The three-hour layover

by Tym Greene   

A weary traveler finds a way to beat the heat and boredom of a long wait in a Southern California air terminal, and all it takes is a keen eye and a two-dollar bill.

The airport—named for some old movie actor now long out of popular favor—baked in the Southern California heat. Long bars of yellow stretched from the swath of glass that separated passengers from planes, fading the carpet incrementally more with each hour, each day. The clattering air conditioning just clattered louder.

There weren’t as many flights these days, and the furthermost wings stood empty. The gate doors may as well have been rusted shut, and the desks’ jewel-tone Formica surfaces were pale with dust. The bathrooms, however, were clean; no one came out that far, no one but me.

I’d passed through these terminals so many times—first for family vacations, and then for business—that I felt I knew every creaky seat, every fossilized sea creature in the polished limestone walls, every security movement by heart. And while the faces of the workers were a blur, I could have told you exactly which snack-sized restaurants would be empty at which time of day, adjusted for day of the week and proximity of holidays. Watching for patterns is just one of the little ways I’ve learned to entertain myself.

I stretched and yawned big, then ran hands down each arm, smoothing out the stripes of my fur. Tigers, as a rule, tend not to like enclosed spaces—the inside of an airplane, for example—but my time in the Army taught me many things: how to ranger roll my clothes to fit into a single carryon, how to quickly assess any situation, and how to fall asleep anywhere.

So, while napping on the flight in the middle of a team of rugby-playing rhinos was just as easy as dozing off in my armchair at home, it still left me a bit sore and rumpled. Not to mention all of that youthful testosterone floating around in the cabin’s recirculated air and the meaty thighs and bulky shoulders pressing against me. Thankfully claws raking through the fur below my rolled-up sleeves served as a combination of comb and acupressure: grooming and grounding me as I stepped off the jetway and into the terminal’s familiar barrel-vaulted length.

Most of my fellow travelers were either hot-footing it to the nearest bathroom (the most centrally located and therefore the busiest) or slogging beneath the sign that pointed the way to baggage claim. Instead, I merely hefted the single duffel bag that contained everything I’d need on my travels, and made my way to the Starbucks further down. I needed to stretch my legs as much as I needed caffeine.

I passed families sporting theme park merchandise and weary, funned-out expressions, business travelers trying to look cool and successful, the wandering minstrel types with dreadlocks and sandals and guitar cases, and all the other sorts of folks gathered by the whims of airline schedules. Nodding a salute to a fellow brother in arms (and camo), I stepped into line.

The milk steamer hissed and the blenders growled, but the baristas seemed happy enough. I watched them while I waited for my turn to order: neither harried by overwork nor grumpy from angry customers, this crew had the sort of camaraderie one expected of elite troops—calling orders and handing drinks from one team member to the next with smooth efficiency. A handsome zebra mare took my order (peppermint mocha, caffeine and chocolate to pick me up, and mint so I didn’t come away with coffee breath) and a lean bear began pulling shots into the syrup-lined cup. He handed it off to the lynx with green hair to add the steamed milk, and she practically tossed the cup to the barista in charge of finishing and handing off drinks.

Big rump swaying with the old rock song bumping over the speakers, he deftly wielded the whipped cream gun, and added a sprinkle of chocolate curls. It reminded me of those cartoons where Easter bunnies or elves add paint to eggs or toys or pumpkins, in time with the music and perfectly, evenly distributed. That’s how this fox worked: no mistakes, and every step, every swish of his tail was accompanied by some task.

Our eyes met as he called my name—not my real name, but the one I always used when ordering coffee. “Rijul?” His voice was sweet, melodic and cheery, the sort of voice one wanted to hear saying one’s name. The cup had my nom du café sharpied on it: Rajewl. It was always interesting seeing the permutations creative spelling twisted it into; I’d seen everything from Rijool to Rejoule, and once someone just drew a diamond after the “R.” I smiled at the fox, whose nametag showed a much more prosaic “Noah.”

“Thank you, Noah,” I said, taking my drink and dropping a crisp new two-dollar bill into the tip jar (emblazoned “tippuccinos”) without taking my eyes from his. I knew what he was seeing, amber irises that looked a match to my stripes, a body that I’d kept in prime condition despite the decades since active duty, swathed in clothes tailored to show it all off. His green eyes dipped, lingered, and met mine again.

I wrapped my fingers around the cup, as though desperate for any source of heat. “This will help keep me warm, but I still have a long time until my next flight...why are these terminals always so cold?” I asked rhetorically, despite the fact that it was over seventy.

