Full Circle

Well, one out of two ain't bad, the fox thinks, his leather-gloved paws squeezing the handlebar grips hard.

There were two sayings Richard Patrick kept mulling over in his head the whole way over to his old high school, where he now sits in the far corner of the student parking lot, watching kids leave for a three-day holiday weekend.  One was about never being able to come back home again, which he pretty much shattered once the loud, brash Harley Softail entered the Bluefield city limits, where he spent his first nineteen years and to which he swore he would never return.

Four years is pretty good, isn't it?  Podunk or not, it's inside me no matter what I do.  But every time the fox thinks that, some other part of himself calls out, "Liar!"  And nothing ever feels right.  Nothing's ever concrete.  And it never fails to undermine the strength he tries to put behind his every word, every move.

The second saying was the one about everything seeming smaller once you've grown up and left it for a while.  As Rick watches the parking lot slowly empty, that one proves to be true.  The long bank of panels under the floor-to-ceiling windows that makes up the cafeteria, a tribute to the practicality of early-1960's architecture, has been painted a non-offensive shade of sky blue along its trim.  Considering it used to look like a fast-food ball pit, it is much improved.  The rest of the building is the same shade of cream (Rick once heard it referred to as Richmond Bisque, how gay) as it has always been.  

Yes, the walls don't look as tall as they once did, but they're no less imposing.  That imposition is purely in the fox's head and he knows it.  He also knows why he's been sitting parked here, kickstand up, for more than half an hour.  He told himself it was because class wasn't over yet, and then class was over, and then it was because football practice wasn't over, and now the players and coaches are trotting from the field to the locker rooms, leaving a trail of grass and dirt in their wake.  

He can't say it.  He can't say he's afraid to move because (nothing personal, kit) he knows (i just need a hole) what happened (you tell anyone and you're dead) in that locker room, sophomore year.  

Rick's tail lashes over the rear of his bike.  His whole chest tightens, swelling his jacket to the contours of his massive chest.  Seven fucking years ago.  But he's better than that.  

He couldn't forgive, and he certainly couldn't forget, but he was good at pragmatic solving.  Otherwise, why would he have invested so much time in the summer after his graduation making use of his family's health club?  He didn't think he would build muscle.  He didn't think he would like whey-protein shakes.  He didn't think he could get to six percent body fat.  And he certainly didn't think he would want a motorcycle after he suddenly phased black and didn't match the pedestrian Prius he was driving.  

The defensive, submissive growl comes to life somewhere deep in Rick's chest, but he squashes it quickly.  His body tenses, making his leathers expand and creak, a testimony to almost three hundred pounds of muscle on his formerly lanky six-foot-three frame.  Once a nerd, always a nerd, but he doesn't have to look like one.  No more wolves around to push him into the equipment room and bury his face in a pile of junior varsity jerseys while they clumsily—painfully—try to get off in a tailhole that had no business being torn open in the first place.

Rick's lower lip is quivering; the sun's rays glint off his whiskers.  If he's not careful he'll put his claws right through the hides that cover them.  What is he, crying?  No, he doesn’t cry about that anymore.  He gets angry, sure, but he doesn’t cry.  He flexes a bicep, watches its shape in the sleeve of his riding jacket, crisscrossed with zippers and pockets.  The sun shone down on his black-on-black-on-black medley of clothing, warming him to the point of mild discomfort.  Leather will do that, though.

"This is fucking stupid," he says, and his own voice is comforting.  Reminds him of his father, who was a rare one in that he cared about his son and had both paws in his upbringing.  Thank God for that.  But it is fucking stupid, it is fucking over, and if he doesn't go now he won't be able to talk to anybody and the trip will be wasted.  It's as much about catching up with teachers as it is about walking the hallowed halls once again.  But it is mostly about the coach.  

The bike starts with a deafening blaarp, and he rolls around the back of the building, past the shop to the football-field side.  He parks next to Coach Schweider's lifted Ram.  Same old truck, same old Coach, same old vanity plate:  H20POLO.  So it's not all that different, after all.  Dismounting, the fox pulls his driving goggles above his eyes and reaches for the door marked MALES.  

Chlorine.  Mildew.  Musks of all kinds, mostly of the bigger species, the canines and ursines, with a couple of equines mixed in.  Huh, Rick remarks, there's a zebra on the football team.  His nose twitches and his sheath stirs just from pure reaction.  He's in the prep room, where the players tape their feet before practices and games, and where they come to get minor medical attention if they need it.  

An Akita of stocky stature is lifting himself out of one of the soaking tubs, the latest copy of Sports Illustrated in his one dry paw.  Rick has a perfect view of a dangly white sac and the pink bud behind it, exposed by a naturally curly tail.  He ogles a bit as he walks past, just long enough to make the dog blush uncomfortably and look away.  Straight guys are always cuter when they’re embarrassed.

Beyond the prep room is the locker room proper.  Three rows of benches separated by walls of lockers to the right, and the showers and equipment room beyond that.  Rick makes a point not to look in that direction as he walks straight across to the coaches' offices.  He can hear loud conversation and laughter, boisterous and brash, just like he remembers.  In some ways, he's glad it hasn't changed.  Everyone’s on their way out after a hard day’s work on the field.  

In the office, the coaches are back-to, huddled over a video camera when Rick crosses the threshold.  "See, I told you that guy Hopper was better at receiving than giving," says Schweider, the otter.  Rick chuckles to himself at both men's oblivion to the inherent gayness of the remark.  "Put that cheetah back on to catch these passes, and your offense'll take off.  Just give it a chance."

