Cowboys in Love by H. A. Kirsch ---- Someone knocked on Stan's door, but by the time he got to it, they were gone. The dog pushed out the door to see who it was, just barely catching the brown back edge of a UPS truck rumbling off around the corner. The dog's combat boot thumped into the reason for the knock; a rather large box sat on the stoop. For whatever reason, the UPS guy never ever stuck around to hand off the package, yet he never tried to leave it when Stan wasn't home. Stan picked up the box and looked at the address label. "Knight Creations".  Confirmation on just what the box contained gave him plenty of reason to push the UPS mystery out of his mind completely. The dog carried the box inside and locked his front door, then started towards the bedroom. By the time he was there, he was rushing, boots scuffing the floor as he tried not to stomp, eager and almost ashamed to hear his boots pounding. No one would hear him - the nearest house was fifty feet away - but anything fetishy always made the dog nervous. He went to tear the box open, then paused. He quickly rushed out of the room and grabbed something off his dining table, a new digital camera that had come in earlier in the week. He fumbled with it, turned it on, then pulled out a dresser drawer and set it on the edge. He pushed the timer button, stood back, and let it take a picture. Then he turned it off and went for the cardboard box, slitting the tape with his house key. Out came a few piles of crumpled newspaper, and then the real goods. The smell of freshly-conditioned black leather filled up the room, and Stan had to grab his tailstub to keep it from cramping as it waggled hard. One by one, he lifted the items out. Heavy black leather riding coat, western blazer style, waist length. Black leather western vest, tooled in the front with knotwork and a horse motif. Black deerskin roping gloves. Black leather gun belt, tooled like the vest. Black leather jockstrap, the pouch made of shiny, heavy leather. Black leather shotgun chaps, inside zip with no cover flap, five button bar-style closure at the waist, fitted legs. Black leather western hat, carefully packed in a hatbox at the end, with a snake-tooth hatband and canine earholes. The final touch, which made the doberman nearly wet himself as he pulled it out: a pair of knee-high stovepipe black western boots, snip toe and underslung heel, fitted with a pair of flashy spurs on a tooled leather strap. "Oh fuck," the dog whispered, and hurridly undid his jeans. He was so overstimulated that he tripped and fell on his ass, forgetting that his boots were still very much on when he went to pull his pants off. The dog struggled out of his clothes, cock swelling out of his sheath already before he even had a single one of the new items pulled on. Stan had always pieced things together, a pair of boots here, hat there, but when he'd bumped into Jake Knight's website, the dog forked over a fistful of cash for a complete custom outfit. A year and a change of address later, it was all ready and shipped out to the dog's new home in the north, and now it was about to get its first use. Stan held up the leather vest, then sniffed at it. A nice, deep sniff. Then, ears burning red, he rubbed his face against  the smooth hide that made up the back panel. He slid the vest on, then looked in the mirror. It fit perfectly. He'd spent hours measuring and re-measuring himself, then measuring again in case he'd made an error. It had paid off. Next came the chaps, zipped perfectly down his calves to ensure that they fit his boots, framing his rump just so, leather high enough up his thighs that he felt like his basket was plumped out into the open. The boots... Stan's knot was fully inflated by the time he had his foot in the second one, sliding in against the soft and silky leather lining. They fit like they were already broken in. The pleasure of pulling on a new pair of boots gave the dobie a struggle when it came time for the jock. While it didn't quite fit the cowboy outfit, it was expertly made, just barely containing his dick once he'd gotten it soft enough to bend. The supple leather almost begged for a hip-roll against it, the dog standing there and thrusting into nothing as his new hides creaked all over. The gloves came next, and then the coat.. the coat! It was massively heavy, nearly half the weight of everything else, saddle-weight hide that had been heavy-pounded and oiled into flexibility, then buffed up.  