Michel had already finished writing, of course, and I shot him a sad-puppy look just before he left the classroom. The raised eyebrow and jerk-off gesture he returned instantly brightened my attitude. I nodded once, and he exited, leaving me to breeze through the final essay questions with terse paragraphs. I'd been saving since three days before yesterday's practical exam and I was undeniably needy. Only some disapproving coughs kept me from wagging. I was so enamored by the promise of immediate relief after such a tense slog that I didn't bother adjusting my tented britches when I laid my ream of parchment on the professor's desk. In the hallways behind the exam room, I skipped toward the first unnaturally darkened alcove, and bumped straight into Michel on the other side of the hasty illusion. 

Our hands went straight into each other's open robes, tugging at buttons and loosening knots. Michel had me out first. The pads on his fingers were always so soft - I was briefly useless. My shoulders hit the wall, though, and I hurried to get his dick out beside mine. His hands slipped under my tunic, pressing me against the cool stone, and I stroked us both in a two-handed grip. It would've been enough to end there: a little dominance, a mess, a kiss between friends, then drinks to celebrate the semester's end. Michel had other plans. He reached into my robe's pockets. He was always thrillingly over-familiar, but this was new taboo even for him. I stared as he poured my vial of neutral oil over my hands. It was difficult to stay scandalized as the lubricant worked down between us. He was riding high on his obvious success in the finals, and I was excited to see where his bravado led. The way we both throbbed fuller because of it was unmistakable between my paws.  When he drew back, dragging his length out from beside mine and leaving me humping my own slippery fingers, only his high voice kept me from finishing: "Present yourself." 

With a deep shiver and a bright smile, I dropped my robe and turned around. I ended up on all fours because the wall was too smooth for my oil-slick hands to find a proper grip. I let my tongue hang out, and the first drop of lustful saliva never hit the floor. I converted it to physical force and it slid my pants clean down to my ankles. This was child's play, of course; but it wasn't the magic I was showing off. His own bottle of oil drizzled onto the bare fur under my wagging tail. I leaned my forehead against the wall, impatiently listening to him settle to his knees atop his own doffed robe. He traced a finger around my hole. As though he didn't know its shape by heart! I begged him not to tease, and he replied "Just a moment." I felt the precum dribbling from my iron-hard length separate from the oil and disappear. The darkness disguising our rendezvous became a more convincing wall. I clenched at the reminder that he was completely out of my league. I would've needed to transmute real cum to manage half of that. Michel could knock a door down by spitting on it or piss out a forest fire. By eighteen he'd be unstoppable. Next to him I was barely better than the farmers and soldiers who took months of training just to lift rocks with their sweat. Then his hands gripped my asscheeks, reminding me I wasn't next to him, but under him. I whimpered for it. That, at least, I could be shamelessly happy with. 

His tip parted me with a bit of teasing, and from there it was an easy slide. I moaned openly, trusting his efforts to conceal us, and squeezed him as he pulls back. "Lyas," he breathes. (Ed: I assume this was my name, but that is not a detail I can be certain about.) My toes curled on top of each other as he drove deep again. "Gods, your ass beats any pussy," he said, and I groaned for entirely different reasons. I asked him not to compare me to girls. I told him I find female parts gross. He laughed and ground his hips against mine. "Careful who you say that to. Even respectable women learn blood magic." I smiled sheepishly over my shoulder as he begins fucking me in earnest. I asked him to keep it quiet. I said males like us have it hard enough. "I'll say," he joked, and I put my forehead back against the cool stone. It took another minute for me to notice he wasn't expending any magic. I was so pent-up, I could've jizzed a dent in the floor, so I must not have realized my sensations weren't being intensified. Nobody in a school for magic has sex the normal way. Michel could convert fluids as effortlessly as people breathed, so the fact he was saving them up worried me. I looked back again and his grin was all gleeful fangs. 

