The Merit Badge I Never Earned
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction, and as such it may contain acts of yiffery and an adult nature. This may include the following: sexual acts, acts between a minor and an adult, acts between two males, pedophilia, sports cars, Boy Scouts and golf. If you find that the content contained herein is not suited to your particular "tastes," then I urge you to just close the damn window! If not, then read on and enjoy...
FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]
The Merit Badge I Never Earned ©MMVI Whyte Yoté
I know it's long been relegated to the past, and I know it probably doesn't matter to anyone but myself, but it's still one of those things I feel I have to tell someone. Ghosts of my childhood, you know, that will never let me rest until I've absolved myself of sin and all that. Rubbish, most likely, but even if it doesn't change a damn thing, at least you'll have gotten a good story out of it. Maybe a little more, it you're so inclined. I wouldn't blame you either; even today I still use the memory of it as a method of stress relief, sometimes surprising myself with the forceful result. How you take my words, however, is completely up to you.
As with all childhood memories, the best way is usually to start with the beginning, if there's a beginning to be found. When I look back on it, really, my childhood was a mostly innocuous one, with my parents giving me freedoms relatively early on in puberty and being a good boy for the most part, so they left me alone. In a city such as Sioux Falls, South Dakota, it was pretty difficult to get into trouble if you just followed the rules like everybody else. Besides, I had no interest in rebellion of any kind, as school and Scouts were the two things I did with my time and they took up most of that as it was.
Ah yes, the Boy Scouts of America! The Great American kid-straighter-outer, I think of it now. It never occurred to me, as I went from the ages of twelve to eighteen, gaining my Eagle at sixteen, how closed-minded that organization was. Not until certain events happened, which I don't need to bother you with now, did I make a connection between the Scouts and my own repressed sexuality. But, that's a story for perhaps another time, even if the one I'm about to tell you falls loosely into that category.
It was the summer of 1996, I was a strapping young lad of fifteen...no, wait, strapping would just be plain lying to you, and I have no reason not to be forthcoming. I was a physical nightmare, to tell you the truth: five foot six, around two hundred pounds or more, I can't remember exactly, but I was definitely the fattest kid in my troop. I was also the spitting image of my father, who, at fifty-two and roughly two hundred fifty pounds, was an older version of me, or vice versa.
People would always tell me that otters typically store a lot of fat, and I would believe them, selectively choosing to ignore the fact that mustelids are naturally inclined to physical exercise that will burn all that fat off in a short amount of time. I wasn't suchly inclined, and I made it worse with every Oreo or double cheeseburger I shoved into my mouth. Couple that with the raging hormones of adolescence, and I was a veritable chemical cocktail.
I digress, however. Being in high school, and straining my parents' wallets for a bigger allowance practically every month, it was fast becoming time for me to find employment of some kind to fund my ever-increasing financial needs. I don't recall exactly how the subject came about, but it was ultimately decided that, being as my father was the proud owner of five Pizza Hut restaurants around the state (this business would later ruin him, but again...another story), and being as he was currently paying outside contractors a hefty sum to do all of his grounds and maintenance work, it would serve a dual purpose to have me take over. Obviously, I could work for a little more than minimum wage, for a full workweek, and dear old Dad would pay less to run his businesses while supplying me with almost six hundred dollars each paycheck. I was more than happy to take the job, as I did everything around our house anyway, for free.
To cut to the chase on this one, I'll spare you the details of the work, the driving, the getting out of bed and all the other memories I share with this, the first real paying job I ever had. So I bring you to the setting for this particular incident. My father owned five restaurants throughout the state of South Dakota, and one such establishment was about two and a half hours from Sioux Falls in the small, lake-surrounded town of Webster.
Now, I'm sure almost none of you reading this are from South Dakota, but you probably can envision all of the nothingness that exists in a state that must be the most forgotten in this nation. It was a boring drive through cornfields, flat land and over straight roads to Webster, which in itself was but a meaningless speck on the Rand McNally road atlas in the passenger seat of my dad's van. The Pizza Hut sat on the main drag, which was nothing more than the highway widened to four lanes with a 35mph speed limit.
Half the parking lot was paved, the other gravel. This, coupled with heavy semi traffic, made for quite a bit of rocks thrown up into the grass of the right-of-way out past the sidewalk. My particular task on this day was to use a hose to wash these bits of road debris from the grass back out into the street, something to this day still puzzles me in its impracticality and time consumption. It was July, so the weather was sunny, hot and humid, no thanks to the slough which bordered the restaurant. I already told you about my obese condition, so you can imagine the sweat pouring off my body as I stood, holding the hose, working my way down to the property line an inch at a time.
