Twee Sitting

edit64Story by Athalon

DISCLAIMER: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious, and are intended for mature audiences only. If you are not a legal adult, or it is illegal for you to read about adult situations, then you may not read futher. All characters belong to their respective owners. This story is not to be reproduced, copied, or otherwise published anywhere, in any way shape or form, without the express permission of the author.

He woke from his nap, yawned and stretched, and the excited spark of mischief was rekindled in his eyes as the fox-lion flashed square green glasses onto his muzzle. At ten years old, he shouldn’t have to take naps anymore, he protested, running a petulant paw through his thick, fluffy mane. But in truth his mother still made him take to his room in the afternoon, purely as her respite from high jinks and trickery.

“But we was onwy having fun!” he giggled, standing to floof out the bed-flattened tuft at the end of his slender tail. It was a true lion’s appendage, but with a compromise of color between that species and the genes of a fox, a spice tone unlike any that of other cub at school.

He poked at the boyfur in the other bed. Unique as a fox-lion might seem, lucky Chance had done her worst, and they were a pair, identical twins. Well, almost. Though they both shared the same appearance, his brother’s glasses – fashionably frameless and bottle-green too – were oval.

T2 (for that was the brother’s name) yawned also, squirmed under his covers. Their mom was not the most clever lioness in the urban jungle, and when presented with the twins in hospital one Percocet morning, had read the notations on their wristbands and simply assumed somefur had already taken the liberty of naming them. But she did the best she could for both. She was firm, and brooked no sass – which the mischievous Twee Twins considered just another challenge, a masterful and exciting dare, a lifetime begging for a prank even bigger than a thousand afternoons could contain.

“Better hurry and pee,” remarked T2 to his brother. “You know you have to.” Like all twins, they were forever reading each other’s minds.

T1 nodded, playing with the front of his pajamas. He was in pj’s because his mother insisted on that, even for naps. In truth, the twins were always getting into messes and such, so that they generally needed baths as well before nap time, if only not to foul the sheets. But their mother likewise insisted on no-underpants with pajamas for her boys – something she’d picked up from a talk show – as she said it was healthier that way.

The boyfur giggled, wondering just how much his single mom actually knew about being a guy!

He was old enough to know that girlfurs were different. Exactly how different, he and T2 often debated, hidden under 10PM blankets with a flashlight shared between them. They both certainly agreed that girls didn’t have sheaths, which stupendous pudenda being reserved solely for boys. But their theorizing on just what girls might have often didn’t get too far, hampered both by cubhood ignorance and a playful preoccupation with their own distracting sheaths (and once, each other’s!). But when they did manage to stick to the topic with that theological seriousness which only ten-year-old furs can muster, it was T1’s expert and considered opinion that girls had absolutely nothing ‘down there’, while T2 thought it profoundly more likely that girls had something, as long as that something wasn’t a sheath.

T2 followed his brother into the bathroom, popped the snaps on his pj’s. The twins tinkled, whistling and looking up and around, pretending to be grown-ups side-by-side in a public restroom. The irony was lost on neither, both already on the tilting verge of their constant, wild giggles. Which they held temporarily under control, with huge grins and perilous glances at each other from the corners of their eyes.

No use upsetting Mom right after nap time, T1 reasoned, showing silly fangs.

Then he squealed loudly!

T2 had flicked himself to the left, dashing his brother to steam with a brief lion-colored squirt. T1 returned fire, and before they were drained or properly avenged, both boys were helpless, howling with gales of naughty glee.

Their mother stood in the doorway. She was not amused.


“Awright, cut the crap, boys. Your aunt is coming over this evening. And I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

Normally that last remark would have drawn smirks from the blushing twins. But at that moment they were doing their embarrassed best to rescue their pajama bottoms from around their knees.

“It’s my night to howl,” she continued, with a sort of arrogant self-satisfaction, a Marilyn toss of her golden mane. “I’m going bowling with the girls.” She scanned the cubs’ preadolescent butts with intention. “And I don’t want to hear that you been bad.”

The menaced twins looked right at each other, holding their pants closed with fisted paws. It was bad news, and good news – and more bad news! They tightened their tailbases protectively.

“Nope… I don’t want to hear that you been bad.” The lioness thrust her thick, tufted tail for effect against the casual shower door. It obliged by bursting forthwith into a million shards of brittle red plastic.

Her jaw hit the floor.

With stereo shrills of satisfaction and surprise, the twins ducked under the legs of the gaping lioness, hauling ass back to their room. T2 hadn’t believed that his brother’s plan, to score the backside of the shower door with deep razor cuts, would work at all.

Damn, T1 thought, she’ll never do that again!

They were already pulling on jeans and clean play shirts when “It’s coming out of your allowances!” roared through the closed bedroom door.

T2 couldn’t remember just what he was supposed to have been getting for allowance. It had been the longest time since he and his brother had actually had any left over for disbursement, after deductions for loss and breakage.

But at that moment they were more concerned about the real damage they’d suffered. The twins were getting a cubsitter!

“Aw, hell!” said T1 petulantly. “A sittah!”

“Shit!” replied T2 in kind. The swearing contest was a recent affectation, and neither realized they had dropped into blue mode. “We old enough to be left by ourselfs.” Which was perhaps true. But it just served to remind them that they were the only boyfurs in their class who were still put down for naps.

“Yiff! We don’t need a sittah!” T1 was working up to a serious case of ticked, tailfloof snapping back and forth in irritation. Even so far distant from the throes of puberty ass they were, the chafe of parental prerogative had begun to wear.


The door opened.

“Ma!” spouted T2, overflowing with shining candor. “We was just mentioning ya.”

