Addiction - Chapter Six: Pavlov's Dog

Story by Rufus01 on SoFurry

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

#6 of Addiction

Here is chapter six of my novel, telling the love story if Alex and Dustin. In the last chapter things got a little bit weird. Despite that, I guess these two are getting a little comfortable around one another.

This is a work of fiction that will contain graphic incest between consenting adult characters. All characters are 100% fictional. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Now that a very important barrier has been eroded, is this the new normal? Will Alex keep exploring her body and emotions in such a way? Will doing so get her into trouble? Why is she even letting this happen? Stay tuned for the next chapter of Addiction.


Chapter Six

Pavlov's Dog


Rufus Quentin

September, 1998

So I came home from an afternoon at Bryn's to find an unlabeled cardboard box waiting for me on my bed. What's this, I thought to myself, approaching what looked like might have once contained a pair of boots or something along those lines. No to or from label, nothing gave its contents away. I took the liberty of lifting off the cover and low and behold what should I find other than a teenager's ransom in decade old pornographic magazines, right there, on my bed, in plain daylight. Anyone, my dad, could have come in and thought to themselves, "what do we have here?" I did not know where to begin explaining to my dad why on earth I was leaving dozens upon dozens of porn magazines lying around, straight porn ones at that.

I briskly walked through every room in the house until I found my brother out in the garage, his head tucked under the hood of our truck and his paws dirty with oil and grease. "What were you thinking?" I said, trying to startle him.

Unfortunately Dustin couldn't easily be surprised. He slowly stepped away from under the hood and wiped his grimy paws on an old South Carolina t-shirt. "What?" He said, laconically. "You're late."

"I'm late? What does that matter? Why'd you have to leave those things out in the open?"

"You wanted them," he said, which was partly true. "That's about a third of the total collection. I made sure you got some of the good ones and not just ones I'm tired of."

"But did you have to leave them on my bed?"

"Nobody goes into your room. If you haven't noticed everyone respects your privacy here."

"Dad could walk by."

"Dad trusts you. Usually parents are only suspicious when their kids get in trouble on a regular basis. You're straight-world, or at least you've got everyone convinced you are. You could leave a dismembered body on your floor with the door wide open and a trail of blood down the hall and he'd probably just assume you had a reasonable explanation."

"I'm not that perfect!"

"You haven't been grounded or gotten detention since... wait, have you even gotten grounded before?"

"That's beside the point."

"You're too damn straight-world," he said again, and stuck his head back under the hood. "You're late," he said a moment later.

"For what?" I asked.

"Our jog."

"I thought that was a one-time thing."

"Depends what your goals are. You said you wanted to lose weight or something," Dustin said, looking me from head to foot-paw as if unsure of where that weight I wanted to lose resided.

"Is it gonna get weird?" I asked with skepticism in my voice.

"Hey. Was just trying to help you out. You keep saying you want to get treated like one of us. The moment I do you say, 'Oh my gosh, you're such a weirdo!'" Dustin said in a tone mocking my voice.

"Hey," I said, and wanted to say something else before my brother interrupted me.

"Besides," he said, "you wanted it."

I felt my muzzle and ears redden and turned away. My tail swished aggravated.

Dustin chuckled. "It's getting late. We would have to leave in the next twenty minutes or so if we want to get back before the sun sets behind the hills. Go upstairs, wrap up, pick out your favorites, or don't bring any. I'm treading water here on the truck anyway. I need some stress relief. We'll go up to the fort again since it's a good, worthwhile distance. Once you can make it up there without stopping, we'll talk about other destinations," he said, wiping his paws off on a rag.

I stood there as he began to put away his tools, then slowly but resolutely walked back into the house, up the stairs and into my room. As if by command I changed into my running outfit and bound my foot-paws and ankles in comfortable running-wraps. I met Dustin down in the kitchen some minutes later. I had my backpack slung over my shoulder. Seven or eight porno-magazines were tucked inside. I'd hidden the entire box of the others in a far corner of my room under a stack of stuffed animals. We looked at each other. Dustin seemed as unaffected as ever. I on the other hand must have looked like a bundle of nerves, a first time criminal gearing up for a bank heist. I knew I shouldn't have done it but I followed Dustin out the door and accelerated to a jog behind him as he bolted off into the forest's edge.

