Gloria the Teacher

By Loops Boops · 2025-04-08

The doorbell chimed to the tune of "Für Elise," each note warped slightly by the apartment's faulty wiring. Loops nearly upended his fourth cup of earl grey, lukewarm liquid sloshing over the "World's Okayest Uncle" mug as he scrambled from the kitchenette. His claws snagged on the thrift store rug, sending him careening into a stack of unopened Chewy.com boxes.

*Fuckfuckfuck—*

"Mr. Loops?" The voice beyond the door carried equal parts amusement and impatience, vowels rounded by a midwestern twang. "I can hear you redecorating in there. Take your time—my next exorcism isn't until three."

The wolf froze, tail bristling. Through the peephole's fish-eye lens, he saw her—a mountain of tawny fur in a teal pantsuit, medical satchel dangling from one paw like a designer handbag. Gloria's rhinestone-studded spectacles caught the hallway's fluorescent glare as she checked her wristwatch, jowls twitching in what might've been a smile.

Loops yanked the door open. "Sorry! I was just—"

"Brewing tea?" Gloria sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. "Or marinating in cortisol? Step aside, hon. Your adrenal glands need an intervention."

She swept past him in a cloud of lavender and antiseptic. Loops' studio apartment seemed to shrink under her presence—the sagging IKEA couch, the anime figurines lining his gaming PC, the framed poster of a howling wolf captioned "Hang In There!" all suddenly childish under her appraising gaze. Gloria's claws clicked against laminate as she circled the room, pausing to examine his collection of unopened lube samples.

"Ah, the 2018 Pride Con swag bag." She held up a foil packet labeled *BorkBerry Flavored*. "Tell me you at least used the condoms as water balloons."

Loops' ears flattened. "They're collector's items."

"Mmhmm." The hippo's bulk settled onto his couch with a groan of protesting springs. Her satchel clattered as she withdrew a spiral-bound notebook and three anatomical models—a vulva carved from rosewood, a knitted uterus with detachable fallopian tubes, and something that looked suspiciously like a stress ball shaped like a clitoris. "Sit."

Loops perched on the coffee table's edge, knees knocking. Gloria's perfume couldn't mask the musk rising from his armpits—nervous sweat matting the grey fur beneath his "Critical Roll" t-shirt.

"Ground rules." She snapped on latex gloves with theatrical flair. "One: Clinical terminology only. No 'hoo-ha,' 'lady garden,' or—God help me—'baby cave.' Two: Mandatory safe words. I prefer the traffic light system. Three..." Her beady eyes narrowed. "If I hear one 'dirty' or 'shameful,' I walk. Understood?"

The wolf nodded, throat clicking.

"Verbal confirmation, Mr. Loops."

"Y-yes. Understood."

"Good." Gloria's quill pen hovered over her notebook. "Now. Why seek my services?"

Loops' tail thumped the floor. "I... uh. My last heat. There was a... situation."

"Vaginal, anal, or oral?"

"Ma'am?"

"The *situation.*" She rotated the wooden vulva, pointing to the urethral opening with a claw-tipped stylus. "Did it involve penetration? Ejaculation? Dental mishaps?"

Loops stared at the whorls in the grain, suddenly fascinated by woodworking. "I... couldn't. Y'know. *Perform.*"

Gloria's pen scratched across paper. "Erectile dysfunction?"

"No! I get hard just fine." His ears burned. "It's... the other part. The... entrance."

The hippo hummed, withdrawing a magnifying glass from her cleavage. "Describe your prior experience with vulvar anatomy."

Loops' paw drifted to his phone. "There's this site, HeatHaven.net—"

"Pornography." Not a question.

"Educational videos! With... diagrams."

Gloria's snort could've leveled cities. "Let me guess—zoomed-out shots of feral bitches in season? Close-ups so blurry they might as well be Rorschach tests?" She tossed him the clitoral stress ball. "Squeeze."

He obeyed. The silicone gave satisfyingly, veins molded into the surface.

"Pressure?"

"Uh... medium?"

"Wrong. You're crushing the dorsal nerve." Gloria plucked the toy from his grasp. "This, Mr. Loops, is why we're here. You've been studying cave paintings when you need the Sistine Chapel."

The wolf's claws dug into his thighs. "I tried researching! But the medical texts..."

"Assume I'm an illiterate badger. Speak plainly."

"It's all *tubes!*" Loops' voice cracked. "Infundibulums and mesovariums and—Christ—*Müllerian ducts.* How am I supposed to... to *navigate* that?"

Gloria's pen stilled. "First client?"

Silence pooled between them, broken only by the refrigerator's arrhythmic hum. Loops studied a water stain on the ceiling that looked disturbingly like Georgia O'Keeffe's *Black Iris.*

"Her name was Marcy," he whispered. "Cocker spaniel mix. Adorable laugh." His throat worked. "I panicked when I saw her... y'know. Started quoting *Gray's Anatomy* to seem smart. She ghosted after."

The hippo's expression softened. "So you memorized textbooks."

"Watched surgeries. Shadowed a gynecologist."

