Monday, January 6th, 2020 – Lucas O’Malley, age 32

	Back then, it was simpler, I think. Every Monday night, I would bake myself a nice homestyle macaroni and cheese casserole. I call it ‘casserole’ because my mother, who taught me this recipe, told me that anything cooked in a casserole dish is a casserole. Yes, even macaroni and cheese. 
	Finely minced onions and celery on top of it all; cracked black pepper and crushed red pepper mixed in with the toasted panko crumbs that hide beneath the vegetables. All baked until even the tips of the bowtie noodles that stick up from beneath the toppings were slightly browned. I could never wait for it to cool. I burned my tongue on my mother’s recipes so many times over the years that I hardly even felt it anymore. These days I’m lucky to get a meal hot enough to burn me.
	A grown man who lives alone eating macaroni and cheese every Monday night. I’m not sure if I was living in paradise or if I should have been ashamed of myself. I think I was typically stuck somewhere in the middle those days.
	Monday, to me, was like my Saturday. I had Mondays and Tuesdays off—except for around the holidays—and only worked evenings on Wednesdays, when the Adventure Scouts met. When my father passed—almost twelve years ago, at that point—I began studying to take over his position at our church. For the prior seven or eight years, I would preach at services Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday mornings—three services in a row starting at sunrise—and host bible studies in my home and at church all day Thursdays and Fridays. But my favorite part—and the reason I took this job in the first place—was teaching the children. Vacation Bible School; Sunday school; Adventure Scouts; and various bible studies throughout the weekend. They have always been the most receptive learners. 
	Now, if you know even a bit about my past, I’m sure you can make some presumptions as to why that would be my favorite part. But I assure you—my intentions were good. Most of them, anyway.
	I had never touched a child who didn’t want it. I had never hurt a child. I promised myself I never would. 
	No matter how many images had flashed through my mind. No matter how badly I had sometimes felt a—a need to. I loved those children, and they loved me. That’s all it was. I never meant to hurt him. 
	Right?
	There were a few children that had come and gone like the seasons. I’d jerk them off in the bathroom after youth group—let them suck my cock in the tent during Adventure Scouts overnight camps. None of them ever said a word to anyone because they never felt a need to. It was just a mutual, physical relationship. Gus was the only one who truly meant something to me. Until Matthew McMillan.
	He was the son of an old student of mine from the Y—Terrence McMillan. The rabbit with the alluring feet. Owing to his species—sorry to you anti-speciesists out there—Terrence fucked a bit too early on and had kits before he was even a junior in high school. Luckily for his girlfriend, she was able to graduate a year early and skip senior year to be a feeding ground for her litter. 
	The household didn’t seem too healthy. It reminded me a lot of my household growing up—loud, drunk, angry, violent. Terrence didn’t turn out to be the stud he had high hopes of becoming in grade school. 
	Matthew came out to me as gay almost a year prior to this incident, when he was only eight years old. It was the only obvious step from there that I would teach him a thing or two, even though I’d never even been with a rabbit before. Ever since then, we would meet any chance we could get with any excuse we could find. I was slated to be his mentor for his upcoming confirmation. 
	I had done this for at least three kids since I started. But I have never been a mentor for a kid that I was also fucking. There was a whole foot-washing ceremony we would perform at the confirmation—like Jesus did to his disciples in the bible. It was always a huge turn-on for me to be up there washing a kid’s feet. Nobody knew how horny it makes me, and the exhibition aspect of it all just made me even hornier. Especially knowing that the kid’s foot could easily stray from its path and rub right up against my throbbing erection. And I was so looking forward to doing that for Matthew.
	It’s the macaroni and cheese casserole that dinged first, and just a second later came the doorbell. 
	“Just a minute!” I called out, rushing to the oven. Didn’t want to let the tips of my bowties get too brown.
	Five more minutes, I thought to myself after a quick glance. Better make it six, I thought again as I set the timer.
	I clambered to the door, trying to see through the steam that clouded up my glasses. The doorbell rung again—twice—impatiently. 
	“I’m coming!’
	I swung the door open wildly, preparing to chew out a solicitor for daring to ring my doorbell this late in the evening on a Monday for God’s sake. But it’s Matthew, in tears. 
	“Matty, what are you doing here? You should be home, it’s almost dinner time—”
	“I ran away. I’m not going back.” He hadn’t even looked up from his toes yet; instead his eyes were drawn to the wet spots his tears left on his sneakers. 
	“Matty, you can’t—” I sighed. “Why don’t you come in for dinner? I made mac-and-cheese.”
	As expected, his ears perked up at the sound of some deliciously gooey pasta. He bolted in through the door without another word and threw a backpack full of what-have-you onto the couch. 
