Chapter 15: Play time
The grocery bags hung heavy from his hands, plastic handles digging into his palms as he fumbled with the keys at his apartment door. The muffled sounds from within were not the usual ones—not the radio, not the clatter of dishes. It was a wet, rhythmic slapping, punctuated by guttural growls and high, keening whines.
He pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first—a thick, animal heat, musky and sweet, layered over the familiar smells of old paper and dust. It was the smell of the den, concentrated.
His living room was a landscape of tangled limbs and dark fur. Ram and Greta were a single, heaving entity on the worn rug in front of the couch, the chessboard knocked aside, pieces scattered like fallen soldiers. They were naked, their bodies slick with sweat that matted their fur into dark patches. A hefty, dual-ended silicone toy, glistening and wet, bridged the space between them, buried to the hilt in each of their pussies. They were fucking each other with a savage, driving intensity, their powerful haunches pistoning.
Ram saw him first. Her green eyes, glazed with pleasure, sharpened. A fierce, toothy grin split her muzzle.
“Fuck yeah! Daddy’s home!” she barked, her voice ragged.
Greta twisted her head, her tongue lolling. A duet of thunderous, joyful barking erupted from them, shaking the small space.
Barnaby stood frozen in the doorway, bags at his feet. The vision of the remote property, the quiet pines, evaporated. This was his now. This noise, this smell, this demanding, visceral life.
“Don’t just stand there with your dick in your hand, twig-daddy!” Ram growled, not missing a thrust. “Get the fuck over here. We’re warmed up.”
“Yeah, c’mon,” Greta panted, competitive even now. “We been waitin’. We got a present for you.”
Ram grunted, pushing Greta off with a powerful shove. The toy popped free with a wet, sucking plop. She rolled onto her hands and knees, her huge ass presented to him like a planet, the dark, fur-rimmed hole between her cheeks winking. Greta scrambled into an identical position beside her, their two massive rumps side-by-side, a breathtaking, impossible tableau of flesh and fur.
“Fuck our mutt assholes,” Ram commanded, looking back over her shoulder. “C’mon. Claim your bitches proper.”
His feet moved before his mind could protest. He dropped his keys, shucked his pants. His own arousal, immediate and aching, felt insignificant compared to their monumental scale. He approached, his hands trembling as he reached out. Their fur was hot, damp. He guided himself to Ram first, the tight, puckered ring yielding with a soft, pushing resistance.
Pffffrrrrt.
The sound was low, vibrating, a blunt expulsion of air as he sank into the incredible, tight heat. The smell deepened, earthy and intimate.
“Fuck yes,” Ram groaned, pushing back against him. “Gettin’ all up in my guts, daddy.”
He began to move, short, frantic strokes. Each forward thrust met with a soft, gassy echo from her depths.
Puh-fft. Pfft. Hnnn-fffrrt.
It was crude, base, a symphony of obscene, wet sounds. He pulled out, shiny and slick, and shifted to Greta. She was tighter, hotter, and she let out a sharp prraap as he breached her, her whole body shuddering.
“Mine’s better,” she grunted, pressing back fiercely.
“Bullshit,” Ram snarled, shoving her hip.
He lost himself in the rhythm between them. The world narrowed to the slap of skin and fur, the wet sounds of penetration, the punctuating, unfiltered flatulence that accompanied every deep drive. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and musk and raw, animal function. He was a tool for their pleasure, a anchor point for their competition. They barked, they growled instructions, they cursed filthily at each other.
“You gonna cum in my shithole, twig? Huh?” Ram taunted.
“Do it in me first!” Greta demanded.
The pressure built, a coil tightening at the base of his spine. His fingers dug into the dense fur of Greta’s hips, his thrusts becoming ragged, desperate. With a final, choked cry, he spilled into her clenching depths, a wave of release that left him dizzy. He collapsed forward, his face buried between her shoulder blades, breathing in her hot, wild scent.
For a moment, there was quiet, just the sound of three beings panting in the wrecked room.
Then Ram let out a long, satisfied sigh that dissolved into a low, rumbling brrrrrrrrump against the rug. She rolled onto her side, a mountain of relaxed flesh, and grabbed a half-finished beer from the floor, taking a long swig.
“Good boy,” she said, her voice a rough purr.
Greta, still beneath him, wriggled her rear, pushing him out with a soft, wet sound. She turned and licked a broad stripe up the side of his sweaty face. “Mine tasted your cum first,” she said, smug.
Barnaby pushed himself up, his body humming, his mind blissfully empty. He looked at the scattered chess pieces, the grocery bags by the door full of supplies for this very life, the two colossal, contented creatures taking up all the space in his once-quiet world.
The old man’s words floated back: You’re on the map.