"I was right up next to him on the field, and I didn't see none of that," says Coach Orren, the border collie.  "You had a stadium seat.  You think we can use the game camera for practices too?"   Orren's tail makes lazy swishes over a rump that seems well toned.  The fox keeps smiling, making sure to keep his eyes upward.  So much eye candy in here!

"Told you so," Schweider closes the camera and turns around, starting slightly at someone very out of place in his locker room.  

"Hi," Rick says, and at his voice the otter's eyes light up as he takes in the piece of work that is Rick.  Even under the bike gear, nothing is hidden from view.  The clothes fit, but just barely.  The jacket and jeans cling to the fox’s large frame, the striations of his muscles clearly visible.  It all comes to a neat and trim waist, ebony throughout.  The otter plucks at his popped collar with the tips of his claws, unbelieving.

"Holy hell, Rick, what did you do to yourself?" Schweider booms, having to look up at one of his former student athletes.  "God damn, little Dickie Patrick got into the world and picked up a set of balls!"  Then, after collecting himself somewhat and clearing his throat:  "Orren, this is Rick Patrick, class of 2004, used to be on my water polo team.  Damn good deflector."

"That's only because I didn't have the arms for anything else," replies the fox, making a show of flexing.  Leather protests.  Sheath stiffens.  

"If you were younger," the border collie says, "I'd ask you to quarterback for the Jays."  He unabashedly looks the fox up and down.  "Hey, Joe, I'm gonna go show this to the guys.  I'll catch you later; thanks for the heads-up!  Rick," he nods to the fox, who returns it with his ears, then steps out.

Schweider takes him by the shoulders.  "Just look at you...what'd you do, hit a second puberty?"  The otter's beaming as if he's finally realized some long-term goal.  Rick knows it's moot, but he can't help but feel a sense of lost pride, finally fulfilled.  

"I got tired of being the little guy, I guess."  That’s only fractionally true, but Schweider really doesn’t need to know any more than that.

"I'd say!  That kind of body takes a lot of work, and for a fox...well, I've never seen any fox bulk up like this."  The otter's voice lowers and becomes more serious.  "You're not on the steroids, are you?"

"Never touched them," replies Rick in a confidential tone.  "Just a lot of protein and supplements."

"What about those geek glasses you used to wear?  Remember your prescription goggles?"  Ugh.  The fox doesn't want to remember those.  

"Lasik.  Totally worth it."

"And this?"  The otter tugs at an ebony cheek ruff.  

"My first year of college my silver phase kicked in.  Mom said it wasn't uncommon to go black, though it'd never happened in our family.  I had some silver around the edges, but I didn't like it, so I just dyed everything the same color."  Rick takes off a glove, showing fingers that were once a deep chocolate brown, now a dark shiny black.

"You went and got yourself all murdered out.  Least, that's what my kids would say today.  They all talk so weird."

"I'm sure we talked weird back when we were students, too."

Schweider thinks for a moment, then nods, his thick rudder tail wagging the rest of him slowly.  "You're right.  I mean, we had our groovies and gnarlies and stuff, but you kids and the Internet...it's something else."

"You're not that old."

"Tell that to my crow's feet.  Hell, tell that to my wife!" Schweider exclaims, bellowing out laughter from his gut, which has grown a bit since Rick last saw it.  "Hey, I gotta go pick up my daughter over at the elementary school.  You in town for something?"

"Nah, just family...and to take a walk back through the old school."

"Well, the school's open, and most everybody's still here."  Rick thinks that quaint, and fortunate, that he can still walk into a school in Bluefield unattended.  Back where he now lives, metal detectors and city police guard the entrances to the schools.  

"I'll try to see who I can find."  On the one paw, the fox is disappointed that he didn't have more time to spend with Schweider, but other than exchanging curt pleasantries, what exactly can he do?  He made it into the locker room, and that in itself is a big mind-over-matter victory.  If he hurries, he might be able to catch his Advanced English teacher, or maybe the band director.  Eventually, he will have no more reason to come back.  He hardly has a reason even today.  

Schweider picks his wallet up from his desk, and slides it into his back pocket.  "Well, I would tell you to take care of yourself, but you've already done that for me!"  More laughter, and a pat on the back before he walks out, waving as he goes.  "Take it easy, Rick!"

"See you around," the fox waves back, and he feels kind of empty inside.  A little uneasy, too, since the only reason for him being here just left him alone, in this place, with his memories.  The scents become stronger now, somehow, as do the sounds...or at least what sounds remain.

Someone's in the shower.  The scent of vulpine fear wafts around the corner.  It could be a remainder from a particularly taxing practice, or anxiety about a past or future exam.  Rick could leave it there, but he can also detect an undertone of panic, and fresh panic at that.  And wolf...

It's the same combination of scents, seven years old and brand new simultaneously.  

The fox feels instantly itchy; every follicle seems to have stood on end, and with his leather trappings it makes for a decidedly uneasy combination.  The scent of his own fear leaches up to his nose, but he tamps that down quickly, padding softly against a row of lockers to prick his ears around the corner and, beyond that, the showers.

"Jerome, stoppit!" comes a soft, desperate whimper.  Has to be the fox.  Then a clang, followed by a muffled yelp.

