Windfall

by Tempe O'Kun

  Fingers along her inner walls, Kylie ran a free paw up her stomach to her breasts. She’d never kissed anybody, not for real, but she knew together they’d figure something out. Their tongues would writhe together as his hands ran through her hair, until they were forced to separate, gasping for air. His breath would breeze hot through her fur. He’d get that cute innocent happy look, all waggy and wide-eyed and grinning. She’d guide those big white paws in exploring her body, showing him all the places it felt good to touch. He’d tell her how long he’d waited, how much he’d wanted her all these years.

  He liked her body. That much she’d seen in the way his eyes swept along her contours in the shower. Her big strong doggy would caress her sleek form, so caring, so gentle. He’d always been careful with her, careful of his strength and size. She’d climb up to straddle him, kissing him, feeling his stiff arousal against her crotch. She’d whisper in his ears how much she wanted him between her legs, between her folds. Then she’d drop a hand to his tented boxers and fish out his cock.

  Would it be pink? Most of the husky hunks on the Internet had pinkish-red ones. It’d have a knot too; she had to remember that. Would that fit inside her? The fanfics insisted it would fit just about anywhere she cared to put it. She’d push back the sheath and feel the smooth flesh throbbing in her paws. It’d feel so hot against her fingers. Once she’d taken a nice long look and couldn’t wait any longer, she’d press him to her slick folds, letting him feel her juices.

  Working faster against her clit, she imagined his cock in place of her fingers. Her back arched against the bed, sinking into ecstasy.

  Max moaned, a steady drip of fluid soaking his knuckles. She knew that moan well; he made it whenever she brushed him. He’d grip her hips and pull her back on top of him. They’d scoot backward onto the bed. Somehow, he’d manage to remove his boxers in a sexy way, then lay back as she rubbed her juicy slit up the underside of his shaft. They’d pause with his tip at her entrance. She’d be really hot, really eager, and that naughty glint in her eyes would tell him just how much she wanted him. Her scent would sizzle with arousal, shooting desire down his every nerve.

  Two delicate paws on his chest, she’d sink down, burying him in her slick folds. He’d watch his cock disappear into her pleasure-wriggled otter body, feel incredible heat and pressure surround him. He’d run his hands along her creamy tummy, cupping those perky breasts. Her body would start to bounce atop his, breasts bobbing, smile wide.

  Kylie squirmed face-down in bed, humping her fingers deeper. Max would stroke her body as she rode him. She’d moan his name, gasping for him to play with her nipples. Her paw echoed what she pictured him doing to them. Her hips would rise and fall on his, tail and legs working to find just the right pace. He’d feel so warm, so filling, like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  He’d never dated anybody, that much she knew, so he was probably just as inexperienced. He’d probably be a little uncertain, but with that fit, well-muscled body meeting hers, what could go wrong? She’d get him to knot her, though; that part seemed pretty straightforward. He’d work it into her, letting her take her time, stretching her to the absolute limit.

  “Tie me, Maxie.” She’d gasp. Then she’d grind onto him just right, at just the right time. There’d be a heartbeat of tension as her lips slid around the widest part of him, then he’d be completely within her, locked inside, claiming her. She’d be so tight and she’d love every inch of him as his knot swelled inside her.

  The husky stroked faster. Wet fur and paw pads worked over his cock, his other hand rubbing his sheath behind the swelling knot.

  Kylie ground her hand against the sheets, fingers soaked and sticky. Her hair fell in a tumble over her face, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Her breath raced against the sheets; her heart thundered after.

  He’d whimper, lost in pleasure, while he knotted her, but she’d lead his hand to her clit and show him how to finish her off and he would rub her just right to send her tumbling over the edge. They’d come together, climaxes fueling each other, hips jostling in frenzied passion.

  Intimate muscles clenched, wringing together as if his cock were really in her. The otter squeaked in delight, burying her face in a pillow to muffle the sound.

  Max bit back a growl. Hot, stiff flesh pulsed in his paws. His toes curled against the corner of the mattress, his knees spreading to give his paw room to work. He was so close.

