Windfall: An Otter-Body Experience

by Tempe O'Kun

  Windfall

  An Otter-Body Experience and Other Stories

  Tempe O'Kun

  Illustrated by

  Slate

  Windfall — An Otter-Body Experience and Other Stories

  Copyright © 2018 by Tempe O’Kun

  Cover and interior illustrations by Slate

  Published by FurPlanet Productions

  Dallas, TX

  http://www.FurPlanet.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-61450-452-8

  Electronic ISBN 978-1-61450-467-2

  First Edition Trade Paperback 2018

  All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in any form, in any medium, without the express permission of the author.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Wrapping Up

  Groundwork

  Something Big

  Hard Sleeper

  Forget-Me-Nots and Told-You-Sos

  Tied at the Dock

  Pack Lunch

  In the Dark

  Home for the Holidays

  Movie Night

  An Otter-Body Experience

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Also by Tempe O'Kun

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Anakuro, Carl Minez, Eljot, Keiron White, Kohaku Nightfang, Megan, Slate, Slip-Wolf, Sophie, T-Kay, and UltraFennec for editing.

  To Sam for getting it done. To Megan for making it fun.

  Wrapping Up

  The talk show hosts had been right.

  So had the cast, the crew, and a small but passionate Internet fanbase.

  Over the final seasons of Strangeville, Kylie had fallen in love with her best friend.

  Several months prior, Kylie’d been watching movies on the sofa of their Hollywood apartment—pleasant, small, and significantly tidier since a certain husky co-star had moved in. Her mother’s voice, muffled through a bedroom door, faded in and out of her attention. Studio talk: as producer and lead writer of a cable TV show, Mom spent a lot of time on the phone, very little of it sounding fun. The younger otter tried not to worry about it; she felt anxious enough already. Worse, she couldn’t seem to pin down why.

  A knock at the door made her jump. She bounced up from the cushions and onto her tiptoes to peer through the peephole. A scruffy coyote with kind eyes stood in the hallway. The lutrine opened the door. “Jake! It’s you… Hi!”

  “Hello, Miss Kylie.” The coyote doffed a battered fedora. A slim suitcase hung from his other paw. One of her mom’s sources, he had a habit of showing up at odd times, with even odder merchandise. His ears perked as he looked over the living room. “Your mother at home?”

  “She’s on a call from the network.” Kylie bobbed out of the way. “C’mon in. I’m sure she’ll be off before too long.”

  He stepped inside and wiped worn-in hiking boots on the doormat. A long tan coat draped from his shoulders, out of place and out of vogue in a Hollywood climate. Those gold eyes surveyed her, then the open door behind him. “You’re expecting someone else.”

  Anxiety wrung her. “Max’s due back today. Thought he might’ve gotten in early.”

  The canine nodded, muzzle shut on words he held back.

  Trying to unwind the tension, Kylie chattered on: “He’s back with his family in Montana, since we’re between seasons. Guess they really missed him. I know how they feel.” A nervous giggle bubbled up, unbidden. “Anyway, what’s in the bag?”

  His dusty paw hefted the briefcase with an air of theater. “Articles of inspiration.”

  Jake dealt in knickknacks and curios. Laura had bought a number of them over the years, but kept them in a box in her office, only taking them out when she needed inspiration. Kylie had caught glimpses of them: a strange curl of fossilized bone, a silver shot pourer fingerprints couldn’t mar, an asymmetric black orb she couldn’t study for long without getting a headache. How Jake and her mother settled on a price also eluded her. Not like her to keep secrets from her daughter, but both seemed to be putting on a show to add to their mystique. Anything to squeeze a little more authenticity out of the actors.

  Whiskers perked, the otter nosed in on the case. “Can I see?”

  With a coy smile, he drew back and patted the black leather case. “Serious inquiries only.”

  “You know Mom’s good for it.” She crossed her arms, standing her ground barefoot on the carpet. “When has she not bought your stuff?”

  “I couldn’t speak to what she might’ve bought. I have a terrible memory.” A paw rose to his chest. “Occupational hazard.”

  The roll of her eyes traveled down her body.

  Laura appeared at her bedroom door and seemed more frazzled than usual. A breath huffed out of her, tinged with stress. “Strangeville’s not getting a sixth season.”

  Kylie winced. No shocker, but not fun to hear aloud. Last season, when they were slated to be cancelled, Mom and the other writers had crafted the finale to tie up all the loose ends. Everyone loved it, especially the studio who then gave them a half-length fifth season and expected more episodes like the final one.

  “How unfortunate.” The coyote shifted, briefcase in paw. His ears dipped in sympathy.

  The older otter glanced to him, noticing him for the first time, and offered him a shrug. “We all knew this season was our swan song.” Sadness seeped through her professionalism. “Though I would’ve liked to keep singing…”

  He nodded, cheery smile now faded to neutrality. “Where will you go now?”

  Laura shrugged. “We have some friends and an old family property in New England. It’s as good a place as any to regroup while I think of the next big thing.”

