Zale's Big Trip, Pt 2 by H. A. Kirsch Copyright 2011 --- I wore cowboy boots to the airport. Yeah, you have to take your shoes off, but it's not really hard. Besides, it was kind of, uh, fun to put them up on the belt, towering over everyone else's footwear. I didn't mind taking my boots off, but I didn't want anything going wrong with my carry-on. I had something in there, something I knew Harley was going to want, something I was going to want. I didn't trust that kind of... item to baggage handlers and a side-trip to indonesia. I didn't trust that... pair, of items... to... A couple of guys were taken aside for puff tests, every ten seemed to go into the body imager, and I saw one rather disgruntled female cougar stand with an officious huff while she was wanded. No one seemed to be getting pulled aside. I went to grab for my bag on the other end of the x-ray, and one of the officers pulled it away. "Sir, TSA regulations require that we take you aside as a random special in-depth screening. Are you on Qantas 564?" "Special... yeah?" They didn't have my bag yet, but I didn't either. 'That's enough time, don't do the whole thing' 'Of course not, and shut up already' "Come this way, this is not a personal body search, this is only a luggage search. I need you to put your bag up on this table and go through each item, just show it enough so we can see it." I'd seen this before at an airport, a business traveler who seemed to know the drill. That was fine, but he had just road warrior supplies. I had... I had... I had hooves. I put my bag up and started opening it up. I was socked and otherwise barefoot, standing by a big metal examination-style table, clutching at my suitcase. I started going through all the pockets, showing off my camera, my shower kit with approved-quantity bottles, my phone, my headphones, finally into the inside. Underwear, shirts, pants, a few pairs of leather gloves, uh, some other leather, and.. The two guards looked at each other, then at the shiny curve of the hoof front for one of the hoof-boots. "Can you... can you pull that out a little?" I pulled it out enough to show that yes, it was a hoof. "We just need to make sure it's not some sort of contrband, you know, there have been some pretty damn weird, uh things, that we had to confiscate here." The guard who spoke again was a somewhat thick German Shepherd. Not fat, but curvaceous for a male. He really packed into his uniform. His comrade was an embarrassed but smiling fox with scruffy dust-orange fur. I pulled out the hoof-boot. It required two hands to actually show it off, or else the leather just bent and hung down. To show it to them, I had to turn, and turning let me see between them at a different angle, to where a dark-maned lion in a business suit gave me a ball-freezing glare. Oh, hi, Harley! I don't think he was very amused, probably embarrassed that I got caught bringing my lovely, fancy, totally kick-ass hoof boots. I sure was. "Okay, that's fine," the guard said again, and they let me pack up my things. The fox, who seemed to be barely tolerating the situation in the same way that someone at Wal-Mart barely tolerates having to actually work at Wal-Mart, came over to me. I thought he was going to offer to help or blankly apologize. Instead: "I have those same ones," he said, trying not to look like he was actually stopping me to converse. I slowed down my zipping-up around that bag, absently prodding in at the lascivious contents of my carry-on. "They're really nice, aren't they? Real heavy. The thin ones, you can't walk around a lot in them, it hurts your ankles. You need support." Uh. "Yeah, they are." That was that. The guards herded me over towards the rest of the travelers, where Harley was standing like some kind of disappointed father. I looked over my shoulder; the fox was doing the same thing, seeing if I was looking at him. We created some infinite loop before Harley cleared his throat. "I would hate to see what surprises you have on your own body. It is a good thing you did not refuse the body image scan or else that fox would have been feeling you up until he met resistance." 