He's late.  And that's good.

When Suka's late, it means that the game went into overtime.  And when the game goes into overtime, it's a pretty sure bet the Wolves are giving their opponents a run for their money.  And when the Wolves give their opponents a run for their money, most of the time they win.  

Sure enough, through the cacophony of his headphones, one ear—the one closest to the window—twitches and rotates like a radar dish homing in on a weak signal.  It's Suka's car, and he's gunning it around the corner at the end of the block, like he always does when he wins a hockey match.  

“Yesssss!” Keto hisses, fistpumping silently in his room before putting his computer to sleep and bounding down the stairs to meet his brother at the front door.  He reaches for the knob, but thinks twice, instead backing away and leaning against the staircase, paws behind his back and trying not to wag himself off balance.

Patiently, he checks off the unmistakable series of sounds—doors closing, the blip of the alarm, footsteps up the walkway accompanied by the jingle of keys—and balances from heel to toe, watching Suka's shadow grow larger in the stained glass of the front door.  Then it opens, and by the time one footpaw has landed on the tile Keto is right in the middle of the front entryway, his eyes locked on his brother's.

Suka stops long enough to drop his gym duffle, its position rendering it an impromptu door jam.  It matches his jersey, all blues and whites with the stylized WOLVES logo near the handles.  He's still wearing the jersey, sans padding and other superfluous gear, and it gives off that familiar scent of well-used nylon and wusky.  Straightening back up, he breaks into a slight, quirky grin.

“How long have you been there waiting?”

“Since just now,” Keto replies, sheepishly smiling around his fangs.  “I heard your car.  Didja win?”  It's a silly question, one Suka doubtlessly knows Keto already has the answer to.  Still, Suka sighs and his shoulders drop, his demeanor suddenly deflated, and for one second Keto fears the worst.

“We kicked their asses.”  Keto's fist cuts through the distance between them and connects with Suka's upper arm, having been pre-balled for the answer Keto knew was coming.  “Ouch!”

“You dick, I knew you were lying.”

“You just wanted to punch me,” Suka says, fake-rubbing his arm before grabbing his brother's tank top and yanking him into a rough hug.  It's a tight, chest-squeezing Suka hug, warm, fuzzy and sweaty, and Keto fights it even though he likes it deep down anyway.  He gets two hard pats on the back before he's let go, wiping at himself as if getting rid of invisible cooties.

“Well, I was gonna congratulate you on winning the game, but not anymore,” Keto says.  “Because not two minutes in the door, and you're being an asshole.”  

“Oh, come on, Keto, can't I have any fun?  You're a little old for the whole 'helpless' routine,” Suka replies, to which his brother sticks out his tongue and turns away toward the stairs.  “Oh, real nice.”  Keto turns to head back upstairs, but before he can mount more than two, Suka speaks up again:  “Hey.”

“What--”

“Catch!”  The duffel flies toward Keto, who turns just in time to take the full force of the hockey gear, holding onto it but having to slam against the wall and rattle the pictures there.

“ Fuck, Suka!  What the hell?  Carry your own goddamn bag.”  This was not what Keto had been expecting five minutes ago, when he had been trying to keep himself distracted from waiting for his brother by mindlessly surfing the Internet.  He saw Suka in his pads and skates, carving up the ice, most likely slamming some douche from the other team into the wall or gut-checking to get control of the puck.  Nah, he wasn't the gut-check type.  But dammit, he'd wanted to greet his brother in a normal way, not get treated like shit the second he met him at the door.

“Hey, what?” Suka says, but by now he's talking to Keto's back.  The younger wusky tosses the bag over his shoulder and hears it hit the wall at the foot of the stairs.  He also hears the crinkle of picture glass breaking.  Mom and Dad's anniversary picture.  But he can't wince, nor can he look back.  He's got to look resolved.  “Look what you did!”  But by now, Suka's voice is more whine than authority, and he's left to carry his own gear up to his room.

Still, it doesn't keep a couple of tears from blurring Keto's vision before he slams his door so hard it blows the calendar next to it right off the wall.  He wipes his eyes and looks around:  to his computer, to the window, and finally to his bed.  His mood is on the verge of being ruined.  As he hears Suka's heavy, struggling footsteps on the landing, he flops down on the comforter and presses two fingers to his forehead, trying to massage the clouds away from his mind.  

