[center][b]My Boyfriend’s Sheath[/b][/center]

[center]By Kaydrien Iceclaw[/center]



My boyfriend has a really big sheath.

I don’t think you understood me. I mean a [i]really big[/i] sheath. Other guys and girls see the bulge in his pants and figure he’s got an enormous dick and balls, but those are pretty normal size. I get to see the truth when his pants come off. Like now.

“Yer drooling again.”

I bob my head without looking up at his face. I know just fine how Ichtacka is looking at me. Confident. Amused. I am drooling, and I should be drooling. What else should I do, face to face with the monster between his legs?

This is my favorite moment. Peeling the underwear off by beloved hairless dog (I can’t wrap my mouth around the name of his breed, but he has better uses for my mouth anyway). Watching it slide down his smooth hips but catch on the top of the cantaloupe-sized lump between his legs. Seeing that thing [i]squish[/i] with the pull of the fabric. When that waistband looses its purchase on the top rim and the elastic yanks it down and over all at once to reveal what’s under it.

Gorgeous. That tube, that donut of meat as big as my head, pink-black like the rest of his skin with no fur to block the view of soft, vulgar flesh. It hangs a little open under its own weight, the wrinkled mouth of a black oval cave an inch or two wide.

I’d need to pull it out of the way to get a good look at his balls. If I gave a fuck about his balls. Why would I? 

“There we go. Nice to air out once in a while.” Ichtacka hooks an index finger under the lip, lifts. His sheath doesn’t move as a fully solid unit. There’s more than enough mass there to have some give. The top of the malleable meat pulls up with the finger, but the bulk wants to stay where it is, like a lump of bread dough. So the bottom lip of fat naked flesh stays on the couch cushion while the sides are pulled along and upward. It’s like a massive parody of a female canines’ plump spade like that for a moment.

I catch a glimpse of hot red inside, and I gulp down the next flood of saliva. What’s a poor meerkat to do? The only thing I can. Nuzzle in at the soft lower rim of his magnificent sheathmeat. Feel its give under my pointy nose.

“You didn’t wait fer permission.” Ichtacka notes. He doesn’t sound angry. He’s not. There are unspoken rules to be followed where something as glorious as the satchel between his legs is concerned, and the reminder is a part of that. Just as the same unspoken rules don’t assume for an instant I could be expected to control myself.

“Sorry.” My apology is directed more at the wonderful penis pouch my muzzle is denting than at Ichtacka. I kiss his sheath in penance, and then some more because I want to kiss it. Ever since he first let me see his overgrown feral foreskin, I’ve been its willing slave. And by extension, his servant.

“No you aren’t.” He puts his hand on my head, slides it forward to scritch at the nape of my neck affectionately. Doing so lets the top edge of his sheath fall. The released weight flops down, doesn’t quite clap the edges of that opening together, but becomes a wobble through the adipose mass of it. “You’re as happy as a clam at high tide.”

“Yes.” I agree dreamily.

“Lick it.”

Eager to obey, I waste no time putting my tongue all over it. I’m a good little slave to this obscene innertube of protective plumpness. 

Ichtacka’s lack of hair makes it all the more raunchy. If he was a poodle, or a collie, or a husky, the fluff would make it cute. Would have buried it in fuzz. Maybe it would even make it look more reasonable, to be obscured so. If he were something like a bloodhound his sheath would have a velvety coating. His big pouch could ape a piece of plush furniture. A cushion.

But he’s a xoloitzcuintli. Hairless. He doesn’t have any fur to try to hide what he has. It’s free for me to see, and smell, and taste it for what it is: A naked lump of raunchy meat that would be a lewd excess on a feral horse. A cock the girth of a fire extinguisher and twice as long might, barely, justify it. It’s its own justification.

Diligently I work my way around the plump dick holster. The taste of the soft skin is intoxicating. My tongue polishes a circular trail around it, and then again outside of that, and I follow a careful spiral. I have to get every inch. It deserves it. And I need it. The scent changes as I dampen it with my needy saliva. Deepens to reward me for my service. 

When I finally reach the very base of the sheath, I stop under it. My nose to Ichtacka’s balls. The weight of his ponderous crotch box bullies my snout. Crushes my head between itself and the couch cushion. This is a cosmic truth. I’m beneath this organ, in every way I can be, and I get the joy of being allowed to serve it.

“Ey. Sheath slut.”

I hum to acknowledge Ichtacka, not offended. How could I be? What higher calling could I ask for than sheath slut? 

“Time to get the inside.”

With the greatest reluctance I slide myself out from under the comforting weight of my master. But the high priest of my religion has commanded that I perform my devotions, so I must obey. I steal one more lick along the underside as I slide out.