Maybe I thought it would just be an innocent jog this time, maybe I just wanted to vicariously live through him and take pleasure in what essentially equated to a free peep show. I wasn't ready to join him, but I felt some addictive quality to sitting there next to him watching with my peripheral vision, like a mild poison causing my heart to race, my muscles to tense, and my skin to flush. I rationalized it as a desire to bond in the way males did and achieve a different kind of relationship than the one that had deteriorated over past decade. Like an addict, perhaps more likely I just wanted to perceive that sensation again. It felt good to squirm on the emptiness between my legs, feeling the desire build without knowing how to release it. I wanted to hold on to it like a rare specimen in a collection, a colorful memory I could control and revisit upon my choosing. That's why I went with him again and another time after that. I'd chase him up the hill, even after I got winded, even after day three and four when my legs and ankles were so sore I could barely walk. The danger I only realized after about a week's worth of sessions was that I didn't have the control over my arousal that I thought. It wasn't something I could pin into a glass case and behold; it had a power that permeated me down through my veins.

I would come along, catch my breath at the hilltop then make myself comfortable. I'd read a magazine while he got to it, pretending not to watch as he peeled his shirt off his back and dropped it between us, as he hiked his shorts down to his knees, and as he got his cock hard. I'd feel it before he even had enough of himself showing to fit in one paw. The faucet between my legs turned on and I knew I'd ruined a perfectly fresh pair of boxers. By the time he was knotted and had found that final stretch I could barely stand it, every erogenous zone on my body tingled, neck, breasts, and the inner and outer regions of my sex. I couldn't sit still. I pressed my thighs together, restlessly squirming on the little ball of desire I kept welled up deep within my belly. I found myself cursing all the missed opportunities I'd had in life and began constructing the "what if" scenarios that could have come into play had I made less rational decisions. Despite the taboo I even came to think of my brother as attractive, attractive enough to do terrible things to. I had to mentally slap myself for letting my mind go there and concentrate on something, anything else the power of suggestion from materializing.

One night I had trouble getting to sleep, as I had the previous nights, only worse. The feeling in my belly and between my thighs never really went away as if I'd caught something, a contagion, a fever. Was it possible that being so close to my brother, repeatedly watching him tend to his horniness, taking part in his release as a witness and perhaps even as a facilitator could be infectious at least in a metaphorical sense? All day, no, all week I'd feel the fever, the intimate heat wax and wane, but never quite truly break. I was burning up under the sheets, shivering when I cast them aside, tortured whether or not I lay on my right side or my left. I tossed and turned well past midnight, every nerve begged me to touch myself, to press my palm squarely on my sex and buck and grind my pearl across paw-pads and fur, but I didn't.

When I finally found sleep, dreams laced my rest. I was back in the forest and I wasn't alone. I was glad to be there, comforted by the nostalgia despite the slightly skewed points of reference contradicting my memory. A shape, a blur of fur ran by me and I too bolted off through the trees. I knew then that I was naked, feeling the air tousle fur I rarely kept exposed. I remember the euphoria as the coolness wicked all the heat from me and I once again felt clean. I ran in no particular direction, neither running from nor chasing after something or both at once. Without warning that shape, a person, a male came from the side and the next thing I knew I was rolling through the leaves. All I knew is that I wanted to kiss this person and I did. Then I felt it, that now familiar sensation between my legs, the desire for something, anything to fill me. Whoever this male was, I let him, my trembling paws guiding him by his large firm arousal into my body, into the need.

Then I woke up, something twitching in my lower belly. I felt wet. Euphoria turned to panic. It took a second for me to determine where I was, that I was in my own room in my own bed. My paw swatted for my lamp, knocking over a few things in the process. I threw back the covers and tugged down my PJ bottoms, squinting in the glaring light. The scent of my own arousal confronted me, as did a wet spot through the stride of another pair of boxers. The last throbs echoed through me as I comprehended that I'd had another illicit dream, the third of that year and the second of that week. With ears drooped and tail curled between my legs I snuck through the room for a clean pair of boxers and hid the tainted pair with the same clandestine humility as if I'd just wet the bed. As good as it felt to feel aroused I knew something would have to change. I couldn't repress it any longer.

