FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. It's also porn. This means, if you're underage to read this or it's otherwise illegal where you are, stay away (like it's going to work anyway). As porn, this story may contain sexual acts between characters of the same sex but different species, and computer stuff. If you don't like bondage, domination, orgasm denial, pup play or hot chubby guys...WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU?!? Otherwise, read on and enjoy!

Special thanks to Chance for being my best friend and a constant inspiration for all things furry.

FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]

A RAM Upgrade: Another "Chance" Encounter ©2008 Whyte Yoté

I just had to leave the fucking phone on, didn't I? A measly push of one little button and I wouldn't be scrambling all over the shower, my eyes stinging from the shampoo, to turn off the goddamn water so I can answer the stupid thing. I'm still technically on duty, but this never happens! Not so close to five o'clock on a Friday. Fuck! Can't see a thing; it's all foam and steam and now the water's SCALDING BECAUSE I TURNED THE WRONG KNOB oh shit shit shit that's hot!

The phone rings again and I've never hated that sound more than I do right now. Right this minute.

"Screw this." Screw the water, screw the soap, I'll just get out and drip all over the floor, I don't care anymore. And the phone's all the way in the living room, too. Don't even give a shit about a towel; I just trod heavy-pawed across the downstairs, cursing society and its need to keep tabs on every single one of us. The things I'll do for money...and to keep my job.

Toweling my left paw dry with an oven mitt, I grab the thing and shove it to my ear. "Hello?" It's just about the hardest thing I can do to sound civil to anyone right now, especially since my winter coat does a pretty good job of keeping me warm, except when it's wet. I try not to soak the phone with matty fur as I go back to the bathroom, retracing the soaking prints I just left all along the hallway.

"May I ask to whom I am speaking?" Oooh, a gentleman, well, that's just dandy. Sounds like an impossible prude to me. Bending over, I reach for the knobs to turn the water off for good, at least so I can be heard.

"This is Chance, technical support, how can I help you?" Despite my best efforts, I can't keep an edge from creeping into my voice. It's cooling down, a little, but you can understand how I'd be so pissed off. I mean, come on! It's fucking Friday!

The guy on the other end pauses, then says, real low, "I need some help with my machine, and I was referred to you specifically. Told me you went independent and local, you were so good. Had to track you down through the damned Internet." Well, at least he sounds nice. Not too demanding; I tell you, if some bastard called me and got all up in my shit bitching about some inconsequential little...

"You kind of caught me at the end of my day, sir," I bluff, even though it's the truth, but I'd be yelled at something fierce if my boss at the local office knew I was trying to sluff off work at the end of the week. I stand there, starting to freeze my balls off, looking at myself in the mirror. You don't ever want to see a drenched husky. Kinda makes it look like I'm on a coke binge or something. Not pretty.

"I understand that, Chance," the guy continues, nice and smooth, and I can see what his game is. "That's why I'm prepared to pay the weekend rate. I'm of the knowledge you don't work nights or weekends, but the nature of this emergency requires haste." Whoa, a little wordy there, but at least the guy's smart. Must be booksmart, not techsmart. Plenty of people can quote Chaucer or Dickinson but they can't tell their Firewire from their coax. Funny, because coaxials go on televisions, not computers. Believe me, I've had people.

But I have plans this evening...plans that included a dog bed, some peanut butter and milkbones and a Tarantino marathon. Don't laugh; I have a social life, but I need time to myself every once in a while. Then again, if I'm getting weekend pay...

"Sooo..." I extend the word, trying to sound like a businessman, "what kind of a problem are we looking at here?"

"Well, Chance, I'm just about at a breaking point here with this stupid machine. I bought it four years ago, and it worked fine until a few months back. It's slowed down to almost nothing, and I'm afraid I might have--"

"--spyware, malware, adware, viruses, all that, right?" I can almost hear the nod on the other end of the phone before the guy says so.

"Exactly that. I run a business here, and I can't get anything done. When it takes ten minutes to start up, there's something wrong." Did he say ten minutes? What's he been doing on that thing, having unprotected sex? You almost have to work to fuck up a system that bad.

"Which OS do you run?"

"XP." Well, good, I know that like the back of my paw, which is starting to itch from the shampoo still on it.

"Cool, shouldn't be a problem. Where's your address?" I'm glad I don't need to search around for a pen, having always been good about remembering small stuff like that. He gives me his address...but it's in the city, which is thirty miles away from my house. He can't be serious.

But he is. "I thought you said there was no problem. I'm paying for gas, too, of course."

"I...you...that's not part of the contract..."

"But nothin'. I realize you don't work in the city anymore, but you came very highly referred by a very good friend of mine. I don't take my referrals lightly, so I was hoping I could convince you to make a trip up here if all expenses were paid." It almost sounds like blackmail, from the way he's talking. Makes me feel diabolical for some weird reason. I know I don't look it. I really want to rinse off soon, or else I run the risk of a stinging sheath. Not a good feeling, having the wrong soap in a sensitive place.

"Alright then, sir, you got yourself a deal," I perk up, acting as if I had a choice in the matter. But at the same time I can't complain, because the idea of picking up a few extra bucks on the side for "expenses" is incentive enough. Gas, at these prices? Oh, here sonny, take this fifty-dollar bill and fill up, you're such a nice young man. A guy can hope, right?

I pad back into the kitchen, still sopping wet and getting chills all over because my coat's just become a lost cause for warmth, and take down his name, just to be sure. Something weird that I have to ask him to repeat, then spell, hoping he hears my nervous smile over the line. Sheane Findlay. Probably a fox or something.

"I trust you know your way?" the guy asks, and I get the feeling he's had to give directions a million times before and it's just part of the gig.

"GPS, Google Maps and VZ Navigator should be able to get me there."

"I assumed as much from a tech. Good show, then, I'll see you presently. Take your time; I'm free all night." Jesus, I think, this had better not take all fuckin' night. I have better things to do, and you have better things to spend your money on. I plug the guy's address into Google and it tells me forty minutes on a good day, up to one hour and ten with traffic. Well, fuck. Major commuting corridor, early evening on a Friday. Sounds like fun.

"Give me an hour and a half, on the outside. You have my number in case something comes up."

"Wouldn't dream of cancelling; this is much too important. Like I said, no need to hurry." I chafe at the contradiction of importance and haste; that's the kind of vague language that lands techs in trouble. And, since he called me on my personal phone, QA didn't catch a word. Guess I'll have to really impress him. Sometimes we get bonuses for doing exceptional work above and beyond the call of normal duties. Sometimes, as in "you practically have to suck a dick to get the old fart to fill out the comment card." Well, I don't do shitty work and I have this angelic floofy fur thing going on, which works in my favor.

Right now, though, I look more like an anorexic sled dog with an addiction. And I've done neither, so that's pretty fuckin' thin. Even my belly, that little round thing that fits great behind my harness, is almost gone. Good trick for appearing thin, but it doesn't matter because you can't go out in public all soaked to the skin. Plus, the way I mat up if I don't brush the hell out of myself...not a good sight.

Even with the generous window I quoted the venerable Mr. Findlay, I'm looking at ten minutes, at least, to towel dry and brush out, gather all my shit and get out the door. You know, the things I do for business, putting my personal hygiene on hold so I can look at the back of some guy's PC, tell him something he should have known all along, spend five minutes and charge him a couple hundred bucks for the trouble, all the while smiling and making sure the customer's happy. Yeah, there won't be a bonus from this one. I can just feel it.

If I stand here in the middle of this cold room any longer, my balls will shrink away to nothing. Nobody wants that, especially me (because I use those...often.), so I pad back to the bathroom, toweling as I go. I have to settle for a once-over with my deep-massaging brush, the one with the stiff boar-bristle head. That thing makes even a short brushing feel awesome, and works better than espresso at perking me up and improving my mood. If I don't feel like driving back I can call up any of numerous friends who can abide a husky curled up at the foot of their bed for a night. I'm not much of a bother.

