What the Fuck Happened to TGIF?
What The Fuck Happened To TGIF?
Friday morning comes as it always does, with no fanfare. The little clock on the dresser next to me screams bloody murder, and after I hit it a few times I finally give in to its incessant whining and roll lethargically out of bed. My feet hit the soft carpet of my apartment floor and I wonder blearily what I am doing with my life: I live in an apartment, one of those little open-box-and-assemble-here Motel 8-quality deals, on the second floor. I realize that I'm still asleep and amble into the bathroom (Ha! Anyone who has seen one of these places knows what I'm laughing at, here) to splash cold water on my face. The husky looking back out at me from the mirror is twenty-three, male, built, and not very happy to be awake.
I strip and shower and shiver because the building's water heater seems to be out of commission again. I decide to wash thoroughly, more to wake myself up than from any desire to actually be clean. The shampoo tingles as it's worked into my fur, and the water makes little rivulets as it flows down my head and muzzle. If it were warmer I would be content to simply stand there and fall asleep again. Maybe it's a good thing that the water was cold.
Out of the shower; brush teeth. Amble back to the bedroom and pull on boxers, socks, undershirt, dress shirt, pants. The belt is too worn and needs to be replaced. Inside the closet are several pre-tied ties. I choose one that is simply black. Then I remember it's Friday. I switch the black tie for one that's gray with a white diamond design.
In to the kitchen, next. The coffee pot is on and boiling. I pour myself a mug and nearly burn myself as the scalding liquid tries to eat away my throat from the inside. Then I grab a convenient folder on the counter, grab my car keys from the shelf beside the door, and head out, pushing the door lock closed before I do.
The journey to work begins is uneventful and monotonous, the monotony broken only by the monotonous visit to the Starbucks down the monotonous road. The guy working the drive-thru gives me a look that says you shouldn't be driving today, guy. I mumble a thank-you when he hands me my double venti whatever and drive off.
Yeah, it's going to be that kind of day.
Things don't get too exciting until I get to my office. I hit a little over half the red lights and every pothole. The cheery receptionist greets me as I walk in and the janitor gives me a look to rival the coffee-boy's from earlier. The lights in my part of the building are still off; 5:30 is too damn early, even on a Friday. The cubicles are all empty and even the noisy copy machine printer is still asleep. The first key I grab and try in the door is the wrong one, and the jingle is the only noise on the whole floor besides the air conditioning. Everybody is asleep, I think dourly, and I'm stuck coming into work early on a Friday.
It's with that thought that I find the correct key and open my door on a sight that causes me to freeze. I somehow manage to keep a grip on my folder. My sleep-addled brain takes a moment to understand what my eyes are screaming, and when it does my mouth takes a moment more to work. I manage a rather articulate um while my mind tries to tell my feet to move it.
"Alex," Derrik says. Alyssa doesn't say anything.
"Uhm. Hi," I manage. "Wrong office," I add needlessly. Of course. The key didn't work. Wrong office. Stupid. I grasp at this train of thought in the hope that it will banish the image of Derrik balls deep in the smaller dalmation. "So, uh, I'll just. Yeah." I shut the door gently and reengage the lock before turning to my real door.
I'm seeing spots for the rest of the morning.
About twenty minutes later I hear a knock on my door, which is unnecessary because it's already open. Derrik leans on the doorframe and looks over me and my office surreptitiously. My folder is sitting open on one corner of my desk and the contents have been ordered on the glossy surface. My computer is on with an unread email message staring balefully at me. I'm pretty sure my blood has returned to my head by now. All the same, I don't stand up when he knocks, just nod him in.
"So," he begins, then stops. I can sympathize. He tries again. "I didn't know you were going to be here this early."
"I have shit to do," I tell him.
"I can see that." He walks in and shuts the door. I try to put just the right amount of annoyance into my sigh.
"I have shit to do," I repeat.