 This is what he hates most about having a sibling.  The bad parts.  The awkward parts.  The negotiations of living across the hall from someone who's supposed to be your protector, or at least treat you with some level of respect, and the guy comes home from winning a hockey match and is a complete dick.  So, once again, you try to have something in common but he shoots you down.  And all your hopes and dreams of that Leave It to Beaver family go right out the window, and you're left with an old, dried up Raisin in the Sun kind of relationship.  You can't relate.

The pressure behind Keto's eyes abates bit by bit, as he listens to Suka shove open his door and grunt as  the duffel hits the floor, along with his car keys.  Everything else is just shuffling and rustling, indiscriminate things that don't answer any of Keto's questions.  Part of him wants Suka to shut his door and go online and stay there for the rest of the day, but another part—the weaker part, most likely—wants him to come in and apologize.  Or tell him what a pest he is.  As long as he comes in, really.  And that, Keto thinks, probably makes him even weaker.  

He stares at the popcorn on his bedroom ceiling and just listens.  The house is silent again, as if the exchange downstairs had never happened.  That sense of camaraderie, in sharing happiness over the Wolves' success, spoiled in just a few seconds.  Then Keto starts to wonder if it wasn't all Suka's fault, and he tries to block it out, but in doing so he creates another of those niggling feelings of doubt in the back of his mind.  But he won't apologize.  Suka was more of a dick than him anyway.

 Just before Keto reaches out for a magazine on the nightstand, he hears a knock on the door.  He rolls his eyes:  That figures, the second I start to do something I don't want interrupted...

“Keto?”

“What?”  And Suka opens the door and sticks his head in.  It's just like him, really, not caring whether Keto is naked, or busy, or anything else.  Chalk it up as another unlikable Big Brother personality trait.  “I didn't say  you could open the door.  Thanks for respecting my privacy.”

“Come on, don't be like that,” Suka replies without his usual domineering charm.  “Do you want to come downstairs or not?”

“ What for?”  looking up at him, Keto masks his confusion with wariness.  Suka's acting weird again, and that sends a lump from his stomach up to the bottom of his throat.  He doesn't feel necessarily threatened, just kind of trapped, just like the last time.  And even then, it wasn't necessarily bad, but it wasn't good either.  “I don't really feel like it anymore.”

“Come on.  We can watch TV or something.  Would it help if I said I was sorry?”  Maybe if Suka would put more than his head past the door frame, it would.  It makes Keto nervous, as if his brother is hiding something outside his room, which is silly because what Suka could be hiding isn't that obvious.  Keto swallows and looks away.

“I don't believe you.”

“You're being a baby.  Can we just talk?  It's hard enough as it is.”  That's probably the most ground Suka will give without conceding his pride, and although that lump in Keto's throat won't go away, it would just be easier to give a little and see what his brother has to say.  Suka might even surprise him, which is not entirely likely, but if he doesn't want to deal with crappy excuses and fake sincerity, there's a lock on his door for a reason.

Keto rolls over and gets up, palming his head fur over his ears.  “Whatever,” he mutters, and when he looks up Suka's head is already gone, headed for the stairs.  Keto gets up, begrudgingly, and follows, noticing with not unfounded trepidation that the television he hears is the one in the den to the left, not the family room straight ahead and to the right.  The den is not the place to go for TV; that's where Dad's old tube is, not the big flat screen with HD.  The den is not where Suka usually goes to watch TV.  But it's dark, and private.  

Shut up.  Shut.  Up.

Suka is already on the couch when Keto turns the corner into the den.  Light from the back yard streams in through the window, casting bright bars on the wall and illuminating the monotonic room.  The local newscasters are giving their nightly spiel from the small screen. 

“Your choice,” Suka says, tossing the remote onto the cushion next to him.  “Just don't make it something boring.”

“Isn't everything I choose boring?” Keto asks, taking the remote and sitting down, leaning over his knees as he surfs through the channels.  He's not really interested in the television versus what Suka is up to.  

