Year's End

- Horndog D -

The water spins the same direction as the hands on a clock. This detail feels significant. Everything directly before and after this is smudged, hidden from view—but I can clearly see the rushing swirl of water shrinking smaller and smaller as it disappears into the center of the bowl. Into intensely white emptiness.

I'm standing up. This feels wrong, like a cut in a movie that happens too fast. And yet, here I am. My arm extends at least three miles to my palm pressed flat against the wall while I wait for the room to stop spinning the same direction as the water flushing away the rejected contents of my stomach. I look up to see a mink standing stark naked beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body through the pane of the mirror. The poor girl's left breast sags, then begins to fall. The pink cap of her nipple droops toward the floor until the whole half of her chest slides off. The blob of her breast splats against the linoleum between my feet like a decapitated ice-cream cone. When I look back at the mirror, everything is where it should be. Firm and symmetrical.

"Deep breaths," I tell the girl. Just breathe. Stay calm and focus. Think.

I can't think.

A memory flashes through my mind of a health and safety seminar at work, the one where we learned about mental status testing. I have to concentrate for this. My name is Julia Myleen. I'm thirty-two years old. Today is December 31st, 1999. I'm... in a bathroom... someone's bathroom... Right. Someone's throwing a party. I can hear and feel the music through my hand pressed against the wall. Warbling vibrations come hard and steady, b'thud-b'thud-b'thud. I think they call this techno.

All of a sudden, the bathroom feels very small. Claustrophobically small. I drink handfuls of water from the faucet until the bile taste in my mouth is gone, then open the door to rejoin the party.

The hallway is long and dark except for strings of Christmas lights stapled to the crown molding. The lights shine blue, or maybe white—maybe green. I'm not sure. The music makes it hard to see anything. Giant footsteps thump and crash and shake the house, everyone shouting and jumping together in the living room under a huge disco ball shooting stars across everything. The TV in the corner shows a picture of an even larger disco ball hanging above a crowd of people wrapped in winter coats so big they can barely move.

A tiger bumps into me. He turns, a plastic cup in one hand, and he says, "Sorry!" He laughs and says, "Hell yeah, you got the right idea!"

I laugh too. I'm not sure why; I don't know what he means.

The big cat's smile wraps around his whole head. Behind him, a tiger-striped snake swings up and down, back and forth. "Do you want to dance?" it asks.

This seems like an odd request, but the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone's feelings. "I don't have much experience dancing with snakes."

The tiger's booming laugh nearly knocks me over. "I can teach you all about dancing with snakes!" He grabs the crotch of his black leather pants and thrusts his pelvis out at me. I just laugh and laugh.

All these people whooping and shouting and dancing are here to celebrate our final hours before the apocalypse. At the stroke of midnight, the Y2K bug is set to cause widespread chaos that topples civilization. For months, news anchors have interviewed experts warning about the dangers of a billion electronic devices malfunctioning when their software mistakes the date for January 1st, 1900. We've been warned about our 401(k) accounts resetting to zero. Databases erasing criminals' profiles and deleting records of every rape and murder ever committed. Power grids going offline. Nuclear power plants overloading their reactors until they go up in colossal mushroom clouds that that leave behind an irradiated wasteland. Every flavor of death and destruction lined up like Olympic runners waiting for the starting pistol.

And so we dance.

I move to the pounding beat with the tiger and his snake. Eyes watch us from everywhere. Hungry, lusting eyes. Crescent eyes floating above smiles full of teeth, everyone so happy and elated to cut loose and blow off steam. Relieve some stress.

Tongues in my mouth that aren't mine leak spittle all down my chin and neck. Gobs of drool drip down to coat my boobs, fur and nipples shining wet in a twirling sea of stars. In a shameless little look-what-I-can-do demonstration, I lift each breast to lick off the juice—I can only manage a few laps before my neck starts to ache, but that's enough. Bodies crowd me, everyone wanting to get closer. The waves of sweltering breath make me feel sick again. I grab the tiger's plastic cup and drink, a dull fire bleeding down into my belly with each swig. Cinnamon? No, that's not right.

The figures multiply too fast, a wolf becoming two, an otter becoming five. "Settle down, fellas," I joke. The music pounds way, way too loud, shaking the floor apart into fragments that drift apart like icebergs. Dancing this way is extremely difficult.

