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Human Bitches

Chapter Fourteen: Eating (Out) Lunch

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

While I know Spike and a lot of other morphs don’t think of the term as a “real” insult, I still don’t like being thought of as a slut. Even as I led sweet, blue-eyed Burgundy into the stockroom of the café where I’m supposed to be eating lunch with my human friends, I knew that those women would call me a slut if they knew what I’m actually doing when I’m supposed to be “powdering my muzzle.” The thought makes me too sad inside to really think about it, which is why I didn’t tell them what I intended to do, even as I nonverbally seduced this innocent young foxboy, then excused myself.

Being a single mother is pretty tough, even when you’re a morph and supposedly have an entire community to help you. Sure, I get help from Queen, head of the morphtown redlight district, and all her crew, but I’m trying to raise my girls to be more than just hookers servicing the human college boys (and a surprising number of girls) and the hosts of stray morph mutts scattered on the streets. Sure, doing a little streetwalking worked out all right for me, before I could get back on my feet and start the Quick Brown Fox courier service. Since morph femmes were mostly made for domestic service, there’s not too many femmes around on the street, where all the morphboys are after the general military discharge, which means any free femme always has a business opportunity waiting for her if she’s willing to take it. It’s safe work, too, when you’re dealing with morphboys (with humans…always have a friend nearby, just in case). Still, what good parent doesn’t want more for her children than what she had?

Mona and Lisa are there in the back room (part storage area, part break room) already, catching my nonverbal cues the moment they got to the restaurant, but before they’d come into sight of my human friends. They saw me flicking my tail when Burgundy came around, “accidentally” brushing it against his groin, saw how I kept bending over whenever he got near our table to let him peek down the front of my work uniform (the top bit already undone to expose just enough of my very modest bust to get some attention), or check out my tight little foxy buns; saw me as I brushed my hands against him, deft and quick and subtle as an expert card shark, feeling him up without anyone else at that table noticing. They knew what was coming from prior experiences, and always enjoyed watching my fun. As for Burgundy, naïve and sweet foxboy that he is, he eventually caught on that I wasn’t just teasing like some human trollop: morph femmes only tease when they’re trying to work up a male before they deliver, after all; the way we see it, there’s no point in playing with fire unless you want to quench some heat.

As Burgundy quietly shut the door to the break room, I saw my girls peeling down their coveralls, baring their sleek, lithe, beautiful young red-furred bodies to the warm air of the little room. They won’t be participating in this quickie (well…too much, anyway), that much I’ve already decided, and I make this clear when I grab the hot, skinny foxboy’s cheek to turn his attention away from my little voyeurs and into kissing me. I’m saving my girls’ virginities for a proper cherry picking party, with at least a score of well-endowed and very experienced males to join in on the deed, and this little fling in the break room is just one more step on my way to testing out another potential to join the ones I’ve already chosen. The way things are going over at Spike’s, it looks as though my running list of picks might also end up helping pop some serious human cherry as well…including the Phelps girls, thanks to Bird’s enthusiastic assistance.

“Oh wow, Miss Red,” exclaimed Burgundy, a more-than-decent bulge in the front of his black waiter’s trousers as I peeled off my own coveralls, letting him see how erect my nipples were at the tips of my streamlined breasts (only slightly bigger than those of my teenage daughters, being honest about the comparison). “You’re gorgeous!”

While Burgundy keeps watching, not knowing what to do next (and, incidentally, getting himself cut from my list of guys who’ll be invited to the cherry pop party – he needs more training before I’ll let him help out with so delicate a procedure – but also winning him a mental note in my head to introduce him to Spike as soon as possible for some of that training), I reflect that, as I open up my coveralls right down to my smooth, flat tummy, this is really all Janaina Phelps’ fault. If she didn’t want me having to drag some cute teenage morphboy into a back room like this for a quickie bang, then she should at least have the decency not to be so darn sexy!

Lots of people sometimes wonder how I’ve gotten to be so popular among humans. I mean, I typically end up eating lunch with six of them about twice a week at one of the nicer cafes on the border between morphside and Highside, where the human-dominated business district still manages to grind along. They probably wouldn’t wonder so much if they did a little thinking and a little bit of careful, patient observation and reflection. I let my mind do just that – reflect – as I take the beautiful, blue-eyed boy’s red-furred hands in my own black-furred ones (realizing in the process that he’s actually not much taller than me, and I’m right on the edge of tiny), and guide them to my breasts, only barely restraining a giggle at the priceless expression on his face at the privilege of getting to do as he pleases with a real, live femme. Part of that reflection makes an immediate comparison between myself and my human friends: we’re all professionals, after all, working women who know what we want, and are willing to bust tail to get it.

Speaking of getting what they want, the women I’m supposed to be having lunch with are just going to have to flag down another server if they want refills on their drinks, since Burgundy’s mine for at least a good fifteen minutes. Janaina won’t mind, that much I know. That sweet blonde babe is about as laid-back as they come, her gentle demeanor a big part of what makes her such a great mommy, in my opinion; I’m glad she’s had so many kids…even if I just ache every time I fantasize her naked, with those big, gorgeous breasts laid bare before my eyes, right before I start to squeeze them, and lick them, and suck on them, and…and…and!

All right, maybe I was a little too forceful when I shoved poor Burgundy’s muzzle to my right breast, the one that Lisa always favored when she was tiny, but he doesn’t seem to mind much; one cute little “eep!” and he got the hint, wrapping his lips around the perked nipple and starting to suckle like a sweet little kit. He’s one of the second gen morphs that’ve just started to hit sexual maturity, and that means he’s got all those Freudian foibles of breastfeeding still in him, so it doesn’t take him much to get into it, kneading my left breast with one hand while he sucks contentedly on the right, his sweet blue eyes almost closed. Being around Janaina for any length of time just does things to me, getting some of the most carnal bits of my personality all fired up. Watching her sitting across from me at the table we all shared, her breasts straining dangerously against the confines of that airy blouse she was wearing, was all it took for me to remember the times I’ve seen her in the shower room after our daily workout, water running in rivulets down her flawless pink skin. Just a step further into my memory, and images of her oldest daughter, Bird, spitroasted between snarling, savage, passion-enflamed bestial males came right to the fore. Juxtaposing the young Phelps against the older in my mind’s eye didn’t take much effort, let me tell you. I want that big-breasted beauty begging for mercy as she’s gnawed to orgasm after orgasm after orgasm by a horde of horny morphmales! Then lined up with her whole family, all six of them arranged youngest to oldest – tightest to loosest – bouncy little bottoms presented for the use of every mangy stray morphmale I can round up within four city blocks’ radius, to spend days and weeks and even months being rutted into total sexual oblivion, permanently broken into service as sex slaves, their smooth tummies filled right up to the brim with morph babies.

Yeah, I guess I’m kind of a horny freak when it comes to Janaina. But if you’d met her personally, I don’t think you would judge me too harshly.

Kalia Popwell’s likely to get kind of upset about not having a server constantly on hand, I think idly, watching the contented kit slowly shift breasts, moaning softly as I stroke his artfully curled blonde hair (some morphs do have hair, of course: it’s just one of the many little tweaks our designers sometimes put into the mix while we were in our vats, to add variety to their boring schedules, and there’s even more little surprises that pop up in our second gen kids, stuff we first gens never expected to be there). She’s this hot black lawyer lady, with kind of a high stress personality. Like Janaina, she’s got kids, two daughters, but unlike the unwitting blonde bombshell, Kalia got hers via artificial insemination. Like a whole lot of women, she wanted to do “her social duty toward preserving the human race,” or something like that. Also like a lot of women, she’s mostly let the schools and her keptmorph femme servants at home raise her kids, while she spent her time and attention on her stunningly successful career.

Carina and Regina are also in that same category of women around our table likely to take umbrage at not having a server there at beck and call. Unlike Kalia, though, who likes good service because of her desire for everyone to fill their social responsibilities, Carina just likes being pampered whenever possible, and Regina, well…Regina’s honestly a little bit evil.

I’ve known Carina Verde for a good while, and I like her, and every inch of that gorgeous, tattooed skin of hers, its natural creamy coloration making all the bright colors and dark lines stand out so clearly. She’s never had any kids of her own, which left her pretty free and clear first to join the air force (which is where I first met her, flying us morph troops off to all sorts of places during those nasty final days of global collapse), and then to earn her stripes as a software engineer for the corps; they keep her on staff these days mostly to keep all the computers running. She’s a little hot-blooded, kind of temperamental when she doesn’t get her way, and can be pretty fussy about details, but ultimately a decent sort of person. She actually likes spending time around us morphs, and she’s the one who introduced me to the other women in her little circle of friends in the offices where she works during the day…including Janaina.

Ah, but Regina Dougherty, now there’s a piece of work. She’s another of the mothers via artificial insemination, though in her case it was mostly to spite her ex-husband after she divorced him; I understand that she and her daughter Catherine hardly talk. Regina’s tall, and has this gorgeous dark auburn hair, so dark it’s almost black, and so thick and shiny I always wanna just lift it in my hands and let it bounce free whenever she turns her back on me. Her looks are the high-cheekboned sort, an aristocratic beauty you typically expect of high-end models. Some of it’s even natural, or so I’m led to believe from what Janaina and Bess tell me.