"I heard you the first time." Still he walks up to and around my desk and sits on it, just looking at me. I just stare back at him, wondering if I'm going to convince him to go away with just a look, or if he's going to make me talk and say something stupid. After ten seconds or so of silenceâ€"and no matter how they exaggerate that kind of thing in stories, ten seconds is way long enoughâ€"he says, "It was just a quickie, you know." At least he has the grace to cringe at that.
I shouldn't say anything. Anything that comes out of my mouth at this point will not be beneficial in any way, won't do anything but exacerbate the situation. I resolve to keep my mouth firmly shut. "So, was I just a quickie, too, then?" Oh, good one. Original and helpful. All around winner.
Derrik cringes again, but there's a small sigh in there this time. "No, you weren't. I just get bored, you know that."
"I don't want to talk about this right now," I say. I make a pointless gesture at the things on my desk that I'm not going to get done today.
"Huskyâ€""
"What?"
I could kill myself for the way that word stops whatever he was going to say right on the edge of his mouth. I can see it crawling to get out, but being drawn back inside, afraid of manifesting itself. I should say that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean whatever I just said. But I don't.
"Nothing." He slides down from the desk and walks the four steps to the door. He turns the handle. The whole time I want to stop him, tell him to come back, apologize. He opens the door, and is gone. I wish I can bang my head on the desk without feeling stupid, but I suppose it won't make me any dumber than I am.
Of course, he was the one with his dick in someone else. Why am I feeling bad for what I said? As soon as I wonder that I know the answer and I want to hit myself all over again.
Fuck.
The rest of the day passes in a cliché haze. I don't remember much of it afterward, just because I'm not thinking about what I'm doing. Or anything, really. I stamp things and write memos and read emails and Derrik and I mutually avoid each other. When five rolls around I'm already out the door.
I stop by the Starbucks on the way home. Thankfully, it's a different coffee jockey. This one gives me a look that says dude, and I drive off before my mind can finish formulating the rest of the sentence.
Everything seems shittier. None of the people I pass know how to drive. I'm almost positive I'm going to have a headache later. As I pull into the parking lot of my apartment I reflect on the fact that I live in an apartment and not a house. But of course necessity comes before luxury, and I don't need a house, since I live alone. Then, of course, I get depressed again. I park the car and trip on the curb on the way to the stairs. There's trash in the bushes. I left my coffee in the damn car, but I don't feel like getting it.
There's someone waiting for me when I get to the top of the stairs, a little red fox with almost silver fur. (I don't understand how that works, either). He's sitting with his back against the wall between my door and my neighbor's, feet splayed out in front of him. He's wearing a fishnet shirt that doesn't cover his chest and black pants that kind of fan out at the bottom and have some little thingies hanging all over the place. His eyes are closed and his head is back, and for a brief moment I envy him. I realize I don't actually envy him so much as the look of placidity and what it could represent, and this realization completely ruins the soft anger I am cultivating. I shouldn't be upset just because someone else looks happy when I'm feeling bad.
I can tell he's not asleep by the little flick his ears do when I reach the top of the stairs. He doesn't open his eyes, but he does say, "Happy Friday." I bring out my keys undo the deadbolt. He opens his eyes and looks at me. "Where's your boyfriend?"
I jimmy the second lock and shove the door open. "He's not my boyfriend." I walk in and leave the door open behind me. I go straight to the kitchen and grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with brandy and inhale it and fill it again and inhale a second time and pour myself a third and...
...relax. I hear the fox come in and close the door behind him.
"I didn't mean to insult you," he says. I choose not to hear any inflection in his voice. I let it wash over me with the searing brandy that's meandering down my throat. I react well to alcohol, I've found. When I want to calm down, I just need to take a sip or two and I feel the warmth spreading through my limbs and out into my fingers and toes and up into my ears. I realize that maybe I drank more than a sip or two.
"You didn't," I say.
"What's got you so uptight?"
"Nothing," I lie. I set the glass down on the counter and make my way through the mess that has become the floor of my apartment to the couch. The little fox has already made his own way there. He's sitting with legs crossed and hands in his lap, looking at me with an unassuming expression. I loosen my tie and flop down on the couch next to him. His eyes follow me the entire time.