This is an awkward-brother situation, and Suka is usually the first one to bail on awkward-brother situations.  He doesn't talk about his feelings, and most of the time he prefers not to be in the same room as Keto, much less on the same couch.  Even less, choosing what show to watch...together.  It's not gelling, it stinks to high heaven, and Keto thinks he knows why.  And he's not in the mood for it.

Not that he's  ever in the mood for it.

“Science Channel good enough?”

“That'll work.  You can turn it down, though.”  Keto takes it almost down to mute, thinks better of it, and leaves it so he can tune out and listen to the music and dialogue if he wants.  Right now, his mood is still soured, and he doesn't fight to keep his ears up.  He feels Suka's fingers on the left one, rotating it forward and standing it up, but Keto twitches it sideways and back, thwarting the attempt.  The paw goes instead to Keto's shoulder and stays there.  The tension is unnecessary and unbearable.

“Suka, I have better--”

“I'm sorry.”

This is new.  It's not entirely comforting, either.  With a heaving sigh, Keto leans back into the couch, trapping his brother's paw against the fabric.  The ball is in his court now, and though his reaction probably won't affect the outcome, he might as well try.  “So, you're admitting you were an asshole?”

“Hey.”  The paw on the wusky's shoulder tightens and loosens, tightens again, rhythmically.  “I'm not asking you to cut me any slack.  Yeah, okay, I'm an asshole.  I'm like that a lot.  If you can believe it, all I wanted when I got home was to come in here and chill with you until dinner.  No lie.  I kicked those guys' asses, and it felt  great.”

Suka's paw goes behind Keto's back to rest on the far shoulder; he can feel the other wusky's tail moving the cushions behind him.  “So why aren't you out celebrating with your teammates?  I thought that's what you guys do.”  And suddenly, despite all his best efforts, Keto has trapped himself where he feared he would end up.  But the implications this time are so endemic to Suka's way of thinking that it kind of makes Keto start to feel sick.  His brother's arm is too warm.

There is silence now, save for the sound of the TV.  Keto watches as the program shows how snowmobiles are made, listening with mild interest, but never really tuning out his brother, or the lack of reply.  What kind of answer would suffice, though?  A brutally honest one, maybe, but Keto wants to hear those words even less than Suka would allow himself to say them.  There is no more guessing; with an answer that wasn't an answer, Suka has made it clear.  

And Keto doesn't feel right turning him down.  What bullshit.  

“You skipped the after-party for  this?”  

“ Yeah, so?” Suka says, low.  “We already won, and I knew you would be home, so I came home to hang out.”  It's a clunky, unstructured thought, but it's as far as Suka can go without being obvious.  He wants it, but he can't bear to say the words.  What a coward.  Keto staying in this room and humoring him shows much more strength.  The older wusky has age and physical power, and persuasion, but the younger knows he doesn't have to go through with it.  He can rip that power right from Suka's paws.  But the way he did it...he came home early,  knowing he could make this happen again...the gall...

Why didn't Keto see this coming?  Why, from a million miles away, did he not just sense it and remove himself from the house, and consequently, this whole mess?  Because he was too dumb to predict it?  Because last time seemed like a solitary event?  He should have known Suka would try it again, but... fuck...it really doesn't matter now.

Suka's blood is up, and Keto can smell it.  Raising more heat to the surface of his skin and pumping out his scent like a biological atomizer.  It filters through his uniform, taking up the smell of rayon and mingling it with wusky sweat, musk, even fear.  It all hits Keto's nose and makes him swallow hard.  One baleful glance at his brother's blue mesh shorts reveals no surprises:  a bulge, twitching on its own, anticipating something more exciting than any after-game celebration could provide.

“Hey.”  Suka shakes Keto gently.  

“I don't feel good,” the younger wusky replies, his ears an unmistakable signal of his reticence.  Keto hates the fact that he can feel the swish-swish of Suka's tail next to his, which would be tucked under if it weren't for the couch.  

“Come on, Keto.  Don't be that way.  I skipped the party so I could be with you.”  Shudder.  It's such a doubly-loaded statement even on its surface, so obviously false and true at the same time.  Only the context is the abhorrent part.  Flexing his legs, Suka clears his throat to mask a gentle hedonistic groan; the bulge twitches slightly larger.  The fingers flex on Keto's shoulder, trying to edge him closer.  The television is now going on about making cuckoo clocks.  