Fully leathered, gun belt slung on his hip and regrettably empty, the dog stood over by his paneled wall and waited as his new camera bleeped and blinked, then beeped frantically and popped the flash. Then again, with the dog's hands up against the wall like he was being frisked. Again, with him to the side, boot up on the bed. In a chair, crouched on the floor, splayed back on the bed like a bitch - quivering asshole captured at its moment of looseness, body squirming against a pillow as the overstimulated leather-hound imagined... Clyde. Someone knocked at the door and Stan froze. His blood frosted over, cold sweat down his back as the startle caught him ashamed. It didn't matter that he was in his own house; embarrassment was always the same. The knocking repeated. "Stan! You home?" Knock-knock-knock-THUD-THUD-THUD. It was a boot heel, pounded against the wood porch. Clyde. "I'm.. I'll be there in a minute!" THUD. "IN A MINUTE!" the dog hollered, then stripped out of his leathers as fast as he could physically manage, sweat breaking out over his muzzle. He wedged back into his Wranglers, combat boots, wife-beater and his brother's old army shirt, then stuffed his new gear into its box and into the closet. He yanked the front door open mid-knock, and Clyde almost fell in. "Whoa, now you gotta give me warnin' you're gonna pull on that door," the tiger said, huge grin on his face. Clyde stank of musk and sweat, and looked like he'd been dunked in the lake and dried off several times during the day, mud ground into his knees, worn deerskin work gloves stuck in a pocket. Clyde was usually quite stoic, but this time he barged right in. "Figured I'd come over, been roastin', uh, been roastin' an' smokin'. An' I mean this brisket here," he said, swinging around and swiping up a small cooler from the porch. The bengal took the plastic cooler and thumped it down on the dining room table, then cranked it open. A little whiff of vapor came out, along with the pungent smell of Meat. Stan suddenly remembered he was hungry. "Wow," the dog said, peering into the cooler. "Uh-huh," Clyde grinned, and sat down with a thump. "You wanna have a lil' cookout? Maybe roast up some, I dunno, uh, stuff?" Stan tilted his head. "Are you drunk?" "Nurh," the tiger said, and elbowed onto the table. "Ain't that meat th' only thing that's been smokin'. God-damn, that coy-yote who I got workin' round the place, he.. lemme tell you this, Stan, he's been all over me. He ain't real forward 'bout it, jus' kinda.. you know. So I flip the sign over an' he tells me he's goin' to hit up his stash. You know that guy, he's got that fake knee from gettin' bashed up in a wreck, so I guess he's got that medical-grade stuff. So he offers me half a joint an' I'm a big cat an' god damn next thing I know I got this coy-yote with a hard dick an' he's tryin' to fuck my leg an' I swear the clock ain't movin'." The dog just stood by the end of the table, watching Clyde expouse. "Huh." "Now Stan, I don't really do this shit an' I'm jus' about to fall over. I was lookin' at, I was lookin' at a god-damned FLOWER on my way over here." Clyde huffed and slapped his thighs, then stood up. "I'm gonna go an' get some stuff. Gonna get some more food for us t'eat up." Before Stan could say much of anything, the tiger was out the front door with a thump. Stan sat down at the dining table, air whuffing out his nose. The coyote in question - Dawson - was a suitably scruffy hire who worked around the marina's general store and cleaned the rental cabins. Stan thought he seemed a little sneaky, but kept it to himself in case it was specisism. On more than one occasion, the dog overheard a comment or two that sounded like a flirt towards the tiger, but Clyde's reaction had always been stoic and ignorant. The dog shrugged to himself and got up, then trudged out back to clean off the grill. The dobie wielded a wire brush and went about scraping char from the metal rungs, but every time he tried to get serious with the greasy black mess, he thought about Clyde and Dawson. He imagined the coyote doing just what Clyde said, grinding and writhing up against the tiger's muscular thigh. He imagined the coyote with his jeans down, shoved up against the upturned hull of some boat in the storage shed, plowed forward by Clyde's fat dick. He imagined the two locking muzzles... "Son of a bitch," Stan grunted, and thumped the wire brush into the barbeque. Face hot, muzzle twisted into a scowl, he figured he would  just tell Clyde he wasn't