This isn’t good.
VIR Day -25.
Upstairs at Titan’s Pub, Johannes von Ackerman was lying on one of the old mattresses with a small woman lying on him with her head snuggled into his chest fluff, and another equally small woman was sleeping to his left clutching his hand into her bosom. The little one on top of him was talking to him about how much she loved him and how she wanted to move in with him and how she wanted to marry him and how she wanted to have his babies and how this and that and this and that and this and that. Johan brushed her thick, blonde hair with his fingers, halfway listening to her and looking out of the window at all of the stars he could see, which was only two blue giants and the planet Venus. The small fan in the corner was blowing cool air at them and the street light just below the window sill was casting just enough residual light through its cover to fill the room with soft, dim, yellow light. He turned his head and looked at the vixen on top of him that was still frayed from their romp, the light making her eyes twinkle warmly. Her deep vermillion fur looked red and her cute coffee colored stockings looked black.
He turned his head to the left and looked at the little grey wolf girl who was loving on his hand. In the shadow cast by the vixen and himself she looked completely black with a dark grey tuxedo running down her belly and cheeks and neck and breasts and on the insides of her thighs that was actually a white tuxedo. Her tail was longer than his and it poked between her legs to wrap around his, a sort of gesture that showed affection between two wolves that had developed into a display that all Furs could use to show love in a small way. Her black hair was mostly behind her head and trapped under her shoulder. Her nipples and vulva were still stimulated after her ride the previous hour, and Johan was still stuck inside the vixen, waiting for her vaginal muscles to relax and let go of him… a precarious situation in the event of a fire.
He stroked the vixen’s back with his free hand and she began doing what he called ‘cooing,’ which was little noises of an amazing variety formulating within a given woman’s throat but by the time the moan or groan got out it was more of a sigh or a ‘humph’ sound than anything. Gasps were common when one stroked the female’s belly and the insides of their thighs. Scratching the back of the ears and the chin often more than not elicited an adoring ohh, as could a fast rub along the flanks or a circular motion on the butt. Using just the side of your thumbs on the small of the lower back usually caused certain Furs to purr or growl, and using the same technique with little circular motions on her cheeks, which are kind of hard to find on some Furs, made them breathe deep. Cupping her breasts and squeezing them very gently wouldn’t make her make a noise per se, but if you were behind her she would usually butt her head back into you and nuzzle you if you were in front of her.
If she allowed him to, Johan would put his hands between her legs and use his fingers to stroke her vulva to stimulation. Most people knew him as a gentle giant, and females who had been at the mercy of his hands knew of the true meaning behind the term that was applied to him. Most women who had succumb to their heart’s will were treated to a male who did exactly what his female asked of him, and that generally meant not rushing strait into sex after getting to either her house or his OLQ room at the base. Johan didn’t dive straight into her with his hands, he stroked her unstimulated, closed vulva until she was comfortable with the idea of a large man playing with her lady parts so gently, and even then he waited for her to give him the go ahead to move between her lips instead of ‘stroking the cowls,’ as a female pilot once called it. It was one of the highlights of an evening with him.
He looked around the largely undecorated room for no particular reason, perhaps to keep himself from making eye contact with the girl who was still talking about marrying him and having babies with him. His boots, shirt, pants, and socks were all piled in the corner nearest to the door, he must have tossed them over there, but they were so tidy and well organized that the vixen might have set them up while she was waiting for her turn. The room was painted beige but the paint was cracking where the walls met the ‘popcorn’ ceiling and also where the brown liners on the floor covered the wall. The floor was carpeted with something big and puffy and blue; so thick that a small child could get lost in it for hours. He looked back over at the wolf girl.
Her eyes were open now, just a crack, but enough for their retina to glow a slightly yellow color that Johan found quite creepy and even more so beautiful. She took the hand she had been cradling and brought it up to her muzzle and began to nibble on his fingertips, mindful of the large, black claws that protruded from them. He looked back at the vixen, who had decided to let go of him. He slipped himself out of her and a gush of his and her mess flowed out of her and made contact with the bed, his thighs, and her tail.