Nights like that made me wish I had a shrink. I wasn't sure if I was crazy or overreacting. I think I just needed someone to tell me I was sane. Even though I could share more with Dustin, the weird sexual tension that arose after he pawed off in front of me kind of made me think twice about what I divulged, especially concerning the nature of my dreams. Without my new conversationalist I felt very alone. There were times when I was growing up I truly felt alone. I always had my brothers, but being the only girl among them could feel just as isolating as if I were in solitary confinement. My grandmother could cure that feeling with her mere presence. She had a similar childhood to mine and understood every pain I felt. As I grew into adolescence there were things I couldn't ask her, problems too shameful or too intimate to broadcast.

My newest problem was one such issue. I honestly didn't know if it was okay for a girl to masturbate, or how to go about doing it. It seemed deceptively simple, but being the analytical person I was I felt compelled to do my research first. I had no one to talk to or to ask for advice. Bryn came closest. We'd traded sexual gossip before, but nothing so explicit. Did books exist on the topic? I doubted I'd find anything helpful in the school library, at least nothing that didn't treat female masturbation as a cure for hysteria. My source became the magazines my brother gave me. Granted they were published for men, but in the text that no one ever read I found a few articles for women, some testimonials, and some guides for men seeking to please their girlfriend.

Their purpose may have been more to titillate than to inform but I got what I needed from them, the confirmation that masturbation was harmless and even beneficial, the basic techniques on how to do it, and the knowledge that I wouldn't be the only repressed young adult engaging in a little bit of finger play. Some of the advice columns seemed genuine, written by women just as desperate as I, as if they spent time in my position. The problem remained if it was safe to do next to my brother, but sadly all the magazines I had were silent on that issue. There were several dozen articles lauding the merits of mutual masturbation with a spouse or lover, and even the bonding it could create with a platonic friend of either the same or opposite gender. Since the idea of finding a boyfriend in high school went out the window and because of that the loneliness I felt was palpable I, resigned myself to the fact that I would probably end up joining my brother on the next jog.

So it came to pass that on a warm, late September afternoon after I'd helped Dustin with his homework and organized everything he needed for the next day. We sat at the breakfast nook in our kitchen, drinking diet sodas with nothing left to do aside from sitting awkwardly and saying the first things that came into our minds. After that grew dull, Dustin propositioned a jog. By then the word jogging had become code for running around for a while then getting to watch my brother masturbate to porn. The mere suggestion had a way of triggering a sensation of abject disgust, an impulse I probably should have listened to, and a much more powerful, perhaps pavlovian response in the form of perked ears, a more rapid heartbeat, and that sultry little tingle I'd just barely distracted myself from. I agreed after feigning a moment of hesitation and subsequently found myself sweating and panting up the uphill slog through the humid forest air, willing one foot-paw in front of the other and trying to pretend that the arousal between my legs didn't exist.

"How about this one?" I said as soon as we got settled. My heart still throbbed from the race and I continued to pant. Dustin hadn't readied himself yet either. He too looked and sounded a bit winded as he pulled out the stack of his favorite magazines, but he was far less afflicted than I.

"Just a sec," he said, arranging his little nest on the quilt he'd brought along in his backpack. We both sat against the log, sitting in our usual little spot. "Which one?"

"This," I said, laying the magazine between us and tapping the glossy page. She wasn't a rough collie, like I knew he liked, but still the border collie looked pretty similar and she showed all the features he seemed to prefer, breasts, spread legs, and a perfect little sliver under a tuft of pubic fur.

"She's cute," he said, countering with an image of a very fluffy vixen, one with a copper colored happy trail contrasting with her white belly-fur.

"Yea she is. I like the fact that her boobs look real."

"How can you tell?" He asked, already flipping through his magazines for another image.

