Sweaty Couch Pile

"I know it's fake," Marty grumbles, sinking down further against the couch as if trying to disappear from view. "Everyone knows it's FAKE, but that doesn't mean it's not fun."

"That's what I said about pro wrestling," Wolter grins, ruffling Marty's head and causing the stoat no small amount of discomfort. "But you still gave me shit for that."

"That's because Moory is entertaining schlock," he gripes back at the smirking aardwolf. "This is just plain shlock."

"I'll watch anything," Ozzy adds with his typical hyena-sized grin.

"How 'bout you all shut it for two god damn seconds so we can hear?" Al grumbles back.

Sure enough, dead silence. When the alpha wolf speaks, everyone listens. It's hard not to. I mean, he's just so big and strong. Like, uh, in an intimidating way.

This isn't how I thought I'd be spending my day off. I came down here to catch the tail end of the Hoofball game before I headed out, but one by one my neighbors started filtering in, and now I'm sandwiched between a bunch of sweaty preds on the lobby sofa watching bad daytime TV about trailer trash lovers.

I admit I've been in worse situations since I moved in. Like the time Charlie snuck into my room that one night and almost saw me naked. I've never come quite so close to having my cover blown, but for now, my secret's safe. Everyone just thinks I'm a ram with no horns. I figure nobody here knows enough about ewes to recognize one, so I guess it's so far, so good.

They get to the part about the DNA test results to check paternity when Ozzy leans over behind me, resting his chin on the top of my pompadour, letting his shaggy arms down enough to prop his elbows on my shoulders. It's a very familiar and almost intimate gesture that I'm sure he's probably just doing to be friendly, but it makes me intensely aware of my personal space. With Wolt on my right and Al on my left, we're squeezed in so tight on this little sofa we're hip-to-hip.

I guess I can stay a bit longer.

The TV's droning on and on and we've moved past babies and onto daddies and proper dating materials. As much as part of me wants to be disgusted at the guys these pred girls on the show seem to fall for, being so unabashedly trashy, I have to admit I can at least see the appeal in looks. I'm no predophile, but they had a coyote on earlier (real piece of work, juggling four "girlfriends" and stealing from each one) but damn if he didn't look like he was carved out of stone. It'd take more than a movie star smile to get me tripping up into a doomed relationship like these poor saps, but fuck me, if he probably couldn't give a great one-night stand.

And speaking of which -- yes, okay, it's been a long time. Everyone has dry spells. And unfortunately unless I want to crush every sensitive part of myself, hooves are not great for scratching certain itches. Like, I can SORTA just grind on myself if I need to, but I'd just as soon hump the corner of a table at that point. I wish my apartment had a washing machine because I'd just crank it on, hop on that, and go for a ride. Like I used to do. Thing is, you can't really do that sort of thing in a public laundromat. I mean, I could, but I don't think it'd end well.

God, I'd swing by Pandora's Box if I wasn't sure I'd bump into one of my neighbors. Last time I managed to barely scrape my way out by convincing Avo I was looking for a gel sleeve or whatever it's called, not cataloguing every fake phallus on the wall in order of preference. I met some real friendly looking shapes and sizes in there, I'll say that much.

I'm snapped back to reality by Wolt readjusting on the couch, shifting his weight against me to get comfortable. I suddenly realize just how worked up that line of thought got me. I'm surrounded by preds, wedged in on this sofa, horny as hell and sweating buckets.

"Hey," Marty drawls slowly. "You smell that?" Fuck. Fuck! I haven't reapplied Musk Mask since this morning!

"Yeah, I smell it," Wolter nods, sitting up straight on the sofa next to me. God, I'm pouring sweat.

All I can smell is the thick masculine musk of my neighbors, filling the air like a hot fog.

"Smell what?" Ozzy asks 'innocently', his head still basically resting on mine, keeping me effectively stuck here.

They know. Fuck, Marty, you blew my cover! You little fucking weasel!

It's over. I'm finished. My heart is pounding so hard in my head I can barely hear and my heart is caught in my throat. I'm frozen, staring straight ahead like a jaywalking deer in headlights. Over a month I've maintained this ruse and now it's all going to come down on me. They may not know what a ewe looks like but a bunch of preds can sure SMELL one. I clench my fluffy thighs together and bite my tongue hard.

First the smell as my Musk Mask breaks down, then come the questions, the demands, the intrusion. I'll be lucky to make it out of this in one piece. All eyes are gonna be on me. They'll be pissed -- how could I have lied to their faces like this? Then comes the disbelief. They'll have to be sure. I can see it in my head, them ripping at my clothes with those sharp claws. Until I'm sitting here in just my fluff, surrounded by four preds on a dirty couch. And then they'll know. Know I'm a ewe -- always was. Right under their noses. Al's probably going to take it as an insult to the Alpha.

Oh, fuck me. The Alpha. His huge white paws on me, claws under my coat. Taking what's his. The Alpha always goes first.

But the others follow.

Visions flash in my head. Held down right here in the lobby by s paws, scratched, teased, roughed up by nearly savage predators. I see myself pinned, helpless, bleating beneath scruffy fur. Lost in a sea of shaggy, sweaty fur. Al, gripping my head. Wolt's dark paws feeling their way up my thighs, obscene touches concealed beneath my wool. Ozzy poised above me, broad, shaggy chest dripping sweat. Even Marty.

Fuck me, even Marty.

"Oh, NOW I smell it!" Ozzy grins, slapping me on the shoulder.

Why are they toying with me like this? I know I haven't been the nicest neighbor, the most agreeable, but just -- just do it! If you're going to vent your primal predator urges don't tease me, not on top of everything!

"Smells like BULLSHIT!" Wolt belts out, just as the TV's lie detector goes off with an electronic buzz. The noise makes me jump, but my neighbors don't notice. Ozzy and Wolt high-five each other, then Marty. They're all cackling -- even Marty is cracking up at his own terrible joke.

I think my heart's beating again. It sinks slowly back into my chest, and for the first time in what feels like years, I take a breath. An uneasy smile crosses my face and I try to pretend I didn't nearly just completely break down like a spritz of Musk Mask under a deluge of sweat.

"You don't need a lie detector for a fucking spin like THAT," Marty scoffs, smugly. "I mean who the fuck leaves a TOOTH at their side chick's house? What the fuck kind of surreal body-horror shit is this?"

"Oh, don't be such a high horse, Marty. Like you've never lost a tooth and forgotten where you left it," Wolt chides with a roll of his eyes.

Marty nearly spits out a mouthful of grape soda. "What the fuck?!"

Ozzy's laughter has reached fever pitch. He sloughs off the couch, freeing me up to move, and I uncross my legs and hop off the couch.

Al sniffs the air, and his brow knits. Wolves are keen, but his muzzle's caked in concrete dust. I doubt he can smell a thing.

Still, better not linger.

"Hey, Remmy, you going somewhere?"

"Just gonna catch up on some sleep, Wolt," I shrug back as nonchalantly as I can, desperately ignoring my voice cracking. "I have a date with my bed."

And the corner of my table.

I'm at the foot of the stairs when Al stands and I freeze.

"Hold up, grazer."

Fuck. Oh fuck me.

"You left your chips. Mind if we finish 'em?"

I really need to fucking move out.