CLAW

Volume 1

Edited by Kirisis “KC” Alpinus

CLAW Volume 1

Production copyright FurPlanet Productions © 2018

Cover artwork copyright © 2018 by Teagan Gavet

Contextual Intercourse © 2018 by Erin Quinn

The Beating of Wild Hooves © 2018 by Dwale

The Church Mouse © 2018 by Madison Keller

Tempered © 2018 by Crimson Ruari

A Simple Wager © 2018 by Holly A. Morrison

Support © 2018 by Kristina “Orrery” Tracer

She Who Wears The Mask © 2018 by Tenza

Trophy Hunting Blueseiryuu

The True Villain © 2018 by Dark End

Smokey and the Jaybird © 2018 by Slip Wolf

Frontier Living © 2018 by Jeeves Bunny

Roses © 2018 by Searska Greyraven

The Tutor Learns © 2018 by Skunkbomb

Published by Bad Dog Books

An imprint of FurPlanet Productions

Dallas, Texas

FurPlanet.com

BadDogBooks.com

Print ISBN 978-1-61450-443-6

eBook ISBN 978-1-61450-444-3

First Edition Trade Paperback July 2018

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part in any form without written consent of the copyright holders. People, places, events, or organizations contained within these works are products of the author(s) imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Contextual Intercourse

  Erin Quinn

The Beating of Wild Hooves

  Dwale

The Church Mouse

  Madison Keller

Tempered

  Crimson Ruari

A Simple Wager

  Holly A. Morrison

Support

  Kristina “Orrery” Tracer

She Who Wears The Mask

  Tenza

Trophy Hunting

  BlueSeiryuu

The True Villain

  Dark End

Smokey and the Jaybird

  Slip Wolf

Frontier Living

  Jeeves Bunny

Roses

  Searska GreyRaven

The Tutor Learns

  Skunkbomb

About the Authors

About the Artist

About the publisher

About the editor

To Blue Eyes, Fourpaws, Kitten, & Aunt Re-Re. Thank you ladies for living your truths so boldly, that you opened my eyes to a world outside my own.

To my loving boyfriend, Ocean, who believed in me and dared me to brave the unknown.

To Searska, Arara, & Gullwulf who helped beta read the stories awaiting you.

To my parents, for encouraging me to read and write every day.

And to you, the reader, for supporting the authors who have poured their hearts, minds, and souls into this anthology.

Thanks.

Foreword

“Hey Fuzz, do you think FurPlanet would ever consider having a female companion anthology to FANG and call it FUR?”

—Me, FWA 2015

When I posed that question to FuzzWolf in the Dealer’s Den of Furry Weekend Atlanta, I didn’t think neither he, nor Teiran, would take me seriously. For starters, I had just had my first two stories accepted into anthologies, had little editing experience, and had only been writing in the fandom for less than a year. I was a newbie writer and while my writing mentor, NightEyes DaySpring, could more or less vouch that I wasn’t completely crazy, Fuzz really couldn’t trust that I would be able to deliver. As I said, I didn’t have a lot (read any) experience in editing stories and I was a relative upstart to the furry writing community. But what I lacked in experience, I made up for in ambition, dreams, and drive (or heaping helping of crazy).

What you are holding in your hands is the culmination of three years of planning, soliciting, reading, pitching, and research, and that’s only on my part. The authors, who have so graciously submitted their works, have spent countless hours perfecting their stories (not to mention having me bork at them from Twitter) and they deserve your support. I truly hope that the ladies within these stories take you for a ride and leave you wanting more.

May you enjoy this anthology and I hope that it inspires, intrigues, but most importantly, turns you on.

Many borks,

Kirisis “KC” Alpinus

Contextual Intercourse

Erin Quinn

Her hands are magic. Gliding, sliding, and gently grazing those sensitive areas around her eyes, I question if what I’m watching is real. The nimblest actions my paws ever do is stuff vegetables into plastic cups for people to eat on their way to work; what she’s doing is unfathomable.

“Now I gotta take a minute to thank my sponsor, FurNew, who supplied all this amazing shadow we’re working with today. Thanks guys! If you’d like to see more videos just like this, use the code “CASS” at checkout at FurNew dot com. That’s FurNew, for a new you.”

I tap a claw against my laptop’s spacebar, pausing the video so I can examine my attempts at mimicry.

“As if I can buy FurNew,” I mumble while focusing on the drug store fur shadow wiped under both my eyes. A little foundation to prep the large black patches which take up way too much of my face, a few expertly placed wipes of white and gray powders, and I’d have eyes that would really pop. No thief mask for me!

I mean, that was the intention. Cassandra has a million online subscribers based on being able to help girls like me. Well, sort of like me.

“Blair, it’s been a half hour. Can I please come in?” Dyna’s baritone voice is sprinkled with that particular anxiety that comes from spending time in a public hallway in very, very, short shorts. I wanted this look to be a surprise. I want them to be proud of me. They were happy to wait.

For about ten minutes.

I close my laptop, resigning myself to the fact that a fifth view of “Popping Spotlight Eyes! Raccoon girl’s BEST 2017 Look! *Sponsored Content” was not in my future, and march to the door. It only takes a few steps before the tight, awful, gross, one-size-too-small men’s speedo I’m wearing rubs wrong against the bits and pieces I’m trying to ignore. I think about the lacy black panties I’m wearing over the entire contraption, which brings out a smile.

“Oh? Done so soon?” They say, faux casually leaning against my door way.

“Just get your ass in here…” I say, then with a bit of dread, “and tell me what you think.”

They spin around and I’m instantly jealous. Tight red latex shorts, perfectly shined, matching thigh high stockings accompanied by black heels, and a top which zipped down the front and left a bit of soft mid-riff visible, happily pushing over the brim of their shorts. It was a great look, even their antlers are accented with glitter. I’m jealous, and I miss Dyna’s response to my question.

“Blair?”

“Oh yeah, I tried, but it’s a mess, I know, I know.” Makeup is hard, especially when it terrifies you.

