Travis didn't much care that Medieval France had been couched in upheavals during the Middle Ages.  He didn't care about the parade of Johns and Henrys and Charleses and their sons, brothers, and even  that one baby who ruled for five days sometime in the fourteenth century.  None of this shit would be on the test; Mr. Lundegaard used the regulation forms from the back of his Teacher's Edition, rote and a breeze to ace.  So while the fat ram wrote out names and dates on the white board, the fox busied himself by making his claws blue with a Sharpie.  

If History hadn't been a required course for graduation, Travis probably wouldn't have taken it, preferring something more creative like AP Composition or Intro to Shakespeare.  But those were electives, not required for a well-rounded education at William Henry Harrison High School.  They were too easy, and they were fun.  Therefore, not required.  Travis looked forward to June, when he would be done with his Junior year and could spend the summer looking for colleges.  Next year would be a cakewalk; Senior years usually were, and Travis had made sure to pile on the hard courses ahead of time.

“And thus, we move on from the Capetian Dynasty to the First Republic, signified by the storming of the Bastille and the eventual overthrow of Louis XVI,” Mr. Lundegaard droned in his Upper Plains nasality.  He turned around to face the class, a looming but harmless presence.  “But first, a pop quiz to see if any of you were actually listening to me.”  There was no collective groan, but the fox noticed tails tucking and ears lowering ahead of him, and the scent of anxiety from behind.  

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and the fox smiled.  This wasn't unexpected.  It would most likely be Jamie, the otter sitting directly behind him who was also his best bud.  Not the brightest student, Jamie was good at wrestling but had trouble with more dense concepts like pre-Algebra and this bullshit of a history class.  Back in the seventh grade, they had devised an ingenious system of tail signals, where the otter would sit behind the fox and Travis would twitch out his answers.  Left would signify which question, right which answer.  A 7-3 code meant the answer to the seventh question was C, or whatever answer came third.  It worked more often than not, and it was a miracle they hadn't gotten caught in the four years they'd been using it.

This was also why Jamie didn't like essay questions one bit.

Travis waited for the ram to pass out the quizzes and sit back down at his desk.  “You may begin,” he said, opening the copy of the New York Times he brought with him every day to class.  Soon after, the apple next to him disappeared, like it always did.  Clockwork.

Bringing the phone out from his pocket, he slid the lock-bar down and brought up the “Messages” screen.  It wasn't from Jamie, it was from Roger, and the four words he saw set his fur on end:  I WANNA BLOW YOU. 

It took him a few seconds before he realized his jaw was open, so he shut it and looked around surreptitiously.  Of course no one had seen him, concentrating on their quizzes instead of the fox in the middle row who had just gotten a suggestive text from his little brother.  Travis looked at the screen again, but the words hadn't changed.  It was definitely from Roger, because no one else was currently blowing him.  

His mind wandered back to Monday, two days ago, and the moment when Travis held Roger's little ears still while he humped his climax into the younger fox's muzzle, hearing the sounds of satisfaction at a job well done.  To the week previous, when Roger had pawed him off while he watched Xtube on the laptop his parents had bought him as a “gift,” when they really just wanted him to quit hogging the family PC.  And back to the first time, long ago it seemed, when he'd woken up at 3am to find Roger's fingers rolling his balls around, his eyes hungrily fixated on his older brother's erection.

“Shh,” Roger had whispered.  “I wanna make you feel good.”  And Travis hadn't had the strength, nor the impetus to resist, hard as he'd been.  From there it had just...kind of grown.

But this was new.  Roger hardly ever texted him during school unless he needed to skip the bus and have Travis take him somewhere.  Even in those cases, most of the time it was Mom who would contact him.  The fox looked at the words a third time, getting harder and, consequently, more distracted.  He confirmed that Mr. Lundegaard was still engrossed in the Times and quickly punched out a response:  I'M IN CLASS.

Three questions later, his phone buzzed again.  WHEN DO YOU GET OUT?

