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Human Bitches

Chapter Eight: Naked Workout Part 1 of 2

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Just because morphs didn't need as much sleep as humans, didn't mean that some of them didn't enjoy sleeping in all the same. This was especially true of felimorphs, those feline-inspired variants who embodied so many of the same qualities of cats which humans often admired. It was even more true of Gregor, who dozed on the battered couch of his apartment wearing nothing but a pair of even more battered track shorts, an orange tabby of significant size purring loudly as it lay on the thick, soft fur that covered the massive tigermorph's firmly-muscled belly, doing its level best to ensure that Gregor wouldn't be able to move from the spot. When a knock was heard at the front door, the orange tabby didn't bat an eye, but it did start to become just that much heavier, as though it were a conduit for the forces of gravity that conspired to keep Gregor from getting anything done that day.

"I have to get up, cat," said Gregor with a slightly disgruntled tone to his slow-rumbling voice. The cat, of course, was unimpressed, and only barely acknowledged the soft-furred tiger's remark with a half-opened eye. "I'm serious."

All that got was a slow yawn, followed by a gradual rise to the cat's paws, before it gave a long, long stretch as only cats can manage, and turned around to curl up once more, this time putting a paw firmly over its face like a sleeping mask to ensure that there would be no further intrusions on naptime. Just watching this drawn-out display of feline disinterest - or, perhaps more accurately, feline interest in subjects that didn't involve having to get up - left Gregor feeling about as exhausted as the orange cat certainly gave every indication of being. Left to his own devices, Gregor would probably have just closed his eyes and gone back to dozing for several more hours at the least. Whoever was knocking at his door, however, had other ideas, and eventually that steady drumbeat roused the sleepy tiger from his somnolent state.

"Coming," growled Gregor as he very carefully lifted his warm bundle of orange fur, and then set the tabby down on the warm spot that he'd been enjoying. The cat mumble-meowed softly while in Gregor's large hands and shifted slightly, but soon curled up into an even tighter ball once set on the couch, determined not to let anything interrupt a perfectly good nap, even if it meant sacrificing his big and warm companion to the demands of the waking world. Going to the door, Gregor pulled it open, his surly expression not changing in the least as he looked over the German Shepherd morph standing there in slacks and shirt, looking every inch the All-American go-getter that he'd been back when they'd served in the same unit when morphs were still a major part of the American military.

"Dallas," said Gregor, the word carrying a depth of meaning to it, at once a sign of annoyance, welcome, and friendship despite the present mood of the speaker, which was sleepy. Dallas, being Dallas, just grinned at the big cat.

"It's Sunday, Gregor," said the canomorph with far more good cheer than any sensible person should have so early in the morning. "You know what that means."

"A perfect day for the rational and the sane to catch up on some well-earned sleep?" Gregor groused, even as he walked to the kitchen with the natural, fluid grace of all felines and poured out a measure of food for his cat, to ensure the cat wouldn't be hungry while the bigger feline who shared an apartment with the little furball was away. Dallas watched this, and then turned as Gregor started toward the front door, the tiger not bothering to pull on any other clothes beyond the shorts he was already wearing. After all, morphs didn't really need shoes for their naturally well-calloused feet, except in the most extreme of situations, and any other clothing Gregor might toss on would just end up discarded anyway before training started. That, and it wasn't like there was a big hangup about nudity in morphtown. Compared to some of the locals' usual attire, the big tiger was positively overdressed.

When the pair exited the apartment building - which, like most buildings in morphtown, was deserted save for the morphs that had taken up residence in the absence of the former human residents - they made their way quickly to Dallas' car, a beat-up but very big older number that the German Shepherd and Spike had put back together almost from pure scrap a few years back. Sitting in the front seat, smirking as she eyed Gregor up and down, was a slim little vulpimorph vixen wearing a black sports bra and biker shorts which clung tightly to her trim, toned, petite figure.

"Hey, Gregor," she called out the window, winking as the tall tigermorph drew near the car. "Love the shorts."

"You know I dress only to impress you, Red," responded Gregor with typical feline disdain, before he hauled open the rear door of the large vehicle and piled into the back as the two present occupants of the back seat shifted over to make room. "Hmm, full house today," Gregor commented as he buckled himself in, looking over the six occupants of the vehicle when Dallas slipped behind the driver's seat. "Guess it's gonna be an interesting training session."

*

Interesting, yeah. Not exactly the word I'd have used, but apt, that's for sure.

It wasn't that far for most of us to reach Spike's junkyard, actually. Walking would probably have done us some good. But taking my car meant that the people I wanted to be there were just that more likely to come. While Gregor could be a surly puss, that was just his outer shell, and he had a calming effect on the group with his constant reminders about mundane things like food and sleep and other simple comforts. Without him, our little group just wasn't the same. We needed him, needed our little group in its entirety, especially now, when our place in the wars was all over and the fearful threat of civilian life loomed so very large over us all.

I guess most of us developed a shell of some kind during our military service. Considering what we all had to go through out there, it's no wonder: the only way to stay sane in the face of the insanity of war was to somehow find a way to get to a safe emotional distance from the hard reality of having a good friend die in front of you, only to leave the body there on the field, unmourned by any official source. If you brought the body back, it would just end up in the incinerators anyway, like any dead animal, so we tended to just leave them where they lay, and carried our memories away with us instead.

Are you imagining what it had to feel like, losing someone dear to you, a lover, a friend, a confidant, to one moment be fine, and the next moment he or she is just...gone? Good. Now multiply that by hundreds. That's the story of the morph corps all over. When world populations dropped, world governments destabilized from lack of personnel, and it was only a matter of time before everybody with an axe to grind jumped on this prime opportunity to get out their aggressions in the face of looming apocalypse. War wracked the entire world in a matter of months, nobody bothering to even consider deploying nuclear weapons even when they could - they were too caught up in the throes of murderous hate to bother with the cold, calculating annihilation of an atom bomb.

Up until that point, morphs were just a curiosity, a plaything for the ultra-rich who wanted an exotic pet-servant who was tailor-made to fulfill every desire almost perfectly, and with a complete, unflinching loyalty from the moment they left their artificial wombs. China was the first to use morphs in the military, and had actually begun to do so, albeit in a more limited fashion, well before the whyker virus devastated world populations. After China's constant border incursions before whyker struck, India finally retaliated in force when it was rumored that whyker might have come into India from Chinese soldiers. Both militaries soon spent their human troops, and replacements in the rising generation were negligible after whyker had its way, leading to the immediate largescale adoption of morphtroops by China to keep their edge in the conflict, a practice soon copied by India just to keep abreast of the overwhelming waves of nonhuman troops. The trend spread like wildfire, and everywhere any petty government that could afford a set of artificial wombs and technicians who knew how to use them soon put them into almost constant use to churn out disposable soldiers.

That's all we were to our creators, of course: disposable. While it was pricey to get the equipment for making morphs set up, it wasn't really that expensive to crank us out. Thanks to the subliminal training in the vats, coupled with our tailored genes, inbuilt sense of obedience, and bright, adaptive minds, we were literally born ready to serve in any capacity humanity might desire of us. All that we needed was a little training and some firm orders, and we could be sent anywhere, anytime, to do anything that might be required of us. Even killing.

This isn't something I like to think about. It's not something I ever let myself remember all the way - only in parts, little bites of memory big enough for me to handle, without letting the full weight of emotional anguish fall down on me. I've been through more anguish than most humans have in several generations of a single family, and have more lost loved ones, more dead friends than I can bear to think about. All so humans, the master race, didn't have to suffer any more losses of their own. All so that peace could be restored to the world, so that the master race could finally begin to heal from the diseases and bloodshed that decimated entire population centers. I'm a loyal morph - I'm a good dog! But...sometimes it hurts so bad to think of how I was used, me and everyone I've ever been really close to, like Spike. There's a big black block up in Washington to commemorate the names of every soldier who bled out their lives in Vietnam. There's a big cemetery in Arlington just filled with crosses for every soldier, sailor, marine, or airman who died loyal to this country. Other countries have similar monuments, similar memorials, all to remember the loyal and the brave and the true who died so that they might live.

That's for humans, though, not morphs. When I got back, when the United States finally decided morphs were too much of a public relations liability to keep us in active duty, I had to survive on whatever work I could find. For a full year I lived in a deserted warehouse along with several other morphs like me. Gregor was one of them. Red was another. Some of the others I lived with then are still friends, and I keep tabs on them, while others...are just gone. Next to me in the car is Huey, a cream-coated White Shepherd (though he prefers to be called an Alsatian). He's a Brit, originally, but got handed over to the Canadians when they needed some extra help, and finally ended up retired and forgotten, after which he slipped over the border into the States to escape the Canadian winter and find some work. Spike's the one who found him, half-starved and half-mad, and took him in for a while before he turned him over to me, and I got him work with the police - after all, we'd served together, even if he was British military and we were American; being a morph crosses all boundaries - we share the same pain. Thunder, the big Clydesdale equimorph in the back, managed to eke out a living on a fishing trawler, while next to him was Cutty, stuck right between Thunder and Gregor, though I knew he'd rather go through just about anything as long as he wasn't stuck on the receiving end of the research laboratories again. The military science guys loved prodding Cutty any way they could while they had him since he was the first, and as-yet still the only one of his kind: a chimera morph made to look like an American alligator, and one of the first American morphs to be decanted by the military. "Proof of concpt," he's still called by those in the know, but all that time spent in labs seems to have done him some good at least, after he was finally given a chance to shine: he's the first morph to ever get a Ph.D., or in his case, several of them.

Now, though, I guess I can't complain, or at least I shouldn't. I'm not the kind to complain much anyway, or at least I don't think I am. I'd rather focus on the positive. We morphs that lived through that time, when we'd slipped through the cracks in a nation - a world - that didn't want us any more, are close now, bound by blood and shared suffering. Those that served were finally given money, like any human soldier who'd served his country well and faithfully. No back pay, of course, but we were given free scholarships and were made almost citizens, or as close to that state of being as a morph can be. Me, Gregor, Thunder, and Huey all went into police academy together, though I'm pretty sure Gregor did it just so he could stay close to his friends - felimorphs, especially the big ones, get pretty clingy with the people they trust, though none of them with any self-respect would ever admit it. Red started her own delivery service, Quick Brown Fox Special Delivery, and she works hard along with her two daughters, but makes pretty good money for her efforts, especially for a morph. Cutty's a full-time research professor up at the University, though that's mostly because the administration are too terrified of possible alumni reactions to ever let him teach - that, and he's got the most patents resulting from his research out of their current faculty lineup. Cutty, tried explaining what he did exactly up in that lab of his, but I kind of nodded off about halfway in; really technical stuff, something involving evolutionary biology and recombinant DNA and other dull-as-dirt stuff like that. Guess that's why I never did much beyond the police academy: I'd really rather work in things that let me be in the middle of the action.

Action...oh goodness but there was going to be action in the near future, and I had no idea how it was going to turn out. I'd _gotten_some action only just earlier that morning, and I still didn't know exactly how I felt about it, so I couldn't possibly expect my friends, even close friends like these, to be able to understand it themselves. It's not like it's something that happens every day: a morph making love to a human. Breeding a human.

Keeping most of my attention on the road in front of me as I tooled my way through the mostly empty streets of morphtown, getting steadily nearer to Spike's place, I played my eyes over the other occupants of my beat-up old car, the ball of uncertain tension tight in my stomach. How would they react when that girl Spike mentioned showed up, expecting to work out in the nude? Morphs going naked was one thing, but a human as well...? And one that Spike'd had sex with, no less!

Red caught my eyes when I glanced at her, and I had to look away quickly from that green-eyed gaze, knowing she'd be able to read my emotions, might even be able to piece together what I was thinking in that uncanny way of hers. Somehow I felt that Red wouldn't be a problem, wouldn't look down on Spike or me for what we'd done. She knew the strength of the mating instincts we morphs have to endure, as the existence of her two daughters attested, but more than that, I knew, as did Gregor, that she'd more than once sold her muzzle to human men in alleys for some of the money that kept us alive during those hard times. No, Red wasn't the sort to judge, at least not in this kind of situation. Knowing her, she might even be inclined to join in if given the chance.

