This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.
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A Friendly Massage
The dragon growled to himself as he stalked into the shower, black scales dull with the day's sweat. Well, if he was more honest with himself, it was more of a shuffle, but it was a stalk in his mind and a stalk it remained, with all the haughtiness of a drake scorned. Shucking his uniform, that of a bodyguard from a respected firm known to cover all manner of jobs, big or small, Ernesto kicked it to the side of the bathroom and stepped into the shower cubicle, eager to feel the hot, steaming caress of water soothing the aggravation of the day from his scales.
Turning his muzzle up into the stream as steam filled the bathroom, Ernesto exhaled slowly, tail undulating slowly back and forth. His shockingly yellow scale plates running down part of the back of his neck gleamed wetly and he groaned as the water seeped between them, a delicious warmth that had been much needed.
Yes, a shower... He groaned and opened his mouth, letting the water trickle into the corners of his maw, a curious, tickling sensation that had fascinated him since he'd been a much smaller dragon, a mere hatchling. A shower was just what he'd needed. Peace and quiet. No shouting. No rush. No chaos. No work.
The water rushed by his ears and he leaned against the cool tiles for respite for the heat, only to plunge himself with renewed vigour back into the stream, lathering up each and every scale on his body with a generous helping of gel. The routine helped settle the stress from his mind too, or at least it usually did. He rubbed and rubbed at sore muscles, trying to find the spots that hurt the most, but every new position he twisted his normally flexible body into seemed to bring up a fresh twinge of pain.
The drake groaned. What was wrong with him? And what was wrong with that bastard of a client, who had had him dragging every fucking thing left, right and centre all fucking day long? He was a bodyguard, not a hired lackey to lift and grunt and move things about!
Someone tapped on the bathroom door with just the one claw, a sharp rap-rap-rap that startled him from his self-conscious run through of the day, fresh pain springing to every bruise and callous adoring his frame.
"Ernesto? You're back early."
He growled and closed his eyes, tail clamped down. Could he not have a moment of peace? Frustration roiled in his stomach, a pit of snakes, and he took a deep breath, pressing his fingers to his temples where a pounding headache threatened to burst through his skull.
"Yeah."
It was funny how a single word could say so much, for his roommate, Christa, left him alone, understanding in her own way that he was not really in the mood to discuss matters of the day. Swearing and bitching about matters over a drink would come later, but, for that time, all he yearned to do was enjoy the sanctity of his shower in peace - perhaps even with his paw wrapped around a certain organ of his.
But he was too tired even for that, stress layering tension into each and every muscle of his body in such a way that he could not untwine it from the fibres. Eventually, he had to give up and concede defeat, leaving his clothes in a crumpled heap as he slouched his way to his bedroom with a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. Putting on clothes would have been too much effort, but he made the token gesture of dragging on a pair of loose, old shorts, popping his tail through the hole in the back without bothering to do up the strap beneath. They'd do. What was the damn dragoness Christa going to say about it anyway? He was sure she'd seen him in a worse state.
Groaning as his back pulled with a twinge of pain once more, he crept down the hall to the living room like an invalid, breathing an audible sigh of relief once he reached the soft sofa. It was the one good thing in their home, or at least it seemed so when he was in such a dark and painful mood. All for good reason, of course.
Relaxing he let his body fall heavily forward, tipping down onto the sofa as if he had become a pivot. His arms came up beneath his chest to break his fall and he moaned into the plush seat cushions, squirming noisily to make himself quite comfortable. It was no surprise, however, that his nest-making was noticed by the only other dragon in the house.
Appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with a glass of rum and coke clasped in each paw respectively, his roommate raised an eyebrow. He turned his muzzle from her and growled into the cushion. Maybe it had been silly to expect peace in a common area of their shared home - rented, of course - but it was too late to move to any other location and he planted his face into the cushion as if he hoped that would be enough to get her to go well enough away.
Not so likely. The dragoness with white scales and a grey slice extending down her front and belly - he'd seen it many times when she was wearing a cropped top and shorts herself - looked far too put together for his liking. He could imagine just how perfectly her tail swished, blue mane flicking from one side of her shoulders to the other, as she paced quietly across the plush carpet, each step barely, but noticeably, audible.
Her prod to his shoulder was more sisterly than friendly and Ernesto swallowed a snarl as he shrugged her off, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth as if he had suddenly become an aggravated feline.
"What's got you so wound up today, Mr tall, dark and handsome?"
Ernesto grimaced.
"I have black scales, get over it."
Raising an eyebrow, Christa made no comment but to press one of the glasses into his paw.
