First Touch of Submission
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This is abit of a strange story for me to write...I just...I don't know how to continue from this, but I still feel like I have to put this one out there, see what you think of the character, his attitude, and whether you'd want to read more, I think. Maybe that'll inspire me. It's rather entertaining as it stands, too, I hope! Do comment :P
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Furs do all kind of shit with their free time. Some go hang-gliding. Others go to a church camp to be closer to their God Almighty. Some go to the movies, or walk paw in paw and sip champagne from a shared glass and look into each other's eyes and speak sweet nothings to each other. Some furs just sit on their goddamn asses, scratch it, fart, drink beer, and won't move a muscle, unless they're going to take a piss or heat up a TV meal tray or some other fucking shit. Those fucking losers who let their lives tick away like that. Hell no for me, none of that crap. I want to live and I want to do things that I like to do. I want to do things when I still have the chance to. Don't care a fucking shit what anyone else would think about what I do.
Plain and simple, I fuck.
I do a regular kind of a white collar job, one which I won't mention here, so that nobody will get a chance to say anything weird shit about that wolf X, who likes to do that naughty stuff in his free time. Don't want anyone hounding on me, unless it's cockhounding.
Ba-dumptsh.
At work, I'm an easy going kind of a guy. I give no shit to nobody, and I laugh at the right times, and I wear a ring on my ring finger to make it appear that I'm married so that none of the women try to come after my big ass tail. I'm a big kind of a wolf. Tall, big shoulders, big thighs, countless hours on the gym. The smell of blood, musk, sweat and musk is my favorite aftershave. Shame they don't bottle that stuff. Sometimes I get a good sniff and I'll be boned up for hours if I don't give myself some easy five-fingered relief.
I give you just that hint here, alright? So I'm a wolf. Canis fucking lupus. Wolf. Big bad wolf. All grey furs and nice muscles I work my ass out every week to maintain in great shape. I'm not huge, because I'm not into that whole "veins popping out like sausages" look. That's just sick and the shit they take to get that big makes your balls shrink. I love my balls. They're big, they're smelly, they hang in a nice furry sac between my legs, and they make a shitload of spunk. My cream factories are too precious for me. I like me the way I am. Big and mean.
You can call me Alec, if you really need to have a name. I won't tell my real one here either. Nobody calls me by my name in the context I'm about to tell you about myself in this story. I don't do names. I only do "sir" and "yes, sir", and that's it. I'm not into much more than that when it comes to verbal stuff. I'm a big physical kind of a guy.
I've always been into dom-sub play, from as long as I can really remember ever having sexual thoughts or feelings. I remember at school, when I was still a pup and not a well-oiled gym machine like nowadays, but a little bit chubby kid...and I would remember how the gym teacher would shout at me to get a grip of myself and move faster to catch that ball, or climb up that rope, or whatever useless shit they tell you to do at PE, and somehow...even though my ears went flat and I would feel my peers' looks and heard their chuckles...something about it made me feel...strange. Not in a bad way. I was not gonna go blabbering my eyes out or run to my mommy to tell about the bad ma telling I was an useless shit. No. I felt weird, funny things in my belly, and my thoughts...I would lie down and think about the coach shouting at me, and that weird feeling still worked through me, giving me feelings I didn't understand yet.
Guess that was my brain starting to work before my balls did. Soon I was growing taller, my muscles sprouted out as if almost on their own, and something else grew a lot, too. My cock would be hard all the time, throbbing, pulsing, bringing my paws to give it some much-needed relief. It didn't take me a long time to figure that one out, not with everyone always joking at school about "pulling one off" or whatever. You know the stuff kids say to tease each other, and how they talk crap about all the girls they've fucked even if they've never even seen a pussy or copped a feel of a boob. Hell yeah I was one of those. Always going on about the hot girls and stuff, boasting, getting into a few fights with guys who thought I was after their girlfriends. I was such a proud motherfucker by then. I'd get my all growly and show teeth and claws and storm at someone with my maw fully open and snapping my teeth open and yelling obscene things and threats.
The one time when I attacked his wannabe footballer who was giving me some shit and jumped on him, and the gym coach grabbed me and slammed me against the lockers and held me down, hissing and barking and snorting until I calmed down, with the Coach, a huge Doberman looking at me all the time and threatening me with the principal...
Fucking hell.
I'd never felt more like a pathetic little pup. Silly, in a way, I was getting bigger with my daily working out sessions and running, I was almost as tall as the Doberman and slowly getting heavier, too, working my adolescent muscles to the max...I was almost eye to eye with him, almost as tall as him...