"You know, for someone who's gay, you're kind of homophobic," he says matter-of-factly. I don't say anything. What is there to say? When you're right, you're right. Still.
"I hang out with you," I point out.
This is the second time I wish I had just kept my mouth shut. I don't know why he doesn't just get up and leave right then; I would have. Instead, he just sits and stares at me. Then, in an act whose singular existence explains, defines, and magnifies tenfold all the differences between us, he grabs my hand in his and just holds it. And you know what? I just let him. A part of me wants to break down and cry at the unfairness of it all. Another part of me sees the hypocrisy and wants me to just grow up.
Eventually, I muster the courage to say, "I'm sorry." He just squeezes my hand tighter and we sit like that for what feels like way too long and not long enough.
"What happened?" he eventually asks.
"I...had a rough day at work."
A sigh. "I gathered as much."
"I don't want to talk about it just now."
"Yeah."
"D'you want something to eat? Or drink?"
He wrinkles his nose. "Not what you're drinking."
"Water, then?"
"Ginger Ale, if you have it."
"You know I do."
"I know."
As I get up I am reluctant to let my hand slip free of his. I get the cold can from the refrigerator and decide I want one, too. I come back to the couch and sit down. The fox watches me the whole time. That's something about that fox. He's just that kind of guy who watches everything and sees everything, but never looks judgmental. He looks like he's just looking, all the time.
"Do you want to talk about today?" he asks softly.
I think about it. If I do talk, I'll probably feel better. But do I want to feel better? Maybe I just want to let everything sink in so I can feel justified with my somewhat irrational anger. I sigh. "I do. I walked in on Derrik with someone today."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"He's your boyfriend, right?"
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Oh."
I look at him. "Stop that."
"Sorry. But if you two were sleeping together and you're this upset that he's playing around with other guys, it sounds like you've got more invested in him than just ‘friends with benefits.'"
"It was a girl."
"Oh." Then he chuckled. "Well, at least you don't have to worry about, um, losing him, then."
"But it was a girl," I repeat, hoping that somehow the repetition of the word will sear it into his brain. He just cocks his head to the side and waits for me to continue. "I mean, we've joked about it. I mean, when he and I are together, somewhere, you know...we've joked about girls before, about how we'll never in a million years, and all that." And then we acknowledge that we're assholes, and then I unzip myself and he sucks my cock. "You know." I wave my hand in a highly explanatory way.
"I can guess."
A thought strikes me. It is not quite unpleasant. "Hey, so, what did you mean when you said your boyfriend isn't with you?"
The fox blinks. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"Yeah. No, that's not what I meant. I mean, when I walked in, you said that my boyfriend wasn't withâ€"" I admit it, I'm slow. I just now notice he's grinning.
"I get what you mean. You didn't get my joke?"
"What?"
"Nevermind. Yes, I remember saying that. What about it?"
"You were surprised." I make sure it's not a question.
He shrugs. "Kinda. I expect that you bring him home on days when you don't bring me home."
"So. Um." I formulate the question carefully before I say something else stupid. "Why the fuck are you here if you were expecting me to bring Derrik?"
He shrugs again. "No reason." I don't say anything, hoping he'll get the message. "No, really, it was nothing diabolical. I was just bored."
"Well, that's reassuring."
"Wait, was that sarcasm? How unexpected."
"Oh, come on!" I shout. "How the hell am I supposed to react? You know I have a thing for Derrik, and yet you show up on purpose on a day when you know I'm probably going to be bringing him home. What do you think that looks like to me?"
The little fox is quiet for a moment, then seems to come to a decision. "You want to know my name?" he asks, suddenly.
"Whosawha?" I articulate. "Why would I want to know your name?"
"Husky," he says levelly. "You let me put your cock in my mouth and butt multiple times a week. Why don't you know my name?"
"Because...I don't know." I'm slightly exasperated now. "I have no idea, it just never seemed like something that was important. Because, I mean. You know." There I go with the super articulation again.
"Husky, Husky," the fox says in mock wonder. "Have you grown a conscious bone?"