'That fox' came out with this horrible contempt, as did 'met resistance'. "Oh well. Guess there goes that. I mean, you knew I would, I mean, bring them, right?" I started to finger at my mohawk. Harley just turned and started to walk. In a close setting like the break room, or his condo, Harley's cowboy boots gave him this impressive pounding walk. In a huge airport, he was reduced to Just Another Suit. I kind of liked that. I'd been to JFK a million times. My family never had that much money, but my parents always managed to wheel and deal all sorts of vacations when I was a kid. My aunt worked for Qantas as a flight attendant - now some kind of supervisor - so we'd get deals going back down under, and then some of her friends would hook us up for other trips. Still, Harley showed me something I'd never seen. The first-class lounge. I'd never flown first class. Business, yes. First? No. Shit, you don't even get first class in the U.S any more, you just get two seats instead of three, a little room to stretch your legs, and a guarantee there'll be no screaming kids behind you. The first class lounge, though.. it was a Lounge. No rows of seats all connected together so that kid who shakes his leg and bounces wiggles your junk. No straining to hear the announcements or read the tiny little things that indicate whether you're really getting on the plane or not. Couches. Recliner chairs. Net stations and loaner tablets that the staff actually _cleaned_ before letting you at them. A separate lounge for families, so that kids could be kids and grouchy lions can sit in dead silence with their zorstitutes next to them. Did I say that? Everything was clean, everything was nice and casually upscale, the televisions had those sonar speakers so you could hear them only when you were actually watching, there were snacks and clean private bathrooms and when it was time to board, the hostess person there took everyone on the same flight down at once on this little tram thing. All of that appreciation kind of oozed out. Inside, I was some little kid who just discovered that unicorns _are_ real. Outside, I just pleasantly mumbled about everything and covertly looked at some pinup porn on one of the tablets. It came into my email! Jasek signed me up for it. It was this website called "Real Animals", and it was hybrids looking as 'real' as they could while also doing human things. Boarding the plane, alas, was just like boarding any fucking plane. The jetway smelled like burning kerosene, everyone was wheeling carry-on luggage that wouldn't fit, blah blah blah. Once on the plane, though, we were headed _upstairs_. I always figured first class was kind of ho-hum. No no no, this was amazing. First class was double aisle, but across the plane there were only four seats. Each seat was like a _pod_. The seat could be a comfortable chair, a bench, or a full-length bed that would even fit Harley's entire self. There was this entertainment computer thing, and actual pillows and blankets, and even a little jump seat for someone to come and hang out. And a pony! Technically, we were on a plane. Instead of across the aisle, we were front and back, which was a bit weird. I wasn't flying 'with' Harley, I was just on the same plane as him. He didn't seem talkative, which was no surprise. He did go to the bathroom a lot. I didn't actually know how old he was. I assumed middle-age, maybe fifties at the most. He'd said he was a First, and for whatever reason they lived longer, so he could be even older. He still had a raging sex drive, so he wasn't over the hill, and he didn't even have too much gray in his fur. But the bathroom... He'd gotten into sounding thanks to Jasek, or thanks to me talking about Jasek's weird hobby, or who knows why. I wondered if he did it to clean the pipes out? Like he had prostate trouble. Bad airport food? Maybe he was teasing himself in there.. Overall, the flight was opulent, well-fed, comfortable, and fucking boring. He didn't even try to fuck me. --- The hotel was some fancy brand - Hilton, I think - and it was excessively nice since it was practically in downtown Sydney. We were spending one week there, then a few days in another city to go camping. Camping? Okay... The room was a business suite, so it had a living room, bedroom, bath with square jacuzzi tub, mini bar. It was really nice, if kind of contemporary modern. I always imagined fancy hotel rooms being full of curly brass stuff and expensive oriental-pattern carpeting, four-post beds with lush everything. This one was decadent but almost minimalist. It also had only a king bed. That was good and bad. It was good because we had to sleep together. It was bad because... The first night, Harley took a really long soak in the jacuzzi tub, then did some work while he was wearing his smoking jacket. The room had a sort of connector part where the business desk was, so I could watch TV or use the computer while he was working, or even go to sleep. I tried to figure out exactly what Harley did, but it wasn't obvious. The only thing he said to me was, "I have to work this week. I may not be very energetic." He wasn't kidding. When he came to bed, he climbed in and fell asleep within thirty seconds. That was a total let-down. I didn't