Harness or sheath cage? I know it's a silly question to ask when hurrying out the door, but I honestly feel naked without one or the other. When a fetish becomes a lifestyle, for some people, it stops being just a sexual thing and starts defining your character, like wearing a favorite necklace or something. I take a quick look in the mirror at the red and white husky staring back at me, and after doing a three-sixty for myself I have to go with neither. I'm still damp, and with only the half-assed brushing I got I really don't want to deal with mats caught up in either toy. But...I can still go with the chastity ring, with its stainless steel and nothing that can pinch fur or skin.

I grab it from the nightstand beside my bed, twist around and clamp the rear ring around the base of my tail, hearing that solid, final click and smiling. Feeding my feet through the thin leather straps like a jock, I pull it up to my waist and thread my sheath through the front ring, making sure to stop just forward of where my knot would be if I were a little more horned up. It's a good thing I'm not in the mood anymore (I was just about to get into it before the goddamned phone call), or else it would be a lot tougher than it is. After the ring is seated, I cinch up the waistband on both sides, thankful the leather's smooth and adjustable. Okay, now I feel better. I can get dressed.

That takes about a minute, because my work clothes are sitting right where I left them...crumpled up on the edge of the bed, because I had been under the impression that my week had ended. No wrinkles, no harm, no foul. Black slacks over boxers, white polo (the cheap, transparent kind) and name tag. The getup really doesn't match my own color scheme, but it's not like I have a choice. One final check in the mirror, including a biiiiiig smile for crap in my teeth, and I grab my diagnostic kit (a glorified man-purse) and head out the door.

And ten minutes later I'm...not moving. At all. Apparently, everyone wants to vacation up in the mountains to the east, on this particular weekend. Even the fact that I've got my Nine Inch Nails on full blast doesn't soothe my seething displeasure as I stare ahead at a Suburban with twenty-four-inch rims and hope it blows up so the rest of us can at least get ahead. The only good thing is, I'm still on track to meet my appointment. The GPS even says I'll be eight minutes early. But it's the principle of the thing, you know? We're all fucking sheep; even I'm one and I admit it. You'd think that with over thirty million people in this state, some of us would want to go to a different place for the weekend. I'm probably blowing it out of proportion a little, but you get my drift.

Someone blares their horn close by, and I turn up the stereo. Feed my soul, Rzeznik.

Well, like most crises on the roads of America, this one seems to clear up with absolutely no explanation whatsoever. Suddenly, traffic becomes a steady 70mph stream, and I didn't even get to see one dead or mangled body for my trouble. Shame.

If I were in a company car, I could push it a little faster because the highway patrol doesn't seem to care about the urgency of all matters technological. They'll pull over a speeding Granny in a Mustang II, but some hot rodder in a black-and-white New Beetle? Are you kidding? I, however, have to keep it to the flow of traffic in my civilian car. Not a problem, still six minutes ahead of schedule.

The city rears its forest-fire-smoke-laden head earlier than I think it should, but as much as I hate to admit it I've made really decent time. I even find my rear vibrating as my tail fights to wag against the seat. You know that feeling when you're in the middle of a seemingly long task, and you realize you're a shitload closer to being done than you thought? Pretty sweet, isn't it?

I hang a right onto one of the ring roads around downtown and it takes me waaaaay out into the country south of town, far enough out where your neighbors can't see your backyard from theirs. Nice stuff out here. Trampolines, above-ground pools, big stuff for big yards. My place suddenly feels cramped in comparison...but there's just me, so I have no right to complain.

After I exit, and make three turns from frontage road to county highway to county route, I'm bouncing along uneven asphalt that probably hasn't been maintained in a decade. At least it's pretty: little rolling hills of golden wheat-or-something-like-it, cool fences made from logs instead of Home Depot shit, and really long, low ranch houses that are old but don't look like it. Reminds me of how crappy the city can be; even the town where I live that's far enough away from the big stuff doesn't have much charm compared to this. Yeah, I think, I guess this trip was worth it, especially since my gas is paid. I can deal with this.

One more turn and suddenly I'm headed down into a ravine, right in the middle of the damn fields. There's gotta be a stream or something down there, because trees start showing up, towering over both sides of the road and shadowing my car. Ever so often there'll be a mailbox and a trail leading up to a house that's half-hidden in huge ashes and maples...and a few palm trees, always a few palm trees no matter where you go.

Well, the road is a dead end, so unless Mr. Findlay is holed up somewhere in a cave I'll pull up to his house before the pavement runs out. This thing winds all over the hillside, and, being the male dog I am, I've got to punch it a little through the corners. The car doesn't sound like it appreciates the beating, but it gets over the potholes okay, me laughing and screaming like a lunatic the whole way. I'm having so much fun that I almost overshoot the address, missing the first entrance of a looped driveway but pulling into the second.

This place is really nice, for a country house. Usually I get called out to crappy family homes, cookie-cutter shitholes where everything's all new and shiny but it's not built to last. Or, I have to go into the ghetto and try to find a DSL line hiding among abandoned shopping carts and hungry rats in the walls. I definitely don't get bonuses for those calls.

I should.

But this is really nice...the driveway is cobblestones, and there's a fountain in the center of that loop. The thing is one long, low level; it seems to stretch on forever and ends in a three-car garage with a shed to boot. Sheane's wife must have a rager for landscaping because it's flawless. I'm not really interested in the whole thing, but I notice when someone takes care of his lawn. It's the kind of lawn that people let grow naturally and mow once a week, and just let it do its thing but keep the weeds away and stuff. I find myself thinking this place must look just kickass in the fall, with all the leaves.

Figuring I've gawked enough at the trees, I grab my kit from the back seat and shut the doors, but I don't lock them. Something about this neighborhood tells me nobody really locks their cars out here. Kinda feels disrespectful to, in a way.

I watch a disconnected, multi-faceted version of myself walk towards the front doors; the things are huge and dark, made of real wood with glass panels scattering light every which way. It also scatters my reflection, and I'm having so much fun looking at myself that I stop only when I see someone moving around behind the glass. Well, that's more than a little embarrassing. So I clear my throat and try to maintain some dignity the rest of the way up the walk.

The doorbell--no, it's more of a door chime, too big to be a mere bell--hangs at the end of a thick, mossy rope. The handle's shaped like one of those pine cones you see on cuckoo clocks, but it's not kitschy. The whole thing reeks of maturity, all the way down to Loch Lomond playing when I pull on the rope. Fits the guy's name, and I have a feeling he's got strong ties to that part of the world.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I don't know how I missed it before he opens the door, but this guy is a hulking mass of a man. I feel myself staring at a belly, and only a belly, and I do one of those comical slow-pans up, searching for his head. Even before I get there I feel a dull pain from between my legs as my sheath wants to plump up but doesn't like the constriction it finds. Like standing at the base of a water tower and looking up, he seems constantly on the verge of falling on top of me, and I would gladly oblige him if he wanted to do just that.

Gulp. "Are y-you Sheane Findlay?"

"Aye, son, that I am."

Sheane Findlay has got to be the consummate Scotsman. I mean, who else would answer their door in a kilt? After I step back to give us both some breathing room, I can take the whole of him in. I mean, God damn! This ram is built! Probably in his early fifties, but either he works out or does some heavy manual labor every day. His eyes are blue and squinty, made friendly by deep crow's feet. Thick neck, thick arms, thick belly, everything is thick on him! To my chagrin, in a moment of pure subby weakness my purpose at this house is forgotten and I pop a two-inch-exposed boner through the ring, and that's as far as I go, because my knot is out of room. I try to maintain my smile through the sweet, sweet pain.

"You're the lad here to fix the machine, yeah?" asks Findlay, and I realize his phone voice is a toned-down version of the lilt I'm hearing right now. Fighting to keep a straight posture with the crowded mass in my pants, I force a convincing civil smile and try to look him in the eyes without him noticing they're glazed.

