On Common Ground
Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. As such, it may contain traces of adult matter that include, but are not limited to: adult and sexual situations, acts between characters of the same gender and species, gratuitous use of lycanthropy and transformation, and the general exploitation of foxes in general. If this is not something you're into, then just go away. Otherwise, read on and enjoy.
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On Common Ground ©MMVI Whyte Yoté
Oh, how one never knows just quite how conducive to running the night is unless one is built for such an aerobic and engaging activity! Taking an afternoon constitutional is all fine and good, if one wants to settle for a light breeze and blisters at the end of a day spent on hard-packed earth, but the forest becomes an entirely different--sometimes seductive--mistress come nightfall. Even on a stagnant summer night, heavy with the humidity and latent heat from the day, those who are in tune with the song of the Wild can enjoy the soul of the earth, the scents and histories of almost everything around them fed through nostrils sensitive enough to detect even the ages of the trees through which they bound effortlessly.
That is, if one dares to run fast enough.
Running is not a problem in the least for our protagonist, who just so happens to be indulging himself thoroughly on a night such as this. Who would think that a relatively inane investment banker struggling his way like a banana slug in the sun up the corporate ladder could have such a wild streak in him? Not this man as he is most of the time, when the moon isn't calling him personally. This man has vague remembrances of his time spent naked, running in another form through the night, as does the fox we now see have vague remembrances of cubicles and minivans and deadlines. But they are but distant notions of another world, and far from the cares of this sleek vulpine as he perks his ears to better navigate a thick stand of trees.
Hands and footpaws alike contact the mossy, tender ground at alternating intervals, propelling his currently lithe body this way and that, to and fro through darkness flooded with argentate light, as if the lack thereof would make a difference to his powerful yellow eyes. All things are mere blurs which pass to his left and right peripheries; the unmoving things are dark shapes while living creatures incandesce in greens, teals, oranges, reds. None of these matter, however, to the two-legged fox who passes them at breakneck speed to nowhere in particular.
Barely above the roar of wind in his tall black-tipped ears, he can hear his heartbeat, triphammering in the back of his head. He drags in air through a gaping and smiling muzzle, with all the basic excitement and happiness of a child at play. For a few hundred yards he changes pace, taking the ground in giant leaping bounds, during which he employs his seldom-used tail as a rudder and for balance. Of all the things he misses when in his human form, his tail is chief among them.
Now something else is here...something so similar to what already bombards his ears that it would be imperceptible if not for the accompanying fresh, wet mossy smell. Our fox could not have expected to come across water, in his particularly zealous lust for speed tonight he has passed farther than he has ever before ventured into this forest. Whereas dew carries a fresh, innocent scent, and fog its stagnant, slightly dirty stench, running water takes on the smell of rocks, earth, plants and fish, combines them and throws them out into the surrounding area as a low-lying cloud that pervades for quite a distance.
Intrigued by an inherent sense of vulpine curiosity, the fox slows to a walk, breathing deeply in the tepid night but not winded in the least. Immediately the scents triple in intensity as he can inhale the full bouquet at a standstill. For the first time since his transformation (at least the first time he notices), his stomach rumbles at the light undertones of fresh trout and crappie, abundant and swimming no more than half a mile away. Returning to a trot, easily maintained on digitigrade legs, our intrepid fox eagerly anticipates catching a midnight snack.
Twigs and dead leaves from winters past crackle under thick fleshy pads, loud against the drone of crickets and faraway traffic. The stands of pines give way to mixed forest, which ultimately turns completely deciduous the closer the werefox comes to moving water. Then they stop altogether, and he steps through into a grassy band that runs along the riverbank, sandy soil that trees cannot grip to support their ponderous bulk. The fox's delicate feet sink while he walks, pressing blades of long grass down with them, but his purchase remains solid.
Unhindered by the city lights so distant now, a sparkling blanket of stars stretches from horizon to horizon, treetop to treetop as far as the eye can behold, until the moon simply overpowers them at one end of the sky. The air is alive with insects, snakes, and of course the succulent fish so sought by our vulpine friend. Awed by the astronomical grandeur, as he is every time he journeys to his wild side, he makes his way to the edge of the grasses, beyond which is a steep cliff leading down to a thin, rocky shore. With one simple leap, he lands and flexes his legs to absorb the blow, proud of his excellent musculature.
First things first: a nice cool drink. Crouching by the water's edge, the fox bends...sniffs...and snorts the surface in disgust. Too much sediment here; he will have to go into the center of the river, which is fine because it is probably better to catch the fattest fish anyway. He wades until he is submerged just above the knees, and stops before the cool liquid can touch his sensitive flesh. Bending at the waist, he sniffs again, approvingly, and laps away his thirst, taking the opportunity to empty his bladder as well, not concerned in the least about contaminating the drinking supply. That worry is saved for human hours.
The water is cool, slaking and just less than crystal-clear, but he is satisfied nonetheless. Besides, being able to see fish swimming at the end of your snout while you take a drink is much more interesting than the bottom of a glass.
Now, on to dinner. Using his wonderful gift of night vision to aid his hunt, the werefox tracks the movements of several tasty-looking examples of piscatorial fare. Some of them swim right between his furry legs, even. He becomes indecisive, then belligerent, and finally just grabs for one with claws unsheathed. It slips between his fingerpads easily, and the vulpine realizes his meal will not be so easily won. Again he goes for another, slightly bigger, fish and almost loses his balance trying to catch it hand over hand. Cursing in his head, and snarling outwardly, he forces patience and waits, squatting low and soaking his dangly bits in cold water. He knows it is supposed to be a game, that if he doesn't catch a fish it's not the end of the world, but while he's in this form he wants to take advantage of his physical prowess. What kind of a fox can't catch a fish?
His eyes narrow intensely, tapping that inner instinct within himself that no human could ever see or feel. It becomes a kind of mantra: wait, watch, plan, wait, watch, plan...strike! Right in front of him, a slow mover, not quite deft at sensing peril. He goes for it, this time latching onto the thing with his claws instead of pawing it with a fist. They sink into the thing easily, and the fox pulls his catch out of the water with a smile and a small bark of triumph. This is short-lived, as the slimy fish wriggles in its death throes, dragging his arm along with it. Already compensating for the river's strong current, our poor fox steps back, arms flailing, and tumbles ass-over-teakettle into the river.