bother trying to tease him, because he fell asleep so soundly. The next day, he was gone before I was ready to get up. I felt disoriented from the jetlag and went to take something for it, then proceeded to go stir crazy. He was back that for only a little bit before sleeping. Son of a bitch! This vacation was a joke. It was the worst nightmare. It was the cold and impersonal thing I'd feared it would be. We were in the same bed, but he would have nothing to do with me. The next morning, things picked up. Harley woke me up before heading out. "Did you pack something nice to wear?" "Uh, sort of.." Not really. I assumed he meant proper attire. Duh, I didn't bring a suit or anything. "I kind of forgot." "Clearly it was more important to pack fetish gear than it was to bring business dress. Did it occur to you that you may be accompanying me to dinner?" "I guess it did, but you didn't, I mean you usually-" "You may go shopping," he said, and handed me a debit card. It was a prepaid traveler's debit card, apparently issued in Australian dollars. 1,500 of them. Wow. "I would suggest not spending it all at once. You do not need black tie. You will be accompanying me to the opera tonight. While it is proper attire, it is not black tie." "Opera? Did you just say opera?" "Yes." Harley was tying his tie. His burgundy pinstriped tie. Today, he had a pair of blue slacks on, a deep silver pinstriped navy to contrast with the charcoal jacket. Something was a little wrong about that color combination. It looked great, but... "We are going to the opera. I have box seats. Lower level, I believe. Private box. You could say it is a perk." "But it's _opera_. Have you ever seen an opera? I know you're kind of stuck up, but really, it's awful. We had to go during high school, as part of advanced music class, and it was terrible. For one, it was in German. For two, it was Wagner. For three-" "This will be inspired by Wagner, but I can assure you, Mr. Sterling, that you will find it extremely pleasant." I laughed. "We'll see about that. I'm un-cultured. I play heavy metal and get paid for sex." His response: "Mmh." Then, he picked up his briefcase. "I will see you here at five o'clock." Then, he left. Time to go shopping. I didn't have to go far. Down the street from the hotel was a fairly upscale store called HIDES. It was, as the name suggests, full of hides. All kinds of leather, all fashionable, a lot of it coming edgily close to bondage. There was both men's and womens, and some select non-leather stuff that kept the tradition of shiny and glossy and eye-catching. I decided to put together an outfit. The leather I brought in my carry-on was only gloves and a few choice bits of bondage gear, just in case. I needed something complete. Something fashionable and public, but very very telling. I just had to show off. Leather pants, a pair of cowboy styled ones in inky black, five pocket, button fly, straight calf. Very supple, very hugging, very nice. I was so, so glad I had my jockstrap on. Boots, well, my cowboy boots would do just fine. Nice and pointy and simple black. Dressy. I didn't have the fancy snake ones or the studded ones with me. Shirt, that would be a fantastic blue thing made out of a stretchy satiny fabric with an explosively edgy but meaningless silver embroidery pattern. It subtly left empty spaces where my pecs were, yet made you look up towards them. Cute. It hugged really nice, too. I loved it instantly. Vest, a black leather thing, tooled but not really cowboy, dressy and yet almost leather-bar. Only five hundred bucks! Australian, although fuck if I knew what the conversion rate was. I paid up, had lunch, then got back to the hotel and hung around. Half an hour before Harley was going to show up, I got everything on and lounged in the living room. When the lion showed up, he looked wind-blown and brusque, almost throwing the door open. "I am very pleased, Mr. Sterling. I will be in a good mood tonight." We took a cab to the opera house, a nice luxury one, some sort of fantastically expensive car. I think it was a Maybach. It was one of the models where they'd brought back the electro-whatever roof that can go from transparent to opaque at the flip of a switch. I watched the city lights through it, then turned on the mood lighting. It was fantastic. It was so cool. I felt so rich, and probably looked the part with all that shimmery and fine-cut leather on. Harley changed the light to red, then stared at me for a block. His face wasn't that angry for once. More... alive. I think he was looking at me in pure adoration, and I don't mean that as a smug shit. I mean he was really adoring how I looked, instead of judging me through