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Five in the morning comes really fast sometimes. I think the clock can tell how happy you are to be sleeping and it puts a bit of speed on just to make sure you're not ready when it starts annoying you out of whatever fine, fine dream you might be in the middle of. For me it was that one about the wrestling camp with the fine young sliver of a cat who needs a bit of extra help stretching out. Mmmm, those were good days. It's a shame about the restraining order, but some parents just don't understand.

As much as I'd like to, I can't spend all day sitting in bed jerking off to fantasies. It's a school day after all and I don't miss them when I don't have to. Maybe it's work ethic, maybe it's dedication, maybe it's not getting smacked with a belt by my father. Whatever it is, I peel all six feet of my delicious dark self out of the sheets and let the chill of the morning air hit. People might tell you minks have thick pelts and they're not entirely making stuff up. But there's nothing quite as piercing as that first little draft after flipping the blankets back. It'll make every creature up to a polar bear have themselves a shiver as they pad out to the bathroom for a piss and a brush.

The mirror is like a lover after a good night trying to shatter the bed, complimenting all the right notes as it whispers in my ear about just how perfect I happen to be--toned, trimmed, wonderful long hair, and just enough lines to let anyone staring know that yes, I work out. Boy, look at that body, tail curved out over an ass you could bounce a quarter off, swishing like a flag that just cries out 'Smitty, baby, you are delicious.' It's enough that I'm half hard just thinking about it. Of course, half hard for me is all the way for a lot of men, but most of them can't say they're carrying around fourteen full inches of ass-stretching, spunk-churning dick between two thighs that ripple and twitch with every step they take. It's kind of a curse, really. My bro Mitch and I spend more cash on getting our pants tailored than any guy my age really has the right to.

I know, I know, I sound like a complete narcissist, but I work to be this creature of loveliness, and I don't just mean paying for nice clothes and getting groomed now and again. Muscles don't just happen, unless you're one of those lucky sons of bitches who just come out of the womb bristling with 'em. Honest truth is I'd rather work for them. It's my reward for dragging up at the asscrack of dawn and giving up pizza and chicken for white proteins and counting carbs. (Not that white protein, you perv. Not that I don't indulge...) Lifting up those arms and making that runner's chest pull up tight, pecs strong, belly so solid...it's a gift to me and those around me. The gift that just keeps on giving.

The house is completely dark as I slip downstairs to the kitchen. The sun's starting to crack over the horizon but it'll be another couple of hours before Mom wakes up to get my little sisters ready for the school bus, so for now it's just me and the quiet shadows having breakfast together--a couple of quick eggs with a bit of lean steak tossed together for a good protein burst pitched in a tortilla. I'll have a proper breakfast when I get back from my run, when mom's got the pans going and the juice flowing.

I take my starter on the back patio, standing against the glass doors as naked as the day I came into the world, sipping at some kind of fruit juice Mom picked up at the organic food shop. The sun hasn't burned off the brisk morning air yet. It makes my muscles tense up. They know it's almost time to go to work and they're getting antsy. I can't say I'm not feeling a little anxious to get going myself. Impatient, bristling with energy, practically crackling with it. These legs want to pump. I'm gonna let them get as much as they can stand.

Back inside I toss the plate in the sink and suck in a deep breath, letting my lungs expand as I warm back up just a little. There's an odd spice to the air, something distinctly male, and I let myself have a little giggle--I know what a horny man smells like, and that happens to smell like two of them, with my mother tucked right in the middle like the hot meat in your sandwich. It's like one of those crime shows in my head as I puzzle out who, where, and what was getting done. But, pout, they didn't stay down in the living room for very long. But oh, there was a zebra? Mother's branching out a little bit. I'll have to see if she walks funny when I get home...