Thankfully, he only has a few feet of water to worry about, and after being carried downstream until he can get his footing he crawls to stand, finding the fish still very much attached to four of his claws. Once out of the moving water and onto dry land again, and after a thorough shake-off , the fox smoothes his floofed-out fur and sits cross-legged, his now-expired meal right in his lap. The meat is viscous in places, bits of bone crunching between his jaws, but nonetheless satisfying in its own feral way. Soon little remains but bones, fins, one unseeing black eye, and one full fox. He smiles in the moonlight, sucking at the last bit of flavor from the spine, and bathes in the lunar gloaming.
But his silence and privacy are not to be enjoyed for long. Somewhere, across the water and at a bend in the shoreline, a flicker of motion--a simple tac-tac-tac of repeated steps on loose rocks--draws our lycanthrope's attention from a peaceful digestion. Mildly annoyed but curious, he walks languidly along his side of the river, knowing the best way to tell what lies along the opposite shore is to get downwind of it and smell it out before closing the distance.
bipedal fox walks with the supine grace of his wild brethren; an almost feminine gait accompanies his light steps. From watching him, an observer would not be able to imagine in their wildest dreams the overweight, middle-aged man this creature inhabits every night of each month but this. Even over the relatively loose stones, his nimble pawfeet sink and propel soundlessly; the addition of a tail is definitely a boon to balance on such an uneven surface.
It is not long before he is round the outside bend of the river, and to his pleasure the thing on the other shore has not moved from its previous position. The gentle deep-night breeze is slack, but adequate to carry scents across water, and now that our fox is placed on a direct line with the mysterious creature he can already detect subtle hints, and begin to make an assessment. Well, the thing is small to be sure, about a quarter of his size, and furry...that slightly-wet, slightly-stinky smell is a dead giveaway. Hmm, mammalian, a timid thing, and...wait...that smells like him!
His ears perked and erect, they swivel within a limited radius, searching out any sound at all to confirm his suspicion, but nothing comes. But there can be no mistaking that scent, so like his own but not quite as...well...manicured, would best describe it. The same subtle undertones of dried leaves and cinnamon; the same air of privacy so sought by he himself at times, everything down to the same reek of chewed fish from a meal taken not long before our ownfox got soaked...it is a tod, a feral male fox, and it seems for all purposes that he, too, is resting after having eaten his fill.
But there is so much fun to be had in a play partner, our protagonist thinks. All the times he has gone out to the forest and run his heart out, but when the urge to romp around with another struck him there was no one available to fill the need. Either he hadn't ever looked for a playmate, or there just didn't seem to be one around. Ever. But now, right across the river, is someone who may be able to communicate with him, or at least recognize their shared species, and maybe understand that all he wants is to have fun on the one night a month he is given the privilege.
More than a little reluctantly, he crouches and eases into the water once again, the fast-moving liquid chilling his toes, then his fingers. He must move with the utmost care if he is to get within a comfortable distance without startling the poor tod, and water has an annoying habit of carrying sound quite well. The fox hopes the current makes more noise than his body ; almost a third of the way across now and no sign of discovery. Moonlight fills in more details the closer he comes to the curled-up, snoozing shadow on the shore. Evidently this fox is a better fisherman than ours, judging by the lack of wet fur smell.
Halfway across and the feral vulpine's shallow, quick breaths can be heard along with the slight twitch of an alert ear against an invading mosquito and nothing more. At last, as low to the water's surface as he can be without drenching his crotch again, our fox exits the river no more than ten feet from the sleeping tod. Does he dare disturb the small creature? Does he dare speak, exercising rarely-used vocal cords to try and communicate with him?
He does.
"Hey," he whispers, his transformed larynx scratchy and full of phlegm, and he makes the dire mistake of clearing his throat on reflex. The fox's eyes are open wide at once, his body up and stiff as ice, wary of the towering intruder above him. Our fox offers spread paws of peace and he waves them, trying to tell the cowering thing he means it no harm, but all this only succeeds in sending the little tod scampering away, tail held high. But not so easily daunted is our lycanthrope, however, and he makes a split-second decision to pursue his faux prey.
All I wanted to do was have a little fun, he thinks. I just wanted to play with you, you stupid scared thing! But then again, what else could he have expected to happen after having woken up a sleeping creature by whispering in its ear? If the thing won't let him come near, then a chase is what he'll get. Even if he never catches his "prey," he'll at least have gotten a good bout of exercise in the process.
So our bipedal vulpine takes off after his four-legged target, who is already up and over the bank. He scrambles after, claws shearing away great clods of earth, and falls into a sprint as soon as his feet find traction. It is incredibly easy to follow the tod like this, for multiple reasons: first, the heat signature radiating off that compact little body is white-hot; second, the distance covered by two long powerful legs is much greater than that covered by four, much smaller legs; third, our fox can use his arms to pump him along further with each step, putting the smaller vulpine at a great disadvantage with the exception of his deft ability to change direction at will.
The two are back into the forest in a flash, wherein the feral uses the thick trees to his advantage. All our fox can do is dart just after he sees a change in direction, and take a quick look up so he doesn't crack his head open on a trunk. "Come back here!" he shouts, but of course it does no good to talk to the animal. He curses under his breath and tries to go faster, but not by much. There is too much debris in the way, too many things over which he can trip and fall and lose this hunt for good. Even in daylight, the other fox would be nothing more than an orange blur within a colluded green landscape.
Across another small clearing they run, predator and prey, then back into the forest again after making a long sweeping arc through timothy. If the tod maintains his frantic course, they will both be back at the stream, with the options of going right back through or skirting the bank until one of them decides to alter direction. Our fox prepares himself for both, lengthening his strides and keeping a quick stop near the front of his mind. Exhaustion is a far away thing; only hard breathing and adrenaline are the only signs of his efforts.
The sound of running water, again intelligible clearly over footpads on dried leaves, comes again to our hero's ears. His eyes dart from a flicker of red tail to the pale reflection of the moon on the approaching water, trying to keep track of multiple targets simultaneously. Tiny pockets of fear stab at the inside of his nose, washed from the feral fox in waves. The little thing's head searches desperately for an exit, any way to escape the awful two-legged version of himself. The pace never changes, but a decision is made: it's through the water they will go. Our fox knows the body language even before they get to the river's edge; he's seen it in himself quite a few times and leaps ahead to almost step on his prey's tail as he launches himself into the water.
