By Kyell Gold
I spot her just after midnight.
I'm hanging out with the guys, drinking, laughing, joking, eyeing the cuties at the other end of the bar down at the Fang. Everyone knows the team goes there to drink every Friday night, and the ladies set up their own kind of buffet down at the end of the bar. We look, we pick, we take what we want. Forester U. isn't a big football school, but there are always a few girls ready to bed any jock that comes along.
I don't know how long she's been at the bar, but she's not giggling with the tigress who's been trying to catch my eye for an hour, and she didn't come back from the ladies' room with the sweet-looking bitch who just left with my bud Randy. She's alone at the bar, in between the girls and boys, sitting in her own little world, and the thing of it is, the thing that gets me about her, is that she doesn't seem to mind. She inhabits her world, fills it, and doesn't need the rest of us.
The squirrel beside her is clearly more desperate. She keeps shooting looks from under her painted eyelids from one group to the other, wondering if she can gain some status by hanging with the pretty girls, or if she'll have to wait for the last jock standing to match her desperation.
But the little vixen is different. She sips something colorless from a tall, thin glass, tipping it expertly into her narrow russet muzzle. Chocolate ears swallow the dim light, but occasionally I can see the white insides as they flick back and forth. I know she's listening to both groups, and now that I'm watching more closely, I can see the small curve of her smile.
"Hey. Hey! Dev?"
I snap back to Mike, the cougar who plays opposite me in the secondary. "Huh?"
"I said, are you gonna go with that one or not?" He jerks a thumb towards the tigress, with all the subtlety of a fawn-colored brick.
I look again at the vixen. She's wearing a plain white blouse, offset with a gold bracelet on one arm. Maroon skirt. Long, flowing, russet tail. "No."
"All right, I'm gonna go for it." He grabs my extended paw and shook it. "Seeya tomorrow."
"Yeah." I'm left with Jason and Eck, a wolf and coyote who back up our positions and the wideouts. They're looking at the fox, too, and then at me.
I was never much for foxes, to be honest. Little things, and they're always trying to outsmart you. Most of them think they're so fucking clever if they get you to say something stupid. Yeah, they're pretty, and they know it, but they're more trouble than they're worth.
The tigress takes another look at me, but my disinterest must be obvious, because she takes off with Mike.
Eck clears his throat. "Hey, uh, I was thinking about going for that fox."
"That's nice," I say, getting up. "You keep thinking about that."
Their mutters die down behind me as I walk up to the bar. The squirrel perks up for one hopeful moment, until I park myself on the other side of the vixen, then she slumps down again. I could give a shit.
Up close, the vixen is still striking, not one hair out of place. She pretends not to notice me at first, but I've timed it pretty well; she's just finishing her drink. "Buy you another?" I rumble.
She turns to me now, and her eyes are bright and blue. Contacts, I think, but god, they're gorgeous. So is the curve of her smile. "Actually," she says, in a low, husky voice that reminds me of Lauren Bacollie, "I'm about finished here. I was just going to head home."
"Oh." I can't tell whether this is a brush-off or not. Any other girl, I'd come right back with, "How about I join you?" but for some reason I'm hesitating here.
She looks straight ahead, so I can only see one eye. "This is the part where you offer to walk me home."
That voice is turning me on something fierce. "So, can I walk you home?"
She shrugs. "I know my own way, and I'm not drunk."
Damn foxes. Goddamn them. I'm about to walk away in disgust when I see that there's a sparkle in her eyes, a challenge, and maybe, just maybe, this time it'll be worth the trouble. "Yeah," I say, "But it's late, and dark. All kinds of unsavory people hanging around. I wouldn't want you to get assaulted."
"You don't think I can take care of myself?" Her chocolate-brown paw plays with the matchbook on the counter, nimbly threading it between her fingers. I imagine those fingers engaged in other activities and feel myself getting hard.
"I'm sure you can," I say, "but wouldn't it be more pleasant to let me take care of you?" I lay the double entendre on thick.
Maybe too thick. She hesitates. I decide to play a little of her own game with her, since she's obviously interested by now. "But, if you'd rather fly solo tonight." I pretend to get up.