I tried to keep my mind on other things. At least in the mornings, there was lunch to look forward to, which was free because my father owned the damn place. In the afternoons I would get that post-food sleepiness so common after a big meal, and start to daydream. Of course, it's impossible to recall if or of what I daydreamed, but I'm sure one of those things was getting to break away for some nice, relaxing golf. This is where Austin comes in.
We have already established that I was in the Boy Scouts at this time; on this particular day, if I remember correctly, I was less than a year away from my Eagle Scout court of honor, but I hadn't yet done my project. I was planning it, and since I already had all the required merit badges for the rank I spent my otherwise boring summers earning any other badges that caught my fancy. Dad knew Austin, his manager at the Webster store, was an avid golfer and suggested to me that as long as I was up there I should earn the merit badge a day at a time. I could still get my eight hours of work in with plenty of daylight left for Austin to take me to the Webster golf course and teach me what I needed to know about the sport...enough to satisfy the requirements, anyway.
I had agreed, not only because would it get me a new badge, it would also be a nice end to a very hot and trying day. So, in this rather circuitous description, I was most likely looking forward to putting my hose away and getting the hell outta Dodge.
The hours wore on, the grass got wetter and I, in my infinitely naïve way of doing things, invariably soaked the dark-colored clothes I was wearing with sweat. It wasn't until I heard a familiar tinny exhaust note that I realized how wet I had become. It was the first I had moved more than swiveling in hours. But when I saw the Nissan's familiar wedge-like shape zooming down the road, coming for me, my entire body sagged in relief; I hadn't even known what time it was.
I kept watering the rocks from the grass, because I knew Austin always had paperwork to do when he showed up in the late afternoons. Upon hearing the door slam, I did turn around to give him a friendly hi-there-but-don't-be-too-long-I'm-roasting-here wave, and watched the chubby middle-aged raccoon enter the store.
Like myself and my father, Austin, at this time around forty-three I think, was a heavy man. Broad of shoulder and of waist, he had the body type that I now, in my adult life, find very attractive. He dressed casually, and in anticipation of our evening together, with a white golf polo neatly tucked around his sizeable belly into loose-fitting khaki pants. You could tell he worked and played hard, from the laugh lines at the sides of his eyes to the slight greying of the fur on his nose, to his giant arms which were not flabby but firm all around. I don't believe he worked out, but he didn't need to. He was a very cute man, now that I think about it, even though that part of my sexuality had yet to be molded in any specific direction.
I could go into some explanation for my father not being around, or loving me, and so I put my trust and body into the hands of another man, and this is the reason I look for "daddies" nowadays, but I'm not one to trust Freud with much of anything. Austin was endearing, he was genial and warm, and he was also divorced with two daughters in his ex-wife's care. This last sounds dubiously convenient, but then again, this whole incident may not have happened if Austin hadn't been a free man, so to speak. I still don't believe he meant to do the things he did with me, that it was planned, but instead arose out of a mutual need and desire from the both of us. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and spoiling things.
Maybe a half hour passed, maybe less, before I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I jumped a little bit and turned to face Austin's smile, a good four inches above my head. I hoped he hadn't felt me startle like that.
"Hey, Trey," he said, bringing his hand away from my shoulder to find the pads wet and slick. Blushing because I knew what it was, I turned the water off and dropped the hose, sighing. "Wow, kiddo...you sure worked up a sweat out here." The smile was still there, thankfully.
"Yeah, sorry. I don't do well in the heat."
Austin wiped his hand on his pants without a second thought. "No big deal, but you should really wear something white when you're out here in the sun. You don't even have a water bottle to keep hydrated." I saw genuine concern on his muzzle, the sparkle beneath the mask of his eyes, and wanted to tell him about the two Cokes I'd slurped down that afternoon, but I figured that might get him angry at me.
"I wanted to get as much done as I could before you got here," I lied slightly. "I didn't think about water."
"Don't those Boy Scouts teach you anything?" asked Austin, and I shrugged, which made him smile even more. "Come on. Put that hose away, and I'll have a nice big cup of water for you when you get inside." The raccoon patted me on the shoulder, now seemingly unafraid of getting otter-sweat on him, and strode with a slight waddle back to the store. I made quick work of the hose, shut off the spigot, and went around to the side door.
