If The Gloves Fit.docx

A furry happens upon a pair of magical gloves that come to life and bring him the best and most smexy life he could possibly dream of. Is it a blessing? Or a curse?

It was hot downtown, and Adam was practically panting as he lugged his trunk to the antique shop. Inheriting his house had been a load off his mind as far as rent, but the novelty of going through the junk in the attic – while never absent – wore thinnest when he brought it into the city to sell it. The corgi fancied he was getting stronger from the trips he’d been making, at least – not that he’d feel that way once he got home. Keeping the trunk straight on its dolly was art and science both, and in constantly varying balance.

He’d dressed as light as he could get away with given the task and the weather, and still, his fawn-colored fur was frizzy where it wasn’t covered by his booty shorts and crop top. The satin breathed better than his latex would, but it was doing nothing for his burgundy ponytail, half was undone; nothing for his big ears, drooping from the effort. Even his glasses were fogging up. And the gloves and boots… well, it wouldn’t do to scrape his arms or legs or get any smudges on the rare books he was carrying.

Why was he moving it trunk by the trunk in the first place?

“Easier than parking,” he muttered again and again as if it would make the load any lighter. “Easier than parking. Easier than parking…” Besides, public transit was fine in this town. His only complaint was that it didn’t run all the way into this neighborhood.

The shop’s bell rang as Adam opened the door. The sound was like the whistle at the end of a long day’s work on some factory floor; at last, Adam could lay down his burden and let the staff appraise it. His fur stood up from the sudden, welcome chill of the store’s air conditioning.

Adam shivered. Always too hot. Always too cold. Never just right. He hugged himself, and rubbed his hands up and down his arms as if trying to strike sparks from his biceps. Sitting there wasn’t going to make him any warmer.

Besides… Was that an old copy of Amazing Stories over there on that table?

The chill fell from Adam’s skin as he immersed himself in the shop’s fare. There was always some new (old) thing from some corner of history Adam could never predict. There was an old deck table emblazoned with a symbol from some long-ago sporting event; there was a poster from an even older movie in a dusty case, from back when movies were called “talkies.”

Adam’s tail whipped gently from side to side as he browsed the aisles for treasures older than he was, breathing in that old-building smell and imagining what all these things must have been like when they were new. Who had been excited to hang this painting in their home, once upon a time? Who had relaxed in that leather armchair, and after how long a day of what kind of adventures? The thought made him wonder what he’d leave behind one day for an enthusiast of old stuff.

He was chuckling to himself at the cliche inherent in such a thought when, at the end of an aisle, he spied a glass case on a table under its very own spotlight. Adam paused, narrowing his eyes and approaching it slowly. To stumble across something in such a prominent position, just as he was thinking about hidden treasures…
Well. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t check it out. But it was a fishy sort of coincidence.

Inside the glass case rested a pair of gloves – the same color as Adam’s, but shiny. Satin, like those he was wearing, but with exceptionally fine stitching. Burgundy against black, like Adam’s hair. The draws on the backs of the palms were in swirly patterns that he could have followed all afternoon. Fourchettes and quirks of dark silver accented the fingers. The corgi wagged his tail, thinking these gloves would look very fine indeed with his latex outfit.

But only if he could wear them. Touching nothing, a habit formed from years of antiquing and museum-hopping, Adam hovered his right hand over the case to eyeball the fit.

As he moved his hand in place, the corresponding glove twitched, then expanded, filling with something invisible as if Adam were sliding his hand into it.

He pulled his hand back with a barely suppressed yelp. Just as quickly, the glove deflated.

Adam moved around the table, stepping carefully to the other side as if the gloves would punch out of the case and attack him. He crouched down and narrowed his eyes at the satin accouterments. There was no way they had just moved, right? Gloves didn’t do that. The heat had finally gotten to him.

The corgi raised his hand again – tentatively at first, then faster, gaining confidence, reminding himself that he was separated from the gloves by thick glass. Whatever satin could do to him it would have to do to the case first.

