FSE

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The first thing Skuru noticed when he woke up in the morning was his own scent, wafting up from beneath his bedsheets to tickle at his nose and sear at his senses. This was, of course, not at all unusual; after rolling over onto his side, hovering there a moment longer, and then finally sitting up to start his day, those sheets drifted down away from his body to show the dark greasy stain worked into the fabric from where the lowermost bedsheet rested across his sheath while he slept, the slightly damp spread there built up across the past few days. The collie stretched his arms over his head, took in another breath, tasted himself on the air, enjoyed it… then tossed the sheets back and padded over into the bathroom to begin his day.

At least I’ve got the day off, he thought, now leaning in towards the mirror. He parted his jaws, stuck two fingers in one side of his mouth, inspected a couple of his fangs. Nice being able to sleep in, and get some needed things done, and… his gaze dropped down to the small, nondescript bottle there next to the sink, white plastic under a white label with black text. Sent to him on recommendation from another friend, alongside loose instructions and an outpouring of appreciation and excitement; “definitely wait ‘til morning,” he had been told, “since it’s an all-day affair, and I know that you wanna be awake for it.”

So then, the second thing he did after he woke up was read the instructions and down not one but three of the little pills inside, against the recommended one. Nothing happened at first; he shrugged, knocked back another cup of water to make sure they had really gone down, then began at brushing his teeth. Generally he wanted only the one part of him to be smelly; as he worked, the hum of the toothbrush vibrating in his skull, he padded across the bathroom towards the toilet, spread his legs, reached down…

...then had to push his fingers and thumb first at the lip of his sheath, then spread down towards the base of thick, succulent skin for it to finally peel back away from itself, all of his naturally gathered slick moisture having dried into a thin crust along the lip. He couldn’t help but twitch and thrust forward with the sudden sensation of relief, slick inner flesh slipping back along his buried tip kept constantly moist, wet with last night’s load as well as the natural dampness from the folds of skin wrapped snug yet loose around it. He worked his toothbrush into the other side of his mouth, glanced down to make sure his aim was true, then closed his eyes, sighed… and leaned his head back once the new relief started.

Even so, even with the morning’s weight washing through him and the bright yet cool sting of “fresh original flavor” searing across his jaws, after a few seconds what stuck out to him first and foremost was, again, his own scent. Rich and strong, sharp, a touch pungent beneath the familiar, indulgent heady aroma; “Jesus Christ,” a friend had commented once, “you keep microwaved tilapia in here or something?” promptly before scooping the skin of the collie’s sheath all the way around their nose to get a deeper, fuller breath.

He smirked around his toothbrush, gave himself a few shakes to work off the last of the dribbles, wagged his tail at the sloppy wet smacking of loose skin flinging this way and that, clapping back around his canine shaft buried inside, before squeezing everything up across his tip. The last of his piss mixed with the rest of that swampy gathered musk squished up towards the wrinkled lips, puttered out across the side of his fingers, and glistened in the midmorning sunlight coming down through the high window.

That done, Skuru stepped back over to the sink, finished up with brushing his teeth, washed his maw out with another cup of water, and then made sure to sniff at that same smeared spot along his paw when he wiped the moisture from his mouth. Soaked in there it felt a bit different than it did from the source, a little bit rounder, a bit flatter, but still no less pleasant: it tingled at the back of his nostrils and tickled his throat, and just like always, it sent another warm little tingle vibrating through his loins to stir within his sheath itself.

No point washing it off. He glanced over at the bottle again. That won’t do a thing for getting rid of the scent. And why would I want that, anyway? Now, if only I didn’t have to do errands on my day off…

Doing errands meant that he had to get dressed. The dog sighed, shook his head, and continued getting ready for the day, then was out of the bedroom for a relaxed breakfast before tackling the first of his tasks. For a while he actually forgot about the pills and their alleged results, even though he had seen the associated pictures and video; it wasn’t until he had clicked the seatbelt and craned around in the driver’s seat to back out that he first noticed something, and even then, he just brushed it off... but not literally, of course.

A little bit of wetness at the end of my sheath? Well, that’s just another day that ends in Y, isn’t it? So he squirmed in his seat and continued on his way, not sparing it another thought until he stopped at the light in front of the store, shifted again, and this time felt the front of his underwear stick to his loins as though the inner fabric had been plastered in thin glue. He frowned, wriggled again, slid a paw down the front of his pants – and then felt his ears perk and heart thump when he noticed the thick, warm slime that had pooled in his bellyfur near the end of his sheath.

The dog tilted his head, ran a thumbpad along the lip of his sheath, then twitched a footpaw at how easily the whole of that thumb slipped inside, squishing and squelching among sticky depth, pushing its way into supple folds of skin. More of that warmth spluttered out from where it had caught inside of his sheath, pushing gently out against himself without his notice – but then the light changed and he had to swiftly swipe that paw back to the wheel, the thick ropes of slightly frothy juice hanging down from his thumb, jiggling in the air, swinging this way and that until finally breaking beneath their own weight.