	“Matthew! Leave your shoes at the door, please. You’ve been here before; you should know the rules by now.” I’m hardly ashamed to admit that chiding him—even this gently—caused a stiffness in my shorts. 
	“Yes, Mister Luke.” 
	Well fuck, I didn’t even have to train the kid to respond like that. He dutifully took off his shoes and placed them on the tray by the door. This particularity was less one of attention to cleanliness, and more an attraction to the odor and sight of the cubs’ socks; plain white and cartooned ones were my absolute favorite. This rule applied only when cubs are over for bible study, or visits. I wouldn’t request the adults remove their shoes. 
	Matt was wearing hand-me down boots that I recognized—they were the same beat-up pair that his father used to wear on hikes during summer camp at the Y. Handed down from his father I’m sure. Or perhaps an older brother. 
	 Beneath the leather boots were socks—white socks—well, they used to be white anyway. Grey and brown on the bottom, yellowed at the heel, with a tuft of fur from the pinky toe sticking out from a hole in the cotton. 
	I get so distracted by the sight and lingering smell of the boy’s feet that I forget the more pressing matters: the macaroni and cheese that is now crisping in the oven. 
	 “Come, sit at the dinner table. You’re just in time,” I said, and the kitchen timer went off just then as if it were somehow aware of comedic timing. 
	 Matt giggled and sat at the head of the table opposite the oven. I slipped my paws into the oven mitts and slid the casserole out of the oven. Placing it on the stove, atop a trivet made of bamboo slats, I observed the perfectly crisped noodles and onions and celery. Almost too good to share. I knew the kid had quite an appetite; sadly, I had been looking forward to leftovers. 
	 I fetched two glasses and put three ice cubes in each of them. I briefly imagined myself grabbing the sleeping pills I had hidden in my cabinet and emptying two of the capsules into Matthew’s drink. I pushed the thought out of my head. He was easy enough as it is. 
    I poured myself an unsweetened iced tea and topped it off with a splash of lemonade. Fresh, made it that morning. I would only drink fresh, real lemonade.
	I knew Matt didn’t like tea, so I poured him a full glass of lemonade. What I didn’t know at the time—and what neither Matt nor his parents knew—was that Matthew McMillan (and his twin sister Salamanca) had a mild citrus allergy that would close up his throat just enough to be bothersome but not enough to be worrisome—under normal circumstances. I also did not know that Matthew had a severe deviated septum that rendered him completely unable to breathe out of his nose on a good day. 
	I fixed us each a plate of my delicious home-cooked meal: stir-fried green beans with garlic and celery salt was the featured side. I set the table and sat down next to him.
	“Alright, what’s been going on, bud? Why did you run away?”
	“My older sister found out I’m gay and told my mom.”
	Yikes. 
	“What—how did she find out?”
	There was a brief silence as he poked at his mac and cheese—still too hot to eat.
	“Matthew…?”
	“She found my magazine.”
	“…What magazine?”
	“I… um… borrowed it from you.”
	Oh god. My porn magazines. My gay porn magazines. My only hope was that he didn’t borrow the copies of Softpaw I had hidden in my stash. Especially issue #4. That one was incredibly rare. And, well, being cub porn… incredibly illegal.
	“What—which—when did you—?” I struggled to find the right question to ask.
	“It was just one. It was… um… the one with the sheepdogs and the sheep. Because it, um—it reminded me of you.”
	Shepherd’s Creampie #14. Not Softpaw, thank god. One of my personal favorites as well; a cousin of mine was featured on one of the spreads, getting rawed by an angry-looking ram. I shared that magazine with Matt about a month before; we jerked off together and he licked the cum off of my stomach.
	Cute, I guess, that he wanted to jerk off to a dog that looked like me. But bad, if anyone found out where he got it from.
	“What did your sister say to you when she found it?”
	I took a bite of my mac and cheese.
	“She asked me where I got it.”
	“And what did you tell her?” My mouth was still full of mac and cheese.
	“I got it from a friend at school.” Good boy.
	“And so what did she say?”
	“She told my mom.”
	“How much older than you is she again?”
	“Two hours.” 
	“Oh, she’s one of those.”
	“Those what?”
	“Never mind—what, then, did your mom say?”
	“She said…” He still hadn’t touched his mac and cheese more than to prod it a bit and pick off all the onions and celery.
	“Matt, tell me what your mother said if you want me to try and help you.”
	“She said… ‘No son of mine is going to grow up to be a faggot.’”
	Ouch.
	“I’ve heard that one before,” I said with utmost confidence.