Holy shit, he thought.  You've got to be kidding me.  But his tail swished all the same, so much that it took a conscious effort to keep it still.  Travis glanced back at Jamie, who appeared to be having no trouble with his quiz.  He was circling answers, at least.  Perhaps his retention skills were better-suited to short tests over recent material than those that covered chapter upon chapter.  

The fox forced himself to circle a few more answers before responding; it would be suspicious and out of character if he turned in an incomplete paper, especially something as easy as this.  

3:20.

I MEAN OUT OF CLASS, SILLY

UR CRAZY

NO IM HORNY.  I WANNA BLOW YOU :3

“Christ,” Travis muttered under his breath, shifting in his seat to give his erection some growing room.  He wasn't unsheathing yet, thank God.  That would make the remainder of class uncomfortable.

11:40.

YAY SO DO I!

HOW DO YOU PLAN TO DO THAT?

FOUND A PLACE.  BACK OF THE FOOTBALL FIELD BEHIND THE SHED

U GONNA CLIMB THE FENCE?

YOULL SEE...TRUST ME

STILL CRAZY

<3     :3

Travis put his phone away and shifted again, knowing this boner wasn't going to go down unless he took care of it.  Twenty-five long minutes away.  Roger's face floated into his mind as he recalled their short conversation.  He could just see the little snot grinning one of his I-know-how-to-manipulate-Travis grins, and it was true, both figuratively and literally.  Roger was good with his muzzle, and even better with his paws.  The lines of his test blurred as he imagined the floating Roger-face covered in his cum.  Oh, there went the knot.  Ouch.

He almost jumped when his phone buzzed again.  This time it was Jamie.

NOT NERVOUS, R U?  CAN SMELL YOU FROM HERE LOL.  Travis flushed, even though that likely made it worse.

Perhaps if he played it up:  GOTTA PAW OFF REAL BAD!  XD

DUDE, GROSS!  TMI...NOW HELP ME OUT, K?  Travis felt the otter's toes flick against the tip of his tail, though he knew what Jamie had meant.  Twenty questions in twenty-two minutes?  He could do that.  He started twitching at number one, glad for the distraction.

Admittedly, this particular cribbing session wasn't the most surreptitious of Travis's career, but neither Julie Holliday to the left nor Brewster McKinney to the right seemed to notice or even care, concentrated as they were on trying to remember what the ram had droned on about just a quarter of an hour before.

They finished with minutes to spare, and when the bell rang Travis could finally turn around and send a questioning glance Jamie's way.  The wink he got in return signified all was well.  Filing in line with the rest of the class, they set their papers down and melted into the lunch-period crowd.

“What a goddamn bore,” Jamie said, shouldering his bag.  “Did you know em all?

“What do you think, you cheater?”

“It takes two to pull this off, mouse-pouncer.”

“Fish-licker.”

“I'd shake your paw, but I don't know where it's been,” Jamie retorted, but then he leaned in closer as they walked.  “You really gonna go jerk it in the bathroom?”  Travis's sheath surged, though he knew the otter's question was half-serious at best.

“I'm not that desperate,” said the fox.  “But you won't know, will you?”

“You don't smell un-desperate!”  Jamie got his shoulder punched for that one, less because he was being an ass and more because Travis needed to break off the conversation and get to the playing fields.

“Shouldn't you be somewhere, stuffing your muzzle?”

“You don't wanna eat with me?”  Travis was mildly annoyed, but to the otter's credit, the fox was acting strange.  He had good reason, though, after all.  

“I got someplace I need to be.”  When the otter stopped short, Travis realized he wasn't very good at lying, though what he'd said wasn't really a lie.  He couldn't very well tell the truth, now, could he?  The fox didn't want Jamie dogging him all through lunch, but he didn't want to text Roger and cancel a perfectly good opportunity for some head.  Perhaps the truth, such as he could tell it, might disarm the otter.