“Can't we just watch the show?”  Keto's rolling his eyes, but his stomach seems to be rolling even more.  

“Don't be a downer.”

“I'm not--”  But Suka decides the time for talking is past when he reaches across his lap, takes Keto's left paw and places it firmly atop his shorts.  Keto's wince and whine come out before he can stop them, and as soon as he hears it he is ashamed there wasn't a growl in there too.  It's a pussy reaction.  He stares at the screen seven short feet away, and moves nothing.  

“Mmmmm.”  It's probably meant to be encouraging, but it comes off as more self-indulgent.  Suka got what he wanted.  Because once the paw touches the sheath, what's Keto supposed to do?  He's long past caring about looking weak when it comes to doing this shit.  He knows Suka makes it look like he's all superior and manipulative, but...well...never mind.  He kind of is.  When he gets on his knees and sticks his tongue out to lick, there's no amount of inner monologue that can convince him otherwise.

Still, he can't be made to enjoy it.  Even if he does end up hard by the actions, it doesn't mean anything.  What Suka doesn't know won't hurt him...or Keto.

The older wusky spreads his legs and his package drops down and away from Keto's fingers; there's only one layer of cloth separating pad from sheath.

“You took off your underwear?” he says as he squeezes lightly, feeling Suka firm up.  

“They would have gotten in the way.”  Staring up at his brother, Keto tries to discern whether he's being serious, or aloof, or just plain evil.  “What?  You can't say they wouldn't have.”

No, Keto can't say that.  He can say a lot of things right now, but he doubts Suka will listen.  When he's got someone pawing him off, all the blood drains to his crotch.  Typical jock mentality; Suka's smart, no doubt, but there's nothing Keto can say that will convince his brother to just take care of himself.  Not when he has someone right there, someone whose paw is massaging him to hardness, who won't say no just because it's easier not to.

Suka's sheath fills out between Keto's fingers as he strokes the fur slowly over the flesh inside.  He can feel the tip peeling away on each downstroke, and it's darkening the blue shorts to navy.  The smell of musk and hockey sweat is stronger, of course, and it'll only get worse from here.  The musk is what gets Keto going, after all, and he can already feel himself twitching against his boxers.  He thinks about what will happen when he gets his mouth around it, what happened last time, and shudders.

“You're all right,” says Suka, though his concern is hollow, and pulls Keto up closer and turns him a bit before sitting up.  “Here, close the blinds.”

“Come on, Suka--”

“Just close 'em.”  Keto is glad to take his paw away, but the heat remains as he steps over to the window and rolls the blinds down, rotating the rod to close them.  The bars of light on the wall turn to slits, throwing the room into false twilight.  And by the time Keto turns back around, Suka is reclining, naked from the waist down, his shorts a puddle at his feet.  He's slowly stroking himself, three inches of red cock playing peekaboo with the cool den air.

Sighing, Keto walks back over to his brother.  “Dark enough for you?” he asks sarcastically.  It's practically the only thing that will cover his nerves.  It can't bring his ears up, though.

“That works,” Suka says, shooting out his right paw and grasping between Keto's legs.  His fingers get a grip around the younger wusky's half-erection before they're swatted away.  

“Jesus Christ, quit it!”

“Yeah, I figured.”  The smug smirk says more than words could ever express.

“What? ”

“Nothing, you're okay,” Suka says, putting his paw back on the couch.  Keto can still feel the ghosts of the finger pads through his shorts, disgusting and wanton at the same time.  It also serves to remind him how hard he's getting, though not enough to elicit notice from a distance.  It's little solace.  “Let's move it along.  I'd say I'm ready.”  

Keto gets on his knees beside Suka's right leg.  His arms are trembling, his mouth is dry, and when he wets his lips his brother chuckles.

“Can't wait?  You been thinking about last time?”  Fingers reach around to the back of his head and rub the base of his skull; the tension there releases some but it does nothing for the lump in Keto's stomach or his shaky paws.  The caress seems loving on the surface, but there's no telling how much of it is play-acting.  That's how last time happened, after all.