"And?"

Loops hugged himself. "Real ones... *pulse.* There's textures. Scents. I froze up."

Gloria snapped her notebook shut. "Homework assignment one: Diagram a hippo's reproductive system from memory. No references."

"Wait, why—"

"Because you'll get every detail wrong." She produced a plushie from her satchel—a cartoonish vulva with color-coded zones, yarn pubic hair, and a detachable clitoral hood. "Meet Vivi. She's your new study buddy."

Loops recoiled. "Is that...?"

"Merino wool and hypoallergenic stuffing. The labia majora double as pockets." She squeezed it, producing a squeak. "Cute, right?"

The wolf made a noise like a deflating balloon.

"Homework two..." Gloria uncapped a metallic pink sharpie, scribbling on his fridge calendar. "List three non-sexual things you find beautiful about lupine paws. Due next session."

"Paws? But I thought—"

"Your fixation on penetration," she interrupted, "is a thong wedged in the gears of arousal. We're starting with foundations." The hippo rose, couch springs sighing in relief. "My rate's $250/hour. I accept Venmo."

Loops trailed her to the door, Vivi clutched like a radioactive isotope. "What if I... y'know. Have questions?"

Gloria's smile revealed a missing incisor. "Consult the plushie. She's an excellent listener."

The door clicked shut. Loops stared at Vivi's cross-stitched urethra, the cheerful "Hello My Name Is Vulva!" tag looped around her felt perineum. In the kitchen, his forgotten tea formed a tannin slick across linoleum.

Somewhere below, Gloria's minivan roared to life. The wolf sank onto the couch, plushie upturned in his lap. His phone buzzed—a HeatHaven notification for "Breedable Beasts Vol. 7."

He deleted the app.

The vulva plushie stared up from the coffee table with its cheerfully sewn grin. Loops paced the length of his studio apartment, claws clicking a staccato rhythm against laminate flooring. He’d positioned Vivi at center stage—flanked by Gloria’s anatomical models and backlit by the salt lamp’s amber glow—but the effect was less "clinical tutorial" and more "deranged teddy bear picnic."

*Knock-knock-knock.*

Loops tripped over a Chewy box. "Coming!"

Gloria’s voice sliced through the door. "If that’s a pun, I’m doubling my rate."

The wolf yanked the chain lock. "N-no! I just—"

"Breathe, Casanova." The hippo swept in wearing a daisy-print muumuu that strained across her shoulders. Her medical satchel clattered as she deposited it beside Vivi. "Set the mood."

"Wh-what?"

"Lighting. Temperature. Mental state." Gloria snapped on latex gloves. "You’re vibrating like a hitachi wand. Meditate. Chant. Do whatever twinks do to unclench."

Loops stared at his paws. "I tried yoga."

"And?"

"Downward dog felt… literal."

Gloria’s jowls quivered. She flipped open her notebook with exaggerated focus. "Prep check. Homework?"

Loops produced three crumpled pages. The first depicted a hippo uterus resembling a tangle of garden hoses. The second listed lupine paw attributes: *1) Pad wrinkles like tiny canyons 2) Dewclaws = nature’s bottle openers 3) Winter toe fluff.*

"Adorable." Gloria held the vulva diagram at arm’s length. "Explain this."

"That’s… the fallopian tubes?" Loops pointed to squiggles near the plushie’s felt ovaries. "Or maybe intestines."

"Wrong." She slapped the page down. "Real talk—you’ve never seen a vagina, have you?"

"Of course I—"

"Outside porn."

Loops’ tail tucked. "HeatHaven has educational—"

"Porn," Gloria repeated. She grabbed Vivi, squeezing the plushie’s crocheted clitoris until it squeaked. "This isn’t shame. It’s data. Now…" Her bulk settled onto the floor with a grunt, patting the space between her knees. "Park it."

The wolf inched forward. Gloria’s scent enveloped him—lavender undercut by something muskier, like sun-warmed river stones. Her paw engulfed his.

"Lesson one: Cartography." She positioned Vivi face-up on his thigh. "Forget penetration. Today we map pleasure continents."

Loops’ claws dimpled the plushie’s merino wool. "Where…?"

"Start global." Gloria guided his index finger to the outer labia. "Majora. Protection and cushioning." Her touch migrated inward. "Minora. Vascular. Sensitive." The pad of his claw caught on yarn pubic hair. "Easy—you’re combing curls, not plucking weeds."

He traced the ruffled fabric. "Like… petals?"

"Cliché, but serviceable." Gloria adjusted his wrist angle. "Now the clitoral hood—imagine peeling a lychee."

Loops pressed too hard. The plushie’s urethral tag bent sideways.

"Pressure check." Gloria placed a blueberry on the coffee table. "Crush it."

The fruit exploded under his thumb.

"Now caress the table’s edge like it’s your grandma’s china."

Loops’ claw tip whispered across laminate.

"Between those extremes lies arousal." She produced a ball of pizza dough from her satchel. "Knead."