Of course there’s Bess Martens, one of the three “real” mothers among the humans in our little group of seven. A pretty recent divorce (and it was messy) has left her kind of angry at the world, and especially at morphs: her ex cheated on her with a cheetah. Yes, really; you don’t make stuff like this up. I know the femme, too, one Mischief by name; we were in the same Recondo unit, me, Mischief, and Queen, sneaking around in the boonies and trying not to get ourselves killed in the process. You don’t spend a lot of time with somebody in situations like that without getting to know ‘em really, really well, and that means you either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Me, I love Mischief to pieces, and I remember the times we’d eat each other out to pass time on patrol very fondly (which, by the way, is why morphs always go out on patrol in groups of three: two to sex each other up, and one to stand watch). Naturally, I haven’t told Bess about any of this, since I kind of like the ginger MILF, and want her to keep liking me. Lucky we got to know each other before the divorce, or else I might have gotten lumped into the same category as every other morph in Bess’ opinion. I mean, she still thinks of me as “that one exception,” but if that means I’ve still got a shot at getting her into a liplock at some point in the future, well, I don’t mind at all. She’s almost as hot as Janaina, after all, and her three daughters, all messed up themselves after the divorce, could really use a nice, firm hand. A hand like Spike’s, preferably squeezing their darling little tushies, before bending them over to join the Phelps girls, some of whom are pretty good friends with Martens’ kids. Seriously, though, Spike’s skill at discipline training is just what the Martens girls need, to give them some stability and help them get back to making sense of the world. If in the process of that training the Martens girls end up with a baby sibling, and Bess winds up with grandbabies, all the better.

Hey, a femme can dream, can’t she? And yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but what can I say: I’ve got a serious “thing” for human women with big breasts, and their daughters. That, and me, Bess, and Janaina have all given birth to twins. Sure, they’ve both had more kids than me overall, but it was one of those instant talking points we all had in common, and probably the big thing that got Bess to open up to me in the first place, treating me like “one of the girls.” Though I will admit, I’d almost rather she treat me like “one of the guys” if it meant I’d have a shot at getting her in the sack. Ah well, long-term plans; I’ll have to talk this through with Girl some more, to see what sorts of ideas she comes up with to manipulate events to my liking. Or maybe Queen, since a cunning cat like her is sure to have plenty of machinations ready to paw.

That leaves the last and, honestly, the least of us: Sakura Ashigaru Sommers. She’s the third “real” mother among the humans, with two lovely daughters (Yoko, Girl’s new online friend, is the older of the two), and does her best to be the perfect, dutiful Japanese housewife. Our little lunches together are among the few times she leaves her home for fun, rather than duty, like shopping or doctor visits or PTA meetings (and yes, she actually attends the PTA meetings, which is more than can be said for…well, everybody, almost, even Bess Martens; Janaina is usually the one who carpools with Sakura). I get the feeling there’s something going on with her back home, something with her husband, who’s always come across to me as this dark figure in the background, since I’ve never seen him in person. She hasn’t shown up to lunch with a black eye or anything, though, so maybe I’m just being paranoid…maybe. If only she’d talk more, maybe open up, and not just smile and make those annoying Japanese noises meant to fill in the spaces where she’s not actually talking, just listening.

Screw it! I need this! Fantasies of my six hot human friends flash in my mind, images of the ones I’ve seen naked while we showered together at the gym jumping to the fore of my memory, and I decide I’ve just had enough of it all. I’m going to pop this foxboy’s cherry in the best way!

Thing you need to know about us vulpimorphs, we’re one of a small number of morphtypes that were made for a very specific specialty. I’m sure you’ve heard from Spike and others how we’re all high-sexed beings, with our libidos overclocked to make us into idealized breeding machines. Now take a look at me: willowy hips, which is all right for having kids, but skinny, small breasts, a really spare sort of frame. In short, I’m not the idealized mommy maker, not at all, and I know it. Femmes like Girl, they’ve got builds ideally suited for having babies, but they’re hardly the only body type among morph femmes. All the same, I’m as highly-sexed as any morphmale ever was – probably more than most! – and it’s all because I’m a fox.

That’s a big secret that the military never really wanted to let out: they had some morphs specifically made as “receivers.” Recognizing that their new disposable troops had some pretty serious “needs,” well in excess of anything any world military had ever had to deal with before (and believe me, militaries worldwide are used to handling horny young men on scales unheard-of in any other profession), they put in some specialty orders to cope and keep their mass-produced morphtroops functioning at peak capacity. That meant that they had living sex dolls made, morphs who would derive the greatest pleasure from getting nailed by others, custom-built “bottoms,” the ones who love to receive more than to give. Most of these specialized morphs were funnies and boxes – um, I mean bunnies and foxes, sorry – but you’ll occasionally run into them among morphs of any breed you care to imagine; they’re more common among the “prey” morphs, naturally, but hardly universally so.

As I gently peel my lovely young foxboy off my breasts to move on to the really fun bits (ngh, but they’re sensitive, and he doesn’t wanna let go! The little cutie…), I grin at him as he looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes, the questions obvious in his face now that he’s got a bit of time to think. The questions, of course, are “why now, and why me?”

“Because I’m a vixen, and you’re a tod,” I tell him simply, before he can ask out loud, as I start work on the buttons of his shirt, leaving it up to others to give him the complete story, if he hasn’t figured it out by now (and he probably hasn’t: comes from being raised by humans, I guess…or is it “cums?”). “And because I need this right now.”

There’s a look in his eyes, conflicted, and I know he’s worried that he might be pushing this on me, that maybe he’s somehow doing something “bad” or “wrong.” Burgundy’s a second gen morph, both his parents ex-military morphs who got taken into domestic service shortly after their discharge, but he was raised by a nice old human lady who adopted him in all but the law when he was just a pup. She died not too long ago, though, and poor Burgy, he got dumped out on the street by her gold-digging relatives while they were scrabbling for whatever she left behind. Lucky for him, Stone, the guy who owns this place, took him in, gave him a job and a place to stay, and has been helping the little guy gradually adjust to his new life among morphs. Except, well, he is a fox, and he’s a teenager, and he’s a male, and all of those factors together mean that he’s just a bundle of needy erotic energy with no idea how to let off steam before he pops. Bet the poor little foxy’s been having wet dreams like crazy, while he’s always trying to be the perfect gentleman as a waiter and worker around Stone’s kitchen. I’ve known it ever since he first came up to my table to serve me’n my friends some months ago, knew it with just one look and one sniff, saw how he was doing everything he could not to look us over in that way, despite all his instincts screaming at him that that’s what he was supposed to do, and knew that one day in the very near future, I was going to jump this sweet virgin foxboy’s bones, and he was going to love it.

Shirt fluttering to the floor, I take a moment to run my black-furred fingers through the downy-soft white fur of his chest, feeling him shiver and hearing him moan softly as I tease over his deliciously pink nipples, and then caress his belly, starting on the outside, where the fur is red, before moving inward, to the white fur zone that tells me where the really sensitive places are. He’s trembling under my touch, panting and gasping in those sweet ways expected of an innocent but deeply-tempted virgin…and that’s even before I get started on opening up Burgundy’s trousers!

“You wanna see me naked, Burgy?” I ask him, cupping the sweatmeats still hidden by his pants in one hand, nodding in satisfaction at what I feel – not massive, but not bad at all, which is about normal for a fellow fox.

“Y-yes ma’am!” he exclaimed so eagerly, his face lighting up with such sweet, boyish joy, that I couldn’t help but giggle, and heard the light tittering of my daughters behind me, even as poor, poor Burgundy blushed, looking even more adorable as the flush settled across his cheeks (visible through the white fur there), fanning out his whiskers and turning down his ears. “I mean…if that’s all right…”

I kissed him, just a quick peck on his lips, enough to keep him from finishing his expression of self-doubt. We’ve all had a first time, after all, and it’s always a bit awkward. So’s the second time, actually, and sometimes the third. Then, stepping back and turning my back to the beautiful foxboy behind me, I rolled my shoulders, slow and sensual, making my coveralls kind of flow down my body as I let the movement ripple down my back, my waist, my hips, my thighs. The only part that wasn’t so graceful was at the end, when it reached my ankles, but I think I compensated all right: instead of kicking them off, I bent over at the waist, letting my tail hike upward, nice and slow, showing off, well, everything to the sweet young hottie behind me. I couldn’t resist looking back when I heard his soft, needy whimper, and when I saw his expression…my heart just melted.

Mmm, that’s not the only thing that’s nice ‘n wet, though. Oh no, far from it!

“Let me tell you how this is going to work, Burgy,” I told him as I straightened and tossed my coveralls to Mona and Lisa, before turning around to face him once more, resting my hands on his hips, right above his belt, our muzzles just a few whiskers away from touching. “I’m in charge, all right?”

The poor kid’s voice failed him, but he nodded his acceptance of my terms.

