Spill
#1 of Benefits?
"Shit shit shit SHIT SHIT AWWWW SHIT HAHAHAHA I fucked that up!"
"Drink, motherfucker!! Fuck you!"
A little sullen at losing yet again, I took a cheap shot. "Fuck ME? How bout you fuck_Angelaaaaaa_?"
Brad snorted, and his words sounded more offended than I knew he actually was. "Uh don't think I'm not gonna! I just have to...you know..."
"Talk to her first?" I put it bluntly.
"I'm...! You don't...! YOU STILL HAVE TO DRINK!" He gave my arm a shove in a loss for a good comeback. Laughing, I reached over to where my drink sat on the floor, out of reach of flinging controllers or flailing arms. I was juuuust at the point where I didn't really mind having to drink again for losing. That's why drinking games are the best; you win, you win. You lose...then oh no you have to get a little drunker. Call the fucken police.
Brad continued taunting me and egging me on as I took one gulp of the ill-mixed drink then added a few more for good measure. Hawaiian Punch and shitty vodka stolen from Brad's parents' stash. So goes another Saturday night of half-drunk Mario Kart.
Of course it wasn't so much of a game as it was just fucking around, indulging our long-running rivalry while getting a little carefree on cheap, half-secret liquor. So while I was dutifully drinking up, Brad polished off the last bit of his own drink and stood up somewhat unsteadily to go mix another. "You gonna need another one, Lang?" he asked when he was safely on his feet.
I made a face and my tongue made a smack along the roof of my mouth when I lowered my plastic cup. "Nah, I'll be good for a little bit. Not planning on LOSING again anytime soon."
"Suit yourself, but you've lost more than me tonight and that's just making you drunker, which makes you SUCK even MORE."
"Ass." I promptly half-growled, but good-naturedly.
Brad ascended the stairs out of the basement as quietly as his slightly clumsy steps allowed, trying not to tip off his dad to the fact that he was going to be clanking around in the kitchen again. Of course, his dad was surely completely passed out in front of the TV in the upstairs living room, but incurring his wrath at a noisy wakeup would be a huge buzzkill, and it wouldn't be a great idea to put even his parents' kinda lax attitude about underage drinking to the test.
I sighed and stretched out on the floor of the basement, lacing my hands together just behind my ears and idly flicking my tail every now and then between my legs. Got a decent pleasant buzz growing in my head but not enough to mean a headache tomorrow, got no seeeeriously pressing homework to worry about before Monday, got a night alone with my best buddy Brad. It was a good night to be Langley Marston the teenage wolf.
Brad snuck back down the stairs, shutting the door at the top behind him. I could already see his muzzle halfway disappearing down his cup. He always did tend to get ahead of me drinking-wise. I guess he packed a little more muscle than me at that age, what with him playing more sports than I did, though I had the benefit of a blast-furnace metabolism. The lion had a just-noticeable extra helping of beef around his torso that was missing on my leaner frame. And at that time his mane was still coming in, which I knew he was touchy about since it was a little slower-growing and scruffier than that of some of the other male lions our age. It was one thing I tried not to tease him too cruelly about, though the reason was probably split evenly between "I'm protecting his insecure adolescent feelings" and "he could beat the fuck out of me if he got REALLY pissed".
When he plopped back down next to me with a grunt, clad in basketball shorts and an old and slightly stained white t-shirt bearing the logo and slogan of our school's football team, I was still kinda looking at the stocky lion from my stretched-out state. I'll chalk my lingering gaze up to the reduced reaction time induced by the alcohol.
He didn't notice, exhaling after another reckless gulp of his drink. "Fuck, that's stronger than the last one..."
"Oh, you fucken pussy, gimme that." He handed me his cup. I took a swig. Damn, he was right. No wonder he always got drunk faster than me. Not that I was about to admit any of this to him. "Quit bein' gay, it's not that bad."
"I didn't say it was bad. I can handle it." He picked up his controller and leered at me competitively (and lopsidedly). "Are you good for another round?"