The big she-lion cast about the room with wary eyes, searching for signs of impending ambush. Her tail still trembled with shock at the accident, with anger at the terrible twins. She’d barely managed to leave the straw broom, which she’d used to sweep up, in the decimated bathroom.

“Listen here! Now your aunt’s coming over for the night. I may be out late.” The fearless boys giggled: they scented perfume on her. “So you do what your auntie tells you. She’s dinner and baths and bedtime for you. And I don’t want to hear that you been bad.” She whacked a habitual warning on the bedroom door with her bruised tail, then leaped back startled at the sound. And slammed the door ineffectually as the twins began to laugh in disabling hysteria again.

“Awnt Twisha!” T1 coughed, resolving ebbing chuckles into crescendoing squeals of glee. Tricia was their absolute favorite. She took them places, did fun things with them, let them take turns riding her Hawg. She could even throw a football farther than their gym coach at school – and had once dated his sister. Which gave instant entreé to raucous lampoon. They stuffed their shirts with sweat socks, the hips of their pants with pillows. Pulled on boots and hats, wished they had belts with their names on the back. And finally assumed her other odd mannerisms. The twins had once nicknamed their aunt ‘Scar’, after another gender-challenged leonid. Inspiration wasn’t that hard to come by: the crease on the side of her muzzle happened by accident as she was repairing her motorcycle.

“Hay, grrls!” T2 roared in a deep voice, lewdly fondling his faux femininities with both paws. “How ’bout settin’ me an mah fwien’ heah up with a coupla beeahs!” T1 nearly choked.

“Haw haw haw! Ah gotta piss like a fwiggin’ hawse!” his brother rejoined in baritone, grabbing his own crotch. “Lemme go find a wall someplace!” They dissolved into nerveless snirks and gasps, rolling about until their preteen dragfest was so much rumpled laundry, campy clothing.

Honestly, the Twee Twins liked their aunt. She lived in a ramshackle house covered with hubcaps and chrome exhaust pipes, under a really huge redwood tree. The twins’ fantasy castle had been built in stages – piecemeal would perhaps be more accurate – and there were voids and holes and hidden rooms and spaces to explore. She let them play and crawl about to their hearts’ content, chased them through tunnels and secret passageways. And Tricia really did practice football with them sometimes, and always in the evenings with the high school furs. She could run much faster, being bigger and stronger, but her enormous rear made her an easy tackle.

The twins had cried with her after her thing with Chrissy had broken up. Their aunt had stayed home for three teary, shameful days of self-pity, Hagen Daz, and Michelob, all in equal parts. Then she’d pulled herself together, packed her saddlebags, and ridden off east. In search of – well, T1 and T2 didn’t know. So they’d moped about for a week, wondering if they’d ever see her again. Of course she showed up on the bounce as soon as her sister’s credit card had maxed out. The Harley made better noise than fuel mileage, and Tricia seemed rather out for a ride in life than actually going anyplace anyhow. But the twins were simply happy to have her back. They even asked to stay over at their aunt’s place, had filled Tricia’s bra with pepper as a loony sort of prank. To this day, they’d never heard that she’d even discovered it.

A fun afternoon. They played in the yard, drop-tag. Tricia would always get caught first, then squat right to the ground in tight jeans. The ensuing ‘queeeeph’ tore the twins right up, lay them helpless on the grass with ignorant, frothing giggles. Tricia got touch-backs as soon as she successfully struggled to rise. When it grew dark they all went inside, pulled out the checker board. The twin’s aunt had never played doubles before. And although she got to move two checkers when her turn came, they beat her soundly every time. T1 and T2 got a move each when it was their opportunity to play, but Tricia couldn’t figure out how they coordinated their plans without talking aloud together.

Had she ever asked, the twins would probably not have told.

Dinner had been smörgåsbord: peanut butter and jelly on every imaginable and unimaginable horizontal snack platform; sweet pickles with sugar added to taste; cold macaroni and cheese balanced on-end upon their noses and snatched into muzzles in mid air; deli foods rolled into tubes and stuffed with every available dippable, pourable, or pipeable substance to-paw. The concoction involving bananas, whipped cream, chilled shrimp, and picante sauce was just as quickly consumed as all the others.

It had of course deteriorated into a food fight. T2 tagged his aunt with marmalade lofted from a greasy spoon in catapult-fashion. T1 did the exciting obvious, covering the seat of her chair with ball-bearing grapes when she went for a napkin. The poor uves survived the effects of Tricia’s typical diet (of beer and pretzels) for a most fascinating half-second, giving her the fur-raising sensation of sliding at high velocity off the edge of her seat. Then they simply squashed to oozing purple jelly beneath her huge denim-clad behind. But Tricia was an indomitable biker babe. A flying pawful of sour cream potatoes nearly took T2’s glasses off. Then as T1 was pointing and laughing at his brother, she blew chocolate milk through a pink twisty straw right in the furboy’s face. T2 squealed! It escalated until the floor and walls of the ruined dining room looked like a bacchanalia from a Felini movie, and the table was utterly denuded of eatables. The three furs ached, clutching their midsections with discomfort derived equally from laughing so hard, and from overeating too.

“Ok, girls!” Aunt Tricia roared mannishly, “Hit the showers! I’ve got movies before bed. ‘WWF Rhino Smackdown’, ‘Monster Truck Madness’, or ‘Vixens Gone Wild: Mardi Gras Edition’.” She considered the last. “Well, that one’s for Auntie, now.”

“Vixens!” the twins shrieked in unison. They raced from the table, shedding their messy shirts almost before they’d rounded the doorway. Tricia listen as they hollered and wrestled, readying for their baths.