“I know this is your first time; trust me, that’s really hot, and that’s a big part of why I wanna hump you silly right now. You, and not somebody else.” I couldn’t hold back the slightly sheepish grin and guilty shrug, though, as I continued with honesty. “The other part is ‘cause I’m so turned on from being around those gorgeous human babes at my table, and frustrated like mad from not being allowed to pounce on ‘em. And don’t pretend like you weren’t looking at them too!” His deepening blush and lowered posture gave me back my own confidence, even as I moved my hands to the buckle of his belt, nimble foxy fingers letting me get it undone almost before I was consciously aware of their actions. “I know: you can’t help it, and neither can I. So my plan is, we help each other out here, take the edge off, and then we meet up later for something more…lengthy. Still with me?”

Another nod, eyes widening, breath coming faster as I started down the line of buttons, slowing my movements a bit, savoring each slow reveal as I opened up that concealing flap like a stage curtain. Mmm, and there’s our star, tall and proud and pretty in pink! Wrapping my paw around the base, unable to keep from smiling at Burgundy’s sweet moan as I kneel in front of him, looking up into his trusting face, I start to stroke him, slowly, not rushing things. After all, cute little virgin like he is, he’s probably on a hair trigger at this point!

“I’m gonna put you in my mouth, Burgy,” I tell him. “Scratch that: I’m gonna use my mouth on you everywhere down here. And I mean it. And you’ll love it. Then, when I’m through, you’ll return the favor. Ah, ah,” I hold up my other paw, forestalling his expected protestations of inexperience. “I’ll guide you through it, all right? Trust me, skill’s nice, but enthusiasm, mmm,” I lick my chops, turning my green-eyed gaze down to smolder against his sweet, smooth boyflesh, already bending forward to take its scent, clean and delicious, and also lightly scented with sin, just like all foxes, no matter how naïve they might be. “Enthusiasm counts for a lot. You enthusiastic, Burgy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, his tone adorably meek, and even more adorably eager.

“If I don’t want you to do something,” I murmur, getting in closer now, my whiskers tickling his achingly erect length, before I nuzzle it lovingly with the side of my muzzle, “I’ll tell you so, and you do something else. Same with me: if I go too far, do something that makes you unhappy, you’ll let me know, and I put on the brakes. Good with those ground rules?”

“Yes ma’am!”

Hee, I can hear the impatience in his voice now, finally getting him right to his limit. Any more nonsense from me, and I think for a moment that I might awaken the beast that waits in the heart of every morph, waiting to leap into dominance and aggression. And that’s when we get fun! Oh, but sweet little Burgundy here, he’s a gentle soul, and I can tell just as soon as I start teasing my muzzle against the plump handful of his boy purse that it’d take a lot more than just a little impatience to make him get all rough and savage.

Tongue flicking out, lips wrapping around one of those nice-sized orbs, my eyes narrow almost to slits as I just savor the flavor of virgin foxboy balls. Balancing his penis on the palm of my hand, I cup my fingers just enough to make a nice channel for his shaft as I stroke him, letting his precum stain my black-furred hands, moistening the soft pink pads. He’s productive, I muse through the haze of my lust as I nibble my way between one testicle and the other, feeling them lift as he goes up on the tip-toes of his big digitigrade feet, each of them almost comically oversized for his slim, light build (but then, they have to be: there aren’t too many morphs with digitigrade feet due to the stability issues, and big paws was one of the ways they were overcome, more-or-less), his tail already hiking upward over that perfect, squeezable, abusable little tushie.

How could I resist?

Reaching around with my free hand, and wishing not for the first time that I was a male and could properly plunder such an adorable little foxbottom (and swearing to myself that I’d have this little cutie in the clutches of at least three big, strong, massively well-endowed males within the week), I grabbed hold of one trimly-rounded cheek, letting my black fingers tease through the soft white fur of his treasure tail, right where red turned to white turned to tempting, vulnerable pink. At the same time, I moved my muzzle, nibbling upward along the underside of his pleasantly-sized pink length, long and smooth and not quite finished growing yet, trading places with the hand that had been stroking him. By the time I was just barely wrapping my lips around the acorn cap of his glans (and just barely catching the first warning shots of jetting precum on my tongue – so tasty!), that hand had Burgundy’s balls cupped in their palm, while my fingers were teasing against his perineum, pressing in on his prostate gland from the outside.

“M-miss Red!” Burgundy gasped out through all the precious, high-pitched noises of rapidly-rising arousal he’d been making up to that point, his innocent blue eyes wide as he looked down into my green ones looking back at him, sparkling with mischief and malice. “Miss Red, I can’t…I think I’m…”

That’s when I squeezed my finger into his tailhole!

As it turned out, that’s also the exact moment when the door opened, just as poor, sweet Burgy was grabbing onto one of the nearby shelves with one delicate, long-fingered hand, the other clenching by his side (and earning himself some points from me: he was a real gentleman after all, not just grabbing my head and starting to thrust like some brutes I’ve known), his head lolling back, tongue lolling from his wide-open muzzle as I took him right to the roots, a wicked little smile curling the corners of my muzzle as I tilted my head to see who it was who’d just come in to catch the sight of a gorgeous cumming foxboy being gobbled all up by the wicked vixen.

“Hey, Burg,” came another light, boyish voice, though slightly more deep-timbred than Burgundy’s. “Traum covered that table with the women for ya, and you know how he’s got that way of calming down the ladies, but I dunno: Stone and Traum are both getting curious, and…”

Peeking around Burgundy’s red-furred hip, I felt my tail wag at the sight of who had come through the door, and was even then quietly closing it behind him: it was Chester! Chester is this gorgeous palomino colt, about the same age as Burgundy, and with a build that wasn’t that different: all long and lean, stripped down for running, besides lacking the “fill” that would come with the completion of their final growth spurts. He was more muscular, though, broader of shoulder, hinting at some real heavy-duty muscle that would come in all too soon, under the careful and loving tutelage of Stone and the other morphs who work at his restaurant.

Gripping the little bulge at the base of Burgundy’s cock, where a real fox would’ve had a knot, and squeezing it just so, making sure my foxboy boytoy didn’t soften up on me, I popped my finger free from where it had been toying with his prostate, and crooked it toward the white-gold cutie by the now-closed door.

“Mmm…I hope I didn’t get Burgundy in trouble,” I said, licking my chops after slowly – deliberately – swallowing down the tasty load in my mouth. “If anyone asks, you can just tell them that he was getting me some of the house special desert.” I winked at Chester, and the handsome horsey hottie gulped, reaching up to loosen his collar. “Fresh fox cream…hmm, and maybe with some colt milk as a chaser.”

Unlike Burgundy, Chester was one of the young second gen morphs (called “muttmorphs” just a little derisively by many older first gens) that had ended up on the streets after the general discharge. Stone, though, being the big-hearted bear that he is, had taken the boy in; that grizzly really does have a heart of gold, making sure any kids he can find get raised like proper morphs. This meant that he didn’t have Burgundy’s trained shyness about sex; for us morphs, sex is a fast and fun way to get to know people, and while he might be as virginal as Burgy (or so I’ve heard through the grapevine), Chester didn’t hesitate for long as he walked forward, an eager bulge clearly visible in the front of his trousers as he started to strip down as fast as he could. I had to stifle a giggle, and heard the titters of my girls as they tried less-successfully to do the same: he was so eager for this!

Also unlike Burgundy, as I soon saw when the cute li’l colt started peeling his shirt open, followed not long after by his pants, he had the start of a washboard belly; Burgy’s more smooth down there, his fur just a little too fluffy to let the trim muscle show unless he can get a lot bigger after he hits his prime. Chester’s cock is bigger, too, mostly in length, but, well, he’s a horsey: horsies are built big all over as a rule.

Taking Chester’s lovely boycock in one hand, still holding Burgundy in the other, I looked up at my two blue-eyed beauties as I started to stroke them both at the same time, tail still wagging happily. And they were beautiful, in that uniquely masculine way that some guys have. Oh, there’s a certain beauty to ugliness in a guy like Spike, all scars and swollen muscles and scary red eyes, but sometimes…sometimes I just enjoy appreciating the more lovely things in life.

I really need to get these boys’ bottoms stuffed!

What can I say? I love beautiful things, but I love breaking them even more!

Stroking Burgy just a little faster, ignoring the needy whimpers of my daughters (for now, though I make a mental note to put their cherries on a menu to be shared by every experienced male in the neighborhood…a menu that has quite recently added human femmes right next to the deserts listing!) as I slide Chester’s white-gold erection into my mouth, I close my eyes as I savor the taste. Yes…oh yes: there’s nothing in the world like the taste of a virgin. I’m sure Spike would agree, considering how many of them he’s broken in over the years, boy and girl alike. Taking my time for now, bobbing my head forward and back, I keep my eyes shut as I analyze all the little differences between the delicious boycocks, both the one I was actively sucking, and the one I would be sucking again in the very near future.

As I mentioned, Chester’s penis is a sort of light golden color, a little bit darker than his coat. It’s smooth, too, not like a lot of the big boys among us morphs with all their thick veins, and mostly humanlike, except for the slightly more symmetrically domed cap at its head, which is more equine-like. His precum has an aftertaste to it that’s sort of like bread, both filling and very satisfying...which isn’t at all surprising, considering how much of it there is. Contrast this with Burgundy’s penis, just as smooth, but a tasty-looking candy pink, with a more tapered tip that’s almost canine-like (perfectly-suited for anal sex, as I think about it), and a cute little bulge near the base that’s really easy to miss unless you know to look for it. Burgundy’s precum (and his cum, for that matter, as I now knew from firsthand experience) was almost surprisingly sweet, too, that light sweetness that’s there one moment and gone the next, like cotton candy.