"Wh—"

"*Knead.*"

The wolf worked the dough, flour dusting his thighs. Gloria watched his claws indent the surface.

"Feel the resistance? That’s majora pressure." She pinched a grape between two claws. "This is glans pressure."

The berry burst, juice dripping onto her muumuu.

"Most neophytes," she continued, wiping her paw, "treat clits like grapes. Hence…" A dramatic flourish toward Vivi’s crushed urethra tag.

Loops’ ears burned. "So I’m supposed to…?"

"Bake bread." Gloria repositioned his dough-kneading paw over the plushie’s clitoral hood. "Slow circles. Let texture guide you."

The first pass snagged on cross-stitch veins. Loops lightened his touch, imagining gluten strands aligning. Vivi’s squeaker emitted faint chirps.

"Better." Gloria’s jowl brushed his shoulder. "Now verbalize."

"Uh… pressure at 30%? Heat… increasing?"

"Wrong." The hippo grabbed a stress ball shaped like a uterus. "Physical feedback only. Color. Texture. Temperature."

Loops swallowed. "Wool… scratchy. Stitches like Braille. No discernible heat."

"Accurate." She nudged his pinky toward the perineum tag. "Explore here."

His clawtip brushed the "Hello My Name Is Vulva!" label. Gloria’s tail thumped.

"Interesting choice."

"Did I—?"

"Watch." She flicked the tag with her stylus. "For some, this area’s a tease. For others…" Her hips shifted minutely. "Gateway."

Loops’ ears perked. "You’re…?"

"Neutral." Gloria’s tone brooked no argument. "Continue."

He traced the tag’s edge, noting how stitches bunched at the corners. The plushie’s stuffing shifted under his touch.

"Variable density. Some lumps."

"Realistic." Gloria marked her notebook. "Now find—"

Vivi’s clitoral hood tore off.

Loops froze. "I didn’t—"

"Cheap felt." Gloria tsked, reattaching the Velcro. "Happens. Crisis drill—how proceed?"

"Apologize? Offer replacement?"

"Wrong." She shoved his paw back onto the plushie. "Acknowledge. Adjust. Continue. No groveling."

The wolf’s claws retracted. "But—"

"Shame derails arousal." Gloria’s stylus tapped his wrist. "Bleeding happens. Queefs happen. Laugh, adapt, fuck onward."

Loops’ tail thumped. "What if she’s upset?"

"Then *she* communicates." Gloria produced a hand mirror. "Roleplay. I’m you—nervous virgin. Seduce me."

The wolf blinked at his reflection. "I don’t—"

"Now!" Gloria flopped onto her back, legs splayed. Her muumuu rode up to reveal dimpled thighs. "Action."

Loops hovered over her, sweat beading his muzzle. "C-can I…?"

"*Weak.*" Gloria deepened her voice. "May I worship your divine vulva, oh luminous one?"

"Th-that’s not—"

"Try again."

Loops inhaled. "I’d like to touch you. Here." He mimed paw placement. "Is that… acceptable?"

Gloria kicked his shin. "Passive voice kills mood. Own your desires."

The wolf growled. "I want to lick your clit. Let me."

"Better." The hippo sat up, adjusting her dress. "Now boundaries. I’ll play hesitant client."

Loops reset his stance. Gloria clasped her paws demurely.

"Mr. Loops, I’m… nervous. My ex said I taste… brackish."

He froze. "You don’t!"

"Wrong." Gloria’s tail smacked his calf. "Validate, don’t flatter."

"Ah…" Loops wiped his paws. "Could we explore together? I’d like to learn what pleases *you.*"

"Cheesy but effective." Gloria tossed him a tube of lube. "Now—I revoke consent mid-act. Go."

The wolf leaned in, tongue extended.

"Red!" Gloria barked.

Loops faceplanted the rug.

"Overcorrecting." She hauled him upright. "Safe words aren’t stop signs—they’re guardrails. Try softer."

He resumed position, claws trembling.

"Yellow," Gloria murmured.

Loops slowed. "Adjust pressure?"

"Green." Her paw guided his head lower. "Proceed."

They repeated the drill—Green for deeper, Yellow to switch techniques, Red for full stops. Loops’ initial panic smoothed into cautious rhythm.

"Final exam." Gloria reclined against Chewy boxes. "Seduce Vivi."

The wolf blinked. "The plushie?"

"Imagine she’s your dream client." Gloria adjusted the toy’s yarn hair. "Shy but curious. Go."

Loops lifted Vivi with ceremonial care. His nose brushed her felt perineum.

"May I… explore?" He glanced at Gloria.

"Eye contact," she reminded.

Loops locked onto the plushie’s button eyes. "You’re exquisite." His claw circled outer labia. "May I touch here?"

Gloria squeaked Vivi’s clitoris.

"I’ll take that as yes." His touch migrated inward, avoiding the damaged hood. "You’re so soft…"

The hippo’s pen scratched. "Tempo shift—she’s getting dry."

Loops grabbed the lube. "Mind if I…?"

Gloria approved with a nod. He warmed the gel between his claws before gliding over Vivi’s stitches.