She found her sister’s liquor stash, perspicaciously hidden behind cleaning supplies in the laundry room. The twin’s mother evidently knew Aunt Tricia in and out, knew her weaknesses and her habits, her disdain for domestic concerns. The leather lioness poured herself out brandy, topping off a lacquered bierstein, began to tip back.

“Ahh, now that’s drinkin’!” She could always count on the good taste of relatives, especially in the realm of liquid pleasures. Nothing is ever so fine as a touch of the grape at others’ expense.

Which prompted her to check the back of her jeans again. Indeed the she-lion was a wreck. The disgusting muck wouldn’t leave a noticeable stain – or perhaps only on her engineer shirt and suspenders. But there was no sense in getting the furniture messy. So she stripped off there in the laundry room. It was only a few steps across the exposed carport to the kitchen door. Besides, she reasoned, I’m wearing panties. And congratulated herself for such uncommon foresight.

Tricia actually had to read the instructions on the detergent box when she put her clothes in to wash.

She chose expedience over dignity when leaving the laundry room, a floppy and scantily-clad she-beast sprinting anonymously across greasy cement. Only one passing fur happened by to notice, a friendless catboy of fifteen. He masturbated himself to delirium that night, took an art degree in college, and became curator at the Rubens Museum.

Wiping motor oil from her pads with a paper towel, Tricia hollered, “You girls in the tub yet?” From the giggling squeals that echoed back to her, she doubted the hypothesis. Then with a sigh, she straightened her spine, lifted her aprés-dinner libation, and sought out the truant twins.

T2 blanched in his ears when she’d found them. T1 grabbed a towel to cover himself. They were stripped to the fur, wresting like Greek philosophers on the floor of their room. Yet when they saw her, modesty transmuted to shock.

“Auntie!” T1 shrilled.

“Yer boobies!” T2 giggled wildly.

She stared at the twins with a misplaced air of surprised hauteur. “Yes, boobies. Haven’t you ever seen a lady before?”

“C’mon, Awnt Twisha: there’s no one else here but you!”

T1 clutched his tummy, shrieking at what his brother had said.

She snatched for their tailtufts, which sent them running to their mother’s bathroom (for the shower door in theirs had been so suspiciously sundered). When water splashed and pounded into the tub, she nodded to herself in matronly satisfaction, proceeded to check out her sister’s bedroom.

T1 realized he was limping almost at the same time that the first shard of pain stabbed at his awareness. He lifted a paw, saw blood.

“Owies!!” He gritted his fangs, sniffled a little.

T1 inspected the paw. A cruel sliver of ruby plastic, errant wreckage from their embattled bathroom – a relic of that shower door which has passed into history and into tale – had stabbed like a thorn into his brother’s pad. T2’s muzzle wrinkled with fang-suppressed pain.

The other fox-lion located the electrician’s pliers that their mom used for tweezing her brows, held the wounded paw up to the light. T2 shivered with pain and fear, cried out as the operation began. And again as it ended, a static spark of jabbing agony that faded as soon as it appeared. It was over almost in an instant, one boyfur brandishing the horrid crimson clove like Arthur with Excalibur, the other gazing up in wet and shining gratitude at his beloved brother.

And for the first time since they were small kits, T2 kissed T1 on the nose. “It’ll stop huuting in just a sec.”

“You saved me, bwother! You saved my widdle wife,” T1 pledged, with a hug.

Everything that you can know about a fur can be discovered from her bookshelf. And checking account. At least that was Tricia’s theory. She just hadn’t found her sister’s bank statements yet.

Anne Rice. Tricia liked that vixen. Anne McCaffrey. Meh – take or leave the bimbette. Not that this lioness was any sort of avid reader. But she prided herself with at least a passing knowledge of the current landscape of pop-lit. Danielle Steele. That raised an eyebrow. She wouldn’t have taken her sister for the type. Jackie Collins.

“Damn, girl,” she swore to the absent feline, “No wonder you don’t date much.”

There was a colossal splash, and the sound of “Whoa!” from the bathroom. Tricia thought she might investigate things.

And check on the boyfurs, too.

The Twee Twins giggled daffily, sitting together in their soapy bath. Or what was left of their bath. It appeared as if a good deal of the water and foamy suds which had once sloshed and squelched against the walls of the white tub now lapped in titanic waves across the foundered linoleum. Come high tide, and it would probably reach the bedroom carpet. Or perhaps Nova Scotia.

Aunt Tricia sighed, plopped her large padded ass on the small padded toilet seat. Boys had never been her forté.

They giggled at her behind paws, ogling her bare and pendulous breasts, and hid their own small malenesses beneath the remaining bath water and generous clouds of shampoo. Indeed they seemed to be rather preoccupied that she might see them naked: blushing, whispering and moving close to the edge of the tub to shield their bareness. Laughing with voices growing ever louder and more discomfited.

Tricia had lost her place and reread the same scene three times (Lucky Santangelo seducing Gino her mobster father) when she’d simply had enough.

“Look, cut the crap!” she ordered. “It’s just us boys here.”

T1 and T2 stared at each other. Something about what their aunt had said was just so wrong!

“Awnt Twisha? We weddy to get out now.” T2 was trying to appear breezy and matter-of-fact. But modesty was making him more agreeably humble and petitioning than usual.

And patient.

“And we were wondering if ya’d…”

The lioness scowled at the boys. Shy wasn’t something either of them could spell, she figured.

“What we mean, Awnt Twisha,” continued T1 briskly, “is that we might wike some popcoan. For when we watch the movies.” He winked at his brother, who nodded with a grin. “Would you make some for us? Pwease?”