That left four others, plus those two friends of Spike's, Slade and Molotov, that showed up a lot. Gregor probably wouldn't be a problem: he might not approve, but there was no way he'd reject friends like Spike or me, not after all we'd been through together. Huey...well, Huey was a ladykiller himself. With the Scottish accent of his, and that deep, resonant voice, he really did sound almost exactly like Sean Connery in those old James Bond flicks, and anyone exposed to that voice for long, male or female, had a strong tendency to just melt. As far as I knew, Huey'd never done anything with a human before, but somehow I felt he'd adapt with typical British aplomb. Cutty didn't really care one way or the other about sex, and as far as I knew, he'd never been in a relationship, or even a one night stand - he was just too wrapped up in his work, now that his work wasn't all wrapped up in him. Thunder...now Thunder was the one I didn't know about. The big Clydesdale wasn't the sort to talk much, not even back when we'd served in the same unit. I guessed it was his way of coping, just letting a wall of silence act as a shield against the pain of our shared past. While I couldn't begrudge him any sort of defense against that, his taciturn tendencies meant that I never really knew what he was thinking, and that meant I never really knew what he'd do next. He'd always been my friend in the past, always helped out and done his quiet, level best to be on my side. But time changed people, and there was that gap of years between our discharge and reunion in the police where I didn't know more than the brief and scant details Thunder had shared on those rare occasions when he'd talk freely about anything. For all I knew, he could drop a quick note to the captain about how I spent my weekends in the company of human girls, and I could only imagine the stink that would cause. For that matter, that's all it would take from any of these, my friends...

No, these _are_my friends. All of them. It's not just what we've been through that makes us that way. We're friends because of something else, something deeper and more pure. They wouldn't betray me, not one of them, not for anything in the world. That wasn't my worry any more as I settled my thoughts on this realization. But another concern soon replaced the lost fear of betrayal: after they found out this dark secret, would they still be my friends?

I'd taken so long to sort through my thoughts that I reached the gates of Spike's junkyard before I had a chance to actually talk to any of my friends about my thoughts, or about the visitor we were very likely to have in the near future. I started to open my muzzle as I came to a halt to the side of the gate, parking the car by the curb so we could use the smaller side gate instead of having to go through the big one for vehicles, but the others were piling out of the car before I could properly form the words in my head - not that they were easy to say in the first place! I could see the peachy-orange fur of the dingo, Slade, and the black-over-brown fur of Molotov the Rottweiler through the slats of the front gate, and as I saw the others walk over to those two, I could hear their voices as they began to laugh and joke together (at least Huey, Red, and Cutty, at least a little, did - Thunder might smile, but he didn't usually laugh, and Gregor did his best to seem like he was above it all...at least until he'd loosened up a bit more), and I knew I'd missed what was probably my last opportunity. Sighing, I pushed open the driver's side door and climbed out, hoping against hope that perhaps this would all just blow over somehow, that somehow the girl, Bird, that Spike was telling me about just wouldn't show.

But what if she did show? For a moment I paused at the gate, swallowing hard with a fit of nervousness that stilled my tail and dried out my tongue. Then I smiled, my tail wagging as I stepped forward once more, joining the group as we waited for Spike. If she showed up, she showed up. It wouldn't be a big thing, after all, now would it? I mean, honestly, it's just one human girl - no big deal at all. Reassured by this thought, I made a quip that made Molotov laugh (not that hard a matter, as boisterous as the big rottie usually was), and even got a smirk out of Gregor.

No, there wasn't a problem here. After all, I could handle one human girl.

*

Bird was the first one to hit the pavement when she stepped off the bus. With the rapid depopulation of the inner city and its subsequent repopulation by morphs, her own house wasn't that far away, and a light jog would have brought her to Spike's junkyard without much trouble, just like it had the other day. However, she'd had to travel around town to pick up the others who'd be joining her that day, and so she'd taken one of the spare bus passes her mother kept around the house, and spent the early morning collecting her friends to lead them to where they'd have their morning workout.

The stated reason for the trip to Spike's junkyard was to get a full workout from a top-notch personal trainer. Spike's resume was easily available on his website, and besides his genetic credentials (which were significant), he was also a licensed physical trainer, having the equivalent of a Master's degree in the subject thanks to his prior military background, as well as multiple high ranks in various martial arts, though Bird didn't get much out of that part of the document aside from the mention of black belts. It was more than enough, though, for her to convince Martinique Flowers that this might be exactly what the school soccer team needed to finally get ahead next semester, after far too many seasons of losing. Priss Martens hadn't even taken that much convincing; all Bird had to do to get the volleyball team captain on board was to casually mention that Martinique was coming, and right away the blonde-haired girl had two team captains ready to follow her almost anywhere.

Of course, Bird would have been lying if she'd said she didn't have ulterior motives. Yesterday was even more intense than her deflowering, and the strange new awakening that she'd had at taking pleasure from other girls, and with other girls, had weighed heavily on her mind, making it hard for her to get to sleep, especially since she didn't dare to masturbate in her crowded household, with her mother and sisters everywhere, and such thin walls. This strange new obsession was something that she just had to share with her friends, but for all her driving need to spread the word, Bird wasn't stupid. If she didn't keep things careful and quiet, and only bring those who she knew she could trust into this secret, it would all be over, and she'd have her mother come down hard on her, to say nothing of the fallout and trouble that could come to Spike if he was found to be humping highschool-age humans.

Understanding that she needed to keep things close to her chest, Bird had only selected a very small number of her friends, and only those that she knew would not only keep things quiet, but would have a strong interest in Spike's credentials outside of sex. At least, that had been her plan, and the reason she'd taken on Martinique and Priss. Shania, of course, was already a part of everything, and Bird expected that her friend would want a second chance at what she'd passed up the day before. Brandy Crews, however, was decidedly not a part of Bird's original plans, but she'd been forced to add the fifth girl out of necessity rather than choice.

Martinique, a long-legged black girl with straight-ironed hair that reached down over her modest breasts, breasts that were presently covered by the same standard-issue highschool gym t-shirt that all the girls with Bird wore, was a nose-to-the-grindstone student and athlete, someone who pushed herself almost to the breaking point in whatever she did, an attitude that had put her on the honor roll at school every semester, and which drove her nearly crazy when the lack of proper adult support from the school coach left her severely handicapped in her ability to motivate the rest of her team. She was the team captain because of her drive and will to win, but that will had been thwarted at every turn by the indifference of the coach, who had since Martinique's freshman days been focused on her oncoming retirement and the pension she expected to draw, a pension, with benefits, that had grown steadily more generous with the boost in world economy that followed the downturn of population and the rebuilding of civilization. When Bird Phelps, one of the better players, someone Martinique had pegged as a kindred spirit (though Bird seemed more focused on personal improvement than competition), had come up to Martinique and explained how she knew a guy who could whip the team into shape, Martinique had leapt at the chance to meet and train with him.

Sure, okay, the guy was a morph. How bad could it be? Martinique did some digging on the guy, Spike by name, after Bird had phoned the night before and told her about him, and while the link that Bird had shared didn't have any outside links that might have guided her onto the canomorph's main page (where he kept his breeding videos), Martinique wasn't content to stop at a simple resume, however impressive it might have been. It had raised her eyebrows when Martinique had discovered that the personal trainer Bird wanted them to use was also a highly-ranked freelance breeding stud. Still, she hadn't balked when Bird, her shamefacedness obvious in her voice, had hesitantly explained that Spike liked to train in the nude, like the ancient Spartans, so why should she balk now? If the guy was good, he was good, and Martinique would take it all in stride. Of course, she spent those two hours before bed watching a few of the many breeding videos Spike had on his site for research purposes, since it gave Martinique a perfect and completely unobstructed view of his excellent physique and physicality in some pretty dynamic moments. All told, Martinique had to admit that she was impressed, and she was pretty eager to meet this new trainer, and see if he really could handle the job she wanted him for.

Short, short-haired, and deeply-tanned from her time spent playing beach volleyball, redheaded Priscilla "Priss" Martens looked almost like a teenage boy at first glance, thanks to her less-developed feminine attributes, the boyish cut of her spiky hair, her obviously muscled body, and her slightly androgynous facial features. Since she was smaller than other girls her age, at least in height, Priss took it upon herself to make up for it with raw energy and determination. Actually, this was part of why her breasts weren't especially big: Priss worked so hard and so constantly, and had been doing so since she was ten, that she had very little body fat (though Shania would still occasionally note with annoyed envy that, though Priss was shorter than her, the spiky-haired redhead still had slightly bigger boobs). She even wanted to try weight training, though she knew only the most bare basics of such work, and neither the lazy head coach nor the two assistant coaches knew enough to guide her in that route, forcing Priss to rely on calisthenics for most of her leanly-developed muscle. Though she was in a different sport from Martinique, Martinique had a way of bringing out the competitiveness in her closest friends, making them into frenemies instead. Priss knew she had to work hard to keep up with other girls, thanks to her small stature, and she had to work even harder to keep up with the tall and toned black girl, so she didn't hesitate for a moment when Bird came to her at the school track last evening with an invitation to get in good with a top-ranked physical trainer. Well, maybe she'd hesitated a little bit when Bird mentioned the whole thing about training naked, but since Bird mentioned how the Spartans trained the same way, and some of Priss' favorite movies involved Spartans, and Bird also added how Martinique was going to be there...well, how sold could you get?

Which led to the odd girl out in the group: Brandy Crews. Some might have questioned why Brandy was with the others at all, since she was normally one of the school loners, and not at all the type to mingle with others, even if she did play on the basketball team with Shania and was also a baseball fan, skipping between sports with glib abandon. She'd just been leaving the track at school (since the janitorial staff were pretty lax about letting kids use the outdoor fields) to head home and shower when Priss, just coming up to use the track, had been approached by Bird Phelps with an interesting proposition, to which Brandy listened avidly while pausing just behind the bleachers, before stepping out to accept an invitation which hadn't been extended to her, but which neither Bird nor Priss dared to refuse, knowing that, however much they might tell themselves that this was all about personal training, they were still going to be working out in the buff with a man.

As she stepped off the bus in the rear of the group, giving her friend Shania's tight, skinny butt a playful swat as they all started to jog, Bird in the lead to show the others the way, auburn-haired and nicely-toned Brandy smirked to herself, giving her ponytailed head a contemptuous toss; after all, of all these girls, she was probably the one who was most honest with herself. That honest truth, of course, was that Brandy loved men. Oh, she'd never had sex, despite what some of the nastier rumors about her might have said, though it was more for lack of options than for lack of desire. Brandy was one of a tiny minority, in that she still had her father, where many others had lost theirs to the ravages of the whyker virus, but she didn't have a mother after a car crash had taken her life when Brandy was still very small. Her father, Lieutenant Crews, was one of the few human men who remained on the police force, and all her life, Brandy had grown up around not just men, but males, including morphmales. _Especially_morphmales. With this familiarity had grown a deep fascination for all things male, which had budded when she was quite young into a crush on several of the handsome, physically perfect, gentle-natured and fearless morphs that she regularly saw with her father, and who Lieutenant Crews often brought home with him for meals when they needed to discuss various cases and other items of police business. They'd been her babysitters growing up, and the ones she'd confided in when she couldn't talk to her dad about certain subjects, like boys, and her period, and why she sometimes felt attractions to other girls but also liked men. Naturally, when she'd heard that Bird knew a morphmale, and he was a physical trainer, and that he'd be training girls in the nude, Brandy had to come and see for herself. Of course, what the auburn-haired hottie intended was to see everything this morphguy had on full display, and maybe tease him a bit with her own nicely-developed figure since, after all, the guy was a morph, and that meant that he'd never do anything Brandy didn't want. She could flirt with him, could show off her naked body as much as she liked, could even rub up against his body, and no morphmale would ever do one thing that a female didn't allow. Especially a human female. And who knew? Maybe she'd let the lusty puppyboy get lucky. Heaven knew, the morphs on the force had done all they could to dodge Brandy's advances in the past, probably on account of her father. Now she'd have a chance to learn everything there was to know about males, to uncover the last secrets that had been denied to her by bashful morphmales and inadequate sex ed classes, and she was going to grab it and not let go, no matter where it might take her.