Gingerly, he placed a finger on the glass. Seconds passed. The thought came to him that he ought not to tap the case – fish didn’t like that, he recalled, conscious as he was of the fact that the case was as filled with water as the gloves were alive. What other frame of reference did he have for whatever was happening?

Yet still, he saw one glove fill again as if with an invisible hand. The fingers patted the cushion, twitching as if shaking the feeling back into a long-asleep limb.

Frozen, fascinated, Adam watched as the glove inched toward him, soundlessly sliding up the cushion to press a satin fingertip against the glass.

A crackling sound came from above, shaking the yelp from Adam’s chest. He realized he’d been holding his breath during the entire encounter.

A short delay was broken by a familiar voice: “Adam, we have your offer ready at the front desk.”

Adam glanced back at the gloves for only a moment longer, shining within their glass case, as flat and lifeless as he would normally have expected them to be. Please ask an associate for assistance, read a nearby sign.

“Excuse me…”

The train ride home was the most relaxing part of Adam’s journey into town. It was nice to sit next to the luggage bay, feet up on the newly empty trunk, flush with cash from that day’s sale.

Minus, today, the cost of a pair of gloves.

Adam held them in a paper bag on his lap as if one might hold a venomous snake. One hand gripped the opening tightly, holding it shut against… what? An escape attempt? Where would the gloves go? What would they do? What did they want?

As if in answer, Adam felt movement in his lap. The gloves were stirring, as ludicrous as that sounded in his head. Ordinarily, it was easy to fall asleep to the rumbling of the train until his stop was called; today, Adam had spent the whole ride wide awake waiting for this to happen. His grip on the bag tightened, unease swelling within him at the thought of being discovered. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen if someone saw him with a pair of animate gloves, but some vague sense of secrecy – perhaps jealousy; this is my secret, these gloves chose me – kept him vigilant against any unexpected development.

So he was less surprised than he otherwise would have been when he felt the gloves prodding gently at the bag’s opening. Not quite knowing what else to do, Adam stroked the bag like he’d stroke a kitten in his lap. Hopefully, that would calm them down.

This had the opposite effect. The gloves liked Adam’s touch, all right – the bag rustled as it writhed and turned over like a kitten exposing its stomach. Adam bit his lip and squeezed the bag tighter on his lap to stifle the noise.

Still, the gloves squirmed. Finally Adam – acting on another wild guess – opened the bag just a little and darted his hand in.

He found the fingers of one glove quickly enough, and laced his own through them to try and grapple his purchase into calming down.

There was no need. The glove relaxed in his hand, and flexed its fingers to ease itself into his grip. It wasn’t warm like a human hand, but the bulk of some force occupying it was undeniable. The bag rustled slightly as the other glove closed its grip around Adam’s hand, holding it with both… hands… like a grateful handshake.

The gloves were calm. Adam’s hand was some kind of strange comfort to them in their bag prison. And If he could blush, his cheeks would be blazing.

The gloves behaved themselves on the rest of the train ride home. Adam found himself thankful that he wouldn’t have to lock them in the trunk. He yawned long and loud as he entered his house, set the glove bag on the side table in his spacious front room, and carefully maneuvered the trunk back into his storage room.

By the time he got back to the front room, the gloves had already made themselves at home. The bag was abandoned and the gloves were floating, hovering just in front of the mirror.

“See anything you like?” The words dropped between them in the same way that the gloves currently didn’t. Adam shifted from one foot to another, wondering what in the world had possessed him to ask that of a pair of gloves. It wasn’t like they could look at themselves.

Yet at Adam’s question, the gloves turned toward the corgi, bobbing gently. The left glove cocked itself to one side as if asking a question.

“That is…” Adam gulped. “You’re very… cute? Well-stitched?” How did one even compliment a pair of gloves? They could clearly acknowledge him; could they understand him? “Um… welcome to my home. My name is Adam.” He took a few tentative steps toward the gloves, his tail slowly wagging.

When they were within reach, Adam reached out to touch one of the gloves. It brushed his fingers with the back of its own like a cat rubbing its head against a petting hand.

“Nice gloves,” Adam breathed, reaching for the hole end.

