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There was love here, once.

Every day I ask myself why I still live here, where everything reminds me of her. The shitty art-nouveau sculptures on shiny pedestals scattered around my halls--she used to bring them home from London and Paris and Hong Kong when she was there on business. Each and every one, I hated them, but now I can't seem to get rid of them. The impression in the bathtub where she stood to take her showers. A decade of daily shuffling leaves its mark even in hard ceramic. The smell of her rose garden in the back garden. I kept watering and trimming the things, and even though she's gone, they don't seem to have the will to follow her.

I wish I had. That night she walked out, I should have turned off the game and chased her. I should have noticed that she'd packed her luggage. I should have answered the phone when the bank called to ask whether I had authorized the transfer of half of everything I owned--we owned--to a foreign account in Shanghai. I had a lot of 'should's. More than my fair share.

But that's going down dark roads. My therapist said I should avoid that. Live for the day, each day, every day, and make it worth living. Slowly, it won't hurt so much. Honestly, I'm pretty sure that was all bullshit, but it sounded good, and what did I pay the fraud for, if not pretty bullshit? So every day I wake up. I shower and ignore her pawprints in the ceramic. I chew my way through smoked salmon on a bagel. And then I swim.

There, right there, is probably the only reason I still keep getting up every day. Maybe it's stereotypical for an old otter like me, but I like the isolation the water brings when I'm laying back against the smooth tiles at the bottom of my swimming pool. I can look up at the daylight tinted blue and green and wavy and aqua, and it in that moment, she's far away, and I have everything I want.

My watch tells me it's just past noon. It's a quality number, shiny metal and quartz action and waterproof to fifty meters. She gave it to my for my fortieth. What a night that was. Shrimp and linguini at Antonio's in town. Bubbly on the deck, then a tryst in the hot tub. Then again in the shower, and one more lazy one in bed. God, she knew how to get an old otter going.

Shake it off, slinky. Lungs are telling you that you need a breath of fresh air, and mind is telling you that maybe you should focus on something more immediate than old conquests. Pop my nose above the surface like a periscope, then twenty lengths of the pool and I'm short of breath and ready to relax. The sun is warm on my pelt. There's smoke in the air. Barbecue. Old man Jackson next door must be entertaining. Smells like steak and hot dogs. Good dog. I lie on my back and daydream of steak until a shadow breaks my concentration.

When I open my eyes, they're blurry from the chlorine. I blink a few times to clear my vision, and I see Fred.

"Is it Wednesday already, Fred?"

"Sure is, Mr. Walters." He's got that big shit-eating grin on his face like always. He's got a long net on a pole in one hand, and a bucket of chemicals in the other. He's a pretty little ermine, white as a cloud and about as soft. Eyes and claws black as sin, and with his current state of dress and mood, sheath and gums pink as bubblegum. He's wearing a white polo shirt, and is otherwise naked from the waist down. I suppress the urge to laugh. He looks like the star of a porno's just arrived on set.

"Fred, put on some pants."

"Why would I do that, Mr. Walters?" His smile doesn't even budge.

"Because it's only decent."

"You're not wearing any, Mr. Walters." He's right. It's my god damn pool, on my own god damn property, and I don't like the feel of swim trunks.

"Because it's only decent when you're in someone else's house."

"They wouldn't last very long anyway Mr. Walters." He gives me a lecherous little wink. Damn, right again. I scowl at him.

"Because then I get to tear them off you later."

"Yes Mr. Walters."

If I'd thought the grin had been ear-to-ear before, it stretches to such a caricature that now I can't help but laugh. But he relents and goes back inside to get his pants. My eyes linger after him. From a distance, he might as well be naked, with the white shirt and white cutoff shorts as startlingly white as his pelt. He meanders around my yard in the daylight like a glaring sunspot, harsh on the eyes but so pleasurable to bask in the glow of.

She didn't like Fred much. She fired him twice, but gave up after the third time I hired him. Fred and I, we go all the way back. He was my little brother's best friend. Kept coming over to play even after my little brother passed away. At first I thought it was just habit, but after years I decided it was more than just out of some duty to my late brother. He liked me, and I liked that. When he hit high school, I hit twenty. When he graduated, I'd met her and was hitting it big in the market. When I got married, he was my best man. When my wife miscarried, he drove me to the hospital.