"Hmm," I thought, "they don't defy gravity. They don't perk straight out like cannons or badly drawn cartoons. Real ones tend to sag a little and sort of point outward. Real ones are always just a little imperfect," I said, gesturing what I meant with my paws. "Here." I flipped open one of my own magazines and pointed out an example of an obviously fake pair belonging to a doberman girl who'd definitely had a little work done. I pointed at the page. "See what I mean. Anti-gravity boobs. And you can also see some scarring here because of her short fur."

"Good to know," my brother said, studying the image. He subsequently pulled off his shirt, indicating he was just about ready to get to work. My heart was already pounding, but for some odd reason I felt as if it skipped a beat. Dustin developed into an attractive young man. Gone were the oversized paws, lanky limbs, and sunken chest. He wasn't exactly muscular, and if he was, his long fur hid some of the definition, but he had handsome broad shoulders and arms that looked like they could have lifted me up without trouble. His belly was definitely flat. If there were an ounce of fat on him you couldn't see it. It surprised me he wasn't taken, that he even had to resort to pawing. Even I, his sister, combated the urge to scoot a little closer to him. Maybe if we weren't related and I saw him shirtless at the municipal pool, or at one of the summer parties down by the quarry, I'd probably come down with a crush on this scoundrel.

He wasted no time in unbuckling himself and ushering his shorts and boxers down his thighs. I got to see the vertical bands of fur, the thin mocha stripe that separated his white from the darker chocolate brown that covered his back, continue below his waist and curve along his bare butt and down his legs to where the elastic of his boxers hugged just above the knee. No sooner were his pants down that I noticed the dark-pink tip of his penis poking from his fluffy white sheath. He was already a little aroused as was I, though I'd never be able to show it so obviously. Without ceremony or ritual he just began to tug at himself. As per usual his paw knew precisely what to do, fingers pressing into his sheath and rubbing along the smooth skin of his cock. He continued to flip through magazine, awkwardly paging between two at a time. "How 'bout this one" He asked, slipping me an article with two saluki women having fun.

"Murr," I said, pulling the magazine a little closer. Usually I had some sort of innate aversion to images of two of the same breed going at it, but this time it didn't seem to bother me. The first photograph depicted the two sighthounds deeply engrossed in a same-sex kiss, their long elegant fur draping veil-like from their slender limbs. Their arms crossed in the center of the image and their paws appeared hidden between one another's thighs. In the second picture one of the salukis descended the body of the other. Her companion's nipple found its way into her muzzle much to both canines' delight. I eagerly turned the page and found a close up of one saluki with her muzzle between the other's parted thighs. Her fingers spread the other canine's lips and her nose pressed firmly between them. Her tongue poised for a very long lick along those glistening folds. In the last image they apparently repositioned, absconding to a bed where they could lie parallel to one another in what looked like a complete circle. Each of the two enthusiastically kept their long slim muzzles flush upon the sex of her companion and nibbled away the intimate flavor of another sighthound.

I could look at 95% of the images in the magazines without feeling so much as a stir down there, not because I was desensitized to porn, but because none of the images spoke to me. These did. I could somehow relate to the narrative the images constructed. I found myself wanting to be there, as a spectator, a cameraman, or better yet as a participant. I even found myself wishing I were a lesbian saluki for a moment. While I'd been persistently aroused most of the afternoon those images along with my proximity to my masturbating brother turned the polite little voice inside me suggesting I should try for a bit of release into a shout. I felt the heat, the tingle, and the burning ache for something, anything to press against my sex.

I still resisted the urge to paw. I'd been good all my life, but I could feel that innocence slipping away. The best I could do was hold onto it for a few minutes longer. I distracted myself paging through magazines, perhaps not the best strategy. I found another image for my brother and put it down between us. She was a blue heeler, standing on elbows and knees on a white shag carpet surrounded by a perhaps overcompensating interpretation of a previous decade's notion of fashionable décor. A black lace bra, which some would call sexy, lay between her and the cameraman and a matching slip stretched to its limits halfway down her thighs. She peered over her shoulder with a typical pornographic fuck-me stare. If the viewer needed any more clarification of her desires, her tail hung flagging to the side revealing both slit and tail-hole in an about as obvious invitation to get bred as anyone could ever hope to find.