That’ll be nice to scrub out…
She rolled off of him and lay on her back next to the wolf, which promptly let go of his hand and focused her more immediate attention on cleaning the mess in between her friend’s legs. Johan sat up and swung his legs over the threshold of the bed, placing his feet firmly on the floor. He stood up, walked over to the other side of the bed, bent down, placed his left hand on the wolf girl’s shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Be nice to her,” he whispered,” she’s had a pretty eventful night.”
He stood back upright and pulled on his boxers. He went over to the door and opened it, poked his head outside, looked both ways, stepped out, hung a right, and headed right for the bathroom for a shower. As a wolf, Johan needed a shower after just about everything that involved making love even if he didn’t do any of the work. He reeked of sex, and it not only bothered others with a heightened sense of smell, but it bothered him too, just as much if not more. He walked along the long, beige hallway with the two locked doors on the right and the three doorless rooms on the left, the bathroom at the very end with its door cracked open and its light on. He stepped inside, closed the door, and turned the water on to as hot as he could stand, got his boxers off, and went to work on getting the sex smell off.
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Miller heard it before James did. A peculiar thump sound upstairs, followed by a series of a few more and a hard wump against a door or a wall. James looked at Miller curiously.
What was that?
“I have no idea,” said Miller.
He stood up and walked along over to the door that led upstairs, into which Johan had disappeared almost three hours before. James came up behind him.
“What think, Millie?”
“Maybe the Luftennant is a rough guy after all…”
James shrugged his shoulders, the movement exaggerated slightly by his big leather coat. Miller looked back at the door, debating with himself at weather or not he wanted to incur the wrath of a male wolf more than seven feet tall and over three-hundred pounds who had been interrupted during an intensely sexual moment. Miller took the risk; opening the door slowly but deliberately.
He didn’t need to go upstairs to see what had happened because what had happened was pretty damn obvious. Luftennant Johannes von Ackerman had always been light and agile on his feet, a man with good balance despite most of his bulk being above a line drawn three and a half feet above the ground. Miller never thought that the young man he respected and saw as his own flesh and blood in some small way would ever be able to trip over his own tail. But that is what Miller saw.
Johan was sprawled on his back with his legs still on the third step, his head jammed up against the door frame, and both of his arms drawn-in to his sides with his hands making little orbits above his chest. Blood was frothing at his nostrils from where he had probably hit his head on the way down, he had two big cuts on his hands that Miller could see, and a big patch of fur on his right shoulder was starting to discolor from a superficial bruise. He was breathing a little heavily and he opened his eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” said Miller, exasperated.
“Miller,” said Johan,” …you’ve gotten taller.”
Miller ignored him and grabbed his shoulders.
“James, get his legs.”
They picked Johan up and carried him to the best light in the bar, the blue neon tubes that lined the bar shelves that held the mugs. They set him on the bar and it creaked with his weight. James went back behind the counter and turned the neons all the way up, casting a ghostly haze on the rest of the room and flooding the counter with luminescence.
“What the hell are you all about?” asked Johan, talking funny because of a swollen lip.
Shut up,” said Miller.
James got a bottle of one-hundred-twenty proof whiskey and opened it. He poured a generous measure into a shot glass and handed it to Miller.
“It’s pretty simple,” said James,” we need you to down this and tell us exactly what happened to you. Understand?”
“What the hell are you all about?” asked Johan again.
“Just down it, Luftennant!!”
Miller tilted Johan’s upper body up and put the shot glass at his lips and Johan slurped at the amber liquid loudly with his bum lips. He finished the little glass of happy juice and lay back down and started to tell Miller and James what happened.“Alright ten,” he said,” I was up ther jus’ a min’it ago wiff ‘dem girls and we was been all lovey dovey… man, dey bof ‘ave great asses’s’s’s. Well anyways, I git up ‘an walk down da’ hallway up ther to take a shaer to get that sex type smell off of meh, and when I’m all done up ther I get dressed and ‘cide to come ‘n down ere.”
He reached for the bottle of booze that was sitting a few inches from his head and James poured him another one so that Miller could feed it to him. He was a mess. He had trouble staying up to drink.