  The coyote’s face remained impassive. “That where you came up with the show in the first place?”

  Her expression shuttered, cooling her warmth a bit. “Something like that.”

  Oh, that place. Great. Kylie had been there a few times as a pup, but only to pick up or drop off something. What little she remembered creaked, sprawled, and creeped everyone out. In addition, she remembered it being miles from anywhere, surrounded by overgrown woods on all sides.

  The dusky canine straightened.

  “They aren’t going to stop paying me, Jake.” A dark chortle rose from the middle-aged otter, then tilted her head at the office. “We can still talk business.”

  Together, they left the room, leaving Kylie alone with her thoughts. The end of the show depressed her. It’d been the center of her life for the latter part of her teenage years. She felt the need to get out of the apartment. As soon as Max got back, she’d grab him and drag him out to the movies or something. They had a lot of bumming around to do before the season ended.

  Kylie sat up, the little lump of anxiety suddenly swelling to churn at her insides as sudden, terrible realization struck her. Bad enough Max spent shooting breaks at home, but once the show ended he would pack up and go back to living on the farm and she and her mother would fly to the other end of the country and she and her best friend would never ever lay eyes on each other again and what in the world was she going to do?

  He arrived an hour later.

  Before his bag even hit the floor, she bounced over and wrapped him in a massive hug.

  He wagged and held her. “Hey there, rudderbutt.” His paw patted her shoulder, off-balance and a little awkward. “Missed me, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She nuzzled against his chest. It occurred to her that she was holding the hug longer than she was supposed to, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel self-conscious. This was Max, the nicest, safest guy in the world. She entertained a fleeting thought that she
could stay like this forever, snuggled against warm fluff with strong arms all around her.

  It all clicked for her then, like a wayward gear slotting into place. The source of her anxiety, her lack of desire for other companionship, the upswell of relief when he’d come back. Somewhere, without realizing it, Kylie had fallen in old-timey, pining-by-the-window love with her co-star.

  Crap.

  Shooting the rest of the season, the specter of her crush haunted her mind, but the frantic pace of production let her outrun it, if only for a scene at a time. She kept trying to get Max alone, to drop some perfect hint, or make some big, dramatic declaration. But they’d spent years settling into a routine and it proved impenetrable.

  If she’d figured it out sooner, she could’ve come up with some kind of plan. Now, though, she had no idea what to do about it. As she stewed, her thick tail swished the bathtub’s steaming water. She scrubbed the air from under her pelt, letting the heat soak her skin.

  Of course, she lacked any first-hand knowledge on how to seduce anybody. Or second-hand. Third-hand she had plenty of, but those consisted of the romantic sub-plots to terrible movies. Here in reality, she was on her own.

  She stared at the ceiling plaster, her mind tracing patterns in the chaos as she tried to come up with a plan. Her thoughts drifted to earlier that day.

  Between scenes, the studio break room used to be a hub of activity. Now it stood quiet and empty, only those few people needed for pickups wandering through. Max busied himself at the coffee machine as she tried not to stare at him. For months, she’d been dancing around her growing attraction to him, writing it off as fear of moving away from him. His character had joined the show as a bit part, but now she couldn’t imagine the series without him. For over three of the five-season run of the show, she’d worked, joked, eaten, and lived with him almost every day. But how the heck do you tell your best friend that being his best friend isn’t enough for you anymore?

  The tall, muscular husky set a coffee in front of her, with two creams and a sugar, just the way she liked it. “Just saying, I chewed plenty of tennis balls as a pup. I have a hard time acting like I’m scared of them.”

  She sipped the steaming beverage. “What, you don’t like doing fifteen reaction shots to the same piece of green screen?”

  He sat across from her and managed to look only a bit comical in the fox-sized chair. “I only have so many ways to look surprised.”

  “You sure have more than when you started.” One elbow propped on the table, she leaned in with a smirk. “You’ll be a regular dynamo back in Montana.”

  He nodded and sighed, his shoulder slumping.

  Her whiskers lifted with concern.

  He noticed and shrugged, then gestured to the studio. The muscles in his jaw worked over his anxiety. “All this is ending forever.”

  Kylie fought the urge to slump. The playful banter had been so normal that, for a moment, she’d been able to forget. “Cheer up, Maxie.” Her smile weakened, but she was a better actor than he was. “You could stay in Hollywood.” She leaned back and crossed her arms, thick tail swishing on the floor. “You’re a big-time actor now.”

  He stirred his black coffee. “I’m not an actor; I just play one on TV.”

  Her tail tip bumped his shoe. “You’d get gigs.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. But this was all just a special case, you know?” The canine spread his wide, white paws. “My already knowing the lore, you and I getting along, your mom looking out for me: it all sort of came together.” One paw brushed back the hair the costume department had him grow out. “It’s been fun, but the idea of doing it without you or your mom or the crew…” He sat up a little and straightened his sweatshirt, forcing a brave smirk. “Besides, Serge is basically me. If I got another job, people’d catch on that I can’t act.”

