Sweet Agony of Victory, Sour Joy of Defeat
Dear Reader,
If you read this story, please take the time to rate and review it. Your positive feedback and constructive criticism will make me a better and more motivated (hint, hint) writer.
This is a work of erotica, not pornography. If you are looking for a stroke story, there are many good stories along those lines to choose from on this site.
This story is an exploration of the duality of sex--of how it brings male and female together, blurs pleasure and pain, and brings out the animal side of the most rational people. I never specify the species of the characters; they might be felines or foxes or even humans. Some might object this means the story is not unambiguously furry, but I trust you will recognize it speaks to what is animal in all of us.
Sincerely,
"Reikian"
Sweet Agony of Victory, Sour Joy of Defeat
So long I knew you as a friend, but feared to ask for more, for fear to overreach would leave me with naught. So long it took for me to seize the offered chances--to whisper a shy offer over a meal, to slip you a furtive note, or to answer an inviting smile with an invitation of my own. And when I spoke and you answered with a smile, it brightened the room for me and warmed my heart with a corona of cresting joy.
I knew you loved to run; though I never loved to run before, I love to run with you. Thus, we came here, all by ourselves in the outdoors, to run together. We have made so many bets before, over the silliest things; but never before one with stakes like these, for the loser's forfeit shall be to please the winner.
The goal is a star magnolia, bursting with vibrant pink spring color, as fluffy as an unshorn sheep. We count together to three and hasten toward the tree. As I run beside you, I watch your legs cycle in a practiced rhythm, graceful as a gazelle's as you dance across the grass. Turning to the side slows me down, so that I lag just behind you, but I do not mind the view of your swaying buttocks, nor the tantalizing rise and fall of the hem of your shorts with each step.
In the chase, our bodies grow slick with sweat. My male odor rises, sour and insistent, as my forehead shines with exertion and my shirt clings needily to my torso. I savor the lighter scent of your sweat, uniquely yours. My vagrant gaze lingers on your own tee-shirt, plastered to your back, as I envision that selfsame garment pressed close to your front, outlining your proud, high breasts. The material, I imagine, grows semitransparent with your body's moisture, hinting at the rosiness of the rounded nipples beneath. I envy your shirt its closeness to you.
As we run onward, you look back at me and we share breathless laughter for so many reasons: the simple challenge, the exhilaration of the bet, our togetherness, and an illusion that we can flee all the complications of modern life for a short while. We are together then, moving in lockstep as surely as if we were joined at the hip--or, preferably, joined more intimately scant inches higher. The pounding of our feet on the ground sends shivers up our spines; our straining to the utmost sends an urgent fire through our cores. We run onward in sweet agony with no room for thought, nor energy to spare, stripped down to our fundamental, animal essence.
Our target draws near, the rounded tree wavering in sweat-blurred vision. Its trunk is tumescent, the plant's foliage mushrooming phallically; ironically, its surface is a vivid, enflamed fuchsia, like unto your dreamt-of folds. We gasp for air, our dry mouths drinking life-giving oxygen in with sour joy. You are still ahead, your training paying off. As you stretch toward the trunk, I leap for a low-hanging branch, seeking to win you though the race is lost; with poetic justice, my traitorous legs buckle beneath me and my grasping arm falls just short.
I droop forward, gasping to clear my reeling head and working my mouth to fill my throat with moisture; my sweat drips down to add to the dew. Then I look up, seeing you bent forward against the tree, and find myself dizzy and dry-mouthed once more. I crawl the last few steps to you on hands and knees, not trusting my wobbly legs to bear my weight--but it is fitting, in any case, for I am your prize today.
I please you then with lips and hands, tongue and gently-tugging teeth, devoting myself to you single-mindedly and disregarding my own throbbing urgency--for I always pay my bets. When at long last I draw down your moistened shorts and lacy panties and breathe deeply of your female scent, I have cause to wonder who is the true winner.
I sup upon your tan-furred sex, parting those virgin lips with my own, and caress you deeply. So much there is that I might tell, of how I discovered the secret depths of you and in pleasing you plumbed the depths of my own desire. But, in the end, what I remember most are two things. One is how you moaned aloud, with pleasure so intense a listener might mistake your cries for pain, in the sweet agony of victory. The other is how, when your female juices spurted forth in an unexpected explosion, yin to my male member's yang, I drank that bitter effusion down gladly and tasted the sour joy of defeat.