I pushed myself up into a cross-legged sitting position. "Of course. And I can't lose ALL night."
"Yeah, there'd be NO precedent for THAT at all."
"Fuck you, it's your game and your system! Of course you're better at it!"
"Hey, you're a willing participant in the game. Drink up or shut up."
Instead of responding verbally, I punched a button that brought up one of the hardest courses and smirked at Brad playfully. I had a hunch he was drunker than me, so I thought this might be my one chance to shut him up about my gaming inferiority.
"Whoa, look who's a big boy now!" he taunted as the countdown to the race started. We always played with no computer characters so we'd only have to beat each other, so as soon as the light was green the stream of button-clacking noises and undirected swear words began in earnest.
"fuuuuuuUUUUUCKK aw damnit come on come on come onnnnn." I took a turn too shallow and flew off the track. I'm sure Brad was grinning as I mashed the accelerator button waiting to be put back on the track.
"Let's so you recover from THAT now, bitch!" I'll admit I was getting a little irritated at my own lesser competence at the game...not to mention the alcohol building up in my system was causing my attention to wander a bit. I knew I'd never win this track now anyway, so I guess I kinda took my ragequit out on Brad unfairly.
"Yeah? Recover from THIS!" I dug a couple fingers into his meaty side and he immediately convulsed in surprise.
"Dude! Come on, lame!"
"HOW YOU DOIN' NOW, ASSHOLE?!"
He continued to squirm away from me, valiantly trying to continue the game. My own controller lay basically forgotten by my feet. Now I was having too much fun savoring my dirty tactic and I started in with both hands. "Who's a ticklish little kitty?!"
Now he was out of control, laughing helplessly and swatting at me with his right hand, the other clinging to the controller though the game was long since unsalvageable. "Fuck...you...please...stop...hahahahaha dude..."
He fell over on his back under my hands, but I didn't stop. I was kneeling by his side and not giving him a chance to breathe. His leg kicked out and knocked over his drink, spilling a candy-red pool, thankfully in the opposite direction as us. NOW he was getting actually pissed.
"Come on...man...my...cup...hahahahaha," I discerned between his breathy laughter. I wasn't concerned; the basement had an uncarpeted smooth concrete floor so it'd be easy to clean up, and he probably didn't need too much more to drink anyway. And just because I was feeling satisfied at the power switch from the previous video game situation, I didn't relent a bit.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying letting my fingers run all over his writhing sides and belly, too...damn vodka, what the hell was that about? I couldn't really make up whether the booze was causing the heat in my face and the guilty thrill that was evident elsewhere, or it was something else...
Speaking of that particular "elsewhere", it was surely the alcohol that caused my eyes to wander elsewhere on Brad...the front of his shorts. There was a lump there.
I hadn't really been feeling drunk before, but I could feel all my larger-than-necessary gulps catching up to me FAST. I was feeling overly giddy, and my mind was doing loops. I wonder what that is?! was a pretty dumb question considering where I was looking at the moment, but...
I'll still never ever know what made me shove my hand down his shorts and grab his penis.
In my awkward, suppressed eagerness I grabbed it really oddly, too. Since I was kneeling beside him, I had to reach down to get in there, and my grip was "overhand", I guess you'd call it. I held the base of it between my thumb and forefinger, cradling the fleshy underside in my palm.
Though, of course, none of this describes how suddenly I did it, and how suddenly everything changed. I didn't lead up to it at all; I just slid my hand underneath his waistband (maybe a tad roughly...) and got a handful. I wasn't sure if I was surprised to find that he was already fully hard. I thought I could feel his pulse through his dick...actually that was probably my own head and heart throbbing from a mix of tipsiness and some kind of horror.
For what seemed like a really long time in drunk-land, there was no movement and total silence from both of us. Brad's eyes were wide and fixed on where my hand disappeared into his pants, his head leaning up from the floor tensely. My eyes, however, were firmly planted on his face. I could never actually describe what I saw there. It was intense, sure, but I reinterpreted his expression so many times in my mind during that terrifying thrill of a second: shock? anger? fear? ...need?