Now’s the time to take in both boys, really absorb them, now that I’m starting to think a little more clearly, Burgundy’s orgasm having somehow calmed my own needs…well, a little. As I pull off of Chester’s spit-shined shaft, giving him a wink and a final, parting lick, and in that short interval where I’m stroking them both, right before I go down on Burgy again, I look my boys over, loving the looks of intent bliss on both their faces.

Burgundy, despite his name, has fur over most of his body that’s a light scarlet. What can I say: humans just love misnomers, I guess…or near-misnomers in this case. This is broken up by the softest, snowiest white fur that starts at the bridge of his muzzle, covers the inside parts of his chest in a long, thin oval, widens out a little around his groin, and then curls up under his tail in a cute heart shape that accentuates his precious little bottom. Part of why it’s so naturally squeezable, I guess. Unlike most red foxmorphs, Burgundy actually doesn’t have any black fur on his body, just extra-soft, extra-plush white, including the tuft at the tip of his big, fluffy, huggable tail.

Chester, meanwhile, has that sleek, well-groomed look typical of most equimorphs when they take care of themselves; their fur often looks like skin, it’s trimmed down so neat and fine, all the little muscles showing through so perfectly. As a palomino, he’s got the markings down pat, with white-gold fur that almost seems to glow in any amount of light, and an absolutely fabulous stunning white mane and tail, the former so gorgeously wavy, it would be the envy of any shampoo model. Head and shoulders indeed! Seeing hair like his just makes me wanna see some big, burly male grab it and pull it, nice and rough, while putting that gorgeous, innocent-eyed cutie in his place! Of course, his hands and feet are the same sparkling white, and there’s this little blaze down the middle of his forehead that makes Chester’s expressions look so open and honest and trusting.

I guess it’s that sweet-eyed look that the two boys share, both of them blue-eyed beauties, that brings out the most predatory parts of me. Or maybe I’m just a bad, bad vixy at heart. Not that this stops me in the slightest as I pull both of them closer, until their hips are squeezed tight against each other, using their throbbing cocks like leashes no male in his right mind would dare to fight against. Just where I want them: close enough to cram them both in my mouth at the same time!

Mmm…I’m such a greedy vix. Greedy and needy, but that doesn’t stop me from starting to bob my head, hard and fast now, not sparing either of the boys. One hand keeps their cocks squished together at first, but soon I don’t even need that, I’m taking them both so deep, making all sorts of lewd slurping noises, and almost certainly drooling all over myself in the process. But I don’t care! I want them both, and I want them…want them…want them to the roots!

Hands seizing tight hold of apple firm and peach round boyish bottoms, squeezing them, fingers finding their little puckers and squeezing inside, I let my eyes flutter shut for a moment, my body shuddering with an orgasm when both boys bump the back of my throat. I told you that we foxes are made for receiving sex! I’m just more messed up than most, wanting to have my cock and eat it too. It’s not an earth-shattering orgasm, but it’s enough to flush my cheeks and fan out my whiskers and make me almost frantic as I curl my fingers inside my boys’ backsides, rasping my pink pads against their prostates in just the right way, that way Spike helped me perfect back in the tough times before, when we both needed relief, and we both sometimes took turns with Girl.

Hearing the sweet voices of both boys raised high, tasting the warning shots of their precum on my tongue as I pull back just a little, enough to make sure I can taste it properly, savor how their flavors mix and mingle, I feel so, so wicked…and I love it. My nipples are so erect right now, they could probably cut glass, and I feel so very alive, every nerve end cranked up to maximum reception until it’s a wonder to me that my fur doesn’t spark.

Maybe it’s because of how alert I felt right then that I finally looked between the tight-pressed hips of the boys, and saw who was standing there in the now-open doorway: it was Gaul, a pleasant smile on his broad face as he leaned against the shelves, just watching.

Gaul is a bunny, sure, but he’s not like any bunny you’ve probably seen before, even if he’s got that typical sandy brown fur and the ears and wiggly nose and all that. For starters, he’s huge. For finishers, he’s really, really huge! See, he’s based on a Flemish hare, and they’re big at the four-legged size. Taken up proportionately, and he’s bigger than Chester is ever likely to reach, width as well as height. See, unlike Chester, and most morphs for that matter, sandy-furred Gaul is what we morphs sometimes call a Heavy, one of our number that was specially made to serve as a platform for field artillery and similarly-sized guns. Usually the role is taken up by the ultra-huge morphtypes, like elephants or hippos or rhinos or some of the bigger horses (Montenegro comes to mind as an example), but every so often, well…it’s obvious that some of the people at the gene labs had senses of humor.

(Incidentally, where the males usually have a power-lifter’s musclegut to some degree, unless they work out super-hard like Montenegro, you can always tell the femme Heavies ‘cause they’ve got bazongas that make Janina’s look average. I’m serious: mega-mammaries for miles! It’s ‘cause they’re reinforced with natural-grown carbon fibers, right along with the rest of their bodies, giving them lots of extra support.)

Luckily Gaul’s also the “gentle giant” type. Sure, he’s been on the fight circuits, and I’ve even seen him pair off against Spike once (Spike won, but it was as close as I’ve ever seen it come, and he’s admitted to me that he doesn’t want to repeat the experience), but he’s never brutal and aggressive like some of those fighters. Instead, he’s an almost unstoppable “soft style” expert, using all that reach and mass of his to turn his aikijustsu into something honestly terrifying to behold, twisting people’s power against themselves right up until he brings all that weight and power in his deceptively paunchy-looking body to bear (it’s not a big paunch, by the way; nothing like the muscleguts you sometimes see on the really big Heavies). But outside of the morph fights, he’s so sweet, so gentle, and as a lover he’s as considerate as a girl could ever want. Or a guy, since he’s never expressed any particular prejudices one way or the other.

Oh, and he’s ridiculously quiet. As in, quiet enough that it’s not until now that I finally noticed him, and I’ve humped the boonies out in the brush wars of Indochina in a LRRP squad (and humped my squadmates as well, but that’s another story).

Hmm…well now. As I start to think about it, getting caught like this certainly does raise possibilities.

“Girls,” I say over my shoulder as I rather reluctantly give up my juicy double mouthful of boy sausage. “If you’d like, I think this is a prime opportunity for you to practice your blowjob technique.”

Did they ever! In seconds there were two naked little vixyteens doing their best to deepthroat those two gorgeous boys. Of course this didn’t work so well for my girls, since they’d only had a fairly limited amount of experience, so Mona eventually settled on half of Chester’s shaft, and Lisa handled two-thirds of Burgundy’s, both of them using one black-furred hand to stroke the remaining lengths of their respective partner’s penis, the other working eagerly between their legs.

Right now, I’d guess you’re asking “but what about Red?” A fair question, and believe me, I wasn’t idle. No, for my part, I sidled up behind the boys on my knees, feeling those little pangs as they watched me with their big, trusting blue eyes, knowing that I was going to give them one of the most intense experiences of their young lives…and that it was just a precursor to even more intense sensations in the too-near future.

Fortunately Chester, like most equimorphs, had the first few fingerspans at the base of his tail wrapped up. This not only made it easier for him to keep the flowing white hair controlled, it also made for a nice handle as I tilted his tail up and out of the way, doing the same for Burgy’s big, fluffy foxtail at the same time. With my hands so occupied, I soon had Chester facing forward again, giving a loud gasp as I nuzzled and then nibbled and then sucked on the back of his balls, each almost the size of a golf ball, and then just a little higher, at that spot right where you can stimulate the prostate from the outside. Burgy’s eyes were wide as he watched this, then got wider still, his cute little tushie tensing in sympathy to his friend as I moved my muzzle just that little bit higher, my tongue caressing the folds of the hot young stallion’s tailhole, then digging just that little bit inside, enough to make the white-haired hottie give a soft whinny before he could stop himself.

Passing Chester’s tail into his hands freed up one of my hands to curl my finger back inside of the cute colt, and then a second as I got Burgundy to hug his own tail to his chest, his eyes shifting between me and Lisa as she happily bobbed her head, hers and Mona’s tails wagging like twin metronomes, keeping almost perfect synchronized time. Without that impediment, I couldn’t resist giving Burgy’s adorable bottom a good, firm squeeze, and then a light pat, before I spread him open one-handedly, and leaned in close. Curling my muzzle around the bottom of his balls, I listened to his lovely moans as I suckled on that plump mouthful, his white fur so soft against my tongue. Then I was tracing his perineum with my lips, feeling its crease through the extra thin fur between his legs, so soft and fine, it was like sweet velveteen, tinted ever-so-lightly with the scent of sex, the common factor in all foxes, even virgins. When my tongue finally lashed across his tender pink tailhole, and then began to wriggle around the finger – and then fingers – that I gently squeezed into him, both he and Chester were up on their tip-toes, and getting very noisy indeed, shooting thick, creamy jets of precum into the wide open muzzles of my girls, who each pulled back, sensing the imminent simultaneous eruption of the sweet pair as they traded a glance in that silent language shared by twins everywhere.