The decision turns into a fatal error. With four small legs dragging him down quickly, the feral fox finds himself swimming in short order, fighting against the current. His pursuer merely steps tall over the shallow (for him) river and almost laughs when he sees the fox trying to get away. He bends over and picks up the yapping, whimpering creature under its forelegs, and it squirms, sending spray all over the werefox's belly. Baring his teeth and growling do nothing to deter our fox from holding him captive. He smiles and asks, "You really didn't think you could outrun me, did you?" Abject fear hazes the creature's eyes.
Then something unexpected happens. It comes with such suddenness and surprise that our fox almost drops his captive. The little fox's body becomes very, very hot to the touch, his breathing labored. Never averting his eyes, he begins to change shape, very subtlely. His body seems to lengthen, triple in size, new fur taking the place of stretched skin. A low groan of pained pleasure comes from that small muzzle, rapidly lowering in pitch as practically everything about the fox grows larger. Soon the weight is just too much, and our fox (no longer the only two-legged animal in this forest) sets his transforming counterpart into the water on legs too wobbly for support, and the creature topples onto his back, shifting limbs helplessly pedaling the air.
The standing fox steps back and watches with subdued interest. He has always wondered what he looked like while transforming, but to his point of view it occurred only as a temporary haze in his vision and he was furry, like magic. He is fascinated by the speed at which the little fox becomes a being much like him, still vulpine, but more of a cross between feral and were than were and human. His fingers remain short and stubby; his head is pretty much unchanged but his body is that of a three-quarter lycanthrope, able to walk upright but not completely anthropomorphic. He is, in fact, some kind of reverse-lycanthrope, a wereferal, for lack of a better term. And he still whimpers as he scampers to his feet, almost loses his balance again, and starts running for the far edge of the river. But our fox has questions, excited curiosity, and better physical fitness, all of which make getting away quite difficult.
This time the smaller fox relents immediately when grabbed by the scruff of his neck and held up, just on his toes, so he can't move away. Our fox, a bit irritated, leads him to the shore, to a rocky place where mud won't dirty their fur, and pushes the other onto his back, where he supplicates silently. Well, almost silently--small, meek sounds issue from within his throat, in anticipation of something horrible. He speaks--well, his muzzle moves and forms sounds no human can make, and although our fox hears this he can understand it as easily as if it were perfect English. He can't explain his comprehension; it seems so natural to him as to be unremarkable.
"Please don't kill me," comes a soft, almost delicate voice--the kind of voice one might expect from a fox. The bigger, more articulate maintains his dominant posture, leaning closely over his would-be captive with a leering contempt in his eyes. If acting the meanie will get some answers to his questions, then by all means will he keep up this face.
"Why shouldn't I, after you put me through so much trouble to catch you?" he asks, confusingly hearing the in English but feeling his muzzle doing something entirely different. This gains a wince and more trembling from the little tod. It is clear that, having just been scared into a transformation, this fox is finding it difficult to gather coherent thoughts. Those first few confused moments are familiar to our protagonist, who gives him time to recuperate. He wants to add a few words about the fox being a potentially tasty midnight snack, but tact wins him over. Cannabalism was never his thing, anyway.
The tod, being the definitive loser of this hunt, realizes his position and makes an effort to submit more fully, lying on his back, paws and feet in the air, exposing the most vulnerable part of himself to his captor. "I-I don't want to die, Sir...please, I'm so...so scared," he speaks carefully. There must be so much more he wants to say, but fear and instinct are clouding more complex vocabulary. Honesty fueled by fear is the most trustworthy, they say, and our fox feels a pang of pity for his counterpart.
Sitting crosslegged to the side of the smaller vulpine, he says, "What makes you assume I wanted to kill you? I would think that you'd be more curious than anything, since we seem to have something in common." He becomes aware that he is skritching the side of the other fox's belly with an idle hand, and the little guy is making some kind of churring noise. When did I start doing that? he thinks, and takes his hand away, hoping its removal is not noticed.
The little fox's closed eyes now flutter open, as if emerging from a pleasant dream. He looks perfectly natural in this position, in this state...like it would be an injustice for him to transform back when the moon disappears over the western horizon. Even in the low light, the lycanthrope can see his eyes are a pale peridot green. "I don't know, I...I don't know," is the stuttered response.
"Never mind," chuckling at the wereferal's naïvety, and the little fox turns onto one side to face our fox, emboldened by their newfound familiarity.
"I never saw a fox like you before." Those glinty, nervous eyes, darting up and down his slender, seemingly stretched body, lingering in a few choice places. Locker room comparisons, even in nature.
"Same here," our fox agrees, his tail starting to wag at the prospect of finally making an acquaintance, if not a friend, to fill out the otherwise lonely nights spent running. It may be good in itself, but there is something to be said about running with a companion as well. "You live here in the forest?" The question seems so obvious as to be moot, but for the sake of conversation he asks anyway.
"Yeah. Down the river a ways and through a ravine. I got a den I sleep in. Lots of warm leaves." Absent of fear (the little guy's scent has improved drastically with his mood), the words are short, clipped. Very much like the yapping of a fox, actually. "Where do you live?"
"Hmm..." The answer is there, clear as the day that shines on his boring, pasty human body. Will this fox even know what he's talking about? But what's the point of lying to such a trusting, amenable creature, who now seems as curious as a three-year-old child? "In the city. Far away from here, in the suburbs," having no idea if the other fox will even know the word.
A wrinkled nose and short snuffling are response enough. The fox shudders, "Mrowf...from that awful, smelly place? It's dirty and noisy, and it hurts my nose if I get close to it. How can you live there?"
"I don't look like this when I'm there."
"Why not?"
"Um...well, you don't look the same now than when I started chasing you, right? You changed."
"Yeah. I do that sometimes, like when I get scared."
"Me too," says our fox, not bothering to try to elaborate on the difference between a one-night shift and a fear-shift. "I told you we had something in common."
"Right," says the little fox, brightening and sitting up. "We're both foxes."
"Riiiight," our fox just agrees, trying not to roll his eyes. His little friend may not understand the concept of humans.
