Vixenscratch

Short stories and serials by Alexandra Herakai

The Kind of Thing That Happens to Other People

It was the sort of thing that happened.

Not to him, oh no, it was most definitely not the sort of thing that happened to him. But to other people. It was the sort of thing that happened, now and again. No big deal. Not even the sort of thing one planned on — especially not the sort of thing he planned on, God forbid! — but just the sort of thing that happened. One thing leading to another, and, well… that sort of thing. Exactly that sort of thing. With other people, of course. Not him.

So how come he was sitting there, in a dimly-lit room of a club he wasn’t quite sure why he’d come to in the first place — it was the sort of place other people went to, not him, after all — with a borderline-skinny roof rat pressed up against his side. This was all the kind of thing that happened to other people. Other people who… went for that sort of thing, he guessed. It wasn’t just that the rat’s fingers were deftly unbuttoning his fly, face betraying less than nothing, not even a whisker twitching out of place. That was the kind of thing that happened to other people, yes, but…

That it was a male rat, strong, near-bald tail winding around and squeezing his fluffy, banded appendage… That was really the kind of thing that happened to other people. He wasn’t even sure how it’d happened; he’d heard of people being slipped things in their drinks at clubs, but that, too, was the kind of thing that happened to someone else. Not him. Besides, he thought he’d kept a pretty good eye on his glass. The only one who could’ve possibly slipped him anything was the bartender. Who’d flirted, sure. (Another of those things that didn’t happen to him.) But he’d shaken his head, and the painted dog — now that was an ironic species name if he’d ever heard one, because the bartender was white without a colored hair on him, at least anywhere he’d been able to see — had seemed to move on, not greatly bothered by the setback, if it had even been one.

“So, Richard, you come here often?” The rat’s teeth grazed one of his ears as he breathed the question out.

He shook his head, mouth too dry to speak, and got a chuckle in return.

“Relax,” came the advice from the black-furred rodent, along with a tender nuzzle to his cheek, right where his mask faded into nothing. “I’ve done this before; long as we’re discreet, nobody’s going to notice a thing.”

He swallowed, ears folding back at the word “we”. He hadn’t been doing anything, had he? Yet, while his left hand reached up to finger the silver cross pendant he wore around his neck, his other arm squeezed the rat against him, craving the touch of the lanky male’s fingers.

The rat obliged, pulling the zipper of his fly the rest of the way down and fishing his half-hard flesh into the open through the fly of his boxers. With a groan, he leaned back, feeling those fingers wrap around him, coaxing his cock, as confused and hesitant as the rest of him, to stand at attention. His eyes slid shut, and even as he squeezed the lean rodent against him, fingers digging into the youth’s side, to his mind’s eye he could almost imagine that rat as a tomboyish girl.

Still that wild punkish haircut with too much gel in it. Still the UV-reactive studs lining the outside edge of those furless round ears. Still the narrow hips — though not as narrow — and the slender build, and a very modest bust.

Something cool touched his cock, was smeared all over it, but it felt good and he arched up into it. With a tsk, the rat grabbed his tie (why had he worn a tie to a night club?) and pulled him in close, pressing the rat’s lips to his and something rigid against his thigh. The kiss tasted like cigarette smoke and the contact further south made the fantasy very difficult to hold on to.

But it felt so good.

The rat’s tail unwound from his, and he thought he picked up the whisper of clasps being undone, the slight rustle of fabric sliding over fur. Then soft-wiry fur brushed over his bare, well-lubricated flesh, and his tip was pressing against… he really wasn’t sure he should be even thinking it. This was not the kind of thing that happened to him. He did not have sex — bareback sex, he wasn’t so confused he wouldn’t have been able to tell a condom was being rolled on — with strangers. He certainly did not have sex with male strangers. And a strange guy, who admittedly could’ve made a really hot girl, in a club, with other people in the room?

It was unthinkable, yet… it was happening.

And it was hard to protest very much, even inwardly, as that tight heat moved down his pole, and the rat squirmed into place on his lap, tail winding around his waist.

One hand, still somewhat slippery with lubricant, grabbed his, brought it to hot, rigid flesh corresponding to his own. Different, sure, yet somehow familiar.

“Fuck me, Richard,” the rat husked, squeezing his hand around that strange cock, a touch thinner than his own.

He fancied he did what any good Christian would.

He obliged.



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