"Turn it up!" someone shouts. It has to be sarcasm.

The rug bucks under my feet and I fall forward. There's no jolt on impact, like the floor is made of cotton—or I am. Then arms are lifting me up. Muscular arms with bulging biceps, rivers of veins visible through matted fur. "Just relax, sweetheart." A pair of angels with lip rings and bleached hair fly me away from the creature of slobbering mouths. "Let's get you back to the boudoir, shall we."

The next thing I know, I'm down again. Flat on my back, sinking into the pool of a bare mattress. The ram angel hovers over me, lowering himself until his body presses against me. The weight of his frame covering me like a blanket, he touches my face, my hair, my neck. His stomach grinds against mine, hot friction. Two of his fingers spear between my thighs. The noise I make comes out in a sort of pleading whimper. The fingers spread apart, stretching my pussy wide open.

"Damn," the ram angel says. "You're nice and wet."

The fingers become the plump head of a cock pushing deep inside me. He buries himself to the root, grunts something I don't understand, then gives a quick, hard thrust of his hips that shakes my jaw loose. Fingers hook into my mouth, the taste and smell of cum. The ram rolls his pelvis, faster and faster, pounding his thick cock against the entrance to my womb. The vibrations of his balls slapping my ass come hard and steady, b'thud-b'thud-b'thud. Dance music.

I say, "Yeah. That's it." I cry out, "Fuck me harder!" I tell the ram how badly I want his hot load while I watch the lava lamp shapes merge and divide inside his eyes. His horns spiral farther and farther away from his head, and I think about wrapping my toes around them like footpegs on a motorcycle. I yell, "Shove your fat cock deeper!"

The ram rears back and grinds his teeth. His whole body quaking, his balls pressed so close against me I can feel the sack pulling tight as he empties everything into my pussy. Then the smooth fist of his dick drags out so I hear a sloppy pop when he pulls free.

I say, "We can go again if you want." But the ram is already gone.

All around me, I can hear and see other couples fucking. The next bed over whines and creaks as a pair of horses do reverse cowgirl. Her mane whipping against the back of her head, she bounces hard on his shaft and moans like she's dying of pleasure. Behind them, a demon stands enrobed in white smoke. He licks a serpentine tongue across his teeth and winks at me. I blow him a kiss.

There's another quick cut. The scene jumps to a hyena on top of me. His muzzle presses into me, his tongue almost past the opening to my throat. The way we kiss, saliva pours past my lips to draw a huge clown smile across my face. He tongues something into my mouth—something small and smooth, like a bullet. I swallow it. I swallow everything he feeds me.

The head of his prick teases my folds still sticky-wet with the ram's load. He wants me to beg for it. "Please fuck me," I whisper. "I need you inside me." I coil my fingers around his length, tugging him forward. "I want us to feel good together. It'll feel so good if you fuck me as hard as you want. Please?"

He smirks. "Because you asked so nicely..." The hyena, his hair platinum blonde above copper roots, he smiles fangs at me before he skewers the 'M' of my legs bent sharply at the knees and splayed out to either side of him. He bottoms out in one thrust, the battering ram of his cock sending shockwaves I can feel in my temples. My hands still at our joined crotches grab my cunt lips. I pull the labia tight, my skin stretched open for him as he saws his tool in and out of me.

Slow, leisurely strokes pick up as I chant, "Faster, faster, faster." My eyes roll back in my head. I giggle "Faster," over and over even as he plows into me so hard my whole body inches up the mattress and he has to stop to realign himself.

Flashes of his canine eyes remind me of taillights streaking crimson down a midnight highway. He speaks in blazing sprays of venom. "You're so fucking beautiful. God damn. Yeah honey, oh fuck yeah. Squeeze that hot fucking cunt tighter!" His teeth gnaw and pull at my nipples.

The mattress rolls like the deck of a ship, tipping toward a new source of weight. One half of the horse couple crawls toward me. The mare, her body is melting chocolate. "Look at you," she purrs. We look at each other, and my mouth waters. The smoothness of her, the way each drip traces the curves of her frame so naturally, I could imagine her being carved from granite by a trickling stream of snowmelt flowing every spring for a million years. I open my mouth to catch the drops raining from her soaked mane. The drips become warm, viscous saliva.