“Sweetie,” Dyna says, shooting me a confused look from their warm brown eyes, “your outfit is great.”

I look down and am unmoved. I couldn’t begin to count how many times they’ve seen me in this same combination of long puffy black skirt and tight black shirt with an indie band logo on it.

“These were from my laundry bin…the dirty one.”

“Then all the more reason to get them dirtier tonight!” They stomp a hoof and I motion to watch the noise, pointing at the floor. I don’t need any more notes from my landlord. Please, enough with the notes.

Despite my hesitation, I try and circle back to my original question.

“I meant my eyes,” I ask them.

“They look pre—”

“I was following this video and I know I messed up and it sucks, but this makeup is junk and this fur is so black and gross and I’m gross and—”

They’ve placed a hoof on my muzzle. I sigh, inhale, and attempt to stop my racing, heart, mouth, and head.

“Let’s just have fun. This party only happens once a season, and I’m not letting you miss it again. I promise, you are going to be bombarded with compliments and paws dying to get all over you,” Dyna says.

“That…is my hope,” I say to them and to myself. Maybe I have a shot at a sexy, fun, flirty night, even with the finger paintings under my eyes.

***

“You’re with me, so shut up,” Dyna says as we cross a set of railroad tracks. I’m secretly wishing we could have just stopped at my favorite bookstore, or coffee shop, or…oil change place? Yeah, that feels less nerve racking.

“But I look like a dweeb,” I say, kicking a rock forward with my rainbow-laced pinked Converse.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re with me, so we’re getting in.” Dyna is nothing if not steadfast.

“Wait, so I do look like a dweeb?”

I motion. “No one says ‘dweeb’ anymore, we’re not in junior high.”

I punch their arm.

“You’re still not answering.”

They stop, taking my shoulders and making sure I face them. Well, I have to look up, and I’m seized by the fact that this deer, big antlers, glitter, and too tight shorts, doesn’t give a fuck what anyone else is thinking about them.

“One, you look great. Two, I am proud of you. Three, you have a great butt. So, we are going to dance, and sing, and dance.”

“You said dance twice,” I say with a smile.

They lean down until our noses bop.

“Because I am excited.”

I look down at between their legs.

“Indeed you are.”

I am rewarded with a playful shove away and a companion who uses their superior stride to move ahead of me.

“Whatever, you ain’t getting any from this deer.”

“Don’t flatt…oh whatever.” I kick another rock. Lucky rock, they don’t have to go out.

Maybe the confidence will rub off on me. Maybe that was the worst word choice possible. Maybe I should stop thinking about Dyna’s pants. It’s easier than thinking about mine.

Then my guilt catches up with me.

“I’m sorry,” I call out, as they’re still walking ahead, adding an effortless skip here and there.

Dyna stops and waits for me to catch up.

“About?” they ask.

“Making a sex joke?”

They shake their head, chuckling and somehow making me feel both more nervous and at ease.

“I’ve heard dirtier sex jokes. I’ve heard more offensive ‘jokes’, and I’ve had outright bullshit said to me. You know that. Relax, you’re just all pent up and worried,” they say.

“Just give me your confidence, I’ll return it by the end of the night.”

“Can’t, I need it, desperately. Besides, everyone is different, so what makes me feel great may not work for you,” they say.

“I guess so, I could never embrace my body like you do yours.” I adjust my skirt and feel my chest. Long live A cups and padded bras. Very padded bras.

“You don’t have to if you’re not ready,” they say, “We’re both works in progress, especially me, okay?”

They smile, giving my paws a reassuring squeeze. Then there’s a loud honk and a cup flying through the air, which lands right on one of Dyna’s antlers, pouring soda down onto their face. They turn to the car before it accelerates away, tail flicking back and forth and legs tightening. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t put it past Dyna to charge and try to gore the car, but before they can even take a step forward, tail lights are disappearing over the horizon.

“Fuck you!” they say as loud as possible. A light turns on in the apartment building across the street, and my fur stands on end for a moment, but nothing comes of it. I’m quiet when I shouldn’t be.

Dyna lets out one more swear and continues on, walking with the same long stride as earlier, only this time dragging me along. I stumble for a moment before I’m able to keep pace.

“Sorry—”

“No sorrys, you didn’t do that shit. Fuck those guys, not worth my time. Couldn’t handle this anyway and…” they trail off and stop.

“Damn right, you look so great, and like, they don’t eve—”

They cut me off again, and I can hear cracks in one of the sturdier foundations I know.

“Could you just get this fucking cup off my antlers.”

They bend over, and I take the cup off, tossing it in the waste basket outside our destination.

“Thank you, Blair,” they say.

“Of course.” I’m offered a hug and happily accept.

I want to enjoy the tenderness, but dubstep rears its thumping head. The door of the venue (a converted warehouse that still has the signage for a food packaging company that’s long since left town) keeps opening and closing, giving our ears a preview of what awaits. If Dyna was a bit shorter, I’d be able to see inside as well, but that’s fantasy talk.

I want to hug longer, but Dyna breaks our embrace and we head to the door. Their ID is checked, so is mine, and I’m quietly pleased that the incongruence of my gender marker to actual presentation isn’t questioned. I think the staff is more concerned with getting our five dollars and putting on wrist bands. I’m considering this a little victory. I’ll take any I can get.

I place a paw on the door to head in, turning to hold it open for Dyna. But they’re still with staff, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out the conversation.

“It’s not she! It’s They/Them, it’s not hard, I just told you!”

“Sure, okay, just go have fun, dude,” the wolf working the door says.

“Asshole,” they shove their ID back into their purse, and I can hear a small hiss coming from Dyna. The wolf’s grin hasn’t disappeared, and I imagine how this will escalate. Dyna will verbally slap this guy down and I’m surprisingly excited for it; this isn’t shit they take.

But it doesn’t come. Their shoulders lower and they grab my paw, yanking us into the mess of smoke and lights. Maybe we both need to disappear for a night.