"Yes, sir," I reply, feeling my tail waggling along agreeably behind me as I shift my balance from foot to foot. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

Mr. Findlay shakes his shaggy head, an awesome dark shade of strawberry blond between these massive horns that kind of circle around above his ears. "Neh. In fact, I believe you're about ten minutes earlier than you said you'd be originally, so I'd count it a win. Don't stand there all weighted down, now; come in and make yourself at home." He stands back and it looks like the black polo shirt he's wearing is just about to split open from all the hugeness, but I have to tear my eyes away while I scoot on by into the living room. "There's a good boy," he says.

I just about cream myself right then and there. I know there's a generation and a half in between us, and he's just being a friendly old guy, but those words mean a whole lot more to me than just a compliment. God damn, that ring hurts right now!

The door shuts and the room seems very dark with all the sunlight refracted in a million directions. "My apologies for the mess, me boy," rumbles the ram, plodding around behind me, making me shiver from the vibrations in the floor. I know I should have worn shoes; at least I could have kept my toes from curling every few seconds! But then again, how the fuck was I supposed to know that guy was going to answer the door? I bite my lip; it's so damn unfair.

At the very least, it was worth the trip out here just for the eye candy.

"So, where's this machine that's running so slow, sir?" I have to speak up, because he's already turned the corner into the kitchen and it sounds like he's rummaging in the fridge for something.

"You want something to drink, then? Soft drink, or what have you? It's quite hot outside. And call me Sheane, if you would. Sir is my father, and he's been passed on a few years now." It's all muffled and strained; I would sound the same way if I had to bend over a gut and try to speak at the same time.

I look around the room while taking out my diagnostic shit. "Um, I don't know, Coke or whatever," I speak into the popcorn ceiling, hoping it carries across two rooms. The guy grunts a reply, probably a yes since he stops talking. It's a really interesting house, one of those you only usually see out in the country just like this one. It's up to date, as far as technology goes, but the rest of it kind of stopped in 1993. Not a bad design style, but not anything I would call a typical client home.

You got your basic large-format HD-TV, but it's sitting on top of a buffet that looks like it used to belong to Donna Reed. Great condition, and one side even has a turntable...I wonder if it still works. Right above the set is a painting of a coat of arms, depicting the surname FINDLAY in bold colors and graphics. Looks like oil paint, but I can't be sure. It goes with the room, as does the rest of the furniture and carpet and such. Like an old car: well-kept and no wear, but stands out from the present anyway. It's retro and hip. I like it.

"I know it's a mess; the other half's been gone and I'm a horrible housekeeper. My apologies, Chance," Sheane says as he rounds the wall into the living room. I don't know what he's talking about; the room is as clean as I think it should be. Lucky wife, to have him around. Bet he's a handy man. He crosses the room, and I'm having fun watching him; he carries his weight like a pro. Nice and graceful and chubby all at the same time. And you can't go wrong with that kilt!

"Not a problem. You keep it cleaner than a lot of people's homes I see. This is nothing. Thanks." I take the glass from his thick fingers, the kind that end in thick, hooflike nails, but he stops me when I'm halfway to my muzzle with it.

He tips his head towards me. I get the feeling that he never stops smiling; it seems plastered across his face. He's got Santa Claus eyes, all squinty and bright with lines at the edges. Yeah, lucky wife.

"Slainte."

"Salut," I reply, clinking together as we share grins of knowing. Especially now, I'm glad I'm so laid-back and smart to boot. That's why I like the older guys; can't keep up with my "peers." Amazing how retarded people my age can be. I fix computers; what can they say?

I may be smart, but I'm sure I look stupid when I take a swig and my throat burns all the way down. Fuck, there's barely any Coke in there at all! The rest of it is pure scotch, and not just the kind you can pick up at the corner Stop-N-Rob. But I do swallow it all, though I sputter and have to catch my breath. The stuff's warming me from the inside out. Of course, Sheane's just fine.

"What the hell is that?" I ask, snorting and wiping a tear away.

"Bowmore, twenty-one years in the making." He throws his head back again, and I watch his throat convulse as he downs the rest of his glass. Almost looks like the end of a really good blowjob.

"Technically, I could get fired for this."

"Technically, I could turn you in for being inebriated on the job. But what are those odds, really?" I get his drift; he's just trying to make up for dragging me out here in the first place. If he only knew he'd already done that just by being him...well, that's my indulgent secret to keep.

"Well, don't feel insulted if I nurse this while I fix your machine."

"Ach. No harm done; I don't expect you to play hard right off the bat. Meant to be savored anyway. Well, shall we, then?"

"Yes, let's," I reply, my cock finally able to shrink as I sit in the very comfortable Aeron chair and turn my attention to the old-looking machine on the desk. "So, do you mind me asking what you've tried already?"

"Not at all," Sheane replies. He goes to his knees beside me with a thump that resounds through the rest of the floor. He's got a basement, it seems. Pretty unusual for this part of the country. The scent of cologne, a real men's cologne, drifts from his neck around my nose, along with his own musky, classic favorite-sweater kind of smell. It's fatherly. I love it. I could die happily in that smell. "I haven't done much, as you can tell by the bloody slow pace of the thing. Tried using an Internet security program, but it didn't speed anything up."

"That's because you only installed it after you already had a bunch of stuff on it. You need to go back and remove all of it, uninstall the software, then reinstall again. Then you might be protected. But..." I've been clicking around the whole time, looking into this window and that (and probably stumping poor Sheane), and so far what I see isn't good. Cookies are everywhere, lots of them from dubious sites. An annoying red blinking icon in the corner doesn't help either. "I have a feeling even your antivirus has a virus."

"Not good, is it?"

"Nope, not really. But it's mostly fixable," I say as I open the virus checker to do a quick scan, along with the defrag tool. Hourglass icon, rotating endlessly. This machine is royally FUBAR. But I can't tell that to Sheane. I can, however, fix most of it. He might not like my methods though. I take another drink from my glass and shiver as my throat and stomach flare up again. It's good stuff; I'm feeling looser already. Ready to take this thing on.

And then I see the diagnostic window fill up immediately. Ten seconds in and already over fifty assorted viruses come up, glaring red. Some of this stuff is just waiting to melt down the hard drive.

"Holy shit! S-sorry, Sheane. You just have a lot of junk on here. This is pretty serious." The ram scoots closer to the chair and puts a hand on my shoulder. It's like having a bunch of sausages sitting there. Thing's heavy; I can feel his wedding band pressing against my shoulder blade. And my member does a resurrection, and I'm thankful I'm no longer standing.

Sheane's breath reminds me of a few bars I've visited. A nice sweet alcoholic smell. Same stuff as I'm drinking, except he didn't add any Coke. He's a mouth breather, all right. Probably a quiet sleeper too. "I had no idea I'd let it get this bad. Anything infected?"

"Well, yeah, there're infections. But there's good news and bad news."

"I think I'll take the good first."

"I can get your computer back to acting like brand new."

"And the bad?"

I continue to browse windows, seeing information and infection scattered every which way. "I have to erase your hard drive to do it."

Sheane doesn't miss a beat. Usually there's either a pause or something, or the client is like, "What the fuck really?" He just says if it's gotta be done, it's gotta be done. Glad I'm working with somebody who gets that computers are black and white. You can't have a hard drive that's "kinda corrupt." That's like being "a little pregnant."

"Do you have the tools to do it now?" asks the ram, leaning in to squint at the clusterfuck on the screen, squeezing my shoulder a little. He doesn't know it, but he's massaging a knot right under his thumb. It's wonderful.

"It's part of my basic home kit. What do you want to do about your information?"

"I back it up daily on this nifty guy here," he replies, pointing out a 120GB external drive. Top of the line, very nice.

"That's convenient."

"Power outage, two years ago. Wiped out our tax information. I learned that lesson the hard way."