Her tongues slithers down my neck and chest to find the stiff peaks of my tits where it swirls, flicks, slurps across the sting of hyena bite marks. Those sharp canine teeth, I see them glint in the dim light. "Hey, Wendy," they say. "Let me see that sweet ass, baby."

The mare adjusts her position so her arms are on either side of me, the hot fudge bubbles of her tits resting against my collarbone. The hyena smacks her ass louder than gunshots. She moans, "Oooooh, yeah. Fuckin' give it to me!"

Something changes. My body stops rocking and the slick walls of pussy clench at nothing. The mare lunges forward, her mouth yelling into my hair. I kiss and lick the silky texture of her neck.

The ship that is our king size mattress crashes through choppy waves. I cling to the lovely chocolate mare and drink her scent all through the storm until we hear thunder claps of barking. The calm comes abruptly. The mare's voice in her throat is full, husky. "Oh, oooh my gaaaawd." She detaches herself from me and turns again, the dark moons of her ass rising into view. When she parts the globes, hot cream spills out of her fucked-open twat. "Girl?" she asks. Her words all made of sugar. "Clean my pussy."

I kiss the yawning pink mouth in front of me. My tongue washes the lips, laps at the salty flow of milk, probes the hole to scoop out juicy globs that slide over the roof of my mouth and down my throat. When I've devoured the meal of perfect cunt, I lick the puffy ring of her asshole. My nose against the smooth dock of her tail, her aroma makes me slaver. I want to stay like this forever.

Another fast cut. My mouth is open against something coarse, like fibers. I'm face-down on the mattress, my back twisted at a weird angle. I hear myself say, "It hurts!" An arm like a tree trunk presses a boulder fist into the bed that forms a crater so wide I almost fall in. Something flips my legs around, straightening my spine. The bliss of relief.

I realize something huge is on top of me. The body of a titan, heavy muscles rippling with the slightest movement. A deep rumble like machinery carving back the walls of a mining tunnel.

"Aw yeah." His voice sounds like wheels crunching gravel. "You like this, slut?"

My neck twinges looking down at a giant fist pumping horse cock. The mottled flesh scarred with blood vessels, the flared head shining wet, I just stare at the thing until it vanishes out of my sight. A waft of musk makes me choke as the body moves over me. The feel of something flat and leathery squashes against my pussy, pressing past the entrance.

I grind my teeth. "It won... w-wun..." I try to say it won't fit, but I can't push air out of my lungs in a way that makes noise.

The monster of horse cockmeat pulls back. Greased and slippery, the blunt tip slides up and settles under the base of my tail. Pressure forces my ass cheeks apart.

My lungs too weak to conjure sound, I want to laugh at the absurdity of this. It makes me think of a joke I heard in college, about a horny blind goat who tries to shove his dick into every hole he comes across. The punch line involves the goat getting a lifetime ban from a donut shop. I laugh without actually laughing, just the way my body jerks and my eyes water. My mouth open, the taste of fabric.

My mouth open, air rushing between my teeth. No.

Please say it.

No. It won't fit. Stop. NO.

"Hell YEAH!" the stallion hollers. The flare of his cock popping inside me feels like being lowered into molten metal. The shaft is a steel pipe heated white hot inside a furnace the temperature of the sun.

I say, "No." Forcing the words out until I can barely breathe, I say, "Stop."

Inch after inch sinks deeper into me. Reeking breath blows, "Take it, whore," across my ear. The engine rumble of his chest revving. Laughter.

"Please. Please stop." My body strains to push the invader out, but it only drives farther forward, inch after burning inch impaling me until it hits a hairpin turn in my bowels. The stallion grunts, then thrusts, trying to straighten the path. "Pleeeease," I cough out. "Please don't."

I manage to rotate my upper body to bring an arm up to the stallion's face. Trying to push him off me is like trying to bench press a school bus. He grabs my wrist and pulls my arm down under him, pinning it there. Pain spikes up past my elbow. His weight like a building, I'm terrified I'll hear the sound of snapping.

The beast of his member, the throbbing feels stronger than my own heartbeat inside me as the stallion starts to hump. My legs trapped under him pull up when he retracts and push down when he shoves the same section and more back in. I imagine myself as a jumping jack. A flimsy little toy. A puppet-doll so close to breaking.