She lets me get to my feet, even lets me get partway to the door. I hear her behind me as I'm passing the big jukebox at the front that's only there for show. "Well," she says, "if you're going to be leaving anyway."
I turn and see her leaning on the jukebox, small red purse over one arm, that satisfied grin on her muzzle. I offer my left arm, and she takes it, touching me for the first time.
Her arm is light but strong, and it feels good in mine. She barely comes up to my chest, but as we walk out of the place, I have the odd feeling that I am just an orange-and-black striped accessory, like the purse she has shifted to her other arm.
She lives in a run-down row house off campus, without a number or a mailbox, the kind where there are six rooms and twelve students and two bathrooms. She unlocks the door and flicks her tail, waiting for me to make the next move.
"Well...you're home." I look at the paint flaking off the door frame.
She gives me one of those smiles. "Are you going to ask me for a thank you for the escort?"
If I do, she'll drag me into one of those games again. So I don't ask.
Her muzzle is soft and sweet, and she doesn't resist my tongue. I reach down to hold her shoulders, and she wraps her arms around my waist. I respond to the soft brush of her tail against my legs by wrapping mine around hers, keeping her in my embrace.
"So you were only drinking water," I say when we part, panting.
She just smiles again and slides one of those delicate, able paws down my stomach, and doesn't stop when she reaches the throbbing hard-on below it. "I think you'd better come inside."
I can't say anything. I just follow her.
She leads me up two flights of stairs, that bushy tail bobbing enticingly in front of me. I want to take the stairs two at a time, three at a time, but she's walking slowly, her paws padding up the stairs. And it's here, in the close, empty space of the hallway, that I first notice something odd about her scent. She's tried to make it masculine, adding some kind of musk to her natural feminine musk and resulting in something in between.
That doesn't bother me. I've always liked the girls who can throw a ball and read a book, and a lot of them use touches of masculine scent to distinguish them from the bubbleheads who are mostly good for fucking and looking pretty. I already know she isn't one of those types.
Her apartment is clean and tidy, a big studio with a partly separate kitchen. I barely have time to register the Tomcat Selleck and the Beatles posters before she shuts the door and sets her purse on the small stand next to it.
"Now," she says, "I believe I was saying 'thank you.'"
We kiss again, a deep kiss, an amazing kiss. Her tongue winds around mine, her stomach rubs up and down against my hard-on until I whimper against her. I can't help myself.
She breaks the kiss and smiles at me, almost purring. "Poor kitty," she says. "Let me give you a paw."
Some noise escapes my throat, but I'm not sure what. She's got my pants open and down, and my boxers follow soon after. I can feel the stickiness on the inside as she takes them down. I'm leaking like a dorm radiator.
She applies both paws to it, trailing soft fingerpads down my whole length, claws teasing through the fur that covers my balls, tickling behind my sac and then around my thighs. She seems to have more than ten fingers. I can't separate out the sensations. I force out another moan, and she takes hold of my cock and stands up. "Let's go to bed," she says in that husky voice, and at that moment she could tell me to jump out the window and I'd be halfway to the ground before I realized anything was wrong.
Her bed is a couch that unfolds to a sleeper. She sits me on the edge and kneels between my legs, stroking me with both paws, but not firmly enough to move me along, just enough to arouse and tease. My tail thrashes against the sofa in search of something to wrap around. My paws grab her shoulders. And I see that slender muzzle move forward, the small pink tongue meeting my huge pink shaft, and the thrill is electric as she laps up the drips from my tip. Lots of girls don't like that; they'll jerk you off or let you screw 'em, but they don't want to do any licking, or oh god she takes me all the way into her mouth and I'm shuddering on the bed, it's so good.
She licks around with that soft tongue, sliding up and down and adding some suction, and my legs start to stamp the floor. I can't take much more of this, but I want to be inside her, want her against me. But I can't make her stop.
Finally, with an effort, I push her shoulders away. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel like she knows what I'm going to do even before I reach down and lift her onto the bed, straddling me. I scoot back so she can get her knees down around me and try to press her down onto my cock, but she resists for the first time.
