One Hour Stories Presents...

Story by Bishiebunny

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.

"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 virtually silence his wife. Oh her lips moved, and sometimes he was caught off guard, finding himself working on some task he had unwittingly promised to complete while grunting rhythmically. Still, all in all, he had maintained a near impregnable bubble of solitude, something he had come to feel was of vital importance to any stable marriage.

Try as he might though, there was no paper dense enough to drown out his wife's high-pitched squeals. Worse were the heavy, gasping grunts of the beast whose furious thrusts were the source of tonight's regularly scheduled audio torture. They were not his grunts. These grunts liked the noises his wife made. These grunts liked them very much, in a passionate, feral sort of way that intimated poor Nathan. It was because of those grunts that the middle-aged father of two found himself sleeping in the guest room, listening to the after-effects of someone else's cock, slamming hard and brutal into his still beautiful wife.

"Oh god, oh god! It's so damn big!"

Oh yes, lest Nathan forget, that cock was much larger, thicker and just generally more virile than his own. Still, he was hardly below average and quite healthy for his age. He had never had to take a pill and found Bob and his perpetual smile, rather creepy. There was really no reason why it should not be him wearing out bed springs and shaking his mother's old canopy bed like a human fault line. Well, no reason other than the fact that the last time he had willingly made love to his wife, Will Smith was still just a fresh prince.

"Ruin me! Harder! Make me your bitch! Your hungry, writhing whore!"

When had she learned all those dirty words? He was sure he had never heard them before their guest had moved in. He be damned if he blamed himself for all of this. Maybe he had not been all that attentive to his wife as a person or a lover. Perhaps that one birthday where she had surprised him by going down on his cock and he fell asleep mid-suck was kind of insensitive. He could

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