“Ooooh!”

“Aaaah!”

Just one more little nudge, stroking both their prostates at the same time, and I got to watch, grinning madly, as my girls got their outstretched tongues painted in thick, gooey boycream, and more than a little of their dainty breasts as well as the stuff got all over. So messy! At first I thought to chastise Mona and Lisa, until I realized that they’d done it on purpose, right when they turned to kiss each other, and then to start trading licks, delicate pink foxtongues flicking out to slurp up every drop of spilled cum.

Just the sight of my twin vixies, of course, was enough to get Burgundy up for the third time, and Chester for the second – healthy morphboys recover so fast! – while I reached around, letting their swiftly-returning erections slide into my outstretched palms. Of course I also yielded to a bit of temptation, and gave Chester’s flawless golden tushie a light nip, making him “eep!” in surprise, squirting another dollop of precum over the muzzles of my girls, before I leaned over the other way to give Burgundy the same treatment, and though his “yip!” of surprise was just as adorable, he didn’t squirt like Chester did – productive horsies are so much fun!

“Gaul, didn’t Stone tell you to find out where the boys went?” came a voice from behind me, one that I knew rather well. “We’ve only got maybe a half-hour before the lunch rush really gets going, and…”

Right then I was glad that my human friends and I liked to take early lunches: it meant there was still a little time to finish up all the fun back here, now that we had the right number of cocks…and places to put them.

Traum was the doggy in the doorway, of course. Painted dog, that is, an émigré from West Africa who’d been a linguist for the UN until he’d managed to slip into Spike’s unit on their way back to the States. Just as well, since things got pretty tough for morphs stranded over there, or so I’ve heard. As for Traum himself, he’s got the gorgeous markings you’d expect of a painted dog, all blotched with tan and black and white and all those colors in-between, with a long, lean body that doesn’t have much spare meat on it…well, barring the meat between his legs, of course, and that’s got plenty to spare, let me assure you – someone must’ve slipped some zebra in his gene mix, is all I can say!

The pretty doggy was just adjusting the pince-nez on the bridge of his nose (he’s farsighted, and a darn good sniper when he wasn’t acting the part of interpreter) when I looked at him over my shoulder, tail still wagging. Burgundy and Chester looked so adorably guilty, like little boys caught with their mitts in the nookie jar, but I didn’t have any such reservations: I was a bad, bad vixy, and I was just about to do even worse things! Things like carefully tug on each boy’s erection, guiding them forward, making them bend over with the motion until they had to grab onto the nearby shelving to keep their balances. This, naturally, thrust out their rumps toward the two full-grown males in the doorway, and as I let my hands slide up to grip the bases of their tails, hiking them high, baring their tailholes in open, obvious invitation, the boys traded a nervous glance of sudden realization: the naughty vix had been planning on having them made into boy-ka-bobs all along!

Gaul didn’t even bother to hesitate, shucking his trousers as a minor impediment, though he left his shirt on, albeit open and unbuttoned. Burgy’s little squeal of surprise as those huge hands grabbed his precious, perky little tushie, mauling the scarlet-furred flesh with gentle roughness, was simply too much for anyone to take, me no less than anyone else. I spared a few moments to pop that massive bunnycock into my mouth, slurping down as much of its length as I could handle (which, embarrassingly, really wasn’t that much: Gaul’s huge all over!), paying special attention to polishing up his knob, getting it nice and slick like I’d already done for Burgy’s tailhole. After all, I might be wicked, but I’m not cruel, and I really did want little Burgy’s first time to feel very, very good.

Then I was slipping my head out from between Gaul and his intended destination, letting him keep his grip on Burgy’s buns while I guided him into place. Of course I leaned in nice and close, getting the most fantastic view of big blunt bunnycock nudging against perhaps the sweetest, tightest boy cherry I’d ever had the privilege to watch get popped. Old hand that he was, and gentle soul besides, Gaul just leaned his weight forward slowly, letting his glans gradually spread that well-lubed little tailhole…halfway now…and now almost up to the corona…and Burgy’s was starting to whine as the corona of Gaul’s glans stretched him right to the apex…and pop! It was in!

“YIFF!”

That was all it took, really, for poor Burgy to pop his next load, his blue eyes crossing as Gaul filled him up, his long, slow initial thrust nice and steady until his balls bumped against the back of Burgundy’s white-furred sac. My girls were surprised by that load, which pretty much undid all the cleaning they’d already done, and forced them to start licking each other all over again – not that I think they minded, naughty girls!

Traum was next, approaching with an aggressive, masculine walk as he peeled open his trousers, not even bothering to undress further as he seized Chester’s nicely-rounded horserump. Horsey bottoms are always so gorgeous, at least in my opinion, ranking right up there on the short list for the best bottoms among morphs, and seeing one getting prodded by a big, black, veiny beast of a cock like my pretty painted doggy was packing…well, it was just a good thing I was already on my knees, because I think they might have buckled otherwise.

This time Mona and Lisa were ready, both of my girls fitting their muzzles over Chester’s dome-capped dick, their eyes wide and sparkling as their cheeks bulged, their throats working like mad to gulp down every drop of horseycum that came squirting out when Traum’s cockhead ground against Chester’s prostate, just plowing into the poor golden boy like a battering ram. Who’d have thought such a sweet doggy would be so rough!

Breathing hard, I gradually worked my way back up to my feet, leaning hard against one wall. I’d cum all right, many times, and I hadn’t even had to have much stimulation for it. I guess you’d call them empathic orgasms, derived from someone else’s pleasure. I’d definitely done my work for the day, that was for sure, as I watched the bottoms of fox and colt bouncing right along with their bobbing cocks, before strong fingers encircled them both, Gaul’s sandy mitt just engulfing little Burgy’s erection, while the black-furred pads of Traum’s hand milked Chester’s smooth golden shaft with expert skill.

“C-c’mon girls,” I managed to get out through a dry throat. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us still, and lots of deliveries to k-eep!”

Just when I was turning to the door of the breakroom, letting my girls scoop up my delivery uniform, both my wrists were quite suddenly engulfed in a paw as big as my whole head.

Oh dear: I think I just woke the bear.

Stone is a grizzly, as I’ve mentioned before. He was a heavy machine gunner with a penchant for cuisine while he was stationed in Europe, and soon found work as a sous-chef when he got back to the States, mostly because there was a demand, and not enough humans to fill it. Now he’s got his own place, and it’s my favorite, mine and my human friends’. Of course, it really is rather impolite to go seducing someone’s staff right before the lunch rush, and as I looked up into the big bruin’s brown eyes with a nervous grin, I felt my tail still wagging like mad, revealing my true thoughts about this situation whether I liked it or not.

“Um, never mind, girls,” I said, watching as Stone stroked one big paw down my tummy, before he cupped my gushing little quim. “I think you’ll have to make those after-lunch deliveries yourselves.” I gave them an apologetic glance, which they returned with a slight sulk. “For mommy, please?”

“Okay, Mom,” they chimed in unison, tossing my uniform over a chair before heading out.

With the sounds of the two boys I’d just gotten nailed wailing sweetly in the background, I didn’t resist in the least as Stone turned me around easily, even one of his hands big enough to wrap almost all the way around my waist, and bent me over right between Burgundy and Chester, my now-freed hands going immediately to the shelves. I couldn’t resist looking between the two, faces flushes, tongues lolling, blue eyes heavy-lidded as they were humped steadily from behind. Traum’s thrusting was more frantic, more needy, and I’d guess the linguist-cum-waiter probably didn’t get laid so much, nerdy type that he was. Chester didn’t seem to mind, though, shuddering all over as ripples flowed across his supple skin, as sensitive as any four-legged horsey ever was. Gaul, though, made each thrust count, each slap of his balls against Burgy’s enough to make the little guy cry out as yet another spike of pleasure shuddered through him.

And then I felt Stone’s massive penis smack against my fat, puffy pink labia, and didn’t even try to hold back my own yelp of shocked orgasm, my tailhole tensing as my inner muscles clenched down in anticipation.

“I’m going to have trouble walking after this, aren’t AAAII_YIPE_!”

Ooh but that big bearcock hit just the right spot!

*

At the very moment Bess Martens was finishing up her early lunch, her daughter, Priss, was just stepping through the doors of the girl’s locker room, gym class finally ended, stripping off her gym clothes without sparing much thought to what was going on around her as she headed toward the shower that was the only thing standing between her and lunch hour.

Right now the spiky-haired redhead had a lot on her mind, way too much to really pay attention to the usual trivia of the day’s events. She noted with mostly just academic interest how the Queen Bees were circling, led by Eve Partridge as usual as they waited for Miss Cool, the assistant gym teacher, to walk away from her presently open office door to fill out some paperwork or something similar. The moment Virginia Cool wasn’t paying attention, Priss knew, as they all did, that the Queen Bees would swoop in on one of the weaker members of the student body, some poor girl who straggled outside the herd. Probably Hannah, Priss figured as she spared a moment to think about it; Hannah Vergennes was the unlucky sort of girl, already stressed out from having parents (and she still had both of them, something most people would have thought was a lucky break) that were constantly pushing the young brunette to excel in everything. That kind of stress just screamed weakness to predators like Eve and her Queen Bees, telling the half-dozen or so teenage girls that there was an easy target waiting to be exploited.

