by Tempe O'Kun
He closed his eyes again, trying not to stare as her breasts reacted to the impact. Weren’t bras supposed to limit that? What was he thinking, wondering about his best friend’s bra? He must really be tired. “Isn’t Blast Radius domestic?”
“Trust me, the dialog’s so bad, you won’t know the difference.”
“Maybe.” He glanced down at his clothes. “At the moment, I need to clean up or I’ll end up devaluing your house.”
She patted his leg with her ample tail and led him back toward their den of bad cinematography.
His ears twitched though, just able to detect, somewhere behind them, out of sight, a skittering echo between the trees.
Max took a very, very long shower. He felt more than a little irked. Kylie had always disapproved of his family expecting him to do their grunt work. She was usually the one encouraging him not let people boss him into doing their grunt work. And yet, he’d spent all day digging doing manual labor just like his family would’ve had him doing. He didn’t emerge until his fur gleamed white and his ears didn’t feel like they had dirt in them.
Afterward he made use of the otters’ pelt dryer so he wouldn’t be running around damp all evening, rumbling in pleasure at the feeling of hot air under his fur. By the time he emerged, a little puffed-up but clean and dry, the sun was fully down and Kylie was nowhere to be found.
Laura had covered the dining room table in papers, her office desk being apparently too small to hold all the drafts, drabbles and research notes. One of her coffee pots sat at the center of the chaos, the scattered script a tribute to the caffeine gods. She hovered around the table and chewed a ballpoint pen.
He padded across the worn wood floor. “How’s your next masterpiece coming?”
“Still a disasterpiece.” The middle-aged otter peered up at him over her glasses. “Nice job on the fish sauce. I thought they’d all fallen prey to my shameless capitalism.”
He glanced at the mismatched bottles on the counter, steeling himself for the flood of seafood to come. Not that he minded fish, exactly, but at this rate his fur would wind up oily as a Newfoundland’s. “It’ll make a good story someday.”
“Everything does, if you’re living right.” She sipped from one of her prized mugs, the handle still looped with a plastic tie to keep cast and crew from absconding with it. “What about you? Any masterpieces in the works?”
“Stuck at the moment.” He sat, the old chair creaking under his weight. “Had some video game ideas, but didn’t have the expertise to do anything with them.”
A nod bobbed Laura’s whiskers. “What’s your family think of your career path?”
He smiled. “I think they’d like me to have one.”
“You know I’d give you feedback on anything.” She examined a brace of notecards, then swapped their order in the timeline. “Those scripts you wrote weren’t half bad.”
His tail swished out the back of the chair.
She smiled. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you for coming up here.”
“I heard a house had space that needed taking up…” He sat up and puffed out his chest with a smirk. “…and figured I’d play to my strengths.”
“Kylie won’t admit it, but I think the big empty house was getting to her after all those years in little apartments.” The otter gazed out the window, toward town. “I don’t think the social scene in town has been everything she hoped for, either.”
“Yeah, I…saw some of that.” He spread his hands with a shrug. “Glad I could help.”
“You always do.” The otter tossed him a fond look, then glanced to the kettle. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” After a day like this, he needed coffee.
She padded to the kitchen, again chewing the pen, and returned with a mug about a quarter full of milk. He usually drank it black, but the weapons-grade dark roast Laura preferred would keep him up for days if he didn’t soften the blow, and she knew it. He grabbed the pot and topped off both cups.
She lifted hers in salute. “Consider this your first lesson in being a writer.”
He wagged and sipped at his coffee. Lost in the aroma, he floated in a sea of smells until the rumble of a car up the driveway broke him from his revelry. The working half of the front door banged open, knocked by a proud otter tail. The dog turned to see Kylie trot in with three large butcher-paper parcels and a tiny propane grill.
The scent reached Max in an instant. Steak. Glorious, wonderful red meat. He surged to his feet to relieve Kylie of her burdens and scoop her into a hug.
