It wasn’t a [i]stormy[/i] night, but it was a rainy one, and the drops pattered constantly, if softly, against the windows while two martens played backgammon. One, Warren, a female anthro in a white T-shirt, pale pink jacket and navy-blue sweats, held the empty dice roller in one hand, turning it, pondering her next move or three. The other, Prescott, an ice-blue feral who, by dint of his feral status, wore nothing at all, looked out the window for half a second, yawned, and then turned back to the board in front of him. Warren picked up a checker and toyed with it in her hand for a second, apparently double-checking her move. Prescott was only half-paying attention. He liked being at Warren’s place, but nonetheless, he kept eyeing the window warily, looking for something like a sign of letting up. Nothing like that had come for a good few hours now, and Prescott wasn’t too fond of working his way home while sleep-deprived in the dark. Two soft clacks of wood on wood, and Warren had made her move. Prescott reached across the board and picked up the dice, one in each hand, for a second, before throwing them both underhand onto the board. He had tried using the dice roller before, but throwing the dice out of it the way an anthro would throw water out of a bucket didn’t feel right, and Warren didn’t mind this. Prescott didn’t have the skill to fudge the rolls anyway. Two, and...two. Doubles, which meant he could move four times. None of them were good. Prescott sighed softly and looked across the board with a bit of a sulk. For a second, she looked up to Warren, but the anthro was already pondering her next move. For a second, the light of the ceiling fan caught in her glasses, fire accentuating the ice-blue of her eyes. She looked beautiful, thinking like this. Telling her would ruin it, though. Maybe Prescott’s peaceful smile did anyway. Keeping her pursed-lipped, thoughtful expression, not moving her head from her hands, on which her lower jaw rested, Warren looked up from the board to the feral, raising her eyebrows an iota. Prescott instantly broke his gaze, looking, embarrassed, toward a spot of table next to him before returning his eyes to the ice-blue eyes looking back at him. “You need something?” Warren asked. “Uh—no...well, I’m thirsty,” which he was, and was glad to use that excuse to leave the table for a moment. One advantage of being a small feral is that nimbleness comes with the body plan. It was second nature for Prescott to bound from table, to back of chair, to floor, then scamper across the kitchen floor and hop up to the counter. Once he was there, it was a matter of grabbing a feral-sized cup off the counter—Prescott, and a couple other ferals, were over often enough to justify the purchase—fill it from the sink, take a couple of sips— —wonder what that plastic box was and what was in it. Prescott was pretty sure he’d never seen it before. He lowered his now-empty cup into the sink, where it landed with a nearly silent [i]tink[/i], and padded silently on all fours over to the mysterious box. It opened from the top, like a chest, or a jewelry box, but didn’t have any decoration on it whatsoever. Warren wouldn’t keep anything valuable or private near the sink. She surely wouldn’t mind. Prescott stole a glance over his shoulder nonetheless. Warren was still strategizing, briefly scratching behind an ear before returning to her default contemplative pose: elbows on table, hands folded over one another, head resting on hands, firmly analytical gaze planted on the checkers on triangles in front of her. Good. Prescott turned around and opened the box. At first, what he saw inside simply baffled him. It was a... hose, thing, not that long—maybe six or seven feet—with a screw-on connector on one end and... what was that thing on the other? He reached in—looked over his shoulder to double-check Warren was still thinking (she was)—and picked it up. The hose connected to a pressure control something, and then about six inches further than that a rubbery ball thing, which was itself the base of a rounded-tipped nozzle. The whole head wasn’t that long, maybe three or four inches. But what was it for? Well, Prescott noticed, the back end attached quite nicely to the kitchen faucet. Might as well try that. A couple of screw turns later and the thing was on. Prescott scampered over to the faucet handles, holding the head by the rubber bulb in his other forepaw, and turned on the cold water. A clear stream of water came out the end, first strong, then after a quarter second slowing to something like a steady trickle. Prescott tried turning the water up, but all that did was make the hose tighter and harder to move, so he had to turn it back down. Prescott instead tried messing with the slider on the pressure control something, and that worked better. It took half a second, but he could change the flow rate from barely a trickle to almost a perfect laminar stream pattering onto