The gloves seemed to sense that Adam was trying to put them on. They leaped out of his grasp like a cat woken up by fireworks, and slithered in circles around his arms. “Whoa!” he yelped, jumping back. “Okay, I get it! You don’t like to be worn! But…” The gloves came to rest on his shoulders. They stroked his cheeks when he put his hands down, apparently satisfied that Ky wouldn’t try to slip them on again.

“… What am I supposed to do with you?” Adam wondered aloud.

At that moment the corgi’s stomach rumbled. It was apparently audible to the gloves – and as luck would have it, the kitchen was just off the front room. The right glove patted Adam’s cheek and streaked off through the doorway. As it opened cabinets and drawers to familiarize itself with its new home, the left glove slid around Adam’s torso, down and down until it reached his thigh.

With a quick, friendly palm to Adam’s crotch, the glove shot off between his legs, across the rear of his booty shorts, and flew to help its brother in the kitchen with a large pot.
Adam’s tail was whipping madly back and forth. So that’s what it was all about.

Adam had never had spaghetti made for him by a pair of gloves. Maybe they’d never made spaghetti before, but for a first attempt, it was delicious.

It was a nice gesture, certainly, but the silence was oppressive. In the space of a few hours, he’d found a pair of magical gloves, had them make him dinner, and been very pointedly hit on by those same gloves. Now they rested on the table at the place across from him, hands folded as if waiting for something.

Certainly not a conversation. The gloves couldn’t talk. How much less awkward it would be if they could communicate…

“So… where did you come from?”

The gloves made a noncommittal gesture. I don’t know, they seemed to express.

“This is really good pasta.”

A thumbs up. Adam nodded and continued eating. The gloves seemed to know expressions, at least.

It was when Adam got up to put away the parmesan cheese that progress seemed to be made. Silently, the gloves floated over to him, tapped his hand, and held out an open palm.

The implication was clear. Adam handed the cheese to the gloves, which opened the refrigerator and put them away… exactly where Adam usually did. “How did you know…?” Adam breathed.

One glove grasped Adam’s hand and squeezed; the other floated up and tapped his temple.

“You… know these things… because you touch me?”

Thumbs up.

Adam thought back to the front room. Back to the gloves mischievously squirming out of his grip. Back to the soft, fabric palming of his crotch. He felt his cock stir, and the glove at his hand slid up his arm… over his hip… came to rest on his thigh.

“What else do you want to know?”

The gloves squeezed Adam’s thigh, pressed themselves together, then pointed at the kitchen table and upstairs. Just you wait, was the implication. Wait upstairs. Let me tidy up.

Adam tiptoed over to the doorway and looked back. Another thumbs up. And then they rubbed together, not just palm against palm, but an undulation, weaving against the fabric in what was unmistakably a provocative manner.

Adam thought about how that material felt on his fur, his body – he shivered in response and anticipation. And a little bit of trepidation.


Five candles lit up Adam’s bedroom, throwing an apple-and-cinnamon scent just a bit farther than their modest light. He felt like he had dived headfirst into a barrel of cider, but it just seemed like the sort of thing one did on occasions like these.

A hairpin caught the candlelight, a bright blue arrow shimmering among his burgundy locks. He never wore his hairpin to bed. It was meant to draw the eye, and who was he ever trying to impress in his own bedroom?

Who, indeed. He had forgone his usual bundling up under the covers of his large four-poster, lying on top, clad only in tight black boxer briefs. His arousal was clear, his corgi cock clearly outlined beneath the stretchy polyester. Adam had even brushed out his tail, big and bushy next to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to look sexy for anyone… let alone a pair of gloves. What did they look for in a person?

If only he could keep his ears from twitching. They seemed to have taken in all the nervous energy he’d managed to keep out of his tail.

The door creaked. Adam eeped and pressed his hands to his ears as if that was less embarrassing than having them twitch.

He peeked out from behind his arms to see the gloves floating there, dark save for where the faint candlelight caught the sheen of the silver stitching. They clasped together and tilted as if to say how adorable.

Adam wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He lowered his hands, scooted back up against his pillows, covered his crotch, uncovered it, and gulped.