“Hah!” She exclaimed. “I knew a nice porterhouse would make you forgive me. Ooh, extra fluffy.” She nuzzled into the thick, dry-blown fur on his neck, cooing in a way that made his brain briefly fizzle.
He wagged harder.
“C’mon.” She hefted the grill. “Let’s see if I still know how to use this thing.”
Fifteen minutes later, the trio sat on the patio, prodding at the steaks sizzling on the little grill. The sunset blazed against the wooded hills while Laura distributed plates, flatware, and cold cans of seaweed beer. As Kylie met his smile with one of her own, he couldn’t imagine a better view.
Max distracted himself by fussing over the meat. He came from a long line of grillers, so he knew his way around a steak. The key was to sear the juices inside rather than drying them out. Even with only a selection of ancient and weird spices to work with, they smelled really amazing. By the time he dished them up, he was struggling not to drool.
The steak was divine.
It fell apart under the slightest pressure, releasing a rush of flavor across his tongue. Ancient instincts told him to wolf it down, but he made himself slow down and savor it. Still, he managed to finish before Laura and Kylie even got halfway done. Their progress slowed and slowed, until, in accordance with their established protocol, they let him help dispose of the leftovers. The otters might have said something snarky about his preference for red meat, but he was too busy preferring red meat to notice.
Afterward, Laura gathered the empty plates and waddled inside, amused.
Kylie patted her stomach and leaned back in the cool grass. They sat in a very comfortable silence for a few moments, until she finally regained the energy to start fidgeting again. “Couldn’t help but notice you’re using that boring, grown-up stiff-bristle brush you don’t actually like again.” With the back of her knuckles, she scrubbed a sheen of steak juice from her whiskers. “You do know your sisters aren’t actually here to make fun of you, right?”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I just thought I’d try out being a grown-up.”
“Yeah, that’s a waste of time.” She rummaged into one of the larger pockets of her fishing vest. “Anyway, I got the kind you actually like. It’s shaped like a ladybug. Sorry.”
Cast in bright red silicone, it really did look like a ladybug. The flip side had a bunch of soft, conical bristles. It didn’t even have a handle because it wasn’t meant to reach anywhere; someone was supposed to use it on you.
She snatched the brush back, then tossed it from paw to paw. “You taking your shirt off or what?”
Max blushed under his fur. Adults were supposed to have their own grooming handled. It wasn’t taboo or anything, just puppyish. She’d done it for him at least a dozen times before, and it had felt as natural as sharing breakfast. It wasn’t a big deal. Really.
Brush at the ready, his best friend sidled up next to him, an expectant grin on her muzzle.
The husky took his shirt off, shrugging off the wave of awkwardness. He supposed Kylie was right; his sisters liked to tease him. They must have gotten to him more than he’d realized, if it was making him shy after all this time.
The rubbery bristles teased through his pelt, softly at first, then with massaging pressure. A pleased noise rumbled from deep inside him. “Mmmmm.”
“Just like old times, huh?” She took her time coaxing the loose fluff from his shoulders.
He woofed a chuckle. “Your mom banishing us
to the balcony so we wouldn’t fill the apartment with fluff? Putting up with smoking neighbors? I think I like this better than old times.”
She moved on to his back, hitting all the places he could never quite reach. Just like always, she hummed absently as she brushed him. She seemed to be doing a particularly thorough job, which was really considerate of her; she knew he wasn’t as good at it alone.
Time slipped away from the husky as he was reduced to whimpers of entranced delight by tender tactile sensation. By the time she’d worked her way around to his front, the last of his shyness had drifted away like so much husky fluff. He couldn’t think of a place he’d rather be. He leaned back, eyes closed in pleasure, giving the otter and her magic brush better access to his chest as he enjoyed the evening sun on his newly-thinned pelt.
The humming had stopped. Heat stirred his whiskers. He opened his eyes. Kylie looked up at him, her muzzle so close to his, as if she were thinking about kissing him.