“I've been trying not to think about it.”

“Kind of hard not to.”  Keto gives his best venomous glare, but it turns into something half-hearted and hapless in the wake of Suka's baleful gaze.  The wusky has sex on his mind.  Keto sees his reflection in his brother's eyes—a supplicant to Suka's master—and knows he's going to do what the older wusky wants him to do.  There's...no reason not to, really.  Resisting is like sticking a fork in an outlet and hoping nothing happens.

The paw on the back of his head pulls him gently closer, and he knee-walks until he's right up against Suka's leg.  The three inches of flesh has turned into four, and the grey sheath no longer closes on the up-stroke.  No doubt that has something to do with Suka's growing knot stretching the skin at the base of the shaft, making for a tightness that only serves to send more blood where it's needed.  The scent of post-workout canid is even stronger.  Keto's nostrils flare, and he is ashamed.

“No sense waiting any longer,” Suka says.

“Maybe it's because I don't want to do it.”

“You just have to get used to it.”

“ I don't wanna get used to it.”

“ Okay.”  Yet another vague, noncommittal Suka response, and it infuriates Keto.  Okay, you don't want to get used to it, so you'll do it and not like it but you'll do it anyway because I said so and I don't feel like taking your shit.  You did it before, and you can't not do it again.  All in one fucking word.  The argument sails fleetingly through Keto's mind and, like all the other times, he loses.

So he reaches out and slips his paw under Suka's balls and cups them.  He knows his brother loves this; it's a weakness for him, and it renders the older wusky a tame, moaning boy who jerks the tip of his sheath over what shaft he can, runnels of precum dripping over his thumb.  This, he licks off every once in a while, as if it were simple syrup.  Once Keto has something semi-solid to grasp, the palsy in his paw goes away.

It's only a few minutes before Suka can't take any more.  “Okay, okay, you need to go to work now,” he murmurs, as if it were Keto's time to clock in and parade out on stage.  The cock is proffered, thick and bulging at its full length, still sheathed but desperately needing that remedied.  Scent isn't even a factor anymore, Keto's nose having gotten used to it when the shorts came off.  It's still there, but once he gets his lips around the head he'll be able to taste it, too.  

One final time, the younger wusky turns his head to look up at his brother, trying to keep his expression level and strong while at the same time pleading with his eyes.  Whether or not that makes him a pussy is entirely up to Suka.

“Come on,” says Keto.  

“ Go,” replies Suka.  No rest for the weary.  The thought of walking away flashes through Keto's mind, but it is accompanied by a voice he can't recognize as either his or his brother's.  Quitter, it says, softly and derisively.  You quitter.  Well, Keto isn't a quitter, and for what it's worth, maybe this is how you prove you're not one.  The utter asininity of that thought is pushed away forcefully as Keto grasps Suka's sheathed knot, bends the cock to the right and touches his tongue to the leaky tip.

Suka's whine is loud in the silence of the den.  “Stop teasing,” he whispers, and it's different from the first time, that last time.  He's trying to sound authoritative, but it's kind of hard when Keto hovers just to the side, tongue wrapped around the shaft, his nostrils flaring and almost runny.  Their eyes meet for one short moment, but in that moment Keto knows just what his brother is thinking.  He's thinking how hot and how cool it is getting his little brother to suck his cock, though Keto is far from little anymore.  The older wusky's tongue lolls lewdly out of his muzzle, one paw on the nape of Keto's neck, squeezing rhythmically, begging and insisting and forcing all at once.  

 Keto wants to smile, wants to draw back and just lick with the very tip of his tongue and watch Suka squirm, but he knows that's a fantasy taking place only in his head.  Suka would likely growl and start pushing, and Keto doesn't want that.  No, if this is happening, it's going to be under his control, on his terms.  Whether or not he's being made to do this is a moot point; what matters now is that his brother's climax depends solely on him.

Taking his fingers out from under Suka's sac, he forms a ring at the tip of the grey-fuzzed sheath and pulls down and then out, spreading the skin around the knot and popping the whole length into the open.  