"Maybe I'll make a respectable breeder out of you." I told him not to, but mostly it came out as breathy mumbling. He really was a great lay even without enhancements. He laughed - cackles, really - and I strained not to cum. In the past he'd turned my fur pink, prevented my erections, prevented my erections from ending, made it uncomfortable to wear anything under my robes, etc., etc., etc. The month before this, he'd made me forget what orgasms were, then given me the best surprise ever with a fairly sloppy handjob. I'd loved it all in hindsight. So when I felt him digging inside my mind, I wasn't fighting back with full vehemence, even distracted by an impending climax. In grunts, I begged: don't, c'mon, dude, please. It didn't help. I absolutely howled through my sputtering finish, with the much-anticipated -splat- echoing in our blocked-off hallway. The sharp flash of a psychic anchor taking root was as unmissable as the throb of Michel's own finale inside me. I pressed back against him, twisting my robe in my hands, ankles rubbing together, trying to ignore the absence of anything hot, wet, or slippery emerging inside me. He hadn't even let his essence out of him before hitting me with its power. I grinned at his dedication even as I dreaded to learn what he'd done to me. 

Michel pulled out, and I let myself flop over onto the cool floor. The wet spot where my cum should've been had my immediate attention. He'd used both loads. I swallowed nervously and forced myself to meet his proud gaze. "Next time you cum," he said, then paused to savor my pitiful whine in response. "You'll march straight to me and learn your place like a good boy." My heaving chest puffed up with righteous anger. I spat out the unforgivable curse of the violated against the family of their attacker, and he snickered, because I always start with that after we bang. I converted my sweat just to clean it off me, then spent the power to remove the damp shadow that he must've left intentionally when he used my own jism to brain-lock me. I pulled my pants up, dramatically swung my crumpled robe back onto my shoulders, and told him in no uncertain terms I'd reverse his dirty trick before I even considered cumming again.

I lasted a week. He tells me I walked the whole way from my cabin to his with my dick hanging out and an illustrated erotic scroll still clutched in the hand that wasn't visibly sticky with my own juices. Naturally I don't remember it. I trust his word. I regained awareness to the sight of his grinning muzzle inches from me. He immediately kissed me and I felt nothing. I mean, I felt him kissing me, and it was interesting, but it provoked no emotional reaction. This was very strange, as I loved Michel, and still do. He's a close friend and I care deeply for him. Usually when we kissed it was a heady prelude to some absolutely delightful sodomy, or else it was broken up by humorless prefects with no tolerance for public affection. (In hindsight those prefects probably understood how close we were to boning on whatever table, staircase, or doorstep we happened to be near.) 

He broke off, grinning even more toothily now. My eyes kept drifting toward his new necklace. The symbol on it briefly occupied my complete attention. I shook my head to clear my mind. I tried to stand and his gentlest touch with one finger pushed me right back down. He fished his erection out of his trousers and awkwardly climbed into the bench I sat at. The pungent red length of it wobbled before me, idly keeping my attention, and when I looked up at his face in mild consternation he rubbed it up and down the side of my muzzle. I soon brushed it gently aside with the back of my hand. Mostly it was annoyingly close to my left eye. To my confusion, he hopped down with a hooting cheer, then twirled in an ecstatic dance that would've been funny even without his cock waggling about. 

With his hands on his hips, he declared, "You're straight!" I assured him I'm not. I'd known since before I could write; I was fairly confident of it. He strode closer and jostled my sheath - incidentally this was the first time I noticed I was nude. I was soft between his fingers, and his pleasant rubbing did nothing to change that. "Blow me," he said, and I found myself dipping down to obey despite feeling no particular interest in that act. He put a hand between my uncertainly wobbling ears. I can't say even then that it was gross, but it was like licking his nose or the inside of his ear - the strange flavor of bare skin mixed with a nebulous understanding of my motivation. I must've done it reasonably well, because he left a bitter mess on my tongue. I spit the mouthful of magically potent material to the floor and glanced up to see what he had planned for it. He just wagged and scratched my scalp. 