	“You what?” The rabbit’s ears perked up and he looked at me with hopeful confusion—or maybe it was confused hope.
	“I cannae ‘ave a quare fer a son!” I shouted in my best Irish accent, imitating my father, swilling my glass of tea like it was one of his old frosted mugs.
	“What’s that mean?”
	“It’s Mister Luke’s dad,” I told him. “He’s ayeresh!”
	Matt giggled. “It sounds like you’re doing a pirate voice.”
	I frowned. That’s what my dad used to tell me. I wasn’t Irish enough for him.
	“My point is,” I continued, “My dad said the same thing to me when I came out at first. Of course, this wasn’t until I was sixteen and had my first boyfriend, so, I think you’ve got it easier, to be honest.”
	“What do you mean?”
	“You’re only eight years old, you—”
	“I’m nine now, Mister Luke.”
	“You’re only nine years old, you’ve got a lot more time for your mom to come around. What did your dad say?”
	“He’s away on business.”
	“I see. Well what made you decide to run away?”
	“My mom was crying. And my sister Sal was yelling at me. Telling me I made her cry, being a faggot and all.” He started to tear up.
	“Come here, do you need a hug?”
	His welling tears turned to sobs as he mustered a barely-audible “yes”, and he scrambled out of his chair and came to rest in my lap. His long ears tickled mine and I could his tears soaking through my shirt to my fur. His chest heaved against mine with each sob and his left knee rubbed up against my hardening cock. I could feel the warmth from his taint and ballsack as he sat upon my right thigh. His body was always so warm…
	“She’ll change her mind, Matty. I promise. Did you tell anyone you were leaving?”
	“No.”
	“Did anyone see you? Does anyone know you’re here?”
	“I don’t think so.”
	“Well, I should probably call your mother and tell her that you’re here.” I tried to push the boy off me to get up and grab the landline—yes, I still used a landline in the year 2020. He grabbed me and looked me in the eyes.
	“Please don’t tell her I’m here.”
	“Matthew, I have to, she’s going to worry—she might call the police—”
	“Please Mister Luke, please don’t call my mommy. She’ll whoop me for sure—”
	“Okay, you can stay here for tonight, I promise, but I have to tell her you’re here.”
	“No! She already ’s mad at me cause I said I like you better than her!”
	“Alright, well—wait—Matthew, why would you say that?” My mind flashed back to the issues I ran into with Gus’ parents. How many times did we almost get caught?
	“I said it because it’s true!”
	“But you should never say something like that to your mother, even if you think it’s true. No one will ever love you more than your mother, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.”
	“That’s not true at all. You don’t know my mom.” He’s right. I’d still never really talked to her besides the occasional hello when she’d come to pick him up. 
	“Well, is there someone else I should call? Do you know your dad’s cell phone number by heart?”
	“No…”
	“Grandma? Grandpa? Aunt? Uncle?”
	“I don’t know any phone numbers.”
	Well, I was stumped. I may have had a landline in 2020, but I certainly didn’t still have a phonebook lying around anywhere.
	“Okay, well, how about we finish eating dinner and we’ll figure it out afterwards?” He liked that idea, and so we did. 
	Unsurprisingly, the kid asked for seconds on the mac. I scooped the top off—all the crispy cheese and veggies—since he didn’t seem to care for it anyway, and put it on my own plate. I gave him a healthy serving and myself an even heartier one, then returned to the table. We finished our plates without so much as another word. When I was done clearing the table, I looked at him and broke the silence.
	“So, we’ve got one last thing to discuss…”
	Matt groaned and reluctantly made eye contact with me.
	“…What’s for dessert?” I said, and he smiled. 
	Turns out it was ice cream. Yes, in the middle of winter. We returned twenty minutes later with ice cream cones from the drive-thru stacked high and covered in chocolate shell and sprinkles. Well, I did anyway. His was gone by the halfway point of the journey home. I was just beginning to crunch on the bottom of my cone when I pulled in the driveway.
	I got out of the front seat of my minivan to let him out since I had the child lock on. I didn’t realize then how lucky I was that he had been in the back seat with the tinted windows. No one had seen me with him that night.
	“Alright Matt, now we’ve really got to call your parents. Go inside and get your stuff together. If I can’t get a hold of them, I’m just going to have to take you home.”
	“But—”
	“No buts!” No buts except the tight one in your undies, kiddo. “Get in there, I’ll be right in.” 
	During the trip to the ice cream parlor, I had suddenly remembered that phone operators existed. They were still a thing, right? You dial… zero, and someone picks up? I had seen it in movies as a kid, but I don’t think I had ever actually been in the presence of someone who called an operator. I wouldn’t get to find out, however, because a sobbing Matthew grabbed ahold of me as soon as I opened the door. At least he had put on his backpack like I had asked. He still hadn’t put on his shoes, however. 