"Come on, Clayne.  I know your momma packs your lunches.  You an' Marly an' Vino go down to the Super Stop every day after school.  Whatchoo buyin'?  Rubbers?"  After that comes the snarling chuckle of a wolf whose voice changed just a few months ago.  Rick withdraws his ears from the corner and deigns to peek.  

The shower room is small for a high school, but sized right for the amount of people who use it on a daily basis.  Pastel yellow tiles on the walls and floor, surrounding two cylindrical pillars with five showerheads apiece.  Rick remembers the embarrassment, the towel snapping, but mostly the violation.   The far corner, the one where the grout doesn't quite line up, is where he was cornered.  Where he realized what was going to happen to him, with no way to stop it.  Fresh anger seethes in him like a spark waiting for tinder.

The wolf and fox are against one of the shower cylinders, though, the latter clothed while the former has a towel loosely wrapped around his waist.  Jerome towers over Clayne by about a foot, and Rick guesses the difference is senior to sophomore.  Not fair in the least, no way out.  The locker room is empty except for Rick.  Clayne's abject fear mirages off him like an aura; it seems Jerome feeds off the scent.  

Go on, you prick.  Show me what a tough man you are.  Open that muzzle and say something intelligent.  I dare you.

"Hehe, rubbers, yeah.  Don't think you need those, huh?"

"Jerome, please...my wallet's in my back pocket—"  Rick winces at the complete helplessness with which the little red fox just gives up, but he can't blame him.  Not one bit.  He did the same thing.  But that doesn't mean Clayne has to suffer the same fate.

"Meh meh meh," mocked the wolf.  "Maybe I don't want your money.  Maybe I have my own, so I can go down to the Super Stop and buy a Coke and some...some Funyuns, or whatever you retards do."  This wolf is a real piece of work.  Rick wonders if all jocks are dumb brutes, then he has to remind himself that there is a marked difference between "jock" and "athlete."  

Clayne tries to respond, but gets a large grey paw slapped to his muzzle.

"I didn't finish," Jerome snarls, a grin pricking the corners of his mouth.  "Coke, and Funyuns, and rubbers.  Cuz you need those when you're packin' meat."  With his other paw, Jerome undoes the knot holding his towel up, and it falls to the floor of the shower.  The wolf is still grinning, yes, but that's where his attitude takes a massive detour.  The words are meant to scare, sure.  But Jerome isn't aroused, not even in musk.  He feels just as exposed as his victim.  It's a big play for show, all one big fake-out.

Clayne squeals behind the wolf's fingers, and Jerome claws deeper into his head.  "Shut up, faggot."

(shut up faggot or i'll shove the fuckin knot in)

Rick forces down a growl.  His hackles rise and fluff out over the top of his popped collar and cuffs.  Jerome cups his white sheath, making sure the fox can look down and see it clearly as a threat.  Clayne's eyes widen—just as expected—and he squirms against the shower.  There's no reason for this; the wolf knows he can get what he wants without the added degradation.  He's all about pushing boundaries, this guy, and he probably doesn't have the balls to go through with it.

So why not call his bluff?  It's hard enough watching Clayne, this identical reminder of who he used to be, harassed in such a similar way.  Jerome sits there, all fangs and claws, but he's not hot for the fox, not even hot for the blowjob he claims to threaten.  Rick may not have authority, necessarily, but he is older, and he is bigger.  Maybe if he intervenes now, he can make that lupine bully realize the pain he puts others through.  Clayne is probably just the lastest in a string of victims.

Jerome straightens up to his full height.  "So how about this:  you give me your wallet, and I take whatever I want, and I don't shove this piece of meat down your throat.  Huh?"  

"Why don't you?" asks Rick, stepping around the corner.  Both males squeak in unison, but only Jerome turns his head, the fox's still pinned by his paw.  The wolf goes to cover his groin, gets halfway there and decides it's not a very tough thing to do, despite the much older fox staring at him with cool derision.  Then the scent of incensed vulpine hits Jerome's nose and back go the ears.  A kid in trouble, that horrible pang deep in the stomach.  Rick hides his smile and enters the shower, leaning back on the short tile wall meant to hide showering players below the waist.  

"You have him right here, Jerome," the black fox continues, noting the wolf's twitch at his own name spoken by a stranger.  "All you have to do is push the fucker down and give it to him."  Rick's features remain neutral, seemingly impartial.  "Feel that nice foxy tongue up and down your sheath.  Make him pay for holding out on you.  It's his own fault, right?"

Clayne squirms around in absolute panic, but Rick holds his eyes, hoping the other fox will see his underlying intentions.  Most likely not.  Jerome studies the black fox with a mix of suspicion and guilt, the former much more evident though.  His game is over and they both realize it, and it's up to the wolf to make a move.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

"But I am," Rick replies, taking a step forward.  He practically looms over the wolf like he looms over most other people.  "Now are you going to gag that fox properly or what?  I'll just sit here and watch, make sure he doesn't get away.  Sound like a plan?"

The fire that was behind Jerome's eyes has now transformed to a burning blush of aborted machismo.  He fights hard to maintain eye contact with Rick, trying to keep what dwindling power he has left.  His paw loosens on Clayne's neck, and the fox gathers a few deep breaths, but doesn't move.  A few more seconds of Rick's constant, calm scrutiny and he finally realizes he can't win.  He backs away with a scowl on his face.

"Get the fuck outta here," says the wolf to Clayne.