Of them all, though Brandy couldn't have known it, Shania was being even more honest with herself about her motives than Brandy. If they'd had time to talk and compare notes, perhaps they would have discovered that their intentions coincided on several points, but of course, the two friends hadn't had much opportunity to talk in private in the short amount of time between yesterday and now. Still, when Shania had seen Brandy jogging up to the bus stop near their houses, which were quite close to each other, Shania had grown far less uneasy about what she intended to do when she was back with Spike, knowing that she had more than one good friend who'd be there to provide moral support, even if Brandy didn't know about the full extent of what Shania had already done...and what she intended to do.

Naturally, Shania's main purpose was to offer her ripe, sweet, virgin body to Spike, and let the powerful, potent morphmale do whatever he liked with her. She was convinced that he'd get her pregnant, something she felt deeply and instinctively, but which didn't repel her in the least...at least, not now that she'd had some time to think about it. If anything, the thought of finally getting bigger breasts drew Shania even more powerfully to her plan, as did the thought of the cute and sexy belly bump that she'd surely be sporting in the very near future, full to the brim with Spike's babies. This last thought was intense for Shania, the fantasy blurring with the memories of what she'd seen yesterday, watching Spike knock up Rachael with that magnificent puppymaker, and it was all she could do to keep her legs from wobbling too much as she jogged along near the back of the group, Brandy the only one who bothered to keep pace with her as the others forged ahead, competitive spirits between the three girls up front already starting to flare.

As Bird had expected, the jog from the bus stop to Spike's junkyard was indeed quite short. Maybe even too short for her liking, as it didn't really give her much time to steel herself in anticipation for whatever might come. Really, she had no idea what was going to happen next: she hadn't told Spike about planning to bring others, and she certainly had no clue what he was going to be doing that day. Maybe he'd be taking a day off completely, just lounging in his house for the duration of Sunday. Maybe he'd be spending the whole day locked in sexual acrobatics with Rachael (a thought that made Bird's face flush as it came to her). She half-wished that she had a cell phone on her, so she could have given Spike a heads-up about the change in plans. Somehow, though, the uncertainty of the situation made it even more exciting.

Bird seldom carried a cell phone with her when she was out jogging, or anywhere really, since she found she liked not having the distraction, and there wasn't a whole lot of danger around the edges of morphtown, where the inner city bordered suburbia, which might have required her to carry one for emergencies. Once crime-riddled areas, now there were just morphs living there, with only a few very rare exceptions, and morphs didn't really do crime. The worst you could expect from morphtown was morphs-only fighting rings (though humans were certainly allowed to watch) and prostitution (something about which Bird had only heard rumors, since humans were the usual customers, and they understandably kept their activities pretty low-key and out of sight), but those tended to be kept indoors, out of sight of the street, and neither of these activities was technically illegal anyway, laws regarding morphs being as poorly-defined as they were. While what Bird had done wasn't illegal, she still had some misgivings...at least until she thought of how good it had felt being in Spike's capable hands. All the same, though, Bird wanted to avoid coming off as a slut to Martinique and Priss and losing their respect. As for Brandy, well...Bird didn't really care much one way or the other about her. She'd heard rumors that the auburn-haired girl might be a slut already anyway, so it wasn't likely Brandy would be one to tell tales no matter what happened.

"Well," said Bird as the long picket fence surrounding the vacant back lot of the junkyard came into view, the large metal main gates not far off, "we're here."

Martinique arched an eyebrow as she looked along the fence, admitting to herself that she was impressed. There wasn't a single spraypainted tag along the entire length, and not a single one of the high, thick boards was broken or in poor repair. Actually, for a junkyard, the entire place looked remarkably well-kept and even clean, which really wasn't an adjective Martinique would have ever associated with junkyards. In her earlier years, before her mother had gotten a job on the East Coast, Martinique had grown up in the big city life of the Deep South (thankfully she'd managed to avoid a heavy accent, her proper speech one of the things in which Martinique took a great deal of pride). While it wasn't a big city like these East Coasters thought about the term, Martinique had grown up pretty well used to seeing graffiti, broken streetlights, litter scattered liberally in the streets, and an overall state of gradual decay, which had only been further enhanced by the sudden depopulation of most of the Southern United States by whyker, with even fewer people around to keep things from falling completely apart. Turning her head as they jogged nearer to the fence, Martinique looked around at morphtown, and found herself confused as well as even more impressed at what she saw: there weren't even cigarette butts in the gutters! Though the place was obviously an older neighborhood, and had suffered from governmental neglect when humans had abandoned the region, as evidenced by potholes in the streets and scratched-up hydrants and street signs, wherever something could be improved, or at least maintained, by the efforts of the locals, it had been done.

What did strike Martinique as strange about morphtown, though, was that it had a certain lack of personality. With the walls scraped clean and not even a stray paper bag floating down the streets, it was an eerie sensation for someone used to the mess of the grungy inner city. Martinique had heard from the pundits on television that morphs were supposed to just be living robots, a project that had reached the end of its intended service. Perhaps Martinique might have believed what the television told her, the thought reinforced by what she could see before her, except she remembered her great-grandmother, and how the old woman had done all she could to be respectful and neat and quiet, never speaking out, never making waves. But when the old woman had died and her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren had gone through her things, they'd found journals and letters and more that had told a story of a deep, rich life, hidden from the sight of those who didn't really know the old woman. She'd just kept up the outer façade for those who didn't need to know, and whom she didn't want to meddle in her affairs. With this in mind, Martinique came to a stop in front of the fenceline where Bird had led her and the others, glancing at the blonde curiously, wondering what she'd have them do next.

It surprised Martinique just a little when Bird hopped up and grabbed onto the top of the fence, which was only about the height of a grown human man anyway, and pulled herself up, looking over the top. Shrugging at this unexpected act, Martinique just watched for a bit, not really noticing the way Bird's eyes started to grow wide at what she saw beyond the picket fence. Brandy, however, wasn't the sort to just wait while somebody else got to doing things, and stepped to the front of the group of four gathered around Bird's legs, before she hopped up herself, grabbing the top to peer over the edge herself.

"Wow," the auburn-haired teen said in a voice that seemed far too loud in the early morning stillness. "You weren't kidding when you said Spike trained in the..."

"Shh," Bird reached over to touch the lips of the other girl. Of course, by then it was far too late, as the attention of those on the other side of the fence had now turned toward the two girls poking their heads over the top. With a sigh and a shrug, Bird glanced down at the others, then motioned for them to come on up. "There's more people here than I expected," she admitted. "Still, I don't think Spike will mind a few extra."

*

Great. Just great. Here I was expecting to handle maybe eight morphs and one human girl, and now I've got thirteen students all in one place, five of 'em kinda furless. I was already getting one of those sinking feelings after Dallas left to go pick up some of the others, and it was just getting worse the more I started thinking about what could go wrong. Being me, of course, I just shoved all of that aside and plunged ahead, making sure Rachael was going to stay out like a light along with Girl, and leaving Miss Benny on watch duty to make sure her mistress didn't wake up unexpectedly and just add to all the confusion I was sure was already going to take place. Gotta control what you can, after all, especially when there's so much you just can't.

Speaking of control, this was one of those times when it was gonna be necessary to exert all the alpha dominance I have in my body. Figuring that Bird probably wouldn't mind too much if she did show up and there were a bunch of naked morphs around - she oughta know she's safe around us, after all, unless she wants to play things dangerous - I told the others to strip down, giving them a critical eye to see how they were doing physically as my students got naked. If I was going to keep this session focused and productive, I was just going to have to keep myself focused as well, all business. After the session, maybe there could be some fooling around, if Bird was game for it. Right now, though, there'd be no time for flirting or other silliness like I'd allowed myself when it was just me, Bird, and Benny on the field.

It was just when I was hooking my thumbs into the waist of my red sweats, my students having just formed two rows so we could begin our day's practice, when I heard a girlish voice I didn't recognize from over by the fence. My eyes weren't the first to turn in that direction, and it was interesting watching the reactions of the nine morphs before me. Thank goodness for that, since I found it calmed me down some to watch their body language rather than try to focus on my own feelings as I realized Bird had brought friends. Naturally, Red, vixen that she was, was curious and a little bit interested. Dallas, stuck as he was next to the vixen on the front row, was already looking pretty uncomfortable, and the impression just deepened, his tail curling nervously around his leg as he saw the lean and leggy blonde Bird approaching confidently, obviously doing her best to put on a strong front for her friends the same way I was going to have to perform for mine. Cutty and Thunder just glanced at the approaching humans, then looked back at me; after a moment of reading my body language, they seemed satisfied that whatever was going on wasn't unexpected, and decided quietly not to make a big deal of things, even if it was sort of strange being in the buff around a bunch of attractive human females. Slade and Molotov looked at a total loss for a good few moments, as did Huey, though the white-furred Alsatian did a better job of hiding it than either the dingo or the rottie, only his scent really giving his feelings away. Of the morphs, though, the one with the most extreme reaction was Gregor. Immediately upon seeing human females on the field, his eyes widened, his striped tail bushed out, and he promptly clamped both his paws over his sizable white-furred male parts before turning around to face me, all the while doing his best to keep his gradually-recovering poofed tail down over his bits to block the view from the rear. Heh, bet he wishes he was a Persian kitty or something prissy like that now - something with a bigger tail that did more to cover things up, unlike his own, which mostly just accentuated the supple feline curves of his well-muscled rump.

"Bird," I said, addressing the blonde girl as she neared, giving her a slight nod of greeting, "you're a little late." I held up a hand before she could respond, then motioned toward the four girls behind her. "Your friends know my rules?"

"Yessir," said Bird solemnly, sensing like any good student that this was a class in session, and I was the instructor.

"All right," I said, motioning to the two rows of naked morphs. "Get undressed and get into line. We'll get started as soon as you're all ready. As for the rest of you," I looked over my older students, "form a third row: we'll need the extra space."

Bird nodded, and then walked over to the side of the rows, before bending over, pushing her cotton gym shorts down her toned, supple legs. I'd been expecting there to be panties underneath, but all I saw as Bird kicked off her shorts was smooth pink skin. Rather than straighten up to pull off her shirt, however, Bird only bent a little more forward, not seeming to care about the way the big Rottweiler morph nearest to her end of the line, Molotov, had his jaw dropped open, his tongue lolling partway out as he started to pant, his sheath starting to swell a bit (though thankfully without him losing control enough to let his burgeoning erection to pop into the open) as he stared openly at Bird's tightly-pressed cunny lips while she yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it carelessly onto the ground. It was only then that she straightened up, her nice-sized breasts bobbing a little as she glanced up at the big blunt-muzzled rottie and then grinned, stepping into line next to him.

"Better keep that closed," she said quietly, motioning with her head to Molotov's open mouth. "You'll catch flies."

"Oh!" Molotov seemed to snap out of a daze at Bird's words, shaking his head to clear it even as he did indeed shut his mouth. "Yes, miss. Am very sorry for temporary dazingness."

I couldn't keep from grinning as I reached again for my shorts and smoothly shucked them off, tucking away all my unnecessary feelings into that deeper part of me, the place where I'd hidden myself while I was in the business of war back in another lifetime: Molotov's fake Russian accent always did that to me when I was paying attention to the way he talked. It's not Molotov's fault, of course; he's not Russian or anything like that. The reason he's got this silly accent is because the tech workers in charge of his artificial womb were playing a joke - they wanted to see if it was possible to modify the way the subliminal training of the artificial wombs implanted language skills. Molotov was their experiment, and he turned out to be a complete success, unfortunately for him. It's always made him give off the impression that he's not too bright, but while I have to admit that he's not the brightest bulb in the box, he's not a dim watt by any means. Still, that silly Russian accent, coupled with the action of my undressing and Bird's own, seemed to at once relax the other four girls, and also prompt them action, and in a matter of moments everyone was properly dressed for the day's workout; by which I mean they weren't dressed at all.