"Uh-huh, isn't that the pits?" I turn to smile at him, and he's already looking at me. For a second, with his arm around my shoulder it seems like he's a little too close...not that I mind in the least, hell no. But even though he's got a slight little grin, his eyes are powerful, authoritative. He's daring me to stare him down. I look away because I'm becoming painfully hard again. I should really learn not to wear my toys to cold calls. But it feels so fucking good!

"So, what do we do first, my boy? I'm glad to help if you need it."

"That's good, because it'll go a lot faster that way. Lemme grab my bag and get this over with." Even though Sheane's kneeling down, he's still taller than me. He must approach three hundred pounds with all that bulk on that tall frame. Just his presence is dominating. I roll the chair back and go over to the couch to grab my bag, and the ram stands up, looking a little lost. Poor guy, wants to help and he's just waiting for me to tell him what to do. It gives me a measure of power that I secretly enjoy. He scratches himself underneath the kilt, and I wonder what his fingers smell like.

Fuckin' cock ring! And yet I could go to the bathroom and take it off, but I don't. I am more trained than I can admit out loud, that's for sure.

I bring my bag back over to the desk, which is shoved up against the wall and trapping all the cords behind it in one giant mess. Kneeling under the thing, I try to make sense of what I see, but it's nearly impossible. Didn't this guy ever think of cable ties or anything? We got two power strips in the wall, a total of twelve cords running from there to the back of the desk, and I think there are some that don't even go to anything. There isn't enough shit there! I want to say something...I really do...but this guy's paying me well to fix his problem, so I think it's better if I just do my job. If I pull the tower away from the wall, I can just--

His hand is on my ass. Oh fuck, his hand is on my ass. As soon as I felt it, I knew I'd put myself in a bad position. Husky nerd, down on all fours in a fucking play bow under the desk, yeah, that's not suggestive at all.

"D'ya need to unplug somethin' back there?" Sheane's cadence is rolling like those Scottish hills he hails from, and he pronounces it "unploog." I wonder if he's a grandfather. If he is, he's probably a damn good one. But as he said it he lay that meaty hand on my lower back, right next to the base of my tail, and I went and thwacked it, right before tucking it under. Real smooth; all that thing is, is a fuzzy boner indicator anyway.

I can't move, so I have to talk to the wall. "Y-yeah, sir, you've got all these cords back here, and I don't need the printer or the speakers to reformat. I'll just take it out so I can open it up easy."

"Righto, then. You need me to man the mouse?"

"Sure. I'll need you to shut it down for me. You have everything saved that you want to keep?"

"Backed it up before you came over."

"Great," I say, and after much struggling I manage to rotate my body around and back up against the wall, my head angled against the nest of cords so all I can see is the base of the chair and Sheane's tree-trunk legs, up to the kilt. It's a sight I don't mind in the least, especially since he can't see me staring. And yep, I'm staring, all right. I spread my legs open wide, killing whatever tent there had been. My ears are smooshed up into the bottom of the desk so I don't hear what he says next.

"What?"

"Just tell me when you want me to shut her down, laddie." What am I, a border collie? Even though I have this strong urge to bark in the affirmative at him, I merely vocalize a yes back. Somehow tearing my eyes from that juicy shadow between his legs, I start searching behind my back for cords I can get rid of. It takes me a solid minute before I ask him which one goes to the printer. He says the black one. Okay, there's six black ones. Well, Sheane can't tell. This isn't being a dumbass client, this is just trying to deal with an unorganized system under the desk.

"You know what, sir? I'm just going to unplug everything and reorganize this desk, if that's all right with you. I have ties and separators that can keep these cords from getting tangled." I push myself up again to a kind-of-sitting position, and Sheane's lower half is blocking my way out. Really, I should ask him to move, but I want to stare just a bit longer. I don't get this kind of view very often with most of my calls.

"Ready to shut down?" I ask.

"Aye, lemme see if I can close the rest of these windows. You don't need any of them, do you?" The ram shifts his weight around and--lord of lords--crosses his right leg over his left.

We have commando, repeat, we have commando. Holy shit.

First his thigh came up, and just as his foot was crossing over, down plopped the whole package, right against the other leg. My mouth bursts into drool so thick I have to swallow twice to avoid licking my lips noisily. If belly fat is the curse of cock size, no one remembered to tell Sheane Findlay. You have those thighs that are muscley even when he's sitting down, a pair of nuts that reminds you that this guy is from the sheep family, an unattached sheath (a rare treat for a cockslut...not that I'm admitting to that) with a half inch of head showing, and I can still see the bottom of his belly! It's not fair, not fucking fair at all. I don't think I can think clearly without rubbing out a load in the bathroom. Or getting this goddamn ring off; it's like leather Viagra.

"Okay, I've got the shutdown window up. Are we go?"

Swallow again. Pant, pant, pant. "We are go, sir. Click that button." I barely manage to get that out before my throat catches again. A minute later the machine finally ceases its whine and I can get to finding the cords to the tower and monitor. It's a damn shame to tear my eyes away. But tear I must, because I have a job to do whether I can paw off in my client's bathroom or not. I can't think about that until the opportunity arrives, or the denial will drive me nuts.

Thankfully, and not so much at the same time, Sheane puts his leg down and slides off the chair, going to all fours at my feet. "Those cables are a right bitch, aren't they?" I look down to see his thick neck craned up, his plaid-clad ass up in the air behind him. God, if he asked me to...whatever...I would.

"You said it, sir," I reply down the length of my body. I have to admit I like the sight, and I'm being a little more gratuitous than I have a right to be, but I don't care. If Sheane is trying to flirt with me, and even if he's not, he's going to smell what he smells and react the way he reacts. God knows what kind of scent's coming from between my legs, but if it's there he either can't tell or he's being polite. Part of me wants him to know what he's doing to me, the part that likes to tease on those occasions when I'm good at it. Imagine my squeak of surprise when the ram crawls forward on top of me and takes a look at the cables for himself, the billy-goat scruff on his chin tickling my snout. I swear I can feel his junk settling over my crotch. There is no personal space with this guy! I don't really give a fuck.

"Hmmm..." he grumbles, apparently unaware that his belly and my diaphragm are having a tango, and my oxygen supply is losing. He reaches one meaty hand past my head and into the mess and fumbles with the power strip wedged behind the tower. There are eight different cords to sort out, and as he cusses under his breath I get wind of the wellspring of man-scent: the armpit. Now, I've been with some pretty funky guys before, and it's not because I'm a poor chooser. I've been with my share of over-perfumed, over-powdered people too. Sheane seems to have struck the perfect balance between the two. Minor waves of pine and--no, really--dirt descend from the ruff of hair spilling over the collar of his shirt, but I can still smell a pleasant cervine undertone combined with a mild deodorant that I would happily lick off if asked. The more he leans over me, the higher I can feel my right knee going, right up until I hit the warmth and softness of certainty.

He's hard, God dammit, he's fully hard and there's nothing I can do about it but sit in silent agony (which is not that agonizing since it's like having sex, except nothing's inside anything else) while Sheane fumbles around trying to do something he should have done the moment he took his computer out of the box. I can't do much except lie back and let the customer be always right. It's amazing we can both fit under the desk. Must be good for blowjobs at work--no no no, stop thinking about that shit!

"I'm sorry for all this nonsense, boy. I shoulda taken a look at this before I called you. I'm such a klutz with the technology. Oh, here it is." Sheane works his fingers just to the right of my ear and somehow gets the plug pulled out. "That's, um, the monitor one. The one to the machine is by itself, I think. That's all you need, right?" When he looks to me for an answer, I'm close enough to kiss him. At the moment it's the only thing I want to do. That, and maybe get fucked right under this desk.

"Yep, just those two, and we can move everything out into the open, get this cleaned up."

