."  
  
Stan felt strange, like he needed to say something, but Clyde's attitude drove it away. At first,  
the dobie thought it was because the cat was acting 'just like everyone else', but then he realized  
that Clyde was doing anything but.  He settled against the tiger's leather-clad form, tucked up  
close by the big cat's arm, and felt a moment of serenity that was for once not tinged with  
lonliness.  
  

  "Gotta say somethin'. Sorry, you ain't sleepin' yet, huh?"  
  
The dobie looked up. "No, almost."  
  
Clyde sighed deep. "I'm comin' back here early fall, an'... well, I ain't goin' back down to  
Lainsville. I'm buyin' the marina."  
  
"Wow. Really?" Stan said, drowsy enough that the implication was really lost on him.  
  
"Yeah," Clyde said, shifting his body a little, encouraging Stan to shift as well. The dobie clung  
to Clyde, shiny fur pressed up against all that leather. "Been' workin' for my dad all my life.  
Figured I'd make good on some business stuff I done in college an' get outta Lainsville. Place is  
fulla nut-jobs.  Marina guys are wantin' to get out finally, pass on the torch. Never run a marina  
before, but I love it up here. Ain't never gonna go to shit. Too small."  
  
Stan realized that Clyde was serious, and a little hole appeared inside. "So you're just moving  
away?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Gotta do some paperwork, figured I'd take some vacation."  
  
"So why'd you... why'd you invite me?"  
  
"Cuz I'm goin' away. Ain't too nice, goin' past each other in the gym for that last time, then  
nothin'. Figured, well, I figured we could have a nice lil' time. You're always all stressed over  
that damn job."  
  

  "Yeah. It's a big pain. Moved up here, I mean, to Lainsville.. just for it, and now I wanna quit."  
  
Clyde thought for a few minutes, almost long enough that Stan thought he might have dozed off.  
"Well. They're all leavin', the marina people. Mechanic guy's goin' on down to florida. Gotta have  
a mechanic up here."  
  
Stan perked his ears up. "You..."  
  
"Now you jus' go on to sleep. Don't you be thinkin' about this stuff. Had a lil' fun, now we're all  
tired up."  
  
Clyde didn't say anything after that, and Stan eventually fell asleep, clutched to the tiger no  
matter which way he turned.  
  
Twelve days later, they piled into Clyde's truck and drove back to Lainsville. Thirteen days later,  
Stan walked out the door to the truck garage for the last time.  
  
Come labor day, and Clyde's big truck had a dog sticking his head out the window as they rumbled down the interstate.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/qmyzr6nB