The restaurant was almost empty, and horribly cold compared to outside. Sure enough, a large to-go cup sat on the front counter with my name written in Sharpie on it. Big, black letters. I felt loved, and laughed inwardly at my thoughts. It wasn't long, though, before the air conditioning penetrated my still-very wet clothes and I began shivering, not a good thing when less than ten minutes before I had been on the verge of heat exhaustion. When Austin came out from the back, I must have looked the picture of hypothermia, because the big raccoon upped his pace and took hold of my trembling shoulders.
"Are you cold?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. Instead he steered me to the other door, the one that faced the parking lot, and shoved me outside. In the shade, the ninety-degree air seemed positively beautiful compared to the Antarctic interior of the store, and I was better immediately. And yes, I needed the water badly.
"Trey, if you're uncomfortable, just tell me--no, just go outside or something." Even though I was the son of Austin's boss, and undoubtedly held some power over him, I still felt like I was intruding somehow, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I had a habit of keeping my mouth shut and deferring to others; I was a shy kid at fifteen. "Are you better? You want to go to the course now?"
"Yes, please! I'm so sick of washing that grass. I don't know why Dad makes me do that," I said as Austin led me to his car.
"It needs to be done, Trey, and to tell you the truth, there's no better way to do it than what you were doing today. Sorry to disappoint you." The raccoon opened his door, and I watched his ingress through the glass T-tops the car had. It was a Nissan 300ZX, I think, and I don't remember the year but I do know it was an Anniversary Edition because of the special badges and paint color. Even at fifteen, only one year on the road, I was a car nut. The bucket seat creaked and swelled under his bulk, but did not break as I imagined it doing. I followed suit, quickly clicking my seatbelt so I could gawk at the interior of the sports car.
Austin closed his door, and noticed my staring in the muffled silence which followed. His voice was a baritone boom in the small space. "Pretty cool, isn't it?" I remember thinking it was such a small car for such a big person, but then again, if he wasn't comfortable he wouldn't have bought the thing in the first place.
I ran a finger over the stitched edge of the dashboard. "Uh-huh. It's really low to the ground. Bet it takes off like a shot."
"You bet it does. I did a little tweaking, and I'm getting something like thirty more horsepower out of it than the engine's even rated for. Zips me around like nothing else. And you know what the best part about this car is?"
"No, what?" I asked, anticipating, all of a sudden feeling like I had known Austin all my life. We were guys talking about cars, not a kid and his dad's employee anymore. Even in the hot confines of the Nissan, even as I was beginning again to sweat profusely from my forehead, I didn't notice it.
Reaching around the steering wheel, Austin touched a couple of knobs and flicked a switch, then turned the car on. It beeped twice before the stereo cut in, a blaring Country music tape with a lot of bass. And I mean a LOT of bass. Right away I knew what Austin had wanted to show me, because I could feel it between my legs quite well. There were speakers in the seats: tweeters on each side of the headrests and a big ol' subwoofer right underneath, and the bass was turned up so loud the vibrations from my tailhole to my crotch had the immediate result of a raging boner, slightly uncomfortable and angled down my pant leg. Of course, I just sat there with my hands in my lap and smiled, twitching my head in time with the beat, even though I hate Country.
Austin turned the volume down, but the vibrations continued their assault on my genitalia. Completely oblivious to my rising arousal, the raccoon steered us out of the parking lot and to the golf course. Now, in a town like Webster you can pretty much get anywhere in less than ten minutes. This was also the case for the course, which was just down the highway and a couple blocks over. But, to my utter dismay, and added stimulation, Austin had to make a stop at the hardware store downtown to pick up something or other.
On the way there we had a discussion, but I have no memory of it because most of my attention was focused between my legs. You have to understand the state I was in at the moment: hot, sweaty, and erect. I had been working outside all day, probably with a semi-erection just because of the resultant increase in blood flow. So the testosterone was already there, and even if I hadn't already been latently horny any touch to my penis would set me off within seconds. The chubby raccoon sitting right next to me had unwittingly taken my day from an exhausting labor to a most pleasurable alternative to masturbation. As Austin geared the car from street to street, I was trying to find ways to hide myself from him, at the same time wishing the ride to the golf course was longer.
I barely heard Austin ask, "You coming in, or are you going to wait here?"
"I'll wait," I mumbled, having just found out that if I closed my legs it would push my cock down onto the seat, doubling the sensation. The raccoon entered the hardware store, leaving me feeling dirty and exhibitionistic in the Nissan. Selfishly I turned the radio up again, sat back and tried to look obedient at the people walking past outside. No one ever bothered to look in at me, but that didn't keep me from thinking they all knew exactly what I was doing. That nobody ever stopped me added to the taboo of it all. My thick tail, carefully inserted through a hole in the back of the bucket, thwacked the rear seats.
