Tribal Expression, prt. 1
Part 1 of 5, in the drama of Byron and his hubby
****************************************************************************
Byron Ubecker was a shy introverted tanuk(tanuki); certainly not the clubbing type. He stood a shallow 5'4 inches, weighed 145 lbs, and had an extraordinarily small penis. Or at least he thought he did. Each morning he'd wake to rise and shine and precariously glance at it. In the fold down mirror near his bed he would inspect himself to his full infallible standards, "DEAR LORD, MY ASS! I just can't do it! No more working late-shifts. It'll take me weeks to burn this much take-out," He would scream at himself, in his high chipper voice.
Roland Pasteur, the artic fox who was his best friend, could not understand what he was so upset about. He had spent many nights at his friend's place. Not that they ever slept together, even though the apartment had only one bedroom. No, he slept on the leather-bound sofa, deprived of sleep, yet ready to watch the sun rise. The sunrise was only an expression, of course. He used it to describe the red amaranth that blazoned his companion's fur through morning beams. Byron was scrawny, he knew, but slender and tight in a muscular cut. Figuring he might never gauge his advances, but caring too much for his happiness, Roland invited his friend to the one place he'd never go: a bar.
They both attended the same college. Whiteridge, the art institute, known for pushing your standard starving artist-types from open-houses to sections at the Louvre, housed both young men's creative minds. Nearly half the people who had taken classes there had turned out to be gay. Byron did not object to dating seniors and relished the cute concept of love. But nearly every fag he knew, even the truly studdly ones, turned out to be gossiping, fruity, and far too feminine for his tastes. He needed a man not a pussy, he reminded himself, always before becoming intimately involved.
But this wasn't a date or anything. Byron couldn't corrupt this. He couldn't give it a business-like tone and rush quickly out after paying the check. No, his friend actually had to talk and meet other folk. This was a scary first-step for Byron:
******************************************************************************
The entire place was packed; Not unusual for a pub at night on a Saturday. People were smoking and shooting darts, standing around and talking about who-knows-what. He was fine with that, as long as they paid him no attention. Diminutive, as he was, the man feared the intimidating glares he usually stole from these drunkards. Dressed up like "the Wild One," from head to foot in his leather, he couldn't seem more ostentatious to the backdrop of the dreck alcoholic coven.
Some people there were sure to scare the piss out of him. One in particular who sat at the bar that night looked him over curiously before turning back to his Heineken and bowl of beer-nuts. The Wolf could be viewed in similar attire, yet his was more aged. The few hints of fabric that shone in the cow hide seemed frayed and faded. He himself looked older and wiser, this more accented by his stony disposition. It shone in his crisp-blue eyes too, intense blue eyes. Like a god stared too long into the ether...
But for all the intrigued him of the male, it also shunned him away. He could never expect the man to go for a runt like him. Tall, buff, and handsome with a curt grin; he felt the effort would be wasted. The battle was already lost. Sitting down at the nearest table with Roland and his friends, he soon forgot it all. But not because he was enjoying himself...
Nikki Sprutz, the incorrigible and lively Dingo, was infatuated with Byron and could not leave him alone. He yelled, told jokes, poked him, and tried to balance silverware on his nose. Obviously not reading Byron's tell-tale signs of boredom, he whispered little messages on to him. Sometimes even taking the time to breathe the warm words into his ear himself, just to make sure they were accurate.
Two or three discreet messages found his way to his side of the table like this, usually whispered by Ted, the Dalmatian. Some were of personal questions such as: how was he feeling, did he like school, where he worked. But others were a bit more racy, each becoming more passionate and erotic: You're the most handsome man I've seen tonight, Those green-eyes are like emeralds, You're cut like a lumberjack, How old did you say you were, Like the damn effigy of a greek god, Nice ass, Bet you've ran a good number of miles on it, I'd love a ride, bet you're tight like a straw in custard.
He gave a good shiver at that last one. Nearly all these advances were stopped dead in their tracks before they were even considered. Damn it all, he screamed in his head. How was this fair? Eventually, growing tired of the back and forth speech pouring from Roland to Leema Sardan, a reptilian fella, to Nikki to Ted and back, he took out a paperback plus his glasses and started reading. He knew he looked like total tool, sitting and reading at a bar while his friends enjoyed their drinks and partied. But none of them seemed right for Byron. Actually, he corrected himself, no one felt right for him...
Was that going to change? Could he make it change?