Back upstairs to my room to get ready. As much as I would enjoy a jog in the buff through the streets of suburbia it just simply isn't meant to be--the authorities frown on it, of course, but there's also the small matter of going for several miles with your prick slapping off your thighs. Ladies, you'd never have a serious run with your breasts bouncing all over the place. Same thing for us gifted guys--it might look impressive but all you get is bruises and maybe a pulled groin for your efforts. So the double layer of shorts are as much a necessity for decency as it is for my own personal comfort: one pair keeps the boys from getting too much action, and the other tries to make it look like I'm not smuggling a cantaloupe in my crotch.

That's it for my ensemble, though. I'm not one o those soft-pawed types who needs a pair of shoes to keep from scratching up their delicate pads. And as for a shirt, what sort of idiot would cover up a work of art like that? I would never dare hide my abs from the world. Let them see what black has to offer. Oh. Sorry, I'm getting full of myself again.

It's half past the hour, and finally I'm on my way out the door. It opens just before I get the knob turned, and I have to step back and crane my head a little to catch the eyes of my father, the man who insists we call him 'sir' in those rare moments we get a chance to talk. Now I'm no shrimp, you already know that much. But the mink in the well-worn coveralls with the 'Shaughnessy' patch over one side of his broader-than-broad chest makes me feel like I need stilts to even say hi. Pop's a good eight feet tall and thick with muscles under the blue fabric that he could double as a barbarian just as easily as a mechanic. And hung, bulging out of the crotch of that poor work uniform obscenely. I'll admit it--I've checked my own father out. When he comes home, his jumpsuit unzipped to just above his navel, smelling like sweat and motor oil and testosterone...it's intoxicating, and suddenly my shorts don't fit well anymore.

I hear him huff out a breath and suddenly I'm back in the living room again. "Ya gonna move, boy, or do I have ta shift ya?" I step back and he strides in, crouching under the doorframe without even paying me a second notice. "Headin' out for another run, Ronan?" I can hear him in the kitchen banging in the fridge, looking for his beer and probably something to eat before he catches some sleep.

"Yes, sir. I was just about to get to it."

I can feel his eyes crawl over me as he came back into the room. Carefully he dropped himself onto a couch, making the frame creak under his bulk. "Dressed like that? Ya look right ridiculous, boy."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. We'd had this conversation nearly every morning for the past few years--he didn't understand showing off, and I couldn't comprehend not putting the artistry on display. But turning all snotty on him would just make things so much worse, and I might end up going to class with a sore backside, and not in the good way. I couldn't imagine how it would be to come out to him...but that was something I'd worry about later. Much later.

Shaughnessy shook his mighty head. "Eh. Kids. I dunno why I try t'understand ya. If ya wanna strut aboot in yer underwear, s'yer business. Git."

I was out the door before he could start his second before. Father wasn't much of a talker, and when he said 'git' he meant it. He might sound like a leprechaun, but he hit like an Irish car bomb.

The morning was perfect. The sun was just starting to break through the clouds, the air was warming up nicely, and the mist off the lawns and bushes made everything crisp and cool and damp. And I was running. It might sound like my favorite thing to do all day is talk about myself and have a lot of sex with pretty boys, but that's just what I do when I'm not running. Before I said I worked hard to keep myself looking like a god, and that's true. There's the thrill in using it, too, in making it better and harder and stronger and faster. Being able to go for miles without breathing hard is a hell of a reward. I'm not just perfect looking, I'm perfect _inside_too. You can't do better than that--I dare you to try. A good, hard run is like having sex. You even have to shower after you're done.

What for me is a 'light run' is a seven mile route that weaves through houses and streets all through our little part of paradise. I've been running this same route for almost a year now and I know it and all its people by heart. They're printed in my mind as part of the routine. At first, it's quiet. There's nothing but the sound of my feet against the pavement to keep me company while people keep on sleeping until they're annoyed into getting out of bed, just like me. It's calming to have nothing but the sound of a few birds and dogs trying to tell me to be somewhere else.