The little fox's ears lay flat, his brow narrowed in thought. He looks at the lycanthrope, who begs a question from him with inquisitive eyes. "So," squirming a little on the rocks, "why were you chasing me, anyway?" His demeanor smacks of innocence, and our fox finds himself thinking he must be no more than a few years old. In fox years, of course.
"I was lonely," is the reply, spoken before our fox's better judgment has a chance to temper the honesty. Ears all aflame, knowing the other fox can see it well, he looks at the patch of ground surrounded by his crossed legs, and gives up trying to make excuses. "I wanted someone to play with." No regard is paid to the conservative, forty-two-year-old man inside the fox's body, muted for now by transformation. Acting mature is superseded by more basic needs.
"You wanted to play...with me?" asks the smaller fox, pointing to himself and looking like a children's cartoon character. His whiskers twitch in flattery, a raspy tongue wipes the whole end of his snout in a single motion. A flush of heat rises from his core, and our fox knows it's something more than a blush. "I can't remember the last time someone played with me. Long time ago."
"There must be plenty of other foxes around here to play with," says our fox matter-of factly. It's a forest, for God's sake...how hard could it be to find another fox? But the little guy is shaking his head, slowly, forlornly.
"Nobody who wants to play with me, not really. But I love to have fun!" Brightening again, selling himself in a positive light, for which there is no need. Just the fact that our fox has found a partner is enough to satisfy him. He would be just as happy holding a quiet conversation, as long as he wasn't alone. "But there's only so much you can do in the forest by yourself." He relaxes as he speaks, his posture supporting his weight, if not very ergonomically.
"Don't I know it," our hero agrees with an altruistic smile. "Nine or ten times I must have run all over this place, without seeing another living creature. But now you're here, hopefully not afraid of me anymore. Are you?"
"No way!" fairly beaming. "This is gonna be so much fun! Who wants to go first?"
"Um...well," the bigger fox stutters, not quite understanding his diminuitive friend. He contemplates the night sky, and its diamond-dotting of stars. Now that he's gotten the little fox's attention, and found their common desire, the only question remaining is: what are they going to do? They could run together, play in the tall grasses surrounding the stream, have a deep philosophical discussion about life, play with each other's balls...
Wait. There's something distinctly wrong with that last one. But...
Looking down, the sky gives way to the moonlit, compact body of the little fox before him. That delicate muzzle wears a new look, much different from the trepidacious little vulpine he seemed to be before. His eyes, his sparkling eyes, reflect the soft light from above, and they are looking into our fox's own with a combination of desire and questioning, the lax crescent of a smile stretching the side of his face. Mouth agape in the midst of forming a word now forgotten, he just stays still and tries to cope with the fact that the little fox is gently nuzzling his scrotum from underneath with one of his feet, using his toes to roll each testicle to and fro, simultaneously inauspicious and naughty. He simply has no capacity to answer.
The little guy continues his suggestive rubbing and says, "You did say you're from the city, so you probably need it more than I do. I did it once earlier today, but I don't know about you."
"Done...done what?" the tone of his voice is relatively normal, the curiosity to find out what his friend is talking about overruling the attention between his legs. He does have an idea, though.
"Played by myself, silly! You know...like mating, only without a female. Haven't you ever done that?" The difference between "by myself" and "with myself" is obviously lost to the tod. Tilting his head like a puppy for sale, the little fox curls and uncurls his toes, massaging our fox's cock from the inside. He can't believe this not-so-innocent misunderstanding.
"Sure, all the time, but...is this what you meant when you said 'play?'" Just to make sure, though the signs are more than clear.
"Of course! What else could I mean?" Apparently, the word "play" has a plethora of connotations in this world. There is an uneasiness in our fox's gut now, a small roiling sensation that, if he were in his human form, would be discomfort and slight disgust that a male--a male of any species--was propositioning him to fool around. But it manifests itself as nothing more than slight indigestion, and never registers up front as anything more. It does seem a perfectly reasonable request, if that's what the little fox wants. Nothing inherently wrong in that. The man's wife and children would have a different opinion, but they don't exist on the night of the full moon.
Whatever reason he may have for refusing such a generous offer, it is overshadowed by the simple fact that the stroking of his sheath and balls, the first such intimate touch in his vulpine form, feels really good. The smooth sliding of flesh from the inside of him against the warm confines of his hidden member is just as pleasant as it normally would be, but so much more...raw. He asks himself why in the hell he never thought to try out his new bits on all his previous jaunts, and regrets the lost experiences. But a whole new experience sits right in front of him, touching him, just begging him to join in. It's all in good fun, after all. Suddenly gender does not matter much.
And he did want a playmate, didn't he?
The larger fox finally relaxes, leaning back and letting his crotch shift forward enough to put additional pressure against the footpaw, which concentrates its motions to provide the most efficient delivery of pleasure possible. It curls around his balls, underneath and over again, then presses directly into his sheath, which has already filled substantially and betrayed his alter-ego's orientation. The fact that the fox's human form is passively hostile to homosexuality has no bearing on the current circumstances; the irony is almost palpable. "Okay..."
"Yay!" shouts the little fox, moving away to jump to his feet in a semi-feral stance, not showing any arousal in the least. "So, who's going first?" pressing still, anxious to start playing, looking down at his larger partner with youthful expectation and seemingly boundless energy.
What do I do? he thinks. This is not something I can just dive into; I have no idea how thin the ice is, or if there is any at all.. Is it even possible that something he did would offend the little guy so much as to scare him off? He isn't even sure he how it will feel once he gets going. "Why don't you just take the lead, and I'll follow, huh?" he suggests, standing as well, hands on hips. "Show me how you do it." The kid leading the adult, he thinks again, but knows it's the best way.
"Okay!" barks the little fox, taking his playmate by the hand and leading him toward the small cliff bordering the riverbed. "I know a better place than these rocks." The two foxes scamper up the steep, moist incline without much effort and climb out to face a large field of long wavy grass. It's the same side of the river from where our fox came originally, before he caught his fish. They meander for about a hundred feet or so before the smaller vulpine crouches on his knees, motioning for his friend to follow.
"Whaddya wanna do?" once again, begging our inexperienced lycanthrope to take the lead. He shrugs in response, giving it back.
"Whatever you want. I'm sure you have something you like."