The gloves floated over to the bed, alighted on their fingertips on the frame just above Adam’s head. One moved down to the corgi’s shoulder and pressed its thumb into his back, moving it in small circles.

“Ooh.” Adam sighed. “Yeah, just a little to the– yeah. Right there.” He growled his approval and turned onto his side, closed his eyes, and snuggled into the bed. His ears perked up at the sensation of the satin gloves digging into his fur, kneading knots out of his upper back that he hadn’t realized were there. The empty fingers were as firm as any gloved hands, the stitching of the fourchettes scratching everywhere the gloves massaged. The double pleasure had Adam purring low in his throat, and his tail started wagging as he let the gloves work their magic.

When the gloves had loosened him up, one continued the work alone, splaying its five fingers and rubbing them in firm circles on the center of Adam’s back. The other traced a path down Adam’s arm, making his fur stand up as it ghosted its fingers down. A smile spread across Adam’s face as he raised his arm to meet his new friend, letting the glove run its fingertips across his palm to meet his own. Adam’s cock throbbed as the glove squeezed his hand in his. He rolled his hips forward against an encroaching tightness, stretching his thighs as he anticipated what else those gloves could do.

It wouldn’t be long before he found out, and yet it felt like the other glove had been attending to his back for an eternity. It had taken to grinding the heel of its satin hand into his spine, chasing away the stress of the day’s heavy lifting with cracks and pokes. The glove’s ministrations moved lower, lower, answering the writhing of his hips with a firm attention to the small of his back. Adam moaned as it reached the space where the tail met back. It began alternating finger presses with gentle strokes of the corgi’s tail, making it curl along with Adam’s toes at the attention.

The attention the right glove was paying to his tail distracted Adam from the left’s exploration of his feet, repeating the massage from his soles, up his calves, and back to the thighs his friends had flirted with at dinner.

“Please,” Adam found himself whispering, not sure where the sensation ended and his voice began. “Please…”

Left moved up to shush him with one finger to his lips. Adam’s eyes crossed as he watched the glove, his gaze roaming over the satin, enraptured by the spaces where the invisible force made itself known; here pulling it smooth with a crooked finger, there wrinkled at the joints by the same motion. Right slipped around while Adam was distracted, wringing little yelps from him as it teased his nipples with its fourchettes. First one, then the other, hardening under Right’s touch as Left slipped a forefinger between Adam’s parted lips.

The corgi was practically panting now, only too happy to lap at the invading finger with his tongue. A small flicker of worry in the back of his mind wondered if it was good for the gloves to be soaked in this way, but if they were worried – they didn’t show it.

As Adam sucked at Left’s forefinger… then its middle finger… then both, the fabric of his boxers also grew wet, his cock unsheathed and straining for attention. His crotch was shiny with precum, and he undulated his whole body into the grip of Right and the achingly empty air down below. He wanted to roll all the way over and grind his cock into the bed, but he was stopped by a surprisingly strong push to the chest from Right.

Patience, it seemed to say, patting Adam’s chest. Sure enough, Right slid down, across his belly, slipping around the corgi’s hip with playful fingers. All of a sudden it went rigid and delivered a swift smack to Adam’s ass, drawing a yelp from the corgi. The spank sent electricity through Adam’s cock and up to his nipples.


This time his plea was answered. Right squeezed Adam’s hip, rolling it in its satiny grip; then, finally, it dug its fingertips into his waistband, running around the inside and brushing Adam’s cock with its knuckles. Slow… past… and then back, as if just noticing the corgi’s desire.

Adam whimpered around Left’s fingers, the whimpering in his throat climbing higher as Right ran the backs of its fingers across his length. The ornamental stitching grazed his shaft like five rough tongues, each with its own exquisite pattern for Adam to memorize. He wriggled his hips into the reverse grip of Right, made to roll onto his back and let the gloves do the work.

But Left slipped out of his mouth and stopped that too. Its fingers were wet with Adam’s spit, and as the glove slid down his back the corgi realized their plans for him.

