Natal Philopatry and You

Immediately, he fought the impulse down. He'd gone way, way too long without a girlfriend, he muttered to himself.

Tea. She had offered for him to come in and have tea, and now she was looking for cups. He was glad she couldn't see him blush under the fur and scarf as he pointedly looked away at literally anything else. The photographs were an easy out; his eyes drifted across them. Each one had her and a different beastman in it, sometimes a few, always smiling. It looked like she'd been to a lot of different places; he saw deserts, jungles, cities, you name it--she must have had some sort of job that took her overseas, which explained the nice house. Diplomat? Translator? Aid worker? Whatever she did, he was glad she wasn't one of the bigoted humans who despised beastmen. More than once, an angry human--usually a man--had stiffed him on tips, or just not tipped him at all, on his delivery side-gigs. He'd gotten called names that had made his fur rankle. At the very least, she hadn't given him up because she'd hated his kind; that was a relief.

Sitting quietly across from one another, he felt acutely aware of the deafening silence. Having lived in cramped, squalid, packed digs his entire life, he wasn't used to how well-insulated a real house was. There were no screaming neighbors, no rumbling sounds of sliding doors closing or washing machines running. One could hear the clock in the living room ticking away methodically. A low bubbling and the acrid iron tang of a just-started electric burner belied the progression of their tea on the stove, next to which two nice saucers and teacups awaited.

It ended up falling to this stranger, into whose home he had just barged, to set things running. "So... what's all this about, now that we're inside?" she asked.

She nodded along blithely enough as he rambled, wearing that same mysterious smile she had on at the doorway as the deluge of words spilled out of him: Growing up not knowing his parents. Hearing about other beastfolk like him searching for their biological parents in a forum. Begging, borrowing, wheedling, and stealing his way into bits and pieces of old documentation about his past. He jumped a little as she put a delicate finger over his snout, his eyes crossing as he looked down to the petite, well-manicured digit, just barely touching the wetness of his thawing, canine nose, stopping what had become an unintelligible deluge just as suddenly as it had begun.

"Slow down, sweety."

Another long moment. Alex sheepishly looked aside, feeling his face burn. He found himself nodding silently like a scolded schoolboy. It wasn't like him; just two years ago, he'd gotten out of prison on a drug dealing charge. He didn't fancy himself a "tough guy" like so many of the self-absorbed macho types he'd butted heads with in prison, but he was much, much taller than this woman, and probably outweighed her by a hundred or more pounds, most of which was muscle. Despite all that, it just seemed so natural to just listen to what she wanted. After all; he'd spent so much effort to find her.

Finding his place again, more coherently this time, he explained things a little better. He'd tracked his papers back to her, and, due to recent laws, been able to pull DNA information which made him certain: This stranger, Robin, was his mother. His father, a beastman named Marco, wasn't even in country anymore; so he'd started his search with her. He found himself choking up before he reached the questions he had -really- wanted to ask: Why let me go? How did you meet my dad? Why did you split up? Why'd you never come looking for me? As he stared over into her bespectacled eyes, though, he almost felt like she could read what he was holding back. He watched as the little beads of the decidedly librarian-esque cord of her glasses swayed slightly as she reached out, taking one of his big, furry hands in hers over the table and squeezing it. "There, there. It's okay. I can tell that took a lot. I'll-"

The keening whistle of the kettle cut her off. He watched her busy herself with the tea; some sort of blend. Flowery. A bit of something citrus? He glanced over at the jar she had taken the loose leaves from; squinting, he could see the handmade label which declared it as some sort of blend. Some parts, he recognized; others seemed arcane to him: "Tongkat ali. Tribulus terrestris. Yohimbe." The extent of his experience with tea stopped at a few old Lipton in bags he'd filched from the break room, so it was all Greek to him. Another sign of just how well-off she was; weird rich-people shit. It -was- nice, though.

Over the course of a few cups, it emerged that she had what sounded like a rather dry, if well-paying job. She was an expert in human-beastman relations. She went around to firms and institutions and helped their HR departments with better integrating them. Sometimes, she'd give a presentation at a seminar in this place or that. Enjoying an early, recent retirement owed to good investments, she was home a lot more often, finally getting to enjoy the place.