...fuck I felt small and pathetic, and damn did he smell nice and generally look like the strongest dog ever to walk on Earth.
After I finally got through with the whole talk with the principal, my mother's crying fit and my dad's shouting and harrumphing, I was delivered to my room and they told me I was grounded. Didn't that just suit me fine, told to stay in my room and not to get out of there for the rest of the week.
Fuck.
I can't remember how many times I jerked off. I beat my meat, lying on the bed, or sometimes on my weightlifting bench, cradling my balls and with a couple of fingers stuffed into my asshole while I replaying that moment over and over again in my head, the Doberman Couch panting in my face and telling me to calm down and holding me against the locker. I jacked off and finger-fucked myself and I held my eyes open and stuffed a pillow over my head as I growled out my orgasm, over and over again covering my teen furs with thick spooge.
That coach was a good guy. He never did anything inappropriate with any student, and he never ever did anything sexual to me, so you can't really blame him for fucking me up sexually, or mentally, or whatever you want to call it. He was a great guy, and I idolized him for several years during my formative teenaged years, the subject of my secret fantasies that just kept growing in intensity, and including other guys, too. I knew I was gay, I probably didn't know that word, at least not in any good context. It was the eighties, after all, the time of AIDS and all that shit that went with that. Not that I could have really done much of it, anyway. I didn't know any gay furs. I didn't know how I could ever do anything without getting into real trouble, catch AIDS or something.
But fucking hell, did I want to. I jerked my dick raw, played with my ass, and created more and more elaborate scenarios in my mind. Male furs, big, musky, masculine furs who smelled like the coach, mostly canines, though as long as they were big, it didn't matter in my mind, big, smelly, with big dicks they wanted me to suck, to push me down and make me swallow it, fucking their dicks into my throat while I'd gag and be forced to take it like the good pup I was.
I don't blush thinking about all these subby thoughts. I don't. I am proud of them. Not many guys can say with good conscience that they know how to sub. I've been with many guys over the years, and I've seen so many sloppy subs that I've lost the count. It's a fucking travesty. They don't know what they're doing, they just pretend they like it, because they think that they should like it, or then, even if they do like it, then they feel guilty about being a cocksucker or a tail lifter or whatever the nasty names those Bible-thumpers keep throwing in our direction. Nothing more sad than a fag who's embarrassed or shamed or angry about being a fag. The frustrated closet furs, some marries that I have fucked have been so full of anger and shame and pent up energy that it might have made the session with them interesting, but it's always left me with a bit of a bad taste, pretty often.
I didn't know anything much of that back then, when all I had was my paws, a hairbrush handle (don't ask), the occasional jaw-dropping picture I saw in wholly innocent magazines or TV, and lots of dirty ideas. I knew I wanted to find a man who I could suck, who'd fuck me, who'd treat me like a total pup and tell me what submission met. The idea made me want to whine, and it made my cock so damn hard, and it made me feel alive. It made me feel good, and it also made me feel so fucking frustrated. Not a fucking chance in hell I'd get to do any of that...to get all those feelings I had missed out almost all my life. Not that my parents beat me up or anything, or didn't take care of me. They just didn't really know what to do with me much.
Boohoo, my daddy didn't tell me he loved me.
Well isn't this getting all Freudian? Blaming my sexual frustrations and my bad relationship with my own father to turning me into like that? Looking for a caring daddy to make his puppy feel good and nice. Well that's who I was, and I don't blame anyone. That's how I felt when I left home, having gotten a spot in a college I won't mention here by name, ready to tackle the big life.
It wasn't the biggest city, nor the most progressive, I suppose, by 80's standards, even, but there were places. I'm not talking about fucking in the parks - I wasn't looking forward to getting a tailhole full of AIDS, no thanks, and I didn't want the stuff I did to be a whole wham bang thank you mister kind of an affair. I was hot and horny, teenaged still, full of cum and want to spread it around, but I wanted to take my time at it, wanted to give my daddy all the time in the world to play with his pup.
There was a gay bar there. It was called something stupid and classy like The Watering Hole or something like that, and half of the guys there were 50, and some of them had feather boas. The rest were even creepier, even besides the guys in net shirts dancing on the floor to the latest disco tunes. Even looking at those made my cock shrink. I really never fitted in as a twink...too big even at that age, too...stern-looking, I guess, even if I wanted to bolt out of the place with my tail between my legs. I wasn't big and sweaty like some of the young guys there were, hoping to catch a daddy, too. I was clad in a leather jacket and black jeans, and I had spent a lot of time combing my head furs and I had also skipped my usual post-gym shower, so that I would have some good many musk going on when I went into the place.
