TheVulpineHero1's socials:
Wordpress | Twitter | Tumblr | Ao3

Rough Day

Her grin widens, and she leans forward to cup the growing bulge in his jeans.

“Rough day?” Sonya asks.

Ivan looks at her. Squints, really. Perhaps he should try tilting his head; he’s heard that the world makes more sense at an angle, and right now, he’d really like to know Sonya’s.

Incidentally, she’s not meant to be in his apartment. She doesn’t have a key, and he doesn’t feel it particularly wise to give her one. But she’s here, so he has to deal with her.

She looks at him with expectant, gleeful eyes. Anticipating a question he’s not sure he wants to ask. Eventually, he does, because he has to.

“You could tell?” he sighs.

“Of course,” she says smugly. “You think I wouldn’t be able to tell when my favourite little test subject is under the weather?” She pats the single chair in his apartment, set jauntily at the kitchen counter. “Come, sit. I have coffee.”

She does have coffee. She’s making it in a beaker set over a bunsen burner on his kitchen counter. He’s pretty sure those need to be plumbed into a gas line to work, but there’s no pipes and it’s definitely producing flames.

“What’s in the coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“What else is in it?”

“Water.”

“And?”

She giggles, which takes up most of his brain for a few seconds. Usually he is not mentally stunned by a problematic woman having a laughing fit, but this particular one has a chest with its own area code and is very emphatically not wearing a bra. The undulations are fascinating.

“Your back must be made of concrete,” he mutters.

“It’s not that bad. I only took the bra off fifteen minutes ago.” She grins. “It’s still warm, if you want it.”

“You’re trying to distract me.” Succeeding at it, too. “What’s in the coffee?”

“Nothing’s in the coffee, Ivan. I’m not trying to get you to drink anything nefarious.”

“You sure? You called me your ‘favourite little test subject’ only a minute ago.”

“And because you’re my favourite, there’s no way I’d try to bother you when I know you’ve had a hard day and you’ve got a cold coming on.”

He blinks. “I’ve got a cold coming on?”

He doesn’t question the idea that he has. If Sonya says he has, she probably has some strange magic ritual that’s told her so. But he doesn’t know why she knows.

“Of course you do,” she says in a singsong voice. “That’s why you didn’t smell the incense when you walked in.” Her eyes drift to his waistband. “It sure seems effective, though.”

His head begins to swim. The blood, evidently, is moving elsewhere.

She opens her robes, and his vision is immediately filled with bare skin; from the lining, she selects a single vial, and pulls the cork with her teeth.

“It’s a remedy for cold and flu. Very effective,” she tells him. “I’ll give it to you, if you like.”

Her grin widens, and she leans forward to cup the growing bulge in his jeans.

“But only mouth to mouth.”

Pass The Parcel

A party without music is no party at all, but nobody is listening to the song playing on the radio. Instead, they are waiting for the break in the sound.

It’s a game called Pass the Parcel. You take a present wrapped up in many layers, and pass it along to the sound of the music; when the music stops, you take off a single layer of wrapping, and the game repeats. Whoever is holding the present when the last layer is removed keeps the gift.

It’s an old tradition in Pamela’s homeland, and Pamela — wrapped in layers of lace and ribbon that conceal preciously little but just enough at the same time — is the one who is being unwrapped.

She’s short and light for as busty as she is, and she enjoys being passed from person to person. She enjoys the feeling of hands upon her, of the little squeezes she permits to her breasts, her thighs, and her ass. She lounges, the centre of attention, sprawling out on every lap with a giggle that sounds tipsy even though she has had nothing to drink; the atmosphere, the anticipation, is enough.

The music halts. The last strip of cloth restraining her breasts is pulled away, and the lucky winner take the opportunity to roughly squeeze her hard nipples. She growls appreciatively, deep in her belly.

“So,” he rumbles from behind her. “When the game is over, what does the winner get?”

“Well, he goes first, duh,” she says, and wriggles her behind in his lap to show exactly what she means. “And he goes raw. And then… when he’s finished, he passes me along. It’s not a party until everybody gets a present.”

That’s what she’s here for. To be passed from man to man, to choke, to swallow, to take two or three at a time and groan as she stretches to accommodate. To drown in the heat and the scent. To be lusted after, to sate and be sated. To please and be pleased.