“So I come on down ‘da hallway ‘an I git to ‘da stairs and stat commin’ on down ‘an befo I’m even ’af wey down ma’ tail git’s all caught up between ma’ legs ‘an KER’ POW!!!! ‘Ere I am…”
James and Miller exchanged looks of extreme concern and looked back down at Johan.
“I still don’t see what ‘da big deel is,” said Johan,” I only whacked ‘ma ‘ed, ther’s nofin’ to worry abaout.”
Miller shook his head,” Luftennant, think about what you just said.”
Johan thought for a few minutes, the headache and slight inebriation making it hard for him to think at a high level like he was accustomed to doing. That and not being able to focus his eyes on Miller to answer the question. Then the thought hit him like a train. Trouble thinking at a higher level… hit his head… trouble focusing his vision. This wasn’t good.
“Miller,” said Johan, suddenly overcoming the puffy-lip talk,” what the fuck is wrong with my eyes? Why can’t I see you clearly?”
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Roger and Malcolm surveyed the superficial damage to their power car with a pair of large LED lamps that must have weighed as much as two semi-tractor/trailers. But for the unreasonably heavy batteries they put a lot of light and it helped them see everything that they needed to. Roger was on the wireless headset relaying computer information which was displayed on a handheld LCD pad back to central for a basic status report. Malcolm was actually under the locomotive checking how well the brake pads stood up to the two-hundred mile per hour panic-stop and also talking to central about readily apparent repairs.
On the adjacent track the long refer train was stopped after having crushed the tiny car about as flat as a pancake and its own crew was doing work similar to Roger and Malcolm. The trains were stopped so that the three mid-train helper locomotives, big Reynard Class F-4A-DELs, were parallel to the first power car, the baggage car, and the head end power car; two men from the locomotives had gotten out and volunteered to help them and had been politely turned down by Roger and they had started heading towards the head of their own train. Roger and Malcolm didn’t need two diesel boys to be playing around with electricity, at least not right then.
A surprise had occurred earlier when they had the train stopping and Roger got up to go get the big LED flashlights from the tool kit in the engine compartment. The door had opened before he got to it and a female dressed in dark grey BDUs and a campaign hat under her arm had entered the cab like she was the owner of the train and wanted to bitch at someone. She didn’t bitch; she nodded her head at Roger and then asked if she was right in assuming that he and Malcolm were the operators of the train. They were, and they asked her what she was doing in the cab, also mentioning that she was in violation of JC&H Rule 92.1.2 which stated that no passenger was allowed in the cab of any train ever. She said that she needed a status report and also told them not to worry about losing their jobs or anything because according to the train’s computer she was Myla T. Schneider, an employee of the JC&H.
After the train had stopped Malcolm, Roger, and the female disembarked through one of the doors on the left side, the woman completely ignoring the sunk-in steps and shrouded, yellow grab-irons literally front-flipping out of the door and sticking her landing. She dawned her hat as Malcolm filled her in on the basic version of what happened, the woman not interested in Roger’s technical speak. After getting the report, she walked to one of the other train’s helpers and found the crank-to-talk telephone and talked for about two minutes with someone who clearly wasn’t central. Then a fucking military helicopter showed up from the direction of Paris, made a quick and elegant descent, landed on the tracks ahead of the ICE-X train set, picked up the woman who dawned a headset and grabbed the collective, and took off again all within a matter of thirty seconds or so.
A helicopter? Who can just call in a helicopter from anywhere?
“Who the hell was she?” asked Malcolm, emerging from under the train.
Roger shrugged his shoulders,” I don’t know, dude.”
“She seemed so familiar,” continued Malcolm,” like I’ve seen her on TV or heard her on the radio or something, ja?"
Roger, who didn’t watch television and only listened to classical music stations, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to scroll the LCD screen with his thumb.
“Central has re-routed trains to and from London and Paris over the Flanders Coastal route to the Chunnel,” said Roger,” we’ll have about four hours before regular traffic continues along this line.”
“Flanders Coastal is an odd choice,” said Malcolm,” A winding line like that? Seventy cars maximum, two locomotives at each end, maximum speed of fifty mile per hour… if I was central I’d re-route them over Myer’s Overland. Flat, gentle curves… it’d handle that refer train behind you doing ninety no problem.”