I can't take my eyes from hers. There's a light in them and a smile on her muzzle. She must still have panties on. I slide a paw under the skirt and take my time, tracing claws up her thighs and legs, and then the outside of her hips.
She's not wearing panties.
I bring my paws in to her sex, heart beating, dick as anxious as the rest of me. And my fingers, expecting a slit, touch a furry pouch.
I stare at her. She's grinning now, one of those fox grins. I move my paw up and find a sheath and a very hard cock.
"Christ!" I swear and try to scoot back on the bed, but she--he--follows me and leans both paws on my shoulders.
"Come on, gorgeous," he says, his nose an inch from mine. "We're having such a nice time. I'll still let you fuck me."
His eyes hold me. I'm lying in bed with my paw on some other guy's cock, frozen. And then he leans down and kisses me, and it's every bit as good as before, and my mind is screaming, Get the fuck out of there!!!
but my dick is saying Get the fuck in there!!
There's no contest, really. Not at this stage, not when his tongue is melting my mouth and short-circuiting my brain. And when he pulls back and kisses my nose and says, "Nobody ever has to know," I just nod mutely.
He grabs a tube of something and smears it behind him, under his tail. I can smell it faintly, something arousing. I'm still holding his cock and he's wriggling in my paw. Then he takes mine in his paw, his delicate, strong paws, and seats me under his tail, and I slide into him, and fireworks go off in front of my eyes.
I'm barely aware of thrusting back and forth into him. His lithe body squirms back and forth over mine, humping into my paw as he leans forward to kiss me again. I bring my legs up so I can get all the way into him, and for the first time he makes a noise of passion too, a squeaky moan into my mouth, his paws wrapping around me as we buck together in passion. All I can think about is pumping my hips into that tight, warm, slick space, and holding the fox as I yowl in climax, breaking free of our kiss as I spurt long and hard into him, my whole body tight and shuddering, an orgasm like I can't remember having ever.
I think I pass out for a minute. I am sprawled on the bed, still locked tight inside him, and my paw is still wrapped around his shaft, wet and sticky. Neither of us is moving. I open my eyes and see bright blue looking back. "You all right, gorgeous?" He's got that amused smile on him.
"Rrrrrryeah." I swallow, try to push away the connection between what my paw is holding and the beautiful muzzle in front of me as he leans forward to kiss me again, tenderly. The passion is still there, the awareness of our unbroken intimate contact, but it's restrained, exhausted.
"So you just made love to another guy," the fox says to me. "You seemed to like it, too."
He's trying to provoke me, but I'm too mellow right now to be provoked. "Whatever," I murmur.
"You done this before?"
I shake my head, and that seems to satisfy him. He kisses my nose. "Well, you were damn good. I'm gonna go clean up for a few minutes. If you're not here when I get back...that's okay. Just want you to remember this."
Remember?! I tense again and can't repress a moan as he slides off me, his rear squeezing my sensitive cock exquisitely and finally releasing me. My tail sweeps the bed contentedly.
He's gone for a while, during which I trace the patterns of the water damage on his ceiling and drift off into a pleasant haze. I consider leaving, but the post-orgasmic bliss is too nice to ruin it with activity.
When he comes back, he's wearing boxers and nothing else. I peer at him curiously. How could I have mistaken him for female? He's walking differently, acting differently now that the secret is out. Tail still arched, but it's not swinging as much; his hips don't sway. It's almost like he's a different fox, like I was just fucking his sister. But his eyes are the same bright blue, and his smile is the same when he sees me on the bed, and this time it's a genuine sweet smile, or else maybe my addled brain isn't capable of seeing smugness. "Want to get that shirt off?" he says softly, and I nod. He helps me with that, wipes off my stomach and cock with a soft cloth, and put my boxers back on, and then says, "I don't have anywhere else to sleep."
I wave a paw, not caring. He slides into the bed and spoons back against me, that fluffy tail between us, my sheath pressed up against his rump. I let my arm flop across him because there doesn't seem to be anywhere better for it to be. And then I'm asleep.
