Justin sat far back on the Saturday park bench as late Spring sun rose over a new year. His 'Boks dangled an inch above morning rainpools which dappled the paving of the empty skate track, ears dangled an inch above the shoulders of his new hooded sweatshirt. An extra and extra-large piece of colorfully-frosted cake filled a napkin in his lap. The spotty dalmatian puppy had just turned ten years old.

    It had been a great b-day! Justin went to school as usual, but when he got home all friday'd out, his whole family had been there to meet him. The firedog's sisters gave the boyfur some plastic models to build (he liked historic fighter planes, and the smell of the glue); his grandma, an X-Box 360. The pup had been ever so excited to try that one out! His uncle, the priest, had even sent a card, a cheque, and some snapshots of naked boyfurs all tied up and gagged (which Justin looked at, but didn't quite understand). By that time his parents had arrived from work, and there was still more fun in store.

    He'd got clothes, lots. And not so silly and cubby as most of the stuff the pup had in his dresser. Justin was starting to pay attention to things like that: styles, fashion. Fitting in. Furiends. He didn't know why. But the new sneaks, the flag-labelled jeans on his butt, the awesome grey hoodie into which he snuggled, oversized, there in the early park morning made the boyfur feel like he was older now, growing up.

    It really did feel like a new year. And Justin wanted to be ready for it.

    The spottypup wasn't really being selfish about the last piece of cake. They'd all gone out to dinner after the presents - a cheap spaghetti place which everyfur liked - and the night ended up with that horrible song and a slab of pastel-airbrushed bakery confection (the restaurant was out of spumoni). Justin had done all-you-can-eatness proud, and barely found room for dessert anyway. But it had been a great birthday, all things considered, and breakfast of leftover cake was like a promise that every day could be so sweet.

    Justin licked his paws, tried juggling the greedy treat in both, hoping to ameliorate the mess. It didn't work. He licked off, tried again. Finally, lowering his muzzle he scarfed. Checked to make sure he wasn't spoiling his new clothes. And looked around, hoping no one had seen!

    But the skatepark was empty; too early of a Saturday for kits to be out and about, mostly. There were cartoons to watch, chores to do, team practices to SUV to. But not for Justin. There he sat, gobbling a high-carb breakfast, getting orange icing dye on his nose and pink on his whiskers, and thinking of what adventures to which he might get up this free morning. Somefur would show soon, he was sure. Somefur he knew.

    And the park was usually a noisy, busy place to play on weekends. There were the skaters, of course - how Justin loved to watch! The pipes, ramps, jumps and bowls let the nimbler, bigger boyfurs do amazing tricks, hang out shirtless and shining with bravery and accomplishment. There was a tennis court, too, and pawball bays. Jogging. Hoops, but the giraffes and other equines staked those out for themselves.

    No matter. Justin always managed to have fun. Alone, if it worked out that way; with others, if he could join. Sometimes he'd even have a go on the swings, if nofur was looking. The spottydog supposed he oughtn't be doing that now, not since he was ten. He glanced at the sand slide with sudden longing, nibbled crumbs from his lap, stood for a resigned moment, then padded nostalgically over towards the playset. There were things about being a small that the firepup was going to miss.

    Suddenly his tummy made a weird noise, and one paw went on its own to his middle. He cast about, spotted the low blockhouse which was the park restroom. No problem. He could just trot on over there, take care of things. He blushed anew when he remembered the printed Eminem underpants that had been sprung in front of everyfur and sundry as a last-minute gag gift at the restaurant. Why anyfur would wear Marshall Mathers on his ass, Justin had no clue. And not that he had Slim Shady's face under the shadow of his slender spotted rear that very morning. But still...

    The entry door was held open by a battered garbage drum, and a privacy wall inside blocked the direct entrance and view. The pup made a jog to the left, then a step to the right. Stood with paws on his hips, tucked his tail down tight. Though it wasn't insanely dim in the restroom at all, the switchback blocked the thrust of the incoming illumination. It took precious moments that Justin couldn't afford for him to adjust, an optical time warp again.