He moaned in protest as Right broke from its stroking, only to shiver as both gloves grasped the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled down. Adam’s cock sprang free, stiff and wet in the warm summertime air. He’d never been happier not to have air conditioning, or he would be freezing.

Before Adam could plead for the gloves’ attention again, they brought his stained boxer briefs up to his face, and pressed the damp fabric against his nose. Adam’s head spun as he inhaled his own musk, and he buried his face in the boxers like they were a freshly washed pillowcase.

The gloves obliged. In one swift motion, they pulled Adam’s boxer briefs over his head. An onlooker would have thought he looked pretty ridiculous – burgundy ponytail spilling out, ears sticking out of the leg holes, face stretching out the precum-stained crotch. But there were only the gloves and there was only Adam, his world a blind dive into his scent, into the shifting of the fabric over his face, into the textured caresses of the gloves.

Both gloves slithered back down the front of Adam’s torso, letting the gauge stitching at the cuffs scrape across his nipples, drawing a groan from deep inside. Adam gripped his sheets like he was hanging on the edge of a bottomless pit. It wasn’t just the fingers that could work magic; every part of the glove was prehensile, equally capable of bringing Adam into a new dimension of bliss.

Right took up its position at Adam’s crotch once more. It kneaded its firm, satin fingers into the fur of Adam’s thighs, working its way first up one… then down another… and finally back up, there to cup Adam’s balls in its smooth palm.

As Adam processed this resurgence of attention at his balls, he felt Left creeping down behind him, squeezing his ass and gently slapping it again. Left traced patterns over Adam’s ass similar to those stitched into its back, and when one finger slid between his cheeks it finally occurred to Adam, through the haze of precum and pleasure, why the glove had been so intent on making him suckle at its fingers.

While Right rolled Adam’s heavy balls in its palm, Left prodded cautiously around his asshole. Left’s cuff rippled halfway up Adam’s back as it did so, seemingly asking for permission. Adam could only nod with a vague acknowledging grunt. Anything he said would break the mood, would pull him out of the reverie of double-glove masturbation.

The crude language they’d worked out got the point across. Adam felt pressure at his entrance, tensed up – nothing had ever gone in there before – and finally relaxed, letting out a long whine at the alien sensation of a satin middle finger pushing into his ass.

At precisely the same moment, Right shifted from Adam’s balls to his cock, embracing the canine shaft at long last with its satin palm. Adam’s toes curled, splayed, his legs locked apart as his lower body tensed in one direction after another, the long-delayed attention driving him to strain against his own skin. Adam’s heart, his cock, and his soul were stoked to newer heights as shouldn’t have fit in his body.

Up and down; up and down; Right had Adam’s length wrapped softer than any cushion, any feather – hell, any liquid, the way the fabric flowed over him, matching every contour and ridge as if made for Adam’s crotch.

It was happening inside him too as Left explored him deeper and deeper, the stitching tracing a deep pattern through his most secret depths. A shock stabbed through his guts when Left finally found his prostate and vibrated its finger, pulsing heat through his crotch, his belly, his cock, driving the sensation out of his limbs and his chest and focusing it all down the very shaft that Right was stroking. The knowledge that the gloves had absorbed from him must have told them things even he didn’t know about himself.

So Adam trusted the gloves – and protested only a little – when Right responded to his cock twitching, his balls tightening, by leaving off its stroking before the orgasm could overwhelm him at last. His cock seized and stayed tight, throbbing, his hips thrusting into nothing as he sought something, anything to rut against. Even his asshole felt unbearably empty as Left pulled out of it…

And filled him again. Differently, less firm but still stretching him, irregular, bunched up…

Adam realized that Left was sliding into him backward. Cuff first, tightly rolled, pushing deeper and deeper into the depths that the glove had taught itself.

At the moment Let’s cuff reached Adam’s prostate, Right enveloped his erection, sliding onto him the way it had once refused to be worn.

Soft. Warm. Tight. The satin squeezed along Adam’s length and pulsed inside his ass, surging him rapidly toward the precipice that he’d been pulled back from moments ago. He rolled onto his stomach and lifted his hips, wiggling them in the air against the growing pressure from within.