As Austin exited the store, carrying much more than he had said he needed the bulk of his body shifted from side to side when he descended the stairs. I believe it was then I took my first look at his crotch, probably a side-effect from the excited state I was in. I don't think I saw anything, though, but I do remember wishing for a moment that I could share my discovery with him. I mean, how could he possibly not know the sexual benefits of such a great sound system?
The volume remained up when the raccoon opened the door with effort, and he didn't seem to notice the whole time he was shoving his purchases behind his seat. He plopped down next to me again, gave me an I-take-it-you-like-my-music glance, and off we went. Little did he know by this time I was holding my breath, halfway to a climax and not believing it. My legs remained closed, though by now I could feel pre staining my jeans.
What surprised me the most on the way to the golf course was the fact that I was getting off so hard on just a feeling and the environmental situation surrounding that feeling. My masturbatory sessions at this age were mostly fantastical, with me on my bed stroking away while I conjured up images that helped me toward orgasm. Well, now was a fantasy I'd never even dreamed about happening to me right now, with a grown man less than a foot away from where I tried my darndest not to squirm.
The trip was spent in blissful silence, Austin having run out of things to say and me actually seeing the white gooey light at the end of the tunnel and working for it. I don't know why I wanted to finish so badly, because the stain I knew would form would be quite obvious and Austin would know what I had done in his car. It seemed as if every downshift, every depression of the clutch pedal aided my self-pleasure in some miniscule way. I would try and calculate how much longer until we arrived at the golf course versus how much longer I needed to get off, so intent was I on this, despite the obvious consequences.
Austin turned the last corner and my heart dropped (which actually did wonders as far as my cock went) when I saw the cul-de-sac that was the course's parking lot just two blocks down the hill. Heaven knew what kind of irreparable damage I might cause to my internal plumbing by denying myself release at this point. It was with this thought the fear of discovery by the big, burly coon was overridden by a kind of self-preservatory need. I can't explain it more than that, because it's the simplest way to describe what my troubled mind was going through. Not only was I trying desperately to come before we had to get out, I was now searching my mental database for possible excuses for my indulgent behavior.
The only thing I can say is that everything failed. My attempts at justification, I mean. Austin parked the car, settled back in his seat, looked over at me and asked, "You ready?" I, of course, was certainly NOT ready for golf, and the coon must have seen the pained look on my face, my downturned ears, the shame and excitation, and most of all the heady perspiration that filled the car with my scent. "Trey?" Austin sniffed, narrowed his eyes and put a meaty hand on my shoulder. "What's up?"
I couldn't talk. I simply could not form words; my penis had taken ahold of my brain and was now driving it with abandon. I couldn't just sit there and make him think I was having a seizure, so that left one option...the most embarrassing one. But I had to take it, and damn if I could help myself. Watching his eyes move from my face downward, I spread my legs and showed him the five-inch bulge down my left pant leg, and the dark stain at its end. The blush was like fire on my fur. I think a tear ran down my face at some point, but that may just be an over-creative imagination at work.
It was like watching a rainbow of thoughts expressed in his dark eyes and round face. There was confusion at first, because he didn't quite get my subtle actions. His nostrils quivered, moist and inquisitive, and then he saw my pants. I saw nothing in him that outwardly indicated surprise. No wide eyes, no slack jaw, not a word, but, "Oh." He just looked at it for a few seconds, during which I couldn't help flexing it, and stifling a whimper afterwards, and I watched him back intently, waiting for anything. I certainly couldn't have--and didn't--expect him to take off his seat belt, twist his belly to the right, and bring his other hand over to my thigh.
In the state in which I was, there was no other way to interpret that as anything but sexual, and it was...overtly. Austin kept his eyes down, away from mine, leaning on my shoulder to keep me from moving around, and his face was narrow in concentration and assessment. I, on the other hand, was a mess of feelings, emotions and heat. When the big coon, much closer to my father's age than to mine, extended his fingers down to touch me, pressing my hardness further into the seat, something broke inside of me, and I let out a very adult moan. If Austin cared, he didn't let on; he just kept pressing on my cock, every now and then looking up with visible worry.
This was a grown man, thrice my age almost, not discouraging me from climaxing but encouraging me, and I knew he was breaking a law doing what he was doing, but even the most practical thoughts were twisted into something sexual. The music blared, Austin rubbed my shoulder gently, and I just looked from my little otterhood to his face, still concentrating on my groin. I don't think it was more than two minutes or so of his constant pressure, the never-ending vibration and his big, warm body close to mine before I started my characteristic pre-climax panting. I wanted to tell him I was ready, that I was going to make a mess of his leather seats, but it was simply impossible.