“And what do you get?” he asks her, squeezing her tits more tightly.

“Me?” She giggles coquettishly, and plucks a condom from the ribbons covering her ass and pussy. She tears the packet, blows air into it, and lets it out. “I get to keep the balloons.”

He laughs. “Slut.”

“Mmhm. Now pass me along. I’m sure someone will pass me back later.”

He seems reluctant to hand her off, and she likes that. In an hour, she will have her nose pressed against his nutsack, his cock lodged deep in her throat, held in the air as he and his best friend spitroast her. The winner’s cum will be dribbling slowly out of her pussy and asshole, and she will invite him, in the breaks between, to refill her when it is gone.

When she wakes, she will take a photograph of her ‘balloon collection’, overflowing from the punch bowl — to use as cover art for her next set of party invites.

Werebun

“Well, now. This is embarrassing.”

On any other day, it would be a charming, coquettish giggle. But today, there is a worrying bassy timbre that underlays Jane’s voice. Not quite a snarl, but more than halfway to a rumble.

Jane is usually taller than him. But today her shoulders almost brush against the ceiling beams, and she has to stoop slightly to fit in the storeroom. It gives her a kind of animalistic hunch that sends a shiver down his spine. Her clothes, or what is left of them, are hanging off in ropes; he sees creamy white flesh, bare breasts, the dark heavy nipples of a mother.

“I, uh. Should have knocked,” he says.

“You should have,” she agrees, and seizes his shirt. Her hand seems almost as big as his chest.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks. “Are you feeling okay? Do you, um, need medical attention? Ma’am?”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. Some of us are just a little bigger than our bones,” she says. “The moon brings it out in me… But I really would have preferred you not to see me like this. Even an old lady like me has to pay attention to her image.”

She lifts him, and he feels like a doll in her clutches. A heavy, beastly musk fills his lungs, and despite the situation, his lower body eagerly responds.

“Now, Ivan, honey. How might I persuade you to keep quiet about this?”

He feels like he could lose an arm in the gap of her cleavage. His tail begins to wag.

“Um… Sexual favours?” he asks, giving what he hopes is a charming grin.

“Hmhm. Well, I prefer it to the alternative.”

A satisfied smile settles on her face, and she snatches the belt from his trousers. Half the waistband comes with it. What’s left falls to the ground without any further prompting; his cock, already throbbing, is bared for her inspection. She holds him up a little higher to examine it; he feels her press her nose against the shaft for just a split second.

“Mmm. We’ll do it this way,” she decides, and sets him down. With a single hand on his shoulder, she forces him to his knees, and then onto his back. She lifts her foot; the soles of her feet are as long as his arms, and he can almost see his reflection in the sheen of her powder blue nail polish. “I might get too excited otherwise.”

She grinds her foot against his cock. He can’t move; he is powerless against the warmth and the pressure. Sometimes she even deftly slides his cock between her big toe and the next, mercilessly wringing him out. When the orgasm hits, he ejaculates so hard he covers his own chest with his seed.

“Okay, Ivan. Not a word about this to anybody,” she winks.

She takes one long finger, and draws it down his stomach before licking it.

She needn’t worry. He’s never been quite so speechless before.

Performance Review

“Sit down, Ivan.”

Nadezhda is wearing a business suit, cut in blood red, with tapered shoulders that don’t particularly flatter her. She is also, in very related news, wearing a frown; though she’s the head of her own company and does the work well, she doesn’t care much for the trappings it forces upon her.

Ivan sits. They chat for a while about his experience on the job, how the first six months have been, where he sees himself in three years. Standard office talk, delivered without much passion and received without much interest. Then, she leans forward.

“Incidentally, Ivan, I gather you’ve been fucking my secretary.”

He leans back and composes himself. It takes a moment.

“Masha, you mean? Is there a rule that says I can’t?”

“In my office.”

He doesn’t have a smart response for that one.

“On my desk.”

Or that one, either.

“During company time.”

He feels a sudden, desperate need for a cigarette. It’s traditional to give a man one last smoke before he faces the firing squad.

“You, um. You gather well,” he says, his lips dry.

“Masha reports to me about many things, Ivan. Now. Would you please repeat your job title to me?”

“Security and property management officer, ma’am.”