The fox’s ears tipped back, then forward. “I’m off in a few minutes...if you’d like some extra warmth.” He was trying to sound nonchalant, but I could hear the nervousness crackling at the edge of his voice, as though this were his first time. That, or he’d been burned before.

I injected some notes of gratitude into my smile–it’s all about the eyes—and we agreed on the where and when. I had a quarter hour to chug my coffee and saunter past the gates as the throng progressively thinned. Once in that bathroom at the very end, I went into the handicapped stall, leaving the door unlocked, and hung my duffel on the hook. It was a moment’s work to fish out the 3.4 oz bottle of “hand sanitizer” from the bag’s organized depths and slip it into my pocket.

A few minutes later, a hunched form slipped into the stall with me: it was the fox, bereft of his green apron and with a hoodie pulled low over his ears. His eyes shone, darting around the oversized cubicle as though he expected a Pranked-style camera crew to be waiting in there with me.

To assuage his fears—if not calm his visibly-racing pulse—I stepped close and slid my hand along the side of his muzzle. Noah leaned into my touch as my fingers pushed back the sweatshirt hood. He was a sweet morsel, this little chubby fox, and my other hand caressed the belly that pushed up close against me.

His fingers were nimble as they undid the buttons of my dress shirt, and disappointment warred with arousal in his expression when those fingers hit not the tuft of chest fur he’d expected, but the ribbed cotton of a camo-green tank top. His hands slid up, across my chest, until they reached the straps where his fingers cupped my shoulders and dug into my fur. I heard the sharp intake of breath and knew that my conditioner regimen was working: no matter how buff, no one likes a guy with coarse fur.

The fox’s touch extended along my upper arms, slipping into my shirt sleeves and pulling us closer together, chest to chest. Our lips met, and I could taste the bitter green tea he must have had on his break; while it didn’t exactly pair well with the lingering flavor of my own peppermint mocha, it wasn’t enough to make me button up and break camp. Plus his tongue was as wide and eager as the rest of him—dogs, am I right? I’ve never met a canine who wasn’t a good kisser, or didn’t give sloppy-but-enthusiastic blowjobs.

I ran my own fingers through the fur at the nape of his neck, pulling him still closer. My shirt began to slide off, and I bent an arm around to catch it before it landed on the (admittedly more dusty than dirty) floor. Noah saw and pulled back with an embarrassed giggle. “Sorry, maybe we should get...naked?” Judging by the angle of his eyes, and the way he paused, I suspected he’d spotted the bump my dog tags made in the ribbed cotton. He licked his thin black lips, adding, “But you can keep the tanktop on.”

I’d lucked out: some fellas (especially the hair-dyed, woke barista types) wouldn’t have anything to do with a “jackbooted tool of oppression,” but for every one of those there were two who not only respected what these tags represented and symbolized, but also found their wearer to be that much hotter. I let the tags flip out from behind the collar of my undershirt, the better to jingle and glitter for him. The only risk was that he’d look close enough to see that “Rijul” (or any of its variations) wasn’t stamped anywhere on the metal oblongs. I’d just have to keep them moving around.

Noah, meanwhile, had opened the cub changing table and used it to hold his sweatshirt and the pale pink shirt with a large gold star he was wearing beneath it. I’d seen that sort of thing somewhere before, possibly in some kids’ cartoon, or maybe it was a retro Carl’s Jr. thing. Either way, it exposed a fluffy white chest and belly, and soon his pants and purple boxers were on the fold-out table too.

I’d fished a condom out of my wallet and the bottle of “hand sanitizer” (which in actuality contained my favorite lube) and set them on the off-white plastic next to his clothes. Now that we were naked (or, in my case, mostly naked) Noah turned his attention back to me, running his hands across my body. He really seemed to love the way my tank top clung to my torso, and how the soft white fur of my own sheath and balls contrasted with the dark green fabric of my tank top. Under his gentle caresses—and with how pent up I already was—my cock woke swiftly and pointed straight at him.

Communal showers in the barracks being what they were, I knew full well that I didn’t have the largest piece of meat around, but I’d known plenty of guys who’d been scared off by horses and bears, but thought nothing of putting a tiger in their tank. The way the fox licked his lips suggested that he really didn’t care what size it was.

While he was in the process of being hypnotized by my waving dick, I caught his attention and gestured at the wall, with its mounted railing—another advantage of commandeering the handicap stall. Noah got the idea, quickly bending over with tail raised, using one arm to prop himself up while the other squeezed between belly and thigh to grope himself. The view presented was nearly hot enough to send me over right then and there, but I knew neither of us were there for a paint job.