The man knew the signs, and I silently thanked him for it when he switched from just fingers to wrapping loosely around the denim covering my erection. I felt the heat from him permeate the fabric to my fur and skin, and it was shortly after that his eyes met mine--it was kind of look that said, "Go ahead, Trey, I've gotcha and you're in good hands"--and I was overtaken by spasms that forced my hips forward and back, making my big, rounded body hump against the seat in a vulgar display of lust. Underneath Austin's hand another warmth spread, around my pulsing head and back down over the shaft of my cock, surely soaking through onto the leather by now. Shortly afterward my lower back started to cramp and I slumped, spent, a prisoner to the coon's strong grip.
Austin withdrew from my wet crotch and turned off the radio. Normally the silence that followed--complete except for Austin's deep breaths and the muted singing of birds outside the car--would have been very uncomfortable for me, a normally shy kid. But I found there was nothing much to do, not even feel discomfort, except let my body come back to a decent plane of operation. I stared straight ahead, more or less at the dashboard, so intently that to this day I can recall just how the three air-vents above the radio looked. They were dusty, a medium brown made slightly lighter by the thin layer of discarded skin and fur cells on them. On the right one rested a seed of some sort, of a yellow that stood out plainly against the darker plastic. You remember the weirdest things at times like these.
The Nissan had never been turned off the entire time, and it is only now I realize how long the raccoon must have kept one foot on the clutch. Something else I never thought about was how attractive I might have seemed to him after sharing such an intimate act, even if Austin had never, ever thought about boys in that way before. I think there is a latent attraction like that in all grown men, whether they like to admit it or not, some kind of yearning for their own childhoods and the experimentation and taking advantage that only youth can provide. Once you reach that golden age of eighteen, there is no more taboo...you're just another adult having sex.
But children like me, at that time, having openly bared their blooming sexuality to a man, open up that path in the man once again and there is an attraction. Whether Austin felt that for me or not (you will see shortly that I believe he did for a time), when I had finally gathered myself enough to move I looked over at him, and the first thing I saw was the unflagging bulge within his neatly-pressed khakis. He must have been tormented inside, and I said nothing.
Clearing his throat with a phlegmy rumble, Austin said, "I don't think you can go golfing with your pants like that. We need to get you cleaned up."
"Okay," I replied simply, because I couldn't think of a more practical thing to do than get cleaned up. It seemed like a perfectly logical next step. The burly raccoon twisted back into his seat, clicked the belt over his belly, and put the car in Reverse, but not before stroking his package a few times to readjust it. I found myself wanting to see what was inside those pants, that urge to share and compare all boys feel in locker rooms or other places. When I thought about what could happen once Austin got me to his house, I realized I might get my wish, and Austin would get to see me naked too. Oddly, I didn't have a problem with it. He'd already felt my penis, so what would it matter if he saw it too? I never felt that I owed the coon for helping me, and I don't think he really expected reciprocation, but it wasn't out of the realm of speculation.
One more reason I stand by my claim about Austin not being a pedophile by nature is the fact that, on the way to his house, he never said a word. Usually you would think a pedophile would talk to the kid, be nice and convince him to do all the things he wanted. But Austin never really asked me if it felt good, did I have a girlfriend, how often did I masturbate, all the inane questions you read in really bad erotica. I think it was mostly out of respect for me, that I was fifteen years old and coercion wasn't necessary at that age. If I didn't want something to happen, I would tell him so...and I could get him in a hell of a lot of trouble with people, not the least of which was my father. Yet I never thought about that at the time.
The drive was relatively short, and we parked inside the garage, where the coon had me wait until the door was closed before he would let me exit the car. I happened to like this, because I really didn't want anyone seeing me with a stain in my pants and thinking I'd peed myself. Austin, on the other hand, had the obvious reasons.
I followed him up a short flight of stairs into the house proper, a smallish three-bedroom split-level that carried a feeling of abandonment. This was because the wife and daughters had moved out, and Austin hadn't gotten around to selling it yet. It felt empty, not because of the lack of people but the lack of signs of people: pictures, furniture, even heavily-tracked carpet. There was an easy chair and a small television in the living room, but nothing else. The kitchen was clean, or at least looked that way as we passed it on the way to the master bedroom. And the only things in the bedroom were, of course, the bed and a dresser with a lamp on top of it. I felt sorry for whatever had caused the raccoon's marriage to fall apart, and doubted he would be able to find another person. This pity probably was the reason for my actions to come.