  He’d just looked so brave and sad and hopeful, she’d wanted to kiss him then and there. Or hold his paw. Or even just hug him.

  Instead, she’d wimped out and patted his shoulder.

  Back in the bathtub, Kylie steeped in her thoughts like a mustelid-flavored tea. Hollywood portrayed otters as sensuous and self-confident, so everyone seemed to assume she had seductive powers to spare, not to mention a complete lack of shame. In reality, she’d had enough trouble working up the nerve to buy a sex toy over the Internet. Could she really risk alienating her best friend over a crush?

  Deft paws worked a few globs of shampoo into her fur, the lavender scent doing little to allay her anxiety. They had, what, two weeks left of shooting pickup scenes? What could she even do in that time without seeming like a desperate weirdo?

  She rinsed the lather and slipped out of the tub. After drying off and brushing her pelt, she eeled into the hallway. Towel wrapped around her, she scampered to her bedroom door just as an idea sprung to her mind. Slinking back into the living room, she rehearsed an excuse to walk past him. Getting a glass of water: that’d work. This wasn’t the time for subtlety. Which was good, because she was terrible at subtlety.

  Fantasies unfolded about dropping the towel with a sultry look, or him easing it from her wet body with those strong husky paws. From there, matters got steamier than any bath in the world. Ridiculous, of course—even if Max was interested, he was too much of a gentleman for an impromptu romp with his best friend. But maybe, if he saw her in just a towel, she could get the ball rolling. Maybe he’d even make the first move.

  The otter paused at the border of lamp light. One paw stroked back a wet lock of hair from her eyes. She steeled her resolve and rounded the corner, swearing to follow wherever the moment led.

  The dog lay sprawled on the sofa, muzzle closed in a quiet snore. Those muscled arms hugged a pillow. A t-shirt and shorts draped over his powerful form, hinting at a body she really wanted to get to know better. A book on writing lay beside him on the floor. The ceiling fan whirred, stirring his fluffy coat wherever it lay exposed.

  A smile lifted her whiskers. The cold fear in her stomach fading, she padded over and turned off the coffee table lamp. In the faint glow of streetlights stories below, she watched him for a moment. Max living with them had never been the plan; at first, his parents took turns keeping him company at another apartment in the same building. She and the big fluffy canine had gravitated toward each other right away, and before long he ate dinner with them most nights. Whenever his parents had to head back to the farmstead, Kylie’s mom had promised to keep him out of trouble. After a season together, they all decided it would be simpler for everyone if they just got a three-bedroom place, which allowed his mom and dad to head back to Montana full-time. In all honesty, Kylie and her mother just liked having someone else around.

  He still slept on the lumpy old sofa enough that she didn’t bother waking him. His fold-up guest bed couldn’t be much comfier anyway. Apartments this close to the studio seemed designed to pack tenants like sardines. Besides, he looked so cute. She resisted a sudden urge to wake him with a kiss, or even a cuddle. He’d be an amazing cuddler, all soft and fluffy and caring.

  No. Too late for her to act on her feelings for Max, at least for now. Not like he’d never visit, but the days of him sleeping on their sofa slipped through her paws like water.

  The lutrine strode back to her room and climbed into bed. Not a waterbed, the studio had some kind of clause against them, but she’d gotten used to it over the years. Maybe she could get one once they moved back to Windfall? Her recollections of the town, of the massive creaky house there, had faded since her childhood. What would life be like there? What would it be like not living from script to script?

  If only she had a script for confessing her attraction to Max. They’d had scenes together on Strangeville for years, working through scripts with an easy chemistry. She almost had more experience interacting with him as Cassie than as herself. Maybe her character could inform her a little. How would Cassie seduce Serge?

  Wait.

  Why was she thinking about this when she had the Inte
rnet to think for her?

  In a frantic flop, she rolled over to grab her laptop. A few quick searches later, the fandom’s collective speculation on that exact scenario lay before her. Most of them involved Serge ravaging Cassie between scenes. Intriguing, but if she and Max were going to tear off each other’s clothes in a fit of un-foreshadowed passion, it would’ve happened already. Why’d real life have to be more difficult than fanfiction?

  The stories with threesomes proved even less helpful, in addition to filling her with irrational jealousy toward several of the CG monsters. Then, of course, came a parade of kinks: she hooks up with a villain; he gets hurt and she has to comfort him with her vagina; she gets hit by a bus so he can console himself by sleeping with the entire cast; him getting her pregnant; her getting him pregnant; him turning into an otter; him as a feral canine on her farm; him as a vampire with the terrible secret of not being a vampire.

  After an author-insert story where she was the target of the author’s insertion, she sorted the stories by popularity and blocked a few of the creepier keywords. That helped.

  The steampunk one cast him as a stoic swordsman and her as an aristocratic airship heiress—creative, though the prose got purple enough to embarrass a plum. Likewise, the forty-chapter crossover fiction appeared impressive, but so packed with references not even she understood half of them. Alien zoologists making them have sex would be nice, but she refused to sit around and wait for UFO abduction; she saved the story on her hard drive and moved on.