She made it sound altogether too routine, though he noticed that her smile would broaden, talking about some aspects of her work; she had a mysterious beauty about her, and the impish way she would go about her stories about work always made him feel like there was some sort of secret she was about to let him in on, keeping him hanging on her next sentence. He'd never been this happy just sitting and listening to someone talk. With an inward sigh, he thought to himself that he could see why his Dad had gone for her; what he couldn't see is why he'd ever left.

For his part, though he felt sheepish about it, he managed to admit all the same that he worked a dead-end food service job with a few gigs on the side when he had time. Management pooled tips, and he was pretty sure it was just so they could skim a bit off the top. He decided to leave the part about his old "job" out, along with the prison sentence it had netted him. He hadn't finished high school, but he had managed a G.E.D.--mostly during his time behind bars, he thought to himself, suddenly feeling ashamed again. Maybe this was a mistake after all; why would this stranger want anything to do with him? He was a failure. No wonder why she'd handed him over to the state.

He hadn't realized his ears had turned down, or just how much his face in general betrayed the sadness of his thoughts, until he felt Robin's hand gently stroking his head. At some point, she'd risen from her seat without him noticing. She fondled his fuzzy, still slightly snow-damp ears for a second, giggling in a way that made his heart skip a beat, not understanding if he she was laughing at his expense or not. "You've got very expressive ears, you know? You take after your father, that way."

She wouldn't have been able to do it if he'd been upright due to their difference in height, but with him there at the table and her standing up, he found himself suddenly caught, for the first time, in his mother's embrace. His snout was full of that rich, strange, nice smell coming off of her, and he found himself in a warm, safe darkness, trapped between her breasts and the crook of her neck. He felt those glossy, perfect lips kiss the fur of his forehead, his mother rocking slightly back and forth as she stroked his fur. "It's okay, baby. I'm here."

Alex didn't know what to do. Frankly, he had never been treated this way. The life he'd led had frankly made him paranoid of help, or goodwill. A lot of people only extended a hand to you if they had a knife in the other. But for some reason, he didn't even think of those instincts in the moment; he found himself embracing her back, hot, undignified tears falling into her cleavage as all the pent up years came rushing out. By the time he was done, they were both a mess; her breasts were covered in a spiderweb of sticky, clear threads from his snout being buried between them, the low cut of the tank-top she had on under her cardigan having done nothing to keep the moisture out. The fur of his face was similarly smeared, damp clumps sticking together and jutting out at odd angles as though he'd washed his face, began drying off, and simply lost the will to live about a quarter of the way in.

He found himself trying to apologize. "...I should go. I'm sorry, I fucked this all up."

She shook her head, again wearing that benign, calm smile, not caring at all about the mess he'd made of her tits. "Nuh-uh, hun. It's already dark. It's snowing up a storm out there. Just sleep in my guest room for tonight, okay?" Her head tilted to the side, emphatically. The gesture finally managed to lift his spirits a bit, forcing a smile out of him; that move looked out of place, on a human. Only beastmen did that. Maybe some of the body language had rubbed off on her, from so many years working alongside them? A glance at the window confirmed what she'd said; he guessed time had gotten away from him while he was spilling his guts. Outside the streets were empty, dark, and cloaked in heavy snow. The trains wouldn't be running out there, by now, anyway.

"Okay m-" he froze, cutting himself off, embarrassed. He felt his ears fold back against themselves, again. Was that too familiar? They'd just met, after all. Mercifully, she was quick to put him at ease; she planted another peck on his forehead. "It's okay. Mom's fine, hun."

*****

He had expected a dusty, mothballed guest room, but instead found a tidy, well-kept (if somewhat small) chamber across from hers at the top of the stairs. The plush, red sheets still smelled of some sort of detergent, hemmed in by a sturdy frame of sculpted wood. The lone cabinet had more linens of this and that color, and, in the initially empty-seeming, bottom-most drawer, a forgotten red leather dog collar. Maybe she'd had a pet, at some point; it must be gone now. He made a note not to bring it up; losing a pet could be hard. (His old room-mate, for all his faults, had been devastated by the loss of that fish when its time had come.)