Austin turned the shower on and said, "Just go ahead and adjust it until you like it. Leave your clothes out here so I can put them in the wash. It'll take about an hour to run 'em through."
"Thanks," I replied, and he left me to get the water down from the scalding temperature at which it currently flowed. It was at this time I started feeling a little more grown-up for some reason. Finally able to put my thoughts together as the water cooled, I realized I hadn't been scared or disgusted or any of the emotions someone should feel when confronted with a situation like the one I had just been in. Things had just happened, nice and smoothly and silently, and there was an air of maturity in that, on both my and Austin's levels. That made me feel more in control, and the cold stain between my legs was kind of a source of pride more than helplessness to my own body.
After the water felt good to my hand, I doffed my clothing (I've always preferred nudity to clothing, it seems; I'm much more comfortable walking naked around the house) and stepped outside the bathroom to throw them in a pile when I saw Austin sitting on the bed. With the noise of the shower to mask my sounds, I watched him for a moment with the clothes in my arms.
He faced away from me, on the edge of the bed. He didn't appear to be moving, and at first I mistook this for some kind of depression or sadness. This struck me as quite non-sequitur, especially from a normally-jovial person such as Austin. When he and my father got together, on the rare times I saw them together, they seemed like two of a kind, old friends rather than employer and employee. Even when they discussed numbers and inventory it was like that. But the raccoon sat, slump-shouldered, and just looking drained. I remember feeling pity for him, because I thought he was agonizing over something he did wrong. If that was the case, I wanted to be the first to tell him everything was all right.
I moved a few steps closer, and two things happened: first, I saw the concentrated expression on the coon's face, the thin-lipped muzzle, and my heart leapt because I did not recognize that as a pained expression. The second thing that happened was I saw Austin's right hand moving rhythmically over his thigh, and I recognized that right away. He was jacking off, or at least pleasuring himself, and there was no doubt in my mind as to what he was thinking. Of course, you can imagine what that did to my already-jumped up sense of adultness. It made me want to show Austin that, no matter how he felt, what he was doing was okay and I was okay with it. I was already hard again.
Dropping the clothes by the bed, I went to stand in front of the big coon, watching him the whole time and marveling at how unaware he was of my nude presence. I watched his meaty fingers grip the vertical tube behind that pressed-out fly, just running the material back and forth, the rest of him unmoving and issuing not a sound. I wanted to reach for my own erection and pull my furry foreskin back, anything to relieve the pressure down there, but I was also afraid of how Austin would react when he finally saw me.
Actually, nothing happened. When he opened his eyes, they were to the floor, and he must have seen my feet because they traveled quickly up to meet my own. He did stop stroking, however, and cracked a small but sheepish smile. He knew he was fantasizing about me, and he knew that I knew.
"Hey, Trey," he said simply. "Why aren't you in the shower, kiddo?"
I wanted to cover myself with my hands, but I wouldn't allow it. "Well, I was watching you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay." Only now can I envision how adorable I looked saying that, shy chubby otter that I was. I suppose I can see what he might have been so drawn to.
"Okay? Of course I'm okay," said the coon. He was choosing not to speak of the incident in the car on purpose; it would make it more real, or more wrong, I suppose. "You're the one who wouldn't be okay, out of the two of us. I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"You didn't," I told him. "I just didn't want you to think you did anything wrong, because you didn't."
Austin shrugged, still smiling a little, and he beckoned me closer. I came, and sat on his lap before he could stop me. Halfway down my thigh, on the underside, I felt his cock twitch against my skin. The coon put one big arm around me and held me close, and I sensed a kind of "we're in this together" mentality. He trusted me with a big secret that could cost him his freedom, and it was up to me to keep it. I had no intention of telling on him. It was no big deal to me then, and it's no big deal to me now. I'm glad we never said any of this aloud, because it would have completely spoiled the moment. I wriggled in Austin's lap, and he squirmed in a big-man way and chuckled.
"You know, if you keep doing that I'm gonna have to take my clothes off too," he said, which meant he wanted very much to take his clothes off anyway. Just to provoke him further, I shoved off his lap and pressed a hand to his groin, feeling the immense heat of it beneath the webbing of my fingers. The coon grunted and tried to push me away, but I did not relent. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why?" I asked, hurt and afraid that he might try to pull the "you're a little kid" card. "Don't tell me I can't because I'm too young, when you did it to me. It's not fair." That seemed enough of a reason for him, because he sighed and put his hands to either side of his legs, which were spread wide.
"You don't have to do this, Trey. We shouldn't be doing this."