"Right then," the ram pats my chest, making my aching lungs sing further, and suddenly the massive weight is off as Sheane backs up right over my leg, grunting when my knee catches his balls but paying it as much attention as if some gnat was buzzing his ear. I follow soon after, joints stiff and pins and needles pricking all the places that were crushed. When I stand up to stretch my back, I steal a glance at Sheane's kilt, which looks a lot like a tent. He makes no move to hide it. If only...it's not that he's dense; he probably brought that openness across the pond from Scotland. I have a pleasant thought of him and his pub friends, all drunk and hard, singing in slurred, beer-buried brogue.

I've pretty much given myself up to the fact that I'm going to be at least half-hard during this whole call, so I had better get used to feeling the pinch of the chastity ring, and the consequent tension on my tailbase. The monitor comes out with its cord pulling free a hell of a lot easier than what I had seen would indicate. Like Sheane said, the tower came out just fine too, along with the keyboard. It was all the other cords that were fucked up. Thank God for small stuff. We go over to the opposite corner where the ram shows me an easily accessible outlet. Tower on the floor, monitor on a leather ottoman right at eye level. I push the power button and wait for the setup screen with my finger over the F10 key.

"You sure you're okay sitting on the floor?" Sheane asks, leaning (more like looming) over my shoulder to watch me work my magic. "I got this nice expensive chair right here."

"It's no big deal," I say. "If I have to keep my back straight I stay more alert. I get the job done quicker."

"I see," the ram pauses. "You don't mind me eavesdroppin' now, do you?" I shake my head. I don't mind him one single bit unless he starts being critical, like some of the nosy bitches I have to work with. Sheane just seems curious. I don't blame him. Having some husky thirty or so years younger than you come to fix something in your own house kind of makes you want to see if you can do it yourself. Five minutes pass before Sheane admits, "You've lost me, lad. Completely lost me."

"Don't worry, sir, it's perfectly normal. Believe me, you don't want to have to learn half the stuff I know. It's incredibly boring."

"Then why do you do it?" Well, it had to happen. Every call I make, someone asks me why I do what I do. My answer is simple, but people still don't get it. What can I say? I'm a nerd.

"It's not boring to me, but it is to everyone else except the guys who program the stuff. I think in code, I guess you could say."

"So you know how to talk to the computer in a way it understands."

"Kind of. You know how to use it as an interface, but I know how to schmooze it. Kind of." Sheane grunts behind me and crosses his arms as he tries to make sense of the C:// in the DOS window. He's never seen a prompt before.

"You've lost me completely. It all may as well be witchcraft, for all you're sayin'. Unbelievable. You want something else to drink? Soda pop?" I shake my head and smile at his affectation. It's cute.

It isn't until Sheane comes back into the room with another clinking glass of Scotch that I check my watch and realize it's been a quick fifteen minutes, and my cock has shrunk considerably. It jumps a little just from seeing the ram, of course, but I'm right in the middle of some intense diagnostics and I'm glad he's not such a distraction anymore. He watches me work, silently, like a professor would oversee a student. Except it's more curious than judgmental. The only sound is the intermittent sip and clinking of ice.

And the odd rustling of cloth and leather as he adjusts positions on the chair.

And something else that sounds familiar, but I try to ignore it even though it becomes more regular. Swish-swish-swish.

At first I'm too deep into the computer to notice it as more than background noise, but when it goes on too long to disregard as scratching my ears perk up quickly. I hope Sheane doesn't notice my noticing. My eyes are focused on the cursor, blinking white on the black background; my fingers hover just above the home row. I actually have to take a moment to remember what I was about to type.

Swish-swish-swish-slurp. So much for that non-erection. There's no doubt what Sheane's doing now, unless he's mastered the art of faking such a recognizable noise. What's weird, though is that I am not that surprised by it. Maybe it's because I've been so worked up that this seems like a natural continuation of the one-sided fantasy I'd been experiencing up until now. Maybe the ram is a lot more open with his body than...well...everyone else on the planet. But that's not right. He would have at least asked, and...no, he wouldn't have even brought it up. He would have gone into the bedroom without saying a damn word.

This is on purpose. He knows I can hear him, and he wants me to hear him. He felt my knee on his balls, felt my cock through my pants, and now he's sitting there teasing me. Daring me to turn around.

What if I did?

I may be uncomfortable sitting there with my hard-on jutting against my zipper, but I still have a job to do. He might just be some old married dude who wants a free husky show and nothing more. Just to get his nut off and fix his computer. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a SCANDISK fetish. But as the minutes pass (during which my pace has slowed markedly), I get to hear Sheane speed up and slow down, maybe even edging. He's silent otherwise, maybe with a small grunt or two, but not much else. Even that becomes more of a pleasant background noise, the slurping and swishing and readjusting of ram parts on an expensive leather wingback.

At the very least, it's pleasant to listen to. Paw-off porn sucks, what with all the "Fuck yeahs" and rock-solid guys begging each other to "Shoot that load man" and "Fuckin' nut, dude." Sheane is professional and mature about his self-pleasure, which is more, even, than I can say about myself. I whimper a lot.

Once I've quarantined corrupted files and I'm in the process of deleting them, there is nothing for my paws to do but sit there...and invariably go between my legs, because if you have to be subjected to someone else's masturbation you damn well want to do a little of your own. I can't do much with that fucking ring on my sheath, but I can do a little two-finger ministroking. From the wrist up, nothing moves.

I should be feeling awkward by now, what with all the sexual tension between us. But I doubt Sheane can tell I've joined him. From the back I look like I'm concentrating on the screen, not my cock. But somehow he must know something's different, because he shifts around and rumbles way too loud to mistake for anything other than what it is: I'm so fucking horny and you're going to sit there while I come, okay?

My hackles are up from my neck to my tail, pushing up against my shirt. There's really no point in trying to hide it anymore now that I'm all bothered and poofy, my ears plastering themselves down with no problem at all. In and out, in and out Sheane breathes, deeply in his baritone whisper, and down comes a hand on my left shoulder, heavy and tight in its grip, and I gasp. I don't know what he's capable of when he's worked up. He could be one of those old perverts who entrap young men and rape them in the countryside. He could be some desperate husband whose wife can't or won't put out anymore.

Or he could just be looking for some curlytailed ass. That's the best one of all, because then we both win.

Sheane begins to stroke the side of my head, just behind my eye and back to my neck, grasping the scruff there and pulling lightly. Now comes the whimpering part, which I can't help because it's the way I react to stuff like that and also because this ram is treating me the way most of my partners--masters--treat me. He's exceptionally perceptive, and he's playing me like a piano. A furry, horny piano.

When he pulls back, I follow, my arms moving only to prop myself up as I half-lean, half-fall back against the chair and one of Sheane's calves. It's as big as a cantaloupe, and just as solid. He turns my face slightly to the right and just at the edge of my vision I can see it: ten glorious inches of dark pink cock jutting from the cleft of his thighs. The kilt is bunched up on his belly, his other hand sliding the tube of foreskin up and back, exposing and hiding the shiny head. The strain eventually forces my eyes back forward, but I can still see the general motion of it all. Sheane's hand keeps my head from straying too far. He grunts and strokes my chin. I can't move...not that I'd really want to right now. I'm perfectly content to stay where I am.

His fingers move slowly back to smooth down my neck fur, and they rest there, massaging gently while he beats off with the other. Then they stay firm in that spot, twitching and tightening as he edges closer. I can't help but moan just a little; I mean, when you've just become a sex object, it's more than a little flattering. The heat from his hand seeps into my skin, leaving a trace of sweat.

I lick my lips when I feel Sheane's body jerk and bend one last time, and he snorts out his nose. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls my head back and works a finger into my jaw. And when I open in response, I feel his chest heave and he lays three thick ropes of cum across the bridge of my nose, on my tongue and elsewhere. Closing my eyes, I swipe what I can into my mouth and savor it, along with the sudden burst of musk in the room. When the big ram finally releases me, my body announces its stiffness painfully. I can't move and I don't try to; I'm fine just sitting and soaking in cum.