  His hips drove up, imagining her buried on his knot, tight and quivering and completely his. They’d be stuck, nowhere to go but deeper, nothing to do but come. His creamy canine fluids would flood her, rushing around his sensitive cock and into every inch of her passage. The image of her shuddering across his hips with moonlight kissing her hair and the curve of her breasts left him trembling.

  Breathing hard, he shivered, eyes squeezed shut. His balls clenched and heavy spurts surged from his tip to spatter across his stomach. Into the night, to the ceiling that separated them, he whispered her name like some sacred word: “Kylie!”

  Once they’d both climaxed, she’d lay across him, letting him wrap her up in his strong, gentle arms. Her legs would be around him, his around her tail. He’d keep her warm, buried in husky fluff, stuffed with husky cock. She’d fall asleep to the beat of his heart, safe and sated. Panting and hugging her pillow, the otter wiped her sticky digits on the bed sheets.

  She heaved a breath, worn out by her own lusts, feeling sleep slipping into the corners of her mind. She tugged the covers half-heartedly up to her waist and sighed. It was a nice fantasy, but it wasn’t real. Her bed felt as big and as empty as it ever had.

  She turned on her side and settled in. A slender arm extended to where another person might have lain, the fur of her arm dark against the bedspread. She allowed herself a little smile. It wasn’t real, but maybe it could be.

  Max panted through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as the electricity of climax powered through him. Slowly, gradually, his muscles unwound and his vision refocused. His head flopped back as he stretched himself out on the little bed. His nostrils flared, searching for a scent that existed only in his imagination. The intensity of the experience floored the big canine. He had never fantasized about Kylie before. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing. He wondered what else he’d been missing.

  That thought was enough to bring him back to reality. He blinked in the darkness, prodding his sodden, sticky belly fur with a finger. With a grimace he pawed at the floor until he found his discarded shirt and set about mopping himself up. As he worked, he started to reflect on the situation, the glow of orgasm fading to be replaced by a twinge of guilt. Kylie had a lot to worry about without him adding another layer of complexity. She needed his help, and she deserved better than to have him distracted and horny because he’d happened to finally notice she was hot.

  Belly fur drying, Max disposed of the evidence into the hamper and curled up in bed. Despite him knowing better, a hazy part of his brain suggested the only thing to improve his already pleasant afterglow would be a warm otter body next to him, curled in against his shoulder where he knew she’d fit. He allowed himself a wistful smile at the thought, then buried his nose against the pillow and fell asleep.

  — Chapter 9 —

  Dog Day

  Max drifted to consciousness right around sunrise, as usual, but with slightly matted belly fur. He lay in bed for a while, soaking up the luxury of not having to get up and do anything. After a hazy period of time, his stomach grumbled a breakfast order. Stretching, he padded to the kitchen and reloaded the coffee machine. He poured cereal into a bowl, then found the vessel to be, like most things in the house, scaled for otters. After some quiet rummaging through the cupboards, he deemed the salad bowl too large, the colander too porous, and the skillet too shallow. The soup tureen was the first thing he found that looked capable of holding more than a few mouthfuls.

  He sat at the table and munched his way through a quarter of a box of Kibble Puffs. His brain sta
rted to boot up. Shards of plot started to swirl in the silence of morning; he typed them out as notes and scraps on his phone between spoonfuls. After he finished, he placed the tureen in the sink and tromped back to his bathroom to grab a shower. As hot water raced down his fur, soaking him to the skin, he stood under the streaming water, lathered shampoo into his pelt, and appreciated the grandeur of having a bathroom for every bedroom. Good pressure, plenty of heat, and plenty of places to set soap: leave it to otters to design a good shower.

  Several steamy minutes later, the husky emerged, toweled off, and pulled clothes on over his gleaming white fur. He retrieved his laptop and returned to the kitchen table. He tried to flesh out the fragments of literature, scattered though they were, and started trying to piece them together. Slow going, but no faster than most other times of day. Over the last week, he’d figured out writing in the morning wouldn’t waste any Kylie time.