"Good heat transfer," Gloria noted. "Continue."

His thumb found the clitoral ridge, kneading gently. "Feel good?"

Vivi squeaked twice.

"Established signal?" Loops guessed.

"Green for more, red for stop." Gloria’s muzzle quirked. "She’s… responsive."

The wolf’s strokes gained confidence. He nuzzled the inner labia, tongue flicking where glans met hood. When Vivi’s stitching split again, he paused. "Repair or redirect?"

"Redirect," Gloria ordered. "Focus on majora."

Loops obeyed, massaging outer folds until imaginary crisis passed. His tail wagged. "Still with me?"

Vivi’s squeak pitched higher.

"Climax imminent," Gloria narrated. "Cue breathing pattern."

The wolf panted open-mouthed across the plushie’s fabric. His free paw found Gloria’s stress ball, squeezing in rhythm.

"Vocalize," the hippo urged.

"Y-you’re incredible," Loops stammered. "Let go. I’ve got you."

Vivi’s final squeal coincided with the fridge’s compressor kick. Loops cradled the plushie, wiping faux sweat from her brow.

"Post-coital protocol," Gloria reminded.

He swaddled Vivi in a hand towel, offering an imaginary glass of water. "Rest. I’ll clean up."

Gloria’s applause startled him. "Not terrible."

"Really?"

"You remembered aftercare." She tossed him a lint roller. "Now debrief."

Loops picked felt fuzz from his tongue. "I… liked narrating. Felt less lost."

"Verbalizing anchors both parties." Gloria repacked her satchel. "Homework…"

The wolf grabbed his notebook.

"Touch five non-genital body parts daily." She uncapped her rhinestone pen. "Elbows. Ankles. Earlobes. Ten minutes each, maintaining eye contact."

"Eye contact with…?"

"Your reflection." Gloria snapped her satchel shut. "If you can’t admire your own elbows, how handle a client’s labia?"

Loops traced his forearm’s scar. "What if I… dislike what I see?"

"Then we burn that bridge next week." The hippo paused at the door. "Oh—and fix Vivi’s hood. She looks indecent."

The lock clicked. Loops slumped against the couch, plushie in his lap. Moonlight through the blinds striped Vivi’s felt like a prison uniform. He reached for the sewing kit, then hesitated—needle hovering over the torn clitoral hood.

"Sorry," he whispered, stitching each loop with surgical precision. The plushie’s grin seemed softer now, less mocking. In the bathroom mirror, the wolf practiced tracing his elbow’s knobble while holding his own gaze.

His phone buzzed—a calendar alert for *Daily Touch Therapy (NO MASTURBATING).* Loops set Vivi on the pillow beside him, careful not to crush her yarn pubes.

"Tomorrow," he promised, flicking off the lamp. The plushie’s eyes glowed in the dark—tiny green LEDs he’d never noticed. Loops pulled the sheets over his head.

Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed.

The third Tuesday brought thunderstorms and a suspicious package leaning against Loops’ doorframe. He nudged it with his toe, ears flattening at the liquid slosh within. The return label bore Gloria’s loopy script: *FRAGILE—CONTAINS ANCESTRAL WISDOM.*

Inside, wrestling the contraption from its bubble wrap cocoon, Loops discovered a UV-lit hippo pelvis glowing like some alien artifact. The sacrum curved higher than his fridge, ilium wings wide enough to frame a SmartCar. He jumped when the doorbell chimed.

“Delivery for one emotionally constipated wolf!” Gloria’s muumuu today featured exploding watermelons, clashing horribly with the lab coat buttoned over it. She wheeled past him a suitcase-sized tackle box. “Prep the dissection table.”

“We’re dissecting?!”

“Metaphorically.” She slapped a roll of butcher paper onto his kitchen counter. “Strip.”

Loops’ tail vanished between his legs. “Wh-what?”

“The wall, Casanova.” Gloria jerked her thumb at the faux brick paneling. “Need seven feet vertical.”

They unspooled the paper together, Gloria’s bulk forcing Loops to climb the counter for the top edge. The hippo’s floral perfume couldn’t mask her natural musk today—damp earth and iron-rich blood. Loops’ claws trembled as he taped the final corner.

“Behold.” Gloria uncapped a marker with her teeth. “The grand tapestry of cooch.”

Her first stroke bisected the paper—a sweeping vertical line labeled *CARNIVORE.* Branching from it, she sketched simplified reproductive tracts: wolf, bear, some unidentifiable creature with a corkscrew vagina. To the right, a parallel line (*HERBIVORE*) sprouted hippos, horses, a giraffe whose cervical canal looped like cursive.

“Note the hippo’s vestibule.” She circled a bulbous structure. “Twenty-three centimeter vaginal canal. Mucosal folds here… and here.” The marker squeaked. “Your average canine? Fourteen centimeters. Straight shot to the cervix.”

Loops edged closer. “So when I…”

“Bottomed out with Marcy? Textbook.” Gloria tossed him a highlighter. “Trace the fornices.”