	“Please don’t take me back.”
	“I have to at least call, Matthew.”
	He was sobbing so hard that I didn’t have the heart to say anything else, so I slid the backpack off of him, picked him up, and carried him over to the couch. I sat him on my lap and moved his hands away from his eyes, clearing some tears while I was at it.
	“You know I love you, right?” I said to him. The child shook his head yes at me. 
	I planted a kiss right on his lips, ignoring the snot trailing down from his nose. I kissed him along the side of his muzzle and then down his cheek and down his neck all the way to his collarbone, making exaggerated smacking noises with each peck.
	“I know how to stop those tears, Matt. You know what best cures a crybaby?”
	Matthew looked up at me and shook his head no.
	“A tickle fight!”
	The always-dreaded tickle fight started, innocently enough, where most tickle fights do: the armpits and neck. Stifled sobs turned into giddy laughter, and it wasn’t long before my tickling assault moved around to his back and down his back to his butt. I grabbed those pompous cheeks and pulled his body close to me for a kiss. It was all a ruse, though, because next I went for the spot right above his tail which I’ve found is an incredible ticklish—and sometimes erogenous—spot. 
	It made him wriggle out of my grasp and—THUNK!—backwards onto the floor, still laughing. His butt was between my feet and his feet stuck straight up in the air. I grabbed his ankles and used them to mush his feet against my cheeks. I blew a raspberry at him and shook my head vigorously, as if I were motorboating a fat pair of titties. The kid obviously had no idea what it was I was mimicking, but it made him laugh all the same. Already hard, I ripped the boy’s socks off, and gave one a good whiff. I could feel my pants getting tighter.
	I popped the boy’s left toes in my mouth as I returned to the tickling, this time his right foot and left kneecap. I even moved my footpaws up and tickled his neck with my toes.
	“Stop! Stop! I’m gonna pee!”
	Well, that wouldn’t really be all that troublesome to me. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time I had a cub piss on me.
	I kept tickling. And sucking on his toes. That part was more for my enjoyment than his tickle-torture.
	“Stop! Uncle! Uncle!” His voice was still wet and sticky from tears.
	He used the sacred tickle fight safeword. I had to stop. As much as I wanted to watch him piss himself, it wouldn’t be good for the carpet. Or his clothes. 
	“Alright, fine. Fine.” I helped him up off the floor and sat him back up on the couch next to me. I gave him a short kiss.
	“Here, let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll be right back.” I had forgotten about calling his parents for now, and went to the kitchen to get some tissues and another glass of lemonade for the kid, who was surely parched. 
	I sat down next to him as Matthew made an obnoxious trumpeting as he unleashed a torrent of phlegm into the tissue. I handed him another, and he repeated the process. I took them both and tossed them onto the side table, then handed him the lemonade. One final, fatal mistake.
	He finished it off swiftly, ignoring the numbness of his tongue. 
	“Feel better?” I asked. 
	“Yes, Mister Luke,” he replied. Every time he called me that it sent a shiver down my spine and to the tip of my tail. The kid cuddled up next to me and nuzzled his face in my chest. His long ears tickled my chin. I kissed the pink sensitive insides of each one and then leaned down to give him another kiss on his forehead. He looked up and kissed me on the lips.
	I couldn’t help myself; I slid a hand up his shirt and rubbed my fingers between his slender ribs. It wasn’t long until I took that shirt off and had him lying on his back with my snout against his chest. Teasing one top nipple with my tongue—pinching the other one gently between my thumb and index finger. The kid whimpered. I raised an eyebrow at the rasp in his breath, but thought nothing of it as my muzzle moved lower, down to his pelvic region. 
	Not wanting to spoil myself the show, I removed only his shorts, admiring the bright red and white striped briefs Matt wore, and the tiny little stiffy that tented them ever so slightly. I grabbed it and gave it a little wiggle, causing Matthew to flinch and giggle. He looked up at me with his precious green eyes, and I buried my face beneath his cock, suckling on his tiny jewels through the fabric. He wrapped his legs around my neck and pulled me in closer. His thighs squeezed me as I rolled his entire scrotum around on my tongue. Once his legs relaxed I leaned up and pulled his underwear down, admiring his lithe body and slender cock as his feet bounced back down onto the couch. I tossed the briefs aside and buried my face in his crotch again.
	His small, conical dick was my next target. It was easy to fit the whole thing in my mouth—it barely went halfway down my muzzle at its deepest. So it was really up to my tongue to give him the works. Tiny little laps—like a kitten drinking from a bowl—at the tip of his penis seemed to be the most effective. Meanwhile, my cock was about ready to burst out of my pants. 