“I just have to meet Roger and talk to him.”  He thought for a moment,.  “He needs my graphing calculator.  He forgot his.”  

Jamie's green eyes narrowed.  “What's he need a graphing calculator for in seventh grade?”

Just go away!  “Hell if I know, he just said he needed a calculator.  He probably just needs the adding function or something anyway.”  Jamie still looked dubious.  “Or he could be fucking with me for all I know.  I'm sorry I can't eat with you; I don't know what else to say.”

“But...” The otter's face fell, then he looked up, puffing out his lower lip.  “But I'll be lonely.”

“You fucker,” Travis growled, shoving Jamie into the lockers lining the wall.  “I'll see you after school.  Dick.”

“Yeah, a big one,” the otter called after him, laughing.  “What about you?”

I'm getting mine sucked, so there , Jamie thought as he waved and trotted down the hallway toward the gym.

WHHHS (affectionately known as the Whoosh! School in town) had almost lived up to its namesake, the shortest-serving President of the United States.  Started in 1983, the school district had mysteriously run short of funds halfway through construction and had to abandon the project until the state approved an emergency appropriation.  That didn't happen until 1985, and by that time the original contractors had been pissed off enough to sue and move on.  As a result, the remaining half of the high school had been constructed of bricks of a slightly darker shade of red, the line zigzagging around the outside wall.  

The gym, however, was a separate building, added in 1990 as a combination recreation center and sports complex.  The old gym, inside the school, had been converted into an auditorium.  

Travis descended the stairs and pushed through the double doors that led out onto the playing fields and track, looking at his phone.  11:55, and Roger hadn't texted yet, but he was patient and probably assumed Travis had run into some small delay.  Jamie wasn't that small, but he had delayed the fox from getting to where he wanted to go.  But now he was outside, in the sun, and alone.  

It was about a hundred yards to the property line, where a maintenance shed stood before tall hedges that blocked the view from beyond.  Amelia Earhart Middle School lay just across the hedge to his left, and Woodlawn Cemetery butted up against the rear of the high-school property.  Though the fox clutched the phone tightly in his paw, it felt like it was vibrating.  That was silly, because he'd turned the ringer back on, so he would hear it if Roger texted him.  Still, he quickened his pace and widened his stance to facilitate his growing sheath.

The hedge had grown tall enough to obscure the eight-foot-tall wooden fence, fulfilling some long-ago committee's resolution to separate the middle-schoolers from the high-schoolers.  It had also grown right up against the rear of the shed, so Travis had to look for a gap in the foliage to crawl through.  He didn't find one until he walked to the other side of the shed, where someone had pried the branches apart wide enough for a person to get inside.  The ground there was well-worn, trampled to fine dust by many sets of feet over the years.  Travis found himself wondering how popular this spot was, and for what reasons.  He also wondered how Roger knew about it, and that made him start to worry.  He could ask about that later, when they could talk face to face.

Two things struck the fox as he bent to enter the hedge:  first, how much cooler it was out of the sun, where the ground received little to no light at all; and second, how many scents had gathered into the place.  He couldn't place any particular student or person (or teacher?  Maybe), but canid musks overwhelmed the rest.  Sweat, cum, urine...they were all there.  Scattered condoms and their wrappers littered the ground, mixed with long-dead leaves, along with a few beer cans and what could be called a shitload of cigarette butts.  

When Travis spied a plastic chair to his left, he started over to it but stopped short when the scent of otter wafted past his muzzle.  For one panicked second, he thought Jamie had followed him, but the smell was both old and decidedly from someone much older.  The fox sighed in relief, but then realized that chair must be where Mr. Gustaf, the janitor, went to relieve himself.  How many students—and teachers, and faculty, for that matter—had gotten off here over the years?  And how had it gone so long without anyone finding out about this place?

A knock at the fence almost sent Travis out of his skin, but when he looked over to find the source, he could clearly see the thin black-gloved forearm protruding from a hole just the right height for a majority of males.  The index finger on the end of that arm crooked, beckoning the fox closer with an assurance that belied his twelve years.  Swallowing dryly, Travis walked over to his brother's paw.