He hesitated. “The… pockets?”

“Front and back.” She guided his paw. “Where seed pools. Critical for insemination.”

Loops’ line wobbled. “But hippos…”

“Mate underwater. Semen viscosity adapted for liquid transfer.” Gloria’s jowl brushed his shoulder. “Fun fact—my estrus mucus forms a bioadhesive plug. Lasts eighteen hours.”

The wolf’s ears burned. “Why are we…”

“Context, Mr. Loops!” She thumped the giraffe diagram. “Can’t navigate terrain without maps. Now…” The tackle box sprang open, revealing six essential oil vials and an ice cube tray filled with crystallized honey. “Tongue drills.”

Loops stared. “You want me to…”

“Lick. With purpose.” Gloria arranged the cubes on a sushi mat. “Start gentle—imagine lapping dew from a lily pad.”

Cube one shattered under his enthusiasm. Golden shards skittered across linoleum.

“Told you.” Gloria caught a flying fragment with her tongue. “Pressure scales. Watch.”

Her demonstration turned pornographic. The hippo’s tongue—thick as a burrito—caressed the next cube with obscene patience. Honey melted in concentric rings, each pass revealing new topography. Loops’ pants tightened.

“Your turn.” She slid the mat closer. “Three speeds: glacier, river, geyser.”

He started at the edges. The honey’s floral tang exploded—orange blossom, maybe?—as his tongue mapped fissures. Gloria’s claw tapped his jugular.

“Too much teeth.”

Second cube: broad strokes. Heat built between his legs. Third cube: alternating licks and sucks. A bead of pre-cum darkened his fly.

“Focus,” Gloria growled, though her own breath hitched when he moaned around the fourth cube. “This isn’t foreplay.”

The lie hung between them. Loops’ final cube dissolved into syrup that dripped down his chin. Gloria caught it with a swipe of her thumb.

“B-plus. Now…” She unbuttoned her muumuu. “Practical exam.”

Loops’ chair clattered backward. “H-here? Now?”

“Problem?” The lab coat parted, revealing stretch marks like topographical maps. “Thought you wanted realism.”

He did. Fervently. The wolf’s muzzle dipped on instinct, nostrils flaring at Gloria’s musk—marsh water and overripe persimmons. His tongue darted out.

“Incorrect.” Gloria gripped his scruff. “Consent first.”

“M-may I…?”

“Specify.”

Loops’ claws unsheathed. “Taste you. Please.”

Her nod sent him plunging.

Gloria’s vulva defied all HeatHaven tutorials. Labia majora draped in velvety folds, their inner edges ruffled like carnation petals. Loops’ first lick encountered not floral sweetness but brine—the tang of kelp beds at low tide. He gagged.

“Breathe,” Gloria reminded, though her thighs trembled. “Through the nose.”

The second attempt fared better. Loops flattened his tongue, lapping broad stripes from perineum to clitoral hood. Gloria’s clitoris glans emerged slowly, a dusky pearl retreating when he prodded too eagerly.

“Patience,” she chided. “Tease the hood first.”

He obeyed, circling the prepuce until her hips stuttered. Her musk intensified, flooding his sinuses. When the glans finally peeked through, Loops resisted the urge to suckle—instead tracing its ridged circumference with his tongue tip.

“C-sharp,” Gloria gasped.

“What?”

“Hum it.”

Loops complied, vibrations skittering through hypersensitive tissue. Gloria’s left hip jerked—once, twice—before settling into a rhythmic pulse. He stored the data.

“Pressure eastward,” she directed. “Yes… there.”

Her clitoris swelled under his ministrations, a living thing seeking sanctuary between his lips. Loops’ jaw ached. He adjusted angles, using his nose to part labia minora. Gloria’s taste evolved—sharper now, metallic at the edges.

“Finger me,” she ordered. “Two knuckles deep.”

Loops hesitated. “But the fornices…”

“*Now*, Mr. Loops.”

His middle finger breached her. The vaginal walls gripped him like a blood-warm vise, rippling in time with Gloria’s breathing. He crooked upward, seeking texture.

“Rugae,” Gloria panted. “Palpate the ridges.”

Loops mapped the terrain—raised folds that swelled under his touch. When his fingertip brushed a spongy patch near her pubic bone, Gloria’s tail thrashed.

“G-spot,” she confirmed. “Now… combine.”

The symphony of her body unfolded—tongue fluttering clitoris in 6/8 time, finger massaging anterior wall in counter-rhythm. Gloria’s paws fisted his head fur, grinding his muzzle deeper. Loops drank her ecstasy like communion wine.

“Close,” she warned. “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t—”

Her orgasm hit like storm surge. Loops rode the contractions, finger pistoning as Gloria’s back arched clear of the chair. Semifluid gushed—not the clear squirt from porn clips, but viscous cream streaked with cervical mucus. It coated his chin, his collar, the half-unrolled butcher paper.

Gloria sagged, sweat glazing her rolls. “Debrief.”

Loops licked his chops. “pH… alkaline? With umami notes.”

“Specifics.”