feeling good and that'd be that. Ate something funny, that was it. The dog rounded the corner of his house and bashed into a big red-striped wall. "Urrruh! Well howdy there," Clyde said, backpedaling with a lazy few stomps. He had a paper grocery bag wedged up against his chest and shoulder. Stan just sighed and kept going past, into the side door. "I say somethin'?" The tiger said, following and setting the bag down in the kitchen. "Naw," Stan said, then turned. He looked at the floor, the countertop, the door, anything but the looming red hulk. "Uh-huh." The dobie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay fine, I don't want you messing around with that guy. Dawson." "Well that's okay, 'cuz I ain't messin' around with anyone," Clyde said, starting to take the groceries out of the bag. He still seemed intoxicated, big hands 'bouncing' as he took items out and set them in an uneven row on the table, like he was a kid lining up his toys. "What? You just said he was-" "Well ah said he got all baked an' horned up an' was fuckin' my leg. I ain't kiddin', 'yote came up an' grabbed me an' started grindin', gave me this puppy face an' was goin' for my chest with his head. So I jus' put up a big ol' palm an' pushed him off." Stan just stared, shoulders reared back. Clyde kept up with the groceries, as if nothing was going on. "Tol' him, 'Dawson, you ain't gonna do that shit on my land here, an' you ain't gonna get me blazed, an' you ain't gonna get my paycheck-writin' hand on you anywhere so jus' take a deep breath an' come back tomorrow. Thought that was uhh, kinda funny, I mean ain't wrote a paycheck ever, got that computer thing." The dog huffed and sighed again, then pushed through the kitchen door. Once in the living space, he looked around, unsure of where to go. His intent was to sulk, but no matter where he could go, Clyde would probably stomp in after him. Stan solved the dilemma by going to the bathroom and having himself a forced piss. When he returned, Clyde wasn't in the kitchen anymore. The dog's ears burned as he mulled the possibility that the tiger had simply left. Peeking out the side door, Stan found the big red hulk mulling around a smoking barbeque. The dobie walked up. "Now we got here some stuffed peppers I put in th'fridge the other day, an' some sliced up potatoes.. gonna cheese those, an' then we got this brisket. Now I'm gonna sear it, get it all nice an' browned up. You just roast it an' it ain't good enough," Clyde said, tossing the spatula from hand to hand with a come-down tic. "Mmm," Stan nodded, hands stuffed in his tight front pockets. Clyde finished putting the food out on the grill, then closed the lid. Clyde leaned on the barbeque's rolling handle, and the whole thing creaked, causing him to step back with a chuff. "Well.." the big feline said, and hunched his Wranglers up. "Don't see why you think I was gonna cream that coy-yote's ass when I got myself a damn nice dog to lay out." The way the tiger delivered it was pure macho ego, so much that Stan stiffened and recoiled. Upon seeing the reaction, Clyde's black lips frowned, and he stepped forward to give Stan a big pat to the shoulder. "I ain't kiddin', Stan. I ain't." For a split second, Stan thought about pushing away and sulking. Instead, he grabbed forward around the tiger's big chest, head mashed up against the swell of muscle. He sighed and clutched around at the beast's shoulders. "I dunno... I dunno why I get like this. Guess it's 'cuz I'm a dog. Bet all kinds of things are messed up in my head, got some people thoughts in there with man's best friend." When Stan looked up, Clyde dodged his head down, muzzle impacting the dog's, tongue unfurling. Stan was no stranger to the brutish, feral move; he'd had a year to get used to it. The dobie parted his slender muzzle and let Clyde's tongue push inside, then tried to fight it back into the tiger's mouth with his own. Everything about Clyde was Bigger, though, and Stan never seemed to win at the deep, animal kisses. The dobie's ears tipped back, his hands squeezed at the stud's back; Clyde vice-gripped the dog's biceps, then let go and grabbed for the sides of his jaws.  The two only broke the kiss when something hissed and spat on the grill and the tiger broke away to check on it. "Don't wanna get you all boots-up out here on th'shore, someone's gonna drive by out there, see th'marina owner kitty-cat diggin' a dog's shit out," Clyde said, pulling the grill open with a whuff of smoke and quickly flipping.  