My own face probably would have portrayed a few of those as well.
After that long moment where neither of us dared to breathe, my hand gave his dick a slow knead and an even slower sort of tug, pulling the loose skin around the hardness toward me. I had to swallow a whimper at the incredible, sudden rush of eroticism I was feeling. I'd always admired Brad...envied him his more sturdy athleticism...wished all the time I could look more like him and then maybe I'd have his bravado or I'd get some attention from the girls in our class...but only at that exact melting-hot smolder of a moment when I was basically molesting the poor guy did it fully strike me that all of that was a sublimation of my utter, hopeless (gay?...) crush on him. He had been my only real buddy for several years, and I'd finally realized why I liked thinking about him so much.
Oh god, he's HOT.
Oh god, I'm feeling him up...
My hand continued its agonizing squeeze and pull.
Brad let out a strangled "Nnnnnhhhh..."
My own eyes, still watching his face in terror and awe, saw his roll backward along with his big tawny ears. His thin but strong tail was lying between us tautly, curling up towards itself as it tensed.
I reversed the direction of my hand motion inside his shorts but didn't relax my slightly awkward grip on the organ. And when I started to stroke back upward again, I realized that it was really happening.
Fuck, I was jerking off my best friend.
My next, firmer stroke elicited a deep, gasp-like exhale from Brad through his nose. The more I stroked, the more he snuffled. He finally laid his head back on the floor, his eyes now shut and scrunching up every now and then when I gave him a good squeeze.
I let go of his shaft and awkwardly fished around in his shorts until my hand was wrapped around him in the more conventional full-fist manner. The maneuvering caused my heart to give an extra hammer when my wrist pulled the waistband out far enough to give me a tiny glimpse of the head of his cock protruding beyond my curled hand. My throat was dry and my scruffy gray tail beat against the floor once before I decided to pull him out of his cloth confines. Slooooowly, almost reverently, I pushed my fist down to his base and simultaneously let my arm pull the waistband away, away, away....until the elastic finally slid down off my hand, making a faint snap sound against his scrotum and making him huff through his nose sharply. I noticed him trembling now that his manhood was exposed to the air and so engorged by my hand at the base holding all the blood in. His breathing was shallow already except for the quick bursts when I did something to increase his stimulation.
I had to loosen my grip on him to get a better look. _Why is it blurry...what the hell, are my eyes watering?! _ My left hand, until now having rested unused and left-out between my knees, caught me as I fell slightly forward (by now I was well beyond a buzz; my quick downing of two cups of that drink had continued to build up on me since I initiated this crazy thing).
It was one thing to FEEL Brad's penis filling up my hand so warmly, but now that it was exposed to the air (and my sight) I was utterly grateful and mesmerized. I wanted to drink it with my eyes. It seemed so ELEGANT at the time...the noble reflexive curve of the shaft...the light honey-gold skin color that complimented his coat...and even that patch of darker, almost reddish fur that adorned the base of it... It was fairly short, but fat and full, and so fucking BEAUTIFUL and manful and needful.
I realized I was just staring at his penis while I held it in an upward, outward position when he wordlessly lifted his body to press his groin into my hand. I looked back up at his face, and for a barely noticeable second, his feverishly rolling eyes met my infuriatingly blurry but steadier ones, and the desperation I saw there in that tiny flash almost overwhelmed even me. What am I doing to him?
With my hand in a more standard position on his cock, I earnestly began REALLY jerking him, as every male knows how to, and none better than those who have just turned 17 and have never gotten beyond first base. My hand was going faster, faster, just like Brad's ragged respiration. Without thinking, I placed my other hand on his heaving chest. I probably put a little too much weight on it for his comfort, my sense of balance now quite impaired but he still said nothing and didn't stop me.
It can't have been even five full minutes since I first took him in hand that he orgasmed. He didn't moan, or whimper, or even growl. He bucked his shaft into my hand, and several small jets of gluey white stained his t-shirt even further, one of them landing partway on the thumb of my hand that was still pressing on his thick chest.