I hadn’t smelled this many scents and musks mixed together since high school gym class, and even then, it wasn’t this sexy. Every space on the dance floor is filled with people, by themselves, in couples, in triads, in masses of fur and tails and claws that I shouldn’t even try to label. The stained concrete floor has been transformed into a canvas for physical expression. Near the far wall is a table and number of coolers stocked full of drinks, both alcoholic and not.

The dancers are observed by a brave few who have scaled leftover lifts and scaffolds from the building’s industrial days. Lights have been set up, a mix between soft white lights and Christmas lights purchased on clearance. Pulled into it all, I’m easily overwhelmed by this makeshift menagerie.

My best hope is to stay next to Dyna. Keeping a firm grip on me, she wades through the crowd, while I throw out an “excuse me” to everyone even my whiskers touch. I don’t think anyone notices or cares. Hopefully someone finds that endearing.

We find open space and Dyna is comfortable enough to let go of me and start dancing. I shuffle my feet and wave my tail, but mostly watch them. They have a grace which would be noteworthy from here to a ballet stage, well, if you replaced a bump and grind with pliés. I’m thinking of this to distract me from checking out my best friend’s ass. That would be weird, right? They like showing it off. I don’t blame them.

It’s easy to get distracted. A cute, short squirrel shakes her hips and sways her tail, which is being rubbed up and down by an adoring pair of foxes. Looks like one male and one vixen. That’s a lovely sight.

Even lovelier, in my opinion, is the DJ. I watch the red panda on the stage as I try to twist and twirl along with her beats. She’s moving between keyboards and her laptop, which is connected to a hard drive. Everything’s outlined in neon lights, including her body; red lights around her ears and dangling from around her neck, green and purple glowing bracelets around her wrists, and a tail which has bright red rings fixed where the normal ring patterns in her fur would be. My knees would be turning to jelly if they weren’t being powered by her music.

I hold my skirt and spin, letting it flare out, and drawing a whistle, which is surprising, but welcome. There’s an urge in my throat to yell at the stage and thank her for coaxing some energy out of me or say anything at all, but my mouth is dry. Any wetness in my body has been transferred elsewhere. My exhales are noticeably louder and longer. The space between my legs is starting to ache in this sea of arousal.

While I can’t yell a thank you, I can dance closer. I spin and skip closer to the stage, until I’m up against it and I can feel the heat increase. Bodies packed tighter together, sweat dripping from one’s fur to another, and I worry my eye makeup might run and leave me with my everyday “bandit mask.” The worries soon leave me, whisked away by the vision of the DJ, closer now than before.

And she looks back at me.

My tail curls around my hips, until the tip is pressing between my legs. She smiles, and I think I muster a smile back. She leans to her left and hits something on their set up. The lights change to different shades of red, the music slows to a pulsing thump. She takes a drink of water, and as our eyes lock once more, she lets a little drip down her front. I lick my lips. She does the same.

The squirrel pulls me from the moment, her tail moves in my direction. She smiles at me as well, and I wonder if this is how Dyna must feel, all this attention from all these beautiful creatures. The squirrel’s lovely, lush, fluffy tail caresses down my front, against my shirt, against my skirt. I hope the DJ is watching.

The throb snaps me back. I crash against the conflict of what I want and what I am. Arousal flips into frustration, and I push away her tail. She stops smiling and goes back to the foxes.

My eyes dart around the dance floor. My body urges to respond to the pleasurable sensations all around me and I hate it for that. I curse myself, wishing I had a better solution than stupid speedos. Stupid tucking. Stupid body.

I look towards Dyna, dancing against a skunkette. They have seemingly danced off the troubles of earlier, once again fully themselves, fully confident. They push closer to the skunk, starting to grind against his thigh. Dyna doesn’t fear whatever is in between their legs; they haven’t bundled it up. They aren’t adjusting themselves every two minutes in fear of someone noticing. They have a confidence I can only pretend to have; and while I found it inspiring just minutes earlier, now I can’t watch Dyna without feeling my body tense, my eyes water, and my own confidence shatter.

It takes some pushing, but I make my way to the wall furthest from the dance floor.

This is Dyna’s space. I’m glad they have it. I can stay on the fringes while cursing most parts of my body. I can observe, take in all the hotness, and there’s a huge cooler of water next to me. See hot action, stay hydrated and cool, this is my motto to deal with my trembling knees and incessant foot tapping.

“You should go out there,” I tell myself, taking a sip from my third cup of water.

“I agree, want to dance?”

How loud did I say that? Why did I say that out loud? I look to my right and find myself nearly nose to nose with a beautiful calico. She smiles at me, brushing a paw against mine, and I’m met with that bittersweet mix of ‘this is already turning me on’ and ‘oh shit, I am feeling physical arousal’. I shift my hips to try and adjust my lower half without using paws. I don’t want a repeat of the squirrel.

“You look a little lonely,” she says, sliding a bit closer to me. Her jean-clad hips bump into mine and my eyes divert from hers to glance at what is a very slender figure and a bust I instantly envy.

There’s a heat rising in my cheeks. I took more than a glance; I am obvious. My gray and black tail twitches. Am I sweating already?

She giggles and brushes a paw through the fur on the top of my head.

“You’re a nervous raccoon, aren’t you?” she says.

“It’s my first time here. I’m Blair,” I say.

She finishes the drink in her other paw and drops the cup on the ground. I watch it fall because it’s less panic-inducing than looking at her. My tail won’t stop swishing, and the tightness between my legs switches from annoying to uncomfortable as my arousal from these little touches can’t hide any longer.

“You know, Blair,” she says, pushing closer so we meet chest to chest; her curvy, voluptuous breasts pushing against my smaller, perky pair, giving me waves of excitement and jealousy, “first times have to be memorable.”

I inhale sharply, working up the nerve to look up at her, just in time to feel her lips against mine. I close my eyes. Her rough tongue slips expertly into my mouth and begins to tussle with my own. The warmth from her body comes in waves, coursing through me with each pet across my muzzle, my face, and the back of my head. She scratches my ears in a way that goes further than any heavy petting I did in high school. She purrs louder, and it causes me to shudder. If not for the wall I had attached myself to, I’d be a puddle.