    Dark and nauseous green was smeared over the walls, frankly bad paint, through which showed gang tags and a dozen other colors from previous and futile coatings. There was a delinquent pair of aloof white sinks loitering against the wall, with innocence an arguable attribute: they looked tough, as if they'd not seen a scouring in years. It wasn't particularly smelly, for the high impact-starred windows near the ceiling were open to the breeze, just not incredibly clean. But Justin's need wasn't going to admit of argue. And the dank mire, the windblown leaves in the ghastly floor drain, gave no fetid reply.

    He spotted a short corridor down the long wall, moved on with a purpose.

    Around another cinderblock barrier towards the back of the building was a long steel urinal trough. Water dripped slowly into it, a continuous mournful weeping over rusty sins unknown. He passed it by. And beyond that was yet a shorter perpendicular wall, which concealed the commode in the corner most far from the entrance.

    There was no door.

    Justin mrffled, knew before he started in that this was how the park restroom was laid out. And that he didn't have much choice anyway.

    The boyfur wrinkled his muzz at the filthy floor, the piled paper in one corner. (Why don't equuids just flush it? he wondered.) And checked the roll - crusty, stained in spots, but at least it wasn't empty. Then hoisting his tail, he dropped jeans and white briefies, installed himself on the dirty throne.

    Cracks in the old porcelain grated. The pot shifted on its mounting. Loose hardware made an ominous crunching sound.

    The spotty waited only a little while, examining the wall to his left. Layer after layer of palimpsest paint had in effect smoothed the new surface, made the later writing all the more plain.

Glenn sucks.

And under that:

Genets give great muzzle.

To which some wit had retorted:

So duz yur mom lolol!

    Then it felt like Justin's soul dropped out through his tailhole. He was sort of shivery and weak and empty for a few moments thereafter; recovered himself; flushed twice. "All-you-can-eat ought to be called all-you-can-poo," he thought.

    The spottypup didn't really feel sick or anything, but wasn't eager to hurry along just then. And went on with his meanwhile reading.

4 a good time and $20 call rikoshi

mall t-room M-F after 5PM
the guard is cool

And then a veritable spreadsheet of true confessions, apparently added line by line:

My First Time

14/m/sibe	16/m/sibe	my big bro caught me pawwing off and made me do things to him
6/m/red panda	14/m/otter	kitsitter was giving me a bath lol
13/m/wolf	13/m/fox	there's like this club at school and we won $10 from each of the others cause we spooged first oh yeah we were milkshaking
10/m/foxlion	does my aunt count?
You: Age/sex/species	With? Age/sex/species	What did you do?

    Eye opener, certainly. Justin didn't know what most of that was about, anyway. Just... seemed strange. Like the sort of thing you'd never tell grandma, not even knowing for sure why.

    The dalmatian checked the other wall. Same sort of stuff, post after post, no apparent order, all different colors of pencil and pen. Smeared and discolored by runnels and rivulets unknown, things instinct and squick told him not to touch. Yet the information was even more dirty. When, where, what. Times, dates. Stuff. And a crudely drawn penis or two. He didn't understand at all, yet it was clear that all this yiffy stuff was about... yiff!

    Just then the pup heard that sandpaper sound of pawsteps scuffing the gritty floor, voices indistinct and boyful. Sitting back quickly, he yanked his undies and jeans up to cover as much of himself as possible, assure privacy in lieu of the missing door. Justin had thought for an instant to finish up quick and get to hell out, but he didn't want to be standing up and bare if the other boyfurs walked in on him. And if they were all in the restroom there for a piss, then he'd wind up having to sneak out behind them while the others were standing at the trough. He decided to sit tight and wait, hunched over, arms crossed in his lap.

    "Hay, Robert! Did you gank those magazines from your dad?"

    Justin realized that one if not both the other boyfurs were now just on the far side of the narrow privacy wall beside him. He heard more sneaker noises, zippers. "Hurry, hurry," he whispered them, to himself. "Pee and get out of here!"

    "Yeppers. You've just got to see this one! My dad's such a freak! I think it's one of the girlfurs from school!!"

