One Hour Stories Presents...

I used to do story sketches with a few writer friends of mine. We'd pick up a concept or theme, slip away for an hour and then all come back at the end, reading what everyone had written. It's a remarkably useful cure for writer's block, fatigue, and "great ideas never written" sydrome.

I thought I might do a couple for the Palace, depending on how well they were recieved. The themes will vary as will the stories. Any story that gets particular attention will likely be continued.

As an aside, unless specifically stated, none of the stories are "Furry," though if you want to imagine kitties and bunnies in the characters' place, by all means, go for it.

One Hour Stories Presents...

"Selective Hearing"

Theme:

A guestroom bound husband tries to ignore the sounds of his wife making love to someone else, on their marital bed.

Contains:

Futanari, Cuckholding, and some terrible, terrible teasing

We all hear what we want to hear.

People often talk about sounds as though they were both absolute and unmistakable. They will doubt their eyes, but when it comes to their ears, suddenly they become adamant. Songs become mangled, arguments boil over pronouns unheard and garbled night club conversations turn opinions into facts and lies into gossip. Foley artists bank on this phenomena, surgical gloves filled with wet macaroni becoming the harrowing squish of ethereal slime.

They hear what it is they are listening for. Whether positive or negative, hopes or horrors, they can't help but interject their emotional make-up into every scrap of acquired noise. Often, they discard the rest as background static, informative sound waves scattered about the cutting room floor of their minds.

Nathanial was currently engaged in this process.

A terrible din had swept through his room with all of the uncaring undercurrent of a swimmer-sucking riptide. He obstinately refused its existence, lest he be confronted with its source. With the aide of two pillows, one on either side of his freshly awoken head, he proceeded to ignore the sound of box springs squealing in over-stressed agony. With eyes shut so tight they burst into colorful planetoids about his lidded darkness, he denied the scandalous slap of hard flesh against soft.

But the screams. Damn those screams. They pierced through his defenses as though their sound had been sharpened specifically for just such an effect.

Nathanial was a married man of no little skill in the arts of martial bliss. He had long since developed a noncommittal grunt that served for most of his communication needs. He could drown out his wife's voice simply with the aide of a rustling morning paper and would scoff at the newlywed noobs who thought the same could be done with a remote. Turn the game up all you wanted, it just made your wife louder.

With practiced ease, Nathan had managed to virtual