“I thought so. Not ‘rent boy’.”

He winces. No response there, either.

“Ivan.” Nadezhda’s expression is stern, but there is some kindness in her eyes. “Masha is an important part of this company. Vital, even. I would find it easier to replace myself than I would her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But she’s also a dear friend. I don’t mind if you two are involved romantically, but make sure you treat her right, and make sure you’re considerate about the time and place in which you do it.”

He nods sheepishly; he feels like he’s being scolded by his mother.

“And for the love of all that’s holy, clean the desk properly. The next person I took into the office could smell what you’d been up to. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nadezhda leans back, satisfied. The air is quiet for a moment.

“Incidentally, ma’am…”

“Yes?”

“I gather you’ve been fucking my childhood friend.”

Her frown returns.

“In your office.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“On your desk.”

Another moment’s pause.

“During company time.”

“And how would you know about that?” she asks.

“Sasha told me. She doesn’t see any reason to be ashamed about it.”

“And neither do I,” Nadezhda replies smartly. “One of the perks of being the owner of the company is that if I decide my time is best spent fucking somebody in my office, nobody can tell me otherwise.” She taps one finger on her desk. “Are we done here?”

“We might be,” he shrugs. “I just thought… Well. Her favourite flowers are in season right now. Do you know what they are?”

She gives him a hard, appraising look.

“Maybe we can come to an understanding,” she says at last. “But seriously. Leave my damn desk alone.”

Kitshon Cooking

“So, what did you think, huh?” Samantha asks.

Ivan stretches out, and rests his hands on his stomach. He ate a lot, but he honestly can’t tell if he’s full to bursting or still has room for more. All he knows is that he has the urge to curl up to sleep while his body figures it out.

“I was… surprised.” His digestive system is monopolising most of his energy, so his brain takes a while to catch up. “I didn’t think you’d really make us Kitshon-style cooking.”

Samantha grins smugly and folds her arms, which has the side effect of pushing up her chest. It might be intentional. It might not. “I said I would, didn’t I? I learned it from some of the international students at the university.”

Ivan hums. Although he can’t quite imagine Samantha as a professor, she’s got a rare talent for breaking down the walls that separate different races. She’s less of a reliable big sister type than she thinks she is, but there’s absolutely a certain charisma to her floppy ears and her absolute earnestness in the pursuit of learning. She even speaks multiple languages, which Ivan knows his sister finds extremely attractive.

(He knows this because every time he and his sister cross paths, she subjects him to a long and passionate explanation of how cute ‘my Sammy’ is, with elaboration on the finer points of said cuteness. As somebody who’s known Samantha since he was a child, Ivan agrees with most of what she says but would sometimes rather skip the lecture).

"But wow, the way your eyes went wide when you took the first bite! I didn’t make it that spicy, you know?”

He grumbles a little as she teases him. Spicy food isn’t his forte; the recipes of their home country are warming, soothing, and not spicy at all. Even a little spice is more than enough for him.

“I’ll get the dishes,” he says, getting up.

“You don’t have to. I can do it.”

“You cooked.” He turns the tap; the air smells of dish soap. Apple-scented.

“Oh, right.” Samantha pauses for a moment, her tail wagging slowly. “You always used to clean the dishes back home, too.”

“Mm. Mom and Autumn would have planted me in the field and used me as a scarecrow if I didn’t.”

Samantha’s eyes glaze over slightly; she is looking through her memories, too treasured to be clouded. “You always used to have to stand on a box to reach the sink.”

“I wasn’t that short,” he grimaced. He’d been a late bloomer in his youth, then sprung up in the course of only a summer.

“You were. You were short, and cute, and you always tried to use big words when you didn’t really understand them. Now you’re, like, an actual guy, with muscles and a broad back and stuff.” She sighs; there are a lot of emotions in it. “What the heck happened?”

“Life,” he says, at length. “I guess.”

Mating Press

There is a world of difference between ‘small’ and ‘fragile’.

Ivan knows that. He was short himself, once upon a time, and even now there are days that make him feel very tiny indeed.

But nothing drives the lesson home more than Masha.