"We've got some new students here today," I said, addressing the class with a calm military demeanor, the alpha attitude of a true instructor, not one of those loud, vulgar, strutting human drill sergeants that always did more harm than good to us morphs. A drill sergeant like that's meant to break down whatever you were so that you can be rebuilt into whatever the military wants. For morphs, though, we come ready to be shaped into whatever our masters need from the moment we're decanted, something written into us right down on the genetic level. My demeanor quickly started to affect the behavior of the morphs in the class, and it quickly became obvious that a firm hand was helping them to relax and accept this new situation with relative grace, trusting me to be the alpha, keeping the situation under control. "Let's start off by sharing names." There was a brief pause while we all introduced ourselves, working out that first bit of awkwardness that comes when you first meet new people, before I continued. "I expect all of you old-timers to be on your best behavior. As for you newcomers, welcome to the class. I'm Spike, and I'm the instructor of this semi-formal gathering. Bird probably didn't tell you about what you see now, and that's because she didn't know, so I'll explain the situation as quickly and completely as I can. What this is, is a martial arts training class. I'm the one with the most experience, so I'm the instructor, but all of the morphs here have some skill, so any of them could fill in the role of instructor about as well. We do this every Sunday morning without fail, barring extreme circumstances. Every other day, I do a more regular workout, and if you want to come back again on a weekday, I can even tailor an exercise program to your specific needs, as long as I know to expect you. Sundays, though, are for the martial arts. If any of you would rather not participate, you can head off now and come back on Monday, when I'll be doing more of what Bird was expecting." I looked over the five newcomers, letting several long seconds pass to give them time to think things over, doing my best to meet each of their gazes one by one, not letting my eyes drop below their chins. None of the girls moved. "All right. To start, we'll run a lap, then do some stretching, and finally end the warmup with some pushups to get the arms and chest all limber. Once we're warmed up, we'll start with punching training, practice a few forms, and then do some practice with throws and falls. If we're feeling up to it, we may even do some light sparring at the end, just to keep the cobwebs out. We'll end with another lap, and that's the program for today. Any questions? Good. Bow and begin."

My friends, the morphs whose lives I'd saved, and by whom my own life had been saved, until we generally just lost count and grew to rely on each other instead, recognized that I was taking it a little easy on them because of the new students in their midst. Normally we started with some old forms we'd done before, to refresh our memories, did a lot of sparring in the middle part, then cooled down with a new form or two before closing with a final lap. Of course, I varied that quite a bit from week to week, making sure we got a good overall workout with training in punches, kicks, throws, stances, falls, balance and flexibility, weapons, and a bunch of other fun ways for us to productively hurt ourselves as I or they could think of them. One big advantage of having a bunch of experts to train with was that I could always count on them to fill in those parts of the workout that I might miss, so our styles tended to flow together, complementing each other over time, and this was especially true in sparring. One week I might pair up with Red, and have to figure out how to fend off her hapkido kicks and holds; while the next I'd have to watch out for Thunder's much longer reach with his arms and legs as he worked his Muay Thai on me; and the next I'd have to watch out for Cutty's tail and jaws, both of them potent natural weapons, while he came at me with his own unique variation on pencak silat to account for his additional anatomy (that Cutty would use such an acrobatic style might surprise many, considering his size, but Cutty was by no means slow, appearances notwithstanding - his study of silat, he said, kept him limber). And while I was learning how to fight each of my friends, I was also learning how to fight the way that they did, while they were learning the same from me. I guess I'm the central point of this little gathering, acting as the repository of the martial learning of each of my friends so that I can share what I learn with everyone equally. That's a lot of trust to put in any one person, and I hope I never betray it, accidentally or especially on purpose. None of that mattered right now, though. Right now, all that mattered was the workout. Centering myself, I bowed to the class, noting how a few of the new students hesitated a moment before bowing back with the others, revealing their lack of experience in the fighting arts. Well, we'd see how things went, but I made a mental note to pair them up with some of my gentler friends, so that they'd have a chance to learn without being intimidated by the new environment.

"Lap!" I barked as we rose from our bow, and turned, motioning with my hand to the track I and my friends worked so hard to keep in excellent condition. I grinned as Red easily passed me, her training for both endurance and speed having served her in good stead more than a few times with her delivery service, to say nothing of her time in the field as Long Range Surveilance. She was followed shortly thereafter by Thunder, and I had to admit I didn't mind that one bit, since it gave me a prime chance to let my eyes wander a little to the nicely-formed rumps of my two friends in front, noting the differences between Red's trim little bottom, compared to Thunder's sleek but heavily-muscled, masculine haunches. You can tell a lot about somebody from their butt, each bottom clearly declaring the general physique and a certain degree of the character of their owners. Huey and Dallas kept pace with me, as did Bird and the tall, straight-haired black girl, Martinique, while the others lagged behind at their own paces, chosen more out of temperament than because of relative physical ability: some people just didn't like to run fast if they didn't have to.

"I've been wondering," began Martinique as she drifted closer to me, not seeming to notice when she brushed against Huey's hip, making the cream-furred male's cheeks flush a bit at the contact, though, ever the gentleman, his eyes remained resolutely above the level of her well-formed, bouncing breasts, which I noted were maybe a little smaller than Bird's, perhaps, but good-sized anyway, while not distracting the eyes from the obvious condition of her finely-toned body - the right size for her. "What's the real deal behind all this working out naked? You just like seeing people without clothes, or what?"

"You're asking if I'm a pervert, is that it?" I countered with a smirk, the light brown of Martinique's cheeks showing her flush of embarrassment at such blunt language quite nicely, though she didn't back down, showing that she had some leadership qualities of her own in her stance and demeanor.

"Yeah, that's what I mean," she reiterated. "I don't wanna make any assumptions here, and Bird's said you're a decent teacher when it comes to physical training, so I wanted to hear things," she smirked as she formed her next words, "straight from the dog's mouth, I guess, before I went any further with this."

"That's fair," I responded evenly, doing my best to ignore the way Bird was almost holding her breath at times in her nervousness at what I might say as she ran right between me and Dallas, while Huey looked a bit concerned himself as he ran on the other side of Martinique, obviously hoping I wouldn't say something to offend - he wasn't the sort that liked social confrontations when he could avoid them, and he absolutely hated it when others had them in his presence. "Especially if you're thinking of getting me to do some training for you. I don't know what Bird's told you about me and how I like to run things, but the most important reason I like to work out in the buff is 'cause it feels good." I shrugged as she arched her eyebrows at this answer. "It's just natural, I guess, free, without anything holding me down. Most of us morphs feel that way, from what I've heard and seen, which is why we morphs tend to wear as few clothes as we can get away with." I smirked. "You're just lucky you didn't get streaked or flashed on the way in. We wear some clothes, though, when we're in public 'cause it shows the difference between home and the rest of the world, and the only times we go completely or mostly naked in public places are when we're making an open invitation to others to join us in 'private' activities. It's all body language, you see, and we morphs are really heavy on the way we use body language.

"I guess that makes some sense," Martinique admitted, looking down in thought as she processed this new way of thinking, just as we crossed the halfway point of the lap. "But Bird said you took off your clothes while working out so you could see how you're developing."

"Does it have to be only for one reason?" I countered, smiling when I noticed the way Martinique rolled her head to one side in grudging agreement. "This field is a private place that's open to the public. It's my land, but the morphs in the rest of the neighborhood make use of it a lot, and a lot of the equipment around here's been put in by others, mostly me'n my little group of friends here, but some others in the neighborhood as well. When people take off their clothes in my territory, it's a way of saying that they respect me, and they trust me, by letting me see them at their most vulnerable, where I could hurt them the most. Because I don't, but let them use the land and its facilities instead, it reciprocates that trust."

"Kind of like how the Japanese take off their shoes before going into other people's houses," Martinique said with a slow nod of understanding, trying to relate my morph practices to something she knew more about, making a bridge of developing awareness.

"Yeah, basically," I agreed as we started into the home stretch. "We morphs're a lot more open about these sorts of things than most humans. I hope you don't get uncomfortable or anything from having to do exercise in your altogethers."

"It's a little strange, I guess," admitted Martinique, her cheeks darkening a little more as she focused briefly on how her body felt without clothing. "It's not really a big deal, though," she said after a moment's thought. "You morphs're a lot more polite than some of the boys I know, and nobody's done anything to make me feel like I'm some sort of sex object or anything." She glanced over at Huey with a friendly smile, and the Alsatian inclined his head slightly with a smile of his own.

"Charmed, I'm sure," he replied in that voice even I had to admit was heart-melting, my nose immediately telling me how it affected Martinique. Not that this was all that surprising, honestly: most females, whatever their species, reacted that way to Huey's voice, and a lot of males as well. "I'm Huey, miss Martinique. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

As he spoke, Huey extended his hand to Martinique with his palm up, just as we came to the end of the run. Martinique, not sure what else to do and not wanting to be unfriendly, reached out for Huey's soft-furred hand, resting her hand on top of his, his grip gentle as he held her hand palm-down, then bent forward, keeping his eyes on hers all the while, not quite touching his muzzle to the back of her hand, letting her feel his breath on her smooth, naked skin. Martinique's whole body seemed to flush at this gesture, and she brought her other hand to her cover her mouth, her eyes wide, obviously uncertain how to react for several moments. Being the strong leader that I'd judged her to be before, however, she recovered quickly, lowering the hand covering her mouth to give Huey another smile and a short nod of acknowledgement. She didn't say anything, however. Somehow, I thought she'd probably have a hard time speaking right then anyway, at least not without her voice cracking a bit.

"Yeah," I said with a chuckle, patting Martinique on the back as I walked back toward the cleared patch of ground where we'd do our practice, "Huey does that to all of us."

"Oh," responded Martinique, and I knew she was watching Huey as he made his way back to the spot where he'd been standing before we started our warmup lap, before she walked over as well, and took a place right next to him, quietly, not saying anything with words, and likely not realizing the whole volumes her body language was sharing.

"Well, that first bit seems to have come off all right," said Dallas as he slowly walked past me while I stood at the front of the starting area, hands on hips, legs apart, while Dallas' own stance seemed to be right on the edge of that fine line between explosive tension and post-panic total relaxation. "I just hope the rest of the practice goes as well."

"So do I," whispered Bird, just loud enough for me and Dallas to hear, and Dallas only because he was so close at the time, before Bird continued walking past me, instinctively staying next to Dallas as she walked, sensing in him a kindred spirit in a similar state of unease.

"We'll see," I said with a slight shrug, before reaching out to give each of my friends, old and new, a gentle pat on their bottoms, prompting them to look back at me half in gratitude for the welcome gesture of calming affection, and half in alarm that someone might have seen what was definitely not simple friendliness. As their heads turned to look at me, however, their eyes caught, and when they began turning their heads back to the front, their gaze lingered a little longer. I could tell, in that instant, that Dallas and Bird recognized that they were sharing the same friend and lover. Their stances changed slightly as they got into line, this time standing next to each other at the front of the class, the way they held themselves conveying a sense of guarded trust coming from a shared secret, the beginnings of something more easily apparent to those who knew what to look for - like me - depending on how each of them treated the other after this new discovery.

"This whole thing is a powderkeg waiting to explode," I grumbled to myself softly, glancing at Red in the back row, all the better to observe without necessarily getting involved, then rolling my eyes at the sugary-sweet, mock-innocent smile she gave me. Yeah, she knew there were "things" going on here all right. Well, at least she wasn't going to go spoiling things with any stray words: back when times were tougher, Red took plenty of human cock to help make ends meet, so she wouldn't look down on morphs and humans pairing up. Now it was a matter of attraction rather than business, and I knew the way any alpha knows his pack's thoughts that the unquenchable romantic in Red would see eye-to-eye with the horny vixen that shared her head.