Around the first mile and a half in, the other morning people start to join me. The air's warmer now, the sun pushing the shadows away. Mostly they're just people waking up and going through their routines--the beagle on South Street who stops to read his paper on the porch while sipping his coffee; the kids another block over who come out and wave at me (even as their mother fights the urge to cover their eyes--don't think I don't see you staring, honey); and the bulldog who rolls up his garage as I pass, wheels out his motorcycle, and heads the other direction towards the city.

At mile three I'm joined by Dennis. The older jay doesn't run with me every day. His heart just won't let him, but he gives it his best shot. We've talked a little about his heart attack and his ex-wife, but we keep it strictly light and friendly. Neither one of us are looking to be close personal friends. I help him out with his form sometimes, and he's come a really long way since I first met him--back then, he could barely keep up for a few blocks without gasping for breath. But now, the bird almost gives me a run for my money for a good solid mile before he fades back. Maybe I shouldn't take credit for it, but I'm proud of him getting himself back together. He's confident, he's strong...hell, I'd swear even his feathers are bluer!

But before I can even say something, our time's up, and he needs to turn back towards his house before he runs out of steam. He gives me a tilt of his head and I hear him chirp softly at me. It's a sort of coded offer: I've helped him get back into shape, and in return he'll lift his tailfeathers and let me have a quick go at his tight ass, or maybe he'll give me the most fantastic feather-finger handjob you'll ever get. It's impersonal. We're not in love, we're not in a relationship. We're just a couple of friends with extra benefits.

I shake my head. Not today, it says. Maybe I've got other plans or I don't have the time. He doesn't ask because he doesn't need to know. Instead, Dennis just nods and smiles with his eyes, turning left and heading back the way he came. I give myself just that one minute to watch his feathers sway over his ass as he goes. Birds just can't stop flirting even when they're not trying--it's the plumage, I guess. My boyfriend's a red bird, and let me tell you--he can work those flight muscles...

I'm up to the halfway point, and I turn around a house to start moving back home. It barely feels like I've really gone very far, but it's an illusion. I'm sweaty, soaked partway through my pelt, and I can feel my lips getting dry and hot. A quick sip from my hip solves that problem, leaving just the feeling of warm muscles starting to reach a slow roasting burn. It's 6:30 now, and the world is awake all around me. Suburban life starts early--gotta get warmed up and ready to pull off that terrible commute into the city. And for every car that moves down the perfectly maintained roadway, there's someone moving around inside. Maybe they're picking up after breakfast or laying it down for the kids. Some of them are just getting home from an overnight shift at some dumpy warehouse or that dinky convenience store down on the corner. I don't know who they are or what they're doing.

What I do know is they're looking at me. Every foot I go forward, there's another pair of eyes on me, watching my toned chest flex, sweat dripping off it. Or maybe it's my ass they're focused on as my tail flags out behind me, those tightly wrapped up glutes working just as hard as my thighs and calves to keep me moving. I'm sure someone's checking out my package as it bounces along like a metronome, keeping time. I've already got the high off the run, and now it's time to get the second high of being a sex object for people to drool over, to dream about when they're alone. Maybe I only like men but there's nothing wrong with knowing I'm making some housewife grind her thighs together in frustration because she can't have me. Is that so bad?

Six miles. The neighborhood's bustling with life now. Busses are moving through and picking up kids. Not a one of 'em seems confused or concerned by the half naked Adonis striding by. I probably don't even register on their radar, and that's fine. They don't really come up on mine either, so it's a fair arrangement. It's good to get them out of the picture--between the eyes and the endorphins I'm as hard as a telephone pole in my shorts, my cock pinched down my inner shorts leg and held firmly in place. I had these things perfectly sized so I wouldn't end up just sort of hanging out on the street--enough to hint, not enough to show. This is all tease, pure and simple.