"Ya look good like that," Sheane says as he gives my head a few pats. "Though you might want to wipe off before it gets in your eye. Smarts like a bitch." I nuzzle into a shirt sleeve, which comes back quite wet. He even got the monitor. I look over at it with a kind of fuzzy tunnel-vision, because I'm still trying to process what just happened. I mean, I know what just happened, but Jesus...

Sheane steps in to finish my thought. "We don't need to do the computer right now, really. Not with you being such a good boy and teasing me with that tail o' yours. You think I couldn't smell that stink on you as soon as I opened the door?"

"I don't know," I say, honestly. There's no denying it, if he says he could smell it. "I wasn't--"

"You weren't nothing. I been on this earth a whole lot longer than you, and I can tell when a lad's up and when he's down. Now look at me." On my knees, Sheane's wilting member drizzling the leather with fluid, I find it very hard to look directly at him. It's like trying to stare down your own father when you know you're in the wrong. He may not be canine, but it still feels like a challenge. "Clean that up," he points to his meat, and I obey, cleaning the chair all the way to his leaking tip, which also gets a few swipes of the tongue. Sheane doesn't mind; in fact, he's hardening up again. "Good boy." He pats my head again, and I fight the urge to wag. He may have just given me a facial, but I'm still not sure if he's the client or just Sheane the Horny Ram.

"It appears as though my friend isn't done yet," he murmurs, squeezing the length into full hardness with almost no effort at all. His balls bounce with each stroke upward. He's not even close to done, not even winded. I've gotten the feeling that he's going to be calling the shots. I don't feel comfortable disagreeing with this guy, not for fear of violence but because it probably just wouldn't work. Wondering what he'll say next is the big thing keeping my cock hard, and I can't explain that away. Man, my heart's beating just about out of my chest, but I don't dare move. Don't want to jump the gun the wrong way.

Sheane leans his bulk back, his meat lewdly displayed. It makes my mouth water; the taste of ram still clings to my tongue. "Let's see you out of those clothes, then, eh? Go on," he shoos with his wrist. "Or are you gonna make me come over there and do it for you? I'd rather watch." My face bursts into a hotness I know is visible through my fur. I can't meet his gaze, but my anxiety is making me all the hornier. Putting paws to buttons, I watch his eyes flicker up and down over me like a hungry predator. He wants me for something, I don't know what, but he wants it bad and he's getting off on making us both wait for it. My shirt goes to the floor. Sheane snorts. "Nice, very nice."

My pants are already kind of loose on me, and undoing the belt buckle allows them to slip off pretty easy too. For the first time I get to see the wet stain on the fly of my boxers...big and embarrassing. I feel like I've just wet myself. Sheane licks his lips; he can probably smell me real good by now.

"Just get on with it, lad. I wanna see that ass o' yours." Yes, daddy. Shudder. Undershirt goes quick, but I pause with my fingers in the waistband of my boxers, looking one more time for affirmation. I really want to give him what he wants, but I want to hide my desire for just a bit more. I'm biting my lip. "Don't keep me waiting, boy..." I turn to one side and pull 'em down, like a kid with a pervy babysitter. I'll let you stay up as late as you want if you do one thing for me...

The ram smiles, a deep rumble shaking his gut. It rattles my eardrums and my body floofs out. I don't make a move to cover myself because that's pretty pointless by now; besides, that damn sheath ring is about to bruise me. I've got three inches out and a knot that will hate me tomorrow if I don't release it soon. I can hear the whimpers traveling forward from the back of my mind. Sheane crooks his index at me, and I pad over to the side of the chair, where he fondles my balls, both of them fitting inside only two of his fingers. He rubs the taint, too...holy fuck that's sensitive!

"Rawrf!"

"What was that?"

"N-nothing," I say, amazed at what just came out of my mouth. The ram smiles. He knows my game. And he's going to play me. Hard.

"I think I know what that was," he says, standing up and crossing in front of me. Before I can turn around, he kicks the computer right off the ottoman. Just punts the whole shebang across the room. The monitor's toast, and the tower's cracked. I look at him, about to ask the question he answers preemptively.

"Decoy. Not worth a shit. Now you need to lay your pretty self down on that ottoman and stay. Okay? Stay, boy." Sheane points at the ottoman, and my ears go from affronted to submissive as his hard eyes tell me all I need to know. I sit down, but he gruffly picks me up (just like a doll, the bastard is strong!), turns me over and plops me chest-down. Primed for doggy-style, oh fuck. "Stay."

I can't see what he's doing because I have a view of the worn shag carpet in front of my face. The ottoman, in the same leather as the chair, provides a soft humping material for my cock. I mean, who wouldn't indulge in a little of that if it were an inch away? Leather cleans off. A drawer opens and shuts in the next room (probably the bedroom), and something clink-clops back to me. Sheane kneels behind me, bringing a rush of air and the scratch of plaid flannel over my tail. He leans against me, pressing his bulge between my thighs. Yeah, I moan like a little bitch, so what? You would too.

Next thing I know he's clamping a collar around my neck, one with little spikes on it, rotating it around so it's comfortably nestled in my fur. It's all over now; there's this unspoken rule that if you're playing with a dom and you're collared, well, you're property from that moment on. I'm so painfully hard, painful even before Sheane yanks on the leash I couldn't see, and I see stars. I swear I come right then and there...but it's only the oxygen deprivation.

"There you go, Chance. All trussed up now," murmurs the ram, maintaining a moderate yank on the leash. My claws dig into the ottoman as I stare ahead, panting shallowly and enjoying every second. Sheane lifts up his kilt and I feel the hot, plump skin against the short fuzz on my butt. I don't know how it's going to go in, but it's going to end up there one way or another. Whimper.

"Aww, poor boy," the Scottish brogue is all thick like the Proclaimers. "You want somethin', eh?" He accentuates this by rubbing his head against my pucker, leaving a snail trail of cum, then letting it drop against my balls. Taking hold of my hips, he grinds forward, making to split my entire back end in two. This time the internal whimper comes out loud and clear through open lips. I want to tell him to just do it, just fuck my brains out, but that's not what a good dog would do. At this point, I'm relegated far past whatever "omega" point there would be...as far as I'm concerned, I'm just a piece of meat. In my mind, at least. Makes you wonder how I can do this and write a rent check every month. Well, it's not just me who's into this shit. You just never know.

"Ptoo." A second later Sheane's finger is smearing a gob of spit over my hole, all around the outside. "Ptoo." He shoves in to the second knuckle, and I yell out until a yank on the leash cuts it off. He doesn't move until my breathing has slowed, and when he does the pain is just about gone, just the smooth end of his nail-finger and a little bit of skin. "There you go," he says again. "Nice and loose, right? Think you need a second finger up there?" I shake my head. I'm sure he has lots of lube in this house, but I doubt he has the patience to get up and retrieve it when his cockhead is inches away from my tailhole. Besides, impromptu is hot as hell. One more loogie goes in me and the fourth he slathers over himself, flipping the kilt over my tail. His body heat looms. Now I can't stop the wagging.

I don't know where it's coming from, but Sheane's got this nice guttural rumble that rattles the fur inside my ears and right under my tail; it's the kind of sound that makes you know your place. My fingers are clasped around the ottoman, and I silently hope it's not a family heirloom because I'm not sure I won't rip it apart. He gets his knees in between mine, spreading them, dragging his cockhead along my hole, getting it nice and slick. It almost feels like a rimjob. Then the leash goes taut, pulling me back on bent knees and he pushes in.

Oh, man, it doesn't even hurt! It just slides, nice and easy, spreading me wide open with no trouble at all. I have to swipe out my tongue to catch the drool hanging from my lip as the ram pauses to let me get used to him. The collar is low enough on my neck so I can breathe fine, but Sheane can still yank hard if he wants to. His other hand grips my hip, bunching up the skin and fur there, holding me in place impaled on him. He inches up little by little until I feel his pubes on my rump. Fuck, I can't believe it got in!