When she breaks the kiss, my knees bend, weighed down by the desire for more. But I keep steady, my paws in hers, allowing her to drag me from my hiding place and into the bathroom.

“What are we-wow…I mean,” I stammer, blissfully disoriented from just a few moments of making out.

She can tell.

I let her lead, happy just to be on the ride. The restroom is small but empty, there’s a counter with two sinks and two stalls opposite, the doors cracked open enough to confirm we aren’t invading anyone’s space.

“Up you go, cutie,” she says while holding my hips and helping boost me onto the counter. Her paws reach my thighs, feeling over my skirt and making me yearn to feel her soft pads against my fur. I pull my skirt up above my knees, and she wastes no time rubbing my exposed thighs. The warmth shoots up into my well-padded sex. I want to embrace it, I want to ignore it, this bittersweet throb which is both pulling me in and pulling me out of everything she does.

Then I feel it. Rough, lovely licks against my soft inner thighs. I pant and grip the counter, my back arching until the back of my head touches the mirrors. My mind ping pongs between excitement and panic. Maybe she won’t say anything, maybe I should say something. I gasp, yelping and popping my hips up against her tongue. Her whiskers tickle me, my toes curl. She moves closer to what feels like, in this moment, the center of my being.

She screams.

“What the fuck?” her head shoots up as quickly as it shot down. She stands and backs up, fur on end and tail flicking.

I scramble and yank my skirt down, trying to sit up and ending up sliding off the counter. I catch myself before I land on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I can explain—”

“You’re a fucking guy.”

My eyes go wide, and I start backing up to the door.

“No, no, I’m transgender. We were going so fast. I’m a girl, my parts are just diff—”

“You have a goddamn penis,” she hisses. “Fucking, like, how the fuck can you go around fooling—”

“I’m not fooling anyone, I’m trans and—”

“Trying to take women’s spaces, you pervert!” She reaches into a stall, and a roll of toilet paper hits me.

My body has turned on me. The pleasure is gone, drained out in a matter of seconds. I feel betrayed. The door to the women’s room slams behind me as I run outside, ignoring the staff. I want to run home, but my feet fail just as the rest of me has, and I tumble to the ground.

***

I’ve been crying in the grass and dirt, clawing into the ground in a vain attempt to hide myself. The music changes as the DJ ends her set and the dancers cheer. I listen to the doormen welcome people in and wish others goodnight. People pass by, and I’m sure most just assume I had too much to drink. I wish I had, then I could forget tonight.

“Need a hand?” My ears perk at the offer.

“Fuck you,” I say in this half angry, half sobbing voice. I don’t even look up, but I can imagine whoever offered is smirking, amused by this mess of a raccoon. I’ll probably be on someone’s social media in the morning.

Are the people by the door talking about me, the silly raccoon “girl” flopped over in the dirt? Has that calico told the entire club about me? Maybe Dyna will come find me once word of the guy pretending to be a girl spreads around.

I roll over and sit up in the dirt, bottles and cigarette butts scattered around me.

“Great, I’m literally surrounded by trash,” I sob. Just another thing for someone to see and say about me. The normal thing to do would be to stand up and walk home, but I can’t leave Dyna hanging.

I bring a paw up to my eyes and wipe them, cursing that I ever decided to come out. Maybe one of these bottles still has something in it? I reach out to one, which is reflecting a bit of a red glow. Which is coming from behind me, causing me to turn around and lean back on my paws.

“Blair?” says the DJ from earlier. The one I couldn’t stop looking at. The one I’m sure already heard about the gender confused deviant who harassed a girl in the restroom.

“Okay, that’s me,” I respond. “Look, whatever you heard, I’m transgender and it wasn’t—”

“I’m sorry about that bitch.” She offers a paw and I hesitantly accept. “I talked to the event staff and we kicked her out for spreading that garbage.”

“Um, thanks. Sorry I cursed at you just now,” I say, looking in her dark, small eyes. She still had the neon necklace on, and the colored rings attached around her tail. “I liked your set, did more dancing than I thought.”

“That’s always great to hear. It’s a really good crowd tonight,” she said. “By the way, I’m Marcy. Do you want to go back in? I’m done for the night, so we could hang out?”

Her voice raises in a way I didn’t expect, and I wonder if this isn’t just a pity offer. I push out a smile and my tail joins hers in swaying. I nod, and seconds later, I feel her paw in mine.

“Oh,” she giggles and yanks hers away, “I’m sorry, is that…”

I reach back out, “It’s okay.”

We join paws again and begin walking towards the door.

“I always work to make my shows inclu—”

I cut her off, and the words come out of my mouth like a star-struck fangirl, “I love your tail lights. They’re so cool and sexy.”

She looks at me. The door staff looks at me. My tail thuds on the ground. My fur stands on end. It feels like it takes her hours to reply.

“That’s why I wear them,” she laughs and pulls me through the door. There’s no other reaction. Maybe the entire world isn’t elementary school.

Once we hit the dance floor, both our paws lock together. Arms extending towards the ceiling, she pushes against me, keeping her eyes locked on mine as we settle into an embrace. She’s already a mess of sweat and musk from performing, wearing a sleeveless shirt with her album logo hanging loosely from her shoulders, probably one size too big. I lean in against her neck and even with the music and chatter around us, I can hear her gasp as I sniff and lick. She already knows. She doesn’t seem to give a fuck about what’s in my pants. I feel bold.

Her tongue licks at my ear as I plant a few more kisses against her neckline. The rest of the room is disappearing into an anonymous silhouette of ears and tails, leaving me and this sexy, shining DJ. I taste her fur and skin, salty sweat and a scent dripping with energy. I want more.

When have I ever taken the lead? Not in high school, not in college, not earlier with the calico. So, what am I doing now, as I lead her off the dance floor back to the spot where I had previously enjoyed solitude? My mind tussles with itself, my instinct to guide her against the wall taking over as she’s panting and nodding encouragingly.