On the floor beside the bed, the mare kneels and sucks the hyena's dick. No. This is a different hyena. He's skinny, tight—his muscles the look of wires corded around a skeleton. As the mare blows him, little ropes of spit come swinging out the edges of her mouth where they break off and fall to the floor.

I fix my eyes on this sight and try to block out everything that hurts. The monolith of stallion cock splitting me in half, pistoning in and out of my anus, I try to ignore the way it bulges bigger and bigger. The horse, I try not to feel him slamming against me. Not the power of him, everything gigantic and fast like a locomotive roaring out geysers of steam. Not the hurricane gales blasting out of his nostrils against the back of my head. Not his teeth, guillotine sharp so close to my ears swollen hot with blood.

All my energy—everything I have, I focus into calling the mare. I whisper-shout, "Wendy." I plead. "Help me, Wendy. Please."

The mare bobs her face against the hyena's crotch, moaning. She doesn't stop until he takes a stumbling step backward and grabs his slobbery dick to masturbate. When his cumshot nails her square in the face, she doesn't even flinch. She only laughs as more jizz squirts across her face and chest, giggling like a little girl playing in a sprinkler.

The stallion shouts noise and buries his cock deeper than anything has ever been inside of me. I feel the monster twitch and know it's injecting my bowels full of potent equine semen.

The mare cleans the hyena's deflating pecker with her mouth. Black vines like hunting tentacles spread across the closet door beside them, gradually covering the wood grain in what looks like a fuzzy carpet of mold.

Instinctively, I gasp out another weak "no" when the stallion pulls out, the fear his cock will pull my guts out with it. There's a vulgar squelching sound, then nothing. Just a gaping hole everywhere he was.

Another cut. The skinny hyena wears suspenders the shape of my thighs. He pumps forward, a wet slap each time he plunges into me. Above the jiggling mounds of my tits, everything about him looks stretched and dried out and angrily thin. The bones of his shoulders pinch at the backs of my knees like a fur-wrapped scarecrow frame. I can't feel anything else. I reach out to touch him, but he slaps my hand away. Sweat drips off his nose.

He thrusts hard, then harder. Growling as he hilts me, twitching. "Fuck... Fuck yeah!" Triumphant, he throws off my legs and pulls his cock into view. The slit still oozing his jizz, he wipes his dick across my groin, the mess invisible in my cream-colored fur. When his boner goes rubbery, he slaps the head against my pussy and says, "Gonna have to blow one in here, next."

The hyena rolls back and climbs his dried jerky body off the bed. A shadow in the corner congeals into the squat form of a boar with tusks curved up into a wicked ivory grin. The whole bed sags toward the boar as he climbs up. Under the blob of his belly, his fist milks a thick string of pre out the tip of his cock.

Straining my neck becomes too difficult and I have no choice but to let my head fall back. The butterflies floating between me and the ceiling can't decide how they want to look, each pair of fluttering wings cycling through a hundred different shades of color I've never seen before.

There's a big chunk missing here. Not a jump cut, but something like an old-fashioned intermission, only without any dancing tubs of popcorn telling everyone to go to the lobby. There's just nothing. A total power outage.

Now I'm flying above the floor. I can see my feet under me, but they feel like they belong to someone else. Strangers holding me up by each arm help keep me from collapsing as my knees knock together, strings of melting glue pulling thin between my thighs each time they move apart. I try to ask where we're going, but the words don't come out right.

"It'll be alright," a voice speaks into my ear. "Just relax. Try to use your legs. There we go."

We float through a funhouse maze, each room tilting at a strange angle. Imp things wearing masks like tortured faces slide down candy cane poles and swipe their claws just beyond our reach. In front of us is a doorframe mashing open and closed like a sideways mouth. The mouth chews us up and swallows us into a baking sauna cave.

My eyes go wide. Against the far wall, a window shows the outside world on fire. Buildings engulfed in the raging inferno of the Y2K apocalypse. I want to scream. I want to scream so hard that I shatter into pieces. I try to scream, but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak. The sound of rusted door hinges being kicked open.

Another voice says, "It's okay. You're okay."

I'm sitting down. Naked, my fur soaking wet from the heat. A coyote kneels in front of the chair I'm in and smiles. "Hi there," he says. "How do you feel?"

"S'really warm in here." The fire must be getting closer.

"We'll get you some water, then. What's your name?"

I have to concentrate for this. "It's... Julia Evers." No, that's not right. "Julia Myleen."

