Furry High (furry 'coming of age' story) R18+

18

Here's a head-fuck. That shot of hellish fluid (Jesus, who decided on calling it a stab) is getting me poetic. Getting woozy in this party of neon. Getting my tail on the wag from this flow of chemicals coursing through me. I'd right a haiku about it if I could. If I had two more hands that weren't holding Hazy's trap shut.

Filler is a big guy. And I'm talking a real set of abs that could crush canned goods. Tall bastard. And an appreciation for racoons, by the looks of things.

"Fucking masker." Let's recap from those last two words he said, those ones that are getting me all twitchy and worked up. Sweating my blacks and greys together. And get this: he's got more to say: "I specifically asked for no fucking rodents, Hux." Then his eye's turned into slits, and those snakes jakey's were pointed right at my hazmat-wearing companion. "Are you disobedient, boy?" Said like a real western man, although unique in its poundering. 

Furry terminology #1

Poundering

A verb. The action of repeatedly treating another furry as a lesser, more domesticated creature. Not only unique to strange-fetish'd sex, as it appears.
"That crazy bitch put a collar around my neck and told me to bark for her. Never letting her pounder me again."

So now you know. And if you've been paying attention to Hazy; you also know what can happen to someone whose poundered severely. And its hard to tell what he's thinking under that mask, and there's this tickle sensation to just rip it off then and there like I had done with his collar. Shed that false skin, let the boy that's living under it emerge from his poundered cocoon. Can't tell if he'd be happy with it though. Can't tell if he wouldn't just start barking and have a fit, maybe rip my throat open like primitive dogs tend to do.

Shit, do dogs attack racoons?

Well, horses sure fucking do: "I want you out of the house, Masker." And there were those golden teeth without an ounce of worth, rotting like two trays of dented eggs. I say golden, but I really mean yellow, the only whites being the coke that's yet to get munched down. I could do with some of whatever he's on... oh, ooh fucks sake. Am I getting an appetite for drugs? Not even just for a buzz, I'm talking some winter-wipout knockout of pharmaceuticals. Some ballistic missile of sensation that I'd prefer over fucking fifty runway models at once.

Although, its a tricky statement for someone who hasn't put that puzzle together of "am. I. gay. ?" yet. Even trickier for someone who's only had 15 years to conceptualise fucking fifty models for that to even be in the comparison.

"Get out." Filler sure wasn't happy about me just standing here, gawking like a squawking parrot over the contents of his pockets.

"Oha..." Was the sound I got out. Nice try, Skimster, vocal award winner right here. But damn me if I'm not staring into that horse's pockets like the fucking abyss.

And it looks like it too, great deals of brown and other puke-like fragrances that conjured up that godawful pile of something. And shit, that something is as much of a mystery as to where in this place I could find that thing called 'dog nightmare'. Its a bloody raccoon's nightmare in finding it.

I got some input from my only friend here, if you could call Hazy that. He gloved me in the side and whispered into my ear. "Tell him you're Cliff,"

But those were bordering on just being sounds. "Huh?"

Don't worry, I heard him the second time. Probably would've been chucked out if I hadn't. And then that would be it, aye? End of play. Story over. You guys snooping off to some other stroke of genius out there while I hang upside down with my wrists flayed open, deep in the stomach some meat freezer somewhere. It's not the drugs that's scary kids. It's not even the people who do them. Its those bad eggs who make drugs their trade who are what's going to be keeping my up in the later nights of my life - If I make it out of this party to even sleep those nights, that is.