"A what, now?"
"A conscious. Or, actually, an empathy bone would be more accurate."
I honestly have no idea what he's talking about. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What?"
He chuckles. "Do you remember when we first met, Husky?"
"Um. Why, should I?"
"I do."
"So, what does this have to do with anything?" I realize that neither one of us has really moved for the past five minutes or so. I place the glass in the sink and rip my tie off and toss it across the room. The spot on the couch next to the fox looks inviting, so I sit down next to him. Actually, slumping is more accurate.
"A few months ago," the fox says softly. "We were at the Underground, and you were drinking not nearly enough to warrant being as surly as you were, and I was eyeing you from across the room. And I came up to you and said, ‘Hey there, handsome. You looking for someone tonight?' And you said, ‘I don't feel like paying for sex. Thanks, though.'" The fox falls silent. I realize he's keeping his hands folded in his lap. I reach into his lap and place one hand on his groin.
"I have no idea where you're going with this," I inform him.
In response the fox grabs my hand and guides it from its resting place up and over his waistband, then down into his pants. I feel his soft balls in my hand, his sheath against my wrist, and I squeeze just slightly enough to ensure myself that I'm feeling them. I don't know why I do that. The fox doesn't moan, but he leans forward and, in a completely unexpected move, plants his muzzle squarely on mine. His tongue forces my muzzle open, and we go through the familiar dance.
He puts both hands behind my head and practically ties our faces together. In response I put my other hand in the backside of his pants, and start squeezing his rump while my left hand plays with his sac, squeezing and gently pulling and rolling the orbs around, and for whatever reason I completely lose myself in that act alone. Even the kiss takes a back seat to how his nuts feel in the palm of my hand. Somehow soft and hard, furry, warm. I feel the tip of his penis push past his sheath and brush against my wrist.
And I realize I'm on my back. When did this happen?
"Mmph," I say unhurriedly. The fox unhooks his hands from behind my head and draws back, letting our tongues mingle a few seconds more.
"You still don't know what I'm getting at?" he asked.
"I've got a pretty good idea," I say, squeezing his package for effect.
He cocks his head again. "You called me a whore, Husky. Back then, you weren't afraid to call me a whore, in public. What happened?"
"I." â€"have no idea what you're talking about? â€"did not call you that? â€"like chocolate? I what? "I don't know what you mean, exactly."
"You called me a whore," the fox says, not sitting firmly atop my belly. "You won't call me a whore now?"
"Well. I mean, do you get paid to have sex? I thought you said you didn't take payment."
"Ah, so you do remember that conversation. Well, my point is this: just a couple of minutes ago, you had the opportunity to say something scathing like you used to. You could have..." he trails off and his gaze slips away from my eyes.
"I could have? I could have what?" He now has my total attention. The fox sighs, and I am at least perceptive enough to know to wait and let him figure out what he wants to say. He takes a deep breath.
"You could have really hurt me," he finishes.
I have never felt so unclean in my entire life. I had my arm down his pants with my hand wrapped around his sac, the other hand on his bottom, and he says that. I can't think of a way to withdraw my hands without making it obvious what I am doing, but I feel that I need to do it anyway, so I do. He squirms at the brief friction, but other than that doesn't move.
Fuck.
"Um." I bring my hand up to clasp his wrist loosely. "What do you mean? You know I don't mean to hurt you." I think for a second, and a thought occurs to me. "Don't you?"
"Oh, I'm sure you don't mean it, Husky." He looks me in the eyes again, and I'm relieved to see some of the sparkle from before has returned. "It's just, you know. Sometimes you say things that you don't think about before, I think. I don't think you mean to hurt people. Look at us, at what we're doing now; I don't think this is to hurt anyone. I think it's just you." I don't know exactly what he means by that, but I let him go. "Well," he concludes.
"Well."
"You are a control freak."
"Oh. Uh-uh, not true."
"I'm going to prove it." The slight fox strips off his shirt and sidles off of me to get his pants off, too. He puts them in a pile by the couch. Then he just stands there, naked. The tip of his cock is still showing past his sheath. "Well?" he asks.
