Red-Headed Mutt
#1 of The Red-Headed Mutt
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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You gotta love a red-headed mutt. Especially when his cheeks are like two perfect hemispheres of something you'd swear must taste like candy if you could break 'em open. Stick your tongue in there and you might get a taste of peppermint, or at least you'd be working those fine bountiful cheeks like turning the knob of a stubborn quarter candy machine.
Be patient. Took you a couple hours to get the reserved little mutt with his head down and his ass up, and he just moans so goddamn adorably when act like you're gonna push, but don't. Soak in the image. Let your paws go wild. Don't be hesitant with a compliment, sometimes a bigger guy needs 'em. Sometimes a bigger guy with a belly that bulges like a bag of cash is going to be a little insecure, go ahead and dig your paws in, let loose a sublimely satisfied moan, and tell him something like "I could mount this on a wall, but I'll just mount ya here instead." It might come off a little awkwardly, but when he smiles like that you know he's not exactly hoping for poetry. Any kind word will probably settle into his mind like syrup over pancakes.
You know you won't be able to resist that red hair either while you're still grinding against his ass like you're trying to wear it away. It's red hair, goddamnit, how could you resist a little bit of tousling, a little bit of scratching, maybe even take a big pawful and see if he likes a little bit of a tug. And it's not a long journey from the top of his head down to his back, where you can caress his sides with a gently reassuring touch, finding all the right spots, the ones you can just touch with your fingertips to say everything Shakespeare ever wanted. Oh boy, he'll writhe. He'll writhe like he's got a motor in him, like he's trying to manually spread the good sensations out to his fingertips, like he just doesn't know what to do with himself with a guy like you bent over his gracious, soft frame.
See his tail wagging? Feel it slapping against your body with a quick, even rhythm? Oh yeah, he's enjoying this.
What else is there? Oh man, it's almost too much. He's still got his ass up in the air for you, begging for it with every muscle on him but his tongue, but goddamn you just don't think you've got it all in yet. You know once you get started it's a little harder to concentrate on the fine little things like the plush feel of his rump, and he won't react quite so strongly to something as little as fingers gracing the inside of his thigh, but of course it's all starting to make you a little impatient. You start grasping a little greedily, a little hurriedly, like trying to squeeze in the rest of your paw's sightseeing before the final embark. His legs get a rub down that don't do them justice, you trace a finger along his spine to make him shiver, you send a paw down his arm and clasp your fingers in his... it doesn't even seem the least bit appropriate to do so. You're falling a little bit in love. At least a little bit. Hard not to, I mean goddamn, look at him. He's panting.
Okay, he just whined and barked, that's the end, can't really hold back now. You sink like a lead weight down to his cheeks and stuff your nose in, making him yipe in unexpected pleasure as you sink your tongue. Your expectations had peaked when he was writhing under your grasp, and yet still you're surprised at just how wonderful it is to have your nose between those cheeks, your paws digging at them like they've had a hard day's work, your tongue hardly able to contain itself as you try to tease around his hole only to give into your own desires to simply sink it in and eat him out. You gotta grab the base of his tail to make it stop wagging against your head, and that itself is an unexpected charge to the both of you, and soon enough you're pretty much tugging on his mutt-tail with a husky curve as you dribble over his hole. Rimming used to be foreplay, suddenly you're thinking if this is all either of you really need. A patient man could spend hours with cheeks pressed against cheeks, slurping and smacking his lips in ecstasy, your paws grabbing whatever hunk of beautiful meat they can blindly find.
You just know he's blushing, too. He could hardly say "Hi" earlier without a rosiness rising to his cheeks, he could barely follow up a "Nice to meet you" without a nervous stutter, and he could barely ply his arms from behind his back or his eyes from the ground as you started conversation. Being stripped does not usually help these things. He was happy to let you lead conversation, he was happy to let you pull off his clothes, and now he's happy to let you do all the work, but not even a shy guy like him can hold back moans soaked in pleasure. The mutt could roll a sentence on his tongue for hours before he was happy with it, but moans, yips, and grunts just kind of slip out. Might not be the Queen's English, but as a language, it's pretty expressive, and sure as hell seems to be the tongue he's more comfortable with right now.
And from down there you wish you could still reach his red hair to give it another brush. You can settle for fire red pubes, though, framed by his white stomach, itself framed with dirty brown fur. He's got a junk on him that only makes sense: An unassuming length, tucked into a curl, bolstered by a bulging girth. He might split you wide open if he wasn't the one with his tail draped over his own back (still wagging, of course).