"Oh yea, I remember her," my brother said, now holding his full length in his paw. "That's the first magazine I got."

"First one you pawed to?"

"Nope. I pawed way before that. It doesn't take much to get a twelve or thirteen year old's imagination running."

"Sick," I said.

"Damn right," he said, "now if you'd excuse me."

It became clear he was in no mood to converse. I let him have his space and began to distract myself on some of the magazines, doing the usual while my brother had his fun. None of them seemed to hold my attention for very long that time and I ended up looking off into the forest. I felt hot as hell. There was an ache like an itch begging to be taken care of. Would it be so wrong if I scratched it? Would my brother think less of me? I doubted it. Why not perform just a little bit of exploration, just a tentative touch. It was what my brothers did together after all. Wouldn't I be like them if I did?

I stared down my belly into my lap one last time. If I was going to do it, I ought to do it soon. I took a deep breath and sighed, feeling the resignation set in, the pressure to be like my peers and to be like my brother. The desire felt overwhelming. Should I get off or not, I just needed to feel something, I needed to explore and share in that highly intriguing sexual moment. I reached for my belt, successfully loosened the canvas strap with a tug and some fiddling. Button and fly were easy work. I wouldn't dare expose myself like Dustin did for me, but at least I gave myself enough slack to work. I looked down my body at my open shorts, deciding for a final time if I was ready to become complicit in this little crime out in the forest. With that I let my fingertips dip under the elastic of my boxers and down my belly past the point where my soft fur transitioned into bristly pubic tufts.

My fingertips rounded the curve between my thighs and entered into the heat and wetness emanating from my sex. I inhaled a sharp gasp the moment I found my sliver. I was shocked at how drenched I was. My fingertip dipped into a veritable puddle of my own intimate moisture. I rubbed some of that slickness between thumb and finger-pad, testing the consistency of that substance. I let my paw-pads caress the bare skin at the top of my vulva, sliding south over the increasingly swollen and soaked lips. Inch by inch my paw covered my sex. To my surprise I'd already leaked enough lubricant to more than coat every square inch of my palm. I held my vulva under my paw, still too timid to conduct deeper exploration, but one urge I could, to the best of my will, no longer suppress was the urge to feel some sort of pressure. I held my lips and pushed my paw firmly between my thighs. I gasped quite audibly, my hips involuntarily bucked into my paw as if my body were shouting, 'Yes, Please!'

That seemed to get my brother's attention. He slowed down his own motions and cast a glance over at me. I turned his direction, feeling a blush flush around my nose and ears. I saw his eyes follow my body down to my lap where my wrist disappeared under the waist of my boxers. My gaze followed a similar course, noticing that in the meanwhile he'd gotten knotted and was preing quite heavily. "So you finally decided to join me?" He said, unfazed by the sight of my paw down my pants.

"Hey," I said truly feeling the warmth of embarrassment rush over me, adding to the uncomfortable heat enveloping my body. "No peeking!"

"See," he said, as calm as ever, "this is why we have this rule. If you want to gawk at my hard on, ask first."

"Sorry!" I said wondering if the shame could get any worse. I slipped my paw out from under my boxers, noticing then and there how drenched it had become. My paw-pads glistened in my slickness. The fur around and between them was matted down to the skin.

"Go ahead," he said, this time concentrating on his own lap and not mine. "If you need to, you need to. I promise not to look."

"Fine." I said. "This is my first time and I'm still a bit nervous. Just give me some space."

"You got all the space in the world, Alex," he said, going to back to work with both his paws.

