The day is boring.
Today was boring. Agonizingly boring. Just like it had been yesterday, and just as he had predicted it would be tomorrow, or rather, today. And today again, he predicted, as he did yesterday, that tomorrow would be just as boring.
It didn't take long for him to get bored of that train of thought and abandon it. Tap-tap went his lighter, there on his desk, where he sat. It wasn't that he was a smoker; well, at least, not a frequent one. He enjoyed the occasional cigar, except those weren't easily found in his small town; at least none of decent quality. So there, beside his tap-tapping lighter, was a light blue pack of his cigarette of choice, some Frost brand or another. Though he'd owned the thing for a month, only three cigarettes of the package were missing.
Almost with a nervous twitch, he picked up the box, and then set it back down, never ceasing the tap-tapping of his lighter, adding quickly his foot. Tap tap, tap tap,
"GOD I'm bored!"
The sudden shout startled even him, it might seem, because all the tapping ceased, as he sat still, and waited. Maybe for a response; maybe for some voice to carry him out of his boredom that wasn't his own. SOmething from the window down onto the bustling city street he lived above. Maybe from a family member down the hall. Maybe anything. Anything!
He, of course, is a fox, in perhaps his late teens. He fit every description possible of your completely average... Well, fox. He had dark sock patterns on his hands and feet. His fur was a bright red-orange. His chest was white. A long tail with a white brush tip. Tall in the neighborhood that 5-foot, 9-inches is tall, where creatures in his home town are measured in inches and yards. Average. His age isn't immediately identifiable, but he lives with his parents, and one meeting him outside his house might surmise he otherwise lives on his own.
Which he did, for a time.... For a time, he lived some distance away, in a much bigger city, where creatures ranged in size from far fewer inches to far more yards. Where the small-town-bustle was dwarfed in comparison to the big-city rush. He moved back, though, with his parents, after deciding it was no more fun there, in no small part related to the fact that he'd failed, yet again, to find a mate.
And so tap he did; again, his cigarette lighter, again his foot, tilting his chair much farther back than was safe, letting the sunlight from his cracked window shades bathe his chin.
"I wonder if this is loneliness I feel," he says, to nobody in particular, perhaps to his cigarette lighter, perhaps to his anxious foot. "It's not like I don't have any friends. I've had lots." Then his thoughts drift and fade to a time some years ago. To a wonderful little vixen of particular beauty. One who'd taken his life, turned it upside down, shook it violently until all things precious spilled out and scattered about the floor, and then settled herself into its absence.
That was coming around to fully two years, though. Over, in fact, it'd been nearly three. Then he sighed to himself, as he always did when he thought of her. She was gone now, of course. That was his fault, and he had no right to complain, but...
"God.. I'm bored." Complained he did.
So, he did what he always does when it gets like this. His body tingles a bit, and the fur on his tail brushes out slightly, as he looks to his window shade and draws it closed the final gap. The sunlight becomes choked out, and though it streams faintly through the blinds, it casts only a dusty glow. He stands up, swiveling his chair around in a circle with his tail as he moves to the door, shuts it the final few inches, and now enveloped in complete, and total privacy, he walks back to the chair, unclasping his pant fly and letting the denim material fall down as he steps out of it.
Back into the chair, swiveling back to his computer, clad now only in his under shirt, he scoots in close and wakes the electronic beast from its peaceful slumber with the shake of its mouse. Double-click, double-click, a quiet whisper compared to his incessant tapping previously, until his screen brings to life parts of his body that had otherwise been dormant since this morning. No matter how often he engaged in such activities, he never seemed to become used to it; the nervous twinge in his gut, the gasp-inducing feeling of stretching flesh, the gentle grasp upon himself as he succumbs to carnal desires and eventual mind-shattering release.
Just like yesterday. But perhaps not tomorrow.