Roger hocked something out of his throat,” Myer’s Overland is undergoing major tie replacements throughout most of its length. That refer train behind me would be doing ninety through the few spots with concrete ties, sixty through the huge areas of wooden tied tracks, and no more than a walking pace through all of the construction zones.”
Roger looked up from his screen at Malcolm who was staring back at him.
“Okay mister ‘I know everything that’s going on with the railroad at this given moment.’” Malcolm joked, not really expecting Roger to respond,” how many work zones are there on Myer’s Overland?”
Malcolm walked over to the open door of the power car to get out a few graphite rods to put in the locomotive’s forward truck when Rodger said,” Forty-two; seven of them overlapping and two of them being ‘proceed with permission from a ground crew employee only’ zones.”
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Johannes von Ackerman woke up on a mattress that felt like it was stuffed with barbed wire with something wet on his face that was covering his eyes. He reached his hand up to his face and touched whatever it was and it dribbled lukewarm water down his face with an obligatory squishy noise that could have given someone the wrong impression of what was happening in the room. He put his hand back down next to him on the bed. Something warm was on his chest and he used his other hand to explore what it was.
It was a small, lithe arm that extended from his sixth or seventh rib on his left side to his clavicle on his right side where he found a small, delicate hand complete with five fingers and small claws. At the other end he found the lithe arm connected to a body that was lain on its side with its breast squished into his flank. From the arm he explored upwards and found a neck and a lower jaw that was pressed into his own neck with a wet nose pressed into his own jaw, like whoever it was had fallen asleep while nuzzling him adoringly.
He grasped the arm tenderly and moved it off of his chest, laying it in a fashion so that when he got up, whoever it was wouldn’t fall over on their face. He sat up slowly, a throbbing in his head starting up when he was halfway there, got his legs over the edge and the wet, squishy mass fell to the floor with an audible, wet thump. He stood slowly, the pace of the throbbing quickening, and he took in enough visual information to know that he was in the room that had previously been host to him and his two lovey girls. He walked out of the room and into the hallway, heading for the bathroom, which had the light on and the door standing open, casting orange light down the hall.
After relieving his bladder of its burden of holding what seemed like seven-hundred gallons of liquid he turned to wash his hands and caught a glimpse of himself in the dusty, cracked mirror and was horrified by what he saw. Looking himself in the eye he saw that the white of his right eye was blood red, undoubtedly from his tumble down the stairs. His right eye was his shooting eye. Without his shooting eye in working order he was about as useful on a mission as a football bat. He would be out of the mission no questions asked, just dropped like that, and the four years of his training would be wasted all because of his tail sneaking between his legs at the top of a staircase.
He cleaned the two wounds on each of his hands where he had tried to stop himself from going over and had caught the tips of the nails that secured the stairs to their horizontal plain moorings. He got most of the crusty blood from his forehead off with water, but he knew he’d have to use the special mix of fruit, Dr Pepper, baking soda, and detergent to get the actual stain out of his brow line. He grabbed a towel off of its rack and dried his face and hands in it, realizing that Miller’s overnight Major theory wasn’t going to happen with a bum eye. He threw the towel into the sink and went back to his room.
The person was still there. Johan could see now that it was a female. She was still lying on her side the way he had left her, on top of the covers, not in them, probably hearing about what had happened and decided to come up and check on him. She was a white wolf with beautiful brown hair that, had she been standing, probably went three or four inches past her shoulders. She was in a pair of black panties and a perfectly matched bra that were very lacey and very cute on her equally cute butt and bosom. He thought it only appropriate that he should mirror the pose and face her when he lied back down, sliding his left arm under her without causing her to wake. Her left hand, his right side, went to his bicep unconsciously and firmly grasped it when he put his hand on her waist. He put his head down on the pillow and her muzzle came up from six inches below and nuzzled along the right side of his lower jaw.
He squeezed her flanks with his large hands and she cooed at him. He smiled at the girl and then at himself, never full of himself in the slightest. He nuzzled his alpha back and closed his eyes, his feeling of disappointment gone with her in his arms, and he fell asleep.