Stripping down to his sweats and shucking his shirt and jacket over a chair with his scarf, he breathed a sigh of relief. The hard part was over, and his worst premonitions of how things could have gone hadn't come to pass, even if he had made a fool of himself. He tucked himself into the comfortable, doubtlessly very high thread-count sheets, sinking into the soft bed as he stared at the ceiling. Was this what a nice mattress felt like? It was so big, he could even spread out without his feet sticking off the end. He found himself rapidly drifting off, the emotional exhaustion of the day, combined with the sumptuousness of his surroundings, serving to whisk him swiftly off into dream.

*****

Alex found himself transported back in time again. Once more, he found himself sheathed in the supple, tight brown body of his roommate's favorite human fucktoy, but this time she was on top, bouncing energetically off of him in a way that tantalizingly gripped a little more of his knot every time she slammed her hips down into his. This time, though, she wasn't pregnant; through the nonsense dream-logic, he realized her womb was vacant this time; his for the conquering. Flat, empty. Ready to be filled. Her little hands gripped at the short, brown fur of his arms for handholds to better bounce in his lap, and they locked in a sloppy kiss, the girl all but sucking on his long, canine tongue as though it were a second dick. He couldn't make out her words through the lurid, blurry half-light of the dream, but he felt her familiar grip around him; this time, he'd do things right. He'd claim her womb for his own. His seed would outcompete his loser, stoner roommate's, and her belly would swell with his pups, and his alone. Filled with the rush of taking what was rightfully his, he pushed her over and down, flipping the script so that he was on top. The little pawprint tattoo was a target made just for him, painted over her womb, telling him where to empty his load. As he pounded into her, she began to moan: "OH! Hun! Hun! Hu-...."

He awoke with a start, his shoulder being shaken gently.

"Hun?"

A woman's voice in the dim light. His mother's... that's right. The evening gradually trickled back to him as the dream faded. He found himself very glad that he had rolled onto his side in his sleep, facing away from her; his rock-hard doggy-dick, up, twitching, and ready to breed, was concealed from her view. He was so hard it hurt, having been awoken just seconds away from knotting the imaginary puppyslut he'd dicked-down so long ago. His ten-inch tool jumped in time with his heartbeat, straining at the fabric of his sweats. The spreading, warm dampness told him that his body had shot out plenty of precum during his dream, desperate to mark a bitch that wasn't even there--he hoped his mother's comparatively insensitive human nose didn't pick up on the smell. He awkwardly tried to turn his head, leaving his body facing away in the hopes that he would calm down. Such hopes were swiftly dashed as Robin, seeing that he was awake and moving, pushed down on his shoulder, hard, forcing him supine on to the bed and causing his erection to proudly tent, upward and rigid, through the sheets as... she turned around in the same motion, missing its presence entirely as she sat down on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. She was looking down at something in her hands, he realized.

"I know you had questions about your father, and I felt so bad about how hard it's been for you, so I went digging around in my old things. We were only together a short time, but he was such a sweetheart; I found at least one old picture of us together in my old diary. I thought you might like to see." She leafed through the leather-bound book in her hands and then picked out an old polaroid from it; in washed out colors, he saw a familiar face staring back at him, illuminated in the light filtering in from the hall. His mom had been even more beautiful in her twenties; stuffed into a tight lycra pair of yoga pants and a sports bra, her clothes strained to contain her pregnant assets, her belly sticking out obscenely between the parallel lines of white elastic, stark against the black fabric. A fanciful pattern of crawling pawprints, also in black, scrolled out across the bands. She looked like she'd just gotten back from a run, wearing some sort of old fitness watch on her wrist; she was smiling at the camera being held up by what he gathered to be his father. She was throwing up a half-hearted peace sign to the camera timidly, a few stray stands of sweat-soaked red hair escaping from where the rest had been secured into a ponytail. Staring at her gravid belly, shining with sweat and stretched taut with its heavy burden, he realized, absurdly, that he was probably in this picture, too. This was the only picture he had with his parents, in a way.

His father, for his part, looked a lot like him, but he wore an absolutely wolfish grin of smug possessiveness, his lips drawn back to expose rows of sharp, white teeth against thin, dark black lips. His fur was darker and more uniform than his own, absent the dark-reddish tinge that arose in Alex's under the right light. The one arm of his that was in the picture (the other being occupied with holding the camera aloft) was wrapped around behind his mother's body, and busied itself with groping obscenely at one of her pregnancy-fattened tits. Even in the worn old photograph, he could see the beginnings of a blossoming damp spot from between where his furry digits were digging into her breast, squeezing a dollop of milk out into the fabric. His father's long tongue lolled out from his muzzle, completing the half-goofy, half-obscene expression of smug joy at his "catch."