    There was laughter, and the dalmatian curled up his muzz with propriety. Didn't they know you're supposed to stay silent in a public bathroom?

    "Fur! I'm so yiffy! Check this out!"

    It was just then that Justin spotted, over his shoulder, a big hole chiseled out of the cinderblock divider. He peeked through, spied indeed two boyfurs queued up for a piss. Closest to himself was a brindled mouse in t-shirt and baggy pants, bigger than the pup but perhaps not so old that he must be in high school. Junior high, tops. The firepup could see brown sheathfur, that tiny and shy pinkness that was honestly the glans issuing a triumphal arc of pure yellow pee. It rattled the loose metal plumbing where it landed.

    "Cut it out, Tony!" the nearer mouse said (whom Justin now deduced to be Robert).

    Beyond him stood a white rodent, equally small and fragile, a mouse for all seasons. Between his paws, the young length of maleness protruding from pale, thick sheath was nearly purple. And quite erect. He waved it about, hosing up and down the length of the steel urinal with overflowing abandon, a noisy and obnoxious nephritic self-expression. Robert moved back a bit, trying to avoid the pungent spray. Close as the brown mouse was to Justin's secret boy blind, it gave the dalmatian pup only more of a view.

    He saw Robert flick his sheath smoothly to the base with one paw, exposing the rosy stem of his boyflower. The mouse fisted the loose fuzzy pelt, jacked it back up, milking himself. Justin blushed in his ears. His grandma had once told him that he'd get cancer if the boypup ever forgot to shake off. And while he didn't really believe that, Justin just couldn't imagine what she's say if she knew what he was up to that very moment - watching boyfurs piss! But the spottydog could neither take his eyes from the sight.

    "Fur! I'm so yiffy! I gotta paw!"

    Justin had heard about that, pawwing. Urban myth, like the story of the gerbil who liked to...

    "Save, it Tony! We haven't even checked out Dad's porno yet!"

    Porno? Did that mean naughty books? The firedog had heard about those in Catholic school. Why, T1 and T2 had even brought one once, showed off the dirty mag during recess.

    Maybe the mice would let Justin see?

    "I gotta, bro. My balls are swollen like a rapper on steroids. Let's do it, ok?"

    Musculine sigh. "You so have no control, Tony."

    Justin saw Robert land a string of drool in one paw, base the wrinkles of his furry sheath with the other. A few slippery pulls along the baby pink mouseflesh had it upcurved and pointing.

    "Dude!" Tony gasped. "You been practicing!"

    "Well, that's cause I don't yiff my own sister like you do." They laughed.

    Justin stifled a giggle, using a paw. Those two were funny. It was funny, what they were talking about. What they were talking about doing. What they were talking about doing, like it was the most perfectly natural thing in the world - and like they'd been doing it together since forever! But looking down by chance into his own lap, the pup found his pupness rampant and eager, sniffing the air, ready itself to play.

    Only he knew he shouldn't be touching it like that. His uncle had said so.

    "Wanna race, Robert? I bet I can beat ya! Twenty bucks to whoever gets off first."

    "Where you at, Tony?" the brindled mouse chided, gently fondling his mottled balls on the pads of one paw, "You'll beat off any boyfur you meet!"

    The hidden firepup snickered silently. Robert was really laying a smackdown on Tony.

    "Ten bucks each, bro! I know yer good for it. You been taking it in the muzz from that squirrel at school for quarters!"

    Justin watched as the boyfurs released their teased peens, rummaged in wallets for filthy lucre to finance their dirty deed. He saw Robert - so close that the spotty could smell him - unbelt and unsnap, shove cargos and boxers to the floor. Tony followed suit, lowering skater jeans to his paws, lifting grey hoodie to his shoulders. On the mouse's white behind, as he turned to deposit the pair of bills on a handy shelf, Justin spied something he'd never before seen.

    "Jockstrap, Tony? Yer wearing a jock on Saturday?"