The knothole (pun not intended:  it was natural, not drilled) was large enough to allow Roger's forearm to the elbow, and looked like it could accommodate even the largest canines.  Graffiti of every kind marked the fence around the hole:  LADY GAGA IS A DYKE, JULIE PERKINS 555-SLUT, GO HARRISON HAWKS!, GUSTAF IS WATCHING YOU.  Of course, Travis turned around after reading that last one, but he could neither see nor hear anyone.  The thought kind of made him harder, wondering if the friendly old man who cleaned Harrison High's floors and bathrooms was a voyeur.  

“Trav! ” Roger whispered from the hole.  “Gimme.”

Oh, holy hell.  Licking his lips, Travis closed the distance to his brother's arm, clasping the smaller fingers in his before bending down to the hole.

“You're crazy.  You know that, don't you?”

Roger huffed.  “Shut up and whip it out, already.”  But when the older fox put his paws to his fly, Roger's fingers shooed them away and grasped the zipper, pulling it down urgently.  Then they curled around what was already out of his sheath and pulled him by it to the hole.  Travis barely had time to tuck his boxers under his balls before his groin hit the fence, making the boards rattle and shake.  

Travis had to turn his head sideways to avoid smashing his snout against the wood, but at least he could look out for trouble while Roger went to work.  The talented little fingers rolled his balls around, the claws making delicate trails in the short creamy fur of his sac.  Then came Roger's tongue, licking around the underside of the shaft, delving into the stretched edges of his sheath before his little brother came down slowly, tightening his lips as he did so.

This was not like the last time, when they had been on Travis's bed  in little danger of being caught, especially so late at night.  Roger had taken his time, kneeling facing away from the older fox's head so he could take Travis's slightly-curved cock as far down as possible.  Those had been long, leisurely strokes, accompanied by squeaks and moans as Travis's claws roamed over Roger's rump, the first time Travis had touched him.  The result had been a slow, copious climax.  

Gasping as Roger skinned his sheath back behind his knot, Travis held onto the top of the fence to give his trembling legs less weight to carry.  He wished he could stand up on tiptoe and peek over the fence to watch the kid bobbing back and forth, his longish bangs covering sparkling green eyes.  Most likely, though, those eyes would be closed while Roger concentrated on his work.  But the fence was too high, and the knothole too low, so he would have to settle for imagining a picture to go with the feeling.  

Then again, the feeling was fucking nice all by itself.

Roger's jaw accommodated Travis's length easily, but the younger fox wouldn't dare try to go any further; he was just too small to do a muzzle-tie, and even if he could, now was definitely not the best time.  So he settled for the tried-and-true shortcut:  one paw fondling his big brother's balls, the other grasping behind his knot, his tongue and lips doing the rest.  Roger's movements were quick but fluid, his cheeks giving just the right amount of gentle suction while his tongue flicked and stroked and slathered all the right spots.  Travis wondered if Roger just knew his hot buttons, or if he was  grasping at straws.  What did it matter, as long as he got drained?

The paw on his sac moved to his length and briefly replaced Roger's muzzle, stroking quickly with the thumb and index finger.  Without having to worry about pounding his brother's head, the fox humped a bit into the knothole, feeling his lower half tighten, his cock already beginning to spasm.  Roger must have felt it too, because he stopped what he was doing, instead giving long, slow licks over each side of Travis's length, nearly driving the older fox crazy.

“God, fuck,” Travis cursed.  The little shit knew he was going to come, and backed off!  “God dammit, Roger!” he whispered as loudly as he dared, to the fence and the copse of hedge surrounding it.  A bit of his senses returned, and suddenly the possibility that someone might have snuck into the space stabbed at the back of his mind like a tiny dagger.  When he looked behind him, though, he could see no evidence to that fact:  no shadow, no movement, no rustling of leaves and trash.  He looked at his watch:  12:10.  Twenty-five minutes until fifth period, and he hadn't had lunch yet.  