some male-sex calculation. He wasn't kidding about the private box. We actually had our own sort of space with a divider next to where Harley sat. It went down, in case there were three or four of us, but he pulled it up. Since we were at the edge of the balcony, there was a sort of ledge I could rest my arms on if I leaned forward. All the way up until curtain up, Harley simply relaxed and looked through some things on his phone. I got out my opera glasses and people watched. I mean, the guys in the box seats across the theater were doing it! The audience was pretty mixed and all nicely dressed, but at least two thirds male and mostly hybrid. "I will warn you, Mr. Sterling," he said, leaning over and nudging my ear just as the curtains slid up. "This play is geared towards certain interests, or rather uses them for its framework. It is intended to be a full opera, a full work, but it is... unique. Also, the soprano is male." He was right. At first, I thought it was really going to be some stuffy and overly melodramatic Vahgner pile of Stuff I Don't Like. Then, the soprano came out for his little introductory whatever. He was a fox, clad in some kind of poufy white shirt, black leather gloves, red leather breeches, and tall riding boots. He wasn't just a soprano - he was a, uh, Wagnerian one. He could belt it out extremely powerfully, and he was quite built as a fox. I mean he was clearly a fox, clearly a European red one, but he was ripped. A bit too much, too honed. Totally gay? He could sing right up into the whistle register, too, like that Russian guy. Vitas! The fox was totally a fop. I was right, as he was dramatically - and quite dominantly - whisked off the stage by the love interest we'd come to know as a particularly ferocious black wolf in highwayman gear. Mostly leather as well, come to think of it. I looked over at Harley, and he gave me a knowing half smirk. "You have got to be kidding," I grunted. Harley started to part his mouth, then his eyes widened. I looked back at the stage. Oh my god, the fox was getting tied up in his bedroom, although it was clearly for reasons other than sex. Clearly, but still a double entendre. Then, we picked up the next piece of the story, which faded in on the other side of the stage. It was the same plot line, my notes said, as the fox and wolf, although with different characters, starting like the storyline version of a round. This one had a nice alto singer coming in from the dark, followed by a roaring baritone. As the light faded up, I almost wet myself. The alto was a zebra, a fairly small one as far as actual zebras go, but totally fullblood. You can always tell by the ears and the fur. White, it's a zebra. Anything less than white, zorse. So the alto guy was a zebra, but the baritone was... a lion. Not the same kind of lion as Harley, although it's hard to explain how I could tell. I guess just another species of lion. The mane color was different, the body proportions, whatever. "What... what exactly are we watching? I'm not really good at paying attention. Is this a gay opera, Harley?" "In a matter of speaking, yes. I lied a little when I spouted off that Wagnerian nonsense. It is an exploration into animal stereotypes and power roles in gay male society," he said, reading something on the back of the pamphlet that I hadn't really paid attention to, "Juxtaposed with classic German high opera. I suppose there is some Wagner in there, then." "Do you actually know anything about opera?" "No," Harley said, and grabbed my knee. "I do know that I am enjoying this one." You're enjoying this one because a zebra's being berated and pushed around on stage by a big fucking lion! "This.. you only like this because, because of who's in it!" Mind you, I was saying all this shit into his ear as a whisper. I'm not a jerk. Harley's reaction was to grab me right between the legs. Not like a fishhook, but he grabbed _me_. Still wearing his black leather gloves, clutching onto my dick as it sat in one of the lap creases. "Mr. Sterling, perhaps you are a little too excited to enjoy high performance art. I think I will take care of that." No no no no no no not in the fucking opera house holy shit! I tried to push his arm away, but he just fought it back. I pushed again, and he grabbed me _around the mouth_. "Shut up," he growled into my ear, gloved fingers squeezing and tensing, sliding along the bulge until they hit the flared head, pinching and crushing and tugging there. Without the opera glasses, I couldn't see the details of what was happening on stage, but that was okay. I got the gist of it. The fox and wolf, zebra and lion, then horse and some human guy, were all representing the stereotypes