	I stood up and removed them, taking my boxers down with them. Matt excitedly hopped up and his hands went straight for the knot. I made about the highest pitched Yelp! I think I’ve ever heard out of a grown dog. He slid my sheath down with expertise, and I practically melted back down into the couch. My knot was freed, and Matthew wasted no time in slathering my dick up and down with his tongue. I leaned down and gave him a smooch on the forehead, and he responded by engulfing the top half of my cock in his muzzle. 
	I grabbed onto his long ears—one in each hand—and pulled him gently downward. He gagged and pushed away, so I eased up and let him take a breather. He stretched his jaw and let out a nasally cough. Then he went right back to work. 
	I decided to let him work at his own pace now, instead keeping my hands on his shoulders, occasionally moving them up to give him some appreciative scritches behind his ears. He worked his tongue while he bobbed his head up and down, just like I taught him. He was a very attentive student, both at church and out of it.
	I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the ride as he fondled my balls with one hand and wrapped the other beneath the base of my knot. He took a break from sucking for a bit and proceeded to give my cock a tongue bath. Once he had caught his breath, he returned to sucking my dick. He was going deeper than he ever had before; his nose was coming dangerously close to rubbing against my knot. I decided to help him again.
	Buck teeth scraped against my knot as I pulled his ears violently downward. I bucked my hips uncontrollably, trying my hardest to squeeze that last bit of girth past the rabbit’s lips. I succeeded with a loud pop—and the best orgasm of my entire life began. 
	Staring down at him, his cheeks full with my knot like a chipmunk with a mouthful of vegan cheese curls, he looked back up at me with his adorable green eyes. Loving, caring, understanding. Happy to please. But there was a touch of fear behind all that.
	The flow of cum bypassed the poor kid’s tongue completely, so he didn’t get to taste anything this time. But my knot engorged even more once it entered his mouth; electric jolts pulsing with levels of incredible pleasure that I never felt before and never was able to attain again. I think I blacked out for a minute—my eyes flitted beneath my eyelids and rolled back into my head. Lights and colors flashed against the blackness in fractals and impossible geometry.
	I began to feel his throat closing up around the tip of my cock, sending shivers up my spine. The boy was gagging and coughing, but no amount of effort freed his face from my crotch. A few coughs managed to pass between my knot and his lips, making a gentle farting sound as the air escaped between his flesh and mine. 
	The knot was indubitably stuck—kind of its point, evolutionally, but it’s intended to stick in a vagina, not the mouth of an eight—sorry, nine—year old rabbit. My knot was thicker than I think I’d ever felt it before, perhaps explaining why I was feeling so lightheaded. All the blood in my body was rushing to my cock.
	Eventually he started fighting. He pushed against my hips to try and pull away, but I held his head in place: one hand gripping both of his long, cute, bunny ears, the other taking a fistful of headfur and holding on for dear life.
	“Teeth! Watch the teeth, Matthew!”
	No response came, besides a gagging and a muffled MMMMMMFF!
	He struggled more. His front teeth began to dig into the flesh behind my knot so hard I’m sure the kid is tasting blood. His eyes were wider than I’ve ever seen anyone’s before. Bloodshot. If they were any wider, I’d be seeing his optic nerves.
	“Ow, Matthew! The teeth!”
	He bit down, so I instinctively punched him in the back of the head. I had never so much as spanked a child before. Especially not one that I loved. 
	“Open your mouth!” 
	He obeyed (involuntarily of course, his dazed eyes rolled back into his head briefly), and I took this time to try and pull him off me. But there was no going back. The knot was in there, and would be for at least the next twenty minutes, average tying time for a dog my size. But I had a personal history of extensive and exceedingly long orgasms, especially when I was with a cub. So, we were looking at closer to forty-five minutes.
	He struggled still, every twist and turn of his head just making me cum harder. He pushed and writhed and started banging on my stomach with his fists. I grabbed both his wrists in one hand and held his head still with the other. He wriggled the bottom half of his body, kicking and writhing, meanwhile I’m still cumming—hard. I think I blacked out again. When I remembered who and what I was, I realized that Matt had stopped fighting, So I let go of his arms. Or, rather, I dropped them. They fell to my lap, deadweight.
	“…Matty?”
	His eyes were open, but unseeing, and unblinking. Every few seconds he would make a grunting noise and convulse. 
	“Matty?!”
	I tried once more in vain to pull my knot out of his mouth, but it was simply too big. I don’t understand how it got in there in the first place. It was then that reality set in and I allowed myself to panic.