"Okay." The little fox scoots closer, his tail counterbalancing his knees, his smaller, more compact genitals jiggling from side to side but not moving much. Our fox sees the tod's mild arousal compared with his own, almost-exposed maleness, which is now taken into a soft, delicate grip and squeezed lightly. Pleasure steals the voice from the werefox's muzzle, and he closes his eyes to take in every bit of feeling from that stroking paw. A giggle comes from the owner of that paw, and our fox asks, "What?"
"You like that," simply. He is smiling the full length of his muzzle turned up knowingly. It is incredulous to think anything to the contrary.
"How could I not?" our fox says, taking a glance downward to see a tapered red tip of cock staring back up at him. Already, minute squirts of clear liquid adorn the top of his sheath and the little fox's fingers. He's never seen preseminal fluid before; he's never been one to make it. "But I've never done this as a fox before."
"I've never done it as a human before. How is it?"
Once again, our intrepid fox is at a loss for words. This has to be the oddest sexual encounter he's ever had, aside from the time his human form ordered a female escort and ended up having a steak dinner and an intelligent debate with her over the validity of religion in politics. She wouldn't even let me pay her, he thinks, and suddenly doesn't know what he was thinking in the first place. The little fox still strokes his emerging penis, which is growing by leaps and bounds. He becomes aware of a swelling sensation at the base of it, looks down, and sees a tennis ball-sized lump pop out of his sheath. He knows canine anatomy, but it surprises him nonetheless.
How to begin? "Well," his tail thumping the grass behind and underneath his furry rump, "it's a lot more boring. Most of the time, the woman--female--is on her back, and the male is on top facing her."
"Facing her?" his small friend gasps; this must be a completely new concept to him.
"So they can look at each other while, um, they're mating. It's more intimate that way." Realizing he should be reciprocating at least something, our fox moves a paw around and sets it on the other vulpine's slender hip, skritching the fur there and getting a happy churr in return.
"Mmmm, hee...what's intimate?"
The instant wave of exasperation settles into understanding and pity when our fox concludes that things like love, intimacy and empathy aren't exactly known in the animal kingdom. He pities the little fox his lack of understanding, and gives up trying to explain such abstract human concepts. "Let's just say it feels better."
"Okay. Do you wanna show me intimate?" arching his back and pressing his rear into our fox's paw, encouraging him.
"I suppose we could try at some point. Oh, man..." The paw is now in direct contact with his flesh, and it's almost overpowering, the pads soft and warm and light, moving at just the right speed to keep the pleasure growing. It feels good, yes, but the human side of our fox's brain, though very minor right now, gets the better of him and guilt sets in. Instead of you shouldn't be doing this, it's adultery of the worst kind!, the only thing his conscience has to say is you should really be giving back in kind, with all he's doing for you. And before he can catch himself, he thrusts his paw between the smaller fox's legs, mashing the bits up against his groin, and the gasping squeal he gets in response makes the move well worth it.
Fingers curl underneath tightly-wrapped testicles, palm grinding against rapidly hardening flesh, it's a much more rewarding experience than he would have thought. His own erection temporarily forgotten, a rush of taboo excitement flows through his body, accompanied by the nervous guilt of doing something one is not supposed to be doing. Watching cable borrowed from the neighbors...pocketing a twenty-dollar bill seen dropped from a pocket...feeling up the family dog...all carry that same adrenaline of impropriety that somehow seems okay when it's being done, when the spur of the moment makes it an intelligent and justified decision.
But this is the middle of the night, in an empty field, under the full moon, and such things need no justification or claim of intelligence. They're just done. And they feel good, and right. Perhaps they are, if only for this moment. Two male foxes masturbating each other...what could be more natural?
The look in the little fox's eyes is pure lust, pure attraction based on sexual arousal. More than a convenient paw, less than a committed lover, but still just as fun. He grinds upwards on his knees, into our fox's bigger hand, and the lycanthrope responds the only way he knows how: rubbing harder.
"Wow, wow..." the small vulpine pants, obviously not used to the touch of a partner with opposable thumbs. Just like on himself, a smaller twin of his own erection pushes back its light creamy protective cover, growing in length and girth and gaining its own tangerine-sized knot. Soon, both foxes are equally exposed, looking the other over silently, each enjoying his friend's presence and the building pleasure. Try as he might, the little fox is gaining momentum with just the regulated stroking, and he does not hide it well.
"Have you ever had someone do this for you?" our fox queries, making conversation to agonize his friend further, knowing well the cues of an approaching climax.
"N-no, not with a paw," is the faltering reply as the little fox loses his voice bit by bit, along with his grip on our hero's cock. That's no big deal; the crafty spirit of Fox has taken him over and he indulges his vulpine side, sparing nothing in bringing the tod closer to the edge. "Just my own...b-but I have had a muzzle, that was nice."
"I can imagine," murrs our fox, imagining what a long, warm muzzle must feel like compared to a human mouth, male or female, still not believing the hedonistic thoughts running through his head. Testosterone is like a drug; that, compared with his transformed body, makes the effect that much greater.
The little fox's tail is still now, his ears flicking frontwards and backwards, struggling to fold back and hold back his imminent loss of control, and he fails in stages. No more words; his arms are raised in a useless defensive position, his head tilted up; our fox's pawpads are slick with lubrication. Small puffs of almost-steamy breath escape his muzzle; the musk of fox is everywhere around them.
"Oh!" And that's all there is to it. Like an implosion within his body, the little fox slouches down, then pitches forward onto all fours in the grass. He thrusts once and holds his hips in that position, quivering with the effort of holding still while his cock wants to pump and spasm. Panting in short, ragged breaths, the grimace of his scrunched snout belies the ropes of almost luminescent seed forming a ragtag tic-tac-toe grid on the ground.
Our fox slows his paw, then stops and just squeezes, an odd sense of empathic satisfaction filling his body as he watches his little friend's balls empty. After a few more elongated seconds, the larger vulpine decides it's time to let go, leaving a very grateful partner on all fours to recuperate. Meanwhile, finding himself with a free extremity, our fox subconsciously goes to his own cock while he watches his prostrate friend, not knowing what he's doing until he feels the pleasure of his own touch. He looks at the good seven inches of meat staring back at him and smiles, temporarily forgetting his human counterpart's meager five-incher...no sheath, no knot, nothing.
