Chapter 20: Popularity
The smell did not leave him. It was a phantom stench, lurking in the fibers of his sweater, in the sweat of his palms, in the back of his sinuses. At the library, shelving books in the quiet, reverent hush, he would catch a whiff of it and freeze, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck, convinced a patron could smell it too. No one ever reacted. The horror was his alone, a private haunting.
The money, however, was very real. It piled up in the digital account Greta monitored. It bought better food, cases of cheap beer, a new, thicker dog bed that took up a corner of the living room. It bought silence from the landlord. It bought a certain, terrible stability.
Ram started taking him on walks. Not as a owner walks a pet, but as a promoter walks a product. She’d leash him—just a simple collar now, a casual signal—and they’d amble through the more rundown parts of the city at dusk. Greta and Sunny would flank them. It was a display. An advertisement.
“Gotta build the brand,” Ram said, lighting a cigarette with her free hand. “Let the neighborhood know what we’re about. Creates buzz.”
Barnaby kept his eyes down, watching the cracks in the pavement. He felt countless eyes from darkened windows, from passing cars. He was no longer just a man in a bad situation. He was becoming local scenery. A landmark of depravity.
That’s how the huskies found them.
It was on a Thursday, the air warm and thick with the smell of fried food and exhaust. They were two blocks from the apartment, passing a shuttered laundromat, when a voice, bright and sharp, cut through the gloom.
“Hey! Holy shit, it is him!”
Two figures stepped from the mouth of an alley. They were tall, lean, with the distinct, elegant builds of husky anthros. Their fur was a mix of stark white and grey, their eyes a piercing, mismatched blue and brown. They wore matching, ripped tank tops and shorts that showed off long, powerful legs. Their grins were identical, wide and full of sharp, white teeth.
“We seen you online,” the one on the left said, her tail swishing slowly. “The ‘Library Bitch’ series. That’s you, right? The little guy.”
Barnaby stopped. Ram tightened her grip on the leash, not pulling, just establishing control. She blew out a stream of smoke. “What of it?”
“Oh, nothin’, nothin’,” the other husky said, her voice a melodic chirp that didn’t match the hungry look in her eyes. “We’re just fans. Big fans. Names are Frost and Drift.” She gestured to herself, then her sister.
Greta let out a low, approving rumble. Sunny practically vibrated with excitement.
“We were just thinkin’,” Frost, the first one, continued, stepping closer. Her nose twitched, taking in the scent of Barnaby, of the pack. “Looks like you’re out for a walk. Looks like he’s… available.”
Drift’s gaze raked over Barnaby, from his collar to his trembling hands. “We got a question. For him.”
They both looked directly at Barnaby. The street felt very quiet.
“Can we fuck you?” Frost asked, the question delivered with a casual, brutal clarity. “Like, right now?”
Barnaby’s mouth was desert dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The words wouldn’t form. He looked at Ram, a silent plea.
Ram just smirked. She looked at Greta. “What d’you think? Pack growing?”
Greta shrugged her massive shoulders. “Strong bitches. Good hips. They can pull their weight.”
Sunny clapped her hands. “More friends! Yes!”
The decision was made without him. It was a transaction between them. Ram turned back to the huskies and jerked her thumb towards the alley they’d emerged from. “Sure. Alley’s private enough. Let’s see what you got.”
A collective, giddy energy surged through the group. They moved, a sudden, flowing mass, pulling Barnaby into the damp, narrow space between buildings. The air here was cool, smelling of urine and wet brick. Graffiti tags loomed in the dim light from a single, busted streetlamp at the alley’s mouth.
Frost and Drift were on him before his back even hit the wall. Their hands were everywhere, pulling at his clothes, not with malice but with a frenetic, consumerist hunger. They were fans getting to interact with the star.
“Fuck, he’s so little,” Drift giggled, yanking his pants down around his ankles. Her hands were cold.
“We wanna ride,” Frost declared, already unbuckling her own shorts. “Seen the vids where he gets ridden. We want that.”