"Follow me," he said, and I spared hardly a thought for clothing as I walked out the door behind him. The few students who didn't grant him a wide berth all stared at me as we passed, and though I covered myself in embarrassment, the idea of stopping or hiding simply never occurred. We arrived at an unfamiliar cabin in the upperclassmen's section. The door opened, and he had a conversation I don't remember. (In fact I remember being told to forget it.) He said "Stay" before going inside. I stood there, tail between my bare legs, stopped by the open door. The looks I got from passers-by were more interested than disapproving. I still wished I hadn't been on display so openly. After interminable minutes, Michel emerged, conspicuously tucking heavy coins into his purse. "Don't think of it as being sold," he said with a smirk. "It's a deeply compelling blind date." Despite his instructions, I knew I'd been passed along. I asked who this supposed date was with. He hiked a finger toward the door. "She'll handle her own introductions. I'll see you after winter break, buddy. Gimme a kiss." I leaned away from his advance. He laughed more proudly than ever and grabbed my scruff to push a rough smooch on my muzzle. I wrinkled my nose and watched him walk away. 

Feeling no compulsion to stay put any longer, I glanced around for bearings toward my own dormitory shack, but something drew my attention inside the open doorway. I slipped through into the dim open-plan room and met eyes with a stunningly beautiful stranger. I'd seen her before, surely, in various lectures, but I had never actually noticed her. Certainly I'd never let my wide eyes trace the curves evident beneath her sleepwear. I was already poking at the palm covering my sheath. She curled a finger, beckoning, and my cheeks ran hot as I stepped forward. Michel's necklace hung around her neck. Its symbol barely distracted me from the stunning beauty in every direction around it. She slouched in her desk chair and crossed her legs at the knee. Her silken nightgown barely passed her hips and evidently came unaccompanied. At that point I wasn't so much hiding my groin as pointlessly holding my erection. 

She said, "Kneel, Pet." Her voice sent shivers down my spine once my knees hit the carpet. I could hear the capital P. It was simply true. "Michel says you're a virgin." I told her I wasn't. "Other boys don't count." I told her I was, then. This was something of a surprise for me. My public dalliances with Michel alone made me think I was experienced, nevermind the filth I'd done in private with Trem and Jalence. What strange misconceptions she cleared up. "Let's fix that." She stretched a leg out, her toes nearly touching my face, and I was drunk on the scent of her fur. She casually rolled her pastel shift up toward her navel, and I drooled over the beauty of her whatsit, with the lips, and the thing at the top. (I apologize for my lack of vocabulary. I am not permitted to recall unfamiliar words, and in my defense, I was a virgin until quite recently.) Each careless drip of saliva popped out of existence in midair. She flexed her open thighs and tightened her grip on her nightie - pleasuring herself with my body before I'd even touched her. Finally, she allowed, "Lick me," and I dove forward like a man half-starved. 

I dragged my outstretched tongue from nearly the crack of her ass up to the pubic fluff beyond her poky round dealie with the hood. Every inch of it was a delight of sensitive skin on sensitive skin - the subtle start of the narrow ridges between the big puffy outsides, the way the big hole at the bottom let my tongue-tip in and then tightened as it left, the hot depths above the little hole where the lips stretched with friction, and especially the way her heels dug into my back as my whole tongue languidly pulled across that solid nub in its reverse-sheath setup. I couldn't help sighing across her bare belly afterward. The tingle of that novel flavor disappearing sent me back down for more. I lapped in short strokes across places I had only academic knowledge of, finding her favorites by the amount of her own juices she could convert from my greedy mouth to redouble her own pleasure. The brief glimpses of that rare and delightful mana source were most plentiful when I slurped around the poky top part or buried my nose against it and dug deep in that lower hole with the ridges inside. 

