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Shekh sighed and pushed forward again, the electric shiver of the pleasure vibrating through his buried shaft, within his loins, up his back and down his limbs. The striped hyena’s tail lashed, his ears flicked, his teeth gritted… and his grip on the dog’s sheath loosened just a little bit, just enough for the supple, velvety sleeve of slimy-slick skin to shift back along his shaft, pressing right up against the feral’s inside.

Thicker than me, he thought, and gave another push. The glistening black-leather lip of the Kangal’s sheath squished around him as he pressed in, then pulled again on his way out to show the sleek, wet pink inside, folding out just slightly, smearing the thick, warm stickiness across Shekh’s foreskin; he swallowed, ran his thumb along the skin stretched around both of them, and brushed some of the short fur to the side, to get another look at the rich reddish-pink of the dog’s length against his own. Jenklin twitched and throbbed and bucked against him, at once sliding himself further out of his sheath while drawing Shekh deeper in, couching him in delicious swampy heat, squeezing in around his head already buried… and a lot more productive, too. Jeez. I’m already soaked…

It had been hard to resist, really, the way the feral had eyed him from the start. Sharp gaze following him around the room, tail up and wagging, expectation and daring across the Kangal’s muzzle. He responded to Shekh when he spoke, and deliberately blocked him on his way around the house, and then began to flash more and more of his back and underside: lounging at the foot of the couch with one hindleg sprawled out to show the impressive heft of his full, plump sheath sagging down from his belly, and his balls draped over his other leg. The twitching, pulsing tailhole, tugging up at the back of his hanging sack, paired with a glance over the feral’s shoulder that looked almost like a wink; a flick of the tongue over the chops, a subtle shift in body posture and stance; and then he sat down, and adjusted where he had come down so that his sheath and sack bounced and jiggled again, and scooted forward so that his thick, slick sheath slogged back along his length just far enough to bring the tapered tip out into the air; and…

…and somewhere along the way I ended up here, Shekh thought, bracing his other paw against the floor for support. He pushed himself forward just as he tugged Jenklin’s sheath back around himself, burying himself further in the dog’s depths at the root of his feral, contoured shaft, feeling the twitching of muscles, the beat of his pulse, the dank, wet heat of his body. Not that I can complain. I can still taste him, and can smell him, too…

Just one touch, those eyes had said to him. What could be so bad about that? So Shekh had obeyed, dropping to his knees and keeping his gaze on the feral’s muzzle, wary of the sharpness of his look; he had reached forward and down, hesitated, pushed further… felt the soft, heavy weight of the sheath, the supple, loose density of humid fur and damp skin and slick flesh, the mass of his balls, the give of the skin. They fit easily into his palm, as did Jenklin’s sheath into his other. Some squeezing, some rubbing; a gentle massage back and forth, and then the dog rolled over onto his side and hoisted his leg into the air, and suddenly Shekh was lying down beside him sniffing at the tapered tip poking out of that sheath, glistening with natural wetness that clung to his fur and fingerpads like a thin coating of grease.

Even now as he rhythmically thrust into Jenklin’s sheath, that soaked, slick paw keeping the skin sleeved around both of them, he curled his lip up towards his nose, took another sniff, and for a moment felt as though his muzzle were still buried beneath the dog’s hindlegs. It had been part to pull himself away from there, paws keeping the feral’s legs spread further while he dragged his nose and lips along the rim of the already parted ship, smearing the thick, salty slickness across himself, drawing in the scent and steam. Salty with a touch of rust, and then a deeper, higher acridity, something that made his nose and the back of his throat tickle.

The hyena rolled his head back on his shoulders as he continued his rhythm, the loose, wet slopping of the dog’s sheath around him pattering out with his movements. His breath hung in his throat, each inhalation tasting richly of that dank, almost coppery musk; once he had satisfied himself – for the moment – with Jenklin’s sheath he had naturally moved down to his sack as well, feeling the way the fur prickled back to give way to rough yet soft skin, tantalizingly hot, malleable.

He had been able to fit both balls into his mouth – as he thrust now Shekh reached to the side, scooped his fingers around behind the still saliva-slickened masses, and rubbed gently – and suckled there, rolling his tongue back and forth and around them, feeling the dog’s sheath nestle against his chin and his shaft against his neck, each throb shivering down through where he held himself. There had been a surprising amount of give and tug to them, and as soon as they had pulled free Shekh had straightened up, tugged the dog’s sheath open with both paws, emptied a thick glob of sticky saliva there, and lined up to press on in, and-

-and now his mane tingled, his shoulders bunched, his teeth gritted. He swallowed again, drove down against the dog a little bit further, adjusted his angle so that he now pushed downwards as well as forwards, still feeling the feral shaft twitching against him. Jenklin watched with those bright eyes, his mouth open, his tongue hanging out, lolling back and forth with the rhythm, yet again daring him.

Shekh drew in a gasp, shuddered, bucked, bucked again, clamped his paw around the rim of the dog’s sheath as tightly as he could – and then trembled all over as he unloaded inside, the first spurt squirting deep, the second following, then the third, the fourth, the fifth ballooning the supple skin around him, surrounding him and the rest of the feral’s shaft in his load, the stretchiness easily containing everything he had to give.

Panting, he remained buried for a moment, then again loosened his grip and began to slide himself out. Thick white streaked across his shaft and then suddenly spilled forth, spreading out across the dog’s inner thigh, bubbling from the depths of his sheath. Shekh shivered when he finally came free, paws braced against the ground, still-hard shaft bobbing between his legs; he licked his lips, swallowed, moved to go find a towel, and then met the dog’s eyes again. And Jenklin expected more.

So instead the hyena sighed, wet his lips again, and then slid down to clean up the mess he had made.