Five in the morning. I wake up from a dream that I just fucked another guy and find him across the bed from me, his tail tickling my arm. Cold panic grabs me. I get out of bed without waking him up, find my clothes folded neatly next to the bed, and take off. I dress in the hallway and go down the stairs as lightly as I can.Nobody else has to know
, he said. My thoughts are in a whirl as I walk down three streets without seeing them, finally finding a landmark in the dim pre-dawn light and heading for my dorm.
Damn right nobody else has to know. If he tries coming around the team, blackmailing me...he better not mess with me. Or what if he comes around wanting more? Shit! I clutch my head in my paws. I'll deal with that when it happens. I'll tell him he's got the wrong tiger. I'll pretend not to recognize him. I'll help my teammates beat the crap out of him.
What the hell did he think he was doing, anyway? Didn't he know I'd be furious? What if I'd taken a swing at him? I could've ripped his balls off right there. I could've broken his jaw. Little fucking fox, trying to put one over on the big stupid tiger. Well, just let him try again. Let him fucking try.
I stalk into the dorm, tail a-twitch, paws balled into fists. Five-twenty a.m. The 'roo at the desk recognizes me, doesn't ask for ID. Good thing. I'd probably explode at him. I get back to the room I share with Randy and thank god he's still asleep. I can smell the thick scent of his come in the room and I guess he got a nice handjob, because I can smell the bitch, too. I throw myself down on my bed and try not the let the scent remind me of the fox.
"Hey, how was that vixen?" Randy asks me during practice. "Hope you got better than what I got. She was all okay to jerk me off, but I couldn't get her to open up. Frigid bitch."
I jerk, my body coursing with a brief memory of last night's pleasure again. Aftershock: third one since leaving the fox's place this morning. "Nah, she was just a tease. How did you know?"
"Eck." He jerks his muzzle to the coyote, who's watching us with the combination of hunger and envy that characterizes a good backup. He's only a frosh; he'll be starting when I graduate for sure. Jason seems to like being on the bench. Probably he'll stay there.
"Yeah, she was just...I walked her to her place...got a kiss..." I trail off. And another kiss, and another... "Uh, that was it."
Randy laughs. "De-nied!" he says, and thank god coach grabs us to run a play because I wouldn't be able to laugh with him.
As it is, I get pancaked twice in practice. Once when I get hit with another aftershock, and once when I look up at the sky and see the bright blue of a passionate look. The second time, coach tells me to hit the pine and taps Eck, not Jason, to take my place.
I'm paranoid in the shower that I'll get a hard-on looking at the other guys, but I don't. Same as it ever was. None of them turn me on one bit. I flutter back to anger at the fox. Somehow he tricked me into getting aroused by him, when I'm clearly not gay.
To prove it, I call up the memory of a sweet cheerleader I screwed last week and jerk off in the shower that night in the dorm, panting and leaning against the wall. I clean up my spunk, kicking it down the drain, and feel satisfied that I didn't think about the fox once.
Pride goeth before destruction, they say.
The following week is an absolute nightmare. I wake up in bed hard Monday morning and I think I smell him in the room, but it's only the residue of a dream I don't remember. That I was dreaming about him and waking up hard worries me a bit, but I can't stop thinking about him. I try to get angry again, but I can't see the smugness any more. I just see that sweet smile, feel that tightness around my cock, that soft muzzle of his, the way he pressed into me while we (made love)
fucked. I sit in class and try to express my memories in abstract doodles, covering a page with them and only realizing when the students around me get up that I have no idea what was covered.
Tuesday I fail a test.
Wednesday Randy asks me if I'm in love. I punch him in the stomach. We get into it and I feel better for about an hour. Afterwards, we go out for beers and I'm lost again.
Thursday I give up on classes and track down that cheerleader. I figure maybe some good old-fashioned normal sex will get the damn fox out of my mind. She's a perky raccoon, with a great rack and a great attitude, and she's a fucking lousy lay. I set a land speed record getting out the door after it's over.
Friday I give up and go back to the bar with the guys.
We're sitting in our group and the girls are in theirs and the squirrel's at the bar, alone. I can't follow the conversation, and eventually the guys stop trying to include me. I wander over to the squirrel again, in the middle of the bar, and she looks around to see if there's anyone else there, then gives me the wide eyes again. "Buy a gal a drink?"