of small and large, prey and predator, slave and master. What a filthy fucking opera! There was nothing outright filthy, although the zebra/lion and horse/human pairings were quite base in terms of their portrayals. You ride a horse, and lions eat zebras. Foxes and wolves don't do anything to each other in reality, but their vast size difference even in hybrids has made them popular amongst the caricature set. I found it real easy to think about all that highbrow sociological shit, because I was trying to get out of the situation I was in. If Harley wanted to jerk me off in my fucking pants, my _brand new_ expensive leather pants, IN FUCKING PUBLIC, I was going to thwart him. No one in our box section would have a clue what was happening, and aside from the glove over my mouth, no one else in the theater would.. except perhaps the other guys in the box seats across the way, like the Belgian shepherd who had made eye contact with me while I was fooling with my opera glasses. Fuck. It didn't work. The embarrassing nature of the opera, Harley's strong and immobile gloved hand on my mouth, and the fact that he knew just where to grab a horse's dick was getting me off. "I am fond of this new outfit you have, Mr. Sterling. It will be a shame to get you out of it once we get back to the hotel room. I have been suffering, Mr. Sterling. Jet lag makes me irritable and sleepy, and I have not yet come once since we touched down." What does _you_ coming have to do with _me_ coming in my pants!? I'd have asked just that if I could, but I couldn't. I couldn't do more than mumble into his hand, or maybe kiss it, or tongue at it. "Do you know why I want you to come in your pants, Mr. Sterling?" He practically had my ear in his mouth. Oh god, I knew that guy across the way was watching us. "I will not tell you. You know exactly why I want you to climax, and I know you will." Harley was smart. He timed this to some sort of climactic point in the opera, which among other things had that fox producing a melody at his absolutely highest range. I mean duh, foxes scream, but this was unearthly. Nothing with testicles should be able to produce that sound. It was musical, just intense. It probably covered up any noise that came out of me as I shuddered and grabbed onto Harley's arm and blew it all into my pants. Meanwhile, on stage, the fox was being kidnapped, the zebra was meeting his end in a rather sanguine (but not gory) mess, and the horse was... well, I just didn't see that part because I was too ashamed to look up as my climax afterglow buzzed in my dick. Since we had luxury seats, we got our own special exit that sidestepped the crowds and dumped us right out onto the street (presuming we didn't want to mingle or load up at the bar). I didn't want to, and Harley literally dragged me no matter what I wanted. Apparently we were picking up our ride home in front of a nearby bistro as it was considerably less jammed than the theater's front. Who was standing there with us, but that fucking dog from across the theater! It had to be him. Corduroy hipster jacket with a hawaiian camp shirt exploding out of the lapels, black leather jeans, polished fashion motorcycle boots. I think he was a Malinois, one of those police dog things that isn't all plush and wolfy. "Cracking show, eh?" He said, leaning on the lamp post, idly punching at the walk button with his finger. It bleeped. Accent, but not Australian. British. Less nasal, probably London? "When that fox piped up, I took a look 'round the crowd. You could see their jaws drop out of their bloody heads." "I am not quite sure what it was about, and I read the notes thoroughly," Harley said, doing his best impression of a square. The dog laughed. "Right, well, you're not alone. I think the big criticism is that there's no massive conflict. It's about some crap like how we're all beholden to our animal parts. It's really just aesthetic, you know?" The light changed and we made our way across the street, a trio of boot heels, the two of them up front a bit with me tagging behind. "That fox is a marketing point, as was that horse guy. Think they were both in some big production last year." "I see," Harley said, using _that_ tone of voice. "Seems like you weren't paying much attention," the dog said, turning and walking backwards. "Don't blame you. Eye candy, really. Bloody obvious, did you see that zebra? Bloke had a hard one while he was being held down during that messy final scene." The dog stopped at a flashy red... compact car. We stopped, or rather Harley stopped and I had no idea where we'd parked since I hadn't paid attention. "The audience would have enjoyed seeing his attacker take care of that