  After a spell, the coffee aroma drew Ms. Bevy from her room upstairs. Clad in a rumpled dressing gown and sporting equally rumpled whiskers, she shuffled into the kitchen, grunted good morning, and poured a cup of the life-sustaining liquid. He knew better than to try interacting with her—she wasn’t any more awake than her daughter in the morning, just more ambulatory. She tromped into the living room to catch up on whatever shards of Internet had accumulated on her tablet overnight.

  Max puttered around on the computer until close to noon, at which point Kylie’s shower came on upstairs.

  He exchanged an amused glance with the older Bevy, who sat on the sofa, now more or less awake.

  “Kylie’s never been an early riser.” She sipped her second cup of coffee. “More than once, I had to drive her to school in her favorite form of passive resistance against mornings: the blanket burrito.”

  “It’s a wonder she survived filming.” He thought back to some very early mornings as he loaded a bagel into the toaster for her.

  “She’s lucky I had to get up just as early.” The lutrine kicked her slippered feet up on the coffee table. “And that I didn’t listen when she told me to write her out of the day’s scenes.”

  A few minutes later, the shower shut off. A damp Kylie thundered down the squeaky stairs, pulling on her vest.

  Without a word, Max stood and handed her a bagel with cream cheese: suitable food for a walk.

  She smiled a wag-worthy smile, then padded through the living room and bounced into her shoes. “Bye Mom!”

  “Have a good day, dear.” Her mother flicked through another email on her tablet, sipped her coffee, and found the cup empty.

  Kylie eeled out the door. Down the driveway, the canine trotted after her. They crossed into the woods and followed a game trail under the canopy of rustling leaves. The lutrine bounced over logs and under branches with fluid ease, leaving Max to plow through them. A few more days and he’d have cleared a husky-shaped hole through the forest.

  Even more impressive, though, she had the ability to munch on a bagel all the while without choking. “Should only be there a couple hours, so Shane can take a lunch.” Her cute little ears wiggled as she swallowed another bite. “You ready for our little roadtrip?”

  He gave a little woof of agreement as they emerged at the edge of town. The dog braced himself for yet another flirtation from the spaniel, but her chair sat vacant. He hugged Kylie goodbye and departed before Cindy could return from the powder room or wherever she’d gone.

  Crunching back up the gravel driveway, Max trotted up the veranda and through the front door.

  Glasses halfway down her muzzle, the middle-aged otter glanced up at him from the sofa. “And thus do you return.”

  He nodded. “In accordance with the prophecy, Miss Bevy.”

  She glanced down at the tablet. “You, Mister Saber, have gotten some offers.”

  His ears perked.

  “Let’s see.” Her gaze skimmed the tablet as she flicked through emails. “A villain role—”

  “Ooh.” Settling on the recliner, he interleaved his fingers and leaned forward.

  “—in a public service announcement about fleas. A flea suit may be involved.”

  “Please, no.”

  Her tail rolled in a wave atop the couch cushions. “And a chance to appear in a Strangeville fan movie—”

  “That could be interesting.”

  She raised a webbed finger. “—filmed in a garage in Oregon.”

  He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Why do you even tell me these?”

  “I’m your agent.” She flashed a smirk, one he’d seen on his best friend a thousand times. “I’m obligated.”

  “Right.” He crossed his arms. “Do you ever miss being my producer?”

  “Sometimes. When I feel I’m sleeping too much and not stressed enough.”

  “It still feels like this is just another break, like we’re due back on set any day.”

  “Everything’s gotta end, kiddo.” She shrugged, set down her tablet, and picked up her coffee. “Otherwise, we’d never have room to start something new.”

  He glanced at her askew. “Deep.”

  “Thanks.” Dipping her creamy muzzle, she sipped at the steaming mug. “Saw it on this kitschy hand-painted sign in one of the souvenir shops.”

  “Ever have any regrets about how Strangeville played out?”

  A shrug rolled her shoulders. “I tied up the big stuff, but the series ended with lots of untidy plot threads.”