She'd been so despondent. She didn't even talk to me for a month--as if it was something I'd done to her. Thinking back, that was the start of our troubles, really. When she'd been told that pups just weren't an option for her, she threw herself into her work. Weekends at the office. Corporate conventions in Vegas. Clients overseas. I barely saw her anymore.

I told myself that was okay. At least she was enjoying herself. She'd been a smart otter, but depressive at times. She was only happy when she had something to occupy her time, and after so many years together, I just couldn't occupy her like I used to. She said she'd just got bored. We'd done everything, and well, what more was there? We only had sex on special occasions, like my fortieth, or on valentines day, or when the stars aligned, or whatever. When she came back from Paris and London and Hong Kong, she always had that little grin on her face--the one that meant she'd got some tail. She thought I couldn't tell, but I could. It was okay, I told myself. I wish she'd tell me, but she wasn't very good at telling me things. She was better at just doing things, and letting me guess. Lucky I was a good guesser.

Anyway, it's not as if I was entirely faithful, either. When it'd become clear that we weren't going to be relying on each other to meet our needs anymore, well, there'd been a few girls. I guess. None of them had meant very much, or done very much. No one got me going like she had.

And then there was Fred. I took it for granted that there was always Fred. In fact, there's Fred right now. He's crouched by the pool, with those short white shorts crumpled up above his knees. He's not looking at me, but I know that he knows I'm watching him. He's got a little vial in one hand, and there's a little test strip between his fingers. Closer, closer, I pretend to be an alligator pretending to be a log, and he pretends not to notice. I did see, though, that he carefully put his pH test to the side. How thoughtful of him. Quick as a snap, I've got his leg, and he's teetering out over the pool. He's even got the decency to act surprised and shocked, and when he surfaces with his white shirt clinging to his front and his fuzz sticking up in clumps, he even pretends to be angry. Ermines look so rumpled when they're soaked. His beady, black eyes glare at me, and I meet them with the same grin he'd been wearing earlier.

Then I float back off into the shallow end. Of all the things she left me, I'm most thankful for the pool. She hadn't even wanted it, but when we were looking for a house to buy together, the place she liked most already had planning permission. Not that she ever used it, really. When she wanted to swim, she'd meet all the otter gals in town in the public pool. They'd flop around in the sun for hours, talking about absolutely nothing at great length. That wouldn't do for a guy like me. Males just didn't congregate like geese. I had to have my own little lagoon that was mine and mine alone, where I could be the only guy around.

Well, except for Fred. I feel the waves rock me a bit as he hoists himself out of the water, dripping noisily on the pitted concrete. A momentary shower speckles my pelt when he shakes off. Actually, that feels really good, like a breeze in sweltering sunlight. I close my eyes and just enjoy the moment.

A moment's all I get. Something metal taps my neck, and something fibrous closes over my nose. It pushes me under water, where I flail around for a moment. When I surface again, I can feel Fred's net laying crookedly over my ears, with the rim around my neck like an impromptu collar, and the pole the leash.

"Mr. Walters, I regret to inform you that your pool's got otters in it. I've just caught one, but there might be more." His grin returns. It even stays there when I launch myself bodily up out of the water and push him back into a chaise lounge. He's smiling up at me, and I'm smiling down at him. Ah, Fred, how would I have survived without you?

Not that I've told anyone about Fred. Not my wife, of course, and not my therapist. Fred's just my little secret.

He's a good friend. Obedient. Caring. Always there when I need him. And he's got the best mouth I've ever had--and that includes my wife. Ex-wife. She'd just give it a few licks, and figure that was enough. Fred, now, he's considerate. Any time I give him the chance, and that's more often than not these days, he's willing--no, eager--to do a lot more than lick. Like now. He just lifts his hands and cradles my balls while I rest a knee on the chair next to his shoulder. There's an electric little moment when his whiskers touch my sheath, and then that tongue. I don't know how he got so good at doing this, but when he sticks his nose to my crotch and slides that tongue down into my sheath, how can I not get hard for him? He lets out a little sigh, like it's what he's been looking forward to all day. It probably is, actually. I love that little feeling, the little thrill when anticipation turns into a rush of adrenaline because what I'd been fantasizing is, in actual fact, about to happen.