Soon I found myself gripping the legs of her chair and pressing deeper until my nostrils were halfway to my eyeballs, tasting her all over my tongue and lips, breathing her with each needful huff, tingling so thoroughly with her magical masturbation that I could feel it pulse with each beat of her heart. "Hh!," she squeaked, and I reluctantly drew back. The brevity of her command didn't matter. I was bound to her intent. I watched, mesmerized, as her climax ran its course. By the time her slickness stopped sustaining itself I felt hard as cold-roll steel. I licked my chops, disappointed but not surprised to find them thoroughly cleaned, ready to repeat this until my jaw fell off. 

Her fingertip touched my nose. I met her eyes again, no longer feeling a hint of embarrassment. "Let's do it on the desk," she said. I bolted upright. The organization of her papers was instantly obvious, and I stacked them at right angles before setting them aside. She was visibly impressed even before I reached round to lift her gorgeous ass onto the now-cleared surface. She leaned back on her palms, gripping the far edge. I reached toward the neutral-oil bottle beside her quills. "No," she giggled, and I understood immediately, using my other hand to put my dick against her slickest opening. I braced myself on her hips and slid deep. Further explanation trickled out of her as I lost myself in the brilliant pleasures of an orifice that lubricated itself - but nothing I hadn't heard in that first syllable. She laughed it off and closed her eyes to concentrate. 

The sheer strength of amplification when she poured our magic into the act put even Michel to shame. I was ready to finish within minutes, unsure if I was even allowed to hold back. "Don't cum yet," she pleaded, and... I couldn't. Something cinched gently inside me and it simply didn't happen. Freed from that worry, I gave her my all, amazed she could take it so easily. "Slower," she'd breathe, or just "more," and I'd know exactly what she wanted. Acting on it took slightly more practice. It wasn't until her second orgasm around me that I recognized she was having them in stride. After her third, she begged off, barely forming words but communicating perfectly. I slowed and soon pulled out. She slouched down onto her elbows. Her head hung back, leaving her gorgeous long hair glinting in the dim light. 

When she raised her smiling face again, her gaze dropped from my enamored staring to my naked body, and her surprise was unmistakable. With my hands heavy on her thighs, I was still rock-hard above her general between-the-legs region. "You poor dear," she whispered. "I forgot entirely." Her grin spread slowly, then, her eyes narrowing. "Cum," she breathed, and no mental anchor was necessary to read her desire beneath the word. I shot off so hard that it ricocheted off her navel and onto her chest bumps. The round things, where her nipples were. The rest of it pooled above her pubic tuft, built up in knee-buckling spurts. I didn't even bother touching myself. When the last pearly strand trickled out, my head and cock drooped in unison, both delightfully overtaxed. Only then did I realize my jism hadn't been used. The force of that climax had been from her command alone. She dipped a finger in the fluids spreading across her fur and brought it to her lips to taste me. My heart fluttered. I told her I loved her. "Good," she replied. The sticky mess slowly disappeared as she carefully drove her control deeper into my mind. I sighed blissfully, unable to imagine a better use. 

That's not everything, but it's how this all began. Mistress and I have had sex one hundred and forty-two times since then, plus however many I'm forbidden to remember. I'm not allowed to count the times I've had sex with other women at her command, or the times she's made me let other boys put their penises in me. (I know Michel drops by each week to check in and drive the anchor a little deeper, but even doing the math, I can't hold that number in my head.) Sometimes she tells me to sit on the table and exhibit myself for her guests. This testimony is part of that; I am often unable to answer guests' questions while others are doing things I'm forbidden to recollect. It is true and complete to the full extent of my permitted knowledge. I masturbated twice while writing it. I wish I hadn't been compelled to admit that. I'll stop here, to avoid making it three.

If you're reading this at one of Mistress's exhibitions, try tugging my sheath. Mistress says I like that. I trust her word.