“Musky. Fermented stone fruit. Post-rainforest petrichor.”

The hippo’s chuckle rumbled. “Romanticized, but accurate.” She tossed him a towel. “Homework.”

Six oil vials clinked onto the counter: ylang-ylang, bergamot, vetiver, clary sage, myrrh, and one simply labeled *DANGER.*

“Memorize these blindfolded.” Gloria dabbed her glistening cleft. “Next lesson… proprioception.”

Loops sniffed the mystery vial. “What’s this?”

Gloria’s grin revealed her missing incisor. “My estrus musk. Don’t spill it—ferrets pay double.”

The wolf’s tail wagged.

The August heat clung to Gloria’s muumuu like a jealous lover as she bulldozed into Loops’ apartment. Today’s fabric featured exploding pineapples, their yellow bursts straining across her hips. She dropped a rolled-up Twister mat with a thud that shook the anime figurines on his bookshelf.

“Strip,” she ordered, toeing off her sandals.

Loops choked on his protein shake. “Wh-what?”

“The floor, Lothario.” Gloria unzipped her tackle box of horrors. “We’re mapping torque vectors.”

The wolf stared at the mat she’d unfurled—standard red-yellow-blue-green circles overlaid with Sharpie labels: *CLITORAL CRURA*, *SKENE’S GLAND*, and in shaky script near the yellow quadrant, *FOREPLAY ZONE???*

“Did you…?”

“Drunk Amazon impulse buy.” Gloria tossed him a knee pad. “Left hand yellow. Now.”

Loops assumed plank position, claws denting the “UTERINE FUNDUS” circle. Gloria straddled a kitchen chair backwards, clipboard in paw.

“Recite aftercare non-negotiables. Go.”

“One: Hydration check.” His triceps trembled. “Two: Debrief emotional state. Three: Non-genital touch for…”

The mat squeaked under his sweat. Gloria’s tail swished.

“For…?”

“Fuck!” Loops face-planted. “Warm blanket?”

“Partial credit.” She lobbed a stress ball at his head. “Aftercare isn’t a spa menu. It’s accountability. Again.”

The wolf reset his plank, this time on “VAGINAL FORNIX.” “Three: Check-in twenty-four hours post-coitus.”

“Better.” Gloria’s pen scratched. “Now alternate nostril breathing.”

“While planking?!”

“Pelvic stamina requires…” She paused, squinting at her notes. “Cardio-pulmonary synergy. Or some bullshit. Breathe.”

Loops’ left nostril flared. The mat’s vinyl scent mixed with Gloria’s bergamot deodorant. His hindquarters quivered.

“Focus on my voice.” Her tone softened half a decibel. “Imagine your paws are…”

“Melting into magma,” he panted.

“Wrong. They’re roots. Anchoring. Sustaining.”

“My roots are on fire.”

Gloria’s chuckle morphed into a cough. “Switch to ‘Bridge Method.’ Grab the throw pillows.”

Loops collapsed gratefully. “The what?”

“Elevate my hips.” She lay supine, muumuu hiking to reveal dimpled thighs. “Pretend I’m a… I dunno, drawbridge.”

“A drawbridge.”

“Your dick’s the river traffic.” She slapped her inner knee. “Pillows here. Stacked.”

The wolf complied, arranging cushions beneath her sacrum. Gloria’s vulva loomed at eye level—a topography of stretch marks and sparse curls. His claws retracted.

“Optimal angle is…” She pantomimed a parabola. “Twenty-five degrees. Hits the anterior fornix.”

Loops’ muzzle crinkled. “The front pocket?”

“Where G-spot and cervix hold hands.” Gloria spread her labia. “Insert middle finger. Slow.”

He hesitated. “No glove?”

“My pH balance could kill a shark. Proceed.”

The first knuckle breached. Gloria’s walls clenched, pulling him deeper. Loops marveled at the heat—damp furnace air rushing up a chimney.

“Clockwise rotation,” she directed. “Yes… there.”

His finger crooked upward. A ridge greeted him, pebbled like a cat’s tongue. Gloria’s hips stuttered.

“Rugae,” she breathed. “Now… press and hold.”

Loops obeyed. Her cervix pulsed against his fingertip. “Too much?”

“Goldilocks.” Gloria’s paw covered his. “Now thrust. No—snap the wrist. Like cracking an egg.”

He jerked upward. Gloria’s curse rattled the anime figurines.

“Gentler! You’re not punching a time clock.”

Second attempt: shallow pumps. Third: corkscrew motions. When Gloria’s clit darkened, Loops noted the correlation.

“Fornix stimulation triggers…” He swallowed. “Clitoral engorgement?”

“B-plus.” She squeezed his wrist. “Now scissor.”

“What?”

“Add a finger. Stretch.”

His index joined the middle. Gloria’s breath hitched. “Full… extension. Yes.”

The stretch revealed new textures—a rubbery nub near her pubic bone, silken patches along the lateral walls. Loops’ thumb found her perineum.

“No!” Gloria slapped his paw. “Stay… oh fuck… stay focused.”