    The straps of the supporter framed the fuzzy round orbs of the mouse's teen asspillow like an elastic halo. "Sure, fur. I'm all about that. Can't have these rocks banging my knees!" He grabbed himself, adjusted the banana hammock slinging his genitals around.

    The pup did giggle aloud that time, and the two rodent boys ceased to mousturbate.

    "You hear something?"

    "Nah, bro. Just my yiffy spooge caps gettin' ready to play you like a poser! You down for it?"

    "You are one seriously fucked cookie..."

    Justin saw Robert hesitate, spit in his paw again, slick himself from base to tip. He heard a hissing intake of breath between buck teeth, watched the dark mouse go up on toes at the awful sensitivity of his bulging glans.

    Then Tony was visible, the whitefur moving into view. Robert had backed away from the urinal again, and his bare tailbase brushed against the hole in the wall from whence Justin was peeping. Tony bent down, took Robert into his muzzle. It was so close that the young pup could see moving whiskers, the swallowing throat as mouse on mouse turned oral.

    The spottydog's small pupness hurt like fire! He was almost totally out of his sheath, the knot stretching cruelly at the ring of furry flesh still covering. Justin imitated Robert, drooled out some slippery foam from his dry and panting muzzle, rubbed it into the preteen peen so rigid in his lap. With no door on the stall, he realized he was only two seconds from getting caught. And what might happen next, the pup was only too sure would be a beating: bigger boys on small. But he couldn't help himself - the danger added to the thrill - and he couldn't break free of the exciting grip of secret listing boyplay.

    He returned his face to the hole.

    Robert shoved Tony's head away; it banged the metal pisser. The brown mouse laughed. "Ok, I'm caught up to you now. No more of that... no matter how much you like it!"

    "Hay, bro. You gotta do me some. I think I got you too close. No fair takin' advantage like that!"

    "I dun take it in the muzz, Tony. You know that..." There was a moment of silence - well, of the schluck-schluck of frenzied boypaws stroking rigid teenaged cock. Then Robert was indeed down on his knees, in spite of his macho protests, wrapping pads around Tony's length.

    Justin could see the action clearly. Robert's mouth went up and down, up and down over the angry magenta mousemeat. The mesh netting of the supporter pouch was pushed off to one side (the pup realized there wasn't a fly in it like white briefs). The heavy elastic belt above creased Tony's fuzzy white tummy as he bent forward, pulled tight when he leaned back to lock paws behind his head in leisure.

    "Just keep doing that, bro," the pale mouse grinned, stretching with pleasure, "We'll just forget about the bet." He rubbed paws on his chest, finding nipples. "Hay! Take my spooge, fur. You know you want to!"

    The mottled mouse spat cockflesh from his muzzle, wiped whiskers on his sleeve. The firepup saw Tony's turgid prick emit a bubble of hot teen pree, watched it slip to the filthy floor.

    "Aww, fur! Why'd you stop? Where's the love?"

    "I'm not drinking yer jizz, ass master. You wanna milkshake, that's fine. But decide quick. I'm opening a can of Get Off right soon." One paw stole between the mouse's dark fuzzy buttocks, felt up under the tail.

    "Fine," Tony scoffed, leaning over to suck Robert into the muzzle again. When he straightened up, he added, "I don't wanna milkshake you dry. Hurts my paws."

    Robert scoffed, turned, taking the white mouse's purple penis in his own fist. "Better lick mine again so it doesn't hurt yer tailhole while you milkshake me, either!" Tony guffawed, and they both began pawwing each other off in earnest.

    Justin could tell things were getting serious. He knew it was moving towards something, that they were getting closer, that time was running out.

    Running out? For what?

    His own paw was moving up and down the pointing, immature dogflesh which buried itself in his belly button. Justin's spotted legs were getting jittery, footpaws trembling. The puppy quivered all over, watching the older boys wank.

    He wanted to play, too. And not just through the anonymity of a bathroom glory hole. Quietly Justin stood, taking care not to startle the other boyfurs. He raised and belted his pants - then thought better of it and pushed them down past his knees. It wouldn't do to make the mice think he was spying, or that he had the goods on them, and wasn't as much in jeopardy as they. Justin tried to peek around the end of the wall, realized that was the worse possible move, would look like he was sneaking around on them.

