Beckett tried, valiantly, to extricate himself from the trap he had fallen into, but it was fiendishly difficult. The fabric of the drapes pulled and stretched with him, and the way they crossed over each other it was almost impossible to figure out where he could unwind himself. He twisted his wrist, feeling it loosen, but once his weight was less supported the knot around one of his ankles seemed to get tighter, and his thighs spread a little bit further, and whatever was holding his tail up increased its pressure. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the drape and pulled himself up. It was a strain, but eventually he was able to lift one of his legs and unwind the knot around his ankle. With a half-noise of victory, he lowered himself down again.
Which was when he realized that his wrist was once again tied up.
Beckett slumped, beyond exhausted and quietly wondering if the drapes were alive, and just quietly messing with him. Unfortunately, he did not have time to be tired or curious. Every second he wasn't thinking about how to get out of his bonds, he would be forced to think about other things. Like how the large glass window right behind him was close enough that he could feel the fur on the end of his ass shift, with every squirm and twitch. Then, of course, he would have to think about the fact that he was being forced to moon a window, that the way his legs were spread meant that his ass, his hole, the underside of his fuzzy nuts, were all exposed. He would have to think about the fact that the room was illuminated, that anyone looking at the manor from the outside would naturally draw their gaze to the room with all the light coming from it. And then he would think, if they did that, there was no way that they could avoid seeing...
That was usually around the time Beckett would start feeling the feeling. The one that, for lack of a better word, he described to his close friends as "fear." Ever since the day he came of age (in fact, nearly exactly starting the day he came of age), the very concept of exposed bodies brought something not unlike panic to his chest. Other people's exposure, and most especially his own. The description was perfectly apt; he was able to navigate schooling and the bulk of his daily life with only a handful of people knowing and having to only endure the occasional mockery or ribbing about it. It was, however, not the entire story. Sure, he was afraid of being naked. Fear was definitely one of the feelings he was experiencing, at that moment in time. To the best of his knowledge, however, fear tended to not also come with spontaneous, rational-thought crushing, obscenely powerful erections. No man had ever brought themselves to completion on fear alone.
At least, no man he was aware of. He never had the courage to research such things, and he hadn't the foggiest idea where one would even begin researching that.
The point was, when given the choices of continuing to struggle, potentially hurting himself, and trying to reckon with the fact that somebody right now might be looking at his soft, naked body... Once he had his breath, Beckett was flailing against the drapes like a prey animal in a snare.
He tried scrambling up to the curtain-rod, hoping that what was keeping the knots in place was simply the tension his bodyweight was putting on it. This was harder than expected. Once again, the drapes seemed to respond to his attempts to pull by stretching beyond any sort of normal capacity. His arms absolutely burned with the exertion of trying to pull himself upwards. At one point, he groped around with a foot, trying to find a tendril to "stand" on for greater leverage. That worked pretty well for himself; he was able to get his right arm well and truly free of entanglement, and was about to work on the second. But then, he slipped. The fabric raked up the side of his thigh, as he fell. Then, with a violent jerk, he stopped. The drape was now wrapped around his hip, slung underneath and pulling his genitals up like some kind of horrid loincloth.
If there had been any mercy in this ordeal, that would have hurt. That would have hurt, and the pain of getting a sudden front wedgie would have quashed that feeling that he tentatively refers to as "fear." Instead, he found the fabric on his private area to be soft, velvety to an extent that would be excessive on a king's matress, let alone drapes that were many times older than he was. It felt like being firmly grasped by a soft, but insistent hand. Beckett, who for obvious reasons had very little experience with hands other than his own down there, found the experience to be momentarily arresting. His body gently rocked back and forth, each movement seeming to draw more enticing friction. At first, he couldn't understand it. He was not moving, at least not at that moment in time. And yet, the way he was moving, it almost felt like...
With no shortage of dread, he looked down at himself. The back and forth motion was coming entirely from his new "thong." It stretched and then compressed, stretched and compressed, each time feeling like a slow and measured rasp up and down his cock, a roll of his balls. He almost could not wrap his mind around it, and so he found himself saying out loud the first horrible thought that popped into his head. "Dear Goddess," he whimpered, "is... are the drapes...stroking me?!"
As exhausted as he was, that thought hitting his mind was just what he needed to resume scrambling up the drapes like a creature possessed. "No, no, no..." he muttered to himself, as he grabbed fistfuls of drape and hauled himself up. The fabric stretched in his hands, putting him right back down where the compressing action was at its strongest. He could feel the first tickle, the first sign that he would be soon going over the edge. He scrambled harder. "Nononono please! Please, not here! N-not like this! What if somebody...?" Eventually the drapes let him up, just far enough that he could unwind the knot on his left arm. His body twitched. A dark spot was beginning to form, between his legs.
And then, a powerful cramp siezed his right arm, just before his left could get a hold of something, and with a yelp, he fell.
Suddenly, he was upside down. His arms were free, but his legs were both still bound. His tail had been yanked free in the drop, and drooped uselessly behind his back. He was now facing the window. Fortnately for him, the part of the drapes that were trying to stroke him were gone. Unfortunately, this meant his twitching cock was front and center. Helplessly, he looked out the window and saw...
...darkness. The world outside was thick stands of trees. The village, which Beckett knew to be in that direction, was completely obscured by the forest. His eyes roved over every inch of glass he could see, trying to find any exposed line of sight, but other than a little gray shape over the top of the trees (the bell tower of the local church). There was nothing.
No one could see him.
He was safe.
Much in the same way a certain class of person panics the hardest when the danger is well and truly past, Beckett found himself unable to hold back what was welling up within him. He began to hyperventilate, every breath a shuddering moan. His cock lurched once, twice... and then it began to spit. The dormouse squirmed and shook, all but bawling as he loosed rope after horrible, sinful rope. It blasted from him, spattering against the glass and running down in rivulets.
It felt as though he was trapped there for an age until, drunk with pleasure and relief, he stared at the dim half-reflection of himself as it dribbled out the last of its fear into the fur of its belly. And then, unable to pull himself up, having lost the last of his energy for climbing or extricating himself, he hung there like a sprig of mistletoe until sleep finally claimed him.
When he awoke, it was well into the morning. His arms protested mightily, when he pulled himself up onto his elbows. Only then did he realize that he was no longer hanging vertically. He was, in fact, laying prone. On the floor. On top of a dark purple, exceptionally soft length of velvet. With a yap, he scrambled off of the drapes, before they could kidnap him once again, but the drapes did not move, at least not at first. Instead, they remained on the stones, perhaps half-again as long as all of the other drapes and rolled out like a carpet. Beckett glared at it, warily, on hands and knees like a feral beast.
And then, it began to withdraw, to un-stretch. Slowly, it pulled away, turned upward, until it was finally level with all of its mates. And then it rustled in Beckett's direction. He did not know what that meant. He only knew that it was familiar in a way that no piece of furniture has any right speaking to its owner.
Beckett sighed. Then, remembering where he was and what crisis was befalling him, he stood and resumed covering his genitals. The fear was back, but after the events of the previous night they were a lot easier to manage. That would not be so easy forever, but for right now? Now that he knew he was reasonably hidden, and Dierdre was nowhere around, and the only thing that could see his nudity was the curtain that molested him. Which meant that, for a little while at least, he could focus on the more immediate problems. He was hungry. His whole body hurt. There were a few rooms of this place he had not picked through, because they were locked. Maybe his clothes had fallen out of his bag in one of those.
The delusion didn't sit as well in his mind, the second time he entertained it. He discarded it and waddled out into the hallway.