rather than simply bite him," Harley said. The shepherd looked at me, then Harley. "Right, definitely," and flashed a shit-eating grin. And he was a dog, so I'm sure he knew his way around some good shit. "Think some of them did. Car here," he said, and chirped the door open. We kept on. "Are you fucking _crazy_?" I muttered. Harley grabbed me by the mohawk. "That guy was watching us the whole time!" "Yes, Mr. Sterling, I am well aware of who he was. I suggest you stop berating me over my choice of treatment. You are my guest on this vacation, and as I extend you courtesy, you shall return it." "Oh, that's bullshit. Jacking me off in public at a theater is not courtesy. I can.. I can feel it moving around! It's running down my thigh." Ahh, there was the car, waiting for us! Harley won't do anything emba- "Mr. Sterling, shut your mouth before I shut it for you. Unlike at the theater, the cab driver will be only a few feet in front of you." I shut my filthy mouth right up. --- I didn't even have a nostril into the room when Harley started in on me. "Out of the vest, out of the shirt." "Whoa, can't I at least pee or something first?" He let out one of those Mmhn sounds and hit me on the ass. It was a regular old smack, nice clap from the glove leather on my pants, but he followed through a little and it shoved me hard enough that I barreled into the mini bar. I turned around and backed against it, and he was on me in a second. "If you will not follow orders, then I will do it myself." He unbuttoned my vest and I just squirmed my arms back, leather falling down the biceps. He unbuttoned the shirt, and immediately started groping at me. His black, glossy fingers caught my nipples and started working them, _hard_. "Oww! Jesus christ, you're going to rip 'em off!" "When I tell you to do something, you do it. You do not talk back. Do you understand me?" It wasn't pinching or twisting or pulling, but all three, and he grabbed at the entire thing on each side. I whinnied. "That must be yes. Now, get into bed. Remove your pants for me." As soon as I was out from under that tormenting grip, I bolted for the bedroom. Despite taking off as fast as my boots would let me, he still managed to crack me on the ass like someone running a stallion out of a barn. I ditched the shirt and vest, then clambered into bed. Harley came up behind me and lost his clothes in the wrong order, leaving him with his tie around his neck but no shirt or jacket, gloves still on his hands, belt unhooked but slacks still on. He didn't wait - he just climbed right into bed after me. "You smell filthy. You smell _disgusting_," he said, just about to bite the end of my snout off. Horses do not have small faces, but I knew he could probably fit my head into his mouth. "I wonder why that is." One of his hands grabbed me between the leg, then started popping buttons. Harley scared me, and like always, I froze up. He slowly worked my fly open, undid my belt, then scooted those clingy leathers down. Inside was a nasty mess, slimy leftover semen, sweat, precum, some dried mess in my groin fur. Just like I'd feared, a lot of it ended up going down my leg when I stood up. The smell hit me, wet and salty, buttery like male crotch and grassy from my cologne, musky from the new leather, with a good helping of dick raunch in there. Not quite what Harley usually confronted me with after ordering me to suck him off, but it'd only been an hour or so, not a whole workday. As I leaned back against the pillows on the fancy - if a little stiff - hotel bed, Harley leaned down and started nuzzling me all over my crotch. Dick, balls, into the crook of my thigh, then he started slurping the drying mess off my dick. I stared, but he didn't swallow. He looked up, then climbed up over me, huge face in mine. He reeked of my own sex. Then, he opened his jaw and let his tongue hang out a bit, with a creamy little splurt of my own semen strung across it. "Yes, Mr. Benson," I said, closed my eyes, and kissed him. By 'kiss', I mean, 'scooped as much of my own flavor out of his mouth as possible and swallowed it'. Just as I was swallowing, his teeth closed on my lip and tugged. "Oww, hey," I mumbled, and he just bit me on the neck. It hurt, it really hurt, it wasn't a play bite! No broken skin, and the bruise probably wouldn't show, but the skin pinch stung and the overall crush ached. I didn't have any more time to react. One minute I was standing up, dragged around by him, and the next I was in bed, held down while he stared me in the face, snarl all over it, fur matted down from kissing. He had his dick in his hand, jerking it hard, growling and lashing his tail around behind him. I focused on that