Not Priss’ problem, or so she figured as she grabbed a towel from the pile by the entryway to the communal showers, and stood in line to wait her turn. Oh, she’d probably step in if things got really out of hand, like she had a few times before, but Martinique was further back in the line than she was, and the gorgeous black girl was a lot better at handling people like Eve Partridge than Priss was, more subtle than the skinny, tan-skinned redhead had ever managed to be. If Priss got involved, she’d probably end up having a direct confrontation, a showdown that was pretty likely to end in punches being thrown. If she just backed up the soccer team captain, though, while the outcome wasn’t likely to be as satisfying as planting her fist in Eve’s flawless, aristocratic face, sending that pageboy-trimmed chestnut hairstyle flying everywhere, hairpins and all.

Hearing a squeal of surprise, Priss spared a glance back down the line, then grinned, glad to have her abnormally gloomy thoughts interrupted.

“W-Willi!” exclaimed Bird, her cheeks terribly flushed as she stood there, still wearing her shorts, a pair of delicate, girlish hands giving her now-bared breasts a good, hard squeeze. “Willi, would you cut it out?”

“Well, I would,” came the teasing response, as a slightly impish face framed with shoulder-length straight brown hair appeared on the blonde bombshell’s shoulder. “But I don’t really feel like it! Mmm,” the trim girl stepped around Bird and rested her head playfully across the top of Bird’s breasts. “Nice ‘n pillowy soft!”

That was Willi Potter for you, class clown no matter who was around to watch. Nice that some things didn’t change, at least, Priss thought to herself, even as she let her mind drift back to that Sunday, right after martial arts practice had ended. The sight of Martinique’s firm black bottom as the other girl undressed by her locker, caught in a passing glance before the blushing Priss forced her eyes front again (she was no lesbian, after all!) just helped to bring back the memory just that much more clearly. A memory of the talk she got to have with two real, live morphs about real, live adult stuff! Specifically, what Bird and the others were having done to them by that big, ugly albino pittie Spike pretty much the moment the class came to an end.

“It’s not really my place to say,” Huey, the cream-furred Alsatian morph had demurred at the start when Priss had asked him point-blank what was going on around there, blunt enough in her delivery that even Martinique, normally so calm and collected, blushed at the volleyball captain’s bluntness. “These sorts of things are meant to be somewhat private affairs, and…”

“They’ve having sex.”

This was from the big ‘gator, Cutty, his turquoise eyes facing forward as he and Huey walked on the outside of the two human girls, keeping Martinique and Priss between them protectively, as though guarding them from any dangers that might arise (which were very real, Priss knew: Spike’s junkyard was pretty close to the edge of one of the worst neighborhoods in that part of the city…well, human neighborhoods, anyway, though she was starting to amend her opinion of the morph-dominated parts).

“Well?” Priss finally asked, unable to bear the silence that followed Cutty’s terse statement, especially when Martinique seemed far too flustered to say anything more, and Huey, gentledog that he was, certainly wasn’t going to continue that line of talk without some serious prompting. “You can’t just drop a bombshell like that, scale-face, and not do a little, you know, elaboration.” And she made sure to pronounce the word carefully, so there would be no mistake in her meaning! “Besides, isn’t it illegal for morphs to have sex with humans?”

“That’s a law that was repealed,” Huey answered in that exquisitely suave voice of his; Priss would swear, he sounded just like James Bond! “Most courts don’t really like having morphs entering them for any reason, since we’re an odd case, not quite ‘people,’ by legal definition, but not animals either. So they threw out a lot of laws that might have brought our situation into more public light before they became an issue, so as to keep our state in stasis for a little bit longer.” The handsome face of the Alsatian looked a bit sad, making Priss want to cuddle the poor guy…if only he didn’t also just ooze of equal parts class and sex appeal! “Morphs make a significant part of the workforce now, and if our legal status gets brought into dispute, a great many people stand to lose a great deal of money.”

“All right,” and now it was Martinique that spoke up, much to Priss’ surprise – after all, she was supposed to be the brash rebel, leading her volleyball crew by always pushing boundaries, while Martinique was the stolid, skilled, charismatic sort who led the seventeen girls on her soccer team with courage backed by careful planning. “So it’s not illegal. But are they really having sex? That seems…well…” she trailed off, obviously uncertain how to quite articulate the questions running through both her and Priss’ heads right then. Sex education was, sadly, pretty minimal at their school after all, and Martinique was probably too much of a good girl to go poking around on porn sites, while Priss…well…she just hadn’t thought of doing so until then! Now, though, she was starting to think that maybe she needed to expand her education a little into avenues thus-far unexplored. “It’s kind of a lot to take in,” she concluded.

Cutty and Huey traded a look, before Huey gave the big, heavily-muscled gator a slight nod. Drawing in a long, slow breath, Cutty closed his beautiful-but-strange turquoise eyes, opened them again when he finished letting out the breath he’d taken, and began.

“Morphs are a lot less strict about sex than most humans,” the alligator began, his long, muscular tail swishing behind him as they all walked the few miles to the bus stop. “We can smell if a female is ovulating, and we don’t get sexually-transmitted diseases (those that weren’t eradicated by the biotech revolution, that is), so there’s no danger of accidental pregnancies or other complications.

“Then add in our rather significant sexuality: morphs were made to breed. This is for economic purposes, to ensure that the countries that employed us as soldiers, and the individuals who took us on as servants, would always have a ready population of high-quality workers.” His expression soured, then, and Huey winced in anticipation, making Martinique and Priss look nervous as they knew that whatever was coming next wasn’t going to be pleasant. “In the early stages of our development, we were also meant to be biological weapons, cloned soldiers that would kill all the men, and breed all the women, then go conquering onward until we were stopped by a biochemical killswitch of some sort.

“Fortunately that set of plans didn’t come to pass, since nobody figured out how to install a way to kill us in droves like robots with their power cut before we were put into mass production, and our instincts actually preclude us ever being able to force ourselves on a female. Rape is physically impossible for a morph,” he added, giving the girls a hard look with those strangely beautiful eyes. “Let me stress that: unless a female smells aroused, then we are literally incapable of performing, and the various scents of true distress are enough to instantly kill any male morph’s erection. I want to stress that, because whatever is going on inside Spike’s home, it is completely voluntary.”

“Not that we morphs can’t have some rough play,” Huey added with that casually roguish smile, his tail giving a rakish wag. “There’s a big difference in scent between the discomfort of rough BDSM, even the really rough stuff, and the distress of someone who’s being genuinely hurt.” His face took on a thoughtful expression, then. “I suppose you’d have to experience it yourself to really understand what I mean,” he finally concluded. “Cutty feels some guilt over our original purpose, though; feels that we could turn into monsters if we’re not carefully monitored. I think that’s why he’s always avoiding chances for…”

“As I was saying,” Cutty continued, after looking to make sure he still had the attention of his audience, “morphs can have sex without nearly as many consequences as humans. There’s still the chance of hurt feelings, of course, but for us, sex is just another way to get to know someone better. We also feel that sexual training should be a part of any developing youngster’s education, under the tutelage of experienced, responsible adults, so they can make more mature decisions on the subject as they age.”

“Sort of how Europeans know how to handle their alcohol, and Americans learn how to drive,” Huey added with a grin. “Make it a part of the culture, and it’s just something in the background, not really a big deal.”

“Yes,” agreed the gator with a nod of acknowledgement. “Not much different at all, actually. Except sex is a big deal; it’s how a species reproduces, after all, which is one of the most important and overwhelming Darwinian drives, and it touches into some truly primal, powerful instincts that sapient creatures like humans and morphs might not be capable of really understanding. For morphs, the instincts are almost as strong as those of animals, creatures without the capability for sapience or self-control, and so early training for us is absolutely vital.”

“Except for Cutty,” Huey added with a teasing smirk. “He’s still technically a virgin, you know.”

“Yes, well,” the big gator cleared his throat, a blush showing through the scales of his cheeks, even as Martinique and Priss traded a look, fighting hard not to giggle. “There are ways to control one’s sex drive, even if you’re a male morph. But that aside, your friends back at Spike’s home are…,” he frowned, thinking for a moment. “I suppose they are being honored, in a way. Certainly there is sex going on – lots of it, and I’m sure very satisfying as well, considering how skilled Spike is, and how good he is at arranging group events – but there’s more to it than just the wet, messy bits. Those girls are being accepted into the secret world of morphs. If they’re made pregnant during the orgy I’m sure followed, well,” he shrugged, “they’ll have the support of every morph in our community in raising the children born from such a union. Making it a group activity just reinforces the sense of community, and the need for every adult who took part to take responsibility for the kids that result. After all, they could easily be the father, and even if they aren’t this time, there’s always the next time.”

“The feeling is a lot deeper than that,” Huey added, smiling a little as he noticed (and Priss noticed as well) how Martinique was drifting closer to his side, and didn’t object when he gently rested a hand on her shoulder, though he went no farther than this, still a gentleman as always. “If you’ve taken part in the act of procreation – of mating – of sex – it sends all sorts of signals to your brain if you’re a morph. For all your instincts know or care, you are the father of any child that might come popping out nine months down the line, even if you limited yourself to anal and oral sex. You’re a part of the group that took part in the impregnation, and that’s all that really matters. Even stereotypical loners like Gregor and other felimorphs can feel that sort of social bonding. And for we canomorphs, or equimorphs, or rodentomorphs, and all the others that already have some extensive group-based instincts in place, well,” he concluded with a light shrug.