Six and a half. The final push is on now. I'm starting to wear thin a little; it might from half my blood is in my lap instead of my lungs, I'm not sure. The locals are more forward now, sitting out on their porches or standing by the sidewalk to watch me pass. Most try to be subtle about it, like the guy 'watering his lawn'. I know you've been standing at that same spot for twenty minutes and anyone with two eyes can see what you're doing in your pajama pants. Your patience is going to be rewarded with a wink and a little pucker before the luscious mink vanishes into the distance yet again. Maybe you'll do better tomorrow, but don't bet on it.

Others are just damned brazen about it, catcalling or shouting things they'd like to do to me or have done to them while I jog by. Have a little dignity, people; I'm not some street hooker wandering by who answers to 'let me suck your cock, please' or 'nice ass, chocolate boy'. Some folk just have no respect for the game of sexual tension.

Three more blocks before I'm home again. I stride smoothly past a lovely two story house with a garden the size of a small apartment. The fox tending to it rises up as she picks up my footsteps, wandering up to her picket fence, adjusting her hat over her hair and tracing her tongue over her muzzle slowly. One hand snakes under her skirt, hiking it, flashing a bare pussy at me in the kind of offer you just can't misunderstand.

I shake my head as I slip past, and hold my hand out in front me, wrist bent limply. Even out of sight I can hear her cursing, shouting all kind of slurs in my direction at a volume that no decent woman would ever use. Am I hurt? When she comes up with an insult about my sexual tastes that I haven't heard a million times already, I might find a minute in my day to be offended, but not now.

Two more blocks. The people here know me personally. They're friends and neighbors, people we've met at block parties and softball games. Most of them know better than to try and get my attention for a quick roll in the hay, so they sit back and just watch with smiles and waves, erections and hands between their thighs. It's a good place to live--low crime, free love.

Last block. I stop for a moment and catch my breath, taking another hit off my water bottle, smiling to myself. When I told Dennis I didn't have time for a fuck I was serious--I already had plans made, and I try not to break them. The house was nothing spectacular--a modest affair with a few plants, a nice car in the driveway, just nicely kept in general. But if you didn't know anything about it, it would just be another house in the suburban sprawl.

I slipped around the side and jumped over the fence into the back yard. It was just the same as the rest of the house--well-kept but mundane. There was no fantastic pool or massive garden. The one tree was just some common thing that shaded part of the yard and added a little privacy. Nothing to write home about anywhere in sight, except maybe me, but I wasn't a resident--no statues of minks to be found here.

Before I took another step, I stopped, hidden in the shadows of the fence and the house. I'm sure that between my fur and the shade I was practically invisible. That's exactly how I wanted it. Off came the outer shorts, followed by my lycra inners, letting the boner I'd been carrying with me for the past half-hour bounce up against my pelvis with a web slap. I had to moan at the feeling of actual air against my cock, the air hitting the sweaty flesh like an air conditioner, making my whole body shiver as the dark black monolith throbbed and dripped. The tight grip of elastic had kept it in check as I ran, but that was all gone now, blood rushing into the head and making it swell with lust. I wouldn't last too long; had to get this over with, but not here in the corner.

I pulled the loose nylon shorts back on, shoving my cock down the leg to try and hold it down. It looked ridiculous, the fabric tented up hard along the length and the hem pulled up. Only a blind man or a complete idiot would miss it. Sucking in two deep breaths to calm my heartrate down just a little, I took a step into the sunlight, squinting a little as I let my eyes adjust, sipping my water bottle gingerly, letting my prick bounce as I put my back against the fence and sunned my chest.

There he was at his window, right on cue, just like clockwork. Two wide eyes watched me from the corner of the window frame, peeking like a kid spying on Santa Claus. Of everyone around he was the most interesting to me, the one who wouldn't just come right out and ogle me but who insisted that he hide like it was some kind of secret shame. For over a year now I'd slipped into the rabbit's back yard and performed for him. Not once in all those times had we ever exchanged a single word. I didn't even know his name or what he looked like other than those cute floppy ears of his that bounced when he panted...