"You okay?" Rick asks before the fox turns away.  Clayne nods with a simple, "Thanks," and runs through the locker room.  After hearing the click of the door, he turns back to Jerome, a warmth rising in his chest faster than he can stop it.  The wolf bends to pick up his towel, and that's when Rick swings his leg into the center of Jerome's chest and connects solidly, sending him sliding along the floor, his tail twisting the wrong way underneath him.

Barking out at the pain, doubled over, the wolf clutches at his ribcage and scrambles to the nearest wall.  "Get...get away from me!" he scream-whimpers.  "Fuckin' crazy-ass!"

Rick kneels down next to Jerome, gets right up next to one plastered-down ear:  "You think it was cool to threaten that kid?  You know he couldn't fight back.  I'm pretty sure the only thing he ever did to you was be in your way."

"What's it to you?  I don't even know you."  Now, the paws come down to the groin, now that the fox is so close.  Rick is having trouble seeing any difference between this boy and the wolf who took his virginity just a few feet away and so long ago.  Sure, the fur is a different color, but the demeanor is all too familiar.  "You his brother, or something?"

"You should be so lucky."  A brother would have a better chance of preventing anything like this in the future, but Rick isn't planning on staying very long.  In fact, he wants to get out of this town as soon as possible, but not until he makes sure Clayne, and others like him, are safe.  "Get up."

"Why—"

"Just do it!" barks the fox, raising one heavy boot as if to strike again.  Jerome cowers back but gets to his feet, massaging the sprain out of his tail.  When he bends to pick up the towel, Rick kicks it away.  "You don't need that."

"Fine," Jerome replies, starting to stalk into the locker room.

"Where are you going?"

"To put my clothes on!  You got what you wanted."  The wolf doesn't look back.  He thinks he's done.  He thinks nothing of the pain he just put that fox through.  

"I don't think you understand—"  But Rick walks right into a wall of wolf fear just he sees its owner bolting for the door at the far side of the locker room.  He's terrified; underneath all that bravado and attitude, he's scared for his life.  It's a good start.  The black fox takes two strides, launches off a bench and lands just to the side of Jerome, who begins a punch that misses.  Instead it's caught and twisted behind him until his body crumples to the floor once again.  Rick leaves him clutching his arm while he checks that both exits are locked.  

When he comes back into the locker room, the wolf is still on the floor, holding his arm.  He says nothing, but scowls up at the fox.  It's the only thing left of his previous attitude; the rest has been replaced by directionless anxiety.  And when Rick tells him to stand, he does so without hesitation or complaint.  

"Sit," orders the fox, pointing to one of the long benches that runs the length of the locker room.  "How old are you, Jerome?"

"Fuck you," says the wolf, and he winces, but Rick doesn't raise a paw to him.  Not yet.  

"Seventeen?"  Nothing for a few seconds, then a nod.  Close enough to eighteen, though the asshole who raped him was about as smart as a middle-schooler.  "You really shouldn't be messing around with people's heads, Jerome.  You talk some big talk, but you don't follow up.  That's not the sign of a man.  If you had made Clayne suck you off, at least it would have shown you can back up what you say."  Of course, Rick means none of it, but he’s trying to get quickly to his point.

"That's fuckin' gay.  I don't do that shit."

"But you were going to.  Oh, wait, you weren't.  Because you're a liar."

"At least I'm not a fag!" snarls the wolf, who looks about ready to run again.  Rick bristles at the derision in Jerome's voice.  He has no idea.  The fox straddles the bench and leans in close, snout-on.

"But Clayne's a fag, right?  Or do you even know what that means?  Is it because he's younger than you?  Is it because he's a geek, a nerd, a dweeb?"  That last one is a bit dated, but dammit, that fire in his gut is hot, and he doesn't know if he can contain it.  Behind his leather pants, his cock throbs dully, somehow connected to something in this room.  It disgusts Rick to his core.  He spits out the words:  "Or is it because he's a fox?"

Jerome rears up and spits back right into the vulpine's eyes.  It's juvenile and unexpected, but it breaks whatever was holding Rick's temper.  His arm swings back…forward…and connects with the wolf's muzzle, rocking him flat against the bench.  Arms splayed out, Jerome moans but doesn't move, even to wipe the blood dripping from the end of his nose.  

Fresh, wonderful adrenaline surges through the fox's body.  He's lucid as he's ever been, he wants to giggle inside, but his higher brain knows that's wholly inappropriate.  Seeing Jerome laid back like that gives him a satisfaction he's craved for so many long years, despite the fact that this wolf isn't the wolf from his memories.  But between the two, there isn't much of a difference.

Rick looks around for something he can grab, but nothing is close at paw.  While Jerome groans in his dazed state, the fox reaches up and starts opening lockers.  The first two are empty, but he strikes gold in the third, in the form of a used jock strap.  

"Muthhhffkk..." mumbles the wolf while Rick kneels at his head and roughly twists his arms around and under the bench.  Relishing the musk of the cheetah who recently occupied the jock as he rips it nearly in two, the fox wraps it double around each lupine wrist and tugs the knot tight.  The only other thing handy is a towel, but it's too thick; instead, Rick's leather belt will have to do.  This he uses on the wolf's ankles, cinching it up with no hope of escape.  As he stands again, Rick realizes he's respectably hard.

Jerome starts to come around, but slowly.  Rick leans down and wipes some of the already-clotting blood away.  "You okay?" he asks, in the same voice with which he spoke to Clayne.  

"Whuddoo care."