Running together through the forest now seems painfully blasé in hindsight.
The little fox collapses onto his right side, facing our protagonist as he says, "Where did you learn how to do it like that?"
Like what? What just happened was Masturbation 101. But then again, this fox probably isn't used to handjobs, or opposable thumbs for that matter. "Practice," he replies simply, and hopes to leave it at that.
"I liked it. I liked it a lot. I can't wait to do 'intimate' again. When do you have to go back?" There is a trace of genuine regret in his voice, and more than a trace in our own fox's thoughts. But first things first.
"That wasn't very intimate, what I just did to you." At least, not very intimate in his opinion, but out here in the forest even the simplest of concepts has little definition, or none at all.
"Really?" the smaller fox gasps, flicking his ears back uneasily. His posture indicates he thinks he might not be up for real intimacy, if they haven't even approached it yet. His limp sheath sure seems reluctant, too. "I'm afraid to ask."
"Intimacy involves the bodies of both partners," our fox dives right on in, remarking inwardly that this discussion would never leave his human side's thoughts, if a reason to do so were to arrive at all. "Usually, they're...um, connected, so they can both feel good, just like I made you feel."
"'Cept you're inside me!" exclaims the other fox, sitting upright suddenly in a sparkling moment of clarity. "I've done that before, but I didn't know it was called that."
Stuttering for a composed response to that revelation, the werefox cannot think of a thing to say. If his new friend is any indication, then the age-old question of homosexuality in the animal kingdom is answered. But is it physical need, or is there some attraction? No time for pondering now; all he knows is that what he thought was an innocent little fox is a pretty experienced sexual being in matters male. Now, there's a question: "Have you ever mated with a female?"
"No," curtly, shaking his head. "None of them found me attractive. But a couple tods did, and they wanted to play when their vixens were out of season. Coupla wolves, too." Dear lord, I don't want to know about that, our fox thinks, finding it oddly interesting nonetheless. He relaxes his posture, and feels the strain of a full erection pulling down on his sheath. It reminds him that he has unattended needs yet.
"So," he starts, thinking how am I going to ask this, "You're up for a little more, right?" Just the right amount of seductive suggestion and implied reciprocation injected into the statement, and the smile on the little fox's muzzle answers for him. Russet-furred tails begin to wag in unison, a common vulpine cleverness passed between two sets of slitted glowing eyes, and without another word the smaller lycanthrope slinks up to our hero and nuzzles gently under his chin, making him churr before he has a chance to hold it back.
A paw cupping the bundled fur of his retracted sheath is electric, purposeful. Three clawless fingers skritch the wrinkled and short-furred skin, drawing it up tight against the back of his knot, and he holds the other fox by the shoulders when he sidles up close.
"Wow, this is so cool with my new paws," the tod utters, testing his longer, more flexible fingers by wrapping them around the maleness and stroking almost exactly as our fox did to him earlier. He can already feel the dull heat building between his legs, the gradual gathering of tension like a trebuchet being rigged, except its load will be something slightly more liquid than traditional. Taking the time (and effort) to look down, he can see the other fox's black pads shiny with his precum in the moonlight. The little vulpine giggles and grins at the result of his efforts, and keeps the pace.
This continues, it seems to our protagonist, for an eternity. The two foxes sit in the tallgrass, wrapped in each other, one of them riding undulating waves of pleasure and the other adjusting his grip to make those waves last. Every once in a while a soft yip or groan issues from one or both of them, the only sounds to give away their presence there. Riding the night sky into the realm of early morning, the moon sits heavily just above the horizon, lingering as if by a tenuous string for just a little longer until it must give way to the light of a new dawning day.
"Can we intimate now?" asks the little fox in a sugary-sweet innocent kind of way, mildly jarring in its sudden utterance so that the larger fox finds his growing pleasure rudely interrupted. He doesn't wait for an answer, letting go of the maleness and positioning himself on all fours, tail raised, as comfortable as if he'd done it a thousand times before. Our fox thinks that may be the case; if not for a thousand, then a few.
His heart leaps into his throat even as his cock jumps a few inches, renewed. The sight of that creamy crevice, formed so perfectly by three separate appendages, tucked nice and tight and inviting, makes his muzzle start to water from denial. What the hell is wrong with me? the small human inside his brain asks, but the rest of his mind won't give up an answer...just the obvious solution to his erection problem. Go for it. Really, is there anything to lose?
"Sure, we can be intimate now, but you don't have to be on your knees."
The little fox looks back over one cocked shoulder, the white tip of his tail snapping like a flag in the wind. It's almost too sultry. "How do you want me?"
"On your back," says our fox, crawling over to his friend and helping him into position, beating down errant blades of grass that seem to sprout up wherever their bodies don't cover the ground. The little fox is wholly interested in this new position, never before having had the body to pull it off. He lets our fox slide him around on his back, put his legs up on sturdy shoulders, and lean down over him. The tip of his foxhood prods unintentionally, a point of white heat between his legs, and both gasp harmonically at the realization of their impending coupling.
"Would you be mad at me if I said I'm scared?" looking up at his larger companion, seeming frail and meek for just that moment. But it is the kind of erotic anxiety that communicates a desire that much more strongly, the kind of sign that says, "do it to me and take my fears away."
Giving a nervous bark of a laugh, his foxhood already prelubing its future home, our hero admits, "That makes two of us. I've never done this before. This is crazy."
"I thought you said you had!" almost panicked.
"Oh, I have, just not with another guy." The remark escapes easily from his lips, and our fox realizes the novelty in what he's about to do. He whimpers and his hips jerk, stabbing the smaller fox's rear and sinking in an inch without withdrawing.
The result is not what would normally be expected from such a sudden penetration. As the larger fox prepares a barrage of apologies, he hears only a sharp breath and a very satisfied, elongated vulpine moan. The little fox's body, having gone rigid, practically melts under his weight and invites our fox to settle down onto him, which he does, albeit with more caution than before.
First to go through his mind is why, exactly, did I ever think straight sex was the be-all end-all of pleasure? This is immediately followed by because you're straight the rest of the month, stupid...tonight is apparently an exception. Squirming underneath his sprawled body, the other fox appears to be in the throes of some very good sensations, and for a moment our fox envies the little guy his ability to enjoy such treatment. But then he lowers his hips another couple of inches, sinks even deeper into that vulpine furnace, and lets out a surprisingly satisfied moan of his own.