I shook my water bottle in my hands. There was only a little left sloshing around in the bottom, enough for one good swallow. I popped the cap open, lifting the bottle over my head and pouring the remnants over my head, letting it soak into my hair and down through my chest fur, leaving it matted and streaked. Back went my head, washing a bit of water over my face with a theatrical sigh before it finally ran out. A quick shake of my head sent my long, perfectly styled hair floating out to each side, flinging away little drops; a palm slid down over my abdominals and pelvis, the 'girdle' showing over the top of my strained running shorts like a trail leading straight to the base of my cock.

The waistband went down, caught under both thumbs, teasing the length just a breath at a time before the yellow fabric couldn't hold the beast back any further and I felt the smack of hot mink cock against my belly for the second time in as many minutes. One fist wrapped around the base and squeezed tight, starting the first stroke up to the crown, twisting as the beads of precome got snagged between my fingers. I didn't really want to rush things, but I didn't have the time for a full-on show, not when I needed to be home and off to class.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. The hand was a professionally smooth operator, well experienced at nursing dicks into spurting all over the floor or the wall or maybe even all over me. My other fingers coaxed other spots along my arching body, twisting a nipple before sliding south to cup my bouncing nuts in my palm with a squeeze that made me suck breathe between my teeth and bite down on my lip to keep from moaning too loud. Now would be a terrible time to spoil the mood by getting other people involved.

With a roll of my shoulders I pushed myself off the fence and adjusted my feet, wobbling a little as I fought to get balance. As much as it was performance art, this really did feel amazing after such a hard workout (yeah, that way too) and the mix of exercise hormones and lusty ones were making my head swim. Turning around, I slapped one palm against the wood to hold myself up, bending forward at the waist and hiking my tail as high as it would go, letting my shorts fall down to my ankles and stepping out of them. I knew exactly what my little voyeur buddy could see up there--two wide black balls bouncing like balloons under the tightest, firmest ass this side of a porn star, framing my perfect asshole as I jerked myself with all the energy I could find, leaving streaks of clear pre on the boards. Stroke after stroke, thrusting into my fist, making sure to hold my prick down low enough that the rabbit would get an eyeful of that, just enough to tease and keep him begging for more.

I couldn't help myself. I was worked into a lather by this point, my fingers positively soaked through with my own run-off almost down to the wrists. I was horny like I hadn't been in forever, just from this stranger watching me work myself over. I winked at him with my pucker, leaning forward until I could grab my ankles, barely holding myself back from just turning around and inviting myself into his house. No, I had to have something inside me, and I had to have it now. I wouldn't get off until I did.

I grabbed the empty water bottle off the ground and licked over the top, slickening it as best I could with spit and precome, making it shine in the early morning sun. The entire first inch slid into my mouth, tonguing the surface like a cock, slobbering over the surface as drool trickled down my chin. I'd started to lose myself to pleasure, popping the bottle out of my lips with a gasp of breath.

Turned around again with legs spread, I rolled the cap of the bottle around my ass, teasing the twitching ring with one hand, the other coaxing two fingertips carefully around, making sure everything was as slippery as I could. I made a quick mental note to bring lube next time, just barely getting the thought finished before I pressed the cap in.

The moan was more exaggerated than it needed to be. I'd certainly had my fair share of large lovers back there, and a regular plastic water bottle didn't compete with most of them. (I'll tell you about the time my best friend Mitch got drunk...another time.) But right now it was the best lover I could think of. Every ring and indentation made me grunt and groan like some sort of beast, until I sank as much of the plastic into my ass as I thought I could. Thank god they made them with wide bases or I might have actually ended up in some kind of trouble.

I let the animal take over. My fist pumped my cock with as much speed as I could muster, a blur of slick sounds and churning fluids, while I ground my tight hole against the bottle, claws sunk into the surface as I fought to drag it back out. It was like a two-part sexual harmony--when the bottle was out, fingers tightened and clenched on the cockhead, squeezing blood into it, the veins standing out in every inch. On the other beats, when my improvised anal intruder sank home and threatened my prostate, I let my length free, flinging streamers all over the grass. I wondered how the plants would grow if you watered them with mink instead of Miracle-Gro...