Then, except for his excited huffing and the paintbrush-end of his tail involuntarily flicking every now and then, we were silent and stock-still again for yet another surreal second. My hand was still around his dick, which hadn't yet begun to lose its hardness. I noticed that I was breathing a little heatedly too, and for the first time I really consciously noticed some hardness of my own...
Eventually Brad broke our stalemate by taking hold of my right arm and manually moving my hand from his cock, which thumped onto his belly, now constricted by the elastic waistband. My other hand recoiled from his chest as he sat up and it caused me to fall back onto my haunches, a bit painful on the hard floor. We still hadn't said a word since we'd abandoned the game, which still glowed silently on the old TV. I was going to explode if I didn't at least try to explain, or express...
"Brad! I'm..." I was ashamed to hear myself trail off with a whine.
He didn't say anything. Just stood up, tucked his penis back into his pants, rolled the bottom of his shirt up where most of his semen was, and then stripped out of it altogether. There was that smooth, muscular back with just a hint of the same pudge that padded his front, and that endearingly scraggly half-mane of darker fur around his head and neck that I knew extended down his chest...
Fuck, I had it BAD.
He knelt down with his wadded-up, surely sticky t-shirt in hand and used it to mop up the worst of the thin pool of liquor on the floor. Now stained a sad shade of pink, the shirt was tossed into the trashcan. I felt an anxious pang of guilt. Both of the new sources of the stains on the shirt were my fault, because I was drunk and horny and STUPID STUPID STUPID and had no idea how badly I wanted to GIVE MY FRIEND A FUCKING HANDJOB and now he threw away that shirt I'd seen him lounge around in so many times and please just let him say something, anything anything anything
"You wanna watch a movie or somethin'?"
I stared up at him from where I sat, fearful and slack-jawed. What?
"We...can...yeah..."
He leaned over to eject the game from the player and insert a DVD that was lying nearby. It was something that we'd both seen before; in fact we'd watched it together. Even by the time he'd pressed "play" I still hadn't moved. I happened to look down at the back of my hand. A little stripe of Brad's semen still clung there. My stomach was a little queasy looking at it. I wiped it on the back of my khaki shorts and numbly scooted over to the couch that faced the TV but at a perpendicular angle, climbing up onto it while Brad occupied the one that faced the set directly.
"You gonna finish your drink?" Brad asked me.
"No, I think I'm good for tonight, I should stop..."
"Give it to me."
"Brad, I...think you should--"
"Don't wanna waste it."
I handed him the cup helplessly. He downed the rest of it in one gulp.
The movie played. I had a headache. Did it really happen? Why would he be ignoring it if it did? What the hell could he be thinking right now?
I didn't dare look at him. I was laid down on the couch lengthwise so I was facing completely away from him. The whole movie happened. The dim light from overhead was making my soupy brain tell my eyes to drift closed. I'd planned on passing out here anyway...
The movie was over. I'd forgotten it was on.
Brad was standing in front of me. I hadn't forgotten about him.
His shorts dropped to the floor along with his boxers.
"Do it again."
This one was hazier. Of course I did it to him again; I had finally heard the name of the beast that guarded my feelings for him, and that name was Lust. Brad stayed standing as he revealed himself fully this time, his ballsack hanging ripely between his thick legs and below his engorged penis that swayed expectantly in the air. One of my hands went to that thick shaft and the other got a clumsy handful of his testicles. This time I began in earnest immediately, running my fist along him in full, deep strokes while massaging and lifting his soft, furred scrotum. The feeling of the weight of his genitals in my hands was still shockingly new, and so satisfying while also making me crave more and more and more. His legs began to shake as he started slowly taking initiative and moving his hips to coincide with my hand motions.