	“Matt!”
	With my cum still oozing down his throat in short spurts, I attempted to stand up. The weight of his body hanging off my cock both hurt and sent shivers of pleasure down my spine. I took a few steps forward, dragging him along beneath me. I can’t walk like this. I grabbed his long ears and lifted him up just enough so that I wasn’t dragging him with just my dick. Where am I even going? I didn’t know. What am I going to do? I didn’t know. Is he dead? I did know. He was definitely dead. Oh my god, he is dead. Oh god, was he dead.
	It was then that the phone rang, and I hobbled over to it, terrified, when I heard the speaker announce who was calling. Its robotic voice shouted down the hall: Call from…
	“Mrs. McMillan?”
	Her voice was weary and agitated and wet with tears.
	“Matt is there isn’t he?”
	His lifeless eyes stared up at me from between my legs.
	“Matthew? No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”
	“You’re lying.”
	“What? Miss, why would I lie to you? I would never—”
	“I know he’s over there, and if you don’t let me speak to him, I—”
	“Mrs. McMillan, Jake isn’t here, I don’t understand. If he had come here unannounced I would have called you immediately, he—”
	“I’m coming over to pick him up.”
	“Miss, he’s not here!” I almost hissed these words into the receiver. My mother always joked I was part cat.
	She burst into tears. “Then where is he? If he’s not with you, where did he go?!”
	I tried not to burst into sobs myself as it sunk in even deeper that the child I loved—this woman’s son—was hanging from my crotch, now a lifeless corpse. “I—I don’t know, Mrs. McMillan. I don’t know what to tell you. When was the last time you saw him?”
	She hung up. I threw the phone to the floor, and then dragged Matthew and myself back to the couch. I cried myself to sleep, and when I woke up the next morning, my cock was back in its sheath like nothing happened and Matthew’s naked body was frozen in an odd position in front of me on the floor. His arms jutted out in front of him, bent at the elbows, like he was an action figure tossed on its side. His legs were stuck in an odd kneeling position. His jaw hung wide open in a horrific scream, his tongue, shriveled and cracked, receding in his throat. His pink cock was still sticking out of its sheath in an eternal erection. The previous night came flooding back to me, and I threw myself on top of him, sobbing once again. For now, I ignored the fact that he had shat and pissed on my carpet in the beginning stages of death.
	I put my hand to his once soft and warm chest and recoiled in disgust when I felt it cold and rigid. His eyes were already dull and greying and a few flies buzzed around him. One trotted around on his yellowed teeth and dried-out gums. I shooed it away, but it came back and landed on his half-lidded eyeball. I winced and shooed it away once more. 	Thoughts popped in and out of my head that I struggled to get rid of. 
	It’s a dream. It isn’t real. 
	But I knew that it was real. 
	Turn yourself in. Call his mother back. Tell her everything and listen to her cry.
	Absolutely fucking not. I couldn’t go down like this. 
	Then take him to the basement. Break out the tarpaulin. 
	And do what? 
	Bleed him. Butcher him. It’s easier to dispose of body parts than a body.
	…
	Besides, don’t you want to see what his insides look like? See if he’s as adorable on the inside as he is on the out?
	I couldn’t think like this. I shook my head and then banged it against the carpet.
	He’s already fucking dead. You already fucking killed him.
	I didn’t mean to!
	Sure, tell that to the police. I didn’t mean to choke the kid to death. I was only trying to face-fuck him! That will go over well.
	…
	Nothing to say to that one, huh? So take him to the basement.
	The voice I had been fighting for years to keep quiet had finally won. I could see no argument to that. I already fucking killed him. Why not go the full mile? Why not indulge the fantasies that had kept me up at night for years, now?
	I picked up his rigid, naked body and hoisted it over my shoulders. I carried him over to the basement door and opened it. Carefully, I carried him down the stairs, counting each one as I gently descended. I placed him on the cold, unfinished concrete floor and laid out the tarpaulin like the voice had suggested. I stretched it as far as I could, and then placed his body on top of it.
	The axe? Or the knife?
	I shuddered at the thought of using an axe to dismember him. I also shuddered at the thought of using a knife, but it seemed somehow preferable. More gentle. Less savage. I went back upstairs and grabbed my chef’s knife. I thought for a second, and then grabbed the whole knife block—and the sharpener. 
	I sat expressionless, staring at Matthew while I sharpened each knife. The flies had followed us downstairs, but their buzzing failed to drown out the voice.
	Cut him up. Have a taste. Put the rest in the freezer for later.
	My cheek twitched.
	Start with the thighs. They’re the juiciest.
	My eyelid shuddered. 