“ Oh, God, Keto, fuck...”  This time the whimper is more pronounced, the ears laid flat, and they stay that way when Keto rises up, purses his lips, and lets his brother's tip inside.  The bitter combination of  musk, sweat, precum and mucus coats his lips and tongue, making him gag slightly, but doesn't deter him.  Now that he's actually doing the thing, instead of working up to it, he can focus on using the techniques he learned from last time to end it as soon as possible so he can get back to his normal life.

But why the hell is he hard?  Keto can feel it, pressing out from his body, still sheathed but filling him out completely, so much so that it's starting to become uncomfortable.  Well, Suka's claws on his neck feel pretty good, but it's more than that.  Probably the whole situation.  Keto's gotten boners at scary movies before, and he can remember the same thing happening years back when he was grounded for doing something incredibly stupid.  Fear, both times.  But he's not scared now, as he pumps behind Suka's knot in time with his bobbing head.  His tail isn't wagging, nor is it tucked between his spread legs.  He's just hard.  Not because he's blowing his brother.  He knows what he's thinking too well for the connection to be that obvious.  Still, it worries him, but worry isn't going to get Suka off any faster.

Yeah, but who am I trying to convince?   Pre squirts against the back of Keto's throat and brings him back to the task at paw.  

“You better...slow down,” Suka pants.

“Mm-mm,” Keto replies through a mouthful of cock, running his tongue over Suka's sensitive head, making the older wusky curl his toes and squirm to get away.  He knows by the quiver of the thighs that he's straining to hold it in.  Palming the knot and jerking it toward his face, Keto goes for what he thinks is an approximation of a tie, and by the feel of things—the instantaneous swelling between his lips, the near-disappearance of Suka's balls—he's succeeding.  

“Come on...”  But Suka isn't about to push Keto off, not at this point.  As much as Suka would love to draw it out, Keto is well aware of how his brother's libido works.  Just like the rest of him, it's a now-or-nothing mentality.  The Suka who will not hesitate to go for a goal shot if he possibly can, is the same Suka who can't resist leaning back and letting his nut go when he's already on his way.  Especially after all the hard playing he's done today, and the excitement of winning...this will be the first of maybe three before the day is over, but Keto probably won't be a part of those two.  And that's fine by him.  One is enough.  It's too many, already.

Taking the fingers that aren't around Suka's knot, Keto curls them under the tight sac and clenches.  This, he knows, drove Suka over the edge last time, and if it's a trigger, it should work again.  The lurch he feels encourages the fact.  His neck starts to sting from the claws digging into it, but he ignores it, just as he ignores the wet fly of his boxers cooling the tip of his sheath, waggling behind the cotton.  Suka's tail thumps the side of the couch as he raises his hips, but Keto moves away and clamps his muzzle around the pulsing end of his brother's erection.

Suka goes silent, and the moment has come.  Keto flicks his tongue around to the underside of the head and stays there, cruelly putting too much stimulation exactly where the older wusky doesn't want it.  And with a throaty grunt and a final, futile thrust, it's over.  Cum splashes over Keto's tongue, bathing it in pure scent and bitter salt, his sinuses lighting up from glottis to nostril and back again with the taste of his brother.  Keto lets it pool there, with no intention of swallowing it.  He can't even taste his own without shuddering.  

The pressure and pain on his neck lets up a little, then the paw is gone completely.  Now freed, relatively, Keto pulls off, making sure not to drip back down onto Suka's crotch (not because I care, because I don't want him keeping me in here).  Suka's cock flops along his belly and pulses there, losing its shape slightly and moving down along his thigh, leaving a sticky trail.  One last look at his brother's calm face and his meager feeling of victory is replaced by a little resentment, a little shame, and a little disgust feeling the load rolling around in his muzzle.  Before Suka can open his eyes, Keto is already out of the den and at the foot of the stairs. 

It didn't end up like he thought it would.  The heat of the moment gave him power he could feel, just for those few minutes, but the result was the same:  Suka coming and using him to do it, what he'd planned from the very start.  Probably from before he even got home.  Maybe he'd been thinking about it while shooting the winning goal, or fouling another player for strategic advantage.  Whatever it is, Keto will never know, and the not knowing, combined with the fact that he still did what Suka wanted, roils his stomach around as he takes the stairs two at a time, ducks into the upstairs bathroom and spits out the older wusky's semen into the sink.