Stan laughed. "Been thinkin' bout it all day," the cat added, facing away from Stan, almost too quiet to hear. "God dammnit,  you got some way with words," the dog said, and stepped back to have a seat on one of his patio chairs. "Taste like meat, too." The dog licked his lips, stomach roiling with renewed hunger. The dog picked up one of his boots and wedged it on top of his knee, which garnered a lingering over-the-shoulder look from the recovering tiger. "Gotta make sure that brisket's cooked all through, yep." The tiger's pot-fueled exposition slowly died off, and once food was ready, the two sat out on the patio table replacing words with food. Stan watched the tiger now and then, and caught little hints of interest; a more than occasional thump of a boot against boot under the table, a few pause-and-looks. As soon as Stan went for his water after putting back the last slice of grilled potato, a big red-striped hand tromped down on his. Stan blanched under his fur. Clyde took something out of a pocket, tilting to the side to dig it out. It took Stan a few seconds to realize it was the half-burned joint that Clyde had mentioned earlier. "You wanna use this up? Gonna throw it in those coals over there otherwise."  The tiger tossed it onto the table next to Stan's plate. "I dunno, I don't, I mean I really haven't ever smoked much. Used to have cigars with my bro, he'd stash some in his but I never did it." Clyde shrugged. "Jus' figured I'd offer. Took it 'way from that coy-yote, feel kinda bad jus' throwin' it out." Stan picked it up and sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. "I guess it wouldn't hurt," he said, then fetched the grill lighter. He lit and inhaled, then immediately exploded smoke back out, hacking and snorting, ending with a hock and spit. "God damn!" the dog said, eyes watering, and he threw the butt into the fire. "God damn god damn god damn!" "Uh-huh, shit's too strong, that cancer patient weed's somethin' else." The dobie paced around, clutching his throat, then headed inside. "Need more water," he croaked. Once inside, he just stuck his head sideways at the tap and gulped. Clyde came in, chuckling as he scuffed across the floor, then offered a friendly pat to the dog's back. Clyde then wandered around the house. "Hey now, when'd you get a camera?" the tiger bellowed from the other room. Stan froze and clapped the faucet off. By the time he was in the dining room, Clyde was already fiddling with the camera. "Uh, well, I wanted to take pics of my projects and stuff, I dunno, to document them," the dog said, and tried to reach for it. It was too late; Clyde had switched it on and twisted the mode knob to the Play icon, and the screen lit up the tiger's face. Stan didn't even know what pictures were on it; probably random things around the house, a sunset or two, and then... the pictures from earlier. Clyde didn't say much as he beeped through the photos. "Pretty good shots," he mumbled. As Stan stared, ears quivering as he tried to restrain them from tipping back, the tiger's crotch swelled under his jeans, the thick tube of an erection forming off towards the side of his hip. The dog's eyes fixed on the obscene bulge as the room slowly started to wobble, Stan's heart pounding as whatever smoke he managed to get in started to work. The dobie let out a low nrrgh and leaned on the table, gaze wandering around the room. It settled on a big duffel bag by the door; Clyde must have brought it. "What, uh, what's in the bag?" Stan said. Clyde just turned from the camera's screen to make eye contact. "You go an' get changed, an' you'll find out. Go on, git, put all that stuff on an' don't come out 'till I knock." Clyde set the camera down, then urged Stan on with a pat to the shoulder. Stan's embarrassment took a back seat to intoxication, and the dog let Clyde push him into the bedroom, then leaned back on the door to shut it. He listened, Clyde's boots tromping around outside in the dining and living room. The dog then dug his new leathers out and started putting them on, tripping onto the bed a few times. The jock proved the worst part; his cock was so hard, fully knotted, that it wouldn't fit in and he had to mash it inside to get the snaps to close. The dobie was barely done sliding into his fresh, black leathers when Clyde pounded on the door. The dog grabbed the knob and pulled it open. Clyde wasn't at the door any more; he'd backed up into the dining room. The tiger was clad in a little