The lube was cold on my dick, but quickly warmed, so when I scooped a dollop from the underside of my shaft and pressed it up against Noah’s hole, he didn’t protest the temperature. I whispered that he needed to keep quiet so we wouldn’t be found out, and I saw the back of his head nod, then his neckfur bunched up, showing that he’d clamped his muzzle on his own forearm. Which, with how fervent a kisser he’d been just a moment before, gave me an idea for later.

After checking sightlines—it wouldn’t be obvious that there were two people in here unless someone got down on the floor to look under the wall—I wiped my finger off on the cuff of his pants, which were within easy reach, and unrolled the condom. Unlike some guys, I love the way it squeezes my dick, shining almost like a silicone dildo, but also still very much a part of me. Another squirt of lube on top of the rubbery shaft and I was ready to approach my target.

I swirled the tip around Noah’s pucker, making the pink flesh quiver and the fox moan into his arm fur. My ears flagged, checking for the sound of footsteps, but we were still in the clear, so I let him have his slutty sounds. And speaking of slutty, I slid in so easily that it seemed this fox had been well-experienced indeed; it was so easy to start surrendering myself to the sensations and the thoughts flowing around me.

Orange on orange, white on white, powerful muscles gliding across soft fat. I thrust forward, setting my dog tags jingling, and breathed heavily in his ear. The rustle of his arm—the one not being bitten into by his own drooling maw—showed that he was already enjoying himself. There was nothing to do but hump and sense, taking in the reports from ears and nose and hide even as my hips thrust away into my entertainment.

I noticed the intercom announcements, tinny and staticky, always different but always the same: “Last name Marlise, your flight is boarded and ready to depart....Last call flight 812 to Denver....Now boarding flight 310 to Yuma, will all passengers in boarding group A please line up?...Keep your bags with you at all times; report unattended baggage to security...” and so on. But instead of focusing on them—wondering if it’s my name being called, or my flight being moved or cancelled—I flipped the script (it can be surprising how hot that can be, turning a worry into an expectation, and the like): so now it was the team of rhinos’ connecting flight that was canceled, and they too are stuck with a delay.

It was easy to picture them, grumbling and bored, chatting about whatever, a line of them queued up around the corner of the bathroom. As they got nearer to their goal, they stripped off their uniforms one piece at a time until they were wearing only long socks and jockstraps, white fabric highlighting grey flesh. And what was their aim? Why, kneeling down before me with their jock-exposed rumps on display and tails canted to one side, of course. I pictured the subtle pink of their holes, the hefty sway of their balls between those meaty thighs I’d gotten so close to on my flight. It was easy to translate the sensations of the fox around my cock into big grey ruggers instead.

As so often happens, as the heat rose in me, the fantasies blurred, incorporating the portly dad-types in their theme park t-shirts, the salt-and-pepper pilots—just a few days away from retirement, perhaps—the bubbly stewards, and bored college kids. I even entertained visions of a fellow soldier stepping up and tag-teaming the ass assault. It was a bubbling cauldron of fur and flesh, and before long my admittedly fertile imagination bubbled over. I managed to choke down the roar that threatened to pour out and fill the bathroom, and instead settled for a low growl that was for my—and my prey’s—ears alone.

After I had climaxed, I bent forward, sweaty fur pressed against Noah’s back as I slowly, delicately, bit down on the so-vulnerable neck before me. The fox whimpered and his body spasmed, filling the cubicle with the splat and scent of fox cum. Mission accomplished, I pulled out, and peeled off the substantially heftier condom. It flushed easily in non-low-flow toilet (making me glad this distant restroom hadn’t been “updated” to California’s newer wackadoo “environmental standards”).

I began getting dressed. A spritz of cologne mingled with and masked the smell of sex, and before Noah had even un-clamped his jaw, I was ready to go.

I leaned in close, smelling his breath and sweat and musk. “Thanks for the good time, but I’ve got a flight to catch.” I gave him a peck on his cheek, and squeezed his fluffy rump one more time—I’d found that it softens the blow, so it doesn’t feel quite so much of a “pump and dump”—before slipping out of the stall, washing my hands, and sauntering out into the terminal again.

While I’d been entertaining myself, the sun had set and the crowds had thinned, but a busy terminal is never fully empty. Interior lights turned the tall expanses of window glass into mirrors, allowing me to groom an errant tuft of fur back into place. I also noticed that my dog tags were still hanging out. I ran a claw along the letters spelling out “Johnson, Brad,” then tucked them back in behind the collar of my tanktop. I could still feel the fox’s soft fur and plump ass on the palm of my hand, but I hadn’t lied about needing to catch my flight out. Noah was a good way to spend an hour or so, and that’s all I’d needed.

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