    So gingerly he moved around the thick cinderblock partition, into full view. The firepup was trembling wildly, tiny penis in his small spotted fist jerking unnoticed. He was so totally vulnerable in every way, that there would have been no possibility to run. No way to get past the older boyfurs, dash for the door to escape.

    "Dude!" Tony whispered, looking over Robert's shoulder, eyes wide. "We got male!"

    The passion of Justin's innocence was a huge and heavy thing. His knees bowed under its weight; he reached between, found the tight fuzzy boysac cowered tight with fear and impending yiff. The mice were pawwing each other still, and when he made eye contact with Robert, the pup saw the brown mouse's eyes roll back in his head, watched him go up on toes again, grab his prick in his paw.

    Justin pounded his tender preteen penis until it burned, a volcano of tension pressing up into him like a penetrating cone from below. They were watching him wank, and he was watching them back. It was so wild and hot and shocking that he thought he would burst.

    And then he did.

    The drycum seized Justin like a firehouse demon, stretched him into erotic shapes: muscles strained to snapping for the first time, pelvis lunging towards his fist, furry canine body - spotted and naked - grasping unreachable relief beyond the ken of immature flesh. He whimpered and moaned, cried out in youthful anger, slammed against a huge and frustrating wall - unable to break through! - and squeezed like his empty spasming testes between need and impossibility. No cub spooge issued from his flaming member; no relief was to be his. He looked right into the eyes of his anonymous teenaged milkshake buddies, and saw them both begin to climax.

    Robert gasped and gritted his fangs. The mushroom mousemeat in his fist flared, spatted a gob of jism into the air. There was no catching it, no turning to breed the virginal urinal with his churning, surging seed. The brownfur moaned, sending a shot of spooge over Justin's head, splattering the grated and barred windowpane high on the wall above. He groaned loudly, one paw beneath his tail and deeply digitally involved, blasted a wad right into the firepup's face.

    "Fuck, lil' dude!" Tony's thick rodent prick surged forward, carrying the mouse nearly off his paws. He flailed at himself, watching Robert cum, watching Justin watching. His eyes were huge as the pup's, and the experience was so exciting that he could have ejaculated without touching himself.

    Tony groaned, squatted a bit, sinews in arms and thighs straining, tailhole taking the pressure of weight as his furry knees parted. The mouse's gonads, free now from the pouch of the restraining jockstrap, delivered everything their size had promised. A thick wave of fragrant goo pulsed from his groin, covered the floor between the furs. The next one cascaded over his pounding paw, smearing itself wickedly inside his lowered underpants. But the final bolus of ball juice caused him to moan, shoot his spoo like a crazed rocket. Tony had just fantasized of what he and Robert could get up to with this new and nameless boyfur. With a shout, he came all over Justin's muzzle and soft, floppy ears.

    They were suddenly all silent and embarrassed. Ashamed. Teens and preteen again, without the veneer of style and cool, scene and indie and big clothes for disguise. Robert turned, stuffed himself guiltily into pants. Tony did the same, unwilling to meet the shaming glance of his buddy, nor of the shrinking small. And Justin sank, bereft, to the damp and messy floor, wept clean tracks in the creamy semen covering head and face and ears and muzzle.

    "See ya 'round..." Robert was down the hall, out the door in one uncomfortable moment.

    Tony turned to go, too. Spied the money, unclaimed on the shelf, their bet upon wank for a finish. He picked up the bills, pressed them into Justin's free paw - the other still masturbated the firepup's own blood-sore and steaming penis.

    "Here, dude. You win."

    And Justin found himself alone then. Raised up awkwardly from the cold cement, got things together. Sniffled. He washed up in the sink, slicked headfur back with a pocket comb.

    This wasn't going to be a birthday he would understand soon. Nor one he'd ever forget. He flipped up his hood, stalked out of the restroom into the morning sun with a growing rodentine swagger.

    "Dude! Next year I'll be eleven!"