"Hi there, Julia." The coyote smiles like the two of us have been best friends since forever. His six tails windmill behind him. "I'm Deacon. It's nice to meet you."

Something cold touches my lips. Hands hold up a glass of water, more hands helping tip it back so I can drink, more hands holding my shoulders and head steady. Hands everywhere. The coyote, Deacon, his voice echoes down from somewhere above me: "Here we go. This'll help you stay awake."

Was I asleep?

Hands shake my head, tapping the side of my face. "Hey. Wake up." An otter head leans down close to mine like he's coming in for a kiss. "Wake up," he barks, annoyed. I don't even know this guy.

"Julia," Deacon says, "you need to stay awake for a little while longer."

The throne of my little folding chair feels enormous and warm and comfortable. I could sleep here for weeks if only it stopped moving. Dizziness comes in waves.

I wake up inside a speeding racecar drifting across multiple lanes of traffic, cars and trucks swerving hard to miss me by inches. A concrete barrier appears out of nowhere, the high-speed impact jolting me awake. Then... darkness.

"You're gonna have to hit her harder than that, dude. She's out cold."

One of the heads is talking about me. Typical male. Just because I'm not paying attention to him one moment, he thinks there must be something wrong with me.

Something slams into the left side of my head with enough force to throw me out of my seat into a net of arms preventing me from flying onto the floor. A flashing star of pain blooms across my left cheek and then fades into nothingness. My eyes snapped open look at the coyote, confused. "Sorry about that," he says.

A cheetah girl stands upside down behind him. Her tiny wisp of a voice says, "Should we call an ambulance?"

"No. No, no, no." I can't go to a hospital. I don't know why, but I know I can't.

That's right. A trip to the ER would bankrupt me. There's no money left. So no hospitals. No hospitals. No hospitals.

"Okay, okay," Deacon says. "No hospitals."

I'm exhausted from shouting. I try to take a little rest when... WHAM. Another firework bursts across the field of pitch black.

"I'm sorry, Julia. But you can't fall asleep."

I hate this man. The way he looks at me makes me want to leap up and rip a chunk out of his throat. This fuckup of a coyote is doing it all wrong. You're not supposed to look sad when you hit someone. The look you want is rage mixed with something like fear, but stronger. Rage and fear and panicked terror while you thrash and scream god damn bitch and clean up this fucking mess. It's like he doesn't know anything.

The cheetah girl spinning the same direction as the hands on a clock, the wall behind her flies off into oblivion. What's she staring at?

Was I talking?

"Christ," comes from a voice behind me. "What did she take?"

What's-his-name, Deacon, combs his fingers through his hair. "Those hyenas brought some really nasty treats. Mixed pharm stuff. She probably had no idea what it was."

"Shit, that's even worse." The otter voice booms piercingly loud so close to my ear. "I just don't see the appeal in any of that stuff. You've got to be wrong in the head or something."

An exhausted kind of sigh leaks out of the coyote. He shrinks smaller in the air and says, "When I was young, my uncle once told me about vision quests. He told me how the native people of these lands, when they wanted to cure some spiritual illness, individuals would isolate themselves and journey alone into the wilderness. They'd wander for days without food, depriving themselves of sleep, pushing their bodies to the very brink of what they could endure before keeling over dead."

I fight against the crushing weight of my eyelids. Everything goes blurry. In my head I can hear Deacon talking from somewhere that sounds very far away. He says, "They destroyed their physical selves in order to set their souls free."

I'm standing in a field, waves of golden wheat stretching endless in every direction.

"My uncle explained how it was only in a state of profound weakness, of being broken, that the mind becomes able to see beyond the world around us. Those vision quests, they brought the seeker to the furthest precipice of their mortal life. Because it was only there, overlooking the vast ocean of death, that the spirits would reveal to them the truth they sought."

I'm breathing hard, the air so heavy it fills up my lungs like tar. Framed portraits liquefy and run down the walls. Three coyotes stand in front of me. In perfect unison the trio says, "Our culture doesn't have anything as grand as all that. In order to bring ourselves to the brink and discover what lies there... I don't know. I guess we have to take shortcuts."

Another cut. I'm staring into the abyss of a bottomless well. Everything inside me falls into the well but hangs in space, refusing to disappear. Hands hold my hair behind me and gently stroke my back until the bucket is a third full. Gulps of cool water let me breathe again.