A faint fairy-touch tingle on his forehead signals the emergence of sweat, defying the cold air around them. Our fox watches the rainbow of expressions crossing the other fox's muzzle with intense scrutiny, always on the lookout for the flat ears, the wrinkled snout, the bared fangs of a pain that is definitely not good. But it never comes: between halting breaths, wide unblinking eyes and an unfaltering, unbelieving smile, the little fox gives no indication he wants to stop, or even let up. It brings a smile to our fox's face as well, to see such a raw manifestation of the pleasure given by him. Only when the little fox pauses does a small cloud of disappointment darken his eyes.
"What's wrong?" concerned but not knowing what about.
"Is it in? I mean, really in?" a tickling under our fox's sac evidences the tod's hopeful curiosity in tail form. It sweeps along the ground, brushing him from balls to tail and curling up submissively over his rump. The larger vulpine adjusts his knees and pushes. Holding his breath, the little fox tenses, and his tailhole twitches around the maleness...the entire length of it, save the still-forming knot at the base. A look downward affirms the question.
"All the way."
"Mmm, I missed this," murmurs the little fox, obviously remembering some other encounter with another male fox...or wolf, apparently. He spreads his legs wider, holding them there with his paws, and another half inch of foxmeat gains entry. Our fox's knees, indeed his entire lower body, trembles with the effort of maintaining his kneel. Shuffling, he moves into a more upright position, all the while buried to the hilt within his smaller partner, amused the whole time at the various and assorted noises coming from the little penetrated vulpine.
Our fox wastes little time in beginning his tried-and-true slow milk-thrusting, which is really the only way he's ever started sex. Keeping a consistent cant to his hips, he maintains a single angle for a bit, searching for the jump in pleasure that tells him he's on the right path to climax. Already his legs are burning, not used to holding such an awkward position. In the back of his mind, he attributes this to his human half's wife's recent tear about being the one on top. She's responsible for your dwindling muscles, the voice says, but like always, the fox easily ignores this weak excuse.
"Ah...ahh!..." The little fox's teeth are bared, but he shows absolutely no trace of disliking the slow, torturous fucking he's being given. His rear twitches around our fox's rather large intrusion, making his withdrawals almost too much in the way of intensity, and he finds himself speeding up to compensate, which only drives him further up into a higher level of intensity. There is no escaping that little fox's hot vacuum of a tailhole, which clings to every inch of his maleness with the abandon of someone who is used to this sort of treatment. Not once is he told to slow down or stop, even though the larger fox feels the need to rest at intervals because of his sore thighs and aching knees.
Deeper he drives, or at least he tries to, wishing there were just a little bit more cock to shove into the little fox, knowing it would only be better for them both. The smaller vulpine, in between squeaks of joy, lets his legs go and moves his paws underneath his rump, lifting his lower body just enough for a new, even more effective, angle. Now as our horny fox finds his hips given up to a desire as old and natural as life itself, he feels a hard knobby something pressing into the head of his cock every time he bottoms out. Assuming it is the little fox's prostate, his assumption collaborated by the helpless grunts and shots of precum coating the creamy chest fur below him, he aims for that spot and that spot alone, enjoying the massage it's giving his tapered tip.
"Did...it ever, *huh*...feel like this be...before?" our fox manages between pants, hoping the conversation will stave off climax for just a bit longer. He's losing that battle in leaps and bounds; nothing short of stopping will reverse that, and he is not about to just stop when he's making this little fox so squirmingly happy.
Ears back flat in submissive concentration, the tod can barely keep his eyes open and focused upwards. Even though the two are looking directly at each other, the little fox's gaze is glazed and a million miles away from their makeshift clearing in the grass. Squinting, wide open, squinting again, his tongue flaccidly flapping out one side of his muzzle, little droplets of saliva wetting the grass underneath, he tries to form some kind of coherent answer, but the ability to speak has escaped him for the time being.
In an attempt to jar the little fox back to reality, without thinking (or maybe I wanted to do that after all, he thinks anyway) or pausing in his mad thrusting, our protagonist lowers his head to the little fox's cock (which, of course, is now fully exposed once again) and gives it one long, loving, full-tongue lick from knot to tip. The organ is comfortably warm, slippery and salty, and he can taste remnants of his paw on the flesh from earlier. The sound the tod makes in response is akin to a deep-throated death rattle, like he has sucked the bulk of his tongue into his throat, and his arms flail about on either side of him.
"Nnuh...uuhhn...huh! Yyyip!" It seems that's all the response our fox is going to get, because as he's getting ready to remove his muzzle, the top of his mouth is coated with something warm, wet and potent. He lifts up just in time to see the little tod's head arched back, his ears digging into the crushed grass, as splatters of slightly watery foxcum coat his chin like gossamer spiderwebs. Several shots drape themselves over the end of the smaller fox's snout, inhaled almost immediately. Other, less powerful, shots crisscross his chestruff and taper off down to his navel. Through it all, the little guy is surprisingly quiet: he jerks bodily to and fro, threatening to tear our fox out by the roots, but never says a word. Nothing comprehensible, anyway.
Our fox lifts his head to ease a crick in his neck, and licks at the vulpine essence on his hard palate. It is still warm and very flavorful, but he can't place the taste as anything definite...nothing describable by human standards, anyway. It's musky, male, all the things one would expect from seed. And it slides down his throat oh so easily.
Not stopping even for a moment, finally feeling free to drive himself home, he can concentrate on himself now. All this time, while watching the tod climb the ladder of pleasure only to explode just from a really good prostate massage, he has kept himself just at or below what was needed to put himself over the edge. He has also been wondering about whether he should try and utilize that convenient knot of his. How, exactly, does one perform a tie for the first time? Should I go for it, or just pull and paw? Once again he looks to the exhausted tod's eyes for one answer or the other, but they neither confirm nor deny his wishes.
Only one way to find out, so our fox bears forward and down, spacing his thrusts apart and putting more pressure on the downward portion of each. The little fox's eyes widen slightly, knowingly, and it is amazing how he responds by spreading himself wider, pushing hard to meet our fox in the middle. Now his eyes say go for it...make me yours, big boy...or that may just be his testicles talking. Either way, he's got half his knot in and there's plenty of room for more.