I stand up and strip for him. I don't make a show of it; some part of me says that would not be entirely appropriate. Instead, I simply take my clothes off and pile them on the opposite end of the couch from his. Then we stand there for many long moments, letting our eyes roam over each other. Finally, he turns and heads into the bedroom, and I follow.
When I enter the room I see him standing by the bed. He motions me forward, and I go, letting him guide me softly onto the bed. It takes me a moment, but I figure out what he wants me to do. I crawl forward until I'm almost at the headboard, then I lay back, looking at the fox upside down. His gently paws urge me backward and I sidle toward him until my head is just off the end of the bed.
There's something trance-like the way things are happening now. I don't know exactly what is happening. Of all the times we've had sex before, this has never happened. I don't even know what "this" is.
I do, however, know what this is. This is the fox standing over me, his sac right at my muzzle-level. I open my jaws and lick, starting at the top of his sheath and moving down between his balls until my tongue can't reach any further, and then I start again. I do this a few time, making sure the fur is flat, before I focus on one of the orbs, taking it into my muzzle and sucking lightly, licking it diligently clean before going on to the other one. The fox is moaning above me, but I can't see. All I can see is the doorway through his legs, and the couch beyond the doorway.
I realize that I have never spent this much time exploring the fox's package with my tongue before. I have of course spent some time on a couple of occasions, but this time is different. Even after as short an amount of time as has passed I find myself more familiar with the twin orbs than I have ever been before. I start to anticipate where the sac will feel differently against my tongue. The fox, meanwhile, I can tell, is straining to keep from thrusting his genitals right down my throat.
He steps back, and I keep my tongue out, stretching it as far as I can to keep tasting one orb for as long as I can. Once he's out of range I realize that he's fully erect, something that doesn't exactly surprise me. What he does next, however, does.
Placing one hand on my upside-down cheek and another on his cock, the fox steps forward again and lowers his member to my muzzle. I keep my muzzle partly closed, and he stops just before the glans is all the way inside my lips. His other hand comes down from his cock to grip my other cheek. I can't see his face, just his sac, but I can hear clearly enough when he says, "Just leave your hands at your side." Then he presses his hips forward.
The way he enters my muzzle reminds me of the first time I had sex with a girl my age in high school. Females are slipperier than us males, and when I first slid into her I took my time. I didn't make any short in-out thrusts, just glided myself into her slowly, a penetration that must have taken a full minute to complete. This was the same way the fox now penetrated my muzzle: slowly, savoring the sensations. I could see his legs shake once or twice with the effort of keeping himself from thrusting violently forward to hilt himself in my mouth, which was where he was certainly going.
Of course, now I recall that I have never actually been able to deep throat anybody. And that is certainly where he is going.
I think about raising my hands, but he told me specifically to keep my hands at my sides. He anticipated this. As his head slides to and past my gag reflex, I make small, pathetic noises, but I keep everything inside of me. I have to work my throat a few times, and that makes the fox above me moan. After an eternity in limbo, I feel his sheath against my lips. He sighs as I work my throat muscles over and over to keep from gagging. After another eternity, he withdraws most of his member, leaving just the head inside, then pushes it all the way back in.
The rhythm he sets fucking my mouth is actually not fast at all. He's either not planning on getting off in my muzzle, or else he's just planning on taking his time with it. Again, I am reminded of the female from high school as I work his member with my tongue and throat.
I wonder briefly if this is what Derrik was doing at work earlier. I admit, I'm still too slow to draw a direct parallel, but I realize at least that what happened there and what is happening now are connected on some basic level. As the fox above me gently enters my throat again, I picture Derrik gently entering the other dalmation, taking his time. That overly-rational part of me asks, "Why?" but I ignore it. Instead, I find myself picturing Derrik's cock. I realize that in all the time I've been sleeping with him I've never actually tasted it. I wonder what it tastes like, wonder what that pink shaft would feel like sliding down my throat, wonder what kind of noises he would be making. I realize that in thinking of Derrik in this way, my own cock is getting hard. I'm jerked back to reality by a soft chuckle from the fox above me.