He opens his mouth when I start to poke out of my sheath. The tip doesn't even get half a second of humid Florida air before Fred's lips close around it. I lean down over him, and all he does is let out a soft little grunt as I use his whiskery muzzle to push my sheath down further. It feels amazing. It's the smoothness of tongue curling around, while the hard little nubs of teeth through his curled lips tickle at my sheath. It's the rough wash-board pattern of the roof of his muzzle as I slide back and forth against it. The chaise lounge creaks alarmingly beneath us. His fingers stroke at my balls, and one tickles further back under my tail. I feel light-headed as he works his magic. That's it--he might be my pool boy and gardener to pay the bills, but Fred's really a magician. A twirl of his fingers, a flash of his tongue, and he's got me mesmerized.

It hits me so fast I don't have the time to warn him. He coughs beneath me as I twitch, and pushes up at my hips. I lever myself up with some difficulty as he wipes gooey cum from his lips. I quickly replace it, and leave sticky streamers in his whiskers. He scowls up at me, and I smile innocently up at him.

"Warn me next time, Phil."

"Mr. Walters." I remind him.

I see a moment of something. What is that? Have I hurt him? There's an empty look to his gaze. I don't recognize it. I'm not sure I'd understand it, even if I understood it. There's something hungry in his eyes. His hands clench around the armrests of the chaise lounge, and he's-

It's over so fast I wonder if I was just imagining it. The mask of silly pool-boy drops back over his features. His tongue darts out and cleans my spunk from his whiskers.

"So sorry Mr. Walters. Can I get back to the pool now?" His eyebrows raise and wiggle alarmingly. "Sir?"

"Don't 'Sir' me you little hussy. And if you want the pool so much, I'll get you there myself!"

I grab the chaise lounge and stand to the side so I've got the leverage to lift the head section. He grips the armrests in momentary panic, but he's much too small a weasel to prevent me from lifting the whole thing bodily from the concrete poolside and depositing him rather unceremoniously in the shallow end again.

He surfaces again with a snort of air from his nose. The remaining cum that I'd painted onto his face drifts off in milky little strands in the pool water. "I guess I'll be replacing the filters again, then, Mr. Walters?"

I hop down into the pool next to him with only a fraction of a splash his undignified entrance had created. "So soon? Didn't you replace them just last week?"

"You are rather rough on your pool, Mr. Walters." He lets out another gasp as I pushed him up against the curved tiles of the pool wall. I tug at his pants and he gives a grunt. He reaches down and fiddles with button and fly for a moment, and when I tug again they drop to his knees, then slowly drift down to the bottom where his feet are planted. "And on the help."

Standing like this, he only comes up to my shoulder. There's something about his body that's almost feminine, the short stature, the smooth curves, the plush fur--probably shampooed and conditioned regularly. The way he moans in squeaky falsetto when I grind myself against his rump. The way he pushes back and lifts his sopping wet tail out of the water and flops it against my belly as my sheath pushes between his rump cheeks.

Even though I've only just come, Fred's got a way about him that gets me going again almost instantly. Really, though, this is the part I anticipate the most. Through the ripples on the surface of the water, I can see myself twitching and ready for him. He not in the mood to wait, though. He rolls his hips backwards, looking for a little bit of fulfillment.

"Phil, please, I-"

I don't call him out on it this time. I'm not that mean. I like to think of myself as a good friend. A caring friend. The type of friend that isn't just there for himself. The type of friend that reaches one hand around and grips the slippery little ermine as I slide myself between those luscious cheeks. He lets out more of those noises, the ones that, if it weren't for the thing twitching against my palm, would have me rather confused about his gender. His whole body goes rigid when I find the right spot and start to slide up inside. I'd stop if I couldn't feel just how much he's enjoying it. Twitch, twitch, shiver. Then I feel the base of his tail push against my belly, and my balls lay flat against his thighs.