I couldn't hold it back. I was out of resistance. I'd clenched my abs until there wasn't anything more to give, and my willpower faded like the end of a song on the radio. The first shot of come actually startled me, jetting out before I was completely aware I'd climaxed, spattering along the side of my cheek, and dripping down to my shoulder. More followed right behind it, a half-dozen streaks of pure mink jism arcing through the air and landing in the manicured suburban grass. I couldn't stop pumping my cock as it blew off, smearing my own seed down the shaft and into the fur on my crotch, leaving it a sticky, matted mess.

My footing gave, and I stumbled, barely letting the bottle drop to the ground before I landed on my backside amongst half-hearted petunias and a handful of weeds. Now out of stamina, my arms fell limply to the sides, the last few shots of baby formula trickling down to pool around my exhausted balls. I sat there for just a minute, wishing I hadn't wasted my water on the first part of my routine--I was really thirsty now.

With a quick glance at my watch, I realized I needed to book it and fast or I wouldn't have time to shower before my ride got to the house. Quickly I grabbed my shorts and without a moment's thought wiped the worst of the jizz off my body with them, wincing as I realized what I'd done. I paused, grinned every so lightly and ever so devilishly to myself, and got up, leaving the yellow things behind on the ground. I wondered just what my 'fan' would do with them...

Twenty minutes later I was home, showered, and dressed in my uniform. After being almost entirely naked for my run, the layers of cotton and polyester were damned uncomfortable, constricting things in all kind of ways. My ass was a little sore to boot from being filled with a substitute sex toy. I'd have to plan better next time.

I went downstairs and slipped behind my stepmother, giving her a squeeze around the waist. Mom had died a long time back, when I was really little, and Pop had married Jocasta. She was something else, one of those wild dogs from Africa, and sometimes it was a pain to understand her accent. But she loved me like she'd had me, and that's all I could ask for. I could have lived without the half-sisters, though.

"Don't sneak up on me, Smitty. Not when I got a knife!" She laughed and waved her kitchen knife around in mock-anger.

There was a honk outside. "Oh, crap, Mitch is here. Sorry, Mom, I gotta run!" I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and grabbed a protein bar out of the cabinet before running out the door, ignoring her complaints that I needed to learn to eat a proper breakfast.

"Hey, man. Your stepmom's bein' a bitch again?" Mitch and I had been friends since we were kids. He'd helped me deal with being gay, I'd helped him learn how to wrestle, and the two of us had fucked enough times to write a book about it. Yeah, you got that in your head now--a muscular wrestler lion ramming his cock up the ass of his best friend, the mink cross-country runner with the great thighs. It's like Hercules buttfucking Adonis. We'll probably bang at school. But you won't get to see--private party, invitations only. Very Important Penises, you gotta understand.

I punched him in the shoulder. "Hey, I don't call your mom a slut anymore, don't call mine a bitch."

Mitch tossed his mane back over his shoulder. God, he needed to get to a groomer--that thing had come in like a hurricane when his hormones flared up. "My mom _is_a slut, though. She's screwing everyone on the block." It was true--Carolla Maynard would screw any one. She'd hit on me so many times I had bruises. But Mr. Maynard knew and didn't care, so who's going to tell them they can't have that kinda marriage? Ain't gonna be me.

"So man, you going home early? Coach Arbuckle'll probably let us out of Shop again if we offer to do extra shit at practice."

Mitch shook his head and hard. "You fuckin' kidding, Smitty? It's Thursday, man."

I'd forgotten. That was Trig with Miss Clarice. Mitch was _hard_for that woman, but he couldn't tell her. Sigh. Straight men. It was gonna be a long day...