the bottom of the sink. Prescott was quite pleased with his little discovery, playing with the stream for half a minute, but eventually set it back down to a trickle again, preparing to turn the water off entirely. He still had no idea what this thing was any good for. And then he noticed something. While the water was running, the rubber ball had inflated and bulged outward in his forepaw. Well, he didn’t know what Warren was doing with it, but Prescott knew [i]exactly[/i] what he had in mind. ----- Warren was about ready to make her next move. She reached down and picked up the dice, dropping them into the roller in her other hand, then shaking them around a bit to get them good and scrambled before she rolled— Wait, what were Prescott’s last moves? He rolled...doubles, two, she remembered. Four twos...that he didn’t take, it wasn’t Warren’s turn yet. She poured the dice out of the roller into her hand and placed each one with the side with two dots facing upward. That way neither of them would forget. That said, it was taking a while for Prescott to get water, if she recalled what he was doing correctly. Warren’s ears perked up, searching for a clue as to what the other, much smaller marten was up to. She heard water flowing, but not splashing, from the sink in the kitchen. Odd. She picked herself up from the table, and, her hands in her sweats’ pockets, stepped over to the kitchen to see what was going on. When she arrived, she wished she were more surprised than she was. Prescott was sitting next to the sink, his back to the kitchen wall, his dick hard as a rock, rubbing said penis with one hand and his belly with the other. His belly was starting to expand, just the smallest amount to start, it appeared, with the water going from a tube attached at one end to the sink and, Warren knew, attached at the other end to a nozzle shoved up his rump. Prescott snapped himself out of one aroused gasp just in time to see Warren leaning against the side of the kitchen doorway, looking over the top of her glasses while wearing an expression of utter condescending disappointment. “I, uh...I found a thing, in a box right there, and I figured...” Prescott didn’t really know what he was going to say after that. Warren’s judging glare froze and shattered all candidates as they entered his head. Eventually, Warren closed her eyes behind the fingers pinching the bridge of her snout and sighed. “You know...” She removed her hand from her snout, and then her glasses from her face, folding the arms in before setting them on the tabletop beside her. “I had that in an inconspicuous place for a reason. “But,” she sighed, and reached down to her waistband, “I guess the surprise is ruined,” with one swift motion, she pulled down both sweats and panties to her ankles and stepped out of them, “and since you went and made me all randy anyway with that little show you just put on,” Warren, now bottomless, took the few silent, assertive strides she needed to get across the kitchen, “we might as well get it tried out now.” She pulled up the hem of her shirt just a little bit, turned around, bent down, and pushed back so her buttocks were now above the kitchen counter. Her tail hung in the air, flicking every second or so. “Get in my butt.” Prescott pushed himself forward and began to approach the rump in question, very hesitantly, on all fours, partially because it felt stealthier and therefore more secure to his subconscious anxiety, partially because the water already in his belly weighed him down. “Is there—I, uh...” A lot had just happened in the past fifteen seconds. Only part of him had caught up. So Warren summarized. “I bought a toy I was going to show you so we could try it out. You found it first and ruined the surprise. Now I’m horny as fuck and you’re perfectly set up for it. Now.” She spread her cheeks a little wider, showing off the soft, inviting pink of her pucker. “We both know you want to. So get in my butt.” Well, this wasn’t an opportunity Prescott was going to waste. He took the last few steps on all fours up to Warren’s rump, placed his forepaws on either side of the larger marten’s picker, and began to nuzzle. He’d played around in this space before, for want of a more delicate way to put it, but it still managed to always surprise him how good it smelled being here. None of the stereotypical offense was here present. Instead, it was the scent of another libidinous living creature, oddly floral, merged with a strangely feminine musk that turned on his wiles ever the greater. He wanted to savor this moment, nuzzle and softly lick the wonderful little spot— —but Warren’s impatience won out and Prescott felt two of his larger companion’s fingers come up under his rump and shove him into her butthole, along with the words, “Get [i]in[/i], dammit!” When, after being stuck for a quarter second, Prescott’s already-bloated belly popped in, he may have been able to notice Warren’s angry exclamation