She kicks a leg up and around my hips, using it to pull me tighter as she returns the neck kisses from earlier. My paws scratch the back of her head, leaning in close to lick and take a playful nibble on one of her ears.

“Is-is that…” I pant.

“It is-yes, please, more,” she gasps while grazing her teeth against my skin. I lick along the angle of her ear, alternating kisses and the lightest of bites, while she does the same near my collarbone.

Then, my hips thrust. I can’t help it as each touch, lick, bite, plunge through my body, dancing their way to the center of my arousal.

She moans. No screams, no cries, just a sexy, dripping, moan.

“I have a dressing room. Let’s use it.”

***

The dressing room door locks. It only takes Marcy a second to dive back into my arms, wrappings hers around me and walking us back until I’m the one against the wall. The privacy unleashes a more aggressive side, breathy moans turning into harsher whistles as she slides her dark paws under my shirt.

“So much padding,” she giggles, and I’m not sure how to take it. I squirm and try to shrug, but she’s already pulling at my bra, yanking it down, and I have to reach back and unclasp it to avoid anything ripping. A little more wiggling sends it to the floor, and Marcy looks up at me with a grin.

“Are you sensitive?” she asks. I nod. “Close your eyes.” I comply with the request.

Then I feel the chill of an ice cube against my now exposed nipples. I moan as they harden, my muzzle closed, and head tilted back. My body arches against the wall as she runs it back and forth between my breasts, leaving my chest perky and wet. When the ice finally melts, Marcy then dives in with her tongue, lapping off the water from my wet fur, and giving my nipples quick flicks. It’s a feeling I’m not familiar with, a part of myself that hasn’t been pleasured by someone else. It doesn’t appear to be her first time, though.

My shirt hits the floor, her shirt and necklace follow. There isn’t a huge difference between the size of our busts, which honestly makes me feel good about my own. Marcy playfully pushes and swings her chest against mine, tickling for a moment as our nipples are in similar states of arousal.

“You look so good Blair,” she says, squeezing my chest with her paws and kissing one side of my muzzle.

I try and form a compliment, but the words drool out. “You, yeah, so good.”

She laughs for a second, but then changes her tone as she puts one paw on my shoulder.

“How do you feel about below the waist?” she asks.

“The sensations feel good, it’s more, the equipment,” I say.

She nods. “What would you be comfortable with? I want you to be able to enjoy whatever feelings you’re getting.”

I take a second, in a way I haven’t before, to think about enjoying it despite shape or form. I look Marcy up and down and consider her acceptance of my body.

My skirt slides off easier than I imagined it would.

“Those panties look great on you,” she says. I couldn’t have wished for a better compliment.

There’s a caution to her paws as they run down my sides to my hips, a tenderness which leaves space for me to stop the experience at any moment.

“It’s like,” she says, glancing up at me, “it’s like I’m going to play with your clit, does that sound—”

“That’s perfect,” I say.

Her paw begins to rub against my panties, finding my clit already throbbing and eager. I’d thank her for this newer, sexier mindset, but I’m too busy gasping and moaning with each slide of her paw. She works herself up and down the front of my panties, moving her paw between my legs. I feel her little claws against the inside of my thighs, lightly scratching the skin before going gently against my clit, I yelp happily. The reaction only moves her to work her paw faster.

She then presses her paw tightly against me, pushing and pinning it between my legs. “How about you lay down?” She doesn’t have to ask me twice.

There’s little questioning the floor’s cleanliness, but it’s easy to ignore when you’re looking up to see Marcy undressing. She slips off her black jeans, revealing a pink thong that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I take in her soft thighs, fluffy black fur going all the way to the small parts under her thong. It’s difficult to hide how eager I am, and she easily picks up on it.

“This isn’t too much?” she asks. I appreciate the check-in, but I’m shaking my head ‘no’ before she even finishes the question.

“Good, because I can’t let you have all the fun,” she turns to face my feet, giving me a perfect few of her ass. I adore how naturally round it is, shapely and formed from night after night of moving around on stage. I’d reach up and try to feel her legs and rear, except as I’m considering it, she’s lowering herself onto my muzzle.

My first instinct is to breathe in, her sweat and wetness mixing into a delicious musk which makes my hips squirm, only to be met by her paws returning to massage the part of me now dubbed my clit.

My own cheeks clench as I arch up at her, loving each rub of her paw against me, worrying for a moment that I could burst from my layers of underwear and my favorite panties. It’s a passing thought, however, as my senses bounce back to the curvy ass and wet pussy rubbing against me. She’s soaked her thong, which I can feel slipping further between her lips and cheeks.

I begin to lick, giving her my tongue to grind against, and she responds by moaning louder and pushing down harder on my muzzle. In those seconds where air becomes scarce, I throb even more, and her paw responds by rubbing more against my clit. I feel the tip of my clit leaking, more than more, more than ever, as my lower half is nearly seizing up from all the heat and pleasure.

I take a long taste, my tongue licking her lips and then sliding between them. I feel her thong for a moment, then adjust my muzzle, which allows my tongue to discover her clit. At least…I’m pretty sure. She whistles loudly, nearly howling if she could, and she sits up straight on my face and bucks against it with all the raw desire I saw Dyna displaying earlier. I lick again, she responds even louder. Her scent gets more intense as I can feel my fur getting wetter. I adore her dripping on me.

As she grinds down, one of her paws reaches back, finding the fur on the top of my head and gripping it. I focus on the exact spot my tongue found, lapping at it like water in the desert. Except I’m anything but dry, and neither is she. Her ass clenches, and my paws reach up to feel her cheeks, rubbing them as I keep working my tongue back and forth, then swirling like around the tip of a lollipop.

Her body shakes like the dancers she inspired earlier, her thighs clenching hard against the sides of my heads, wrapping me in her sweat, her musk, her heat; I feel one last push against my muzzle, and then a wet rush against my nose and tongue. A little sour, a little sweet, the taste is overwhelming. I lap up what I can as she grinds and wipes herself on my face.

Eventually, the shaking subsides. She pants and slides down my body, sitting on my chest and looking over her shoulder. I greet her with what I’m sure is a dopey smile.