Sirens are going off outside. The ceiling jackhammers up and down. Spiders crawl over the carpet to bite poison into my knuckles. "Don't fall asleep," I remind myself. All around me are nothing but shadows. Don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep.

"Dom fahll asheeeen." The words dribble out of my mouth as I come around. Shapes of furniture and a brick fireplace slowly morph into existence as my vision comes into focus. I try to sit up and realize I'm cocooned inside a tangle of blankets. My upper half is covered by a plaid shirt. It looks familiar.

Across the room, Deacon snorts as he lifts himself into a sitting position on the couch. He blinks the slits of his eyes and scratches the bare tank top over his chest. "Hey. Look who's awake. How are you feeling?"

I have to consider the question for a while. My skull feels packed full of gauze wrapped around a small, pulsing orb of pain. The room I'm in looks like a den, windowless except for a pair of glass doors covered by thin curtains that filter in the weakest glow of light. The light paints everything in muted shades of blue and gray.

"Hungry. I feel... Hungry."

The coyote nods. "Goooood," he says through a yawn. "That's good. Hang tight for just a second and I'll get you something."

As he walks out of the room, he passes a large watercolor painting of an autumn forest. Maple leaves in bright reds and oranges spattered across the canvas look like roaring flames.

Deacon returns a minute later with a square of chocolate sheet cake and a plastic fork. "Sorry, but that party pretty much cleaned us out. The only food left in the house is this and a few slices of pizza that look covered in something you probably wouldn't want to eat." His smile has effort behind it, as if most of his energy is being spent on just staying awake.

"This is fine." The cake is stale from sitting out all night, but my hunger makes the taste exquisite. "Thanks," I say, crumbs dropping out of my mouth. I swallow a chunk so big it barely goes down. "So this was your party?"

"Well... Sort of. It was Greg's party, really. I'm just the roommate who does beer runs and tries to make sure nothing blows up." He chuckles.

I gulp down the last bite of cake, the paper plate in my hand full of nothing but a grinning cartoon snowman. "Greg..." I whisper. The name rings a bell.

I remember drinking in a bar with bells.

Deacon leans back on the couch. He settles into the cushions like his whole body is exhaling. "I'm really glad you're alright. You were pretty out of it for a while, there."

Coup d'tat. I was drinking in a bar called Coup d'tat. The whole place was decorated in paper bells and strings of gold and silver garland for New Year's Eve. An otter bought me a drink, then said he and his friends were going to a party at Greg's place and asked if I wanted to come along. I said yes.

"If you don't mind me asking," Deacon says, "how much of last night do you remember?"

I was drinking in a bar called Coup d'tat because I'd driven twenty miles past the turnoff for the party where all my friends were. I didn't want to see them. I didn't want to see their eyes full of pity and forced expressions telling me everything was going to be okay. That I was better off. That the pain is just the first step on the journey to a better future—to freedom.

I didn't want to face another crowd of people telling me there are worse things than being alone.

"I remember... He said he d-didn't—" My throat squeezes shut. Liquid drips onto the snowman printed on the empty paper plate trembling in my hands. "I... I tried so hard..."

Another cut. Everything is the coyote, massive and silent as he holds me. Hands stroking my back as I sob into the wall of his chest. "It's okay," he says quietly. "Just let it out."

I want desperately to be anywhere else. My eyes clamp shut and I become a mink cub up her room alone, crying into a pillow.

Eventually, I'm emptied out. My breathing is steady, shallow. My eyes are open looking at wet tawny fur peeking over the sloping edge of a white tank top. "I'm so sorry about all of this."

"You don't have any reason to apologize." Deacon's hand rubs tiny circles between my shoulder blades. "You've been through a lot. I don't know exactly what happened, but you'll be alright. You're an incredibly strong person. I can tell."

I turn my head sideways, my ear becoming a stethoscope listening to the drumbeat of his heart. Before I even know what I'm doing, I pull him into a kiss. Soft, sensual. The pools of seawater around his pupils staring into me, understanding. Gently, I take his wrist and bring his hand to where my ribs divide above the expanse of my stomach. I guide his hand lower, down under the dangling hem of his shirt. Electricity sparks at the touch of his fingertips against my exposed sex.

He pulls away. "Wait. Are... Are you sure about this?"