"Tell me about it," said a soft voice near my side, and I glanced down at Shania's face, seeing myself reflected in her half-moon glasses. A quick sniff told me about the tension she was carrying inside of herself, a strange mix of powerful emotions ready to burst at any moment. "Um, Spike?" she said after a second, drawing my attention away from her scent and back to her eyes, to her eager and yet guarded expression, "I've thought about yesterday a lot. If it's okay, can I talk to you about it after class ends?"

I paused for a long moment, feeling my brow furrow a little as I processed this question. Then I smiled, gently, and nodded to her.

"Yeah, Shania," I agreed, reaching out to very gently stroke her slim upper back, feeling to my slight surprise how light she was, her body's slender build having even less mass to it than I'd expected; obviously I'd need to work on getting some muscle on this girl. "Just hang around afterward, and you can take all of my time that you need." Then I bent slightly, putting my muzzle's tip near her ear. "I'm sure you could use a hot shower by then."

Shania's scent cleared of most of its complication in that moment, all its conflicting emotions almost immediately superseded by one of arousal, and I knew I'd hit the mark dead-on. I had to work to restrain a knowing grin as Shania gulped, trying to get her breathing back under control, and hurried to her spot next to Bird, with Molotov on the far end of the first row. The big rottie glanced down at Shania, his expression revealing his confusion as he also took in her scent, before he reached over with one massive paw, and very gently rubbed Shania on the shoulders, the motion a little tentative, as he was obviously worried that it might be the wrong thing to do. Shania, though, just relaxed at the warm touch of the gentle giant on her right, leaning into his powerful hand as he grew a little more bold, daring to work his fingers into the tense muscles of the back of Shania's neck, bringing a soft moan from the dark-skinned teen.

"Boom," I said very softly, before giving my head a slight shake, and pressing into the day's instruction. No sense in delaying the inevitable.

*

This was paradise. That was how Brandy was seeing things right then, trailing the rear of the joggers on the track. And speaking of rears - rawr! That sexy tigerbutt right in front of her, where Gregor was trailing behind, was absolutely smoking!

Because her dad worked with morphs all the time on the police force, Brandy knew more about them than any of her friends, or so she figured, and probably correctly. For one thing, she knew just how restrained morphs were around humans, especially human females. And though she'd never said anything about it to anyone, she'd also seen how morph males looked at females, morphs and humans alike. Nobody's fool, and filled with the burgeoning desires of a horny teenage girl in the throes of constant frustration from the lack of decent sex education material, or even available boys for practical experience where books failed, the auburn-haired, ponytailed teen had figured out pretty fast that morphguys were the same as human guys, except more fuzzy, and a lot more safe if what she'd heard about her dad's days at work were anything to go by. While Brandy knew she'd probably never get a chance to try anything out with a human boy anyway, and her father's protectiveness limited her already limited sources of personal research anyway, she'd managed to get a fair amount of information out of the morphs on the force through the ever-popular method of intelligence gathering known to children and teenagers everywhere: pestering.

If the truth had to be known, Brandy had learned more from talking to some of the morphs that she met at various police functions, when everybody in attendance was off-duty, than she ever had from any class or book or even from her own dad. Actually, it probably would have surprised a lot of people to know it, but she'd learned the most from a massive Saint Bernard morph named Lucky. Lucky was the sort of guy that was always focused on the job presently before him, a very no-nonsense person who stuck to things with dogged determination. The reason it would have been surprising to most of those who knew Lucky that he'd end up being a source of sex education for young Brandy was that he seemed to have little to no interest whatsoever in the subject of sex, having no time for it when there was work to be done. The reality, of course, was quite different, as Lucky had an astonishingly active sex life outside of his job on the police force, taking to the business of sex in much the same way that he did his work: with dogged determination until he got it exactly right. For this reason, though he didn't generally stick out much, Lucky was a frequent attendee at defloration orgies, and proved an ample resource for Brandy in explaining just about everything there was to know about sex, answering her questions the same way that he dealt with any problem, as though they weren't a big deal to him, which, considering Lucky's temperament, they probably weren't. She was still disappointed that he'd turned down the one or two flirtatious advances she'd made towards him, wanting to find out a little more through hands-on experience that just words couldn't satisfy, but she had to admit that his reasoning was sound, at least at the time: sex between humans and morphs was illegal, and even if it wasn't, Lucky wasn't comfortable with doing anything behind her father's back.

The latter of these two arguments was the only one still in place, of course, as Brandy knew well, since she'd followed news of morph rights quite avidly since Lucky had turned her down because of the illegality of what she'd wanted to try out, something that had never occurred to her before. Brandy guessed that most morphs that knew her dad would have a similar reaction, but then, it was a pretty big police force, and there were lots of departments. It had been a bit of a surprise to Brandy when she found, as she was rapidly stripping herself down, spending most of her attention on the sexy morphboys in front of her and almost none on the thought of being naked herself, that she actually recognized four of the eight morphs lined up. For some, the shock of seeing somebody known in more normal circumstances naked might have been a bit jarring, but for Brandy, it just fueled the heady feeling that had been steadily consuming her since she'd first heard Bird talking about this workout. Dallas was the officer Brandy knew best, since he'd often drop by her house to talk over a case or something with her dad. The German Shepherd was a serious workaholic, though, and so Brandy'd never gotten more than a few minutes at a time with him, and she got the impression that her father didn't know him at all outside of work. The other three, though, were officers she'd just seen at general police gatherings, and not within her father's circle of friends and co-workers. Gregor and Thunder were members of the SWAT team, Thunder's obvious size and strength his key assets, while Gregor, aside from being as tough as a tiger was expected to be, also had a roar that was pitched at just the right frequency to cause a state of extreme anxiety in those who were exposed to it, a sort of living biological weapon. Brandy had heard of devices like that being used as a form of crowd control, but apparently it was cheaper for the force to just use Gregor instead of some complicated machine. Huey, of course, was just about everybody's friend, a nice guy with a voice that made just about everybody swoon, Brandy included. As might be expected, he was regularly brought in for conflict resolution assignments, using his pleasant voice and winning attitude, as well as his natural talent for social interaction and the extensive psych training he'd had, to defuse situations as much as possible before the police went in. While Brandy knew of the other three, of course, she didn't know them personally, at least not yet. And whatever else might happen, she knew that Dallas wouldn't say a thing to her dad, because if he did, then he'd have to explain why he was flashing himself around naked in front of his superior officer's supposedly tender-eyed daughter.

The warmup run finished, Brandy smiled to herself as she noticed the arrangement of the rows - she was the last one to finish, but the arrangement couldn't have been better than if she'd planned it. There at the front of the class, of course, was Spike, and as Brandy slowed to a walk, she took her time to check the morphmale out, letting her eyes play over his well-defined muscles, built as much for mobility as for raw strength, flexible as well as powerful. She could tell just by looking at the pit bull that he knew a lot about how to make himself fit, and Brandy took a long, lingering look at his finely-toned rump, nicely rounded in a way that was at once so very masculine, and yet so very inviting - it was a part of him that belied the dangerous look of his red eyes and ghost-white fur, left completely exposed by his short-docked stub of a tail, as were his deliciously heavy balls.

The first row was made up of Dallas, Bird, Brandy's best friend Shania, Molotov, and Cutty. Brandy was one of those people who never forgot names, and she was already placing names to faces...and other parts as well, as she walked past the rest of the row, working hard not to make any too-obvious signs that she was admiring the way the abs of the two morphguys stood out in such clear contrast even through their fur, or how mouth-watering their plump balls were; Brandy had an almost overwhelming desire to just run her mouth over every inch of these smoking hot males, knowing that they wouldn't do a thing to stop her - they were morphs, after all, and though not a lot of people really understood morphs, Brandy did, and she knew just how vulnerable they were to humans, how hard it was for them to do anything to resist the will of a human, even a horny human girl like herself. She could probably rape any male there, and none of them would likely prevent her from doing whatever she wanted. That was just how morphs were programmed, after all, right from the vats where they were grown. Shaking herself out of this momentary fantasy, however, Brandy let herself enjoy the contrast between Dallas and Molotov, Dallas' body that of a mesomorph, a middle-of-the-road sort of muscular build, like something you'd see in textbooks describing the human body (minus the head and tail, of course), while Molotov's body was that of an endomorph, thick and powerful and frankly bulging with muscle at every point, almost no extraneous fat present to conceal anything. Glancing down at their sheaths, Brandy could tell right away that Dallas was big enough to fill somebody up very nicely without being threatening, but Molotov was built to make a girl scream. On the far end of the first row, as all the rows had restructured after their quick run, was the towering alligator, Cutty, but Brandy didn't spend too long looking at him, his reptilian qualities kind of creeping her out, especially those piercing, slightly luminous turquoise eyes...though it was kind of neat how his junk was free-hanging, like a human's. Brandy would probably have spend more time looking the big gator over, except she simply couldn't spare the time to linger, especially not when he was looking right at her with an inscrutable expression, his emotions completely concealed from her perceptions.

Now having a little trouble walking, feeling the moisture between her legs starting to flow and having to squeeze her thighs together to staunch it, Brandy forced herself to focus more on her breathing as she looked the second row over. On the end closest to her was the cream-furred Alsatian Huey, his body as average as a morph's beautiful, genetically-refined body could be, but his face strangely charismatic in a way that transcended species; it was so easy to love a face like that, to want to trust him, and it just enhanced the things that his voice could do to anyone. Martinique was right next to Huey, and Brandy's studious eye could immediately tell that the overachieving black girl had never really fallen for anyone before, but she was well on her way to falling head-over-heels for Huey, and not too far away from doing the same for Spike, her eyes shifting between the male to her side and the male at the front of the class with an expression that spoke overwhelming volumes to anyone who knew what to look for. Brandy, as a dedicated peoplewatcher, of course, knew exactly what to look for, and knew the look of someone who'd always thought she was above silly things like love, preferring matters she could understand and control, like school and sports, only to find herself right in the middle of more complex and powerful emotions than anyone could really understand, let alone control. Next to Martinique stood Gregor with his beautiful, sleek body and absolutely gorgeous rump, set off even more by the stripes that ran beneath his tail, which he nervously curled up between his legs and wrapped around one thigh to keep it in place, making Brandy feel more than a little disappointment, since it meant she couldn't check out his goodies. Far less ashamed was Thunder, who stood next to Gregor quite calmly, not seeming to notice or to care that he was surrounded by attractive, naked human girls, his brown eyes steadily fixed on Spike at the front of the class. Of course, this just made it all the easier for Brandy to give the big, beautiful Clydesdale a proper looking-over, admiring how his body fused all the most gorgeous qualities of a true horse with the most gorgeous qualities of a beautiful human man, his short, neatly-groomed fur doing nothing to conceal the perfectly-sculpted nature of his sleek physique, not at all musclebound like Molotov, despite the stallion being head-and-shoulders taller than the rottie, but more like some ancient Greek statue...except for his genitals, of course. The ancient Greeks, from what little unauthorized reading Brandy had been able to get away with told her, admired undersized penises, thinking they were a sign of intelligence and civilization, as opposed to the ponderous genitals of their barbarian neighbors. Thunder, however, was as big as a stallion was supposed to be - the kind that walked on four legs! At least, that's how it looked to Brandy.

Finally reaching the back row, Brandy made herself relax some more, though it was a bit hard as she walked past the ruddy yellow-furred dingomorph, Slade, who gave her a pleasant smile that, despite all its politeness, came off as heart-throbbingly roguish to Brandy, thanks in no small part to the tightly-muscled dingomorph's cute, ruggedly handsome good looks. The dingomorph was sort of like the Hugh Jackman of morphs (to make a comparison to one of Brandy's favorite old-time actors), able to make the transition from savage to suave while always being sexy without a hitch, unlike Huey, who looked like he couldn't help being British to save his soul. Priss stood on the far side of the row, so Brandy took up her place between her spiky-haired friend and Red, the lithe little vixen who, while obviously as mature as any of the other adults there, something that was clear from the way she carried herself as much as from her physical features, was even shorter than Priss, who was a scant five-foot-two and one of the smallest girls her age that Brandy had ever known.