	The knives were soon each sharpened, and I took the smallest—a paring knife—to his stomach. I lingered over him, his body still in its unnatural position, and cringed and I pushed the knife into his skin just below his sternum. I made a long incision from there to the beginning of his pubic area. Deep enough to split his flesh, but not deep enough to cut through the peritoneum. The smell of fresh gore hit me like a wave. I grabbed each flap of skin and split off the connective tissue so I could pull his abdomen open and stare in awe at his organs. The colors were a lot more diverse than I had expected. Dark blue, green, purple, and black. And of course red and yellow and pink.
	Isn’t this what you always wanted?
	I ignored the voice and placed a hand on the sac of tissue that kept his vital organs in place. It stuck to my paws, and bits of fur stuck back. I dared to drag a claw down the center of his belly, and the sac nearly burst open like a balloon, sending greenish-brownish-pink intestines spilling out. I recoiled. The smell, oh God, the smell. He hadn’t started to rot yet. It was still fresh. Cold, but fresh. My loins stirred. The smell. 
	I wanted to be repulsed, but I was not.
	I wanted to be horrified, but I was not.
	I want to say that my hands shook, or my lips trembled, or my eyes teared up, but they did not.
	I simply knelt there and stared at his spilt guts without even the slightest hint of a grimace on my face.
	A hand that was hardly my own lashed out and reached into the cold, tangled mess of organs and, before I even realized what I was doing, my hand was inside his ribcages and reaching for his heart.
	It wasn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. Or in Mortal Wombat. The heart doesn’t just sit there for the taking like a stapler in jello. It’s surrounded by walls of tissue and fat, and connected with thick veins and arteries that don’t just disconnect with a snap of your fingers. It took some pulling. And some fighting. But less than two minutes later I held the boy’s heart in my hand. I almost expected it to beat or writhe in my hand, but it was still and cold as a lump of frozen pudding. I took it upstairs, never really taking my eyes off the thing, and searched for a gallon freezer bag to place it in. I found one—a good one, with the double locking top—and put it in the fridge. That would be the first thing I ate.
	I returned downstairs, more Ziplocs in stow, without bothering to wash or wipe the gore off my arm. I was somehow surprised to see that Matthew had not moved from the spot I had left him. Something about the way he was splayed out on the tarpaulin. Something about the way his guts were splattered out on either side of him. Something about his bent arms and legs. 
	I dropped the box of Ziplocs and got onto my knees again. One more time before he goes to the freezer. One more time.
	The voice that once was separate now is one with my own. I don’t feel in control of myself anymore. The next thing I know, I have him rolled over onto his belly—well, I guess I can’t really say that. He’s in an odd, stiff, downward dog position with what’s left of his belly dripping down onto the blue tarp beneath. I wet a towel in the sink and use it to wipe his ass clean of the fecal matter he left behind in the early hours of being dead. Clumps of white fur came fell to the floor. No one ever said this would be pleasant. 
	I didn’t even need any foreplay. I was already stiff as stone, all I needed was some lube. Which I had coincidentally thought to bring downstairs as well. When I finally slid my cock into his frigid, rigid asshole, he was even tighter than the day I first fucked him.
	It was warm that night, I remember. Back in the summer. It was his first time at sleep-away camp and he was horridly homesick. Everyone else had gone to bed in their communal room, but he had snuck out to wake me up. I had taken him outside so as to not wake up the other counselors.
	“Can I call my mommy, Mister Luke?”
	“Matthew, I told you, there’s no phones here. The only phone that works only calls the office. It looks like you’re stuck with me.”
	He started to cry again. 
	“Hey, I’m not so bad, am I?”
	His continued tears spoke volumes. 
	I hoisted him up into my lap and gave him a forbidden kiss that stopped his tears immediately. 
	“I thought you said never to do that where others can see!” He shout-whispered. I responded by kissing him again.
	“No one can see if they’re all asleep,” I said.
	As I thrusted in and out of his corpse, those words repeated in my head. No one can see if they’re all asleep. Matthew’s eyes were open, but he was certainly asleep.
	I took him into the bathroom and gave him a nice long ‘blowie’, as I had come to call them, stealing the word from Gus. When he came, he shuddered and gripped my head softly, and yipped as I pulled my head away. A dry orgasm. I would taste his cum someday, I thought. I was wrong.
	My knot—the one that had killed this boy—swelled dangerously inside my sheath. I freed it, and slammed it against the boy’s tight pucker. No amount of lube would’ve loosened it up enough for me to get the knot in. Not anymore. 