Here at least I can see it well. The organ that should be a longer tube up his underbelly is still wonderfully distorted by its own weight. Wide as it is long. Meaty. Heavy. Obese, where the rest of him is muscularly slender. No one can convince me that the flesh isn’t steaming, boiling off my tongue bath with the heat of sex. It’s just slightly tented, once again making just a vaguest suggestion of a similarity to a dog cooch because he’s hard. There’s his tip, barely lifting the meat surrounding it, only enough poking out to complete the parody with a clit. But it’s only a hint of a mirage of a notion of a resemblance. This is all male.

I want so badly to just dive in to that masculine cave of wonder. I do not. That would be a dereliction of my duty and a disservice to Ichtacka’s glorious sheath. I have to go back to where I started, the furthest point from the core of his body on the lower end, and start a new spiral inward. This part is wrinkly compared to the smooth outside. Not the kind of wrinkles you get on something sadly deflated. The kind from being overstuffed, bulging outward (or in this case inward) from the bounty under the skin. This is meant to stretch. 

My tongue runs over those little divots. Bump-bump-bump. A tactile feast. And as I crest the edge on my inward journey, the taste deepens. The taste of sex.

“I came yesterday.” Ichtacka says casually as my nose starts to sink inside, nudging in passing at the cock his magnificent mound encloses. “Should be plenty soaked in by now.”

I let a gasp of delight out into the muffling flesh and dive in a little further. I can’t help myself. That’s why he didn’t tell me earlier, no doubt. I’m weak. Too weak to have given the rest of his package the love it’s entitled to, if I knew the inside had been marinating in his sexual fluids. 

Berserk, I lap at every iota of soft flesh without restraint or pattern. His flavor is indescribable. Subtle and overwhelming. The sheaths secretions are salted by day-old jizz and sweat. I could eat out this cavern forever.

Ichtacka doesn’t need to masturbate. His cock is always in a soft, moist hole, all the time. Serviced by the caresses of his own turgid flesh, pressed to itself by his clothes or by nothing at all, the hairless dog will release his cum into sheath just from walking around. It tastes best that way. Swimming in the semen it milks from the penis it dominates. 

I root around with my muzzle, drinking in the rank nectar. The first time it was so dirty in here. So delicious. I licked and nibbled and swallowed until there wasn’t any smegma left, jerked him off into himself for just that little bit more (the third load over those long hours of first becoming acquainted with this visceral paradise). It’s never been the same as that since. I can’t bear to leave his sheath unserviced for long enough to become as gloriously nasty with its own produce as that again, but it’s an entirely different wonder to lap it up as it is. Meaty. Slightly sour. 

I dig out the little bits of debris and dried jizz with my tonguetip. Every time I think I’ve run out, I find a new spot to clean. Ichtacka moans approvingly above me. He urges me on with a hand gently resting on the back of my skull. His hard cock variously rubs up against my cheek, prods my forehead, glances off my throat as I work around it.

Ichtacka decides enough is enough, pulls me back by my stubby ears. I fight it. He’s pulling me away from the source of my joy. But only for a moment.

“Open up.”

I do. I would do anything. I [i]have[/i] done anything- If Ichtacka wants me to rim his asshole or lick his feet, he merely denies me communion with his fat pouch. It’s always worth it. And for now, I know I won’t be deprived long.

His hard canine cock slides into my mouth, and I know this game. I’m sliding into him as he slides into me. My facial fur is already as lubed by yesterday’s cum as his dick is, so it’s an easy journey. I would gladly choke down a much larger penis in order to bury myself in the soft wetness. I gobble it down, rewarded for every inch with more of my muzzle being engulfed. 

Jizz and sweat and saliva smear over more and more of my head as I swallow his cock down. It tastes of the inside of his sheath. Only a heretic could suggest that the inside of something so magnificent could taste like something as pedestrian as Ichtacka’s cock (nice to be sure, but comparatively mundane compared to its surroundings). Even if rejecting anything that carried that divine flavor were possible, my gag reflex would be overridden by need to move forward.

Everything for the last eternity has smelled of Ichtacka’s sheath. Now, with my mouth engulfing my boyfriend’s knot, I can barely breath at all. Everything is the dark, warm, wet cave I’ve devoted my existence to. There’s nothing to breath but the inside of his sheath. 

I could suffocate in here. Maybe. Possibly? If it could happen, surely it would have already. If it ever does, I will die happy.

But, lest he haul me out of this paradise, I have to do more than just languish in the warm meat that is my world. I work my tongue around the base of his penis, where it becomes one with his sheath. I nibble oh-so-gently in the way he likes. I [i]suck[/i].