As Brandy got into position, Red glanced over with a twinkle in her eye and a grin that looked so very naughty.

"Sexy, aren't they?" she asked softly, just barely loud enough that Brandy could hear it. Slade's ears perked slightly, but he made no other sign that he'd heard, while Priss' tanned cheeks colored even more - Brandy hadn't thought this was possible, as absolutely mortified as the cute, skinny redhead seemed already - but kept her eyes fixed forward, staring straight at Spike's face as the albino pit bull prepared to address the class.

"Yeah," Brandy whispered back, before biting her lower lip, feeling ashamed of herself for just a moment. That moment passed instantly when Red gave a giggle, then reached forward to the row in front of her and deftly stroked her black-furred hand from the base of Gregor's striped tail all the way to the tip, neatly extricating the tiger's appendage from where it had curled around his thigh, smoothing down what remained of its former poofiness, and also revealing his sizable, white-furred sac, and properly exposing his absolutely gorgeous buns, almost as sexy as those of the big stallion next to him. Speaking of that stallion, Red's other hand gripped Thunder's white tail near the base, and stroked it gently to the side, so carefully that Thunder didn't even seem to notice, while baring everything to Brandy's wide, eager eyes. Gregor noticed, though, and he glanced back at Red with a reproachful glare, as only a cat could manage. He didn't curl his tail back into place, though, even when Red released it as well as Thunder's.

"There's nothing wrong with admiring an attractive body," the scarlet-furred vixen said in that same soft voice, this time leaning over so that the breath of her words brushed across Brandy's earlobe, making the ponytailed teen shiver slightly at the almost-contact. "After all, we've all worked hard to make them that way, haven't we?" As she said this last, Red lightly stroked her fingertips over Brandy's firm belly, making the auburn-haired girl sharply intake her breath at the feeling of those blunt black clawtips against her naked skin, as though the contact were something forbidden...in all the right ways. "We're morphs, dear," Red continued with a smile. "We're a lot more honest about what we want, and getting it, than humans have ever been. You don't have to be ashamed of anything around us."

Who else heard what Red had said? Brandy didn't know and couldn't tell, the words had been spoken so softly, but at the same time just loud enough that Brandy knew she couldn't be the only one who heard them. She glanced quickly at Priss, the only girl there that she didn't really know that well outside of the sports they played together, and hence the only one she was pretty sure hadn't formed any opinions about her one way or the other, hoping that Priss wouldn't make up her mind that Brandy was a slut or something, like Martinique and Bird seemed to think. Priss, though, just kept staring resolutely straight forward, right at Spike, her eyes never wavering from his face. If she didn't know better from what she'd seen of Priss' normally boisterous nature, Brandy would have thought that the slender, deeply-tanned redhead was about to have some sort of naked-people-induced breakdown.

"Listen up!" Spike barked suddenly, breaking into the quiet conversations that had been going on, silencing all over voices immediately with his astonishingly commanding presence. Brandy's eyes went to Spike, and immediately she felt his no-nonsense approach infecting her own thinking, bringing her mind forcibly into the work at hand. "We're going to stretch out, so extend your arms to the sides like this," he demonstrated, spreading his arms wide, "and get that much space between you and the people next to you. I like to start at the top of the body and work my way down, so just watch what I do, and copy it - thirty times for each, or thirty seconds, depending on the exercise. Once you've got space, lower yourself into a horse stance, like this," he demonstrated, bending his legs, pointing out how he kept his feet facing forward. "Keep that for as many of the stretches as you can, to better flex out your thighs and butt. Move."

There was some brief shuffling to the sides as everyone spread out, though Brandy couldn't help but notice how most of the participants in the day's exercises didn't go an entire arm's length from the people around them. Glancing to her side, she noticed that Red was still quite close, and Slade was rather close to Red. Red noticed Brandy's look and gave the auburn-haired teen a wink, which made Brandy blush for reasons she couldn't quite mentally articulate before she turned to face Spike once more. As for Spike, he didn't need many words, only barking out a brief description of each stretch, then giving a second for what he'd said to settle in before he started to do as he'd said. It was actually fascinating to watch the well-built male at the front of the class, seeing how his perfect physique moved and flexed with each little shift as he started by turning his neck, first side-to-side, then up and down, then from ear to ear, letting Brandy see how every little muscle was connected to the others, his chest and shoulders tensing slightly with each shift, his belly firm and tight at all times, making the clear musculature of his well-defined eight-pack stand out clearly. When he started rolling his shoulders, first forward and then back, then rotating first his arms at the elbows and then his hands at the wrists, making wide circles, the movements of his muscles became even more pronounced, and all the more fascinating to watch. Brandy, of course, couldn't help but start to let her eyes flick over the two males just in front of her as, following Spike's lead, they began to twist their waists from side to side, arms up in front of them, then tilted their upper bodies from side-to-side at the waist; it was hypnotic how their sleek bottoms, feline and equine, flexed and shifted with each movement, and how their heavy sacs swayed like a pendulum at the lightest adjustment in their stance. Then Brandy's attention was broken as she was forced to concentrate on herself when Spike had them all balance on first one leg and then the other, while rotating the leg they'd all lifted in an outward circle (he also added that you should never rotate it inward, though he didn't say why), then had everyone lift themselves straight up on their toes repeatedly, flexing out their calves. It took almost no time at all, however, for Brandy's eyes to go back to the fine backsides of the males in front of her when Spike had them all bend forward, keeping their legs straight, and touch their toes, though she noticed with some annoyance that Gregor kept his tail strategically placed during this exercise to minimize what she could see, and with some delight when Thunder seemed to deliberately keep his beautiful white-haired tail turned slightly to the side, leaving nothing to the imagination as Brandy took the time to admire the way little veins stood out clearly on the silk-smooth surface of the gorgeous stud's sac. All she had to do was reach out just a little and...

"Turn to the side," barked Spike, interrupting Brandy's train of thought. "Triangle stretches."

Demonstrating by doing as he'd said, Spike turned to the side, letting Brandy catch a decent view of his own honestly hot butt as he extended one leg straight behind him, the other bent to a ninety-degree angle as he extended his hands to the ground, stretching himself out as much as possible before switching legs, turning himself to the other side as he did so. To end the stretches, Spike had the class seat themselves with their heels pressed together in front of them, legs akimbo, doing their best to get their knees to touch the ground. This movement segued smoothly into extending first one leg and then the other, while keeping the other leg tucked in, the toes of the extended leg first planted on the ground, sort of like the low, athletic crouch Brandy had seen comic book characters do, and then pointed up. During this final stretch, Brandy glanced once more at the gorgeous males in front of her, only barely stifling a happy sigh at the way the stretching made their shapely rumps flex beneath their fur, before she looked to her sides, first at Priss, and then at Red. Doing so, Brandy felt...strange, sort of the same sort of strange that came over her sometimes when she was in the locker room while the other girls were changing, or when she was naked in the showers with lots of other girls after a game or a gym class. Brandy knew she liked men just from the feelings she'd been getting pretty much the entire time that she'd been there in the big yard with Spike and the other morphs. But at the same time, as she first played her eyes over the smooth, sleek, and deeply-tanned back and buttocks of Priss, and then over Red's small, toned little bottom, its dimples of Venus clearly visible on either side of her tail through her immaculately-groomed red fur, Brandy had to admit, there was something to other girls as well, though she wasn't quite sure what that something was, at least not yet.

"Up!" barked Spike, and Brandy's mind was brought back to the present as she rose, facing the class instructor, hoping nobody had noticed how she'd been looking at...well...everybody in easy sight range, really. "All right, make sure you're staggered in each row, so you don't hit the person in front of you while we train our punches and kicks." Spike held a low stance, his legs bent almost to a ninety-degree angle, the muscles of his body obviously tightened, making him almost immovable, without tightening so much that he'd tire out quickly or become inflexible. Brandy'd had a few martial arts classes at her dad's insistence, and she knew enough to recognize the subtle balancing act Spike was doing, riding between those two extremes, and knew right away that the morphguy really did know what he was doing, his level of expertise worlds beyond anything Brandy had ever reached before dropping out of her jujitsu class in favor of more traditional sports.

"Tight fist, like this," Spike explained, taking time to turn from side to side, showing his own fist (and incidentally letting Brandy admire the way his full, white-furred balls swung with each movement). "A tight fist keeps the hand protected. If your thumb sticks out, either it can catch on something, or your attacker might grab it. Either way, it'll break, and that's a bad thing, so keep your thumbs tucked under, like this," and he tilted his hand upward to make sure it was clear what he meant. "Keep the hand in a straight line, too. That makes sure all the power goes straight into your target. Otherwise," he pushed his fist against his opposite hand, demonstrating how it could bend if not sufficiently straight, "you'll hurt yourself pretty badly when you connect, and probably not hurt the person you were hitting much in return. Just don't lock your elbow as you throw the punch - that can make the joint bend in bad ways when you connect. I'll show you how to punch and step at the same time, and then I'll watch you all do that for a while. As for you old-timers, don't ever forget: there's always something new to be learned."

*

I meant it, too: there always was something new to be learned, no matter how far along you got, and even the most basic of movements could teach even the greatest of masters. After all, perfection is the goal of any serious practitioner in any field, martial arts the same as any other, and perfection comes through constant practice. Practice gets you to the point of perfection, and practice is what keeps you there, or at least as close to perfection as any of us really ever manages, considering the limitations we're all saddled with.

After a little demonstration and explanation, I got the whole group started stepping and punching, keeping their stances low, making sure to yell on each strike. Since I was the guy in charge, I spent only a little time doing my own punches, most of my efforts spent moving along the rows, reaching out to guide with a light touch and a few words of explanation before backing off, letting the girls figure things out for themselves for the most part. I say "the girls" 'cause I don't usually need to do a whole lot of correcting for my morph friends; they've been doing this with me for a couple years now, all the years I've had the junkyard, besides the time we all spent killing for a country that couldn't give a rat's hiney for us, and they were good enough to be constantly self-correcting when they made mistakes, and when they missed something, one of the others would lean over to whisper a few words of advice.

I guess it's not really a typical training ground, but then, we're not exactly typical people. Humans going into this sort of thing, or just about anything if you want the nasty truth of it, have a lot of ego built up over the years, a natural result of developing one's healthy sense of self, and the only way they can learn is to let go of all that pride and get down to the business of looking stupid so as to get learning ways to stop looking stupid. As an example of looking stupid while learning, this little cutie in the back, girl with a really deep tan and short red hair with a boyish, spiky sort of cut to it, almost fell over at one point, not really getting how to make her front stance right, and would probably have landed flat on her face on the grass if I hadn't reached over at the last moment and caught her shoulder with one hand, her waist with the other. Her name was Priss, that's what I remembered just as I helped her get back into position, doing my best not to smirk at how hard she was blushing - she might've thought it was 'cause I was mocking her for messing up, which wasn't the case at all, but I didn't wanna bruise her budding teenage ego any more'n I had to. That's a major difference between morphs and humans, of course: our sense of self. Morphs of the first generation get brought into the world with a sense of devotion to a higher cause of some sort, whether it's our owners or our country or whatever; the self doesn't really factor into the equation until quite a bit later, if it ever factors in at all, and for most morphs, selfishness isn't a part of our way of thinking, not even with felimorphs. For us, it's all about the group, and making ourselves better so that we can fit into the group better, and be a more productive member of our community. That's why we're such good soldiers and servants, and it's why me'n my friends can learn so much from each other, even from styles and methods that often vary radically.