“But you’re—”

“Cataloging!” Her jowls flushed maroon. “Note the… the…”

His fingers crooked again. Gloria’s roar shook the windows. Loops froze.

“Don’t. You. Dare. Stop.”

He redoubled efforts, wrist aching. Gloria’s thighs clamped his ears. Her climax hit like a flash flood—gushing fluid that reeked of fermented lychee. Loops licked instinctively, salt-brine bursting across his tongue.

“Post-coital protocol,” he gasped, scrambling for the checklist. “Hydration! Uh… coconut water?”

Gloria’s paw seized his scruff. “Not done.”

She guided him lower. Loops’ nose pressed into her clitoral hood. “But—”

“Synchronized breathing.” Her hips rolled. “In… out… match me.”

Their rhythms aligned—his exhales warming her oversensitized flesh, her inhalations lifting his muzzle. When Gloria’s second climax came, it was a tremor rather than quake. Loops gentled her through the aftershocks.

“Debrief.” She tossed him a towel. “Emotional state?”

He wiped his muzzle. “Shaky. Proud?”

“Accurate.” Gloria sat up, muumuu falling closed. “Now… the error.”

Loops’ tail tucked. “I diverted to your perineum.”

“Distracted by…” She gestured at her splayed form. “This?”

“No! I just… wanted to… explore.”

“Natural impulse.” Gloria stood, stretch marks rippling. “But during fornix work? You’ll rupture cervical mucus plugs.”

He blanched. “I didn’t—”

“Theoretical!” She grabbed his paw. “Now… the lesson.”

Her claws traced a silvery streak across her left hip. “Stretch marks. Scar tissue. Nerve density here…” A pinch made him yelp. “Halved.”

Loops leaned closer. The marks resembled tree rings—concentric arcs of thickened flesh. “From…?”

“Puberty. Two hundred pounds in six months.” Gloria’s voice roughened. “Clients assume fragility. They tiptoe. Kill the mood.”

“So we…?”

“Own it.” She pressed his palm to her hip. “Firm strokes. No flinching.”

His first touch skated away. Gloria’s growl anchored him.

“Commit.”

Loops dug in. The tissue resisted, then yielded. Gloria’s purr surprised them both.

“Sensitivity varies.” She guided his claws lower. “Here… desensitized. Here…” A particular ridge made her flinch. “Avoid.”

“You’re…” Loops swallowed. “Vulnerable.”

“All flesh is.” Her jowl twitched. “Even yours.”

The wolf’s ears pricked. Gloria’s claw tapped her missing incisor.

“Client panicked mid-knot. Headbutted me.” She chuckled darkly. “Root canal from hell.”

Loops winced. “You kept… working?”

“Adapted.” She tongued the gap. “Now clients call me ‘snaggletooth’ behind my back. Cute, right?”

He bristled. “That’s—”

“Truth.” Gloria straightened her muumuu. “Homework.”

Loops grabbed his notebook.

“Three-course meal. Mouth and paws only.”

“But—”

“No utensils. No cheating.” She shouldered her satchel. “Trains oral dexterity. Plus…” Her grin turned feral. “Nothing sexier than a wolf who can julienne carrots with his claws.”

The door slammed. Loops stared at his paws—scarred from a thousand tiny hesitations. In the kitchen, his blender hummed a deranged aria.

He opened the fridge. Eggs. Sriracha. A sprouting sweet potato.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, grabbing the nearest zucchini.

The August humidity clung to Gloria’s muumuu like a second skin as she bulldozed into Loops’ apartment, her medical satchel replaced by a rolled-up kiddie pool emblazoned with cartoon manatees. The wolf stared at the deflated vinyl, nostrils flaring at the scent of chlorine and stale lakewater.

“Prep the battleground,” Gloria ordered, tossing him a package of waterproof sheets. Her daisy-print dress today strained across hips still glistening from the walk-up’s five flights. “And wipe that look off your muzzle—it’s for science, not slip-n-slides.”

Loops scrambled to clear action figures from the floor. The plastic crinkled underfoot as he unrolled the pool, its cheerful “Splashy Fun Zone!” logo glaring up at them. Gloria produced a foot pump shaped like a dolphin, its squeaky exhales syncing with Loops’ nervous panting.

“Lecture segment.” She slapped a laminated diagram onto his fridge—a cross-section of vulvar anatomy with neon arrows pointing to a spongy-looking mass. “The urethral sponge. Not a loofah, not a myth—think of it as nature’s stress ball.” Her claw tapped the illustration. “During arousal, it swells to protect the urethra during… hydraulic events.”

Loops’ ears twitched. “You mean squirting?”

“I mean,” Gloria uncapped a squeeze bottle of blue fluid, “the complex interplay between Skene’s glands, pelvic floor muscles, and performance anxiety.” She squirted a arc onto butcher paper, the liquid beading before soaking through. “Note the trajectory—35-degree angle maximizes distance without eye contact.”

The wolf edged back from the spreading stain. “Shouldn’t we…?”

