Raul sighed and leaned back against the tree, glorying in the sweet, humid heat suddenly simmering around his paws, digging his fingers into the depths of the plush warmth, pushing through the other side of the coin with the steady chill beginning to ache through where he held them. The coyote leaned his head back, sighed, and opened his eyes just in time to see his breath wisping up into a thin cloud before dissipating into the early winter air.

Hate this, he thought, slipping one paw out from where he had shoved it into his pants, to instead tug at the button of his fly. The fucking worst. I miss summer. Nobody actually likes being cold… He nipped his lip, looked down again, tugged the zipper down, and shimmied his hips side to side to help his pants drop down his waist, other paw now folding out from beneath his underwear as well. Whenever folks say that, all they mean is that they like how it’s easier to stop being cold and get warm again. Idiots…

To his disappointment there was no steam when he flopped his sheath and sack out over the waistband of his underwear and into the air, surprisingly still and silent out here in the woods. It wasn’t really the woods woods, as if he paused, held his breath, and cocked an ear he could still make out the quiet rush of the highway some twenty minutes behind him, but – this was one of his favorite places to go during his daily walks. And he had come here often enough, with a little smirk as he rubbed the pad of a forefinger along the lip of his sheath, that he was now able to identify his scent and mark in the general space.

That was about to become much more so. Raul swallowed, sighed out, pressed that finger and thumb against the supple skin of his sheath there, and started to roll the thick, dense skin back – where it gently gripped against the glistening flesh underneath, now some four days unwashed. The interior front of his underwear bore the telltale stain, crusty greyish-yellow leaked out across the days and smeared in place, and as he slid his sheath back further more of the source came into evidence, little flecks and smears, chunks and bits of his buildup clinging to both the skin as well as his shaft inside.

And there was the steam he had envisioned, curling smoothly up in thick coils from the full inch and a half of his revealed tip. The coyote leaned forward to slip his nose into the airstream there, nostrils flaring as he tried to seek out his own scent – and then finally found it. Rich and sharp, acrid, pungent, traces of piss mixed with that distinct punch that put him in mind of the seafood aisle at the grocery store, crossed with that warm, soft spice that was distinctly his… and which served to fuel the flame already simmering there within his loins, his shaft stirring slowly out from his retracted sheath, folds of thick-furred skin wrinkled back over themselves behind his fingers.

Four days wasn’t a lot by any means, but it was certainly enough. Lungs full of his own unwashed musk, the coyote sighed back out, swallowed, then slid his sheath forward again, pushing from the base so that the supple smoothness could once again encompass his entire shaft even as he slowly grew – and with a squeeze he managed to pinch the lip closed around his tip, letting himself stew further in his own heat and humidity. His other paw went down to cup his balls, thumb looping around to the back of his sheath where the membrane of skin tugged away from his belly, rubbed there… and he rested his head back against the tree once more, returning to his familiar, comfortable rhythm of dragging the naturally wet, slimy skin back and forth, letting his tapered tip just barely poke out in between small strokes.

Already he had stepped off the trail to take a piss earlier on his walk, and for that he had made sure to roll his sheath back. Sure, it was fun as hell to pinch it shut and then watch and feel it balloon out with the sharp, rushing heat, but doing so would effectively wash away all four days of his… cultivation, he thought with another smirk, now noting the curl of yellow-white that had squeezed out at the side of his finger.

Again he swallowed, already shifting his paws so he could bring that little smear to his muzzle. Soft and warm, sticky – tacky was a good word for it – and heavily suffused with the same intoxicating stink, Raul pressed it in between his fingerpads, sniffed at it, then finally smeared it across his upper lip, just as he had done after his piss earlier, still working at his sheath with his other paw. Out here in the woods he listened to the rhythmic slp-slp of slick, wet skin slurping back and forth across his dirty, half-hard cock, still held inside of him: the pressure of his approaching peak had begun to simmer down inside, a different kind of heat welling up from inside, making his knees go out and his head swing forward. Pressing his slime-smeared lip up against his nose, Raul pressed his paw down into his thigh while he continued at his sheath with the other, squishing the overlapping folds of his sheath forward around his tip and then back again, relaxing just far enough to let himself pout out into the air again-

-and then when his peak finally hit him he tugged all the way forward, skin pulling at his lower belly and his sack, and squeezed in place there. At first there was nothing, and then the first spurt blasted through him, and the second managed to peel the inner layers of his sheath away from his sticky, tacky cock still held inside, and his third, fourth, and fifth continued to balloon out the pocket of flesh and fur. Shivering with delight instead of the chill of the day, lip caught between his teeth, nostrils flaring around his own scent, Raul continued pumping there until he could feel the slow trickle of his thick load ooze out along his finger; he swallowed with effort, looked down, smirked yet again at the way his sheath had visible swelled out with its extra volume, and then without releasing the pinched end, wiggled his underwear back up his legs, zipped his fly up, and slipped his paw out.

Immediately there was the dense, spreading heat of the broken seal spreading out along his pubic fur, his sheath slipping back to its normal position and grip around his cock, but that was fine. With piss it was one thing, but with cum… it was thick enough, sticky enough. As long as he didn’t try to wipe it off once he got home, as long as he let it air out without rubbing it off, by tomorrow he would have quite a bit more appreciable progress on his buildup, to say nothing of the scent. Soon he would be able to smell it without needing to roll back.

Tail wagging, the coyote remained where the stood for a moment longer, then finally pushed himself away from the tree to continue on his walk.