ruddy tip as it flung back and forth, and by the time I looked back to his crotch, he was blowing a load all over my neck and chest. He didn't quit jerking when he quit shooting, either. He just smeared it all over his dick and then grabbed me by the legs. He wasn't even out of his slacks, they were just puddled down around his ankles. He got into me in one slimy shove, face growling musky, rank breath out all over mine. I hunkered back against the bed, pushing at his shoulders, his biceps, turning my head away. It only made him push and bite and smack me around. At least he was nice enough to lift up my legs and shove my knees to my chest - that turned that awful burn of forced entry into something a lot more pleasurable, a massive prostate ramming. I thought I was going to piss myself, he hit it so hard. All the shock wore off mid-fuck and I felt a swell of human panic. Harley was just using me as a sex toy! I didn't want to be used like a sex toy! I didn't want it so thoroughly that I channelled all of the do not want into my hardon. "No matter how you react, no matter what sort of expression you paint on your face, no matter if you even cry, I know exactly how you feel about this," he growled, right into my ear, not even an attempt to be sultry about it. It was loud and it hurt. "I would not use you like property if it did not get you off, Mr. Sterling." I showed him my teeth, but it really was just as I flared my lips back, overwhelmed by the gut-wrenching hammering he gave me. He wasn't even thrusting like a regular person, just jackhammering in these rough bursts, like the way I'd seen lions fuck on television shows. Whamwhamwhamwham, pause. His pauses weren't ejaculations, though. He countered me showing my teeth by spitting in my mouth, a nasty spray. I coughed and sputtered it up, and he did it again, this time shoveling a big wad in one big slop. I let it go all over my lips, then slurped it up. He just kept hammering, not coming. Why wasn't he coming? He was so desperate, and he'd just shot on my face, but I was sure he could do it again. Was he high? I didn't smell it. Was it jet lag? I struggled under him, tried to hunch and compact myself down and let him stuff the deep ring, tried to clamp up on him, but he was wearing me out. He was using me like a dick sheath, and I was going to be a very sloppy loose one by the time he was done. "Harley? Harley, don't... don't be so rough, please?" "Shut up. I do not pay you to babble at me," he snarled, then stopped again. Oh no, this time he was coming! Hot jerks and a deep, gurgling grunt, then he just started hammering again. "I love you, I'm not just some animal hole," I said. He froze, then backed right out. His cock jerked in the air, once, twice, as he stared at me. His face looked terrified rotten, angry and surprised and upset. Then, he started shooting _again_. It went all over my dick and balls, and he just rammed forward again, plugging me up, semen squelching around his dick as I stayed tight, body almost on the edge of orgasm from the relentless brutal prostate crushing. "Harley? I said I-" "I know what you said, you filthy animal, you fuck-toy, you _pony_," he snarled, and came _again_ inside me. This time, he looked like he was going to pass out when he finished and dragged his cock out. "If you are so adamant in your feelings for me, pony, you will show me just how filthy you are." Despite having just climaxed for the third time, he looked just as wild and raving as he did when we got into the hotel room. "You already came on my face! That's filthy." He stuck his gloved hand out, palm up, right above my tail. I just lay there and looked down at it. "I want to see my mess, in my hand." "You have to be fucking kidding, Harley." WHACK! I didn't even see that coming. He hit me _hard_, enough that it stunned me for a good ten seconds before the hot sting started to come into my cheek. "In my hand, Mr. Sterling." I couldn't possibly do what he wanted. Oh, I could physically do it - it was only by about the end of his endurance that it started to just drool out. Only three shots, with three days since the last time he went off? Buckets. I wasn't really a messy person usually, thanks to all the fiber I ate, and I'd thankfully taken care of a good shit before going out to the opera, but, but, but, but. He swung his hand back up and I immediately flinched. "No no no I'll do it, I'll do it! I'm a filthy pony!" Splurt. Do you realize how difficult it is to let go of your fucking asshole when someone's telling you to do it into their hand? He gave me an enema once, and even that was hard, even though I was already clean by that point. I did the same to him, before that