"Enjoying yourself," he doesn't-quite-ask. It takes me a moment to realize he's noticed my cock and is thinking I'm getting hard because of what's happening now. In a way that's true, I suppose, so I simply moan around his member just as he hilts himself in me. He groans, and I wonder if he is actually going to come, but he doesn't. He pulls his shaft out of my muzzle, slowly, letting me get in as many licks as I can.
"Wow," he says. I lick my muzzle, and realize belatedly that he's as leaky as he usually is, and that I've got a good amount of his pre in my mouth still. I close up and swallow it. The fox looks down at me and smiles, bringing a finger to my lips, and wipes up a little bit that I missed. I, of course, clean it right off of his finger.
"Turn over," he pants. "All the way." I roll onto my stomach and reorient myself so that my head is toward the headboard. The bed shakes as the fox mounts it, and I feel him press his body to mine, his cock riding me but not quite in position to penetrate me. He wraps his arms around my torso and leans forward so his muzzle is right next to my ear.
"When is the last time you got fucked?" he asks.
"Um," I reply. "I actually don't remember. I'm assuming you're talking sex, here, and not work, of course."
The fox chuckles. "Yes, silly. See, here's why I said you are a control freak."
"Wait a tick," I say. "You're saying that because I'm a top I'm a control freak? That doesn't make me a control freak." I'm indignant, now. "That just makes me...um. A top. That's it."
"I'll not touch the definition of "top" and "bottom" with respect to fags, and just focus on another aspect," he whispers humorously. "Everything about your life is tightly controlled. Your work, your money, your sex life. Everything. Bring Derrik home on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays, and me on whatever days he's not home. That, and you always call me."
An intuitive part of my brain that never ever sees the light of day wonders if this is his freak out, a la disgruntled office worker with anger management issues. "You don't want me to call you?"
"That's not it." He shakes his head. "I just mean that I never come over when I want to, it's always when you want me to." He repositions himself, and I feel his member kissing my entrance while one of his hands scratches lightly at my throat. "Maybe I'm the jealous type, I don't know. Dante, by the way."
"Maybe you're not making any seâ€"aah!" There is no warning, no preamble, before he shoves himself into me, and I do mean all of him. He might as well be trying to push his entire body inside me. "F-f-fuck! Ah, fuck!"
"God," he whispers.
The ten minute or so that he just spent in my mouth don't seem to help at all. It's like a searing poker being forced into my rear entrance. I'm on fire. I clench down, repelling, hurting, panicking. I can't stop vocalizing my discomfort, the sounds mixing with the fox's own groans of pleasure. There are tears in my eyes, and I feel my claws shredding the sheets where I'm gripping them. Every pulse brings new pain.
And I remember the last time I was taken. Which was also the first time. Which was also in high school. I was a junior, and had used a fake I.D. to get into a bar, whereupon I had picked up a big doberman who I later found out as a senior in college. The dobie had taken me back to his on-campus apartment, and after some foreplay had proceeded to bury his bones completely inside me on his first thrust. I had never done anything with anybody before then, not even with toys or my own fingers. He had hilted in me, then, without waiting for me to adjust, had proceeded to fuck me like a bitch. When he was done, he left me lying in his bed in the dampness of his seed and my own blood.
And somehow I decided I liked guys after that. What the fuck, right?
There are some differences between my first time and this time. The dobie had bitten my neck so hard he had drawn blood, but the fox is licking my muzzle. That, and he's not moving. Now, as I calm down, I can feel his knot kissing my entrance. And the dobie was obsessed with his own cock; the fox is brushing his hands up and down my chest, almost lovingly.
"W-w-w," I fail. I try again. "What the fuck?" I realize I am still tearing up.
"If we had done this the ‘right' way, it would take forever." The fox says. And in perhaps my most lucid moment of the entire night I realize the real reason for what he did. And you know what? As I lie there, with his cock buried deep inside me, feeling split wide open and more vulnerable than I have ever felt before, I realize that not only don't I blame him: I feel...something else. Something like approval, mixed with empathy.