He supposed he could. But there was only way. Either now or never, he told himself. Closing the book, he stood and scooted his chair in. Moving nonchalantly, seeming to glide and step lightly like those of his race, he got near the stranger who sat at the bar. Immediently, the man glared up at him and there was a moment of unspoken tension. He finished his bottle and stuck it behind the counter knowing the bartender wouldn't mind. Smiling, grinning that facetious grin (shit-eating grin) that Byron loved, he moved in to make contact.
A hand was thrusted out toward him, but he didn't know whether to trust it. He held it by the tips and interlocked it. Still smiling, the man did not appear to object. They leaned in closer, "My name is Daema, by the way. Daema Antarack," he greeted, pleased with himself. The next phrase was filled with a curt emphasis, "How nice it is to meet you..."
"Jeez, nice to meet you too, mister," he could hear his tongue stupidly utter. He wanted to smack himself in the face. His brain wouldn't keep control on his voice-box. In fact, everything seemed to be let loose; to move of its own free will. Many things began to move of their own free will. Suddenly, Byron got struck by the look in his eyes. The reflection of the neon lights in the cool spheres caused him to gasp and sputter. He had trouble focusing, he zoned in and out. As the wolf moved in further, he felt the world being pulled out from underneath him. Byron fainted and nearly fell to the floor. Before a hair even touched the grime-covered surface, the man had sprung out to catch his head. They both stared at each other for another long period of time. That had been a close one, the Tanuk thought. This one would be closer...
The young man was a brilliant actor. It had been his decided major for drama in college. But for all the plays and skits and musicals he had done this had to have been his greatest performance:
Wrapping his arms around the man's neck as he leaned to pick him up, Byron exaggerated his falling episode and pretended to be dazed and confused, "You all right? Maybe you should lie down," the Wolf recited, not knowing if this were the truth or perhaps another romantic gesture. Byron wasn't tired at all, and far from it, but he had to make this seem realistic or his plan would be shot down. He must milk this for all it's worth.
"Yeah, I think that'd be best..." Byron managed to cough, and the Wolf picked him up casually as though he were carrying a small child.
"Don't worry, I've got a place," he reassured his friend and handled him past the drunks and tavernmen. Nearly every thought inside Byron's head burned for this man. Even though he barely knew him, he wanted to shout his love from the rooftops. But his voice stayed and he quieted that impulse. He had an idea of where they were heading. Giddiness was not something that usually occurred to someone as level-headed as Mr. Ubecker, but this man had evoked something of an abnormal quality inside him. Now it felt like a pressure was filling his chest.
"Here we are," presented the Wolf, gesturing to his camaro. The car wasn't brand new and it wasn't the flashiest job around. Here though, Byron thought, it served its purpose. And besides it fit him in a strange way. A fancier car might not have boded well for their encounter. This would work fine.
Neither one realized it at the time that they were incredibly drunk. The only thing they knew was that the bulge in both their pants thickened and writhed against the tight denim. It had to be released. By this time the Wolf had already guessed the Tanuk's plan and was way ahead, but wanted to play along for the entertainment value.
Opening the rear door, Byron was laid gently down next to a rolled futon and mat. His form waited up next to the ajar passenger door for a second and hesitated. They glanced at each other this time. Though helpless-looking, the Tanuk thoroughly enjoyed the treatment he was getting. He could have let the Wolf care for him all night. But figuring those were transient pleasures and desperately wanting to release the being that thirsted inside him he moved in for the kill.
"Nice night," he uttered as he was lain in the back seat. The light from the moon outside blended seamlessly with his new friend's early dusk-colored, gray fur. Each strand glistened brilliantly as though they too stole their sparkling sheen from the stars above.
The gentle face was almost too soft for words. Like the people of his race, his looks could be intimidating when properly imposed, but not a hint of bloodlust or malign could be felt along that chiseled maw, cool-wet nose, or cute stubborn ears.
"My God..." was the only phrase Byron could squeek out before the moment of their embrace. The Wolf grabbed a tight hold of his neck and they locked in a battled kiss as their bodie's compressed into the cramped car.
For that night, and every day since, that moment together with Daema would be forever burned into his memory. But not for the right reasons...
Of course, something had to have happened in that car. Many folks could see the blood-red camaro jouncing and banging, including Roland and his friends as they left the pub, but what exactly it was, no one could be sure. It wasn't the good, "When-this-van's-a-rockin'-don't-come-a-knockin' ," it was the, "O-MA-GAH! Somebody's being strangled," kind of bouncing.
