Prelude - An old-timer has his fun

His breath steamed against the cold bathroom mirror. He watched, with his forehead pressed against it, each exerted breath fatten each of the drops, until they ran and filled the mirror's cracks. His own image stared back at him with contorted features, the orange fur of his chest fragmented, the greying edges of the fur contorted away from him, as though he were staring at his middle age through a silver kaleidoscope. The exerted wiggling of his stomach distorted in the mirror like various mountains that rose and plummeted with each stroke he pulled from himself.

You've gotten fat, devil…

The breaths quickened, his teeth pulling into grunts and his beer gut tightened as sudden hatred spilled through him. He was fat, and that was a sin, and oh if his mother was there she'd get disappear off to the kitchen and he'd hear that rattling confusion of cutlery as the kitchen sink opened, and he'd know what she'd go for and-

Suddenly the head in the sink wasn't interesting anymore. He let himself close his eyes, letting the vulpine paw at his side start to explore the curvature of himself, tracing the sickle edge of its claw between the burning forest of his fur, threatening an increasing weight of pressure against its floor. A milky knife of self love. His body stood straight, and he allowed himself to lock his head up towards the ceiling as he prodded himself, always at an edge just the right amount of pressure needed to cut. The coldness of his digits excited him, made him feel as though he were being caressed by something surgical, something you'd have to hold your breath and stay still, and watch down as it disappears beneath into that oh god yeah-

A sharp whimper escaped him, the wad of fat and muscle on his bicep tensed and flapped like an unattended sail, pulling him onwards through the damp winds of ecstasy.

Something that'll penetrate the crust of you, and get so under you, and-

His paw slipped on wetness and nudged the lifeless face in the sink, and in reaction to his sudden pull downwards he brought his gaze back down too. The expression of her face was of a tranquil sort; her blackened eyes and lacerated forehead attaining her this look of numbness - as though she were past the initial feeling of shock and had made up her mind about something. A realisation - perfectly frozen in time. Blood, still cooling from whatever remaining section of larynx was still attached to her, leaked down and slid down the sink in an uninterrupted tether.

He let his paw climb away from his waist dangle into the sink, and the backend of it came back, sticky and crimson. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed it with such vigor that its dark droplets sucked to the back of his snout-

Let it travel down the back there…

dripping down deep into the pit of him, making his shoulders twitch and -

You like it… just say you do…

Disappearing into the fat pit of him. A soft moan escaped his throat, his hips rocking forward against the dirty ceramic of the sink. His claw ventured from his pot belly, back to the sink… tracing down the sticky currents, tracing laterally across them as though drawing the beginnings of a naughts and crosses game, it stopped at the tuft of fur on the girl's cheek. And he really shouldn't… but his claw lowered intimately down her face and started to poke at the gash and…

Say you want it under you…

He knew he shouldn't but his finger firmed, though pulsating from an erection of its own, and dug itself slightly in. But he shouldn't, because it would stretch the skin and it would bring imperfection to the work and-

… you want me under there… I can tell…

His finger jammed in deep, squishing a new leak of red out from the flesh which tickled down his forearm and licked the grazes of his elbow. In that moment, his belly violently wiggling and heaving with breath, he pushed his hips forward in one concluding thrust and a staggered grunt escaped him.

He cleaned up the mess he'd made, washing it down with the blood. His heart still raced hard, not with the aftermath of his orgasm, but of an anxiety, sticky to him like sticky orange gas that stunk up his throat like the plastic smoke from the butt of a cigarette. “No, don't…" His voice tripped over itself, his eyes wide and pleading.

Slowly, he turned the girl to face him…

Sure enough, in his excitement, he had stretched the skin on her left cheek from the pressure applied from underneath. Her expression, although her eyes were still empty, now seemed pulled in a confused amusement. As though mocking him from the stretched side of her face, pale from its underside, damaged in its flesh underneath and whitening in the way a thumb does when the nail is squeezed down.

Laughing at him.

The fractured depiction of himself began to stare at him, though its face was broken to a hundred pieces, judging him just the same.

He slapped himself hard, then, feeling as though it weren't painful enough, pinched his claws against the flaccid skin of his manhood until it left painful red dents around swollen white skin, vacant of blood.

The face - now that he was caught in the soothing aftermath of ejaculation, circulating cool ripples through his back and legs like slow milky waves - had rocked downwards as to provide an angle where the stretched patch skin wasn't visible, and she seemed to be softly smiling from this angle. A matter of perspective, like the many expressions of the Mona Lisa, staring up at her with - even he'd admit - a still beauty of youth. Pleading to be part of him, in dim-lit romanticism, as he wished to be part of her. But it didn't matter. He knew the answer all the same:

He'd have to get a fresh one.