My erection said differently. "I know that, and I don't care." I knew that, if we ever got to the golf lessons, they would be fraught with discomfort and awkwardness if we continued in the "I was molested once" thread. But if I gave Austin my trust, in one form or another, we could be together as good friends instead of straining things. All this was going through my head as I unbuttoned the coon's pants, which sprang open to allow his belly to fall out. I've always been good at thinking ahead.
Austin lay back on his elbows, watching with a hunger in his eyes I knew was the result of missed sex between he and his wife. That I was even thinking of this instilled even more pride in me; these were very adult things I was getting myself into, and I wanted to make sure I didn't screw up. The coon was more than happy to oblige me by lifting his rump off the bed and helping to pull his pants to his knees. It was then I felt the first twinges of sexual tension, seeing the exposed bottom of his stomach protruding from the polo, the grey fur all along his groin and thighs, and the poof of striped tail, bushy from where it lay trapped beneath his body. And it was the first sheath I had ever seen.
You heard me right: my whole family was blessed with the non-aerodynamic oddity of external foreskins, or at least my father and I were to my knowledge. It didn't keep me from exercise, so it wasn't to blame for my obesity; it was just one of those things that cropped up in my family like they do in every species. And I just hadn't paid enough attention to other people's genitalia in the shower or any other place to know what one looked like, outside of pictures. It was fat with Austin's semi-erection, and as he moved different lengths of it would expand and contract: three inches out, two inches in, two more out, one in, four out...it was almost mesmerizing. That, and the scent which accompanied it. It was unwashed male, pungent and raw, but not dissuading. I still wrinkled my nose a little, though.
Eagerly now, I placed myself between Austin's thick thighs so his cock was within easy manipulation range, and just reached out and grasped the loose fuzzy skin and the hard shaft within. The whole of his groin was covered in a light sheen, of sweat or something else I don't know even now, but it gave an aura of beauty and expectance and latent power. Here I was, handling a middle-aged man's genitals, making this old chubby raccoon moan and pant on the bed, giving him pleasure in a far more active way than he had done to me. I loved it, loved seeing him act like the teenager I was, and I could hardly wait to make him come.
His penis was about seven inches long, better than average but it seemed very big to me. I used the edge of his sheath as a masturbatory aid, bunching it up at the base and drawing it taut at the head, rolling his balls around with my other hand. He spoke up shortly thereafter, telling me he was sensitive down there, so I backed off and kept up my work on his cock. Once I had it fully hard and exposed, I could pull it down toward me for a better angle. This was when he started preing like mad. A large clear glob of it (I knew what it was; I'm a pretty copious preer myself) oozed out and started its journey down the underside to lubricate the rest of Austin's dark red meat, but I caught it with my tongue before it could go very far. The coon made no indication he felt that; his eyes were closed and he was probably just concentrating on the pleasure of my hand.
"Trey," he managed, and I stopped. He sat up, and it was one of the cutest and most fulfilling sights I have ever seen, even to this day. Austin looked like a man in the grip of some wonderful age-reversing drug, the way his upper body sheened with sweat, the way the black mask around his eyes turned down at the edges in helplessness and thankfulness, the way he licked his lips and fangs before he spoke again. "Trey, could you do me a favor?"
"Sure." This was so cool! It was like we were best buddies!
"There's a tub of Vaseline in my nightstand. Would you mind...sticking a finger inside me? It really helps," he admitted with a blush. Without a word, I went to the nightstand, found the aforementioned petroleum jelly, and was back between the coon's legs within a minute. I wanted to ask him what to do next, but after thinking about it I decided the task was a pretty straightforward one. I kept my left hand on Austin's member, gooped up the middle finger of my other with a decent amount of the stuff, and put it to the coon's tailhole. He lifted his legs and spread them in pure reaction; he'd done this before and I could tell he wanted it badly.
The first knuckle went in easily before Austin tensed, and I paused, fearing I had hurt him. Testing, I wiggled around inside him and he relaxed again, the weight of his torso pushing my entire digit into his rear. It was warm and soft, and the thought struck me that I might be touching something unsavory up there, but I figured it didn't make a difference now. Besides, the shower, now billowing steam out of the bathroom, would make everything clean again.
Meanwhile, I adjusted my grip on Austin's coonhood and began masturbating him again. He was quite the different man when he had something penetrating him, much more vocal and trembling in concentration. He would hold his breath for most of a minute, then let it out, then inhale again like a swimmer doing the butterfly stroke. Long and measured, they gave me the opportunity to watch his face, the strained taut skin around his sharp teeth, and try and figure out what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it was getting him worked up; my hand would get positively soaked in sticky fluid, so much so that I would lick it off, sometimes the whole head of his cock in my mouth to get it all.