	I had promised to show him more grown-up games. I asked him if he was ready. It would get his mind off of home long enough to tire him out. The kids seemed to only get homesick at night, when they had to lay awake in the dark and stare up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
	“I’m ready, Mister Luke!” 
	I had conveniently thought to bring lube. Especially necessary with a cub. Even more so for a cub’s first time. I sat on the toilet with my drawers down, my tail wrapped carefully to the side. 
	The boy reached for my sheath, so I leaned back and let him explore. He was still getting used to the nuances of a dog cock—the sheath, the swelling knot, the shape, the size. It put him in a state of awe. 
	“Are you ready?” I asked.
	“Am I ever!” he cried.
	None of that enthusiasm remained in the boy I now buried my cock into. He would never smile again, nor laugh. The only sound that softly echoed throughout the cold basement was the rumpling of the tarpaulin and the squelching of his insides. I felt my orgasm approaching fast.
	I slathered my cock with lube and lifted the boy up into my lap. He gasped as the cold jelly poked against his rim, then moaned when the thin tip of my cock parted it. He held onto my shoulders as I slowly lowered him. I wouldn’t get much farther than the middle, where my cock is at its widest, but my hand could fill in the blanks. Or his. He reached down between his legs and grabbed my knot in his fist. This drove me wild. I kissed him deeply as I started to fuck him—slowly, carefully. Tears began to well up in his eyes from the pain, but he didn’t tell me to stop, so I didn’t. Eventually pain gave way to pleasure and he started moaning in my lap, his grip still firm on my knot. He gave it a squeeze.
	“Oh, Mister Luke! I didn’t know it would feel this good.” 
	I knew it would feel this good. I took a second to lube up my hand, then furiously stroked the few inches between his ass and my knot. I was so close, I gritted my teeth and let out a deep sigh. 
	“Do it inside me, Mister Luke!”
	I opened my eyes and looked at the corpse in front of me. I could’ve sworn I had heard those words aloud. I pulled my cock out and stumbled backwards, then turned him over, expecting to find him alive and well and begging for me to cum inside him. But no, his guts were still spilling out of the slit in his belly, his arms and legs were still frozen in time, and his heart was still in the fridge upstairs. His eyes stared up at the ceiling. His arid lips pulled into an unsettling grin around his yellow teeth.
	Not wanting to blue-ball myself, I went back to it. I lifted his body up and went back to it with his knees hooked around my shoulders. I gripped him around his hips, my fingers draped with intestines on either side. I could see my cock sliding in and out of him from the inside, making his guts squirm around like a tub full of worms. I inhaled the smell once more as I slammed into him a final time, pressing my knot as hard as I could against his ass. I was cumming! I was doing it inside him!
	“No, Matt. I can’t—it’s not like when you swallow it, it’s—”
	“But Mister Luke!”
	I imagined the kid at morning prayer tomorrow sitting uncomfortably as freezing cold cum leaked into his briefs. He had no idea what he was in for.
	I tried to pull out, I really did. But the kid had such a grip on my knot—
	“Matthew! I—”
	My orgasm began, and I let go of my cock and grabbed onto his hips. In one fell swoop he slid down the rest of my shaft and his asshole came to rest atop my knot. We both gasped in surprise and he collapsed against my chest, wrapping his arms around my neck. My eyelids fluttered and we sat there for a long time, until my buttcheeks started to get numb against the toilet seat.
	Something came over me again. My hands were not my own.
	I grabbed the long, serrated bread knife from the block and went to work on his throat. The feel of the knife grinding against his trachea was almost too much to bear. Almost. I was grinding my hips against his ass, my knot against his hole. And soon, the knife against his spine. It took me a while to find a gap in the vertebrae, but once I did, it wasn’t long before I pulled his head from his body by the ears. I had a brief thought of fucking his head through the neck and watching the tip of my dick stick out his mouth, then promptly shook the thought clear. I had more work to do.
	His head went into a trash bag, along with his torso, once I had removed each limb. The trash bag went to the freezer for a few days, then I dumped it in a dumpster behind the church just an hour before the trash men came to empty it. The rest of him stayed in the freezer for a few months. I would eat bits of him almost weekly until I ran out. Cops came to question me, but never got far enough for a search warrant. Matt’s mother, of course, blamed herself. I held a grief counseling session for the kids in the youth group in the living room where he choked to death on my cock. Just a dozen yards away from where his flesh was sitting in the freezer.
	The kid had fallen asleep in my lap with my cock inside him. I didn’t want to admit how close I had been to falling asleep myself.
	“Matthew, you have to go to bed now. It’s almost midnight,” I whispered.
	“But Mister Luke, I want to stay with you like this forever.”
	Sometimes we don’t know just how short forever can be.