"Dante," I breathe.
"Hm?" He lowers his head so his muzzle is roughly parallel with mine.
"Just...give me a minute. My...hurts. I hurt. Let me get used to you."
"Of course," Dante says.
We lie this way for the next eternity, and the one following that. I take deep breaths and, with his whispered encouragement, re-learn how to relax my body to accept him. Every pulse brings me new sensations, but they are becoming less and less unpleasant. Each breath relaxes me more. His hands on my chest relax me more. His tongue licking my muzzle relaxes me more. His breath in my ear, his weight on my back...
And, soon, he withdraws, slowly, and not quite all the way. I hiss, but let him know that it's okay to continue. He lowers his hips again, and I feel his shaft enter me. And I realize that as clichéd as it is when everyone says, "It's a strange, new feeling," and, "It's like being filled," they are both true. His presence inside me fills me in ways I didn't know I could be filled. His thrusts begin slow, and shallow, and as I acclimate to the sensations he goes deeper and deeper, until he is hitting what must be my prostate, judging by the interminable waves of pleasure, and I just imagine the pleasure moving from the base of his cock, all the way up through the member and into my prostate, shooting out through my own shaft and manifesting itself in a puddle on the sheets below me.
My brain, hitherto mostly inactive, starts up again, spurred on by a wayward lance of pleasure that the fox sends shooting up my spine.
"Howâ€"how long?" I pant.
"Longer...than you'd...think," he pants back.
And neither of us says anything further. Why don't I just die right now, like this, and stay here forever?
The fox is not in a rush, and neither am I. But neither of us is keen on taking our time. This is not the slow, gentle lovemaking of a warm spring night out in the bushes by the pond. This is sex spawned from a repressed desire that neither of us realized we had. He's done this before, but he doesn't dally around, slowing down when he feels me about to peak and keeping himself just under as well. This is lovemaking of the most straightforward kind.
On one of his thrusts, the pleasure that jumps from the tip of his cock to my prostate is too much. I cry out, perhaps more loudly than I have all night so far, and time slows down so that I feel the seed move up my shaft and out onto the sheets. My grip on them tightens, as does my grip on the fox, and he groans loudly. And as I continue spurting onto the sheets, I realize how much I needed this. I can feel the head of my member resting in warm, sticky pool.
The fox's grunts grow louder, and he thrusts one final time, hard. I cry out as I feel his knot enter me, and he arms grip me tighter as he empties climaxes. He jerks as he empties his seed in my body, his mouth hanging open, panting next my ear and all that. I just let it all wash over me. And when he's done, he just collapses on top of me, and says absolutely nothing with his mouth. I'm content to lay in silence. I'm glad he doesn't bring up Derrik.
Monday rolls around again, and this time when I show up to work it's not until 8:30 and there are other people there, and the lights are on, and I step into the right office this time. Derrik is waiting for me behind my desk. He's not sitting in one of those cliché poses; instead, he looks like he's been watching the door, waiting for it to open, wondering what he was going to say when it did. I shut the door behind me and flip the lock. I made sure I left my sarcasm back at my apartment.
Neither of us speak as I put my computer bag down on the table and hang my coat up by the door. I sit down in the chair opposite my desk and look back at him, not rudely. We watch each other do nothing for a minute, and then he says, "What are we, James?"
I blink, reluctant to guess at his meaning even though I'm pretty sure I know what it is. "What do you mean by that?"
He sighed and sat back. "I mean, us. You know," he waved back and forth between himself and me. "Us. Are we an item?"
I remember Friday, and how callous I was to him. I also remember why I was callous. I also remember the other things I did over that night and the rest of the weekend with the gray foxâ€"Dante. I wonder what he did over the weekend.
"Would you like that?" I ask. Another one of those silences stretches.
"I think," Derrik says after a prolonged moment. "I think I'd like that."
I smile. "You know, so would I," I say, and I mean it.