Yawning, the young otter held up the map and followed a double red line with his finger. “How much longer?”
“You just asked that, kiddo,” dad sighed, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “The motel was six hours away five minutes ago. So now it’s five hours and fifty-five minutes.”
“More or less,” his mom corrected. “It’d be less if we weren’t driving exactly the speed limit.”
“Oh no. Remember the eight hundred dollar ticket I got last time we went through New York? I’m not driving one tiny bit over 55,” the boy’s father declared, paws at the top of the wheel, staring intently at the needle.
“So, six hours,” mom shrugged, looking back over her shoulder at her son in the back seat. “Bored?”
“Between books,” he explained from behind the map, nudging a thick canvas bag with his toe. “Trying to decide which to start next. Hey, there’s a forest coming up on the left! And there’s a triangle, I think that’s a rest stop.”
“Do you or your sister need to….y’know… ‘rest’?” dad asked, making air quotes with one paw.
Tick looked over at his younger sister, her head lolled back, eyes closed, mouth agape. “She definitely doesn’t, buuuuttt….” he trailed off. He didn’t have to go at all, but it’d been a few hours since the last stop, and walking around a little, maybe getting pop from a machine? That sounded pretty good right now.
“Sounds like one vote for stopping,” dad noted, holding up a finger. “Mother?”
“We should keep driving, but if it’s necessary…. Tick, need to wet?”
“Mom!! Jeez.”
She giggled. “Just asking. I see the green sign, must be coming up soon… oh… er, maybe not.”
Tick looked out the window and saw the same WEIGH STATION sign his mom had spotted, and sighed. “Aw. Foo.”
“Yeah, sorry, little critter, trucks only. Guess you’ll have to hold it a bit. We can stop at a McDonald’s if you really need…”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he insisted, pulling a book out of his bag at random. Ray Bradbury, okay, that works. “I’m fine, really.”
His dad made an irritated chittering sound and the car heaved forward a bit as it slowed. “That’s good, because I think we’re stuck in traffic for a little bit.” The car rolled slower and the older otter craned his neck. “Edal, can you see what’s going on?"
Tick’s mom stuck her head out of her open window and pushed herself up by the armrests. “Mmm. I think I see flashing lights way up there.”
“Accident,” dad groaned as the car slowed nearly to a stop. “Dammit. Okay, more like seven hours.”
“Hon, this won’t take that long,” his mom soothed. “You going to be okay back there?”
“Yeah yeah, honestly,” he nodded. “I’ve got books.”
“Welp, we’re stuck,” dad snipped, as the car halted behind a truck, another one’s brakes screeching as it rolled to a stop next to them. “Did we pack a picnic?”
As his mom rummaged for a Snickers bar to keep his dad occupied, Tick looked out the window at the semi parked alongside. MAYFLOWER, its trailer proclaimed, and a tired, irritated looking buck deer with a cigarette in his mouth rested his hooves on a steering wheel high up above the otter family’s station wagon. The driver must have felt small eyes peering up at him; he looked down and touched the brim of his camo-green cap at the otter. Tick grinned and saluted, and the deer gave him a halfhearted smile.
The otter held his book and flipped a page. He liked these sci-fi short stories, but wasn’t in the mood somehow. Maybe something else? Oz? Narnia? Nah. He wished he’d remembered to put new batteries in his Game Boy. He closed the book and set it aside. His little sister was snoring softly, the car was stopped, mom had a magazine, dad was muttering under his breath about crappy drivers. He stretched his arms upwards and yawned again, scratched his belly, then shifted his legs and idly scratched between them, looking at the peeling paint on the M in MAYFLOWER. Did they repaint these things? Does a driver have to repaint it, or do they care? What’s up with truck driver and weigh stations anyway, are they places for truckers to hang out? And how long’s he been kinda poky?
Tick’s eyes darted down to the small tent in his shorts, then up at the rearview mirror. He waggled his paws around near his waist as if trying to flag down his dad…. no reaction. He can only see me from the neck up, the boy realized, and grinned, having a naughty thought. The otter rubbed the little lump through the fabric. He could do this all he wanted, and if he was super quiet, nobody would know! Sitting up, he slipped a paw up his shorts-leg to hold the thick lump in his underwear, and squeezed it, fingers rubbing around the stiff swelling, which felt really good. Staring straight forward, expressionless as possible, the boy worked his fingers around the sensitive bulge, kneading inside his shorts.
This was kinda fun, he thought, allowing himself a pleased smile, and he glanced over at the truck — and gasped. The suddenly very interested buck was staring down at him from his perch in his semi cab, one eyebrow raised high, peering into the passenger seat. That guy can see everything I’m doing, Tick realized, and he’s looking right at me. Be cool be cool be cool. He slipped his paw out of his shorts, hesitated, then wiggled his fingers at the trucker. See? Just a kid! The trucker waved back, grinned, and winked. Oh man. He totally knows.
Tick reached for his book. He could cover himself up, hide his face behind the book, and wait ’til the car was moving again. That’d work! Except… the guy had winked. A wink meant he could keep a secret, right? The boy hesitated again, surveying the car. Still all distracted. Sister’s snoring. Nothing but trees on the other side. Okay. Nobody but that deer guy’s watching. And he felt naughty enough to try it. No turning back.
With a deep quiet breath, he tugged down the front of his elastic shorts and underwear, holding them below his balls with a hooked thumb, and shifted his butt, pushing his small stiffened pink penis upwards into his other paw, and, holding it by the base, dared to look up at the trucker. A lit cigarette dangled from the buck’s lower lip, his muzzle open as wide as his eyes, staring straight down at the boy. Tick slid his fingers up and down once, watching the deer, and the trucker grinned hugely and nodded. The otter did it again, then started a steady rubbing with two fingers and a thumb, grinning at his audience of one, whose shoulder looked like it was jiggling slightly, but it was hard to tell from down below.
Tick looked down at his tip, which was red and firm as could be, fingers sliding over it. He was excited — he’d never shown anyone how he played with himself, and his penis was hard and twitching gently as he rubbed its tip. It was feeling tingly. He knew what that meant, and he really wanted to make it feel as good as he could for the deer. Looking back up at the buck, the boy bit his lower lip, rubbing himself faster, quiet as can be. The deer gave him an encouraging thumbs-up; go for it, kid.
The small otter pushed his hips up to meet his fingers, and the deer stared, craning his neck for a better view. Tick huffed quietly and pressed his lips together, tensing up, and hffff!!!! He let out the breath he was holding, feeling his penis pulse dryly between his fingers as he kept stroking, a rush of sparks tingling down his flicking tail as the deer breathlessly watched the cub showing off for him.
The boy’s fingers slowed and he sighed, relaxing, feeling warm and glowy and embarrassed, afraid to look at the truck driver. Why’d he do that? What a dumb thing to do! The guy was probably gonna call the cops and tell his parents and his teachers. Stupid stupid stupid, he thought, feeling his penis soften in his fingers, silently tucking it away and pulling his pants back up. Just then the loudest HONK HONK ever blared as the car started rolling forward, and the trucker was waving and grinning, hand on his horn. Tick shyly grinned back and waved as they started pulling away.
“What a jerk,” his dad grumbled. “Okay buddy, I’m moving. What’s that guy’s deal? Why’s he waving at us?”
"Probably just being super friendly, dad,” Tick offered, waggling his paw out the window at the truck behind them, giggling.