“Your makeup is beautifully ruined,” she says. Drugstore powder mixed with Marcy’s orgasm, way better than what any video could show me.

She then looks away from me, and in all the excitement, I had forgotten my own body. Was that an out of body experience? If it was, I’ll take another dozen please.

My thoughts are cut off by her paws, as she goes back to work on my clit which is still hard, still pulsing, still aching for release. Especially now. Now more than ever. I can taste Marcy on my lips, smell her with every inhale I take. And I still have an incredible view of her ass.

It’s the perfect mixture, as her paws expertly explore my body, feeling me, teasing, and then rubbing as fast as she can. My hips arch, my ass clenches like hers did, and I let out a low moan as I can feel myself spraying the inside of my underwear. Marcy rubs from the base to the tip of my clit, coaxing out as much as she can from me. I can feel my own wetness soak into my fur, contained as I desired, but released in a way I hadn’t imagined until tonight.

“Oh wow,” Marcy says, as she playfully spanks my crotch before climbing off my body and sitting next to me. I take a moment to soak in the moment, pun intended.

“How long have you been needing that?” she asks.

“Forever,” I reply.

“I’m glad I could help,” she leans in and kisses the side of my muzzle, then moves to my ear.

“And you were born to lick pussy,” she giggles. She stands up, grabbing her pants and starting to slip them back on. I lay there a few more minutes. I’d rather this never end. I think she understands that, but still playfully tosses my shirt so it lands on my Marcy soaked face.

***

“You’ll be back soon, right?” I ask. Marcy’s typing her number into my phone.

“All I do is tour, so probably. Trust me, I’ll let you know, cutie.” She passes my phone back. I send her a quick text just to make sure we’re connected.

Her phone dings. “Perfect! I always need people to talk to while I’m on the road. Especially when I’m alone, in a motel.”

She steps forward, and we kiss. Arms wrapping around each other, I hold her tightly and hope it conveys to her how much tonight meant to me.

When we break the kiss, I can feel my eyes watering. She brings a paw to her mouth as she isn’t meaning to laugh.

“Oh dear, that was wonderful,” she says, brushing a paw against my eyes. I nod.

“Was amazing.”

Eventually, we part. She mentions having to pack up her equipment, I mention having to find my friend Dyna. It feels like neither of us want the night to end, or maybe that’s only me. But it does, and soon I’m walking across a less crowded, quieter dance floor.

Some are still dancing, the music has gotten slower and chill. Some have passed out on the floor with their partners. The bar is closed, it must be past two am. A few folks have taken to the stage, making out and rolling around in the glitter and streamers from an earlier set. The otter working the music doesn’t mind. She’s probably enjoying watching.

Dyna isn’t with that skunk from earlier. I find them laid out across two chairs near the entrance. They tilt their head, as if forgetting I came with them.

“Where have you—what did—who did…that calico,” they suddenly snap to life, sitting up and grabbing my paws. I’m sure they heard about the incident earlier.

“Oh no, it’s fine, they kicked her out,” I tell them. “I had a great night, as in, the kind of night I’ll be masturbating to for…forever.”

Dyna howls, pulling me in tight and shaking me. “Oh yes, yes, my child has grown up. Now you are a sexual misfit just like me! Yes, join us!” I have no idea where they found this energy.

“Okay, okay, yes, yes, that’s me, big time heathen.” I wiggle away. “Could we go home? I miss laying on a bed.” Dyna can’t get the smile off their face, and heads toward the door with me.

As we exit, they glance, looking for, but not finding the staff member from earlier.

“Damn, I think I had one kick in the dick left in me,” they say.

“Save it for someone that wants it,” I reply, and Dyna laughs, throwing an arm around me.

“You’re filthy after whatever time this is. I have no idea, my phone died hours of ago.”

“I’m a lot of things at this time of night,” I say.

“You smell like—” Dyna leans in and sniffs at me.

“Stop that, geez, perv!” I playfully push them away. “It’s red panda, for your information. That’s what you’re smelling.”

“Red panda. Oh my god, no! You, you had sex with DJ Crimson Fluff?”

“I call her Marcy.”

Dyna’s eyes grow wider. “I’m going to be jealous of you forever. Ah! She’s…she’s gay? Queer? I, I mean, I assumed, but—” Dyna stammers, and it puts a pep in my step that I didn’t know existed.

“It also turns out I have a clit,” I say, as I wiggle my hips. Dyna turns me to face them, placing her hooves on my shoulders. They embrace me tightly, holding me close as our journeys intersect once more. I place my hands on their back and smile, feeling secure with their support, and finally, secure with myself. Dyna then leans her muzzle down, close to my ear.

“That’s the hottest context I’ve ever heard.”

The Beating of Wild Hooves

Dwale

Babs took the monitor from her pocket and unfolded it to check the time. Little thicker than a piece of paper and bearing a skin that gave it the appearance of such, the monitor showed twenty-three fifty-nine in the lower right-hand corner. She was going to be late to see Meg. If only there’d been someone else to watch her sisters, she might have been spared the tardiness, and the forthcoming chagrin.

“She was going to meet them sooner or later,” was what she told herself. She stopped and turned back to look them over. The four lambs were sisters by a different father, and though largely of Scottish blackface stock, as she was, they’d inherited a white band across the dark fur on their faces, rather like permanent domino masks. Also unlike her, they let the fur on their bodies grow out eight centimeters or more from the skin, so they looked like puffs of bleached cotton with black pipe-cleaners jabbed in for arms and legs. Tonight, they were decked out in hooded polyester cloaks that shone wavy lines in the headlights of passing traffic. They were just a few hundred years behind modern fashion. The only way they could have stood out more was if they’d striped their coats with neon dyes, but it was Babs, and not her sisters, who had done this. People were beginning to stare.

“Please don’t embarrass me,” she said, then sighed. “I just want to talk to her for a few minutes, so sit in the booth, be quiet ‘til I’m done, then I’ll excuse myself and take you girls home. Alright?”