  He nodded, not eager to dredge up painful memories. Even when she’d gotten her way on the show, it hadn’t been easy to make. She had a vision and didn’t like to compromise it, even for the constraints of reality.

  Brushing hair back from her glasses, she took another sip of black coffee. “Life’s untidy.”

  “Pearls of wisdom, from Laura Bevy herself.” Wagging, he crossed his arms and sat back. “I should be honored.”

  “Don’t assume I have it all together.” The lutrine propped her chin on one palm, gazing upon her laptop. “I should be writing more, clearing these things out. Maybe I could do a screenplay for a certain badass porcupine co-star of yours.”

  “I saw a gif of him not too long ago emerging from an egg and scattering dead fish.”

  “See? I could help with that.” She smirked. “Anybody can write meaning into meaningless surrealism.”

  As afternoon wind rustled the leaves of Bourn Holt, dappled sunlight danced over the stacks of dusty boxes in the massive ballroom. Max rolled an empty beer keg out into the hallway and under the gaze of portraits, which conspired around a disused fireplace. “Are you ever creeped out by the house?”

  “Not really. I grew up here, so it’s full of good memories for me.” Laura glanced around, then over her shoulder. “And I plan to make more.”

  The dog nodded. As they passed the kitchen, his ears perked to pop music upstairs. Kylie must have gotten carried away picking out tunes for their drive up the coast.

  “Plot exercise: why did I have half a dozen empty kegs in my ballroom?” She rolled the object in question through the living room and toward the front door.

  The husky followed suit and examined his own keg. “Well, the obvious answer would be you used to throw wild parties here, but these aren’t very dusty. I’d say you used to brew beer, but a brewery seems to be the only thing this house doesn’t have. So I have to assume you’re renting out storage space to local bars.”

  The middle-aged lutrine nodded, whiskers bobbing. “That does sound like me. But I have a seaweed-farming cousin up the coast on the border; he brews beer. Left these behind when they wouldn’t fit in his truck for the return trip.” She pointed to the label, which proclaimed the virtues of the “Thomas Creel Seaweed Farm & Brewery.” It showed a smiling otter with seaweed in one paw and wheat in the other.

  Glancing at her, Max cocked an eyebrow. “Seaweed beer?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Your people eat frozen gravy on a stick on hot days.”

  The food part of Max’s brain activated, a
nd he found himself licking his chops. “Touché.”

  As Laura stopped to catch her breath, Max gripped a keg in either hand, hefted them, and set them in the hatchback with a soft grunt.

  Laura gave a low whistle. “Sheesh, Max. If I were as strong as you…”

  “You’d what?” His ears took a wry tilt. “Type harder?”

  She chittered some sass at him and continued on her way.

  After two more trips, he loaded the final kegs into the hatchback.

  “He also brews a fine oyster stout.” She noted his concerned expression. “Made with live oysters.”

  He dusted his hands and suppressed a shudder. “I’m sure it’s delightful.”

  “Don’t pander to me, young man.” Grinning, she patted her paw on the metal rim of the canister. “Go get my foolish daughter. If you leave now, you can return these and get back in time for dinner.”

  Heading back into the house, Max trotted upstairs. Strands of bouncy music echoed down around him. He could’ve just texted her, but the thump of the beat upstairs suggested he wouldn’t get much response. He crested the stairs and turned toward her room. Through a half-open door, motion teased his attention. He padded closer.

  Inside, Kylie wriggled and wiggled, captivated by the song. Eyes closed, lip-syncing the caramel-corn lyrics, the otter bounced and grooved around the room. Her body shimmied to the beat of The Sugar Gliders, tail swaying. Summer sunlight glowed through her paw webs as they flashed around her body. She twirled and twisted, a melody given form.

  Mesmerized, Max watched as her body moved in ways his never could. She moved with such freedom, born not just of dexterity but of utter confidence—as if no one had ever mocked her for dancing. He always had to be aware of himself, as much for social reasons as to keep from bowling someone over or hitting his head getting into cars. Grace wasn’t expected of him, but his best friend swam through dance moves like water.