And so completing his twice- or three-times daily ritual, he leans back in his chair, gasping lightly for breath, the delightful feeling of retreat at his waist and the dirty, but sensual feeling of droplets on his chest. The entertainment lasted hardly an hour, but it was enough. Now, he's too exhausted to tap, too exhausted to complain, too caught up in the afterglow to worry his head about thoughts of the future, or of now, or of nearly three years ago. So he swivels his chair towards his bed behind him, tugs his newly mussed undershirt off and discards it to the floor, moves from the chair to the mattress in one practiced motion, brings his comforter up over his chest (particularly enjoying the cool sensation when it presses in just the right places) and lays himself down to sleep.
_____
The next morning, early in the hours again as the fox sleeps so early, he wakes with his usual routine. A yawn, a stretch, a brief playful session beneath his blanket in the privacy of the morning's purple haze. Then up, then clothes, then bedroom door, out to the bathroom for hygienic purposes, showering quickly away any evidence of the morning's or evening prior's activities. To the kitchen for a fruit, to the front door, then into the open air.
Just like his experiences with masturbation, his experiences with stepping out for the first time of the day was something he never quite got used to. The strong scent of early-morning grass, ripened with dew, springy, moist, cool beneath his paws, the teasing orange glow over the horizon that promises a warmth he can't feel yet. It's enchanting in a way he can never get tired of.
The fox has a part-time job, at a coffee shop. It's a locally owned place, and even though its a small town full of conservatively minded people, it sees just enough business to stay, and it has, for ten years now, which is good enough by any standards. He's wearing work-appropriate clothing, of course; denim pants, a crisp white undershirt worn underneath a grey uniform shirt bearing the shop's name, including a picture of a donut with a pawprint where the hole should be. And the new morning ritual here begins.
The first customers were always in only moments after him, on their way to jobs farther outside town. They're always in a hurry; the fox doesn't even think they care what they get, even though it's the same thing every day.
"Twenty ounce caramel latte."
"Fourteen ounce blended ice."
"Small hot chocolate, cinnamon and nutmeg, with a six-inch roast beef sandwich wrapped in celophane."
"Forty-four ounce white hot chocolate."
On and on, as always, un-.. "Erm, excuse me?" the fox said to his espresso machine. That last order- the white hot chocolate- was in an unfamiliar voice. A feminine one. The fox perked his ears a little bit, and turned. "I don't think I can give you forty four ounces of..."
There was nobody at the counter. He gives a little bit of a blush. Had he been hearing things? So he lifts a paw to the back of his head, scratching lightly, before turning back to his cleaning.
"Excuse me? Sir? What were you saying about my drink?"
The fox whirled about on his paws, looking about, then leans onto the counter, on his tip-toes to look over it. There, down far below the horizon of the stainless-steel countertop, was a cat. A small one. She could hardly be three feet tall. The thought of a miniature customer hadn't occured to the fox because, for one, there's often restaurants more easily accessible to furs of their size, and two, they rarely order drinks in cups they could sleep in.
"I... Erm... I'm sorry, I don't think we have any cups... barrels... that size," he says, visibly amused by such a pint-sized customer. The cat noticed. The cat wasn't impressed.
"What's the largest drink you have?" she says, her voice a bit more of a spat then it was a moment ago. She folds her arms across her chest, and taps one foot perhaps impatiently, her tail swishing about. She was, as mentioned, right around three feet tall. Her fur was a reddish brown with dark brown spots. Her ears were triangular. Her hair was a bleached-blonde that cascaded down to the back of her neck. One of her ears was pierced twice. She was completely nude.
She so didn't fit in.
It wasn't that nudity was particularly frowned upon; fur often covers up everything important, and it can often be seen on hot summer days, but this was early morning, and this town was *particularly* conservative in its views on vulgarity. Complete with colored hair and piercings, and a tattoo somewhere mysteriously out of sight he guessed, she most likely turned a lot of heads, if she had been here during the day.
"We um..." The fox started, rubbing the back of his head again. "Err.. Twenty two ounces, I think."