"I don't."  Jerome seems aware enough, but not near as frantic as Rick thinks he should be.  Either he's trying to hide what he feels, or he doesn't think the fox will do much more than leave him here.  Rick can't smell much more than anger and anxiety on him.  The boy's tough.  Not as tough as he makes himself out to be, but credit goes where it's due.

He won't learn anything, you know that.  He thinks you're a nutjob.  He doesn't know about the equipment room.  He doesn't know about the shower.  Show him.  The voice is eerily like his father's, soothing but forceful all at once.  It's hard to say no to that voice.

Rick kneels down next to the wolf's battered face, cups the strong jaw in his paw, and rubs there a little.  "So what is it?  Which one?  He's a fox, he's a nerd, he's a sophomore?"

"I-I just wanted some money."

"So you could go to the store and get condoms, yeah, I heard that.  Funny thing is, I don't think you need them.  You don't seem like the kind of guy who attracts the ladies."  Still stroking the wolf's chin, Rick continues:  "Maybe it's the guys you're worried about."

"I don't do that…"

"I'm sure you don't.  Neither did another wolf I know, back when I went to school here."  The fox's paw traces the delineation of white to black along Jerome's jaw line and makes its way down to dance along the striations of the base of his thick neck.  Then it comes to his nose, slightly pungent and bittersweet:  discomfort.  But the wolf says nothing.

"I used to be puny," Rick says.  "I was okay, I guess.  Water polo, chess club, that sort of thing.  What do you do?"

"Football.  Nngh."  Jerome tenses as one of the fox's claws lazily circles his nipple.  

"I figured.  That's what he did, too.  I knew him only from the locker room.  Never went in for the real sports."  The wolf won't look him in the eye when he swallows the beginnings of a whimper, his flesh hardening at the touch of the fox's pads.  "That didn't stop him from singling me out one day."

Realization finally dawns in Jerome's eyes, and he looks up at Rick, who places his palm flat on the wolf's belly and makes slow, lazy circles.  The kid's pretty built himself, not much fat on him at all, but he's young.  He can make something great out of that body, if he tries.  

Now, he smells it.  Now comes the fear.  Fear of the unknown, fear of the certainty, maybe a little of both.  Rick's left paw rubs and squeezes along the length of his full sheath, encased in leather.  Soon he'll have to let it out, and he thinks he knows just where to put it.  

"Just...just let me go..."  Jerome's voice cracks up a half-octave, and Rick surmises that is something that would get him laughed off the team if anyone ever heard it on the field.  The wolf's façade has already faded away to nearly nothing; he's got the look but not the demeanor.  On the surface he's just a scared kid, scared out of his wits by a random muscle-bound fox who has a bone to pick.  But that fox knows that unless he does something—something drastic—nothing will ever change.  Things are coming quickly to a head, and Rick knows he's going to have to make his move.  Looking down at Jerome, the wolf's eyes quivering with conflict, ears flicking every which way, there isn't much trace left of the bully anymore.

You remember what it’s like, that feeling.  You wait until you’re out of trouble, and then things go back to normal.  But things didn't go back to normal, not for Rick, not one bit.  Things changed, and they stayed changed.

The fox squeezes along one thigh, almost tenderly.  That's one thing his...his rapist wolf didn't do.  Just a hole, nothing but.  Warmth radiates into his pads.  Jerome is getting hard.

"He thought I was an easy target.  If you knew me back then, you would have thought the same thing.  Worse than Clayne, heh," the fox snorts out that last.  "It could have been anybody.  Any weakling.  But, I guess I'm just as random as the rest of the world."

"S-so what?" the wolf whispers.  "What're you tryin' to prove?"

"Prove?  Not a thing," Rick says.  "I'm just making sure we're crystal clear here."  Oh, it is clear, if Jerome's scent is any indicator.  It's all over him now, and the familiarity of it—combined with the wolf's own natural musk—drives Rick's purpose further.  He is aware that he looms over the lupine jock by a good margin, and that's fine by him.  It's his advantage.

"You ever go into that equipment room?"  The fox points a claw stiffly in that direction.  Jerome barely nods.  "That's where it happened."

A sudden sob escapes the wolf's blubbering, spit-thick muzzle.  He squeaks, "What?"  And as the fox's paw descends to cup a very full sheath, Jerome loses it.  Not outright crying, but a silent heaving, tearless.  The heat from his groin is matched by that of his face.

"How does it feel, Jerome?  Kind of good, but you know it's not supposed to feel good?"  With his left paw, Rick undoes the four snaps of his fly, letting his cock out for some desperately needed air.  He glances down at the six-plus inches of shiny black flesh, its tip smeared with a hint of white.

If Jerome isn't able to hear the snaps, he can certainly smell the difference.  His nose wrinkles, and he gags, coughing and struggling against his impromptu bonds.

"No fuckin' way.  No fuckin' way!"  He shuts up when Rick slaps him upside the face with his slick length, leaving a snail trail of various fluids.  The wolf's sheath surges up into the fox’s pads, and Rick takes the opportunity to knead the turgid fuzz crudely.

"You expect me to believe you can talk the talk, but you're too good to walk the walk?  Seems you need to get out more."  Jerome's chest is heaving, his muzzle agape, a perfect opportunity for the fox to fill that gap.  While holding the wolf's head to the side, Rick slips himself between the black lips.  "You bite, and I assure you there are levels of pain worse than death," he snarls, feeling the reactive stiffening of the jaw, the curling back of lips over fangs.