“So there’s never any unwanted children in morph society?” Martinique asked, her expression thoughtful as she looked up into Huey’s handsome face and sweet, winning, easy smile.

“Is any system perfect?” Huey countered, his smile turning a little sad. “There are lots of orphan morphs right now, leftovers from the wars and the general discharge of all morphs from the armed forces. That was so sudden, it took everybody by surprise, and the systems in place have only just started to address the issue. But for morphs that are being born now, without outside interference in their breeding,” he looked at Cutty, then back down at Martinique (quite a feat, since Martinique was not a short girl), “no. Every morph born free, to the best of my knowledge, is wanted. Is loved. If they weren’t going to be, their mothers wouldn’t have allowed themselves to get pregnant. And even if things change, there’s a community of morphs that can take in the ones who might otherwise slip through the cracks.”

They walked in silence after that, a silence that lasted several minutes. After what Huey had said, none of them really felt like breaking in with pointless trivia. Finally, though, Martinique spoke up, voicing something that had been on her mind for a while, and in the back of Priss’, even if the tanned redhead hadn’t known how to articulate the thought properly.

“Are my girls in any danger?” she asked seriously, looking between Huey and Cutty. “I mean, you’ve said that morphs can’t commit rape, but you’re also highly-sexed and, if you’ll forgive me, highly sexual. There are eleven girls on my active team, with six in the reserves. So tomorrow, seventeen young, healthy, sexually curious girls all show up for soccer practice at Spike’s junkyard, and he tells them to strip down, just like he did today. Let’s say, for sake of argument, that they do just that without any trouble. That means we’ll have seventeen young, healthy, naked girls bouncing around out there on the fields, with probably at least as many morphs, every one of them just throbbing with raw sexuality. So what guarantees do I have that my team will make it to the end of the season? Without getting pregnant, I mean: that kind of makes it hard to play, you know.”

“What?” Huey asked with raised eyebrows, the very picture of innocence. “You’re saying that every girl on your team will be simply too captivated at the sight and scent of a naked male to be able to resist presenting herself like a she-cat in heat at the first opportunity? That morphs are simply too overwhelming for any reasonable femme to resist their charms? That football practice will shortly turn into a debauched orgy of carnality?”

“Well,” Martinique continued, despite the flush in her cheeks as she shuffled awkwardly next to the handsome Alsatian morph, “all I know is, Brandy Crews is a pretty good captain for the basketball team, and she was never here before today, but she’s not here right now.”

“She’s having sex in Spike’s house!” Priss blurted out, almost her whole face turning beet red as the words left her mouth. “Well, she is!” she added defensively to the chuckles of Huey and Cutty, and Martinique’s only barely-stifled giggle.

“Morph pheromones, as well as our other sexual features, aren’t mind control,” Cutty answered before an awkward silence could settle. “They’re just signals, markers for the instincts to recognize that someone is a suitable breeding partner. They might encourage what would otherwise happen, perhaps lower inhibitions slightly, but they don’t force people to do what they don’t want to do. Animals cannot resist pheromones. People can. That’s a big difference between the two groups.” Then he looked down with a slight smile. “That, and I trust Spike. He surely knows how important this is to you,” he continued, looking at Martinique, and then at Priss. “I can’t guarantee that there won’t be sex, and I doubt Spike could either. Actually, there almost certainly will be, since he’s used to training morphs, and sexual training is a natural part of such activities. But unless the participants want babies, I don’t think you need to worry about losing too many of your teammates.”

“Actually, I’d see the possibility as a good thing,” Huey spoke up with a playful grin. “Knowing Spike, he’ll probably weed out a few of the ‘dead wood’ members of your team in short order, and find that turning them into obedient little sex slaves will prove to be the most efficient method for clearing out room for more useful additions. Surely you can think of a few on both your teams who really aren’t suitable for their sports?”

“S-sex…” Martinique mouthed, blinking several times, her jaw open as she took in this new possibility. “Well, yes, I…I guess I have a few who aren’t really meant to be players...but sex slaves?”

“Omega, actually, is a more accurate term,” Huey supplied cheerfully. “You become a member of the group, but you’re at the bottom. Sort of…hmm…I guess a treasured family pet would fill a similar role. You know: loved and cared for, but not given an equal say in matters of family business. And with the added benefit of being able to bear children for the group to raise. Do believe me,” he added, patting Martinique’s back encouragingly, “it will be for the best, and quite voluntary. Actually, if you work to help Spike pick out the ones better served in bondage, I expect that they will find a far greater degree of satisfaction in life than they do now, and you will have a far better football team.”

Mental images of Spike’s bare sheath popping immediately and unbidden to her mind, Priss instantly also visualized the members of her volleyball team, naked and in chains like dogs being broken in obedience training, begging for mercy as they were dragged by other morphs – that big stallion, perhaps, or the cute German Shepherd, but with much meaner expressions on their faces in Priss’ imagination than they’d ever had in real life – toward Spike as he sat on a throne like some conquering warlord, Bird and Shania and Brandy already kneeling at his feet, their bellies so swollen with well-advanced pregnancies, it was no wonder they didn’t try to stand up!

Then the gorgeous members of her team dissolved in Priss’ imagination, and she saw her sisters in their place, the twins Ami and Ani with their purple and green hair (respectively) in disheveled disarray as they waited their turns with aroused trepidation, while poor little Aria, the redheaded baby of the family, squealed adorably in Spike’s clutches, his massive paws leaving little red marks all over the poor girl’s flawless, smooth skin.

But the images were vague in Priss’ imagination, too little hard fact available to flesh them out with any more detail than those brief impressions. The bus stop interrupted her daydreams, and she only then noticed how Martinique’s own expression had been wandering – possibly caught up in fantasies not much different from her own! – between spattering bouts of conversation with Huey. She and that handsome dog did seem to have a rapport, Priss noted casually. He wasn’t forcing anything, wasn’t being overtly flirtatious, but there was something in his body language…and in the way Martinique’s own body language changed in response…

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Huey, Cutty,” Martinique said as the waiting bus opened its doors. “I…um…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Him, yes,” said Cutty with a light shrug. “Me, no. Huey’s quite good at soccer, and I expect Spike will need all the help he can get to coach your team properly. I…have business.”

The image of Cutty’s immense, scaly penis, free-hanging and surprisingly humanlike, flashed in Priss’ mind then, completely unbidden, and she felt a slight pang at the news of his absence, even if she wasn’t going to be there at the practice herself: it was, after all, for soccer players, at least for now.

“Take care, Martinique,” Huey said with a slight bow, taking Martinique’s hand briefly to help her up onto the first step, before doing the same with Priss, though she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t let the touch linger quite so long. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

A long beat passed as Martinique bit her lower lip, obviously thinking hard.

“Yeah,” she finally agreed. “Just…you know…have a talk with Spike.”

“Of course.”

Then the line moved forward, and Priss slid under the spray from one of the communal shower heads thrust out from one of the two thick metal poles in the middle of the room. While Priss probably had the clout in the pecking order needed to get one of the stalls off to the side of the main shower area, she had a sense of fairness. A bully like Eve Partridge or Helen Devrie or Erika Featherstone might abuse that sort of position, but Priss liked the democracy of the showers. Besides, she wasn’t in any serious hurry, not with lunch hour just about to start.

Sighing in contentment as the pre-warmed water rushed down her streamlined breasts, their startlingly pink nipples almost painfully erect from the combination of the pre-shower chill and the other things that had been occupying her mind, Priss swiftly soaped herself up, giving her body a once-over in the process, when it wouldn’t be so noticeable. Of course she wasn’t as well-endowed as a lot of the girls around her – certainly not compared to Bird Phelps or Brandy Crews or even the more sleek-bodied Martinique Flowers – but she wasn’t painfully flat, either. At least she had more going on than Shania Green! Her tummy, though, that was flawlessly flat, and her butt, though small, had that rounded firmness that came from lots and lots of exercise specifically to train her jumping muscles. Priss wasn’t as tall as a lot of the other girls on the volleyball team she captained, and so she had to put in a lot more work to be a proper example for them all. Actually, she was almost elfin, but she made up for lack of size with enthusiasm and energy…or at least that’s what she told herself.

Truthfully, Priss wondered if she was attractive. Attractive in that way, that is. Would somebody like Spike have any interest in somebody like her, when he could choose between somebody like Bird or Brandy? There weren’t a lot of boys around to check on the question, after all, and competition for those that were around was fierce. Sure, Priss liked a good competition as much as anybody, but the struggle to “win a man” was downright brutal! For a girl who believed in fair play, she really felt that she’d prefer not to join the game if the rules were that mean all the time.

But what if the boy didn’t have to be strictly human…?

But…with a morph…?

“You’re joking, of course.”