The cat looked up with a disturbingly smug smile creeping across her face. "Will you give me two of those, then?" she says, lifting one eyebrow. It said everything she was thinking; 'was that not an obvious to you, pup?'
The fox gave a heavy sigh, immediately unamused with the customer in return. "You'll be charged double," he refutes, leaning back, so he would have to look at her stupid smug expression anymore. Haughty bitch. But at the sound of claws scrabbling against a carpeted tapestry, his expression fell with all the grace of a frantic fish trying to escape a hook. One paw, then the next emerged, and all too soon she was standing on the counter. Damn.
"I expected as much," she says, tapping one of her feet again. "What's your name?" she asked immediately afterwards.
The fox rolled his eyes a little. He'd heard that question, and with that tone of voice. It certainly meant nothing good for his job outlook. His manager didn't need many more reasons to let him go. "Listen, ma'am... I'm sorry I sounded a little annoyed, it's just early... I'll get your drinks-"
"Thank you so much," the cat interrupted, with that smile still on her face. An alarmingly pretty one, for a cat, to be honest. But it was annoying all the same. The fox stopped short, biting his tongue before he got into any more trouble, taking two of the oddly-proportioned cups from below the counter and beginning to fill them with the preliminary ingredients required for white hot chocolate. Shaved white chocolate of course, with heavy creme, vanill- "What's your name?"
Gods damn it all! The fox's shoulders drop. It's not like he can get away with anything more at this point. "Ranoa," he finally admits, for the first time in twenty four hours, at least. "My name is Ranoa." He peeks a look over his shoulder to the feline, and quickly perks his ears. She's not standing anymore, but rather sitting, on top of a stack of empty donut boxes. Such a seductive pose, one leg propped over the other, her foot swaying gently back and forth, arms folded across her-for a feline of her size-generous chest. If he were into any other species aside from his own, it'd be hers. All this with the realization that these thoughts were EXACTLY the ones she'd hoped to conjure. Damn seductress. "What.. What's yours?" he says in something of a more frozen voice, turning back quickly, trying to recover some of his footing.
To the surprise of nobody, least of all him, she didn't answer. "How much will it cost?" she simply asked in response. Maybe not even a response. Maybe she ignored him altogether. Ranoa swallowed his sigh.
"Nine dollars," he says, filling both cups now with steamed milk and capping them with cheap fragile plastic lids. There were better ones he could've put on, if he'd liked her, but he didn't, and she hardly deserved special treatment. He sets them into a double-carrying carton, thinking smugly that this might offend her, but when he turned to her holding the heated drinks, she didn't seem the least perturbed. There, sitting on the counter top, was a neat pile of bills.
Ranoa blinked, a bit taken aback; as far as he knew, she wasn't carrying a purse, and she was nude, wasn't she? Where'd that come from? But before he could ask, the unnamed feline had hefted the carton above her head with a soft mew, hopped down with all the grace of... Well, a feline, and was walking out the propped door. The fox put a paw to the back of his head again, and rubbed it gently. What in the hell?
He sighs, and looks to the clock positioned above the dining area. He'd only been here an hour. With a sigh, he collected the bills, and moved to release the register, and then felt his stomach drop. The tray was already open.
"Hey!!" he shouted quickly toward the door and to the windows. He ran out swiftly to the sidewalk, looking back and forth up the quiet, purple-hazed street, but she was long gone. Ranoa cursed under his breath, and turned back. She'd gotten the best of him so many times in the past five minutes that it disgusted him. But a quick check of the register showed that nothing was gone except, of course, for the nine dollars she'd payed with. If his drawer is off by more than five, he gets written up; a pleasure he's already had twice. So with a heavy sigh, he digs into his pocket, finds a ten, and deposits it into its slot, shuffling the rest of the bills into place, except for his dollar's change.
Today wasn't coming out to be boring, but he sorely missed it.