Of course, as the thought came to my mind, I realized I'd have to tell the class what I was thinking - it was something important. But first, fixing Priss' problem. As quick as I could, so as not to disrupt the cadence of the slow punches we'd been doing any more'n I had to, I crouched slightly behind Priss, making me fit more to her height, and stepped into her stance from behind, my chest touching her shoulder blades, my belly against her back, modeling the stance I wanted her to take. Of course, at that range, I could smell her conflicting emotions pretty easily, her tension mixing in equal parts with stifled arousal. It didn't take me long to figure this girl out: Priss was one of those noisy girls normally, unless I was seriously wrong, but right now she was completely out of her element, her inexperience as completely exposed as the sparse red pubic fuzz on her mound. I'd seen the type often enough as part of my job as an obedience trainer: eager little second and the occasional third gen pup-morphs wanting to prove they're better than anybody, mouthy and hyperactive and irrepressible...right up until the moment they discover that they're actually not everything they'd thought they were, and the state usually hit its peak when sex was involved, especially when they were virgins, as Priss almost certainly was. I'd found that the best way to get those cocky little teenpups, males as well as females, past their anxieties was a thorough and very satisfying cherry popping followed by a hefty sperm injection, with a creamy bath and rubdown added in for good measure. Generally, even the cockiest of teens would relax and listen to reason after they'd been given enough orgasms, though the exact number varied by the individual, of course. Sex just makes everything so much simpler when it was applied in the right way; it's one of the ultimate ways of sharing weakness as well as strength, a humbling experience as well as a source of immense pleasure.

Naturally, I couldn't just grab this skinny redhead, drag her off, and make her squirt onto my tongue until she was past whatever misgivings might be overwhelming her right then. Not only was she a human - and despite my antics with humans so far, I wasn't quite ready to start treating them like morphs, at least in front of other humans, and certainly not until I understood the girl better - but her attention was divided, shifting between me and Martinique, the athletic girl next to Huey in the second row. I could understand why this would be a thing, as I watched Martinique move, mirroring what I'd shown the class almost perfectly already; the girl had a natural physical aptitude that was incredible to watch, and I could tell that she'd be really easy to train in anything to which she put her mind. There was some sort of rivalry going on between Priss and Martinique, though, something mostly friendly, but all the same a source of competition where Priss had to make up in energy and enthusiasm what Martinique could do through natural talent and hard work. Since she was out of her element, of course, and out in a near-public area where she couldn't just keep trying until she was comfortable about showing off to others, Priss' energy and enthusiasm weren't working for her right then.

She was vulnerable, and in need of a little boost. I could read all of this and more in seconds from her body language, instinct and experience meeting to tell me far more than words ever could in ways that I've only known morphs to be capable of using. Knowing what I did, then, I acted.

Smoothly, so as not to interrupt the flow of the training any longer than was necessary, I moved in closer, feeling Priss' body tremble slightly at the feel of my body against her naked back. Hearing her breath sharply intake as she felt my sheath against her tense buttocks, I moved my head slightly, my chin guiding her head so that she remained facing forward. My arms moved then, as did my legs, fitting against her smoothly, seamlessly, my body and hers moving as one. At first she resisted, tried to fight the initial awkwardness, the embarrassment of being so close to another person, a male, and not even of her own species, and the shame of having her movements controlled by another. Then, gradually, step by step as I called out the cadence of the punches to the rest of the class, Priss' scent changed, losing its fear, though the tension remained, the determination to perform well raging strong and hot. Each time Priss punched, setting her foot firmly on the ground to draw on the Earth below for her power, it was because I moved my leg alongside her own, my fist directly next to hers, giving her a mirror on which to model herself. A few more steps with accompanying punches, and she was ready, and I paused only long enough to give a soft, reassuring nuzzle against her cheek before I let her step away, keeping my own position as I continued to call out the cadence. As the shock of lost contact struck the short slip of a girl, my nose quickly picked up the strange rush of arousal that the realization of how closely we'd been touching brought. But it wasn't just Priss' arousal that hit me...

Glancing to the side as I moved forward, to get back to paying attention to the class as a whole, I saw the auburn-haired girl in the back, Brandy I believe her name was, watching me, and knew that she'd been watching me through the entire episode with Priss. Red's eyes were on me as well, and as I focused my senses on the two femmes, my nose was suddenly flooded with a sea of their combined eagerness - eagerness to mate. Of course Brandy couldn't possibly know what sort of signals her scent was sending me, but Red did, and it was only a matter of time before her scent - to say nothing of the scents of Brandy and Priss! - would start to infect the other morphmales. I doubted either Bird or Shania would object to the attentions of seven amorous morphmales, though of course I couldn't be completely sure until I'd gauged their moods a little more closely. Brandy, of course, had been ogling almost every male from the moment my shorts hit the grass, likely thinking we morphs wouldn't notice, and even though it was pretty obvious she lacked any practical experience, it was also pretty obvious she was eager to learn - all it would take was a gentle nudge in the right direction, to let her know she'd be safe with us morphs, that we didn't mind her interest and that nobody would think less of her for it, and she'd be offering up that sexy tush of hers like a bitch in heat...mmm, which she almost was, as I started paying attention to the "tone" of her pheromones carried with her scent - less than a week, and she'd be prime for breeding. I knew Girl would love having a girl as hot as Brandy as part of our growing little harem, and didn't doubt that my gorgeous mate would probably enjoy sucking on Brandy's good-sized breasts as well, especially when they started leaking colostrum, so I made a mental note to have Brandy squirming in my bed before the end of the day, if she'd have me.

That left Priss and Martinique as factors that escaped me. Priss was still too uptight right now, and I could tell that, while she was warming up to the idea of being around naked morphs, even enjoying it as she started to get into each punch and forward lunge of her body, making her mouthful-sized breasts bounce cutely with each jerk of her hips like I'd shown the class at the start of the lesson, it would take a little more time for her to get used to the idea of something as radical as sex with a morph. The germ of such an idea was there, but like all seeds, it needed time and gentle nurturing before it would go anywhere. I'd learned after being too eager yesterday with Shania and Yoko about taking it a little slower, a little more carefully, letting these human femmes come to their own decisions on their own time, so that they could reconcile their desires with their thoughts and the demands of their culture. It was something new for me, of course, something I'd never really had to deal with among morphs of either sex, but I could handle human baggage, I felt, even if it meant I'd have to be more patient than normal. After all, they were just human: they had to figure things out almost from scratch, lacking more than the most rudimentary of instincts that we morphs took for granted.

As for Martinique...I looked her over as I made my way up the side of the three rows, admiring her perfect form once more, the look of complete dedication to her task on her face. For someone like Martinique, this was already business and pleasure - the pleasure of doing well, of succeeding and developing a skill she'd probably find use for in the rest of her life. She'd immediately recognized that we morphs were there for a single purpose, a purpose she understood on a deep, instinctive level, and one in which she wanted to participate. Maybe she'd become interested in sex later, but I decided then and there that I'd let her do the seeking if the subject came up at all. Martinique was here to learn among friends in an environment where she'd fit in, a rare opportunity for a girl as competitive and naturally gifted as she obviously was, where she didn't have to prove herself, and could just come and do her best like everyone else. I wasn't going to complicate things for her with the tangle of emotions that almost always comes with human sex. Somehow I didn't think she'd really care one way or the other about what might happen outside of class, but it was probably best not to let there be any bleeding over between the two subjects, at least not for the time being.

"Good!" I called out as I reached the front of the class again and rose from my stance, a wordless signal to the others to do the same. "Excellent. If any of you newcomers are here next week, we'll be doing kicks as well, so be ready for that. Now," I pointed to the large storage shed over at the edge of the field, "c'mon, all of you - we're gonna need to pull out the mats and safety armor if we're gonna do the rest of our practice. It'll make things flow faster between forms practice, to throws, to sparring."

*

Priss could feel the sweat running down her back and beading on her brow. Forms practice sounded like it should have been easy, from what she'd seen in martial arts movies. It wasn't, at least not for her. Scowling a little, Priss let her attention stray over to Martinique. Naturally, Marty was getting it all right on the first try. It just wasn't fair how Marty always seemed to get these things right, making everything she did look so easy, so effortless.

Maybe Priss wouldn't have cared under other circumstances, but she was one of the team captains for her school, leading the girls in volleyball the same way Martinique led them in soccer, Renee Escue led them in baseball, and Bella Greco led the basketball team. It was kind of her job to be the best, to lead the way with enthusiasm and energy as well as talent. Unfortunately for Priss Martens, she'd never really thought of herself as a very talented person, someone to whom anything really came easily. So far, she'd been able to make up for that lack of natural genius with enthusiasm and energy, but right now, she could feel those natural advantages being stretched to their breaking point. Forms were hard!

"Just relax, Priss," said a pleasant female voice to her left, and Priss dared to break her stance just enough to glance to her side, where Red was standing. The foxmorph had traded places with Brandy at the start of forms practice, explaining that this way she'd be able to help Priss learn, while Slade watched out for Brandy. "You're not here to compete with her," the slender vixen continued in that same gentle, motherly tone, making it so easy for Priss to focus on Red's voice rather than her own frustration.

"Then what else am I here for?" Priss spat out, doing so as softly as she could to keep from alerting the others to her troubles, but felt bad for using such a mean tone almost immediately afterward. Red, though, just smiled and reached over to gently correct the red-haired, boyish-figured girl's stance and the angle of her punch with a light, delicate touch of her black-furred fingertips.

"To challenge yourself," Red answered as she and Priss moved almost in perfect synchronization to reverse-mirror the movements of Spike as the obviously-skilled pitbull took his time, making sure to show off every little detail of the relatively short form they'd been repeating for the last several minutes. "After all, who else is worth beating?"

"West Central High," Priss answered immediately, making Red giggle.

"You've got a lot of focus, at least," the red vixen commented as the exercise came to an end. "Hmm, looks like Spike's about to have us pair up. Wanna be my partner?"

Priss grinned at this, then nodded, almost missing Spike calling out for everyone to find a partner, just like Red had predicted, finding that she actually liked this morph. She'd heard so much about morphs that was negative, thanks to the news shows she watched for her Social Studies class, that actually being around them had been nerve-wracking, at least at first. She'd been expecting them to be sort of like some old science-fiction cyborg, wearing flesh on the outside but all cold and mechanical on the inside, or maybe just animals that could talk, not really all that smart, certainly not like a person. But Spike and Red were warm, thoughtful, funny at times, kind of sexy, and strangely _human_in a way that Priss couldn't quite articulate, but could sense deeply. In all of just two hours' time, judging from her watch (the only clothing besides her shoes that she still wore), she'd learned more about the way morphs really were than all her years of school and watching the news had ever taught her. To have her mind opened up like this to such a new concept was dizzying for Priss, making her start to realize that, just maybe, what she'd been told for so very long on so many different subjects might be...wrong.

"You newcomers," Spike added, making Priss start back into the present, her mind much preferring to focus on things she could control anyway, "be sure to pair up with one of the old-timers. That way you'll be in safe hands. Trust your partner to show you how to do this right. Once you've got a partner, pick a mat, and me'n Dallas'll give you some demonstrations on what to do next. But before you get started, remember this important rule of learning: no pride, no ego. You're not here to prove anything to anyone...except yourself." Spike's face was very earnest as he continued to speak for just a little longer. "Take this to heart: ego can get people hurt, even killed, when you let it take control while you're practicing. If you're feeling yourself keyed up, either keep it to yourself, or take a break until you're ready to go again. It's better than sending somebody to the hospital or the morgue. All right, pair up."

Priss stepped a bit closer, craning her neck to see what was going on up where Spike and the German Shepherd, Dallas, were stepping onto a large, thick-padded blue mat. After a moment, however, she shivered slightly as Red took her hand and led the redhead up until she was standing almost right next to where Spike and Dallas were standing.

"Don't be afraid to look stupid," said Red in a whisper, looking at Priss with kind eyes. "I promise you, there's no better way to get smart."

