Vixenscratch

Short stories and serials by Alexandra Herakai

Deluge

Judas picked the farthest stall, hanging his towel on the peg across from it and slinking, tail low, behind the partition. His heart was beating against his ribcage as he fumbled with the taps, biting back a cry as ice-cold water rushed down over him. At least it didn’t take long to heat up, and once the water soaking into his fur wasn’t freezing, it wasn’t long until he stopped shivering. With a sigh, he planted his palms on the wall, tile on one side of him and the plastic-or-whatever-it-was partition on the other, and leaned.

He was going to wash up. In a bit. Just had to catch his breath first.

Catch his breath and try to push some unwelcome thoughts out of mind. One of them, some part of him knew, was going to catch up with him in the next couple of minutes. That was, after all, part of the reason why he’d decided to hit the showers now.

His ears flattened partway as the part of him most interested in those illicit thoughts stirred. With an inward growl, one hand reached over and turned the temperature knob, inching the temperature down to where he knew his teeth were going to start clattering if he stayed in too long. A deep breath, and he took a step back, tilting his head up. The water felt colder hitting his black-and-white face, and he almost gasped. Almost.

He was doing a good job of distracting himself; good enough he turned the heat back up around the time he started working soap into his fur without really thinking about it. He’d always liked water.

Not for the first time, he got rougher as his fingers reached the black-spotted golden fur on his back and sides. He hated the way it stood out, garish and attention-grabbing, without remembering when he’d started feeling that way. Maybe he always had. He scratched at the skin underneath until it felt raw, tugged roughly at the offending patches of bright pelt, and let the water rinse the loosened hairs off his palms.

The door opened and shut at the other end of the room, echoing over the tile and startling him. Looking down, a sudsy tuft of gold lay in his hand; he dropped it to the floor and pushed it toward the drain with his foot. Ears straining, he picked up the click of heavy claws against the tile floor over the rush of water.  The polecat’s ears splayed, slightly, as he listened to the steps, steps he knew better than he maybe ought.

This time, he didn’t turn the heat down. He did step into the water, trying to drown out the world by letting it rush down his face, even knowing it wouldn’t work. The hot water stung a little running across the areas he’d treated so roughly, especially the spot on his hip he’d pulled the fur out of when he’d heard the door. It tickled something deep and primal in him as it sluiced down his front, running across bare skin, starting to stretch that skin taut.

The water was nothing compared to the thrill that went down his spine when the first deep notes of some song he’d never heard outside of these showers or his dorm room bounced off the tile. He bit his lip, trying to focus on rinsing suds out of his fur, running his fingers through it to make sure the water caught every trace of soap. Against his conscious will, or at least his better judgement, he let his eyes slide shut. It was easy, too easy, to imagine the fingers working water into his fur weren’t his own, but belonged to the singing youth a few stalls over.

And that thought was enough that cold water probably wouldn’t help. Another thrill ran through him, excitement mixed with a tinge of shame, a grain of disgust, as he realized there was no way he could leave the room and remain decent without indulging the desire that, hard and ready, was nagging for attention between his thighs.

One of his hands found the wall for support, while the other rubbed his chest, lifting his fur.

It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t bring himself to linger, to enjoy the feeling of the hand he was pretending wasn’t his running over his body; for one brief, delirious moment he almost begged out loud for the singing bear to touch him, before he caught himself. His fingers wrapped around hard, needy flesh, and a shiver ran through him, making his head sag and forcing his breath out of his lungs. The music that wasn’t his kind of music at all sang in his blood, and his blood sang in his ears, as the water pounded down over his back and his fist flew along his cock.

Behind his closed eyelids, it was the bear’s hand squeezing and stroking his bare skin, relentlessly herding him towards the slippery precipice of climax, the sung foreign words that in reality were directed at nobody becoming throaty encouragements urging him along on that road of no return. He let it guide him, hurry him along, until he was rushing headlong off that cliff.

His hand slipped against the tile as his knees buckled under him, and he just barely didn’t wrench his tail as he sat down on the floor, panting. The water rushing down over him washed away the evidence of his transgression, and only when he heard claws clicking on the floor did he realize the singing had stopped.

“Judas? That you?”

He nodded, realized the bear was still out of sight behind the nearest partition, and squeezed out a feeble, breathless “yes.”

“You alright? Did you slip or something?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Uh, thanks.” His voice was sounding more normal for each breath he took, thank goodness. With some effort – his legs still trembled a little – he stood back up. “I just… My mind wandered off and I forgot to stay straight.”

“Oh, alright. Sorry for bothering you.”

Behind the safety of the partition, Judas smiled, and whispered: “You’re not a bother at all.”



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