When Austin started to fuck himself on my finger, I knew something was up. He whimpered open-mouthedly, shaking his head from side to side, and I had a particularly nasty thought about just taking both hands away right then. He probably would have killed me. I practically didn't have to participate anymore, as much as he was moving.
And then, without so much as a warning, a thick white gob lobbed itself onto my stroking fingers, followed by a second that drew a line up the center of his heaving belly. The last three or so came at intervals of about two seconds, a seemingly odd thing given that my own ejaculations tended to be quick and close together. When I sensed that Austin was through the bulk of his climax I took my finger away (I examined it, and was surprised to find nothing but Vaseline) and stopped my stroking. The coon lay flaccidly, trying to get his breath, and I had a wonderful tingle of accomplishment going through my body.
He sat up, saw me smiling, and beckoned me with his hands. "What?" I asked as he took me into another of his big bear hugs. His cock left a slimy trail down the outside of one thigh as he squished me in his arms.
"That was awesome, Trey. Thank you. You really know how to make a guy feel good." My day just kept getting better and better!
"You're welcome, but it's no big deal."
The coon stood me up in front of him and looked me square in the eyes. "It may not seem like a big deal to you, but we need to talk about this. This--" he cupped my genitals in his hand and squeezed to emphasize the point "--is very serious stuff."
"Fine," I relented, rolling my eyes. I knew all there was to know, but I guess I would have to tell him that too.
"But it can wait until after we get cleaned up. You go first, and be quick so I don't run out of hot water, okay?" I paused, wanting to ask why he didn't want to shower with me. I wanted to tell him I had one more come in me, and he could help me again, but something in his eyes--the sudden sobriety in them after having had a kid paw him off, maybe, and the little bit of guilt there too--told me I should obey him without questioning it.
So I did. I showered off, while Austin put my clothes in the washer, and then we switched places. I drank a Coke while he cleaned up, and we had a nice long talk while my things dried. The coon expressed concern about everything we had done, and the fact that he had initiated it by touching me inappropriately, and how that was against the law. He also apologized for taking advantage of me by making me masturbate him and put my finger in his ass, etcetera. And, after he was done baring his very soul to me, I let him know in no uncertain terms that I hadn't stopped him from touching me, I had agreed to go to his house, I had practically initiated the masturbation by touching him, and the finger thing wasn't all that bad. I said I wanted to do more stuff with him, in my cute little pubescent vocabulary, because I very much enjoyed myself, and that he shouldn't worry about me telling. That would be juvenile, I said. In the end, it was me who convinced him that everythingight. It was to me.
And thus we make a big circle all the way back to the beginning of my story: the merit badge. That first day, by the time we got me dressed again it was beyond late and I had to make the journey home or risk having to explain my absence. Austin and I both agreed that playing around was a little more fun than teaching me to golf, and we came to a mutual decision to have the coon sign off a few requirements every time I came up to Webster for "lessons." This lasted for another three visits before we simply couldn't justify spending the extra time together.
During those visits, though, we both learned a lot about sex and our bodies. Austin, in a very non-intimate and fatherly way, taught me more about masturbation and fellatio than I could have learned from any of my peers, and with a whole hell of a lot more patience. I, after a lot of convincing and some clever seduction tactics, finally got Austin over his fear of taking advantage of me, after which he became very good at making me squeal in delight with his magic fingers. And we both learned a lot about anal sex, because neither of us had ever done it. Sometimes learning is more fun than actually doing.
You're probably expecting me to say I grew to love Austin, and that I cried or something when we parted, or that I still miss him dearly, but to tell you the truth, none of those are what I feel. It was fun, and we would have continued if it were feasible, but I think it went unspoken that things were just too risky to do that. So we became Austin and Trey again, normal people going about their normal lives, and neither of us has said a word...until now.
Like it will make a difference. The only person I've ever told about this is you, and whatever statute of limitations applies ran out long ago. I doubt anyone would want to go to the trouble of something like that. If there were ever a situation where no one was hurt, or used, or traumatized for life, it was between me and that raccoon.
The only thing that bothers me from time to time is when I happen to open the drawer containing my merit badge sash, and I see that golf ball and tee stitched among eighty-five other badges. Because I know I never did a single thing to earn that award. But believe me when I tell you that's the only thing that bothers me. I am still an Eagle Scout, and I always will be, and I will carry the memories of those years--mundane or outright scandalous--with me for as long as I live. And I firmly believe I'm a better person for it.
I hope I didn't bore you too much.
FIN
1/14-1/17/06