"Yeah." I signal the bartender. "Shot of Wild Turkey and one of whatever she's having." I lay down the money.
Interested now, the squirrel straightens up. I try not to gag on her perfume. "So you don't like the taste of fox?"
I wince. Even the conversation the boys were having about which Quentin Ferretino movie is the best was better than that, and that one consisted mostly of quoting their favorite bits with gunshot noises. "Do you know her? The fox who was in here last week?"
The bartender sets down my shot, and some light beer in front of the squirrel. I down my shot before he has a chance to walk away. The squirrel gets a sneer on her face. "No, I didn't know the stuck-up priss."
"Fine. Enjoy the beer." I stand up and walk out, ignoring her muttered "asshole" and Randy's "hey, Dev." For a minute, outside in the night, I worry that he'll follow me, but maybe he remembers Wednesday and doesn't want to get into it again. He'd rather be in the arms of one of the two big-breasted bitches at the other end of the bar. I wish that was all I wanted.
I try to find the row house again, but there are no numbers on the street and they all look alike. I don't even know why I'm looking. I want to yell at the fox. I want to hold him. I want to grab him by the throat and tell him to get the fuck out of my head. I want to kiss him again. A ferret asks me if I'm lost as I wander from one front porch to another, and I say, "Pal, you don't know the half of it." He leaves me alone.
I find what I'm sure is the right house three times. Each time I stand there for fifteen minutes trying to figure out if the pattern of the peeling paint is familiar or not. I peer at the names on the mailboxes when I can see them, but I don't even know the little fucker's name, and they don't put "little faggot fox" on the listings. Plenty of people come home while I'm looking around the porches, but only one fox, and she is definitely a vixen. For real.
At 12:30 in the morning I find a cross street that looks exactly the same as the street I've been wandering up and down for two hours. I look at all the row houses on that street and find the right house two more times.
At 1:30 in the morning I go back to the bar and snag the first girl I see who isn't attached and isn't the painted squirrel. I take her back to my room and we go at it, and it's fine. It's not great. It's not fireworks. I kick her out at 3, get back to bed and lie there staring at the ceiling. I get the crazy idea that if I bring a pair of binoculars and look through the upper story windows, I could find the ceiling that has the specific pattern of water damage I remember and then I'd know where he lives. I go so far as to check online to see where I can get a pair of binoculars close by, and I realize that I have gone completely around the bend. I'm sitting at my desk at four in the fucking morning shopping for binoculars so I can look for the ceiling of the apartment where I had the only gay experience of my life. Not to mention how crazy I would look walking up and down the street looking through third floor windows. Christ.
I need to find that fox. I want him out of my head, and one way or another, I'm gonna get what I want.
Saturday practice is another disaster. I'm running on two hours sleep and coach bumps me down to the second team for the last drills of the day, where I get paired with a frosh backup wideout who is a red fox. He's not my fox, though; he's about six feet tall and only has to tilt his head a bit to look me in the eye. Plus he's got a deep voice. But he has the same slender muzzle, and twice I get caught imagining it sliding over my cock and lose my focus.
I wait to take my shower until the rest of the team is gone.
I don't know what else to do. I go back to the street during the day, this time borrowing Randy's car. I park at seven o'clock and sit in the car watching the whole street, everyone who comes and goes.
Eight-thirty. A policewolf comes over and asks if I need any help. I say I'm waiting for a friend from the football team. He checks my ID and leaves me alone. Thank god there are some fans in this town.
Nine-twenty. Two male foxes show up, laughing and talking. They walk right past my car and go into the building three doors down. Neither one is him. I'm pretty sure. I make a note of the building anyway.
Ten-forty-three. I sit up in my seat. It's him. There's no question. As soon as I see him turn the corner, the way he walks, the way he holds his tail, I know. My body knows with a jolt like an electric shock. He's dressed in a trim blue button-down shirt and khaki pants, carrying a worn backpack over one shoulder. No pretense of being a woman now. My claws extend, punching holes in Randy's seat. I can't see his expression, but I know he's got that cocky smile on him.
