It's quiet. It's always been quiet here. I found the place about three years ago and fell in love with it immediately. It's large enough to be comfortable without being too ostentatious. And it's far enough away from the main road to give me the peace and quiet I need after a long day at work.
And yet, I can hear cars in the distance. The low susurrus of tires on a well maintained city road. People awake and going about their business even in the middle of the night.
My eyes are closed and my heartbeat is a steady thump deep in my chest. Focusing on my breathing like I've learned in my yoga classes. Another car passes and I feel my ear almost twitch at its passing. It's an odd feeling - like a micro muscle spasm but not quite because my ear doesn't actually move. A phantom feeling. I wonder if this is what amputees feel?
Despite my outward calm, I'm entirely awake and my brain is racing. And, deep within, there's an ache. A need.
Breathing deeply to maintain my calm brings Michael's scent to me. I can't describe it. I couldn't say whether it smelled like roses or freshly cut grass or spices or anything like that. I have two master's degrees and have traveled the world and I couldn't solidly describe what he smells like. It's all emotions. Happiness. Safety.
Arousal. Excitement.
He's on his back, breathing deeply and I'm on my side with my right arm against his chest. He has a small spray of chest hair and a little "happy trail" of hair that leads down to his (
no I'm not thinking about that right now
). He has a little bit of a tummy and he could use a shave. And a tan. His belly is fish white. I want to run my finger along his chest and down and around his (
no. no, not thinking about it
).
He's a good guy. And I always thought, in an abstract way, that he was attractive enough. But, he's my employee and that's where that ended. I'd never had time for anything more than growing my business. No time for relationships and nobody with the right chemistry anyway.
I burrow against his side and his arm tightens around me in his sleep. I find myself nosing into his armpit and stop myself. His armpit smells like sweat and the heavy scent of deodorant and it's
fascinating
. I grit my teeth and swallow and do my best to ignore the scent lower on his body. The smell of us. When I breathe out, it's shaky and I can feel my cheeks burning.
They say that when you find the right person, you'll love their smell. That their pheromones will be irresistible. Something to do with their genes, wasn't it? That when you had children (
mate, rutted, mounted -
no, goddammit, no
) you'd have healthy kids. Something like that. My brain is fuzzy from all of it.
I breathe deeply again, eyes closed, smelling him until I can't take in any more. And then I hold it, feeling the slow burn between my thighs. And I breathe out. Stupid. I keep forgetting that I'm focusing on my breathing to calm myself. Not to take in his scent. Smell. His smell.
I shift and my nipples rub against him, forcing me to bite my lip as I feel the little sparks all the way down. I don't think about it.
The million dollar question is - has he always had this effect on me but I never noticed because I never got close to him or is it like this because of what happened? Because of how I've changed. Am I latching onto him because he was there and he held me and told me it was okay despite how freakish I am now? And, oh god, what did I do to him? Whatever happened to me, dragged him along. Neither of us remember what happened and I think it's my fault. And yet, he didn't push me away or tell me how disgusting I looked.
So, is he having this effect on me because he's my life vest (no, they call them personal flotation devices now, right?) or because he's my mate? No. Not mate. Dammit. Potential partner. I mean, mate is still a human thing, right? People say that?
I shake my head and slowly disentangle myself. Michael shifts and I watch him for a moment as I sit up. No, he's not unattractive. I want to touch him. I want to kiss him. I want to press myself against him and feel his fingers in my hair, stroking my fur and, no.
NO
, goddammit. Hair. Not fur. I don't, I don't have fur.
No fur. I look down at myself and lean back. The heat rises again in my cheeks and it's complicated. Shame mixed with arousal. I want to say the arousal is just the memory of Michael's touch but I can't deny the small bit of excitement I get from seeing myself. And I can't explain that, either.
Below my breasts are two rows of four nipples each. My breasts are modest and well shaped. I think the left one is slightly larger but I could be wrong. The eight nipples along my lean body are small and each of them are mostly flat. They're all surrounded by areola. Not much - the puffy, darker skin is barely noticeable but they're there. A few have small bumps and one has a few fine brown hairs growing from the skin.
I have black hair. This brown hair. It's not hair. It's fur. I have an urge to pull it out but, instead, I bring up a hesitant hand and touch it lightly. I watch the skin pull and move as I touch the strands of fur. My finger brushes that strange small nipple and I have to squirm a little. I can feel all of them on my body and all are as sensitive as the ones on my breasts. Are these breasts, too? Are there different words for them?
Are there milk glands under the nipples? I press a finger around the nipple and I can feel how the skin immediately around them is softer. And squishy. And not just skin. There are things underneath. Oh, hell. I think they are actually tiny breasts. Fuck my life.
I want to touch the little nipple again but I dare not. It should feel
wrong
but it absolutely doesn't.
With a glance over at Michael, I spread my legs.
My mound is covered by brown and black fur.
I could lie to myself. I could. I could say it's pubic hair but it's not. When I didn't shave, my pubic hair was black and bushy. This. This is a thick, smooth patch of fur. Mostly brown fur but there are a few black hairs in the mix. It starts a few inches above my clit and fans out to touch my thighs. It shines in the sparse lighting. Silky.