"Now there's a picture of the perfect doting husband if I ever saw one!" Comes a voice from behind us, and Sheane starts. "Here I was, hard at work all day, and you're here fucking the geek boy here to fix our machine. What do you have to say for yourself, asshole?" My heart's just a step away from stopping at this point; I'm not sure if I can keep from throwing up all over the carpet. This isn't a wife situation; I walked into a gay love triangle. That voice is familiar though. Fuck if I can place it. I don't dare move or say a word.

Sheane dances on his knees and I brace for the pullout, but it never comes. Instead, he keeps his grips on me and says, "What do you have to say for _your_self? You're late again, no surprise there. With this sweet thing in my face all afternoon, can you blame me for starting without ya?" What the fuck? This is getting too weird, too fast. I don't give a shit if it hurts my neck; I turn my head to see what the hell I'm in the middle of.

Bob.

I try to say his name, but it's merely a squeak. I look at him, he looks at me, I look at the place where my ass and Sheane's cock are joined. I put together the pieces. I'm a fucking dumbass.

"You look surprised, Chance," the lion growl-purrs as much as a man of his size can. "You didn't know?"

"We never got to the bedroom, dear," replies the ram, who has now begun moving slowly to keep himself hard. Bob's massaging his own boner in a pair of dusty, faded Wranglers. "He hasn't seen the photos."

"That would explain it," the lion says, coming over to us and giving Sheane a long, deep, back-of-the-throat kiss while he humps me. Two of the sexiest men I've ever set eyes on, and they both want a piece of me. A husky sandwich. I may be a dumbass, but I'm a lucky dumbass. As they kiss, Bob sinks to his knees, letting out this series of mewing sounds inside his mouth. That's something I never heard at that god-awful bowling alley bingo parlor. Bob's actually the bottom...or the sub. There's a big difference.

"Nice," says Sheane, ignoring my panting while he empties and refills me as slow as a man can. "You had Italian for lunch."

"Guilty," the lion smirks while blowing into his husband's nose on purpose.

"I can smell tomatoes and basil on your breath. That place over by your shop?"

"New place, on the other side of town. They say they do authentic New York style, but it's not close. Still good."

"Remind me to go with you next time."

"Sure thing. You mind if I take his other hole?" Neither of them look at me for my permission, but I'm licking my lips anyway. I don't think I matter anymore, and somehow that turns me on. A lot. Sheane nods as I turn my head back around, because my neck's killing me and my ass'll feel better if my spine isn't twisted like a fucking paper clip. A moment later Bob's bulky, round torso slides into view, his fingers already working at his fly. Suddenly I remember how much I enjoyed servicing that cock before, and how much I missed its presence between my lips.

He lifts up my chin with two fingers. "You miss me, boy?" he asks, skritching where he holds me. Of course I did. He sees me nod my eyes, and smiles, going back to his pants. They slide off, with his boxers, and he kicks them out of the way. His feline scent mixes with the cologne of husky and ram already in the room. It's going to take a lot of Febreze. "Why don't you open up nice and wide for me, huh?" Hell, my muzzle's open before he even finishes the sentence. "Good boy." My tongue meets his glans before he gets to my lips, and Bob approves.

I'm glad that Sheane's going slow, because he's got a hell of a mushroom head on him, and it feels solid, especially when it slides over my prostate and makes me jump a little. He most likely won't be slow for long--most men aren't--but for now I can concentrate on Bob's end. The lion's got both hands on my head, holding it steady while he guides a still-soft member through my teeth (my lips are curled under anyway) and against my tongue, which laps as best it can in the limited space provided. In about ten seconds there's no softness left, and already I can see his knees quivering. He's just as glad to be back in my muzzle as I am to be around him.

"He didn't wear his harness?" I hear Bob mutter.

"Not this time, I'm afraid. Nnghh. But he's got a chastity device on him, though." Yup, Sheane's speeding up, and grabbing my tail to help him along. I moan around Bob's cock, and he moans back. We're like one of those ball-bearing things people have in their offices to keep from going insane. Cause and effect, cause and effect. Speaking of the ring, that thing's painfully tight, and soaked in precum. There's also a fluttery tingle right at the base of my sheath that won't go away. It's pleasantly warm.

"Is that so, honey? You know, we hadn't discussed it..oh, yeah, harder on the head, Chance...but I think this puppy might be a good addition to Hector."

Sheane bottoms out hard. I bury my snout into the lion's pubic fur, feel his balls dance on my chin, and gag instead of yell. Didn't hurt, but it surprised me. That tingle behind my cock is moving up into my knot, like pins and needles again. Every once in a while it'll spasm by itself, and Sheane grunts each time.

"That's interesting. I was thinking *huff* the same thing," replies the ram as he pulls my hips back to meet his crotch. My balls hurt from smacking his, but I really don't care. "Round about the time I fingered his mouth open to cream it, I knew he was obedient. But is he loyal?" I'm loyal, all right. You see me complaining about being the meat on a cock skewer?

Rumble-purring, Bob pets my ears, doing that twirling thing I love so much. This sends me into a panting frenzy, during which a small river of drool runs down over the lion's balls. Bob clamps my jaws shut and gives me a few quick thrusts to get back on pace. "We don't have to worry about that. I'm pretty sure, if he gives us any trouble, he can be trained." Oh fuck...oh fuck...I find out what that tingle was in one very swift revelation: My cock is spasming constantly, and I feel my balls shrink up into my body. It doesn't even feel like a climax, but it sure is. I'm not hard, I'm not tied, but the cum splashes up against my belly; I even hear it splatter the ottoman. It's nice and slow, and for the next minute I bliss out and can't hear anything but my pulse in my ears and the slurp-slurp-slurp of hot gay sex.

"Holy hell, I think our boy just messed himself," Sheane says.

"I know. You felt that? Fucker tried to bite my dick off."

"Damn near pulled mine by the root." The ram slaps my rear as if I were a horse. "Did you mess on the carpet, Chance? Don't lie now." Bob's so far back I'm gagging and tearing up, but still enjoying the ride. He and Sheane are good at timing each other so I don't get pummeled at the wrong moment. I manage--barely--to nod around the lioncock. I get pets on the back and head for my effort. "Good boy."

"Very good boy," smirks Bob. "You wanna finish?"

I can practically see the evil on Sheane's face as he replies: "Race you." I intertwine my fingers around the back of the ottoman and hold on. There's nothing I can do...like I'd want to stop them.

The weird thing is, not much changes when these two men are going for broke. Bob bends his knees and pulls out most of the way, and I would whimper for his shaft if not for the fact that I remember the sweet spot just behind his head on the underside. It's the head he's pistoning in and out of my muzz now, and I twirl my tongue around the tip and wait for him to finish. Sheane keeps it slow, though his strokes get more shaky and purposeful the longer he goes. His fingers dig into my hips, and I know there'll be bruises there for at least a couple of days. It's not like I haven't had marks there before.

"Fuck, was he this tight for you?" asks Sheane.

"Dunno; I haven't had the pleasure yet."

"You're missin' out, there." After that, no one cares to say anything more. I'm pretty much spent, the only thing holding me up being Sheane's tool and hands. I don't care who finishes first, because they're both going to finish anyway. They've got all the power, and far be it from me to resist when I can just do nothing and be plowed six ways to Sunday. I have a feeling Bob won't be missing out for long.

As things get more serious, I can't keep from making noises. Every time the ram bottoms out I squeak a little, and Sheane seems to enjoy hearing it. His hands get tighter, and one goes back to my tail, curling it double over my ass so my hole gapes wide. "Oh, oh, oh," he goes, and then finishes it off with a gruff snort that I can feel all the way on my neck.