Goddamn, does everything about him have to be perfect? Even his dick seems to fit his personality, unflattering numbers hiding a profound beauty. The mutt wouldn't be done justice on paper. Figured are so cruel, you realize. There isn't a formula to convert pounds and inches into the wide curve of a satisfied smile. Rulers be damned, we need something that can measure the difference in time, the few minutes you thought you spent back there suddenly turning into a half hour at your next glance at the clock. Really? That long? It's almost with a laugh that you notice your tongue is sore and your paw's a little wet.
And your dick's just about soaked in its own juices already. Natural lube's the best, don't you think? He's not complaining, in fact his weary moans are only picking up in excitement as he feels you lift yourself up, put your paw on his shoulder, and slap your cock between his cheeks. Maybe that shocked him a little. Oh God, he's got the sheets bunched up in his fists, it's his first time, isn't it? It must be. Someone with experience doesn't grit their teeth like that, someone with experience doesn't tremble so gently like their body doesn't know what to do with the expectation. Shit just got better.
Be gentle. You don't want to fuck him straight. But then again, you never can give a guy a ride quite like his first time, can you? Decisions, decisions. You're happy to roll the problem over in your mind as you tease him, pressing your cock against his slick hole, giving him rump slight taps, leaning over to whisper sweet things in his ear. Make him tense, make him easy, make him tense, make him easy. It's a fun little game, until you reach your decision, wrap your arms around him, and pull him against you as he moans and moans and moans, almost like he's cumming (it's a big moment, after all, that first time your ass gets spread open), and it only gets louder once his ass finally relents and lets you in. He practically crawls on the bed, wriggling and moaning as he tried to make sense of the sensation, almost like he needs to convince himself it's really happening. Don't let him come down now, start humping.
Hump, hump, hump. Ok, it's nothing special. But oh how he moans on about it. The first few thrusts, those first few heavenly thrusts that bring everything from pain to confusion to bliss, he yips when your hips touch his cheek. He yelps when your balls slap against his, a determined look on his face like the last thing he wants in the world is to ask you to slow down, yet still too nervous to ask for you to pound harder. But you don't pound harder quite yet. Now's the time where you can stay bent over him, nibble on his neck, squeeze his tummy, and do all those other little things while you're not worried about holding your rhythm as you pound him deep.
Jesus is he ever tight. He's got you biting your lip, too. He might be clawing at the bed with a wild passion like he's hearing music for the first time or something, but this isn't exactly the millionth time you've ever been with someone so well put together, yourself. May as well be a first. Never had a hole so tight or cheeks so plump, to keep with the metaphor, this might not be your first time hearing music, but suddenly you're an audiophile. You never before felt like you could sense of jolt of a body. You never before dug so desirously into flesh. You never before turned a man around so you could lock lips in a gesture that surprised even you. You never before fell in love.
Now you're the one who can't be restrained, you're pounding that ass like it's keeping a secret. You're slapping his cheeks like they've been rude. You're moaning into his lips, trying to keep your pace as you suck on his lips, still surprised that you were ever hit with the sudden need to find them in the first place. Doggy style doesn't necessarily seem like a romantic position, but then again, the mutt hadn't been your typical romance story from the first page, had he? Each thrust has a purpose, each swivel of the hips is punctuated with moans and trembles and gasps and the smell of musk as you sweat together. Each hump is its own little composition with a unique grunt, or a suddenly new sensation from a particular quiver or the seemingly entirely new beauty as you catch the sight of his form in some new position, which seems all its own infused with incredible beauty all just because the shadows fall on his perfectly proportioned body just a little bit differently.
(You think maybe you've gone insane with all this. That's just love. Don't worry about.)
You're both gasping when he clenches around you, nearly squeezing you out if not for a stiff thrust that hold you inside as hear his exasperated groans signal what a wandering paw confirms: He's shot his load, and if that's just not enough to make you cum, too, it just wouldn't be the perfect story. He's a little tender (as he's still cumming, it's a big one, of course) and now his yelps are more like barks are wails, but you join him in bliss and bury a deep load inside, your balls tucking tight against you as they empty all their worth into that tight ass, almost like even your balls know it's an ass that just begs for a particularly large load. He's still creaming with you, but by the time you collapse on his back, he's breathless too. Breathless and sticky.
His cheeks are red as hell. Maybe that's mostly from exertion. He did take it pretty rough for his first time, you guess, but he doesn't seem all too worse for it. A smile fights onto his muzzle through the weariness, staying there as the haze seems to lift off of him. His red hair's a little matted, now. You can't resist tousling it again while he's still huffing beneath you. If there was ever a time he was complete at your mercy, right about now he wouldn't be able to lift a finger against you, so what else is there to do? You turn him over, give him a kiss, and tell him he's beautiful. It's not elegant, it's not poetic. Sure sounds like it to him, though.