At least Roger'll get some lunch here in a few minutes, he thought.  Yeah, real mature, Travis.

A cold nose against his sheath almost made him yelp out and draw back.  “Jesus, Roger!”

“You're all leaky,” Roger said.  Travis saw the barest hint of bright white fox teeth shoved into the knothole against his sheath.  If not for the fence, it would look downright sexy.  “You just about popped there.  You want me to finish?”

“What do you think?” Travis asked incredulously.

“I dunno, I was thinkin' you could save up for after school and give me double.”  The older fox's knot throbbed harder, and he flexed up against his brother's head.  How did Roger, in the space of a month, get so precocious?  

How did he get so sexy?   Travis didn't exactly want to entertain that particular thought right now.

“Roger, I'm not going the rest of the day like this.  It'll be hard enough to get it to go down if I  don't finish.”

“Aww, but I wanted a double shot,” Roger complained half-heartedly.  Suddenly the wet coolness and hot breath were gone from his sheath, and replaced by a comfortable soft warmth.  It encompassed his erection, tickling along his nerves and renewing what sensitivity he'd lost after Roger had pulled off.  But then his tip sank deep into something that wasn't wet like a muzzle, his shaft surrounded by flesh and fur, and it moved forward until it contacted a hard line of something.  And that something was wagging.  Roger was grinding his ass on his cock.  

His little brother had pulled his pants down and was humping back against him.  Where did he learn this stuff?

Oh, wait, Internet.  Duh.  So much for the web filter, huh, Mom?

The short fuzz on Roger's rear was blissfully soft, and while it wouldn't get Travis off, it was the thought of what could happen that kept the older fox on the edge.  He wondered if Roger knew what he was doing, what he was miming.  He had to, he was twelve, for God's sake...twelve with Internet!  Roger also had friends who doubtlessly joked about this all the time.  Roger'd had his share of locker-room banter at that age, but nothing even close to this.  

Travis knew he was too high and too dry to even attempt penetration, but enjoyed the thought, though it worried him a little.  He was too worked up to let that affect him right now, and when Roger pushed back and the older fox's tip hit the puckered flesh, he nearly came.  Roger grabbed him and slid his swollen length up and down, and Travis swore he could feel everything from balls to tailbase.  

“Roger,” he panted.  He wanted to say things.  Nasty, naughty things.  Loving things.  Things someone doesn't usually say to his brother.  But all that came out was, “I have to eat something before I go to class.”  Surely not the subtlest of hints, but he thought Roger was too intelligent to be offended.

Travis was right.  The fuzziness left, quickly replaced by Roger's breath again as he mock-complained.  “Aww, you ruin everything, Trav.  It was just gettin' good, too.”  But Roger's disappointment lasted as long as it took for his lips to slide back down, his nose bumping up against the older fox's knot and staying there while his tongue lapped its underside like a nursing kit. 

The tingle started at the base of Travis's tail, that long, slow travel up to his neck that poofed his hackles and sucked his balls up into his body.  He began a slow hunching against the fence, adding just enough thrust to Roger's strokes.  His tail fanned the air behind him; his whole lower body was a mass of tension just waiting to be let loose.

Roger grasped behind his knot again and pulled with his two fingers.  Short, quick jabs.  Like a feral fox, which was kind of what Roger felt like at this very moment.  The tongue against his knot moved away as Roger backed off and started to bob, his cheeks devoid of suction and his lips just tight enough to feel like...well...a tailhole, probably.  Definitely not a pussy; the muscle structure was completely different.  Sophomore Biology was paying off after all.

Travis panted against the fence, careful not to move too much lest he get a splinter in his whisker beds.  When Roger wanted to pile it on, he could definitely prove his mettle.  The aborted orgasm from earlier hadn't really left after all; now it was growing between his legs, from his hole to his tip, the whole area spasming as he passed the point of being able to stop.  Like he wanted to.  Like he could just open his mouth and say, “No thanks, little bro, I'll pass on this one.”  Fuck no.