It was Sabra doing the talking, her and Martinique now under the showers, while Bird was standing at the front of the line, her former chatting with Willi now come to an end at the first words out of the other girl’s mouth. Sabra was a statuesque beauty, her skin a contrast to Martinique’s own, just as her body was a contrast to the girl opposite her at the same shower, their similar heights making the contrast just that much more apparent. Where Martinique was lean and willowy, Sabra’s body was curvy, but also solid with underlying muscle, well-developed from extensive weight training as well as aerobics. Martinique’s skin was a milk chocolate tone that showed bruises well, while Sabra’s was a rich, deep clay-ey color more akin to dark chocolate, which made the whites of her eyes stand out almost startlingly from the rest of her body. Where Martinique’s bone structure was fine and light, especially her face, which had high cheekbones and a narrow nose, Sabra’s bones were thicker, and while she was definitely beautiful, her beauty was that of a queen, a dominatrix, a woman of power…or, rather, a girl right on the cusp of womanhood. Her broader nose had a hint of the pugnacious to it, and it was obvious that she was a woman born for fighting, including right then, as she countered whatever it was that Martinique had just brought up. They were both on the soccer team, after all, but Martinique was the captain, much to Sabra’s perpetual annoyance: she might have had a talent for bullying others into getting her way, a talent that earned her a nominal place among Eve’s Queen Bees, but she hadn’t been able to get Martinique’s captaincy. So when something new came up, naturally it was Sabra who would object first and loudest.

“Not even a little,” Martinique rose to the challenge. “C’mon: you know as well as I do, Sabra, that we don’t have a coach for the team. Coach Withers is just filling in time until she retires, and Coach Cool is all tangled up with no clue what she’s expected to do with the old coach still calling all the shots, and not willing to actually do anything with her authority.”

“You’re talking about handing us all over to some filthy animal,” Sabra responded, the curl of her lip audible in her tone, even though Priss had been rinsing soap out of her eyes at the moment. “What good’s a morph, anyway? We can train ourselves just fine.” She flexed a bicep to demonstrate, the muscles of her abdomen standing out powerfully. “And, much as I hate to admit it,” she added sullenly, giving Martinique the once-over, “you’re in pretty good shape yourself. What do we even need a coach for?”

“To help us work as a team,” Martinique answered immediately. “Sure, you’re doing good, and I’m all right, but not all of us are at the basic level we need, and none of us have practiced together more than once a month under Coach Withers. And let’s let the facts speak for themselves: four games so far this season; skunked on the first one, four-to-one on the second, six-to-two on the third, and three-to-two on the fourth. Sure, that margin of loss is getting more narrow…but we’re still losing, fist over foot.” She stepped back from the shower head and put her hands on her hips, addressing the room at large, and especially the members of her team who were present (over half of them, as it turned out, including Bird and Sabra). “Me, I want to win! And I’ve got a coach who can train us to do just that! He’s a morph, but he’s good, and right now all I care about is results, not who gets them for me.”

Priss was just stepping away from the shower herself, reaching for her towel, when she saw Sabra’s expression, knew that the challenge hadn’t quite ended yet. Sure, Bird was over there, but she was still distracted by Willi (as Willi had a tendency to do, not realizing how serious the moment was). What Martinique needed right then was a friend.

Priss decided to make it her business to help.

“He’s an all-rounder,” she chimed in before Sabra could put together her next argument against the new training Martinique had proposed. “I’ve met him, too, same as Martinique, and he’s really impressive. His name’s Spike, and he’s built. I was gonna give him a couple weeks to work on the soccer team, settle into a routine, and then see if he’d take on my volleyball team as well.”

“You should see his resume,” Bird finally chimed in as Willi fell silent, blinking in surprise as she finally realized the full import of what was going on. “It’s on his site for Spike’s Junkyard and Training Services, easy to find, and really impressive. He used to be a military trainer, and I believe he’s got just the right sort of discipline that our team needs. The sort to make us work together like a real team, instead of a bunch of individuals kicking a ball around.”

Instantly, there was a tension in the room, a weight that hung heavy in the air as all eyes went to Sabra. Like it or not, she was part of the soccer team, and one of the best players, too. While she wasn’t team captain, she had enough pull to cause trouble if she didn’t want to go along with Martinique’s plan. With her support, though, well, anything might be possible.

“Until our next game, Sabra,” Martinique threw out a lifeline to the other girl’s pride. “That’s a little less than two weeks now. Every day after school, we all get together at Spike’s junkyard, and we train, and we do just what he tells us, no questions asked. If we lose the next game,” she shrugged, “well, so much for that plan. But if we win…”

“You really want to win, don’t you?” asked Sabra, a light smile curling her lip, but this time not in scornful mockery. “Don’t wanna graduate without taking home the trophy, huh?”

“It’s my last chance,” Martinique admitted, her expression sad. “But we’ve still got enough games left in the season for us to get that winner’s cup.”

“Yeah, if we don’t lose anymore,” Sabra answered, and the old scorn was back…but not as heavily as before. Now it was tinged with…was that respect? Grudging, perhaps, but yes, it was. “All right, I’ll give this Spike a try. No questions asked. Two weeks, and one more game to decide it all. You satisfied?”

“Thanks, Sabra,” was all Martinique said, but there was a weight in those words that went far beyond mere language.

“What did my mother always say?” Priss asked herself quietly as she walked from the showers, buffing her towel over her supple body. “In for a penny, in for a pound’? Well this time I’m in it for the whole sixteen tons!”

“Hey, Priss!”

Bird had somehow detached herself from Willi, and one look at the tall, gorgeous blonde’s face was enough to let Priss know that she had something serious to say. After all, they’d sort of grown up together, even if they’d fallen apart a little in highschool, each of them interested in their own set of friends. Really, it was more Bird’s siblings, the twins Amber and Pearl, and Priss’ own twin sibs, Ami and Ani, who were the friends, the connecting point between the Phelps’ and the Martens’ families. Still, there was a lingering connection, and somehow Priss could sense that it was about to become something more in the all-too-near future.

Still naked, the two girls moved to one of the quiet corners of the locker room, away from the bustle of teenagers trying to get to lunch as fast as possible. It wasn’t hard, of course: the locker room was huge, and had lots of out-of-the-way spots that were hard to notice, as the Queen Bees had demonstrated repeatedly in their efforts to keep the rest of the school under their collective thumbs. Once she was sure that they weren’t going to be interrupted, Bird gave Priss a smile.

“Thanks, Priss,” was what she said. “This really means a lot to Martinique.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Priss returned, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. “No big deal…though,” a naughty little smirk played across her face, “I’d guess you’re probably more glad of the things I didn’t say back there, huh?”

Instantly Bird’s face colored, and Priss felt a cold bolt run through her chest. Had she said too much? Gone too far?

“Cutty told me ‘n Martinique,” she explained hastily. “Huey’s not the kind to gossip, but he was pretty informative, too, once the secret was out. I mean, not that I’m judging you or anything, and we sure haven’t told anybody else,” she added, swallowing nervously as she realized her next question was going to come out, whether she liked it or not. “I mean…I guess…well…” She looked Bird right in her blue eyes. “What was it like?” Then she lowered her voice, leaning in close so that her words wouldn’t be overheard by anybody. “The sex, I mean.”

Bird’s smile was all Priss needed as answer, both to the question she’d asked, and to the ones she hadn’t. Right away, she knew without words that they were still friends, that she hadn’t stepped over an unforgivable line…and actually, she might have just taken their long-neglected relationship in a direction that was very strange indeed, if she continued down her present path, letting emotional inertia carry her along.

So Bird told her everything. Still naked, and soon alone in the locker room when Coach Cool shut her office door for her own lunch break, Bird and Priss just let it all out, Bird sharing all her experiences – and all her sex! – while Priss asked questions, but mostly just listened, wide-eyed and feeling steadily more wobbly in her slim, coltish legs.

“We…we really should get dressed and go to lunch,” Bird finally ended, lamely, her blush returning as she realized exactly what she’d shared with Priss, and what it could mean. “People are going to start wondering, and we’ve only got maybe a half-hour left now.”

Already the ponytailed blonde was turning away, and Priss couldn’t stop herself from looking her up and down from behind, taking in those flawless little muscles of her back and bottom as they flexed and swayed with each step. She felt as though she were seeing everyone for the first time, or with new eyes, and whole vistas of possibility were opening up for her in ways she’d never considered before. The Great Secret was out, and now Priss was one of the few who knew it.

“Hey, Bird,” she called out, glancing around to make absolutely sure there was nobody there to listen in.

Bird stopped, then turned to face the small-bodied redhead. Priss, for her part, hesitated for what felt like an infinite span of time, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Then, when she’d screwed up enough courage, she asked the big question that had been burning inside of her belly ever since yesterday:

“Can I try it out too?”

Bird grinned.

“You’ll have to ask Spike,” was her reply, before she walked back to the smaller girl, and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. “But I don’t think any of us will mind having you join us. I mean, I’ve learned this much from having a big family, and what I’ve learned from Spike and the others just reinforces it: love isn’t something you hoard, it’s something you share. And the more you share it, the more of it you have.”

“Well, yeah, sure,” Priss agreed with a grin of her own as she tugged on her shorts and t-shirt carelessly. “But I’ll bet it doesn’t hurt to have enough hot guys to go around, huh?”

“That does help,” laughed Bird.