He holds a claw at the nape of Jerome's neck, a sensitive nerve.  Feeling the whine reverberate through his shaft sets his senses afire.  He's not over endowed, but it's more than Jerome can fit.  At least he can't complain for the time being.  As the wolf is forced into an automatic rhythm, Rick curls his fingers and slides Jerome’s sheath open and down, and back up.  It’s a nicely-sized piece, one that would have choked Clayne to death, and it’s the same shade of pitch as his own.  It sticks up stiffly from the creamy fur surrounding it.

"Cup your tongue around it.  Yeah, that's it."  Rick no longer has to hold his cock up; the wolf is doing a fine job of that already.  He's a fast learner.  Most of that is probably because he has no idea what Rick's true intentions are, but that is up to Rick to decide.  The feeling of power is almost intoxicating in its own right.  Satisfied the wolf won't do anything stupid, the fox begins a slow sliding, up to half his length, and back out.  The point is not to gag the kid, but to make him feel what his victim would feel.

"You think Clayne would have been a good cocksucker?"  The wolf's lips around him are soft, inexperienced but oh so delicately tentative, twitching, exploring his flesh.  No room to move, nowhere to go.  The potent pre stains the grey muzzle black.  He's getting the message.  "He didn't feel like one to me.  Then again, I didn't know how much I would like it under the tail until he took me into that equipment room and raped me."

Now Jerome is definitely crying, small puppyish sounds from a strongly jawed muzzle.  "Use your tongue some more," Rick has to remind, and when the wolf finally processes the words, the friction is heaven.  The heat between his legs grows more focused, and the fox can't help but smile at the inevitability of it all.  He's already able to skin back a few more inches of semi-hard wolf cock, his fingers spreading over the beginnings of a knot at the end of his downstrokes.  

"Mmmmph," says Jerome.

"I know, isn't it the most natural thing in the world?  You never think you’ll end up with your lips around another male, but then you do, and it's, like, what have you been missing?"  Rick doesn't even have to look to know that Jerome is fully hard, at least as hard as he can be inside his sheath.  It must be uncomfortable for him, judging by his damp eyes and glistening nostrils.  But his tongue works wonders over the fox's shaft, twisting around its circumference and molding to the knot.  He won't be able to get the whole thing in, but deep-throating isn't Rick's purpose.

The fox strokes along one of the wolf's cheek ruffs, wiping away a tear with his thumbpad.  They've stopped.  "You doing okay?" he asks, trying to sound concerned, even though Jerome's comfort is the furthest thing from his mind.  Rick gets a generally affirmative sound in response.  "I'm going to come soon.  Just letting you know so you don't choke on it."  

Jerome's expression doesn't change, and neither does he falter in his motions.  As a reward, the fox gently spreads the creamy lupine sheath open and down, easing it past the knot.  Tension visibly drains from the wolf's posture, and a moment later his musk increases sharply.  The fucker's getting off on it, of course.  Rick uses his pads to spread the wolf’s pre around his dark cockhead and begins a slow thrust in time with Jerome's muzzle, his sac shrinking up into his body.

Spreading his fingers to frame the side of the wolf's head, Rick guides himself back and forth.  Jerome takes the subtle hint and stays still, his eyes closed, nose wrinkled.  That doesn't stop him from humping up into the fox's paw, though, a deliciously erratic and inexperienced movement.  

“There you go.”  A tingle builds slowly for a few seconds, then rushes in like a burst dam, and the only warning he gives is a squeeze of his paws as he holds on.  Jerome looks like he can feel the gentle spasms, but it doesn't stop him from jerking his head back when the first spurt lands toward the rear of his throat.  Keeping the wolf in place, Rick rides out the rest of his climax in quiet bliss, grinning broadly when he sees his seed swallowed.  

When the fox withdraws, Jerome makes a small show of spitting onto the floor, though it's all saliva and no cum.  His erection hasn't flagged.  "If I didn't know any better, I would say you enjoyed that."

"Fuck you."

"Of course," the fox replies just as smooth as silk, clamping down behind the wolf's knot in a painful tie gesture, making him grunt and spray his chest with fluid.  He's ready.  Rick stands and reaches behind, feeling for the snaps that run from his tail through to the beginning of his groin.  His jeans were made for ease of dress, but it wasn't long before the fox found a dual use for their construction.  Taking a small bottle from his jacket pocket, he squeezes out a fair amount onto his paw and slicks down Jerome's length.

Before he can complain, the wolf bucks against the bench, moaning in spite of himself at the irresistible feeling.  Rick puts the residual lube onto his hole, pressing in a bit, watching the gears click in Jerome's head.  A string of cum-spit still hangs from the corner of the wolf's lip until he shakes it free.  "Nuh-uh," he pants.  

"Uh-huh," the fox replies, nodding, lifting his tail and straddling the bench, wriggling his hips until he can feel the very tip prodding between his buttocks.  Its heat is almost searing, the feeling of pre-penetration so tense Rick's eyes start to roll back in involuntarily.  "This is what you wanted anyway, Jerome.  You would have much preferred to fuck Clayne than just get sucked off.  You just didn't have the balls to go through with it."

"I wasn't—"

"You would have," snarls the fox, leaning down so close he can smell his own load on the wolf's warm, shallow breath.  "Eventually, you would have."  Rick leans on Jerome’s upper chest to support himself.

"HELP—mmmph!"  Rick clamps down on Jerome's muzzle so hard it clacks shut, but it has to be done.  The longer this locker room stays locked, the more chance someone will walk by and wonder why.  It's a miracle they haven't been disturbed yet, not even by a janitor.  Watching the wolf's eyes—he has to see the disbelief as it happens—the fox settles down, feels himself spread to take the length, and doesn't stop until he bumps against the extra girth at the end.