being interrupted by an equally sudden aroused gasp, were he not busy huffing through his own sudden arousal. His rump and everything south of that remained exposed to open air, including his shaft, which stroked and rubbed against the larger marten’s sphincter. This would be pleasant enough in its own right, but a bonus made itself relevant pretty quickly: Prescott could feel his belly expanding, pushing and stretching out Warren’s tubing. He began to rub the larger marten’s interior as he was pressed further, more tightly in, his shaft now as hard as it could be, rubbing up against and tickling Warren’s rear entrance. Warren was, of course, quite happy that the smaller marten had so willingly acquiesced to her demands, and the internal stimulation was beginning to overwhelm her nerves in the most delightful of ways. However, she knew of one trick that was going to make things even better. She whipped around, swinging the smaller marten around inside her rump, then bent over the sink, picked up the spray nozzle, and put it into her mouth and began to spray. After recovering from the sudden vertigo of being swung around in the warm, wet, pleasant dark, Warren was briefly incensed by the sudden lack of pressure flooding up his rump—he had a good amount inside him, sure, but he wanted more. His internal rubbings took on a slightly more frustrated character, the angles slightly sharper, still not hurting, just expressive of course. And then he stopped when he got a hint of what Warren was doing from her internal tubing growing tighter, her water-bloating stomach pressuring everything else inside her, including another marten. He pressed harder, and felt a smaller, better-aimed pressure from below. It didn’t take too long to figure out what it was, and then the pad of her pinky rubbing across his shaft confirmed it: Warren was feeling herself up, quite deftly, if the barely-overheard gasps between her swallows of ever more water was any indication. Now that she was pretty substantially filled up, though, Warren needed a moment to breathe, to get used to the weight and the pressure now under her lungs. She removed the sprayer from her mouth, pointed it down into the sink, and let it stop firing. That didn’t turn off the water, though. It just redirected it, from the sprayer nozzle to the tube currently up a smaller marten’s rump. That marten was currently up Warren’s rump. Feeling something quite like a knot swell inside your butt, when already aroused, and when the thing is itself a quite aroused marten in his own right, is quite the experience. Especially when the inflated marten starts trying to hump the tailhole he’s wedged in. Warren dug into herself with her fingers as Prescott stimulated her from within another hole, and she had to lean one elbow against the edge of the sink to keep from falling forward into it. Without her really thinking, she clenched her ass against the marten inflated within it— —maybe a little too hard: quite suddenly, she felt the marten halfway up her rump suddenly slide in with a wet [i]pop![/i], imagined as much as heard, and the smaller marten was now firmly ensconced where the sun dares not shine. This was a shock, and, startled, she jerked a little—and her fingers found just the right spot to set her off. If she could focus, she could feel the smaller marten’s cum dribbling out of his shaft into her. She couldn’t focus. She half-collapsed against the kitchen counter, halfway between an exhausted gasp and an aroused moan, her glasses falling off her snout. She didn’t even notice that her own fingers were starting to drip with her cum. ----- Warren and Prescott had both washed off a bit, but at least for the moment, both of them wanted to stay inflated. That wasn’t a problem for Warren, of course, but it wasn’t one for Prescott either: Warren showed him that the nozzle came off the rest of the hose and served fine on its own as a plug. So two round-bellied martens, one feral, one anthro, sat at table, both trying and failing to shake off a post-coital haze. Prescott tried to bend over to look at the backgammon pieces, then winced at having squeezed his own still-overfull belly. He rubbed it for a second. Warren patted her own overfilled tum, then rubbed it for a moment, thinking about her next moves, once Prescott made a decision. “Four twos,” she reminded him, then looked out the window. “Oh, the rain stopped.” “Only for the next few minutes,” Prescott replied. “When did you check?” Prescott looked up from the board, from his own belly. “...I didn’t. I’m just guessing.” And then, after a moment, he confessed, “Because I’d rather stay.” “Oh, yeah, that won’t be a problem.” Then, under her breath, Warren finished: “You’re getting in my butt again later.” “Hm?” Prescott looked up again. “[i]Four. Twos.[/i] Make a move.” “Right,” and Prescott shook his head and, one forepaw still rubbing his water-bloated belly, focused on the backgammon board in front of him.