There was no warning this time, not with his teeth clenched so hard.  Travis just groaned and tried to be quiet while Roger tightened his finger-tie and made one final pass down, the whole of his tongue a writhing cocoon of pleasure.  The tip of his cock poked into Roger's throat, and the older fox finally lost it.  His tail tucked itself between his legs, thwapping against the wooden slats of the fence as Travis stuck his wrist in his muzzle and bit down to keep from barking.  The climax rippled along his spine and out of him, against the back of Roger's throat.

The fence rocked with Travis's thrusts, though he couldn't do much besides hold on and let his little brother empty his balls for him.  He heard Roger's “Mmmms” as he tasted the seed and pulled back to swallow, repeating twice because of the volume.  A weak voice somewhere in his head told him to ask Roger what he found appealing about his cum, and it was filed away behind the billboard of OMIGOD I'M COMING.  Creaking in protest, the pickets held firm as the fox rode out his climax and fought the urge to yank himself from Roger's mouth when things got too sensitive.  

Even though this was only the younger fox's second blowjob (to Travis's knowledge; he might ask Roger later about how he was so good with his muzzle), Roger seemed to know just when to modulate his suction.  Travis felt those lips tighten around the base of his knot and pull away slowly, milking the dregs out, not letting a drop spill.  This was more show than procedure, but the older fox appreciated it with a guttural grunt.  Then his shaft was free, and he pulled away from the knothole on wobbly legs that gave way, falling to his knees in the leaves and trash.

As Travis propped himself against the wood, panting, Roger's narrow muzzle appeared through the hole like something out of a cartoon, curved up in a conniving grin.  Roger's black lips were shiny, the foamy remnants of saliva and cum still on them.  

“Tolja,” said Roger matter-of-factly.

“Told me what?”

“Tolja I wanted to blow you.”  Roger licked his lips clean, then left his muzzle open, panting slightly.  Travis was about to reply in the form of No shit when he realized his little brother was pawing off, his body rocking lightly with the motion of his arm.  He wanted Travis to know, and that was weird and awkward and so fucking hot at the same time.  His flagging erection began to reassert itself, but the older fox knew he had neither the time nor the energy for a second round.

Instead, he leaned against the fence, watching the six inches or so of fox muzzle as  Roger brought himself off quickly.  His tongue lolled out at first, then he was biting his lip, and then his whole face screwed up into a grimace that made Roger appear much older than he was.

“Fuck ,” the little fox whispered, grunting and bumping the fence in measured time.  As Roger sighed, Travis was struck by the altogether new scent of his brother's cum, though he realized—with a little chagrin—that he'd been smelling a heavily-diluted version in their shared clothes hamper at home for more than a year now.  A month ago, the thought would have disgusted him.  Now, it got him hard.

“You're gonna leave me all alone now, aren't you?” Roger asked in a mock-pout.  Travis heard rustling from the other side of the fence, presumably the wiping off of paws and zipping up of a fly.  

“I have class in ten minutes,” the older fox replied.

“I know.  Me too.  Yay, Language Arts.”  He sounded twelve again, as if none of the lewdness had ever happened.  “Don't I get a kiss or anything?”

“Okay, fine,” Travis said, leaning in from the side (one paw on his cock to keep the teeth of his zipper away) and planting a peck just behind Roger's whiskers.

Roger whined.  “Aww, no kiss on the lips?”  Travis started; he only kissed Roger on the lips when Mom made him.  To his knowledge, Roger had never wanted one on purpose.  He supposed it wouldn't hurt.

What Travis didn't expect was Roger's tongue.  As he shifted around and their snouts met, the younger fox took a swipe, catching Travis's upper lip, teeth and nostrils before repeating.  The older fox allowed his jaw to open only slightly before his brain caught up with his actions.  He recoiled, spitting harder than he needed to, but he was surprised, dammit.  Surprised and conflicted.