Adam buried his face in the pillow, filling his nose with the scent of his juice. He gripped the blanket so hard his knuckles cracked, rolled his wrists so hard they cracked, and flailed his arms when this wasn’t enough, numbness spreading through them, driving the sensation from his hands… until they fell into familiar softness.

Right’s fingers laced through Adam’s, Left’s fingers laced through Adam’s, steel-shod in satin at the end of pulsing sleeves. The interior stitching pressed grooves into Adam’s fingers as he squeezed the gloves, hard as he possibly could without fear of breaking bones or skin. His balls tightened as well, his cock hot, jerking, every inch of it under pressure from Right–

Until he came. Adam let out a sustained growl as cum exploded into the glove around his cock, his balls pumping load after load into Right’s fingers. He peaked again and again, heat radiating from low in his belly as Left rippled within him, coaxing cum and sweat and wordless groans from the corgi that had given the gloves a new home.

Blackness swept over Adam, dragging him into an abyss of satin and apple and cinnamon.

Adam’s eyes fluttered open. Blinked. He had a moment’s panic at the blackness that greeted him.

Then the scent hit him. Sour, masculine, familiar. He lifted a hand to his head, felt the familiar seam of his boxer briefs, and pulled it to one side.

The candlelight was low, but it took Adam a few hard blinks to get used to it again. He pulled the underwear off his head slowly, rolled over, and scooted to a sitting position.

He winced, taking a more tentative pace. His ass felt strangely open, empty, clenching around something that he thought ought to be there.

Adam’s fur pulled and clung to itself around his thighs. Sure enough, it was matted with his juice, his cock spent yet half-hard.

And there, folded patiently at the foot of the bed, were the gloves. The silver stitching glittered in the candlelight, the black and burgundy satin apparently none the worse for having taken Adam’s load earlier.

Eyes shut. Head shake. Eyes open. The day’s earlier events swam back to him through the sweet and sour haze. The shop. The dinner. The gloves, and everything they’d done for him. Done to him.

“Hey there,” Adam said, reaching out for the gloves. They wiggled their fingers at him playfully.

What did one do in a situation like this? It wasn’t like waking up next to a person; no hair to tuck behind the ear, no cheek to kiss, no loving gaze to return.

Adam settled for a gentle stroke of the silver embroidery. The gloves splayed their fingers for the corgi, letting him run his fingertips across the fourchettes that gave them shape, across the patterns that gave them personality.

His hand reached the cuff of Right. “May I?” Adam asked.

It hesitated, then tilted the open end toward him. Adam’s heart soared as he slipped his hand into the glove, pushed his fingers into it, and straightened the sleeve upon his arm.

It fit him perfectly. He flexed his fingers, relishing the embrace of the stitching against their sides, against the back of his hand.

Somehow, it was completely dry on the inside. No trace of the cum that the gloves had wrung from him. Left, too, didn’t look or smell like it had been up his ass, holding his hand as it stimulated him. If anything, there was an even shinier gloss to its fabric. If the gloves had been human, Adam mused, they might have just had their coffee and a shower.

Right whipped itself off of his hand while that thought made its way out of his head. “Okay, okay, I understand! I’ve had my fun,” Adam said.

The glove floated up and scratched behind his ears. Adam purred one leg kicking. That always calmed him down.

Right capped off the scratches with a saucy slip down to Adam’s mouth, finger and thumb slipping inside. Adam was only too happy to give them a good once-over with his tongue, and he stroked some hardness back into his cock at the thought of where this might lead once more.

But the gloves had other plans. Right left Adam’s mouth and floated over to the candles, pinching them out one by one now that its fingers had been safely wetted.

Adam giggled. Anything to keep him from having to get out of bed. After the evening he’d had, he was content to stay there for a while.

So were the gloves. As Adam snuggled into his pillow, the gloves lay down next to him, taking his hands in theirs.

Adam gave each one a kiss goodnight on their backs. “So… what else did you learn?”

Left wagged a finger. All in good time was the meaning.

Adam grinned. He could wait.

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