Barnaby was maneuvered, pushed, positioned. He ended up sitting propped against the wall, the rough brick scraping his back. Frost straddled him first, her lean, muscular thighs framing his hips. She was already wet, a slick, hot presence that she guided him into with an unceremonious push. Schlllp.
She took him entirely in one smooth, sinking motion, her head falling back with a loud, shuddering sigh. “Oooh, yeah. Just like on screen.”
She began to move, a brisk, efficient piston of her hips. Slap-slap-slap-slap. The sound echoed off the close walls. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically, a demanding, milking pressure. Drift watched for a moment, her breath quickening, then she dropped to her knees in front of Barnaby’s face.
“My turn,” she chirped, and shoved her crotch against his mouth. The thick, musky scent of her fur and arousal filled his nose. She ground against him. “Lick, bitch boy. Lick me good for the fans.”
He had no choice. His mouth was forced open. His tongue moved over stiff fur and swollen flesh. The taste was salty, tangy, overwhelmingly animal. Lap. Slurp. Schlick.
Above him, Frost rode harder, her claws digging into his shoulders for leverage. Her breaths came in sharp, eager pants. “Gonna come, gonna come on the little bitch’s dick,” she chanted, her voice hitting a higher pitch. Her pace became frantic, slamming down onto him with bruising force. With a final, choked yip, she stiffened, her body clenching around him in a series of intense, pulsing spasms. He felt his own release ripped from him, a weak, helpless answer to her conquest.
As Frost shuddered and stilled, Drift pulled her hips back from his mouth, a string of saliva and her own wetness connecting them. She was furious with need. “My turn up there. Move.”
They switched with practiced, dizzying speed. Frost, sweaty and satisfied, slid off and took Drift’s place at his face, smothering him without preamble. Drift impaled herself on his still-sensitive, wet cock with a guttural groan. Squish. Thump-thump-thump.
Barnaby was a tool, a pivot point for their pleasure. The brick scraped his skin raw. His jaw ached. His hips were sore. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help. He could hear the others. Greta’ low, approving murmurs. Sunny’s whispered, excited commentary. Ram’s cigarette lighter clicking, the slow exhale of smoke.
“Good angles,” Ram mused aloud. “The lighting’s shit, but the raw energy’s there. We’ll film proper next time.”
Next time. The words sank into him deeper than any physical violation.
Drift’s climax was louder, a series of high, wailing cries that bounced down the alleyway. When she finally collapsed forward, panting heavily onto his chest, the alley seemed to ring with a sudden silence.
Frost pulled herself off his face. Both huskies stood, adjusting their clothes, their energy now languid, sated. They looked down at him, a broken figure against the wall.
“Thanks,” Frost said, smiling brightly. “That was awesome.”
“Yeah,” Drift added, wiping her mouth. “We’ll definitely subscribe. You guys doing a meet-and-greet anytime?”
Ram stepped forward, the businesswoman. “We’ll be in touch. Got a place. You two seem like you could be regular contributors.”
The huskies waved and slipped out of the alley, their cheerful goodbye echoing behind them. The pack was left in the gloom. Greta and Sunny moved in, not for sex, but for possession. They nuzzled him, licked the sweat from his neck, their scents mixing with the new, foreign musk of the huskies.
“See?” Ram said, unclipping the leash from his collar. She ran a hand through his hair, a gesture almost like pride. “You’re getting popular. That’s growth.”
Barnaby didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He let them pull him to his feet, rearrange his clothes. They walked home, a unit of five now. The money in the account would see another significant jump. He knew the math.
That night, in the shower, he scrubbed until his skin was raw and pink. He watched the water swirl at his feet, carrying away the physical evidence. But as he stepped out, shivering in the steam-filled bathroom, he caught his reflection in the fogged mirror. His eyes were empty. Hollow.
The smell, he realized, wasn’t just in his clothes or his skin. It was in the hollows of his bones. It was the smell of currency. It was the smell of his usefulness. And it was drawing more and more of them in.