Well, they could be charming when they put themselves to it. She scowled again, closed ‘Lucky Chances’, and stalked out to the kitchen. At least popcorn, she consoled herself, was something she knew how to deal with. Most of the time.

The twins joined her again a several minutes later, both toweled and brushed, the tassels on their tails unnaturally floofy and large. They had on soft drawstring pajamas, cuddly flannel tops with huge buttons, and pointy knit caps with puppy ears hanging from the sides. Sans underpants, as their mom’s rule was. Tricia could see the soft clean fabric of their pj’s gathering in the well-defined clefts of their little bottoms.

When the popcorn was ready, and any flames extinguished, she took up position between the twins. In addition to sharing the huge and fragrant supply of snack, she hoped it would keep them from raising too much more hell tonight. Perhaps they would even snuggle close to her bulk, fall asleep before the movie ended. That’s what Tricia hoped for. She eyed the tiny brown vial on the counter. Mother’s Little Helper. Not all the salt on the popcorn was salt.

Perhaps she’d find out if Lucky ever bested her father, took over the ‘family business’. Such an exciting life that would be!

The twins were excited too. Popcorn and movies! They giggled as always, played volleyball with puffs of popcorn across the net of their aunt’s ample rack. When a kernel lodged itself in her deep and distracting cleavage, the twins nearly wet themselves laughing. But they settled right down when the movie began, once they’d gotten close enough to feel the lioness’ warmth, to bask in her motherly essence, to nuzzle the soft fur of her body.

If she purrs, T2 thought, I’ll fall right asleep.

The boyfurs had taken a long and adventurous day. They’d teased Jerry the Cat who was mowing yards across the street – the teenfur who didn’t have any friends and everyfur knew was such a homofag. Why, he might even go to art school! Then they had ridden their bikes to the supermarket, covered one for another by faking crippling slips in the produce aisle, while the other kit snatched ice cream bars and soda from the cold case. The twins had carted their bounty to a secret hiding place, appropriately dubbed ‘The Twee House’, had shared it with Nicol the red panda, a kewl friend and sometimes-playmate. They’d laughed and wrestled and eaten and drank till they’d nearly burst – and that was all before lunch and naps and the snarky scene with the shower door! The boys yawned in the comfort, the echo of their soothing bath within hollow immature muscles, soft cuddlesome pj’s against their bare boystuffs.

None of Tricia’s raunchy video library made it into the DVD player that night. Instead they had picked ‘The Lion King’. The cubs knew all the words to the songs. Their aunt even sniffled at the sad parts.

“Religious pictures always make me cry,” she offered through Kleenex.

And affected by her tall drink and Disney sentimentality, she cuddled her nephews closer. T1 held back a bit, but T2 snuggled right down against her side. The paw on his back felt real nice. He didn’t even mind when it sank down below the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. His tailbase tickled through the hole in the back.

T1 rested against his aunt’s shoulder. His nose nodded against her peaking nipple as he fought sleep, as Tricia fought the chill of the topless evening. He snorted, straightened up a bit, sought a more stable position. His aunt could see that the other boyfur was clearly more into the cuddle, lost in imagination and singing along with the animated furries on the screen. She caressed T2’s flat behind, the round curve of his hip. He mrrred quietly, and rested his head in her lap.

Bedtime came earlier than expected. Tricia had, with no ceremony at all, simply dropped her muzzle onto her matronly mounds and started to snore. The twins giggled, but they were themselves too far gone to get up to much fun. Soon they too were asleep, high wavering whistles of deep slumber piping from the small muzzles of the boyfurs.

Tricia woke in the small hours, when her tail knocked over the mug from which she had been drinking. Thankfully it was empty. Or perhaps not, she decided, as her head began to pound. So much for the good stuff not giving you a hangover. She looked left, looked right, picked the cubs up one with each paw, and hied them off to their beds. They took no notice as she tucked them in, made her way to the other bedroom.

Parting the dead sea on the bathroom floor with her paws, she excavated ancient aspirin from an ossuarial medicine cabinet. The hair of the dog wasn’t enough to distract her, though, from peeking through her sister’s de facto pharmacy. Tricia rewrote her theory of fursonal information-gathering on the spot.

“Whoa! This is some pretty strong shi…” But Tricia wasn’t the sort of fur to idly experiment with drugs: she almost always preferred to stick with ones she’d already tried before. After that episode with the two biker toads, she’d been ever so much more careful what she put into her muzzle. And other bodily orifices.

The Jackie Collins pulp lay open (and mostly unscathed) by the watery eruptions which had taken place in that wretched little bathroom. The lioness picked it up, moved quickly back through the door, to where a large and fully accessorized waterbed awaited. She sprawled, kicked off her sister’s slippers, scratched at her unshaven legs. And removed her panties, slipping beneath sheets fragrant with family pheromones. She wasn’t worried about her sister discovering her nude there; she’d always been a bit of outlaw since she was old enough to walk. As she began to read, Tricia’s naked memory and the essence of lion on the bedclothes brought back an image of a certain summer, when she was in her teens. Of an experiment behind the potting shed, a secret shared between sisters. She dragged her mind back to the yiffy novel, an irony that was not wasted upon her. At least Lucky wasn’t hot for girls. Especially not for her own…

The novel rested suddenly closed on the sheet. Am I yiffy for my sister? There was a cruel edge to the idea, something of treachery and treason that ends at the foot of Mssr. Guillotine. She dismissed the thought almost instantly. No. Never. Not even when we tried… stuff.