Nobody would call Masha a large woman, in any respect. She’s not petite, per se; she has the soft, rounded physique that dreams are made of, despite all her attempts to whittle away her subtle curves in the gym. All the exercise does is make sure there is a pleasant resistance after your fingers sink into the skin, like a ripe fruit. ‘Succulent’ is the word he always feels describes her best, although he’d never say it to her face.

But she’s not exactly built tall or broad, and that surprises him, because he adores women that are and somehow Masha has still managed to supersede the vast majority of them in attractiveness. She is apparently too cute for petty things like individual preferences to get in the way.

But cute or not, she’s a capable woman who knows what she wants, and doesn’t need to be handled as if she’s made of glass. Whatever he can dish out, she can take it. He’s confident in that.

Those, roughly speaking, are the last thoughts that run through his mind as he picks her up and pins her to Nadezhda’s desk. She’s been teasing him all day, and nearly dragged him here by the tie; the boss doesn’t use her office, so somebody should — or so she said. She’s an enthralling speaker, especially when one of her breasts is already spilling from her shirt. So enthralling that his belt appeared in her hands without him even realising she took it.

Her hands steal under his clothes, and her fingers rake gently down his back. He gently but insistently spreads her legs, and tears a hole in her pantyhose. She takes his cock in one hand and guides him to her entrance, the other arm wrapped around his neck. He takes the opportunity to lean in further and nip at her shoulder with his teeth.

“Give it to me deep.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He lifts her legs up further and climbs atop the desk himself, before pinning her under his body. From here, he can give her his full weight with every thrust. She can take it. He knows that.

“If you want to use a rubber, put it on now,” he growls.

She spreads her legs greedily, locking them around him. “Nope. I wanna roll the dice.”

The desk creaks and wobbles as he pounds her, each stroke as long and full as he can make it, diving deep for her womb. Her tongue lolls sloppily from her mouth, and he tangles it with his own.

It will be a while before they remember there is a security camera in the corner — and realise how close they came to conceiving a child on film.

Family

“Hey, l’il bro. I’m going to be crashing here for a couple weeks, okay? Also, would it kill you to get a sofa? I can’t believe you only own one chair.”

That’s how his sister greets him as he walks into his apartment. He shakes his head wryly and grabs a beer from the fridge before he speaks. He notices that there are already two beers missing. The Sister Tax is in full effect.

“It’s fine. I didn’t give you a key for you not to use it,” he says, cracking the bottle open. “And it’d be pretty hard to lug a sofa up here.”

Autumn laughs — a quick bark, but softer than Ivan’s own. “Not like that’d stop you, you workout freak. I got you a housewarming gift, by the way.”

She gestures to a potted plant on his kitchen counter. It looks like the kind that eats small animals while nobody’s looking. Very exotic. Something to talk about with all the women he can no longer bring back to his apartment, because — as Autumn is very keen to remind him — they are family, and what’s his is hers and vice versa. Not always vice versa. But sometimes.

Does he find his sister’s talent for stealing other people’s girlfriends annoying? He supposes so. But that’s what siblings are for; they’re people you can freely show off your annoying habits to, because they’ve seen them all anyway. With Autumn, there is no veneer he must keep up. He can be comfortable in his own skin, whether that’s good or bad.

“You need bedding or anything?” he asks.

“C’mon. You know I’ve got bedroll in my pack. You should do that as well, y’know. Girls love it. Really sells the explorer vibe.”

He shakes his head wryly and sips his beer. The gods built Autumn strong, and she uses that hearty body to see the world (and its women). In an age gone by she would have been a sailor, with a girl in every port. Nowadays the earth is as dangerous as the sea, and she finds adventure wherever she goes. He worries about her, but only a little; she can take what the world can throw at her.

“Have you seen Sam yet? I’m surprised you’re not crashing with her,” he says.

“Oh, we crashed alright,” Autumn says smugly. “But she’s kinda out of condition, so it’s best if I stay somewhere else while she gets in shape. It sucks. I kinda like her when she’s a bit chubby, but she can’t quite keep up with me like that.”

“I believe that’s what they call a first world problem.”

“What about you, bro? Any girlfriends you want to tell me about?”

He pauses. A gallery of women pass through his mind.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Aw.”

“But here’s a little brotherly advice: don’t fuck Sonya. She’s crazy.”

Autumn grins. “How crazy are we talking?”

“Too crazy.”

They share beers into the night. There truly is nothing quite like family.