A sense of urgency passes unsaid between the two foxes' bodies now, and our hero discovers he is much closer to the end than previously thought. The build in tension is the same, but he is totally unprepared for the sudden contractions from deep within his groin. He stops at the apex of a thrust...holds it and pushes, urging his partner to do the same, and waits as flesh gives way to flesh. His cock is already spasming, but the intensity continues to build without the aid of friction. Just an inch more...
And he almost collapses when the little fox's hole closes around the trailing edge of his knot and sucks the remaining length in. His body turns freezing cold, his hackles standing at attention as he floofs up to twice his size. The effect ripples through, and our fox has the distinct pleasure of feeling his sac pull up into him, feeling the semen pumped to his cock, and he has but to stay still as the orgasm takes care of itself. Digging great clods of soil into his claws, his tail raised high in rump-exposing dominance, he can feel the constant swelling of his tie, and the elimination of seed from his denied testicles, new heat surrounding the end of his maleness. He tugs on it just in case, but it will not budge.
The little fox gives a sigh of contentment, lending an air of completion to the act. His eyes are closed, his breathing rapidly becoming regulated and deep. He can't fall asleep on me now, our fox thinks, we have to wait this thing out. Then his abused knees start to scream at him, and he gingerly moves them both onto their sides. To his chagrin, the tod only rustles but does not appear willing to pull himself out of the afterglow. And even more to his chagrin, our fox starts to feel the same way. All that running, chasing, and now all this intense "playing." It must have taken more out of him than just one pent-up load.
Well, maybe if I just stay still we'll come apart sooner, he thinks, and shudders from a sudden breeze that penetrates his fur all the way to the skin. Curling up against the smaller form facing him, he puts his head on the vulpine's compact, sticky chest and listens to the little heart beating away, getting slower and slower as their bodies return to normal...
Something sharp and scratchy is tickling his ear, but he can't quite pull himself out of sleep's embrace to fix the annoyance. His dreams are multitudinous and unremarkable, but all carry an innate sense of wildness, and abandon, and a generic eroticism he can't explain. Fleeting images stab his subconscious, none of them explicable or memorable.
And then, just as sudden as anything, it all turns orange. It is a familiar orange, the kind of orange created by sunlight filtered through closed eyelids.
He ventures a peek, and the first thing he sees is grass, stomped flat, and the tickling in his ear is still there, still annoying. Turning his head to alleviate it, squinting in the early morning sunshine, he has a moment of perfect clarity when his brain tries to tell him this is exactly where he is supposed to be, as if he had planned it. But then he can't remember why he would be here, or where here is, and panic stabs at his chest. Rolling his over onto his back, he realizes he is stark naked and sits up.
After the rush of draining blood from his head subsides, as well as the stars floating in his vision, he takes stock of the clearing: Just enough space for a couple bodies and nothing else...and then he spies the fox.
It--well, him, judging by the equipment between his splayed legs--lies on its back, seemingly out like a light, snoring softly. The thing is small, but about average for a fox, but what it's doing here in the same clearing with him, nude, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. What is that stickiness, anyway? A part of his mind starts rushing to put pieces together, but he can't quite believe what his overactive imagination is telling him. The worst part is that he can be sure that at least part of his thoughts are true...which parts, though, he may never know.
He rolls to his knees, which protest loudly and painfully at the change in position. Funny, they never hurt like that before. The grasses grind and scratch his bare pink skin, and he mutters, "Ow."
The fox is up at once, skittering to the edge of the clearing and watching the heavyset human with suspicious curiosity. Equally curious, and despite his bewildered state, the man has an almost irresistible urge to want to touch the little furry creature, to sit with it and pet it like a small dog. He holds out one pudgy hand, unaware that he looks like a complete fool, and beckons the creature closer.
"Come on...I won't hurt you...come on," he singsongs in the most harmless voice he can muster, and the thing actually seems to obey him. Nose twitching, but tail warily tight between his legs, the little fox pads through the grass, slitted yellow eyes all over the place. It sniffs carefully, seems to recognize his scent for some reason, and even licks at his fingertips.
"See, I won't hurt you," repeats the man, and the fox, emboldened, makes a circle around him, testing the ground and his body for scents. It seems he remembers what happened last night, at least partially. As he completes his circuit, the fox darts between the man's legs, nudges his snout under his balls, and licks the head of his flaccid penis. All this happens within one second, and when the little tod darts out again and sits facing the man, he's showing pink from a compact, if nicely formed, sheath.
"Oh, no. I didn't," says the man, burying his face in his hands. He feels a mixture of disgust, incredulity and horniness all rolled up into one, and he takes a few seconds to imagine what this little fox is telling him happened last night. He was prepared for it, like he is every month, but there's always that nagging little problem about not remembering what he does in his other form that really gets to him. "So now I'm screwing the wildlife," he chuckles, amused at the full-mast boner he now sports thanks to the feral fox. He tugs on it, all five inches of its taut circumcised skin, and wonders if it was good at all. But a male? That just raises more questions without answers.
"Well, whatever we did," he says to the fox who listens with perked ears, "it must have been worth it. Thank you, I guess." He stands up, and after one more glance at the funny pink-skinned thing towering above him, the fox scampers off, russet tail like an antenna parting the grass in long leaping bounds. "I just wish I could fucking remember what I do during the full moon."
At least he recognizes where he is, and thank God he didn't end up too far from the road. Judging by the angle of the sun, he has about forty-five minutes to get to work. It's Wednesday morning, the most boring morning at his firm as far as workload goes. "An eight-hour lunch break," he tells his wife, and she humors him by acknowledging the joke. He'll be able to make it, if he hurries out of this field and gets to his car on time.
Starting through the grass, careful not to let the stalks stab his feet, he picks out the most direct route to his car and follows it as best he can. His clothes will hide any dirt he collects on the way, and there's a shower in his building to get rid of everything else...including the now-explained odiferous stickiness on his chest and head. I bet no one else at the office has to deal with this shit, he sulks, but then chuckles to himself as his mind wanders on all the myriad possibilities of last night's excursion.
He'll probably never really know, and that strikes him as overtly humorous. He shakes his head, an overweight, middle-aged naked man walking through a field from one life to another. Maybe all that shit isn't so bad.
FIN
1/10-5/31/06