But he's talking again about how to lean into the lathe and pump at a steady pace, going a little bit at a time since I'm a novice. Lost in my dreamscape, I don't notice the shavings landing in my lap or on my nose. Or when he moves to another chisel, seamlessly replacing one with the other. My paws are his hands, we are one...until I can't take much more and try to nuzzle up under his neck.
My paw slips just so. I open my eyes (which I wasn't aware I'd closed) just in time to hear Morgan yell out, and then the chisel is gone, thrown to the floor and bounced into a corner. The beam wobbles once and flies out of the lathe, striking my foot before rolling away harmlessly. I feel no crunching of broken toes, but the pain's enough to make me yelp and draw the foot up to my chest, rocking slightly while I cradle it.
“Let me see.” The bison pulls my paws away. I'm bleeding, but only slightly and from one toe. Hurts like the dickens though. Standing, Morgan says, “I'll go get something to bandage that up.” I'm too stunned to argue while he goes into the side room.
This is your last chance. Take it. Around the bloom of pain the carnality shines through, but the thought's true: if I don't use this injury to my advantage, it could cost me any possibility of being with Morgan. So limping clumsy between the lathe and the bed I shuck my clothes, climbing onto the soft feather-filled canvas and managing what I hope to be an alluring pose. Just before he steps back into the room I remember to hike my tail.
“Zach, I don't have much but this whiskey should—” He stops when he sees I've disappeared. Looks around. I follow his eyes as they follow the fabric trail to his bed, where they widen. He almost drops the bottle of whiskey and the roll of gauze he's carrying. Part of me wishes he would, losing his overalls as he clops over to put it in me. But this is real life, and that's only happened once, and Morgan's not like that.
“It's not so bad, now,” I say, wagging slowly. “The pain's almost gone.” In fact my foot is throbbing pretty badly and I realize—too late—that I've probably got blood on his bed. But the bison's likely got other things on his mind. I hope they're good.
He doesn't come over and put it in me. Instead he flops onto the stool by the lathe, sighs and leans against the wall, watching the ceiling in a daze.
I drop my tail—just a little—and ask, “What's wrong?” I might have to use some of my blackmail ammunition, but now I really don't want to. After all he's done for me, I don't want to ruin my relationship with him, even if we turn out to just be friends. Maybe it's already too late. My resolve withers at seeing his big frame sag, his head bent.
“I suspected this.” He glances at me forlornly. “I had hoped you would give up before we got to this point, but you're more tenacious than I gave you credit for.” I don't know what tenacious means, but it's probably something bad for such a fancy word. My tail falls the rest of the way, so I just turn over and milk my sheath some, trying to be as coy as possible. Morgan doesn't give me a second glance.
“Come on,” I say, “you were practically holding me before I got hurt. You can't say you didn't like it.”
“I did, but because I was showing you how to craft wood, not because I...the other thing.”
“But the other thing would be nice. You can't deny that,” I throw out another stock line. “You don't have to touch me or anything. You can pretend I'm a female.” I quit tuggin' on myself and cross my legs to try and convince him some. He's so docile for a bison, he's not even close to a lost cause yet.
“You don't understand.”
“Course I do.” If he starts talking about sin and damnation I'll have to back off. Some men would rather walk away from a payin' job. “I want something, and you have it.”
“No, I don't, Zach.”
“And I can help you help me. I know how it is on a farm.” More lines, but by this time most males are nodding and getting themselves hard with anticipation.
Morgan keeps his voice quiet and even. “If you won't listen then I'll just have to show you. Turn around and lift your tail.” The words are erotic but emotionless, and I get that odd feeling in my gut again. But I do as instructed, hunkering down so I can feel the cool night air on my hole.
The clink and rustle of overalls falling to the floor, and the whoosh of musk and warmth as the bison kneels behind me, grasping my hips and pulling me back to meet his groin. I moan until I realize he's not hard. But he's only a bit over thirty, not nearly old enough for that problem. Unless he wants me to help him.
I reach back between my legs, my sac rolling to the side until I feel the hard muscle of his thigh. I follow it up and up and up until my pads stroke over folds of skin before I hit the opposite thigh.
I scream. I can't help it, but I scream and scramble away until I'm at the head of the bed, ears flat, looking at Morgan and the place between his legs where there's nothing but a slit. I know what it is, but I don't know why it's there.
“I told you I couldn't help you,” is all he says.
***
Well, this was a treat. A long while ago I wrote a story for, and was accepted into Cyanni's Plowed anthology, which is still in the works but on its way. The unifying theme was foxes, and I chose the maned wolf, because it was an option and because it presented a challenge.
Zach, here on the bottom, is the son of a rancher. Morgan, the bison, is in the rancher's employ. Zach has the hots for the bulky hoofer, but as you can see things don't always go as planned. This was the first story of this kind for me, and I absolutely loved telling it and building a plot around these two.
The book may not be out yet, but I've been wanting some art of these two for a while. So here you go, straight out of the story, but with just a teaser to hold you over until you can buy the book.
You will be buying the book, right? I mean, come on, BISON.
***
Zach, Morgan and story are \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Art is knoxin