He pulled back with a nervous laugh.
Tiny shy otter ears flicked down. Her fingers toyed with the brush as she looked anywhere but at him.
Great: now he’d embarrassed her. He really needed to get this swooning horniness under control. He didn’t want to act like a creep toward his best friend. He cleared his throat and sat back in the grass, propped up on his palms. “Good job.”
She plunked down next to him. At least she didn’t seem offended. “Thanks.”
Tufts of fluff drifted away on the breeze. Some tumbled into the swimming pools, mingling with the dust and dry leaves there. Others wove into the half-wild shrubs. A few sailed out into the clearing to tumble along before vanishing into the tree line.
— Chapter 8 —
Steamy Dreams
Max closed the door of the guest room and let his weight rest against it. He ran his hands through his short head fur as breath burst out of him in a long, ragged sigh. He shuffled out of his shirt and pants and flopped into the little bed, determined to ignore the prominence in his briefs. Another few days like the last, he thought, and he was liable to die of a heart attack. Or maybe some kind of erection-related stroke.
A week into his visit, his attraction to Kylie had become impossible to ignore. Something had changed in the six months they had been apart. In the old days, her touch had been a comfort, a reassurance. It had kept him sane when the bustle of production had gotten to him. Now her touch was electric. Even brushing past her in the hall had become enough to send shivers down his spine. She might as well taze him for all the calming effect her touch had on him lately.
A hot blush lingered under his fur. Though the room was cool and the bed soft, sleep eluded the husky, teasing him almost as much as this indisputable erection, leaving him halfway out of his sheath and halfway out of his mind. He rolled over.
It had begun that first morning, when she’d stumbled into the kitchen half-comatose in panties and a t-shirt. He had very abruptly been aware of the way her creamy belly fur vanished into her panties and reappeared again on her inner thighs, of the way her hips rolled when she walked and how the motion traveled down her tail.
The moment had passed quickly, but it’d started some kind of ball rolling. He kept getting distracted by the fall of her hair, by the play of light on her fur. Whenever he got too close, he was blindsided by a sudden urge to bury his nose in the fur of her nape. He’d always known she was pretty, in an abstract sort of way. Everyone in Hollywood was beautiful. But it’d never struck him the way it did now, when she was relaxed and comfortable and they had nowhere to be but with each other.
With night falling, he’d found Kylie’s mom tackling a mountain of laundry and asked if he could help. She’d told him he was a good kid and given him a stack of towels for the upstairs bathrooms. He’d headed upstairs, suspecting nothing. Just as he’d reached for the Kylie’s bedroom door, he heard the water turn on. Given that the bedroom door was partly open already, he figured her bathroom door must have been shut. He’d pushed it open and walked right in. “Hey, I’m just leaving some—”
Max and Kylie’s bedrooms were on different floors in the same turret of the house. Consequently, they had a few things in common. One of those things was they each had their own bathroom. Another was an oddity in the layout that had the bedroom and bathroom doors lined up, so that in theory, if both doors were open, you could stand in the hallway and see straight into the shower.
Max knew this to be true, because that’s exactly what had happened.
Clothes lay scattered across the floor, a colorful trail leading to the bathtub where Kylie stood with her back to him. Water beaded off her pelt, skittering along her curves like it was afraid to linger. She wore nothing but water and shampoo foam and it made his heart race with shocked arousal. That muscular tail swung from curvy hips, channeling suds from her back to the floor. Further upstream, her shoulders flexed, frozen in the act of rinsing shampoo from her silky auburn hair. Her scent had mixed with the soap, washing over him in a wave that seemed to grab him by the septum and tug.
The weird part was she hadn’t seemed upset, not even when she’d snapped her head up to look at him over her shoulder. She’s been surprised, certainly, but he could have sworn he’d seen the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of her mouth. She’d lowered one arm to cover the barely-visible curve of a breast and he’d realized he’d been staring. She’d been the one to break the silence. “Y-you can leave them right there, Maxie.”