After a deep breath I let my paw return to where it dared to venture, pressing once more on my slightly parted labia. Again I felt that satisfying rush wash over me, as if I'd finally heeded the plea I'd teased into being over the last week and a half and never fully addressed. A third push felt a little less satisfying. It was then that I decided to explore a little deeper and see what may arise. I brushed the soaked fur away from my labia and let my fingertip begin to wiggle into my folds, into the wetness constantly emanating from deep within. I let my finger slide up and down my slit, tracing over my most intimate details. I brushed my hood and the very erect pearl underneath much to my own pleasure. I then found my pee-slit and the opening to my vagina in a naughty yet curious bout of probing, though I wasn't ready to explore within just yet. I contented myself with my most prominent aspects first in a technique I'd picked up in one of the magazine's advice columns. My paw-pad brushed my little hood, rubbing it against my firm bump beneath and in doing so sending blissful little tingles up my spine and down my tail.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, blocking out the rest of the world, especially the fact I wasn't alone. My fingers teased my clit, careful not to touch it directly or put too much pressure on it. Instead I circled around, pressed near and not against, and let my fur prickle the pink skin of my hood. I let my mind wander as I continued my circular teasing; only occasionally brushing my lips and other intimate details of my sex. I found myself wishing for something else between my thighs and not just my fingers. I would have loved to feel a nose pressed firmly against my lips right around then, venting hot breath through my pubic fur and sniffing my most intimate scents. I wanted to feel whiskers bristle against bare skin and a broad canine tongue showing me where my pleasure points lay. Had my ex, Riley, not been such a jerk, I might have let him. Perhaps one of those female salukis would have done a better job. They would probably be more experienced and sympathetic to my first time. They would have made it special and would have had me singing in climax in no time.

I ripped my eyes open and gasped. A strange little twitch quivered in my tummy. What caused that? Was it my fingers or my imagination? I canceled that last little fantasy and banished it into the area of my brain where all unspeakable and scandalous thoughts go to get repressed, hopefully never to be remembered again. I broke my promise and cast another look over into my brother's lap. He was definitely getting close. A paw held his knot, the other swiftly ran along his pre-slick length. He huffed and bucked into his grasp, clearly edging himself for a buildup of pleasure. I let my fingers go back to work, using my pads to rub my hood against my pearl, to see if that bizarre little spasm was a fluke or the beginning of something good, something I'd only awoken to out of dreams.

I'm glad I couldn't see things in third person. My brother and I were sitting there only a few inches apart in the middle of the forest, me with a paw down my boxers playing with my clit, and he vigorously pawing his rock hard member. Dustin came before me, but then he had a head start. I watched, even though I shouldn't have, with the usual combination of curiosity and perverse interest. He gasped and huffed, his paw slowing down and his hips thrusting up. A second later he was spilling collie semen on his belly and pubic fur, tugging the stuff onto him with a rather frightening intensity. My eyes focused on his cock-tip, at the spurts of the pearly white cum shooting out with less velocity than the burst before, and the last viscous trickle running down his shaft onto his clenched paw.

Only when he finished and panted did he look over at me. I tried as usual not to give the impression that I had been staring. I knew then that I had his attention and little I could do would dissuade him from taking his turn watching me. Part of me felt okay with that. He couldn't see anything interesting anyway. Again I let my fingers resume their movements, pushing on my arousal and shifting the skin around my pearl. I could smell my brother's cum and tried to let that have an exciting effect on me, but I couldn't find that little thrilling sensation from before. I tried a little bit of everything to relocate that spark hidden somewhere in my folds. I even teased the opening of my vagina and contemplated the idea of slipping in a finger. After several minutes all I found was the pressure of a full bladder, or so it seemed. Everything I did just made that sensation worse and worse until I felt as if though I was going to burst, and the last thing on earth I wanted to do was wet myself, especially in front of my brother. That was something that could never be lived down. I reluctantly quit, casually slipping my paw back into the light and buckling myself back up. Dustin, despite his promises, was peeking at my anyway.

"You get off?" Dustin asked with some incredulity a few minutes later when the both of us finished panting.

"No. Kinda need to pee," I said, slowly slipping my paw out of my boxers and inspecting the soaked fur. My own intimate scent laced them, making me feel somewhat ashamed that I'd gone this far.

"Well, glad you decided to join me for as long as you did. Maybe next time. It's a little less creepy to do this together."

"Creepy?" I asked.

"I don't feel like I'm just putting on a show now."

"Sorry," I said, still feeling the arousal within me as insatiate as it had been all week. I looked over at my brother, at his inexpressive face and muzzle, at the mess he made of his lap, and at his limp and oozing cock lying pointed my direction over his thigh. That grotesque mental image I thought I'd sufficiently repressed popped back into being, this time joined by the compulsive desire to grab Dustin by the scruff fur of his neck and pull him muzzle first into my lap and hold him there until he finished the job. I shook my head as if a fuse in my brain burnt out and felt a blush tingle my ears.