_____________
Back home Ranoa went, calling in only a brief greeting to his parents, wherever they were, walking straight down the hall to his bedroom and shutting the door as he entered. His shades were still shut from the evening before. He tapped his foot lightly, and sighed. The rest of the day had gone as boring as it had yesterday, just as he'd (almost) predicted. Because of this he had never managed to get the cat out of his mind. In the morning, it had just been a seething hatred for the girl who stiffed him nine bucks. But as the hours had gone on, he'd calmed down a little, and stopped making such strong cups of coffee for the otherwise unprepared customers. His thoughts turned simply to his curiousity over her. Think about it, she was a bit big for her species, wasn't she? Or was she a wildcat? It's so hard to tell these days, especially with her hair discolored as it was. And she was awfully pretty, too, wasn't she?
And then, as he'd been ending his shift, his thoughts had begun to wander exactly where they were now. She had been gorgeous. Reminded him a lot of the vixen of years past. Her size didn't lend itself to her figure, as she wasn't entirely shapely, but she was clearly an active girl. A nice chest. Visible, if not overly appealing, hips. The way she held her arms, the way she tapped her feet, her delicate tail, her nudity. It all danced just out of reach, and he'd never even considered such a thing before. What made this girl so much more attractive? Was it the way she'd gotten the best of him? He didn't have a big ego, really, but that truly didn't happen that often.
"Fuck it," Ranoa muttered after a second's hesitation. He stepped toward his chair, again dropping his pants as he went. He sat down and turned toward his computer, but instead of shaking the black screen to life, he started into it at his reflection, and he concentrated on the silence. He could hear his own heartbeat. He could hear the soft whisper brush of his paw over his sheath. He could hear the hum of the swamp cooler on outside his door.
And soon, there in the black screen, if he closed his eyes just right, he could see her. He could see her hands working their way along her body. Along his body. Along every delicate pressure point. Of course, all he could feel was the gentle probing of his own paw at his own member as it slid into the cool air, could only feel his grip on himself as he began a soft pump. But if he closed his eyes, he could see... Her. Her hips. Her breasts. Her hands. Her feet. Nipples rising just a tiny bit past her fur to visibility. Her glistening slit positioned just above his throbbing shaft. This time, he *could* feel himself entering her. Much too big for her. Her muffled gasps of mixed pleasure and pain. His soft growls of lust. Taking her into his hands as he reclined on this very chair, bouncing her up and down just as soon as she was accustomed enough to allow him, her voice, his breath, their kiss...
All too soon, everything was over as soon as it had began. His eyes opened wide, staring into his own reflection at the monitor, as his knotted length twitched once, twice, and released heavily, far moreso than on occasions previous. A thick white rope of his own seed erupted out, sticking itself heavily to his cheek and down across his chest, with another smaller one following to get hung up on his tip and land at his waist, and then the gentle oozing over his fingers. Gasping for breath, and exhausted, he let his eyes half-close as he lulled himself in the pleasant, healthy glow of his play, looking again into the monitor. He can't see it, but he can feel the deepening blush, with the unnamed feline laying spent in his mind.
Ranoa tipped back in his chair again, letting his manhood hang loosely in a rare semi-solid state. Rarely is he so aroused that it sticks around this long after release, as it were, but he delights in it when it happens, and as his passion winds down, his thoughts move from lust to curiousity again. What was the girl's name? God, why hadn't he pushed it? And he'd probably never see her again, no doubt.
So he crawled back into bed, leaving the comforter bunched up at the foot of it; it's too warm an afternoon for a blanket, and he loves the cool feeling of his mess on his fur. As soon as his head hits the pillow drowsiness sets in, and with the image of a thieving feline, gorgeous, dangerous, he drifts off into a sleep, with wild fantastic dreams that will leave him in more of a mess than when he slept, though he won't remember a moment of it. Maybe that's why he went to sleep so early.
He knew, that just like the dreams after his initial lust, he wouldn't remember the rest of the day after meeting her anyway.