He doesn’t need to shove me onto his cock as he moans out his release. I’m already as far in as I can get, and no chance of me pulling off. I work that shaft like a starving calf dragging lifegiving milk out of a mother’s teat, to thank him for letting me do this. I owe him every ounce of pleasure I can for letting me worship his sheath as closely as I get to. And the longer I can draw out his orgasm, the longer he’ll keep me here.

It’s a long time. Never long enough, could never possibly be long enough, but it’s a long time that he keeps pumping his load directly down my throat. I massage the sheath around my head with my hands to feel its inner walls smeared all over my face while I wait out his knot- Hah, no. While I dread that knob’s deflation.

Eventually, the bulb softens. The rest of his cock softens as well, but I feel that first. It shrinks enough to slip out from my front teeth. Regretfully, I let Ichtacka force me out of his sheath, spilling a little more jizz across my tongue as his cock leaves me.

He shows the mercy of letting my chin rest on the bulbous outside of his oversized scabbard while he softens inside it. Loving pats on my head to let me know I’ve done well. I’ve pleased him, I’ve pleased his sheath. That’s enough to make my re-emergence into a world that isn’t made of that sexy pouch almost worth it, and a sort of promise that I will be allowed to again in the future.

I lick off my lips, extending my tongue to slurp as much of the sheath’s juices off my face as my tongue can reach. I steal a few little laps at the blubbery protrusion I’m resting on while I do.

“It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it, Neal?”

After a moment I recognize my name. Not my [i]real[/i] name, not the name written in my heart; because ever since we met, [i]that[/i] name has been Sheath Slut. But Neal is the name I use with other people. And I need a little longer after that to piece together the idea of time. “In… a little more than a week. Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Ichtacka says. He leaves that dangling while he tastes his hand, licking off the sheath-sauce that transferred from the top of my head. “You’ve been such a good sheath slut lately. You deserve a special treat.”

I blink up at him from where I rest on the cushion of his groin. Patient. Waiting. I’ve already got everything I can dream of right under my chin. But if Ichtacka wants to give me something, I’ll mine my soul for some speck of gratitude that I haven’t already given him.

“Be a good slut and dock me.”

My eyes widen. I’ve thought about it, in my wildest dreams. But I would never dare ask. You don’t ask for something like that. I’m his sheath’s slave. I serve it, and him. Surely I’m not worthy for it to service me.

“But… really?” Hope rises in my chest, and miraculously he confirms it with a nod instead of dashing it aside.

“Yeah. What’s wrong? I know you sure as hell love it enough.”

“I do!” Of course I do.

“Then get up here and fuck it.”

I can’t turn that down. It would be more impossible than opting out of gravity. But my legs shake. I’ve never seriously thought I might be allowed to do what I’m going to do. Ichtacka’s a dom, and this part of him is my object of reverence. Putting it mildly, I’m nervous.

I see I already painted the floor once, at some point while I was cleaning his sheath. Without noticing, without touching myself. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Just a side effect of the experience. And now I’m hard again, painfully hard, fat little spike standing out of my meager sheath. All the blood is crowding in for the chance to be inside Ichtacka’s glorious dick holster.

While he watches with legs spread and a smile of tolerant affection on his lips, I fumble to my knees and try to adjust to the right angle. It’s hard, in multiple senses. Not because the hole is a small target. I shoved my entire head inside it not long ago, and the gape is still closing to the more usual inch or so around. Sheer anxiety makes it trickier than the mechanical act alone would suggest. 

By the time I manage to get my head inside the hole I’ve dripped pre all over the outside, making a sloppily glazed donut of it. I barely touch it until I’m more than an inch inside.

Ichtacka doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t stop me! He should, should keep me from sticking my dirty little cock inside that vulgar, sacred hole. But he doesn’t.

And unable to wait, my hips jerk to propel me in. The desperate thrust rams my head into his softened maleness. I sit there, shuddering, bottomed out.

“Good sheath slut.” Ichtacka purrs in my ear. A hand grabs my rear end, forcing me to stay inside where I’m leaking like a faucet. His other hand grips at his sheath, awkwardly working the sensitive flesh over both of us as well as its bulk allows. “You feel good in there.”

“I… do?” I pant into his ear. It seems hard to believe. If this sheath should have any cock inside it, other than the one it came with, it should match its magnificence. It should be a legendary Excalibur among cocks. But instead, it’s mine in there. And it feels good?

“Yeah. You feel good in my sheath. Your little woody is nice and hard.” The confirmation makes me gasp in ecstasy into Ichtacka’s ear. We both know I’m only small compared to the wet grotto I just finished cleaning out. Maybe bigger than his cock is. “Work it with your hands.”