I was so damn scared and so damn aroused by the very prospect of meeting other queers that I forgot to be nervous about my fake ID. I got in, though. I always looked a bit older than my age. My size must've helped or something. I felt like a million bucks when I sauntered in and went to the bar to order a beer. It wasn't the first time I was drinking, having stolen enough from my dad, who didn't really keep count of his supply, and I knew how it felt to be drunk. I didn't really want to get drunk that night, though. I just wanted to fit in and look at the guys and maybe be looked at, too. I definitely wasn't going to dance. I can't dance shit.
Nothing happened that night. Zero. A couple of guys talked to me, but I was too nervous to talk back to them, and it wasn't the good pup-nervousness that I had fantasized about. I just felt too intimidated, and not in the sexual way that I craved for. I slinked back to my dorm and felt like a pup but one who had wet himself or some other nasty shit. Not something I get off of, I tell you, even though I've had the occasional pleasurable splash. That's not relevant, here, though.
That happened again the next weekend. And then again.
Three damn weeks, and my balls grew itchier, and my tailhole demanded cocks even more than ever, and it was starting to get difficult to study for my mid-terms and whatever other school shit was going on at the time. My roommate went pussy-hunting and came back to the room with some bitch whom he proceeded to fuck four am in the morning while I pretended to be asleep and had to listen to his pathetic moans and gasps and that girl's moaning. He didn't even kiss her goodbye when he threw her out so that he could get a good hangoverish sleep after draining his balls. It had been difficult to get time to jerk off properly, too, because I also had a job, and my roomie was usually sleeping in the room when I came back from work. I was basically running with a constant case of blue balls, and back in the times before this wonderful thing called the Internet, there were fewer amusements, too, to make it extra pleasurable.
These kids nowadays don't know how lucky they are. They are fucking pampered with every kind of sexual kink and pleasure catered for with a click of a computer mouse. They have goddamn programs in their mobile phones they can use to pick up guys to fuck. They have no idea what it was like when I was that age.
Shame on you if you are that age, heheh.
See, I'm not all bad, though. I just wanted to...well, not loved, because I had the notion that manly sex didn't much require love, because...well...the things I imagine doing weren't anything like sweet lovemaking that seemed to be the norm in the few gay newsletters and the like I had managed to sneak a look at sometimes, when I felt extra bold.
Those same ones sometimes had pictures, too, and drawings, things easily slamming their way into a mind open for erotic intrigue and influence, just like that.
Leather. Caps. Motorbikes and big guys, and sailors with huge chest seen through an open necked shirt. Collars with leashes hanging from them. Older guys and younger guys, looking at one another, posing for the viewer's pleasure. There was no sex, but I had ideas what they could do. Stuff I wanted to do, and I wanted it bad.
So fourth time it was, going stomping to the Watering Hole like I owned the place, with my sleek leather jacket, and thanks to my paycheck, some nifty leather pants, too , to complete my look. I stuffed my paws into my pockets and made sure everyone would get a good look of my ass, and my good looks. It was the time of the punk culture, too, in a way, so getting a few looks from guys with safety pins on their nosepads might've been a bit creepy...but at least they knew what they liked.
Me.
My fake-iD'd beer was delivered and I sipped, leaning with my elbow on the counter, my heart hammered with my nerves, but I kept my eyes stern and looked around to see if there were any good-looking guys there. The usual menagerie of weirdoes, sure, a few of whom I'd later knew how to identify as closeted guys looking for quick fun, the few twinks, the perfumed camp queens who came in only slightly short of wearing a handbag. The trannies did that, though. I didn't feel amused. Never crossdressed, never let anyone put anything girly on me, never put it on anyone else. Let's make just that one thing clear. I might've done some creepy ass pervy things in my life, but that's not one of them. Gotta have some standards.
There were some daddies there that night. There was a bull, and a stallion, who seemed busy drinking beer and whiskey and didn't really talk to anyone except each other, so that was a bit pointless. A bear was wearing a plaid shirt and really looked like someone's dad, or something out of a sitcom. The dirty looks he were giving to some twinks dancing made that look even creepier, though kinda hot, in that respect. I didn't try to talk to him, though. He probably wasn't looking for what I was. I didn't even know how to talk to a gay guy, how to approach the topic of sexual interaction. Fucking. Going home for good times and a game of hiding the sausage. You get the idea. The plaid shirt daddy took his beer and went to talk with a young Rottweiler who was shyly keeping to one of the corner booths.
Bet you wanna hear what happened next? Well fucking show me a good time and I'll tell you!
Alec, 40-something wolf.