An answer stalls in my throat as I force myself to think about the situation—to think about everything. Finally, I say, "Yes." I tell him the truth. "I want this."

The coyote doesn't pull away when I reach to unbuckle the belt of his jeans, or when I slide down the zipper. We kiss again, our lips opening to knead each other. I stare down his muzzle dusted faintly gray. My fingers trace the length of his cock filling with blood. His palm cups the warm moisture of my vulva. The lightest squeeze floods weakness into my legs.

We separate. Deacon's clothes fall to the floor, including his shirt. Our arms together, mouths, torsos, his hardness pinned between us. We collapse in slow motion onto the blankets sprawled across the floor. The heat of his erection in my hand makes me greedy to feel more. "I want you inside me."

Deacon lies flat, his cock a bright red obelisk standing tall above the rest of him. I climb kind of clumsily over his body. My legs straddle his abdomen as we kiss again, the flavor of him is new and familiar and marvelous. Then my legs crouching, I'm shivering over him, my pussy open and dripping wet at the top of his manhood before I join us together.

It's pure bliss, the feeling of drawing loose figure eights with my hips, of a hot, throbbing cock hitting all the right spots. The feeling of his little jerking thrusts, quietly urgent, just enough to make his presence real and wrangle my thoughts before they can drift anywhere else. A dull pain radiates from under my tail, but the discomfort fades further and further into the background as each surge of pleasure grows more dazzling.

Deacon's hands caress my sides as I ride him. He looks at me and pants, "God, you're pretty."

The matted tangle of my hair batting against my shoulders, my makeup reduced to faint smears of bruised color, my fur disheveled and caked with dried fluids... I don't have the heart to call him on the lie. I just breathe until breaths are no longer enough. Then I'm crying, "Oh yes, yes, yesss."

My calves burn as a bounce on his rod. So close. Gasping, swearing, I pinch my clit between two fingers and rocket over the top. I see stars when I orgasm.

Every nerve goes like a plucked guitar string, the sheer flood of sensation enough that I'm still hunched over and jolting in full-body spasms when Deacon grunts and bucks out his climax. Giddy and spent, I crumble on top of him, dead weight. Strong arms cross over my back and hold me there. I reach down to touch the warm, wrinkled sack of his balls and the inch of his shaft not inside me.

"Do you want me to pull out?"

My face half buried in a wool blanket, I shake my head beside his and whisper, "No."

We lie together in silence for what feels like hours before a conversation emerges. Serene, we talk about our favorite breakfasts, about Deacon's job building truck bed liners and how he wants to become a teacher someday. "I keep meaning to go back to school," he says. "Feels like I've wasted a lot of time when I stop and think about it. But that's okay." Through dry lips he says, "Today's the perfect day to start fresh."

The morning brightness of the room is richer, now. I pull myself up into a standing position, coyote spend streaming down my legs as soon as I'm vertical. How I must look... How far I am beyond caring. I want to see what the new millennium looks like.

Images flash through my mind as I approach the glowing doors. World War III. Civilization in ruins. Death and destruction. I think that probably nothing has happened. I don't know why I hesitate for a split second before I yank the curtains aside and flood the room full of blinding white light.

The world outside is bleached of color, everything beyond the covered patio blanketed under at least two inches of snow with more still falling. I spent all of December hoping it would snow.

After a minute of staring out through the glass edged with frost, I slide the door open. Ice-cold air slips into the room warmed to the temperature of our bodies. Deacon sits up to watch me step outside, but says nothing. Time seems to lag behind me as my mind races ahead, my every sense buzzing. Each step of my bare footpads on the frozen concrete sends a brilliant rush of pain surging up my spine. Cold so intense it burns like fire. I take half a dozen searing hot steps across the patio, clouds of my breath exploding in front of me. Then the soft crunch of snow beneath my steps until I stop. My breathing slows in the quiet. Huge, fat flakes waft down all around me.

I can feel everything. The chill of the air clinging to my limbs, seeping into my fur, stinging my naked flesh. The melt of ice crystals piling on top of my hair. The sharp, wet taste of the sky.

Without turning around, I can feel Deacon move into the open doorway. I can even feel the gentle smile on his face just before he says, "Happy New Year, Julia."

I don't respond. I can't. My body refuses to move, even to blink away tears. The snow is that beautiful.