That Southern Hospitality

The darkness in this room is a sultry sort, if one could say that about a general lack of light. The only source of illumination that’s clearly apparent as the door opened is the weak light of the hallway, and a few blazing pips of light scattered around the room, scented beeswax candles imparting a surprisingly cinnamony aroma into the air. Another aroma, subtle and smoky, joins the cinnamon in the air – a sweet, pear-apple scent that seems to fit the sparse decor.

Looking hard enough, I can just make out a furred figure facing away from the door, languidly sprawled on a pile of pillows in repose, the feminine curves hard to mistake even in this light. Her ears flick slightly, seemingly in response to the intrusion, even as a glowing coal grows brighter just past the curvy gal sprawled in front of it. The pillows seem to form a ring around an ornate hookah, the brightening of the coal atop revealing the charcoal and grey tones of many things in the room, even as my eyes adjust and my ears latch on to the bubbling sound of shisha inhaled through water.

I could only hesitate to enter at this point, my right hand brushing quietly against my left forearm – a nervous habit I’ve picked up over the years. A soft alto-tenor voice breaks into the moment’s hesitation, a sultry chuckle as the furred body rolls to face me and my blushing form, a case of nervousness washing over me. Here I am, this human that has wandered into unfamiliar territory, facing down a creature that could tear my thr–

“Honeychile, I don’t bite, unless y’all is mighty certain you wants it,” she spoke, a southern drawl quite apparent as she begins to stand up. Her figure is, with no faint damning of praises, absolutely gorgeous. Full figured hips, a generous bust, a glossy coat that I can tell a lot of love went into, even with my inadequate human eyes… and her choice of outfit for the night, my Giants, I wasn’t sure if it was reality or another one of my feverish wet dreams!

The charcoal and grey undergarment set she had on made quick work of my already over-eager libido, the front of my trousers soon strained to keep me in decency and check. Those stockings, which I imagine would be murderous to pull up one’s legs when you have a fur coat, still managed to make her legs look quite damned sexy, yet practical enough that her toes and footpads were exposed, and they were clipped to her corset. Of course, her corset was a fairly simple number, and thanks to its simplicity, her figure just stood out so much in that piece.

Her generous bust was hardly contained by the corset, each breast quivering dangerously as her curves threatened to derail the corset’s works. The smug, smouldering hot look that she gave me told me that she knew exactly what she was doing, and the corset would hold out just as long as she wanted it to. Even the panties she chose to accompany this corset were of a simple design, and yet they were more than capable of setting off my desires. The charcoal colored material had a hint of a sheen to them, even as she stood in this dim room, the candlelight flickering off the silky looking material.

All of these colors contrasted well with her fur, which was a seemingly exotic combination of blue and cream from tip to tail, leaving me mesmerized. And yet, she stood, one hand outstretched to welcome me into her boudoir, the vixen gesturing for me to enter. I did the only thing a sane man could do in the presence of a power like this… Said the spider to the fly, indeed. I entered, closing the door behind me, a touch of nerves striking me as the locks clicked into place, but at that point, it’d be too late, anyway. I’m already in her grasp as soon as I let go of the doorknob, the surprisingly short vixen grinning up at me as she pulls me over to her pillows by my hands.

Her hands are gentle and show no signs of infirmity, but she remarks, “Your hands are soft, honeychile. Are you of a proper age to be here?”

Indignant, I puff out my chest, my voice not much lower in register than hers as I reply, “Today’s my eighteenth birthday. What do my hands have to do with this?” That throaty chuckle of hers returns, its register still low, but full of mirth.

“Your hands are soft, not like the rough hands of the field workers, not arthritic like the digits of the office slaves, not missing like the woodsmen. Why would you choose an old hag like me when you’re in the prime of your youth, honey? I’m prob’ly ole ’nuff to be yo’ momma, son,” she murmurs not unkindly, the stress audibly apparent as she implies her age. And yet, something about those last few words seemed to resonate differently, as if they were tinged with the taste of pains gone by. I can’t explain it to this day how I picked up on that verbal cue, but I pulled that saucy little vixen to me for a hug, her head just reaching my chest and shoulder.

“Because you were the most beautiful lady in the registry,” I said simply, my hands running down her back. A choked sob was the only sound she made as her composure cracked for that brief moment, the need to be more than just what her role here would let her be. I decided to fan the flames in a different direction, to see what I could get. “Doesn’t help that you have some smokin’ hot assets, mama,” I whispered, a smile on my face.

A sniff and a weak giggle accompanied her reply, “Are you trying to call me a MILF, kiddo?”

“Hell yes, I am.” Something about her saucy little grin earlier brought out a bit of my own confidence, allowing me to be much bolder than I would normally risk.

Her face turned up to look at mine, a more serious demeanor decorating its features as she asked, “Even though you are running a risk of being bent over and introduced to the art of pegging without a strap-on, you find me hot enough to think me a MILF?” I could only blush hotly at that statement. Would I bite a pillow for this girl to let her get her rocks off in me?

A predatory grin quickly painted itself over the two-toned vixen’s features, a faint brushing of fingers gliding over my slacks setting me a-shiver with pleasure. “I think your boner just answered that for me. Come to mama, baby, and let me show you some of our Southern Hospitality,” my mistress of the evening whispered at my throat.

And show me that Southern Hospitality, she did.