Then she was back into the story, with risque Ms. Santangelo deep into one of her risky stratagems to which the title of the book alludes. Lucky was laying it all on the line once again, a yiffy liaison of fortune and trust that would utterly make or break her. Of all that could be said of Lucky Santangelo, she never did things by halves in bed. Tricia’s paw had been on her nipples for most of a chapter. There was something weirdly erotic in the heroine’s power, her willingness to take the gamble, to go for what she wanted. The paw had worked its idle, familiar way south. It now poised at the mounded bulwark above the environs of her love, toying with the furry choice of tempt or tease. The lioness’ eyes never left the page.

She put down the book, floofed the pillow for sleep. If she read any more she’d have to take herself off to where her tingly thighs were beckoning. And in her sister’s bed, too. It was just over the top!

“Wha?” Her paw encountered something flat and firm beneath the pillow. Another book. She turned it over, read the cover. Lawrence. ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’. Goodlawd, she thought, with a laugh. What trash my sister reads! Yet Tricia couldn’t stem her curiosity. There was a definite voyeuristic thrill of skimming her eyes like river-polished stones across the same pages over which her sibling sometimes poured in the phantastical consuming vortex of her own phrenzied masturbation. The cheap paperback, unwitting accomplice and betraying Judas, opened automatically to a hot and yiffy scene. Tricia was drawn in. Her paw circled once, twice, narrowing gradually at the call of dampening inner membranes, slipping a slender edge into the clinging cleft of her intimate imagination, the saddle-stitched binding of the book of love. And slowly, without realizing that she had decided to, the lioness began to frig.

She caught herself only when the book dropped from her other paw, a hurricane spasm threatening to launch her from the Canaveral of that sloshing, churning waterbed. Tricia’s face burned hot beneath her fur, shame colored the insides of her ears. Her paw was creamy with her passions; she was certain she had stained the sheets. Visiting the bathroom, she washed. Then decided that the bed wasn’t in much worse a state than it had started, and climbed back in. Besides, a dark and simian part of her mind insinuated, now Sister can sleep in the essence of our nectars for a change!

She propped the pillows, fluffed them up, tried to get comfortable again. Thought she might read. Perhaps… just not that book. She searched the nooks and shelves of the cabinet headboard, found only Bram Stoker, Stephen King.

“Ugh. Sucks for bedtime stories.”

The night table yielded more, a shallow drawer with a jar of Yiffy Lube, and an object that Tricia scarcely recognized. It was huge, red, and thick. Its silicone skin shimmered – stretched-swollen and taut. Her sister’s nasty dildo possessed a wicked backwards bend, and a nippled head that made Tricia’s uterus squirm at the very sight.

“Damn, Sis!” She rotated the synthetic schlange this way and that, inspecting it from every exotic angle. And touched it to her bare breasts. Molded into the base of the mind-twistingly gigantic phallus were the words ‘Draco Aureus’.

Tricia’d always wondered what it would be like to date a dragon…

The lioness shook herself, tossed away the toy wang, turned over onto her side with disgust. This was all so freaky. Not her scene, not even a bit. Maybe she was just lonely. It had been so long since she’d had held a soft body next to her own, the ripe and firm bosoms of youth, the full and voluptuous mams that alone signify a companion, female partnership. Her fur itched all over, and she rose from the damp, tangled sheets to pace the floor, tail active and annoyed in the manner given only to those of feline race. She stalked the dim hallway, unfamiliar shadows in the gothic darkness telling tales of danger, whispering of despair. Her paw contacted the corpse of the dead shower door, a cold sting of necromantic numbness in the boys’ bathroom as she went for water there. Tricia leaned against the doorframe of the twin’s room, watching the embalmed moon play over their spice-colored headfur, the smooth dusky fall of sheets from their shoulders and hips.

Another strange memory stole in on midnight batwings, worried the eaves of her psychic abode. Tricia recalled when her own aunt Jane, the mute widowed Puritan to whom she had occasionally been sent for an oppressive teenage summer, has passed. The sheriff had discovered Jane alone in the attic of the small Massachusetts farmhouse which her husband had left to her years before. She was seated – quite erect and rigid – at a card table, with a battery-operated yiff toy in one paw, and a live one-ten power line in the other. She must have been praying over some obscure biblical revelation, the pastor concluded supportively, in private later. That she was found nude, with King James spread open and submissive before her – well, that was a cross which the family would have to bear privately, too.

Tricia shuddered, a wave of heat-like disgust kneading and rolling over her folds of furry flesh like so much guilty dough. Her vagina felt arctic, scoured by cruel winds, a thousand miles away in a high desert land never touched by summer desire, spring hope. Her heart was even lonelier.

The moment of surrender passed unnoticed.

T2 was motionless on his bed as Lucy Westenra upon the churchyard stone, when his aunt lifted him in strong, masculine arms. Eyes red in the stained-glass glow of the night light, she bore him easily back with her, to her room.

The boyfur awoke a little while later, and with his first bloom of consciousness aware of being someplace he wasn’t allowed. He realized first he was in his mom’s bed, and then that he wasn’t in Mom’s bed alone. T2 assumed it was his mom, the big bulk of her like a breasting comber beneath the sheets. Who else would be sleeping in his mom’s bed? But then something else felt amiss, the uncertainty betraying his conclusions.

There was motion under the covers, too.

Which stopped as soon as he’d drawn the first noisy, waking breath.

“Awnt Twisha? Is that you?” Tremulous, dull with lingering sleep, self-doubt. But energized by anxiety, the overriding knowledge that he’d been caught.

“Yes, babe, it’s me.” She arranged her moist paws outside the sheet. Tried to sound reassuring; adult, though not forbidding. But her heart throbbed in her voice.

“Why am I in Mommy’s bed?” T2 sounded reasonable, logical, searching for a reasoned answer good enough for the mind of a ten-year-old. But not too good. Searching more for reassurance, the illogical explanation that puts fears to rest.