less leather than Stan: brown leather cowboy hat, brown saddle-leather vest, brown long-cuff riding gauntlets, saddle-leather shotgun chaps, and a pair of heavy-duty buckaroo cowboy boots hidden under the chaps leather. Unlike Stan, the tiger had nothing on under the chaps; the tiger's cock arced out, swollen and up-curved, foreskin still covering most of the mushroom head. His balls were plump and strained underneath, a leather band strapped around the sac, making for two jumbo eggs covered in a dusting of white velvet fur. Clyde stood there, elbows out, hands like he was going to draw a weapon. "What kinda faggot cow-boy puts on an empty holster an' a jock-strap?" the tiger grunted, cock flexing upwards. Stan's ears tried to tuck back, but his cowboy hat was in the way. Clyde started to step forward, boots scrape-thumping the floor in an exact replica of an Old Western intimidating swagger. "You answer me, boy." The red tiger's face drained of emotion, then curled into a sneer. Stan would have been terrified if he weren't half stoned. Instead, he started to laugh, a sputtering kind of chuckle that made Clyde's frown deepen. "Well, uh, uhm, what kind of faggot cowboy wears a collar 'round his balls?" The tiger rushed Stan, gloved hands reaching out and grabbing at the leather coat's lapels. The two bodies crushed together, leather squeaking as vest ground against coat, chaps against chaps. Clyde's bare cock left trails of messy precum on the dog's leather-covered abs; the dog's package ground up against one of Clyde's heavy-duty thighs. Their muzzles met, and this time Stan got his tongue in play first, stuffing it into the tiger's mouth and licking around. The tiger kept gyrating and grunting, returning the kiss hard, teeth clicking against teeth, gloved hands feeling over every inch of leather they could find. They eventually found their way to Stan's rump, squeezing and grabbing at the chaps-framed cheeks. Then, gloved fingers surrounded the dog's stub and started massaging it. "Aww fuck, don't do that, don't do that, makes my knees feel funny," Stan complained, breaking off the kiss, chin wet with tiger spit. Clyde just backed up, dragging the leather-clad dog across the dining room, into the living room. Stan ended up sitting on the sofa, staring at Clyde's thick cock. He just leaned forward and worked up some spit, then slobbered it out all over the half-hooded glans. His long tongue curled around it, gloved hand cradling the tiger's balls as he coated the length in spit, tongue working underneath the foreskin and rolling it back. Clyde put up a gloved hand and shoved Stan's face away. The dog looked up, then stood; Clyde punched him in the shoulder and grabbed the dobie by the bicep, then spun him and shoved him straddling over the sofa's arm. "Wait, wait, not-" Clyde grunted and met the dog's asshole with his dickhead, then kicked it in. Stan howled and clutched onto the sofa, head thumping forward and knocking his hat loose. He pulled it back on with a shaky black-gloved hand. "Oh son of a bitch, it hurts!" "God-damn coy-yote weed, got your asshole all snug," Clyde said, body sinking further until his hips bumped the dog's rump. He slowly rocked back and forth, Stan's grunts and struggles turning from pain to the strange jostling pleasure of his guts moving back and forth. It didn't take long before the leather-wrapped tiger was hammering, head turned to the side, snorting as he pumped in.  "Unnh, unnh, can't fuckin'.. ah can't get off, son of a bitch, you, you're all done up so good, never seen, uh  never seen anythin' like this on you an' and I can't get off!" "Clyde-" "God dammnit, dog, been thinkin' about you all day, wanna fuck you so good, wanna come in your ass, go an' squeeze a lil? Please? Gotta get off in you," the tiger mumbled, leather clapping against leather as he delivered a brutal pounding. Stan turned to look over his shoulder, at the hulking cowboy tiger, and nearly shot in his jock. Then he spotted the living room window, blinds open, a straight view to the street. Someone jogged by, lit by the late evening sun. "Fuck, Clyde, get off my back! The window!" The tiger just kept thrusting. Stan grappled with the arm of the sofa and heaved himself back; Clyde unplugged and staggered, back-walking right to the front door and pounding back-first against it. The dog got up and rushed the tiger, then dodged to the left and snatched up the duffel bag, then bolted into his bedroom. He intended to close the door - to play