He put the towels down, backed away with a stammer, and raced a thundering heartbeat to his room. That smile, more than anything, was what was driving him crazy. Had it been real, or did his libido have him seeing things? If she had really been smiling, then a whole new, wonderful, terrifying realm of possibilities were opened. He tried to put the image out of his mind, but every time he closed his eyes she was there, smiling and naked, framed by billowing steam. Those hazel eyes invited him closer, her curves calling to his paws. He stifled a whine as his heart rate surged.
Night around him, days of building desire behind him, he traced a paw to his crotch. He slipped the waistband of his underwear down over his balls and let a finger trail across the swell of his sheath. No way he was going to get any sleep with a distraction this…urgent. He’d just have take care of it. Quietly.
Kylie scampered out of the bathroom, old floorboards creaking. Her thick tail flicked the bedroom door closed. Night air crept through the open window and clung to her damp fur. Giddy, she slipped out of her towel and tumbled into her waterbed, setting off waves. She usually slept in panties and a t-shirt, but with a cool evening breeze teasing her nipples and her mind and heart still racing, she had a feeling they would just get in the way.
Even through the fluttering glee of having him see her, she realized it wouldn’t have killed her to have had something more suave to say. She’d been leaving the bathroom door open during her showers for days, hoping he’d get a glimpse of her as he wandered by. And then, after all that waiting and foolish optimism, she’d choked when she’d finally snared him. She hadn’t been expecting him to come bursting in with an armload of towels, and with no plan she’d just stood there gaping like a fish. She should’ve used her wiles on him. Why had no one ever taught her how to use her wiles?
Still, she’d gotten him to see her naked. And he hadn’t instantly run off. That had to be a good sign, right? Part of her still couldn’t believe it’d happened, that she’d arranged for it, hoped for it. Maybe it was a little stupid, but only if it didn’t work.
With a self-indulgent smile she turned on her side and stretched out on the bed, feeling her sheets caressing her naked fur. Maybe she should’ve just bent over and lifted her tail. There probably wasn’t any clearer invitation you could give a guy. She indulged in a shiver as she imagined broad, calloused paws taking hold of her hips and big canine teeth nipping playfully at her nape as his weight pressed her to the wall of the shower. But no, Max’s politeness would’ve kicked in and he’d have run, apologizing
, all the way back to Montana.
So she’d stammered something about towels instead of purring something sultry about him joining her. All of her plotting had failed to prepare her for the rush of tittering anxiety that had accompanied reenacting the shower cliché. The memory of his eyes roaming up her body made her wriggle. She had felt so exposed but still so very safe, because it was Max and she wanted him to look at her. It had been like jumping off the high dive: all the rush of falling with a soft landing at the end.
Webbed fingers edged under thin blankets and over the rich pelt between her legs. Moisture gathered on the delicate lips of her sex that had nothing to do with the shower.
Max’s fingers closed gently around his fuzzy sheath. In a well-practiced motion, he worked it up and down along the firmer flesh within. His shaft responded with a swell and a dribble of precum. A slight whimper of pleasure escaped his muzzle.
He could go up there. Right now. Her bedroom was just upstairs, barely fifteen feet straight above him. She’d let him in. He imagined opening her door, her bedroom bathed in silver moonlight. She would be sprawled on top of the covers, naked and amazing, waiting for him. They could talk, or maybe they wouldn’t even have to. Maybe she’d bounce over to him, full of nervous energy, and lead him by the paw toward the bed. Their eyes would meet, then their muzzles. She’d pull him close, craving his touch, so familiar and so new. He knew her scent like he knew his own. Even when she wasn’t present, he could conjure its memory. How would it change when she was aching for him, wet and eager as she pressed against his chest?
The soft, but eager pinch of teeth on his lower lips would get him to open his mouth and their tongues would slide together. The husky wiggled his own tongue against the roof of his mouth, wondering how hers would feel.