My wolf nose was nearly overwhelmed by the hot-smelling musk emanating from his groin, and I unconsciously inched my face forward to where I was working, wanting to LIVE in that smell, to DROWN in it. Since the scent was mixed with the lingering taste of vodka in my mouth that was also clouding my olfactory system, the exact moment my snout actually made contact with his fur was lost to my mind. But eventually, there I was, nuzzling frantically through his pubic fur, feeling like I could burrow my face into him and keep it there forever. I let out a thin whine in my throat as my tongue slipped out once and ran up the side of his sack just above where my hand was. It didn't linger; it was just a small, experimental lap, probably as unexpected on Brad's end of things as it was on mine. I had no idea what I was doing and I couldn't have controlled it even if I had.
It took quite a bit longer this time around, and I vaguely thought that he wasn't ever quite as hard as before during this second session either. His slow humping caused him to get off-balance a few times and he had to readjust his feet. I could feel him tensing up more and more often, and for longer periods of time. His sack definitely wasn't as loose at I'd first felt it.
"nnnnnhhhhfuck I'm gonna--"
He was truly thrusting into my hand now as it twisted and pulled along his length, and when he made another small noise I knew it was time. I recalled the previous mess I'd made him make, and the t-shirt he'd had to discard, and in a moment of panic, maybe partly because this time it'd be me who'd be in need of cleanup, I just slipped the flaring end of his penis into my muzzle.
It was just in time too. Seconds later, the cock stiffened in one hand and his nuts twitched in the other. Thick, bleachy stuff dribbled into my mouth from the fleshy tip I was holding in there. When it stopped coming, I took it out but still my hands maintained their hold on his privates. I tried not to be conspicuous when I gulped to clear my mouth of the slimy substance. I can't say I liked the way it tasted, or the way it slithered down my throat.
Brad didn't go back to the couch he had been sitting on before, instead collapsing on the old, thready cushion next to me without even bothering to cover himself back up. So the chips were all on the table now. This time it was he who showed his hand first.
"Fuck, Lang, I didn't know that...you...wannedto...." The last couple words slurred together as they trailed off.
I swallowed again, still feeling a heady, bitter tang in the back of my throat. "I...didn't plan it I swear man I'm sorry it just happened--" I cut off the buildup of meaningless words as a small panic began to rise.
"Why dint y'ever tell me before?"
"I didn't know...I never thought about it...you...like that before and then I was just doing it, and then I didn't know if it was okay and you weren't talking to me..."
He didn't say anything to that, instead looking blearily past his knees to the floor.
I ventured, "Did you...like it?"
He snuffled. "Well yeah I made you do it again did'n'I?"
I looked down to his lap. His stubby dick was leaning diagonally over in the crease between his groin and thigh, significantly deflated, and his ballsack was nestled low between his legs again. Suddenly I wasn't just looking and my hand was playing around. I flopped his penis around a few times, never really gripping it, just in a fuzzy sort of awe that yes, it was really a penis, and yes, I couldn't get enough of touching it.
With a grunt, Brad leaned down and grabbed the tangle of shorts and boxers that was gathered around his ankles still. He pulled them up and I let go of his junk to allow him to cover himself, feeling some more of that now-familiar uncertain guilt at having invaded his privacy yet again. I caught a glimpse of his golden butt when he stood up, though it was hastily covered by his pants.
"I think we sh'd get some sleep," he said, picking up the empty cup he'd finished before the movie and adding it to the trashcan by the TV with the other one. "I know I'm gonna be hungover."
"Yeah..."
Still shirtless, he flicked off the overhead light. The TV was muted again, and by the pale glow of the DVD menu he laid down on the other couch.
I hadn't moved from where I sat yet. I felt feverish. I was thinking too much, and couldn't think enough. After what was probably several minutes I whispered, "Brad?"
I got no answer. His eyes were closed and his bare, shaggy-furred chest was rising and falling lightly. "...Brad?" I tried again a little louder.
He was out.
Only a couple intense minutes later, I was over by the trashcan myself, dumping a handful of my own semen on top of the sopping t-shirt and two red plastic cups. I wiped the residue still on my palm onto the fabric inside my shorts pocket. Next time this pair would go through the laundry, a little bit of sperm from both Brad and me would be washed out.
It was a blessing when my brain turned off almost immediately upon laying down on the couch.