time, and it was extremely amusing watching him shoot it all back out. This was not just a bunch of warm water, though. This was three copious loads of lion semen, splurted back all over his gloved hand. Harley took his hand back up to himself and looked at it, sniffed at it. Then, he held it out to me. There was a big, slimy puddle all over it, and it was thankfully white. "Clean it." I cried. I don't even know why, it just welled up inside me. Maybe all the fear finally congealed and broke me down. The fear of him possibly hurting me, the nasty smack to the face, being embarrassed in public, treated like a piece of furniture before that, humiliated in front of my coworkers by him simply being there, all the weeks and months and years (???) of him tormenting me for his own entertainment. My eyes watered, my face burned, my mouth twisted up, and by the time I started to nudge my muzzle into that slimy, musky puddle, I was sobbing. I _had_ to do it, because Harley wouldn't like me if I wasn't as filthy as he demanded. I slurped up the mess in a couple of globs, then just licked around on his palm, then suckled at his fingers. His reaction: a pleased, if gruff, grunt. He took his hand away and disappeared into the suite's bathroom for a particularly noisy piss. I just hunkered there in bed, salty taste in my mouth, trying to tell myself I didn't taste anything bitter, or at least not anything more bitter than my own seed. He came back completely naked, with two washcloths draped on one arm and a tall glass of water. He set the water down on the nightstand and then gave me one of the cloths. It was steaming damp and warm. I buried my face in it and let out a whuff, then scrubbed it around: face, neck, chest. He didn't give me the second one to dry off with. He dried me off with it. He wiped my tears off - they were still coming, now only because my eyes were just fucking irritated. "Do you want to come again?" I looked down. I was hard, but it was that kind of hardon that hurt, like when you're falling asleep in school and your body just cooks one up because of how it works. I didn't really want to get off again. I shrank back a little, afraid that Harley would try to force me. He could, and if he did, I'd get off, but those tears weren't a joke. I was totally out of my element. Fuck _being_ from Australia, I'd never spent a lot of time in actual downtown Sydney, never fancy hotels, never the opera, never fancy shops. I'd moved to New York when I was fucking four years old. Sure, my accent started coming back the second I fell off the plane, but so what? He had my hand. He wasn't really holding it, more like just holding it flat against my thigh, but he had it. "What did you think of the opera?" That stopped the last residual bit of crying. I ended up doing one of those hiccup shudders, then cleared my throat hard. I could... I could still taste it a little. But that was okay. "It was weird." Mmmh. "I found it hard to pay attention. It seemed to be a gigantic farce with no humor inside of it, only from the outside. I am not a fan of provocative art. I prefer directness. I do not like being goaded into reacting." I stared up at Harley, eyes wide. He gave me a surprised look. Maybe I looked like an animal. Sometimes I did that to friends, my ears would stick up and out a bit, I'd part my lips, pop my eyes open. They always said it made me look like a zoo horse. "Goaded?" He narrowed his eyes at me. "I find opera boring. Using shocking tactics to-" "You mean when there's a lion attacking and killing a zebra in a potentially romantic tryst? Shocking like that?" He glared at me again, then deflated a bit into a deep sigh. "I will not make you watch opera again, at least not on this vacation. Instead, we are going camping tomorrow." "What?" "We are going camping. Marramarra National Park. I hear it is quite scenic." Harley leaned over onto his side, then just collapsed into bed. I could tell he was starting to lose it for the night. His body was going all slack around his shoulders. "This will be a hike, Mr. Sterling. I refuse to stay at a standard campsite. Wilderness is lonely and should be met head-on." It was my turn to say 'mmh'. After crying, getting fucked, getting jerked off in public, spending a day aimlessly whirling around the streets buying clothes, lounging all alone... I was sleepy. The thought of being alone with Harley in some small tent on lumpy ground with bugs hitting the tent and scary animals outside making scary noises as they do harmless things? For some reason, that made me sleepy. "I am glad you agree," Harley said. That's the last thing I remember him saying before I fell asleep like some little kid after a tantrum.