With one voice the chorus of ewes answered,

“Sister, our eldest, did swing by the diner at midnight,

Bade us to hush while she flirts with her feline girlfriend.”

Babs took a deep breath and ran her hands down her face, resigning herself.

“Are you done?”

“Baa,” bleated Agnes, largest of the triplets, who all three smiled. Little Phoebe, born a year later and forever a beat behind in their antics, followed suit as soon as she noticed.

Babs went ahead, grumbling. Her hoofcaps made muted thumps as she walked over concrete eroded to smoothness by years of transit, number untold. Fresher concrete, which is still gritty in texture, could grind hooves down to nubs in a short time if they weren’t protected in some way, but even this polished type could cause cracking and chipping. Babs was always cognizant of that fact and took care to wear only the sturdiest hoofcaps that could be had, which involved black market military “surplus” and large withdrawals from her savings. Her hooves were how she made her living, after all, so she had every reason to foot the expense. Her sisters were wearing something more akin to house slippers, which didn’t muffle their steps as much as her gear would have done, so their gait included a clip-clop that drew even more attention to their odd dress.

At least they would be inside soon. The diner’s exterior of fake chrome, now peeling off in sheets the size of hand towels, was in view. It must have been meant to look old-fashioned, like an early mobile home, when it was new, but now it was becoming a ruin. The interior was however still clean and serviceable, if well-used, and kept busy at all hours feeding clientele from the bars and clubs down the block.

Behind it all, silhouetted against a sky of low clouds lit red by the broadcast towers, stood the tremendous wall that divorced the old world from the new one, where the bones of technology’s golden age spun trash into electronics, while those without scavenged and improvised a slipshod facsimile of the world that had gone before. Babs paid it no mind. It was adamant as a mountain, and as final. If there ever had been a time when she’d entertained notions of trampling it down, then it was long past.

The greeter (Dorothy was her name, and she was also a server) was a chimera of harvest mouse stock, and with her granny glasses and stubby muzzle was the kind of cute that made Babs want to muss the woman’s hair like she did with her sisters. Instead, she waved.

“Hey, guys,” Dorothy said. “Just sit anywhere.”

Music from one of the state AV broadcasts played from a wall-mounted monitor, a tinny, synthetic noise, void of expression, accompanied by a kaleidoscopic visualization in garish colors. The place smelled like grilled cheese and the air was always humid, taking into account already-high regional standards. Bab’s coat was shorn almost to the skin, with some places shaven clean to show off her tattoos. Therefore, the moisture wasn’t going to be as much of an issue for her, but her mind conjured up a vision of her siblings’ coats frizzing out as though they’d all walked, hand in hand, into an electric fence. She had to stifle a laugh. Maybe the “grim reaper” cloaks hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. At least they could use the hoods.

Babs pointed to an empty booth with a sad plastic table, its blue textured coating scratched to baldness by tens of thousands of plates.

“You guys sit here,” she said. “I’ll be over there by the window, still in your line of sight. Just give me ten minutes. Order sodas or something.” The triplets, trailing little Phoebe, slid onto the bench seats and didn’t even pretend not to be staring as she walked away. She didn’t have to look back for confirmation, she could feel the stares on her neck.

Meg had her computer out on the table, a unit the size of a bar of soap. She had a portable keyboard deployed and the output routed to her glasses; Babs could see glowing characters scroll across the insides of the lenses. She was a feline with straight, light brown hair down past her shoulder blades, with tawny fur that looked grey when in shadow. She was covered in spots like a wildcat, though Babs did not yet know her phenotype. When Babs drew near the table, she got up and the two exchanged cheek kisses before taking their respective places.

“My sisters’ theater practice ran late,” Babs offered apologetically.

“Oh,” Meg said, and smiled. “Were they the ones in the—?” Here she mimed the outlines of a cape. Babs nodded.

“Mom had to pull a double shift, so I’ve only got a few minutes. I have to get them home.”

Meg smiled, and there was enough regret in it for Babs’ heart to flutter. She wasn’t wasting her time with this person. There was a spark in her where Meg was concerned, one which threatened to kindle into open flame at every interaction.

Just then, Dorothy the harvest mouse took their drink orders, feeding them into a tablet with light, nimble fingers. Babs, being a sheep, had a wide field of vision. That was why she could watch Meg ask the mouse about non-dairy creamer, but simultaneously observe her siblings slipping from the booth she’d put them in and creeping to the seats directly across from where she and Meg were sitting.

“And what will you have, ma’am?”

Babs looked up at the waitress, then at the table where her hand had found its way to her knife and taken it up in an icepick grip. She put it back down and shot death at the triplets with her eyes.

“Seltzer and a packet of sugar.”

“What?”

“Seltzer and a packet of sugar.” She turned to the mouse. “Please.”

“Sure thing, honey…”

Meg was grinning. Babs scratched herself on the back of the head as she sometimes did, unaware.

“I don’t like to drink caffeine this late,” she explained. “And I like the way the granules feel on my tongue. Listen, I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s ok,” Meg said, smiling still, and waved at the other table. Phoebe returned both gestures with vigor. “I guess the herd instinct is pretty strong?”

“Yeah,” Babs said, covering the left side of her face with her hand. “In a sheep home, everybody drifts around the house together as people need to take care of things. Nobody stays out of line of sight for long, so privacy isn’t…”

Here she caught a flavor of anxiety she’d tasted before: the awareness that she was saying the sort of thing that chases off prospective love interests. Her ears drooped, only to pop back up when Meg reached across the table and put her hand over hers.

“I see,” she said, and grinned reassuringly, her green eyes flashing like gems. “But I already know you’re not like other ewes.”

“No,” Babs admitted, voice flat. “I’m not.” The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in spite of her sour mood. In fact, she might have forgotten her anxieties entirely had not the canid chosen that moment to interrupt.

He was slight like a fox or a small coyote, but his muzzle was too pointy to be either of those. He must have been a jackal, she decided, and not much more than a juvenile. His pants were beige where they weren’t black with grime, and he sported a leather jacket with so many cracks and holes it looked like he might have snatched it off a drive-by victim.