"Go for it, baby," growls Bob, and Sheane responds by stopping altogether. A long, raspy groan escapes him and I literally feel him breeding me from the inside. Far, far up in my guts, the heat splashes and spreads. He lets out a few more breaths up my back, and then leans over me to touch his lips to the lion's. Bob's paws leave my shoulders and go up, I think, to Sheane's, so he can lean and pump at the same time.

They make a noisy pair, and as my jaw begins to get sore from being stretched, I hear Sheane's encouraging words between them sucking on each other's tongues: "You're almost there, Bobby...let it go, right in his bloody muzz...fuckin' cream him up..." Bob won't stop until he does just that, and my whining is pretty much constant by now. My cock still hasn't gone anywhere but up.

Bob grunts and moans into Sheane's mouth, and his thrusts grow slower as his voice grows louder. I feel him pull away and stiffen. "Ah, aaaahhhhh, mmmmm!" And his paw shoots down to stroke the base of his cock, almost smacking me on its way down. His other paw gathers my scruff into a tight fuzzy ball and holds my head still as he paints the inside of my mouth a warm, sticky white.

"Aww yeah, get him good," murmurs the ram. The lion's fingers flutter just shy of my nosepad; it's a wonder he doesn't just stuff it all the way to the back of my throat. I'm thankful for his self-control...I don't know if I could go much longer at these guys' pace. But soon, Bob withdraws and milks out the last dregs, telling me to lick up the rest. I swallow heavily, the whole thing down in one gulp. And then I collapse onto the ottoman, sliding off of Sheane's limp meat. Not even strong enough to clench my tailhole, I can't help the dribble of seed that drips off my balls and onto the carpet.

"Looks like we'll have to break out the shampooer again," Sheane says, patting my ass so I know I haven't pissed anybody off. "Good boy, Chance. Fantastic stamina."

Bob leans down and lifts up my chin, our lips meeting. I try, I really do, to give back what I'm taking, but I simply don't have the energy. I'm a cum-soaked ragdoll, sore and satisfied. The lion chuckles as he takes his muzzle away. "You know how word-of-mouth spreads in the tech business." This time I do smile. Yes it does.

By the time Sheane returns with a warm, wet cloth I've settled for sitting sideways, my back against the sofa. The ram coaxes me onto all fours, where he runs the cloth over my belly, legs and in between, getting all the cum and assorted dirtiness off my fur. With Bob around, I guess he must be mindful of the threat of mats for longer-coated types. They both stand above me, towering presences that plaster my ears to my head and my tail underneath my thighs. The lion speaks first: "Well?"

"We never forbade you to talk, boy. Go on," says Sheane. He's right, though...I could have spoken up at any time, but...well...I didn't.

"Do you have anything pressing to do this weekend?" I'm just about to mention my laundry and calling my mother, but then Bob brings his paw out from behind his back, and it distracts me from making excuses. It's so shiny, and black, and powerful at the same time. "We haven't had a chance to use this yet," he says, bringing the muzzle to my nose and letting me smell the brand new black leather.

"Or these," Sheane shows me a pair of paw mittens. No fingers. Leather buckles.

What laundry? What mother?

The ram doesn't wait for a verbal answer. He takes my paw and slides the mitten over it; I curl my fingers into a ball on reflex, not mourning the loss one bit. The other one goes on, and Bob gives me a quick kiss before encasing my muzzle in leather. I can't help getting hard again with that smell in my face, its cool smoothness, the reassuring sound of the metal buckles as they snug in around my cheeks and snout. I couldn't talk if I wanted to, but now I just don't see it as necessary when my body language is just as good. I still have my tail.

"You have any business before we take you downstairs?" Sheane asks, and as if on cue my body speaks up on both ends. I nod and whimper a little; it feels pretty good.

All of a sudden being bipedal seems exotic and foreign. They lead me out to the backyard, whose tall fence allows us all to stay naked, and to a single tree. With little urging I squat to do my business, the lion and ram watching me while making unrelated small-talk. I have to grin inside the muzzle; I feel naughty but free. Afterwards I move to the opposite side of the tree, managing to get a few drops on the trunk while I adjust to lifting a leg. The washcloth comes back to clean me thoroughly, and I get patted on the head for being a good boy.

I'm allowed to walk normally down the stairs, since Bob says it takes some getting used to and they don't want me falling on my new forepaws. I kind of slink down anyway, feeling too tall the way I am. The basement is finished, but doesn't smell anything like the rest of the house. It's a mixture of laundry detergent, cement and old musk. I'm led through the main room, with its assortment of furniture, old papers and dusty everything, to a door covered with the same wood paneling as the rest of the walls. Sheane knocks gently, and we hear shuffling and some whimpering on the other side.

"Good, he's awake," the ram whispers, opening the door. "Heeectoooor..." he singsongs.

The room is fairly big, carpeted and looks like it was once a spare bedroom. Now it's more like a dog run or a dungeon, depending on what's taking place in it. Chew toys are scattered, some squeaky, some not. Up inside a locked glass-door cabinet is an array of biscuits, soft treats and dry dog food. On a shelf, neatly lined up, are a dozen or so dildoes of various sizes and species. I've been whining for some time before I notice, at the end of the room, two cages side by side. One is empty. It's mine for the weekend, I realize seemingly for the first time, as though the words hadn't sunk in already.

The other cage is occupied by a chubby white coyote whose paws look like he's got a little bit of wolf in his blood. He's got some interesting blues and blacks here and there, and one red eye. Weird. He's slipping his nose through the cage's mesh grill, wanting to get out. Either he's better trained or not as kinky, since he only has a bit in the back of his mouth, and a dog-tail butt plug pointing down as much as his tail points up. I can see a good inch of black cock splitting open a white sheath. Looks like he's been waiting for a playmate, wagging his sizable rear back and forth.

"Come on," Bob says, padding to Hector's cage and slipping the latch (which the yote could do easily, but obviously doesn't see the need), sending him bounding out to greet me. He's pretty good on all fours, and he's even better at saying hello; in just a few seconds I'm covered in yote slobber, but I don't mind since his breath is pretty much neutral. He pins me down, nuzzling my neck open for some light domination bites as well. I can't claw him away, and I can't do fuck-diddly with my muzzle, so I'm slated to be second banana for a while. Hector pins my shoulders to the floor and settles on his haunches, our sheaths pressed together pleasantly. I could get used to this kind of playing. He's got this intelligent gleam in his eye that lets me know there's still a real person behind that doggy exterior.

"You think we can trust them to play nice while we go out to dinner?" the ram asks as I look up at them from the floor. Of course we can be trusted. As if reading my mind, Hector nods silently, his tongue lolling out from behind the bit.

"I think so," replies the lion, squeezing Sheane's built ass and twirling his stout tail. "Let's let them get acquainted, get some rest. Chance has had a busy day."

"Don't forget about Hector. This is his second week of vacation."

"Right." Wink, wink. "They must be exhausted. Be good, boys." I whine a yes, and Hector nods again. As soon as the door closes, the yote looks down at me with a mixture of playfulness and evil. Just when I think my cock couldn't rise from the dead, that yote reaches down and slips off the chastity ring. My sheath heaves a sigh of relief, peeling back as my whole cock meets the air. Oh fuck, the release!

Hector twists his arm around his back for a moment, grimaces, then squeaks before bringing the butt plug around and setting it on the floor. Oh, no. With no way to push him off, I brace myself against the gentle rolls of his belly as he bears down, grinning in crazy happiness as I feel his body envelop me. My knot pops in as he bottoms out; this pup is loose! Hector plays with my nipples, an especially sensitive zone, and gets off to my whimpering, spasming body. Finally I give up, spreading my legs and humping up to meet him, enjoying the shared warmth.

As I look past the naked coyote to the cages at the other side of the room, I wonder if Bob and Sheane will let us share a cage instead of sleeping separately. I'll have to beg for that privilege later, perhaps after a post-coital nap.

Monday is going to suck compared to this.

FIN

1/6/08-10/28/08