Daema couldn't have had a clue either. In the middle of his undressing, which he had been polite enough to let his friend do, Byron suddenly stopped. Both stared at each other again, this time only with the radio's CDtrack screen to provide them light. It was an unregistered kind of thing. Something hadn't quite internally clicked with both of them.
Byron flushed and turned beet red, with the sweat of passion still beading on his forehead, "I'm sorry, I guess my technique's a bit rusty. I'll need some time." Dissapointment was already rearing on the Wolf's sovreign face. It almost seemed as though tears were welling up. Byron reacted quickly. Desperately afraid of losing him, he made the one move he had vowed to never to use on any man.
"Well... How 'bout this then?" He shoved his denim-clad leg a bit, moving the pretzel that was known as his lover, to climb over the backseat into the passanger side. Daema followed, as though he knew exactly what he was planning. Once the migration was complete and both were up front, the devious Antarack switched the station to acquire some atmosphere.
"What do you like?" the Wolf inquired, surfing through static for the first few channels and then finding contemporary jazz on the fourth. A grimace on his friend's face alerted him that that was no good. He turned the knob almost all the way around until he stumbled upon something that lightned his companion's expression.
It was a hardrock station. Mostly, of older bands, it had narrowly escaped the cut-off point of early morning talkshows in the tri-city area. Both their ears perked up as the first note to "Seven Seas of Rhye" by Queen, oozed through the stereo speakers. Nearly orgasmic was the song itself. The classic piano opening, everything! Everything about it was amazing. A lengthy discussion then followed of the accurate chord progressions and quadsome harmonies present in it's content.
Well, finally, when AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill," blasted through and rattled the subwoofers that were installed in the car's body, Byron felt ready to get down to business.
The Wolf unzipped his pants quite elequently, with one hand, and gestured kindly with his gorgeous eyes. After peering into them, the tanuk knew he had no other choice. A slightly aroused cock lay dormaint at first, barely peeking over the acid-washed fabric. Byron didn't move; for it seemed like it was some slightly familiar, yet alien being.
But as it arched up he brought it to his lips, "Oh," the driver murred.
The car had been started at some point during the whole ordeal and he could now hear the sound of the engine reving. The Wolf stamped the gas pedal with exceeding force and drove away from the club and down the I-60 interstate.
The experience was something Byron hadn't quite felt before:
"This isn't dirty love..."
"I love him, he loves me..."
"That means I trust him, right?"
Questions were ultimately silenced as he truely began sucking. Faliciating his partner's cock was actually quite exhilerating. His clenched jaws had opened up for what was to be a huge growth of red man-flesh. Larger than he'd ever felt or tasted. The whore in Byron overtook him. He couldn't help but thrust it all the way to the gagging point, and tickle and prod it with his tongue. Up and down, down and up, he began using his head as leverage to orally grind on it.
The Wolf probably scared drivers off the road by that point. His face contorted, rolled, and shrank. He bit his upper lip so hard that droplets of blood began to rain down on the back of Byron's head. It was the portrait of a man either in the worst possible agony or the greasted possible ecstacy.
On and on it went. The driver swerved to and fro due to the fact that he was incredibley drunk and because of the special attention he was getting. This didn't go anywhere near heavy-petting, no, this, he knew, was the real, legitimate thing. The guy he had on him was the guy he would always need with him. For better or worse...
It came time for the climax as Byron's tongue graced the last inches of his cock. A siren buzzed on from behind them, "Shit!," the Wolf yelped, worrying about the police, but thoroughly enjoying the last spurts of cum from vehicular orgasm.
He couldn't even tell Byron to quit. Daema slowed the car and brought it to a dead stop near the end of the road, and as the Doberman Officer in Blue stepped over to the camaro, he noticed there was someone leaning over the seats.
"All right, Sir, did you happen to see how fast you were going? Have you been drin- " but the officer was cut-off as he opened the car door and saw Byron lying there. It was a sight too horrible to view, but too enticing to glance away from. Too sureal to be real; too vivid to be a dream. Byron's clenched and narrow maw, every hair folical down to it's root and in every nook and cranny, was plastered with creamy-white wolf cum.
The cop then shut the door, backed away slowly... and then went screaming in a high-pitched soprano back to his patrol car.
********************************************************************
And they lived happily-ever-after, maybe?