His remaining drive went by in a haze, the collie’s pants still open, his underwear soaked through with glistening wetness – but there was no way he would open the window to vent the scent out. It just strengthened the further he went, lifting up and grinding against the squeeze of the seatbelt across his lap, deliberately catching the material along the bulge of the base of his sheath; every time he pushed upwards, that slickened skin slid so smoothly, so easily back across his length inside, and by now Skuru could feel the smooth globs of pre welling up out of him with each throb. It was like finishing up after taking a piss, the little squeezes causing remnant wetness to jet out – only each one of these took its time in coming, and spread loosely out around his tip and the puddle already soaked through his fur and sopping into his pants.

Even before pulling into the parking lot he clicked the belt off and leaned forward, spreading his legs. A thick waft of his rich scent curled up and puffed into his senses: each breath tasted so strongly of himself, the same wet-dog headiness, crossed with a bit of metallic earthiness, then that warm, distinct, intoxicating musty spike all throughout. He pulled into a space, turned the car off as quickly as he could, then clutched the wheel so tightly his claws began to prick into the rubber cover; teeth gritted, back arched, every breath he took forced him to thrust forward and throb again, which in turn just caused another squirt to spurt out of him, his half-hard shaft protruding from his sheath and underwear both. The thick, glossy globules jetted up and out, then splattered back down across his already soaked underwear.

This is insane, he thought, eyes almost watering from the sharpness of his own scent, nostrils flared in continually trying to draw more deeply of it. This is nuts. I can’t believe this. This is… God, this is probably the hottest problem I’ve ever had. Maybe I really should’ve stuck to just one dose.

Skuru waited there a moment longer, then struggled to squish himself back into his dripping underwear. He encountered further issue with his pants fly, his fingerpads greasy as though he had just rubbed them in fresh, rich oil; already the stains had started to settle into the material around the steering wheel, and then the handle of the car door as well when he opened it, and then on his way across to the store he felt the thick, gooey wetness trickling slowly down his leg as he walked. Again and again he glanced down across himself, wondering if the spreading stain was too noticeable, and if he had become too accustomed to his own aroma.

Three steps in, though, the dog doubled over and braced his paws on his knees, his hips thrusting forward of their own accord, slimy-wet sheath slipping so easily back within the sopping swamp that was his pants. Every throb dumped out another half-mouthful of the stuff around him, scent sharpening, brightening, becoming almost unbearable; his head swam with the force of it, and yet still he couldn’t stop swallowing it down. He wanted more, and more – but there was no way he would be able to focus on anything like this.

So instead of heading up, Skuru spun on a footpaw and headed right back to his car to begin the drive home. This time he left the seatbelt off, and tugged his pants and underwear halfway down his thighs before leaving: windows closed, air conditioning off, his own musk swirled and steamed within the tight space around him, fogging the windows, leaving a greasy sheen across his fur and every bared inch of the dashboard, until by the time he finally made it back home, opening the door puffed out a thick, dank cloud of half-visible stench curling up into the breeze.

Maybe I can sleep it off, he thought, his hips grinding of their own accord, his tail hiked, his knot pulsing within his sheath. Any movement no matter how small caused the supple skin to slip smoothly back and forth, the movement on its own nearly enough to push him over the edge; Skuru whined, bit his lip, and couldn’t help but reach down to brush a paw across himself – which sent another squirt of his pre arcing out across the carpet, where he already knew it would stain and stink through next month. Maybe… I can…

But if the dosage made him this productive on just his pre, then he almost feared to find out what it did for his other productivity. The dog clambered up onto the couch and sprawled out there, then tossed this way and that, then stopped as soon as he started: the sensation of his hard shaft swinging down, dragging the skin of his sheath back, and his balls hefting and sagging underneath, further tugging at the soaked, dripping lips around himself… he wanted so, so bad to reach down and finish up, and if he brought either of his paws anywhere near his muzzle it smelled as though he had just shoved his nose into his own sheath.

Fingerpads wet and slimy, leaving clinging grease slicks that matted down his fur and crusted along his lips; he swallowed, tasted himself there, thrust, thrust again. When he closed his eyes he could imagine it, the sensation of his sheath slipping up across his nostrils, the luscious, luxurious slickness coating his fur, the aroma so thick in the air that he could feel it rolling down his throat with each breath, and-

-he jerked awake with the force of his unexpected finish jolting through him, spurt after spurt lancing through his lower body and rocking his hips forward. Dazed, Skuru blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked around himself, unsure of when he had fallen asleep – and why his sheath felt so tight, almost painfully so. He sat up, wiped at his eyes, smelled himself again as richly as though he had just taken a hit straight from his sheath, then looked down and saw that the supple skin pouched out around his still-buried cock, his sheath swelled out to a full, plump balloon where his copious effusions had once again glued the lips shut.

Heart thumping, the collie reached down, tapped a claw against the half-dried crust, shivered, then wrapped his fingers in around himself, squeezed, squeezed harder… and jerked as the foggy mix of seed and pre suddenly, noisily sputtered free, dumping out across the matted fur of his belly, spilling down along his sides. Once again his scent wafted up across him, so strong it seemed to carry a physical force that rolled his head back on his shoulders, and led him to drop his jaw open so that he could taste himself on the air as well.

And to think I still need to… go to the store… He reached down, paused above his stirring sheath, clenched again… watched another dribble of pre cut through the thicker load pooling atop his fur.

Guess I can afford to put off showering again, though.