Chimeras of herbivorous phenotypes often found leather off-putting, but not Babs. She was one of only a few who would wear it, and did so on the regular. So, it couldn’t have been that which bothered her about this person. It must have been something in the way he carried himself, the hint of mockery behind his smile, or the stink of tobacco and beer rolling off of him. Whatever it was, he put her on edge, every nerve in her body tight and ready.

“You girls want to have a threesome?”

Meg clapped a hand over her mouth, lips forming words, though none got through her fingers.

“Dude!” Babs snapped. “What the hell? No, hell no.”

“Oh, please,” the jackal said. “Don’t even try to tell me you two don’t like cock.”

Babs was on her hooves, fists balled up at her sides. She wasn’t a big ewe, but she was a full head taller than this guy. With her close-cropped wool and sleeveless shirt, it was not difficult to make out the cords of her muscles straining beneath her skin, taut as guitar strings. The jackal could, apparently. He cowered backwards and turned away, muttering. She fixed her eyes on him until he was out the door, until she felt Meg’s hand on hers. Only then did she realize that her date had been speaking for some seconds and she hadn’t heard a word.

“Babs? Hun?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She sat back down. Meg regarded her with pert ears and a scrunched mouth.

“You were about to hit that guy.”

Babs sighed. “Yeah.”

“Are you always so quick to fight?”

The fire was hot in Babs’ stomach, it wasn’t until she saw Meg’s frown that it was quenched.

“No, I—” she stammered, chasing the right words. “Look, that guy was an asshole.” She buried her face in her hands, tormented by a fusion of shame, relief and unspent anger. Time passed, and Meg pried one of the hands away from her face, entwining their fingers.

“It’s ok,” she said. “I was just scared because I never saw you like that before. I mean, I know what you do for a living, but…”

Babs grinned ruefully. They’d discussed her career, and while Meg was inscrutable as any cat, Babs had learned to read her well enough to know that was going to be a point of contention in the future.

Just then, she snuck a glance at her sisters and noticed the quartet of Agnes, Sophie, Lydia and Phoebe had picked up a new herd-mate, a lamb who shared their “mask” facial marking. That would be Agatha, her cousin. She was holding a lollypop in one hand while Phoebe gave her a drink of soda.

“Oh, lord, they’re multiplying.”

Meg turned to look at what Babs had seen. Her eyes went wide and Babs had to laugh.

“We should probably get out of here. I need to get them home, and if my aunt’s herd sees us they’ll block us in.”

***

The light from the inside of Meg’s glasses caught in her pupils, vertical slits shining like slivers of green moon. She was checking her schedule.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Can’t. Also, I think you should walk with us for a while.”

“Hmm?”

Babs motioned with her snout for Meg to turn around. When she did, she saw the jackal from earlier skulking beside an alley. He made eye-contact, then ducked around the corner and was gone.

“Was that…?”

“Yeah. Let’s get you to the tram.”

The six of them went the other way from where they had seen the jackal, wary as rabbits, ears perked. They went without speaking, eyes probing for any potential ambush, but found only phantoms for half a dozen blocks. They passed convenience stores people ran out of their garages, a couple of strip clubs, a long, rectangular tavern that called itself “The Coffin” and more than a few buildings which had been hollowed out by fire or abandoned and left for the squatters. Meg sneezed twice at the smell of marijuana, although she couldn’t have identified it. Babs could and did, however, and she could have named far worse substances in the air besides.

The attack came as they were traversing a space between a perpendicular road and driveway, from their right side. It was the jackal from earlier, who must have dashed or used a vehicle to get ahead of them. He strutted out from behind a dumpster, lifting his shirt to pull a pistol from his waistband, but Babs didn’t give him a chance to aim. Her sisters were already bolting, and the jackal’s posture, wide open, sure of himself, suggested that he expected Babs to run, too. Instead, she closed the distance in one step and snatched his hand and forearm, shoving her hoof-like nail into the tendons just above his wrist while also pulling back on his thumb; he yelped like a puppy and dropped the gun like it had burned him. It clacked onto the concrete.

Babs began the follow-up before the pistol hit the ground; she had pressed her hoofcap against the inside of his knee. It wasn’t a kick, it was too gentle for that. The movement was almost casual: she put her foot up as one might have done to tie an errant shoelace and pushed. His knee bent against its regular plane of motion. There was a pop, and he crumpled to the pavement, thrashing.

No one saw the jackal’s brother coming; it was as if he had materialized from nothing. A meter of steel pipe had appeared along with him. Snarling, he brought it down at Babs’ head. Caught off-guard, she got a block up with not a split-second to spare. The pipe met her forearm with a muffled clank.

Her attacker must have supposed that her arm had been broken, or at least disabled, he certainly didn’t expect it to snake around his weapon to yank him in towards her knee, which launched upwards and connected hard with his crotch. He expelled a choked squeak and collapsed. She kicked the pistol away as an afterthought, though neither jackal appeared capable of using it.

“Your arm! Are you alright?”

Meg’s eyes had dilated to the point they seemed in danger of swallowing her face. Her tail lashed behind her in agitation.

“It’s nothing,” the ewe said, noting with some relief that her sisters had fled down the sidewalk and were safe. “I’ve had graphene lattice reinforcement on my arms and legs.” She gave her arm a squeeze and winced. “Of course, the soft tissue is another story.”

Babs smiled, but knew she’d be lucky to come off this with nothing more than a bruise. Her muscles could be pulverized under the skin, veins or nerves all but destroyed. And why did it have to be tonight, of all nights? That said, her arm didn’t feel too bad, considering. Maybe it would be alright.

The jackal brothers writhed in the filth. Electric cars whined past them, some whose drivers must have seen all that had just transpired, but not one so much as slowed.

“Should we call the police?” Meg asked. Babs chuckled in response, but there was no delight in it.

“You don’t get outside of the walls much, do you? Out here, ‘police’ are just thugs with state backing. No telling what they’d do.” She took the gun and strode over to where the jackals were laying and crouched to look in their faces.