Alex felt his face burn again; yesterday, he hadn't known what his parents even looked like--seeing such out-in-the-open affection took him off-guard. He tried to come up with something polite; obviously she didn't realize how bold the tableau was, or perhaps she didn't care. "You... looked like you were really in love."

She sighed, dreamily. "Oh, yes, He really swept me off my feet, you know? We met because I was trying to get back into shape, and I started running again. He lived in the neighborhood, and he saw me every now and then on my loop. He really-..."

His attention drifted as she went on. The dream, the sudden awakening, and the lurid picture didn't have him in the most coherent headspace. As his eyes slowly began to adjust to the light, he realized that Robin had changed clothes since earlier; she had traded the cardigan and jeans for a muted purple robe of some sort. He realized, as things got clearer--his night vision wasn't so good with color, but it could pick up form in shades of grey pretty well, a perk of his lineage--that it wasn't a robe, but a calf-length nightie of some sort. Gauzy, semitransparent fabric betrayed a bombshell figure beneath; all soft curves. Plump, enough for a good handhold, but not so much as to bag up too much anywhere in particular. Mom obviously took very good care of herself. A lacy black bra and panties, also semitransparent, hinted tantalizingly at other treasures beneath, showcased in full view in the lengthy mirror in the other side of the room, near the door where she had entered. There was something large and black, almost disc-shaped, perhaps, tucked into the loosely-tied belt of the nightie, too, though he couldn't quite make it out from here.

Alex struggled with what to do; she was droning on about his father for now, but at any point, she might look up and notice that he was absolutely RARING to go--contemplating his mother's attractive figure, his nose now full of her delightful smell with her so close to him, he couldn't will himself to calm down no matter how hard he tried. He guessed she had forgotten dogmen had excellent low light vision, and hadn't bothered to change into something more conservative.

He was terrified at the idea of fucking up this first meeting any more than he already had, but the options available to him didn't seem great. If he attempted to shift around into a position that wouldn't showcase his problem so obviously, that might just end up drawing her attention to him, so that was out. Maybe if he was lucky, the light would be too dim for her to see how hard he was? Just as he was getting desperate, beginning to turn to old tricks like thinking of the dentist, he was snapped back to the real world as one of his mother's hands suddenly came to rest on his turgid, straining member, and squeezed.

"Are you paying attention, hun?" She giggled. "It's okay. Your father had a hard time focusing until I'd helped him calm down, too."

"...M-mom?"

Alex was caught flatfooted. He froze as the lithe little hand pumped up and down his shaft, massaging it through the layers of fabric. The fingers on her delicate little hand couldn't even hope to meet around his massive girth, especially not with the added layers of fabric swaddling it. He felt himself swell involuntarily at her touch, his body only too happy to respond to the stimulus it had been craving.

"Oooh, you -do- take after you father, don't you?"

She turned, pulling the sheet off of his body and swinging a leg over him in one swift, practiced motion. Even as he tensed at the shock of the cold air suddenly wafting over his bare torso, he felt her pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging down the tattered, ratty old longjohns beneath them in the same motion. As his newly-freed cock sprang to attention in the crisp night air of the house, she deftly caught it in both hands, the slap of flesh on flesh resounding through the otherwise silent abode.

"So like I was saying; I wanted so much to keep you and your siblings--but there were just so many of you, and times were a lot tougher back then. And your father, well..." that impish giggle from earlier, again. Now on top of him, she was out of the dim light filtering in from the hallway, and harder to see; just a silhouette of a beautiful woman mounting him. A silhouette that began rocking back and forth gently on top of him, all the while teasing his member expertly in her hands. His hips jumped involuntarily as he felt a nimble little thumb circle the head of his cock in a way that sent electricity down his spine, causing a whine to escape from him unbidden. He was already leaking profusely over her practiced, dexterous hands; strands of clear, hot precum dribbling down in rivulets over her fingers as she worked on him.