a little game with the tiger - but his new boot soles were fresh and slick and he skidded clear to the far end on the hardwood. The tiger stomped after him. "Now you give that back!" Clyde growled, tail flailing behind him, beating at the door frame as he burst through it. The dobie dumped out the rest of the duffel onto his bed. It stank of leather inside - the tiger's gear must have been inside it, especially seeing as the tiger's hat was rumpled. The contents were several winds of rope and one rather sizable ball-gag. "What the hell were you going to do with all this?" Clyde stomped up to the bed and tried to grab at the items, but Stan yanked them away, clutching the rope up. "Well it was jus' all in that bag when I stuffed my leathers up in there." Stan looked down at the rope and gag in his gloved hands. Something clicked inside, possibly spurred on by the lust pounding he received from the huff of pot. "So why can't you come?" "It ain't nothin'," Clyde said, starting to jack himself, gauntlet slapping at his wrist. "You know us tigers, we can go an' go an' go an' go. But I get stoned, an' it's like I gotta work real hard at it. An' I was jus' gettin' close when you shoved me off." "Didn't want anyone looking in and seeing, that's all," Stan said. He stood up with a creak of leather, the idea coming to a head inside his skull. "Maybe you just need a little extra thrill." Stan fiddled with the rope, untying it and turning it into a loose coil. He tossed the gag onto the bed. "Aww shit," Clyde grunted, the last syllable getting whuffed out his muzzle as Stan crushed up against the tiger's back and thumped him chest-first onto the bed. Stan started fooling with the rope, knotting it around one gloved wrist, then the other. "You ain't told me you like this kinda thing, jus' all that hot-ass leather gear." A few more wraps and knots, and the dobie had Clyde's wrists bound hard behind his lower back. The dog started up the forearms, wrapping a few times, then knotting at the elbows. "Wait a minute, uh, you ain't gotta do that much," the tiger grunted, cowboy hat falling to the side as he squirmed against the bed. Stan kept going, wrapping rope around the tiger's chest, knotting it to his biceps, then hooking it over the shoulders and down around the elbow windings. "You gotta do this or it just kind of pushes off. I mean, I've seen that in videos an' shit." Another few minutes and Clyde was not only bound at the wrists, but his arms were so firmly tied close to his back that all he could do was struggle and squeak rope against his leather vest. Stan had never actually tied anyone up, although he was familiar with knots and had tied up his own boots several times while jacking off. The dobie stood there, grinning as he successfully half-hogtied Clyde, then pushed himself up against the tiger's bare ass. The dog groaned as he rode his bulging jock against the tiger's rump, then started unsnapping the pouch. "Well, you said cowboys don't wear jocks, so there goes that." Stan was fully hard, cock engorged, torpedo-swollen shaft slick and ruddy, knot swollen at the base, precum dribbling out of the tip. He let the shaft ride up against Clyde's asshole, then moved it aside. The tiger's pucker was slick with something. The tiger had lubed himself up before coming over. "Unh, c'mon Stan, I wanna come in your ass, I've been waitin' all day to do it, fought off some baked coy-yote jus' so I could come over here an-rruhhh!"  Stan rammed himself in, not even bothering to fit the head in first; unlike Clyde, his cock didn't have a swollen glans to strain at first. The dobie leaned back and groaned, free hand sliding over his leather-clad chest, then over his jacket, the other one adjusting his hat. "If you were gonna come in me, then how come you're all slicked up? This is how it feels like when you jus' jump on me and fuck," Stan growled, leaning forward to clutch his gloved hands at the tiger's rope-and-leather-clad shoulders, then started pounding. His knot slapped the tiger's asshole, and Clyde bucked and struggled, arms wriggling underneath the bent-over dog's chest. The tiger pulled his knees up, letting out a constant stream of grunts and slobbering groans into the sheets as Stan pounded as hard as he could manage. Soon, the dog was panting, pink tongue hanging out of his slender muzzle, and he stopped with a huff, cock sliding out. "Unh, did you, did uhhhn," Clyde groaned, trying to roll to the side.  "Naw, I gotta knot up in something to do that. C'mon Clyde, you've known me for what, a year or so? You never noticed that?" Clyde's tail lashed in response, thumping against the doberman's leather-clad self. Stan leaned down and grabbed the tiger by the bound arms and heaved him off the bed, leathers creaking as muscle bunched up. Once Clyde was standing, the dog swiped up the tiger's hat and stuffed it back on his head, then maneuvered the tiger in range of the mirror. "Unrh, god-damn, that leather shit looks good on you, makes you look real mean. I mean uh, know you don't like bein' thought of as a mean doggy, but....but..." The tiger struggled as he spoke, tail curling around the dog's black chaps and boots. Stan stood there, stoned and grinning, cock looking like it would pop any second.  "Oh, so I'm a mean dog now? So you just noticed that, after I just hammered your shit back in and tied you up?" The dog pulled Clyde away from the mirror and spun him, then shouldered into the tiger's chest. Clyde toppled backwards onto the bed, boots whipped up as he tried to squirm around. Stan seized one of the boots and held onto it, then grinned. He leaned on the edge of the bed, one half-bent knee shoved into the linens, and leaned down to sniff at the tiger's boot. Clyde stared, momentarily ceasing his struggles, then fighting to move so his jostled hat allowed him to see the doberman.  Stan nuzzled along the side of the tiger's huge cowboy boot, then started to lick his pink tongue out against it. "Kind of a shame you're all tied up like that, wouldn't mind having you squat down and lick mine. Don't really feel like stepping on your chest right now." Stan grinned as he licked, panting and slobbering on the boot leather, then wiping it up with his tongue. He held under the tiger's calf with one hand, the other starting to pump at his cock, jerking hard enough that his balls smacked his knot, but nothing more than clear precum ever spit up out of the tip.  "Fuck, dog, go an' do somethin' to me, don't jus' lick my boot. Please? God damn Stan, my nuts hurt!" Clyde complained, hips tensing and waggling his swollen cock.  "Your nuts don't hurt," Stan said, letting the boot down as he picked up one of his own and stepped it down onto the bed right between Clyde's legs. The tiger's eyes widened, muzzle parting in fear as the dog's boot sole tilted down, starting to grind on the tiger's strained balls. Stan chuckled and pulled his foot away, then climbed up fully onto the bed. He straddled onto Clyde's thighs, forcing the tiger to flatten his legs out. He took the tiger's cock in his hand and started to slowly pump and milk the foreskin, gloved thumb riding up between the underside bulges of the glans.  After a good few minutes of squeezing, twisting, and jerking, Clyde started to struggle, his cockhead flaring out a little further. Stan just let go.  "Aww son of a bitch! God-dammnit Stan, this ain't funny! I mean it, ain't funny!" 'Well, it ain't funny that you were letting some coyote get you baked off your ass," Stan said, leaning down, careful not to touch the tiger's pent-up erection.  "Didn't do nothin' with him! I didn't do nothin', I tol' you that, now jus'... get me off, please?" "God, this stuff messes you up, doesn't it? You said it makes me tight?" Stan said, cowboy gear creaking as the dobie leaned forward, then grabbed hold of Clyde's precum-slimed cock. He squatted over it, then sat down slowly, lips pulling back in a snarl as the glans popped through, jaw then hanging open as the tiger's cock fitted up to the hilt. "Is that going to get you off? Having a mean cowboy mutt riding on your dick with his stoned, tight asshole on you?" Clyde looked confused. "What in hell's gone wrong with you?" Stan picked up the ball gag that he'd tossed aside, and Clyde started to fight, hips bucking and trying to launch the dog off. "You've been running your mouth all night because that stuff's got you all riled up inside, so I'm gonna fix that. Give you that little thrill you said you need, kitty-cat." Stan's voice dropped to a husky growl as he leaned down, one hand clutching at the tiger's leather vest, the other brandishing the ball.  "Naw you don't, don't put that in my mouth, don't gotta gag me, I didn't do nothin', I didn't do nothin! Noth-urrrlgh!" For someone who didn't want anything in his mouth, Clyde gave Stan plenty of opportunity to stuff the red rubber ball inside. Clyde's tongue tried to push the ball back out, but Stan leaned further and fixed the strap behind his head, pulling it so tight that Clyde's lips were pulled back at the corners.  