So many new ideas. It was enough to make poor Priss' head swim. Not animals, not robots, not humans...what were morphs anyway?! And why...why did she kind of like being around them so much?

Then Dallas hit the mat, slapping against it with his hands and feet to spread out the impact, his chin tucked down to his chest. Priss felt herself relaxing, the ache in her brain starting to fade away almost immediately. This, she could understand. This was something she could learn, and then learn to control. Just focus on the physical, where everything made sense. As for that other stuff...that was for later, when her brain stopped hurting so much.

*

Bird blinked in more than a little surprise when she managed to hoist the hulking rottie over her hip and slam him down onto the mat. Molotov was absolutely huge, broad and beefy with well-defined, heavy muscles all over, solid and square-shaped, like a brick wall. Yet, when Bird had done what Spike had shown them with that handsome shep, Dallas, stepping into Molotov's approach as he'd come at her, arms outstretched, she'd managed to heft all that immense and powerful bulk, and throw him onto his back. She paused a moment to admire her handiwork, grinning when she saw Molotov's grin as well, before blushing as her eyes drifted downward, to between the big guy's splayed legs.

Turning her eyes away, Bird noticed Brandy standing on the mat to the right of hers, taking a moment to admire the auburn-haired girl's gorgeous body as she swung Gregor around, slamming the tiger down on his front onto the mat before reaching down, pinching the tiger's sexy butt, giggling for a moment before the well-muscled male spun around with astonishing speed and flexibility to glare at her with his gold-flecked green eyes. The look was more reproachful than angry, however, and soon the tigermorph made a soft, dismissive chuffing sound before he rose to his feet and motioned with his head for Brandy to take her turn being thrown.

Ever since her awakening at the start of the weekend, Bird was having a hard time thinking about anything that wasn't related to sex. It had just felt so...good! What made it worse, Bird supposed, was the lack of room she had at home to masturbate, which might have helped her cool her head a little and work off some of the tension that her imagination kept building up. As it was, she'd been forced into relative celibacy for all night long, even as the itch between her thighs had grown steadily more intense with each passing waking moment - and those had been quite long, as they made it hard for her to get to sleep. Now it was almost an inferno down there, a slick, sticky, aching bonfire of lust. She just hoped nobody else noticed...well, aside from the morphs, of course, since she guessed they could probably smell the way she felt whether she liked it or not. And some of them as well, as Bird thought about it a little more, glancing toward Red as she easily flipped Priss up and over onto her back. After all, Red was a friend of her mother, and she really didn't want the slender vixen carrying tales if she could possibly help it.

Forcibly tearing her eyes back around to Molotov, and then even more forcibly tearing them away from his immense balls and heavily-swollen sheath, Bird looked into Molotov's face, and saw him grinning as he rose to his feet once more.

"You are very strange human girl," said the big rottie as he tapped his chest, indicating that Bird should come at him. Since it was, in fact, her turn to be thrown, that is exactly what she did, reaching out with her hands, only to have the huge male easily grip one of her hands, and then, instead of using his superior muscle to simply heft her into the air, use her own brief forward momentum to roll her over his hip and onto the mat. Instead of releasing her, however, he stepped onto the mat as well, covering her, rolling her partway over onto her side as he twisted her arm in upon itself, pinning her other arm beneath her own body. "Tap mat when hurts," Molotov told Bird, before he applied the least amount of pressure, immediately making Bird slap the mat as she winced. "Is called figure four hold," explained the rottie as he released Bird and rose to his feet, the blonde teen only then realizing with a flush that those same sperm-heavy, lighter brown balls had been resting against her stomach, not at all that far from where she believed that sperm should belong.

"Now it is you who are of the staring, Bird," chuckled Molotov, patting the teen on the shoulder before handing her the scrunchie that had popped off when she'd landed on the mat. "Double tie, and then I come. Throw me, and then do figure four, make me tap." He raised a hand, waggling his finger at her chidingly, though his look was somewhat teasing. "Naughtiness is for after practice, not during. Surely Spike has told you this?" Then the big male chuckled again, shaking his head as he walked forward, reaching out with one huge paw of a hand, obviously thinking that such a question was simply a joke, nothing that would ever happen between a human and a morph. "Heh, but Spike, he would surely not have such talk with a human, no?"

Bird caught Molotov's wrist just as the huge male's nostrils started to flare, a look of complete surprise spreading over his face, making him almost lose his falling form as she swung him around and then down to the mat, before she crawled on top of him like he'd done to her, almost slamming her weight against his back to force him onto his side as she pulled his hand back, making the figure four he'd just shown her. He'd taken her scent in the scant moment before contact, and the implications of what he'd discovered had left him momentarily unable to act beyond instinctive body memory.

"Ah," grunted Molotov, tapping the mat several times before Bird stopped. "Is enough, am beaten." She released him, then looked down at the big male as he rolled onto his back beneath her, making Bird shiver as she felt the short fur of his well-muscled belly, and the muscles themselves, stroke against her uncovered naughty bits. "You...and Spike?" Molotov then asked softly, leaning his head in slightly as he spoke so that the words wouldn't be easily overheard - not by any human, at least, though Bird didn't trust Red's foxy ears, not when she was so very close by, only one mat back and to the right.

Instead of answering, Bird just nodded. Molotov blinked several times, as though completely unable to comprehend what he'd just heard. For a moment Bird considered trying Russian instead (if only she knew any Russian...), before the big rottie shook his own head and started to get up, making Bird 'eep' in surprise as she slid down into his lap, her hands going instinctively to Molotov's shoulders. The touch momentarily paused Molotov, giving both morph and human time to realize that her achingly moist cunny was squeezed firmly against the badly swollen opening of Molotov's sheath. Rather than rising immediately, however, Bird stayed where she was for a few long moments, her hands now sliding down to his chest, fingers stroking through the lighter brown fur of his "underbelly" region, and then down to his trim stomach. Molotov was frozen in place, and Bird could feel the thick, bulbous head of the rottie's huge cock nudging against the slick, swollen lips of her labia. He was even bigger than Spike, maybe as big as that handsome Clydesdale, Thunder, who was trading off with Gregor as they took turns on the mat with Brandy. At that moment, Bird realized that she was completely in charge here, that Molotov was totally at her mercy. However hard he might be straining to keep his penis tucked inside his sheath, using whatever muscles morphs had on their insides to do this, it wasn't enough to keep his glans from peeking out as Bird stroked her needy sex back and forth across the heavy cock-cap, feeling it dip just barely into the soaking wet furnace of her cunny. If she wanted, he was hers, right there, right now, and she could do anything she wanted with him. All she had to do was let herself sink down just a little more...

Gritting her teeth, swallowing with an effort, Bird forced herself to her feet, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. Molotov stayed where he was for a little longer, his own much sharper teeth grit tightly as well, fighting to regain the control he'd lost. After another minute or two, however, Bird watched the smooth, glistening head of the rottie's cock slide back down, the folds of his sheath closing over it like a small animal popping back into the safety of its den, a mental metaphor that made Bird smile as she thought of it. Mostly, at least - he was pretty swollen, after all. There was a sense of deep disappointment in Bird as she saw her new little friend disappear, but she accepted it as an unfortunate necessity. Bird's face flushed deeply, however, as she glanced over toward where Red was crouching over Priss, straddling the younger girl's hips as she held one of the redhead's hands behind her back in what looked like a complicated lock. The vixen was looking straight at Bird, her green eyes meeting Bird's blue ones. However much she'd seen of what had just taken place, she'd certainly seen enough, and Bird knew right away from the slight flexing of the vixen's nostrils that she was picking up just as much of Bird's scent right then as Molotov had. No hiding the secret now, obviously. Bird knew she'd have to talk to Red afterward if she was going to have any hope of continuing her fun with Spike and his morph friends - she wasn't at all ready to give up the small urban paradise she'd only just discovered. No, not at all.

In a flash, Bird's thoughts were swept back into the exercise as Molotov rose quickly from the mat, and she moved with him, trading places so that she was the one advancing toward him, the one whose turn it was to be thrown, to be pinned. Landing face-first on the mat, the hand she'd used to throw a punch still held in Molotov's hand, the other instinctively outstretched to break her fall, Bird did her best to make the motion real, to push herself up, to try and resist Molotov's efforts so that he'd have to actually be pinning her in order to keep her in place, rather than just do some simple demonstration pin. All her efforts were immediately put on hold as Molotov twisted her arm back and up, using it like a lever to hold her firmly in place, even as he straddled her slightly uplifted bottom, making her breasts slap against the mat before being squished against its yielding surface. Over to the side, Bird heard the girlish grunt of Brandy as she also hit the mat in a similar fashion, and the blonde turned her head in time to watch the auburn-haired teen's full, firm breasts bounce before Thunder, whose turn it was to be the one throwing, turned her arm back just like Bird's was turned, and easily held the squirming girl in place. Despite a brief mental effort on her part not to give into the temptation, Bird's eyes drifted down Brandy's body, to where Thunder's full, heavy balls were now resting on top of Brandy's slightly upturned bottom, making Bird flush deeply as she realized the slight weight she felt on her own buns must be Molotov's sac stroking against her wriggling tush.

"It's not nice to tease, Miss Brandy," said Thunder in his low, calm voice, which, though soft, carried quite well if you were paying attention to it, as Bird certainly was, and Molotov as well, judging from how he paused where he was, holding Bird in place without making her tap out. "I don't mind that you think me'n Gregor are cute - I'm flattered, actually, though I dunno about Gregor, on account of him bein' so uptight."

"Rff," chuffed Gregor in response to that statement as he stood next to the mat, his arms folded, doing his best to appear thoroughly uninterested. Thunder just ignored the stripy feline, though, which seemed to suit Gregor just fine.

"Still, this is practice, and we're tryin' to concentrate on other matters," continued the big Clydesdale in that same calm, even tone, apparently not at all phased by the way Brandy was squirming under him, though Bird could see that this wasn't completely true, since Thunder's own sheath - quite different in appearance from the sheaths of the other furry morphmales - was rather swollen, the thick head of his penis poking out, apparently unhindered by any internal muscles to keep it in place, like Bird had seen at work on Spike. "I'm just askin' you to treat us with some respect," he chided with his gentle drawl. "I mean, it's kinda distractin' when we're tryin' to learn how to fight better, and you keep tauntin' us with somethin' we can't have. Like teasin' starvin' critters with food they can't reach, if you get me, Miss Brandy."

Bird's eyes widened, then, as Brandy stopped squirming, and instead looked back over her shoulder at the big, sleek-muscled male. Did she hear right? Did Brandy just say...?

"Who says you can't have it?"

It was soft, almost inaudible, but Bird knew her ears weren't playing tricks on her. Brandy's hazel eyes turned suddenly toward Bird, and once more Bird shared secrets without words. For a moment, Brandy's cheeks flushed with shame, knowing that what she'd said on impulse had been heard, fearing rejection for words in the heat of the moment. Then, as the shared look continued, Brandy's cheeks flushed even more deeply, realizing that Bird wasn't judging her like Brandy knew most of the girls at school judged her (with the notable exceptions of Shania and Yoko, both of whom were Brandy's best friends). Instead, Bird's eyes were smoldering with arousal of her own, and the bright light of joy at finding a kindred spirit, of discovering that she wasn't alone after all in her deeply-held passion. Relief flooded into Brandy's body, and she went limp beneath Thunder, tapping the mat lightly even though he hadn't applied any pain pressure yet - she was submitting in a much more far-reaching way, as Molotov, Thunder, and Gregor all knew as they also shared glances, part surprise, part barely-restrained arousal. Humans and morphs? But that was forbidden! All five of the people there knew it, and yet...yet the thought felt so very, very good.

Not far off, Red also tapped the mat as Priss delivered a perfect submission hold on the red-furred vixen. Despite the momentary pain of the hold, however, she was smiling. It was a small, secret smile, and one that Priss failed to notice at all, but it was there all the same, easily visible to those who knew what to look for in the subtle vixen's changing moods.