“Safety third.” Gloria lobbed him a pair of swim goggles. “Practical exam has three phases: location, stimulation, containment. You’ll have timed intervals—30 seconds firm pressure, 15 seconds flutter. Understood?”

Loops’ nod dislodged his goggles. “What if I… y’know. Trigger…”

“Micturition reflex?” Gloria’s tail swished. “Common issue. Hence…” She patted the kiddie pool. “Hydrophilic barrier.”

The wolf stared at her spread legs, already splayed across the inflatable pool’s edge. “Here? Now?”

“Unless you’ve got a speculum and stirrups.” Gloria’s claw hooked her dress hem, revealing sparse curls darker than her muzzle fur. “Eyes on the sponge, Casanova.”

Loops’ goggles fogged. Her vulva glistened under the overhead light—labia minora peeking through majora like shy tongues, the clitoral hood swollen from their earlier stair climb. He noted the Skene’s duct openings, tiny divots he’d once mistaken for sebaceous cysts.

“Timer starts…” Gloria tapped her phone. “Now.”

First attempt: Loops’ middle finger speared inward, seeking texture. The vaginal walls gripped him like a blood-warm vise. He crooked upward, pressing against what felt like ribbed satin.

“Cervix,” Gloria grunted. “Wrong continent.”

Second attempt: Shallow thrusts along the anterior wall. His nail caught on a rubbery ridge. Gloria’s left hip jackknifed.

“Ventral nerve cluster,” she panted. “Interesting… but off-target.”

Third attempt: Clockwise rotations. The wolf’s claw snagged a ridge of scar tissue. Gloria’s hiss rattled the anime figurines.

“Focus!” She grabbed his wrist. “Imagine you’re… unh… typing a text one-handed.”

Loops closed his eyes. The analogy clicked—his fingertip pecking keystrokes across her spongy keyboard. Gloria’s breathing stuttered when he hit “Send.”

“Warmer,” she allowed. “Now… thumb here.” She guided his other paw to her mons. “Static pressure.”

Loops pressed. The pubic bone’s curve ground against his pad. Gloria’s thighs quivered.

“Timer check!”

“Eight seconds,” the wolf panted. His thumb migrated south, brushing the clitoral shaft. Gloria’s tail thrashed.

“No—stick to—ah!—protocol!”

The squeeze bottle demonstration flashed in his mind—angled streams, calculated pressure. Loops adjusted his wrist, driving upward into the spongy mass while his thumb anchored her pelvis. Gloria’s claws shredded the pool’s manatee face.

“Contractions incoming!” she barked. “Maintain rhythm!”

His finger pistoned. The wolf’s nose filled with musk—ripe persimmon and oxidized copper. Gloria’s hips stuttered, her body caught between instinctual arching and professional restraint. A hot gush drenched Loops’ wrist.

“Micturition reflex!” he yelped, recoiling.

Gloria’s roar shook the windows. “Wrong gland, dipshit!”

The stream faltered. She collapsed against the pool’s vinyl wall, chest heaving. Loops stared at the dark patch spreading across her daisy print dress.

“Pee-shyness,” Gloria muttered, paw over her eyes. “Common in… authority figures.”

Loops’ tail tentatively wagged. “You…?”

“Performance anxiety’s a bitch.” She sat up, jowls flushed. “Reset. New angle.”

The wolf’s second attempt incorporated pelvic tilts—Gloria’s hips propped on a stack of Chewy boxes. His fingers scissored inside her, mapping textures between timed intervals. When the 30-second mark hit, he fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.

“No—tch—pattern recognition!” Gloria’s claws dented the laminate. “Vary the… ah!… tempo!”

Loops switched to Morse code rhythms—three long pulses followed by two short. Gloria’s left paw began translating against her thigh.

“Dash-dot-dash… ‘U’?” She snorted. “Romantic.”

His third attempt involved strategic silence—listening to her body’s creaks and hitches over verbal cues. The urethral sponge swelled under his persistence, a waterlogged loofah ready to burst. Gloria’s warning came too late.

“Incoming—!”

The first jet caught Loops’ collarbone. Coconut-scented fluid splashed his goggles, streaking the lenses opaque. Subsequent waves arced higher—one drenching his manga collection, another hitting the ceiling fan. Gloria’s howls shook the light fixtures as she rode the squirt tsunami, her muumuu ballooning like a grotesque parachute.

“Fuck!” Loops slipped in the pooling fluid, knees splaying. “Containment protocol!”

Gloria’s paw yanked him between her thighs. “Finish… the… job!”

The wolf dove face-first, sealing his lips around her clitoris. Her ejaculation provided a brackish lube for his chin as he worked—lapping upscaled C-sharp vibrations through the downpour. When Gloria’s final geyser spent itself against his uvula, Loops collapsed sideways, gagging.

“Debrief.” Gloria’s voice wavered only slightly. “Observations?”

Loops spat into the kiddie pool. “pH… 6.8? Viscosity similar to… aloe vera?”

“Passable.” She tossed him a beach towel. “Now the error.”

Gloria the Teacher

Tags