It isn't until he's halfway to my car that I register that he's not alone. He's walking with some tall mustelid, ferret or weasel or something, and damn if the first thing I feel isn't what the fuck is he doing with that guy?
Of course, what I mean by that, I rationalize, is if they go into a building together, it might be the weasel's place.
They don't. They pause at the front of one of the houses. The fox climbs the first stair so he can look his weasel friend in the eye. They talk for a few minutes and then the weasel moves on.
And that's the right house, I remember now. That's undoubtedly the one. My heart beats faster.
The fox goes inside. The weasel clears the street and turns the corner, out of sight. I get out of the car.
I walk to the house just like I live there. Big problem: the door's locked. I stare through the door. There are names on the mailboxes, but the apartment numbers just go 1, 2, 3. I can't figure out whether he's R. Michaelson or W. Farrel. And I can't get in.
No problem. I'll just go through the fire escape.
It occurs to me yet again, as I find the hallway window ajar and squirm my way through it, that I am pretty far gone. Fortunately, I'm also far past caring.
I might not have recognized the building, but when I get to the third floor, I know which door is his. It might have a tiger magnet in it, with the force it's pulling me to it. I knock before I know what I'm doing, before I've figured out what I'm going to say. I can't wait a minute longer, and besides, I could stand here for another four hours and not figure out what I'm going to say.
His scent hits me a moment before he opens the door. I get a moment of surprise in his baby blues before he sizes up the situation and relaxes into a smile. "Well. Devlin Miski. How did you get in?"
I'm thrown off guard by him knowing my name. "Uh. Fire escape."
There's a twinkle of humor looking back at me now. "I see. Back for more, or back to beat up the faggot?"
I can't give voice to the maelstrom of emotions in my chest. "What the fuck are you playing at?" I yell, louder than I mean to.
His eyes flick to the opposite door, and he shrugs. "The jocks at this school crack me up. You're Division II football, for the love of God. You're not even in sniffing distance of playing professionally, but you strut around like you own this town. Despite our enlightened culture, you still go around making faggot jokes and beating up queers."
"I had nothing to do with that!" He's talking about some incident last year, something everyone forgot about. "Coach kicked the guys off the team."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs again. "Getting kicked off the football team. Whoop de doo. I got a kick out of the idea that I'd get one of you in bed, so I could tell my friends about it, maybe give you something to think about."
Again, the slight hesitation, and now I'm quick enough to see him surprised before he recovers. "Look, whatever you want, let's get it over with, okay?"
"I don't know what I want!" I howl. My claws are out and in, out and in, and my tail is lashing.
He looks at me and gives me the throaty Lauran Bacollie again. "Well, handsome, come back and see me when you do."
He starts to close the door. I can't let him walk away and I can't follow him. I can't sleep with women and I can't sleep with guys. I'm caught in between worlds, pulled in every direction, and it's tearing me to pieces.
I wedge my foot into the door. He backs away a couple steps. I scream at him, "You've ruined me for women!"
We stand and look at each other for an eternity. Slowly, he gets that cocky smile on his muzzle, but there's a sad sweetness behind it too. "Oh, honey," he says, and reaches out with those gentle fingers to tickle my chin. "You were never for women."
He puts just the slightest stress on the last word. I stare at him. I want to wipe that smile off his muzzle. I want to slap his face, knock him down, make him take it back. I hate his smugness. I hate his scent. I hate the gulf between us, the fact that he's standing so perfectly in his world, where he belongs, and that I no longer know where I belong.
I hate the fact that he's right.
I step into his apartment and grab him. He squirms in the half-second before I press my muzzle to his, then he melts into the kiss.
It's like a drink of water after a full practice. It's stepping into air conditioning on a hot summer day. It's a steaming cup of hot chocolate with frost on the windows. It's all that combined, times a hundred. It's passion. It's fireworks. It's so good I forget everything, even where I am, until I hear the slam of the door behind me and feel the fox's leg withdrawing from kicking it shut.
I look down into his sparkling blue eyes and he's grinning that smug, cocky grin again. So I pick him up and carry him over to the bed to do exactly what I know he wants me to do.