The dobie leaned down, chest to chest, asshole still stretched over Clyde's shaft, and tilted his hat back. The dog licked out against the tiger's lips, then teeth, then all over the ball-gag stuffed in Clyde's mouth. The dog's open-mouthed kiss had him starting to squirm and ride over the tiger's cock, and it had Clyde snorting and drooling down the sides of his red mane. Stan sat back up, boots creaking as he kept himself balanced on the tiger's body, thighs flexing under his chaps as he rode upwards and then sunk back down. Clyde stared on, eyes fixated on the dog, flicking up and down between boots and cock, chaps and gloves, coat and hat.  Stan felt so full of himself that he grinned like a maniac, one hand clutching up at his hat, the other reaching back to grab at the rim of the tiger's chaps, as if he was holding the saddle on a bucking steed. Clyde played the part, body lurching and thrusting under the dog as Stan rode up and down. Clyde started to snort and growl, eyes rolling back in his head, hips jerking and straining upwards; Stan just pulled right off. Clyde humped up into the air, cock twitching and dribbling a little white seed, then firing off. Instead of the hard, copious jets that usually came out, the tiger unloaded in short, sticky bursts that pumped onto his abs and then just dribbled down his cock. He snarled and roared and snorted into the gag, spit spraying out past the rubber several times. The tiger's climax ended with a protracted groan, head slumped off to the side, a gurgle coming up out of his gagged mouth. The doberman crouched over Stan's chest and started pumping at his cock, one hand yanking at the shaft, the other grabbing his knot. Within seconds, Stan's mouth opened up, pulled into an orgasmic snarl as his cock fired off. The first two spurts shot out and splashed Clyde's chin, while the rest just dumped out onto the tiger's rope-crossed chest, heavy drools spurting onto themselves as they covered fur and vest leather, Stan's eyes staring down as he blew onto the tiger's heaving pecs. "Fuck," the dog grunted, letting go of his knot. He climbed off the bed, then dragged Clyde over to the edge and yanked the ball gag out, then rolled the tiger onto his chest and hurridly pulled the ropes off. Clyde mumbled and rubbed his face into the sheets, arms coming up and stretching out. "Here, lemme get a towel," Stan said, and clopped out of the room. He stormed into the bathroom and mopped his own cock off, then took the towel in to the tiger. Clyde was lying there on his back, eyes half-lidded, a gloved hand absently smearing spunk into his fur. Stan wiped the majority of it off, then tossed the towel aside. He shrugged out of his coat and hat, then went to hang them in the closet.  "Hope that teaches you a lesson," Stan said. "Maybe uh, that you oughta... you oughta..." "Oughta come in your ass first," Clyde grunted, then rolled over onto his side. Literally within seconds, the tiger's breathing had turned into the slow huff of sleep.  "Yeah," Stan said, and sat down on the edge of the bed, still half-leathered. "Wait a minute, you asleep?" Clyde said nothing, didn't move, didn't even twitch his tail. "Damn." For a long moment, Stan thought that everything had worked out just like he always thought it would. A tiger who just wanted to use him as a fuckhole, who wouldn't even say thank-you after a good roll in the hay, who'd do anything with whoever he wanted. The dog pawwed at his headfur, hunched over at the side of the bed as a little black cloud washed through his head. Then it faded and he came to his senses. Clyde was probably telling the truth about his encounter with Dawson; the tiger was stoned and had just climaxed; and Clyde was lying in Stan's bed. The dog looked over at the sleeping red-furred tiger and sighed, then laid himself out next to Clyde. The hulk was out cold. Stan wasn't; he felt antsy and frankly a little aroused still, watching the tiger's leather-clad body slowly move with his sleepy breaths. Stan carefully rolled onto his back and took his knot in his gloved hand, then squeezed and milked as firmly as he could without shaking the bed. After a good few minutes, another rush of climax came out, white spunk oozing out his cocktip and drooling down the shaft.  This time, after the pangs of climax subsided, the slow burn of afterglow felt like a mind-numbing rush, and Stan fell asleep before he could clean himself off.