“Well… it was lonely in here all by myself. And you like sleeping with your Aunt Tricia, don’t you?”

The pillow moved slightly as the youngfur nodded.

“Ok, then! It’s just like a sleepover! Just like you’re at my house. Except we’re not really at my house, And you’re in your mom’s bed, and I’m…”

T2 cut off her babble.

“Awnt Twisha? Why’s my pj’s gone?” His voice didn’t seem quite so logical and disinterested now.

The lioness took a breath, sat up with a shivery moan of resignation, a groan of guilty shame. The sheet fell away in front, exposing the bounties of her bosom.

“Cause, baby…” She reached out, with voice and paw, rocking the boykit gently. “Cause we got this nice sheet here to keep us all and private and comfy. That’s enough for us. And it’s summer, too. Too hot at night for nasty old clothes.”

T2 nodded again in the darkness, bunched the pillow in front of himself as he sat up too. Must be sort of like his mom’s no-undies rule. His tail waved above his head, his smooth back and young, trim tailbase exposed to moon and midnight breeze. It’s awfully cool to be so stuffy in here, he thought, sniffing.

Tricia’s paw was around his shoulders. “Don’t you love your Aunt Trish?” she queried. “I love you. A lot!”

“Yezzum,” he agreed timidly. The boyfur couldn’t figure out why she was pulling him so close in just that way. Why her paw traced the outline of his spine, passed so close by tailbase, then around his hip. It was ok, he knew – or told himself. This was Aunt Tricia! Aunt Tricia would never make him do something that was bad. It was so confusing. It was like… an adventure!

T2 brightened. That’s what it was like, some new and exciting adventure! Like when T1 kept a secret, or arranged some kind of surprise. Some of his brother’s surprises weren’t very nice. Like the time he put sand in T2’s undies and said it was ants. Or the time he made an awful face when tasting his milk, and when T2 gave his brother his own unopened box of milk to throw away – both boxes were fine and T1 drank the milk all himself! That kind of thing made T2 very angry. So angry he found he could make himself cry just by thinking about it. But some surprises are good surprises. T1 bought his brother a yo-yo once, using birthday money that he could have spent on himself. That was a nice thing, and the memory made T2 smile in the anxious darkness, huggle the pillow. Besides, T1 was always telling him to be brave, whenever they’d go on an adventure together. Maybe this was an adventure, too! And his very own brother wouldn’t want T2 to be afraid, no matter how awfully strange the thing seemed.

So T2 snuggled close to his aunt, his bare bottom on the cool sheet making him realize for the first time that she was naked too. But it was an adventure, so the young fox-lion wasn’t going to be afraid. Why, her paw on his tailbase, his furry round buttock, felt ok. Better than ok. Nice, even!

“There,” she chuckled, a bubbling drain in the fetid darkness. “That’s better. Now you just cuddle up to your Aunt Tricia and we’ll be right as rain.”

Right as rain. T2 giggled, suddenly warm and safe. Familiar. It was one of his aunt’s sayings that always made him and his brother laugh. And thinking of T1 made him ask, “But Awnt Twish? Why isn’t my bwuther here?”

Tricia hushed him confidently, confidentially, a paw on his soft, fuzzy lips. She was somehow aware that the moment of chance, the lucky indecision, had passed. She was going to get what she wanted, almost without trying. “Because sweety! T1’s sleeping. We’ll see him in the morning. He can come and snuggle too. And we’ll play and have breakfast and… oh, all sorts of nice things! But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, it’s just you and me.”

The cubkit nodnodded. It was a strange feeling, not to have T1 close for once. They were almost always together. But an ok feeling, still.

With firm smoothness, Tricia slid T2’s small, yielding body onto hers. His head pillowed upon her soft breast. She heard a sleepy groan issue from his muzzle, pleasure at the surprise, and surprise at the pleasure. He shivered. She felt it. It was as if all his feelings came through her – out and in both – mediated by her very flesh, like some sort of pagan priestess. She smiled into the leering face of the dark.

“Awnt Twisha? Are you a mommy?” Curiosity was emolliated by warmth and safety.

She chuckled. “No, little one. But I could be, I suppose.”

“Yeah? I think you’d be a gweat mommy.” He nuzzled a nipple, unaware.

“Yeah?” She stroked his back, his slender, furry bottom. T2 hissed and his tailbase tightened. But she felt him melt against her as the erotic massage continued, meld to her own will.

T2 nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I think. Mommies should be so soft. They should be full of boobies all over.” He paused, in dinosaur awe of such a big thought.

Tricia giggled. “So you like my boobies?”

The cubbie laughed. “Yah. They’s soft. But be soft all over. Mommies should be. And tell you stohwies. And pet you. And pway and not get mad…”

Tricia heard the kit sigh. There was something heart-rending in it, that one so precious as he should ever have learned sadness at the paws of mortals.

“And they should laff. Lots! Mommies should laugh and be like sun on your face, and a run across the grass in the park. And as sweet as ice cream, too!”

The lioness sobbed once, clutched the loving cub closer, burying his muzzle in her heaving bosom. His purity, the forthrightness and innocence of his love, literally took her breath away. It was heady; the bed reeled, the sheets reeked in her nose. In anoxic flight, she found her thrill.

Then the kit’s muzzle was on hers. She had never gone so suddenly hot and wet between the legs as at that very moment she took him. Her lips parted the cub’s, and he responded with sweet breath, gentle fangs. And giggled.

“Awnt Twisha! That’s a funny way to kiss!”

She wanted to tickle him, just to prolong the joyous bubbly sound that popped like Spring from his muzzle. But dared not wake his brother. She laughed, too.