I obey. By touch I grab hold of the smooth exterior of the hole he’s allowing me to trespass in, massaging it. Squishing the malleable flesh around my hardon, and his spent shaft. 

“I can feel your heartbeat.” The words come out, and I guess they must be mine. Beat beat beat. In my hands, on my cock. The flow of pre surges hard enough to tickle my nerves.

“I can feel yours too, slut.” He nibbles at my shoulder, groping my buns one in each hand. I barely notice. “My sheath needs a dicking. Fuck it nice and hard.”

I start fucking. Jaggedly, unable to keep a steady rhythm at first in my ecstasy, and it’s a joy to do it. Ichtacka wants me to fuck his sheath. His sheath wants fucking. I want to fuck it. I fuck.

My hips work feverishly to jackhammer my cock into the opening I so recently ate out. Wet, slick, squishy. At least there’s no question of his mighty cocksack being equal to the task of accommodating both of us. With my hands I squeeze the bulging sheath in around both of our shafts, mine harder than diamond and his slowly stirring back to life.

I cum. But that’s a side-note. Hips mashing against the soft mass of the wonderful sheath. Like it mashes against my butt when Ichtacka takes me from behind, keeping him from knotting me properly but turning him into a vicious fucking machine because of it. My sheath is inside his sheath sometimes.

I cum again. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. My balls empty themselves through my cock into the glorious furless foreskin, and he’s hard too now, my head hammering into his knot now and again when my massaging hands align the spacious cavity so.

I cum again. It would be a dereliction of my duty to stop. His cum squirts out against my length in long lazy strokes to mix with mine, and with my spit, and with the ambrosia of sweat and older jizz and skin grease and the memory of smegma that I ate down long ago.

I cum. I keep fucking into my reason for being as it becomes slicker and messier. My mission is to please it, to fuck it for Ichtacka’s pleasure. I don’t stop.

I cum. Totally dry now.  Nothing left to give. But I’m still hard. Then I’m not so hard. I keep thrusting, and I’m flopping around inside.

“Stop!” 

Oh. That’s Ichtacka.

“Stop, Neal! You can stop now!”

I don’t want to. Not quite yet. I give a few more thrusts. Just a few more, shaky and spasmodic, and y softened cock finally slips out and I thrust a couple more times to slap its flaccid length against the sheath. And then my hips stop working and I collapse to the ground.

Panting, gasping, I groan. I cry. “Sorry… I’m sorry… I couldn’t keep going…”

“Shhhh.” Ichtacka leans over, pulling my head to his abdomen. His sheath is leaking over my ribcage, my cum and his. He pets at me comfortingly. “It’s okay. You did good. You fucked my sheath so good. You can rest.”

I shudder in relief. I did good. I pleased his sheath. 

I do a little more crying. Happy tears to burn off some of the endorphins, and nuzzling into his chest.

“You fuck like a monster.” Ichtacka says happily, kissing the top of my head. “Good slut.”

I manage to breath a thank you, and coax my wobbling limbs to move me downward so I can clean up the mess I made like a good little sheath-slave.

“Whoah!” He pushes me back away from my favorite thing by the shoulders, and I nearly tip over backward. “No. None of that.”

I let out a bereaved whimper. Did I not really do good? Am I being punished? “Buh… but…”

Ichtacka knows how I work pretty well. “Shhh. Not yet. That wasn’t the reward.”

“Uuh?” 

I blink blearily up at him, neck still straining to try to reach.

“No.” He ruffles the fur on the top of my head. Ichtacka stands up, a little shaky, and hooks an arm under mine to lift my (a lot shaky) form onto the couch. His sheath slops mixed loads onto the floor as he goes, a mess that I won’t want to clean up because it came from Ichtacka’s sheath. “That comes at your birthday.”

“Huh?”

The hairless dog kisses me on the forehead after laying me out on the couch. “We’re gonna do that again a few times. I’ll keep my sheath nice and dirty and full of jizz. Put a showercap on it when I wash myself up so it stays in. Maybe piss in it a few times. Then when it’s all grimy and full of dried sex gunk on my good little sheath slut’s birthday, [i]then[/i] you get to clean it out.”

My hips find one more little jerk in them, and if I don’t cum, it’s only because I’m not capable of it anymore. My insides try, though.

“I knew you’d like that.” Ichtacka throws a blanket over my messy form, unheeding of the stains that transfer from my body to it. “I’ll get you a bottle of water. Chinese takeout sound good for dinner?”

“Uh huh…”

“Great. Get some rest.”

I obey. Naptime.



[center]The End[/center]