Keto closes the door, panting, his nose running, full of the smell.  It's now mixed with his own, half due to his saliva, half due to his own arousal pinned between him and the counter.  He looks down to discover his boxers are soaked through, and he realizes with utter chagrin that if Suka had his eyes open to any degree he probably saw it, if not surely smelled it.  Canid brothers can't keep those kinds of secrets.  It's only a matter of time before Suka asks again, and brings it up as leverage.  

 He's got to get rid of it, and it won't take much at this point.  It's only a matter of a few strokes, really.  The boxers go to the floor, his fingers fly to the lock on the knob, and his sheath gives way to his shaking pads.  I don't give a shit why, he thinks, watching his reflection paw himself, I just need it gone.  He blanks his mind, but the one thing he can't get rid of is the taste of Suka on his tongue.  All he does is watch his own cock, and his own fingers working the length of it, in the mirror.

“Keto?” Suka calls, from the bottom of the stairs, the word followed shortly by footsteps.  Keto can feel his legs stiffening already, his tail standing out straight and waving back and forth in a lazy fan.  He hears Suka clear the landing and approach the bathroom door.  “Hey, you okay in there?  I thought you might've choked or something.”  There's a slight chuckle in there somewhere, but it's more for show than anything else.

“I'm fine, just gonna shower, okay?”  He can't help the shaking of the words, but he can't stop now either.  Just ten more seconds and he can wash the whole thing down the drain.

“Alright.  I'm ordering a pizza, so I'll just put extra cheese on your half.”

“ Fine...”  The tingle starts at the base of Keto's tail and works its way forward; his cock leaks against the edge of the counter, ready for the flood.  Just go!

“Hey, just one thing.”

“What?”  It sounds strained because it is.  Keto looks up and sees himself, ears back, pounding his fist at his groin, a sexual being, but as a result of...of...

“You're pretty good at that.  It was nice.”  And the younger wusky's jaw yawns open, the pure honest ramifications of those eight little words reversing all the hard work he'd been trying to do to block it out.  And the result, the thing he was most afraid of, is splattering against the mirror, over the counter, the faucet, even Suka's toothbrush.  It comes and comes, and Keto is helpless, watching the white ropes as they slow to a trickle and coat his fingers as it comes to an end.  All of five or seven seconds.  “See you downstairs,” Suka says, never missing a beat and never suspecting, and pads away before he can smell the explosion of his brother's musk all over the bathroom they share.

For the next minute, Keto forces himself to stay still, willing his legs to keep him standing.  It's been a long time since he's had a climax that threatened to take him off his feet.  His heart thrums in his ears, a sea of constant waves crashing within his ears.  Not until the cum on his paw pads drips onto his foot does he lift his head and look at the ruined counter.  There is Comet and de-scenter for that.  And for himself, mouthwash, which he gurgles heartily while realizing he could have done that before he stroked off, and wondering why he didn't.  

The counter is a simple affair to clean:  rags and chemicals, with plenty of water to wash it all down.  Even Suka's toothbrush, which Keto takes special pleasure in having to sanitize, wondering if the older wusky would even notice had he not bothered.  His smirk is cut short when he feels his sheath tighten again, reminding him that dried cum on fur usually pulls.  Suka would have brought it on himself, anyway; serves him right.

Even as the shower warms and fills the bathroom with de-scenter-flavored steam, Keto's thoughts darken.  He's hard again.  Not completely, but enough to bother him if he plans on putting on clothes for the rest of the day...which reminds him that his boxers are out of the question and he'll have to run naked across the hall for his room.  He doesn't think Suka will be lying in wait, ready to push him to the floor and feed him his cock again.  Such a stupid, asinine thing to think.  A small stinging sensation from between his legs tells him the hot water is working its magic on his cummy fur.  It's also because he's pinking all over again.  Shampoo can wash scents off, but it can't put his cock back in his sheath, or quiet the worries in his mind.  For now, he can hum and pretend.

And he's supposed to go back downstairs and eat pizza with Suka.  His stomach gurgles, but he's never felt less like eating in his life.

12/5/10-1/4/11