I control it now.  I'm the one calling the shots, you fucker.  But there's no other wolf-voice in his head to respond.  Just the wolf underneath him, who cringes and moans into the fox's paw at the same time.  It's the mix that drives Rick's arousal so strongly:  the bitter fear, the musky arousal and the pungent confusion.  That last is the strongest of all, most notably because it's a scent the fox will never forget. He reeked of it on that day, years ago, in this room.

Letting the wolf's muzzle go, and hearing nothing but quiet whimpering, Rick continues:  "This guy, this wolf I knew, he was big on the sports stuff, but he must not have been the best at romance.  Said his girlfriend never put out.  I didn't have anything to do with that, until I was the last one in the shower.  Couldn't have stopped him if I'd tried."  The fox's feet are planted on the floor, giving his hips leverage to do what they need to keep a nice strong grip on Jerome's cock.  It's swelled even further, along with the pink of the wolf's face.  Rick’s still-hard length bounces lewdly over bulging abs, black on white.

"Please..."

"Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh-sh," Rick murmurs with a finger to the simpering jock's lips.  "I wasn't done."

"I can't..."

"You can, and you will."  What Jerome can or can't no longer matters.  What's important is that this very special life lesson gets dispensed with the utmost gravity, in only the way he can do it.  Let Jerome feel how he feels—the humiliation, the degradation, everything Rick himself felt—and let him make his own conclusions.  

The fox's strokes become easier as he milks more precum out of the wolf's balls.  Even though Jerome's ears are pinned flat, he is all hormones and instinct.  His tongue lashes out to clean a bit of dried blood from his nose, and stays there, lolled out to the side, a prisoner of his own body’s reaction to what is surely an unnatural act to him.  Undulating carefully, the fox swirls his thumbs around each of the wolf’s dark nipples, adding to the homoeroticism of the act. 

"I was more worried about passing chemistry than having sex," Rick says, the words huskier, more breathy than he would like to let on.  But, just like it did that first time, the pleasured pain ends up taking over his senses and it won't let go until someone gives.  "I knew about what boys did sometimes.  I never thought about it.  It hurt, Jerome, the first time.  You hurt?"

Jerome doesn't know what to say.  No, he just doesn't know what the right answer is.  When he shakes his head, it's pretty obvious he's telling the truth.

"Any ladies ever scream out in pain from your piece of meat, Jerome?"  The wolf's cock is actually slightly below average, but it fills up the fox in a nice, satisfying way.  "I mean, you were throwing it out there earlier.  How many bitches scream for you to stop?"  Rick's tone stays neutral, but it's difficult to keep it that way.  "How many bitches screamed for more?"  His hips slide the full length of Jerome's cock, putting pounding pressure on that succulent, full knot.  It won't be the largest he's had, not by far.  "Or have you ever had one?"

There is no mistaking the silence.  

Rick chuckles to himself and speeds up his thrusting.  "You're not missing much.  A nice, tight tailhole is so much better than the alternative."  Hump.  Half the knot goes in, and Jerome barks out.  But his ears...are they starting to creep forward?  The fox's shaft thumps now against the wolf's chest, smearing the fur every which way, threatening oversensitivity.  Jerome merely stares at the ceiling, enjoying the feeling because he has no other choice. 

"You like it, don't you?  I hated it, at first.  But after that, hell, I couldn't stop thinking about it.  It wasn't like anyone else knew.  Couldn't get it out of my head.  I found ways of dealing, though."  Like that afternoon you spent in the park bathrooms, peeking at pissing men.  Like the time you met that married skunk from Craigslist at the Disneyland Hotel.  How he called you his boy, because his son was out riding Space Mountain.  Like those times, right?

Yes, like those times.  The one redeeming thing about the rape was his early self-discovery.  Rick was so busy getting laid, he forgot to wonder if he was gay or just messed up.  It never interfered with the rest of his life, but the question was still unanswered.  Into adulthood, it stayed in his mind.  

Hump.  Whimper.  "Sometimes I wonder if he's the reason I've never been hot for women," the fox thinks aloud.  "Not that I mind that.  What about you, Jerome?  Enlightened yet?"  Jerome can't answer, though; he's too busy flexing his hips upwards to meet Rick's tail on the downthrust.  He’s almost all musk now.  

"St-t-top," the wolf spits out the words, spittle draining out the corner of his mouth.  

"Why?  Because you think it doesn't count if you don't blow your load in another guy's hole?  You think that asshole cared about whether or not the hole was female?  He didn't."  Rick maintains his thrusting as he bends down close to Jerome's grimacing face.  "I was just...a...hole.  But it's not that simple.  Because you like it.  And you're too much of a chickenshit to admit you like it.  Am I right?"

"No..."  The timing is nearly perfect.  Fluid squishes between their bodies as they slam together, the pressure of Jerome's knot an exquisite presence below Rick's tail.  Any second now, if he gets it right, it'll be all over.  But he wants to hear it first.  

"I can smell it all over you!" the fox says, the words echoing off the hard tile walls, and he lowers his voice.  "I can see it in your goddamn eyes, Jerome.  Your ears.  I'm not stupid.  I just want you to say it!"  Before he can think better of it, he lashes out his tongue and drags it up the side of the wolf’s muzzle, catching whiskers.