“Yeah, I guess it is. Some things are like that though. Feel good, but they’re kinda funny if you stop in the middle of doing them to think about it.”

T2 nodded sagely, as if the whole world all made sense now. “Can we do it some more?”

His earnestness, openness, broke her heart. She brought him to her muzzle again, gentler this time, and things went all wet and fuzzy. Small clutching paws were on her breasts, seeking balance for the kiss, support for his small weight. Seeking things beyond his years, in ways yet unknown to him. She moaned into his mouth at the pleasurable pinch.

T2 giggled again, but softer this time, not withdrawing from the syrupy-sweet kiss that made his eyes glaze over. Something poked at her deep and fleshy navel, a mother’s own surprise from her cubbie boy that made Tricia shiver. Her paw on the small buttocks gave direction to his need, intention to his immature groin. The cub’s tiny sheath skated clumsily from her umbilical fold, and he jerked up into a sitting position with a gasp.

“Awnt Twisha?” He sat up on her tummy, gathering himself. Quivering. Panting. Even in the dim light she could see the glint of fear in his dark eyes, the glint of lust on his immature but exposed boyself.

“Awnt Twisha?” She could feel his trembles, the spinning whirlpool uncertainty, as it threatened to capsize the barque of his confident, fearless nature.

“Awnt Twisha? Is this how you get to be a mommy?”

She was flattened with a single stroke, slain by the enormity of his realization! “Yes. Aww, sweet baby! Yes. Yes! This is, almost. It’s called love!”

“Love?” The new coloring was confusing. The boy’s tone darkened. “You mean… you’re gonna be a mommy now?”

The lioness smirked, fangs barely visible to her tiny mate. “Well, maybe not this time.”

He didn’t sound reassured, relieved either. “But… don’t you want to be a mommy? You could be my mommy, too.” The trusting, petitioning innocence threatened to burst her heart into sticky, jittering strings.

“T2? Sweety… is that what you want? Do you want to make me a mommy?”

Instead of an answer, he came to her muzzle again. And controlled the kiss in ways Tricia had never imagined possible, would never have believed to come from the young male cub. She swore she could feel his tongue coming out of her ears.

“I’d love it if you were my mommy,” he replied kissing her nose, all of a ten-year-old’s sincerity and conviction in that one childhood oath.

A queasy, hot wave flooded her vagina, poured over her body like so much lilac-scented wax.

“Awnt Twisha?” T2 resolved in a firm whisper, “Can I make you my mommy now?”

With a soft moan, she climaxed.

The Moon of a thousand campfire tales leered at T1. Foxes stole up in his dreams. Not avatars of the absent father he thought he’d never known, but evil plunderers of rest, burglars trying the doors of the dwelling of dreams. He imagined scritches at the window screens, peeping furry faces with huge masked eyes. T1 tossed in his sleep, calling out for somefur, somefur unknown. Somefur who had been there in the past.

But strangely, was now absent.

Somefur to whom he owed his life.

She had spread her plump legs, drawn up her furry knees. The night air, now unimpeded by sheets, caressed the smooth wetness of her lion-twat like a tongue. The beloved nephew naked upon her fertile belly was pleasurably heavy, Wiccan, his preteen body molding itself to her generous feminine gifts. The musky scent of Tricia’s ripe and golden sex was like a haze wisping in the cool and moon-fogged dimness of her sister’s midnight bedroom.

Tricia felt T2’s eager penis against her. Sensed his undirected impatience.

And knew what she wanted.

Foxes stole through basement windows, stormed silently up the stairs. T1 shivered, acrid fearsweat soaking his bed. The foxes turned to rats, back to foxes again. Their fur was black and matted and nauseous, unwashed and stinking like bloated minnows. He could see their fangs, the deep pinkness of muzzles; gaping, glistening wet and ready to gobble his supple flesh. The cub meeped quietly, tangling himself in sheets, wrapping the dream horrors ever closer as he tossed.

T1 had an erection.

But never remember that as long as he lived.

“T2? Baby… lemme show you something.”

The cubkit quaked at the sound of her voice, a spasming stab of pressure in his chest. This expectancy which had built within him from out of nowhere was completely beyond his experience. Imagination simply couldn’t fit itself around what was happening. This was beyond even a scary adventure, and not even reassuringly scary at all.

His aunt’s paws on his dimpling behind drew him up to her muzzle. T2’s knees over her shoulders, his thighs astride her neck, tensed as past flowed into future, became unbearable present.

His childhood pinkness was turgid and numb.

T1 stumbled to the bathroom, started at the handle of the unsecured broom as he groped for the light switch. His yellow boystream sprinkled wildly about, arched into the air, the ebbing dream sapping attention and control. He even forgot to wash his paws after.

When he climbed back into bed, T1 noticed his brother was missing.

And heard a noise.

“Aww, honey, that was great! You did real good. Just like a big boy!”

T2 trembled at Tricia’s side; she in afterglow, he in aftershock. There simply weren’t words to describe the experience – even if he could ever bring himself to tell T1. For the first time, he thought there might be a secret kept, one twin from another. And it separated him from himself utterly.

Anchorless, T2 drowned in pleasure, weak and overwhelmed.

“Sweety? We’re almost there. We’ll do The Big Thing inna sec.” Tricia licked her muzzle, eyed T2, worried that he was perhaps too sated to continue. Too immersed in the selfishness of his first yiffy-self experience to reciprocate, to pleasure her orally. But her throbbing and lion-gold cunt was not to be denied, its sweet and thick syrup slushing over tailhole and tailbase. A paw strayed to herself, drawing out a taffy stringlet of scented spice as she brought her soaking pads to her muzzle.