I start to move, but he reaches one hand back and grabs my thigh. I even feel blunt little nubs of his claws digging through my pelt. "Don't! Don't move. Just-" I can feel it in the way he squeezes around me, and the subtle tightening of his rump cheeks against my crotch. A second later, I can feel him twitching hard in my fingers. It's only ten or twenty seconds afterwards that I can see the lazy tendrils of his semen drifting on the currents of the pool water. They're drawn into a nearby filter valve and disappear.

Muscle by muscle, Fred relaxes in my grip. He lays his front end down across the smooth ridge of the poolside and looks over his shoulder at me. Now that's an invitation if I've ever seen one, and I'm in no mood to turn it down. In and out, the water resists my motion as my hips piston. There's a slap and a splash as the water that rushed between us when I pulled back is forced back up and over his tail and back in noisy waves. Fred's letting out a low rumble that's almost a purr as I fuck him with all the enthusiasm I used to save for my ex.

If I close my eyes, I can imagine. I remember what she felt like, so long ago when we were still in the right place in our relationship. She felt a bit like this, soft and smooth and hot. But no, there's too many differences. She was always so controlling. If we were going to make love, it'd be on her terms, in the way that she wanted to. We never did it in the pool. She was pretty prissy about that, for an otter. She was also never tight like this. When I compare--when I imagine all the years I was missing out on this... I just love the way Fred twitches when I bottom out, and the way he squeaks when I grind his front against the side of the pool. I adore the grip around my cock that slides up and down as I hump, like a silky finger squeezing as tight as it can. I can't get enough of the subtle resistance of the water that splashes out from between us and slaps my sides as I thrust.

I also love the way that it's all for me. Fred's already cum. He always comes early. That way I can be as quick--or take as long as I want. And right now, I'm just about done. I let him feel some claw as I pull his hips back against mine. Then I just let my head hang back as I enjoy the rush. He makes a few more of those cute little chirps when he feels me twitching, and his hips move subtly to ride me right through my orgasm. This, right here, is the perfect way to pass an afternoon. Fred lifts himself up and pushes his shoulder blades against my chest. I smile down at him. And then he kisses me.

I really don't know what's come over him. He doesn't normally act like this. I'm shocked enough that I'm not even really sure how to respond. His tongue licks over my whiskers, and he puffs little flicking laps against my lips. Ah, hell, he's a friend. It's not really hurting anything, so I indulge him. He feels warm against the water, which has started to mix and cool again after our exertion. He's got velvet-soft fur that's just pleasurable to run my fingers through, even when he's all wet (and maybe a little sticky). I even give him a few more lazy thrusts, though on the third or fourth I've gone soft enough that I slip out. He pushes back against me when I try to pull away, but doesn't chase when I float off into the deep end.

When I reach the far end of the pool and look back, he's staring across at me with a broad smile on his face. He slithers up onto the smooth poolside, dripping and still half-hard. I'm so glad I've got him around. A friend like that is worth a hundred of my old ex. Still...

Sometimes these days I wish. Sure, Fred's there, but I wish I had someone who really loved me. I miss some of that old belonging that I used to have when she was still in my life. How I could do with someone who took me as I am. Maybe it's a cliche, but days can be long and lonely, at least when Fred isn't there.

But, dark roads again.. I smile up at Fred. "Hey, don't you have some filters to replace?"

I'm taken aback when I see a moment of hurt surprise on his face. What did I say? When I fold my ears back in surprise, his momentary lapse disappears, and his happy grin comes back. "Right you are, Mr. Walters." He stands up, fetches his net pole, and starts to fish his trousers out of the pool. I close my eyes, but leave the lids cracked just enough that I can watch him. When I'm not paying attention anymore, he gives me another look I just can't decipher. It's as if a mask slipped, and I'm seeing someone else. He looks out over the pool at me with empty eyes.

Then the moment passes, and he pulls his pants up out of the water. He flounces away to the pool shed, and I let the hot sun warm my pelt. Ah, Fred, I'm so lucky to have a friend like him. I can only hope that, in the weeks and years to come, when I find that special girl--or hell, maybe guy--to spend the rest of my days with, I hope that Fred likes them. It'd break my heart to lose him.