"What?" Said Dustin, noticing my little tick.

"Nothing," I said and quickly zipped myself up, re-latching my belt-buckle and hoping that were enough to ensure my chastity. Dustin produced his sperm-bandana, fortunately freshly washed. I motioned for it and he handed it to me. I dried my paw with it first and returned it for him to further corrupt. He cleaned his crotch with it next and put the used rag in another plastic bag I'd brought along just for him.

My brother pulled his shirt back on and tried his best to stuff away his cock. He meandered around the fort a few times before selecting another tree to mark. It used to not bother me when they did it as cubs. I guess it was cute back then. I even played along and made a few trees mine that way. It kind of offended me when he did it as an adult, but what can one expect from a teenage idiot? Part in protest, part in the thrill of having rediscovered some of my tom-boyishness in mutual masturbation, I stood up and looked for a tree I preferred. My bladder didn't seem as uncomfortably full as it had when I pawed, but I figured I had enough to work with. I found a white ash I admired a few yards away from Dustin. My brother was already whipped out and going while I unzipped, unbuttoned and hiked down. One of the things a girl learns at a very young age in a household full of relatively unsupervised boys is how to go standing up. In fact going standing up was my preference my whole life long.

"Hey, that one's mine!" Dustin said over his shoulder.

"Not anymore," I replied, spreading my labia and letting loose, and thereby eliminating any claim he had over that tree with my own scent. I looked at my brother and flicked him off.

"Fucker," he said, his tail jerking as his own stream ended with an audible trickle.

I just chuckled, too thoroughly enjoying the perverse nostalgia.

"It took me years to mark all these," Dustin said, turning away from his tree and stuffing himself back into his boxers and jeans.

"Should'a thought about that before you started marking things in front of me. Only a fool'd start a contest against this bitch. You of all people ought to know how competitive I can get," I said, finishing up myself and hiking and zipping up my jeans with a masculine swagger.

"Oh my lord," he said in complete emergence of his accent.

"Oh my lord what?" I asked looking over at him questioningly. He had a broad smile on his muzzle, one big enough to see his teeth. He shook his head ever so slightly. His eyes shone bright.

"Nothing," he said, growing conscious of himself. He shook his head and staggered around in a bizarre meandering circle, no doubt discomforted by the unsheathed dick in his pants.

"What?" I said, but it was clear I wouldn't get a straight answer from him.

Ten minutes later we packed up and were already jogging and panting on the way home. I remembered the smile on his face and the look in his eyes. Every so often I'd catch him with a similar expression over the next few days, usually after I'd threatened him with physical violence or whenever I demonstrated some sort of confidence that undermined his masculinity. I could never quite figure out exactly what must have been running through his little mind when these times occurred and I'm sure I don't really want to know. I'm not sure if he enjoyed seeing a change in me that he was present for, or if he enjoyed seeing a change in me that he perhaps took credit for. For certain was that whenever we descended from the mountains no more words were traded. An opaque silence shrouded the events up there just like the mist that began to rise from the valleys with the advent of fall.

Addiction - Chapter Five: Southern Boredom

Addiction Chapter Five Southern Boredom By: Rufus Quentin November, 1989 I think I owe an apology to anyone who knew me before I turned eighteen. I went through the phases of snot-maggot, tag-along, nuisance, and most recently, bitch. I feel...

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Addiction - Chapter Four: Scar Tissue

Addiction Chapter Four Scar Tissue By: Rufus Quentin September 16, 1998 Dustin burst into the kitchen on a warm afternoon in mid-September heaving a heavy cardboard box which he promptly and gracelessly let crash onto the breakfast nook table. I...

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Addiction - Chapter Three: Mr. Death's Head

Addiction Chapter Three Mr. Death's Head By: Rufus Quentin September 10-12, 1998 It was sad but true. A week after school started it felt as if the summer never happened. I walked through the halls of my high school as if I hadn't left them for...

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,