“Baby? It’s your turn now. Time to kiss me back. You liked that, what we did, right?”

The young kit nodded, his pillow floating on a lofting breeze.

“Ok. So now we’ll try it the other way. And then you’ll be ready to make me a mommy. Your mommy. Ok, T2?”

He nodnodded again, eyes closed. Knowing there was yet something to be done, but not quite what. Sensing the subtle insistence in her voice. It was beyond even the wiles that his real mommy used, to get her own way with him. But it seemed right, so right. Like slipping into a warm bath after a snowy school day. Aunt Tricia had kissed his sheath – he was still in tingling awe when he thought about that. And she was going to let him make her a mommy. His mommy! T2 would do whatever she asked.

“Crawl on down between my paws, honey. That’s it.”

His body felt too heavy to move. Ever again. Then he found himself between his Aunt’s knees. It was like the sort of adventure that Alice always had, growing big, getting small. Strange things happened to her that way. Things that feel good, but they’re kinda drive-you-screaming-out-of-your-fucking-mind bizarre if you stop in the middle of doing them to think about it.

Tricia gazed at her nephew’s innocent face between her legs, his slender foxy muzzle. The thought of it made her vagina wink.

“Ok, T2. I’ll teach you. It’ll be ok. All nice. Right as rain.”

He nodded, eyes catching the waning glow as the moon dipped below a scudding horizon of clouds. His heart wondered if it just might rain.

“Have you ever seen a girlfur’s… love before?”

T2 shook his head. It seemed to wobble on his shoulders.

“Ok. Mmm. This is a special moment, baby. You an’ me, together forever. You’re gonna kiss me there, and then you can make me a mommy.”

The cubbie nodded in trance as she switched on the bed lamp. And then he screamed.

T1 kicked open the door. “AAIIIIIIGH!!”

Tricia shrieked, though not wholly from fright.

“I’ll save you, T2!”

T2 spun towards his brother’s piping voice, tearing away his eyes from the gruesome, paralyzing horror. Then dove suddenly from the high waterbed. “Noooooo!!!”

Tricia shrieked, though only minimally from fright.

T1 brandished the straw-bristle broom, and proceeded to whack her spasming snatch.

The startled clitoris squealed!

T1 pounded away between his aunt’s open legs. “T2!! IS IT DEAD YET??”

The bedlamp smashed them all into merciful darkness as Tricia, the leather lesbian lioness, fainted from shock.

T2 rushed into T1’s arms. They held each other, crying loudly and sobbing vigorously.

“Are you alright, T2?”

“You saved me, bwother! You saved my widdle wife!”

And for the first time since they were small kits, T1 kissed T2 on the nose. “It’ll stop being scawey in just a sec,” he said.

When school started again that autumn, it brought a new sort of stability to the twins’ lives. Lots of things were different now. Aunt Tricia didn’t cubsit anymore. When their mom would go out on bowling night, Jerry the Cat would come over to take care of them. He wasn’t as nice as their aunt, they agreed, and he spent most of the evening in their mom’s room. With the door closed. But at least bathtime was more fun now.

T1 and T2 stalked onto the unfamiliar play yard together, trying to act cool. And cover each others’ backs at the same time.

“We’ll be running this place in a couple of weeks!” T2 assured his brother.

A pair of canid girls flounced up to the two. Both were furred in brown; one simple but beautiful, the other rich and stunning. They wore identical clothing, though: bad plaid skirts and white blouses.

T1 suspected fashion had just never made it to this neighborhood.

“You furs new here?” The dark canid babe batted her eyes chastely.

“And twins?” The sandy one with glasses was mistress of the obvious.

“Oh, ayuh,” answered T1. T2 nodded.

“Fine then!” The girls giggled together. And turned to leave.

“Hay, whatcher names?” T2 transfixed the second fur with a yiffy glance.

The two girls studied each other’s faces, weighing the social effects of a reply. Balancing the polite against the cool. And taking their time in that critical calculation, rechecking just to be sure.

“I’m Matty,” the second furbabe replied, as if the outcome had never mattered at all. “My friend’s Wynd.”

The boys looked at each other. The ball was in their court now. They could introduce themselves, maybe make friends. Or blow off these two ho’s, score a popularity point and maybe come back for a return engagement. Or maybe…

T1 pulled a bill from his pocket, colored jeans identical to his brother’s. T2 did likewise.

“We’ll give you a dollar to show us your snooch!”

The girls blushed, glanced unbelieving at each other for support. Matty sank to the ground, one leg bent at her chin, the other paw tucked under. Wynd lifted her elegant left boot to her friend’s knee. Simultaneously, they raised their plaid skirts.

T2 whistled. Evidently their moms thought underwear wasn’t terribly healthy either.

T1 gazed. The girlfurs were tight and clean, small and neat and sculpted as shaped soap. He was definitely impressed. T1 formed his paws into a tiny wedge, modeling the succulent young cunts now on display. And nudged his brother with an elbow.

T2 scowled, shook his head. He shaped his paws into an outline resembling a regulation football – a rather run-down, tired, saggy football.

“I think,” T1 said, “it’s cause Auntie rides that motorcycle…”

T2 nodded, gave up the issue.

“Hay! Where’s our dollars?”

The Twee Twins stared at each other, smirked. And took off running.

Wynd swore. “God-damnit, third time this week!”

But Matty had a plan. “Let’s chase them behind the school and pull their fucking pants off!”

The girls took off in pursuit.

Soon T1 and T2 were squealing with glee, giggling at their fine predicament. Catholic school was turning out to be so more fun than they’d ever expected!

*End of story*