"I...I..."  

With one final push, Rick slams his torso down onto the bench, and one excruciating moment later he's impaled beyond return.  The look on Jerome's face—the surprise of a tied virgin—is purely receptive.  All the fox has to do is stand there, spread, as the wolf's hips move of their own accord, driving his climax toward its inevitable end.

"You...what?" Rick snarls, licking Jerome's teeth.

"I...nnnnghhhaaaahhhmmmph!"  The full gamut of vowels is muffled as Jerome lifts his head up.  Rick sees the straining ligaments of his neck, and then his muzzle is engulfed by the wolf's in a kiss so ferocious and unexpected that he almost backs away.  He can't move his hips, and he's using Jerome's chest as support.  

Now what?

The wolf's tongue dances around his own, and Rick has no choice but to reciprocate, at least a little.  Keeping his eyes open through the whole thing, he sees a male embroiled in the heat of passion, lust's ultimate signs of possession:  the tie and the kiss.  And as he feels wolf spunk splattering up into him, and the moaning traveling down his throat, his conscience is just on the other side of that testosterone-laden curtain.  

With his last convulsions, Jerome drops back onto the bench, panting.  It's been a long time since Rick's seen anyone that sexually raw.  But when the wolf opens his eyes, finally, the fire has drained from them.  No afterglow, no living in the moment.  Just two hot, sticky males who don't look like they belong together.  

Rick tugs up, testing.  Jerome sucks up a bark of protest; it's too soon to detach but an uneasy awkwardness is already settling over them.  

It's empty.  It's absolutely fucking empty.

That feeling in the pit of his stomach, that oh-god-what-am-I-doing-here feeling, rises up like bile.  He looks at the wolf, head turned away, expression revealing nothing, and it's the complete opposite of what he wanted.  But what is he trying to do, anyway?  What's he trying to prove?  

Rick wanted humiliation, and he got arousal.  He wanted disgust, and he got a kiss.  There’s no definite expression, no definite scent.

It's you, stupid.  

Jerome looks...empty.  Empty like Rick was, empty like he lay in the equipment room for twenty minutes, sore and violated, wondering why he was still hard.  Wondering why he couldn't stop thinking about that feeling of being full, caused only because of its absence.  

The fox didn't have to be the top to plant a seed.  

With a wholly awkward effort, Rick manages to gain enough leverage to pull off of Jerome without causing either of them too much discomfort.  Worse than anonymous sex, worse than drunk sex, now it's the fox who has to look away.  Jerome's cock juts out stiffly from his body, the remnants of their sex filling up the locker room with their combined canid aroma.  For once, the smell is off-putting.  Twin drips of white make a skunk-tail down his shaft.

Jerome is silent while Rick snaps his rapidly receding cock and well-used hole back into his jeans, careful to keep the wolf's seed inside so as not to stain the leather.  Suddenly, he can't get out of there quickly enough.  It doesn't take much to rip off the rest of the jock strap and unbuckle his belt, but Jerome doesn't move right away.  He's between emotions, or suppressing it all, or both.  But what strikes Rick the most is, nowhere in the maelstrom is there any hint of anger.  Conflict, yes, but no anger.  

Rick slides the belt through its loops, buckles it and shuffles to the end of the row of lockers.  When he turns back, the first thing he sees is the equipment room.  His equipment room.  And he realizes he's not angry.  Was he ever angry?  He's sure there was a time when he could make himself think he resented it all.  

And then there's the wolf, in the foreground, sitting up with his paws clumsily hiding his soaked sheath, massaging his wrists.  Still no anger, still no infatuation.  Even a shouting match would be preferable to this...this neutrality.  This emptiness.  Whatever lesson Jerome was supposed to learn has gone by the wayside, and in its place is nothing more than seven years of unjustifiable recklessness, and its result sitting in front of him.  

There's nothing to do now.  Consolation?  Awkward.  Anger?  Pointless.  Jerome doesn't know what to think, doesn't know what to say, and he looks the mirror of how Rick feels at this very moment.  The playing field is even, their roles wiped away, whatever roles they were supposed to have in the first place.  Just monikers for the sake of posturing.

Rick sighs heavily, and opens the closest locker.  Inside is a towel that's dry and smells freshly washed, and he walks back over to Jerome, towering above the very small-looking wolf, and holds it out.  Jerome takes it, and it's impossible to mistake the longing in his eyes.  Longing for what, Rick doesn't know.  But behind the longing is that void that Rick feels.  That he's felt for all this time.  There's no way to escape it.  And the wolf is going to have to solve his own problems, problems for which the fox is responsible.  

It can't be helped.  Not anymore.

"Thanks," the wolf says.  He's looking for something else, something in Rick maybe.  He won't find it.  

"Welcome."  Rick clears his throat and turns, padding over to the door and turning the lock.  The sound is too loud.  He looks back.  The towel sits between Jerome's spread legs, the wolf seeming to contemplate the bench before him.  

He won't tell.  It wouldn't serve any purpose other than to muddle what Rick knows is already a mess in his head.  The fox knows the feeling all too well.  Ten seconds go by.  Rick waits for a lifting of the head, a muffled last statement, something, anything to give meaning to what they just did here.  Jerome can only look down, and think.  

Thinking might be a good thing right now.  

Rick will be able to think once he's back on his bike, on the road.  About what, he can't even clear his head to guess.  All he knows is, he has to get away.

He's around the corner and down the hall before the locker room door clicks closed.

5/24-6/4/09