“Travis?”

“You're weird.”  Travis tried to mask his discomfort with a forced chuckle, but he knew it wasn't going to fool anybody.  Especially Roger.

“Well, you're silly,” the younger fox replied, withdrawing from the hole.  “You're welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you?”  Travis had read somewhere that it was inappropriate and awkward to thank someone after sex, so he couldn't help the uptick at the end.

“You're welcome.  Go get your food or whatever.  I already got mine!”  This obviously bad joke was followed by the rhythmic crunching of leaves and the rustle of the hedge as Roger crawled through it.  Travis peeked over the fence just in time to see the flash of a white tailtip as his little brother ran back to the middle school.  He tucked himself in, shouldered his backpack and walked out of the hedge, shielding his eyes against the sudden brightness.

The cafeteria was still open; there would be one more half-period for lunch as the second wave of students crowded in to get their food.  Travis swung by the deli station and grabbed a tuna salad sandwich and a Gatorade before presenting his student ID to the old but friendly and fur-net-wearing squirrel at the cash register.  He got two text messages while he paid, but he needed some food in him, and he could check his phone once he got to class on time.

By the time the fox got to his locker upstairs, the sandwich was gone, as well as half the Gatorade.  He put the bottle on the shelf next to his pre-lunch textbooks, loaded his pack with the things he'd need for the rest of the day, and headed toward Geometry class.  The room wasn't even half full yet.  Travis took his customary seat at the rear, so he could rest his head against the cool cinderblocks.

Mrs. Beguin's Geometry I class wouldn't begin for another five minutes, so the fox pulled out his phone to see who had messaged him.  Roger and Jamie, exactly the two people he had suspected.  He opened Roger's since it was a multimedia message, an oddity because it was the first one Roger had sent him since Mom had given the kid the phone on his birthday.  

SEE WHAT U DO 2 ME?

Above the six words was a picture of a familiar paw holding an unfamiliar erection.  About four inches long and slender, and an angry post-orgasm red.  The paw was covered in cum—Roger's cum—and more dripped from the tip of the shaft.  Travis's face prickled with heat as blood rushed to places it didn't need to go for geometry.  He had to swipe his finger across the screen twice because it kept power-saving.  His cock may have felt one way, but he wasn't sure how his brain liked it.  He exited the screen, afraid to think about it too much.

If Roger's message had unnerved him one way, Jamie's only made things worse:  YOU LUCKY FUCKER.  COULDA TOLD ME, OR AT LEAST DOUBLED UP ;3 CYA AFTER SCHOOL DON WON.

The lump in Travis's throat crawled its way upward and formed a dry ball he couldn't swallow back down.  He was angry at the fact that Jamie had followed him, nervous because of what the otter could have seen, and relieved that his text indicated he had only seen enough to think the fox had gotten busy with some girl on the other side of the fence.  It could have been anyone, and Jamie wasn't the brightest guy.  Some creativity and a good story might convince him to leave it alone if he got enough “details.”

But Jamie was coming over after school to bone up for their upcoming Spanish III test.  He would have to tell Roger to stay out of their way for the evening.  Not a big deal.  Unless Roger wanted another go-round.  In that case, Travis would just have to stand firm (as it were) and take care of his priorities.  It would all go smoothly, he was sure of it.  

So, why did he suddenly feel trapped?

The bell sounded, the students quieted down, and Mrs. Beguin began drawing angles on the  white board.  Travis put the phone on vibrate and slipped it into his pocket; he didn't feel the want or the need to answer his messages right now.  Geometry was the furthest thing from his mind; fortunately for the fox, he could get what he needed from the textbook.

As long as his ears stayed forward, no one would suspect his anxiety over his best friend, or his persistent arousal caused by his little brother.  He bent down, pulled the Sharpie from his backpack, and went to work bluing the claws on his other paw.  

3/22/-4/1/11