FSE

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Darren grinned as another guy walked away pouting. He hadn't even made it from the door to the bar yet and already he'd turned down three propositions. The new outfit had definitely been worth the year of saving up--its lines accented his already-striking appearance, and the stretchy fabric exposed just enough bulge to make you desperately want to find out what all it was hiding.

Not that he really needed fancy clothes. Not when he'd been hitting the gym so much. Not here in Pleasure Island, where everybody was a fur-lover. Not when he'd been experimenting over and over until he'd finally hit on the combination of BFP flavors that made him into seven feet of muscle wrapped up in sex and tiger stripes.

But so far everybody who'd approached him had been middling at best, the kind of guy he'd usually be going for. Tonight, he wanted someone a cut above normal. Tonight he was going to catch someone really special.

He leaned over the bar and gave a toothy leer to the bartender. It was one of those apron-wearing red foxes nobody could ever keep straight--Ricky, or Martin, or maybe Quentin. Didn't matter, they all served drinks and all wore the same ingratiating smile all the time.

Though this one seemed to have forgotten his, as he was instead staring open-mouthed at Darren's chest. Darren bounced it a little and threw him a wink.

The fox's eyes widened. Then his jaw snapped shut and he looked down shyly. He gulped.

Darren smirked. He could get used to this.

After a moment of silent struggle, the fox raised his head again, his expression restored to his friendly bartender smile.

"What can I get you, sir?" he asked.

"Something special," Darren said. "I've a feeling I'm gonna get real lucky tonight." He fished two quarters out of his pocket and pushed them across the bar. "Whatever that gets me. Keep the change."

The fox's brows rose. "Thank you, sir. You are most generous," he said. Then his smile turned mischievous. "I think I know exactly the drink for you. It will take just a few minutes."

Darren nodded and slid onto a stool, turning to look out over the club. There wasn't a show going on at the moment, just the furry sea of patrons scattered about the tables and milling around the stage. Nobody there really caught his eye. Maybe he should try for one of the dancers later? That kangaroo was seriously hot. Or maybe...

"Hey," he said, spinning back toward the bartender.

"Yes, sir?" The bartender flicked an ear and glanced up from the multicolored forest of bottles he was busy mixing together.

"Is that guy running the DJ table taken?" Darren asked. "Like, is he exclusive with anybody?"

Darren hadn't seen him at first, tucked into his alcove near the back--but that dog was definitely something special. Killer body, sensuous smile, and big floppy ears that made Darren just want to--

"Rufus?" the fox asked. He frowned down at the bottles, ears tilting back momentarily. "I don't think so, sir. But really, you'd have to ask."

"Hrm." Darren turned his head to peer through the crowd again, but after a few minutes it became clear he'd need to get closer if he wanted a good look at the DJ.

"Sir, your drink is ready."

Darren turned around to see the fox set down a low, wide-mouthed tumbler half full of some dark red concoction, then pull a small striker out from under the bar and let a few sparks fall into the liquid. Pale green flames sprung up on its surface. He pushed the glass across the bar to Darren.

Darren raised a brow quizzically.

The bartender winked at him. "Kitsunebi," he said. "Foxfire Special. It's a secret family recipe. Down it before the flame goes out, it won't burn you."

Darren pondered the drink for a moment, then shrugged. Might as well start a night of fiery passion with a glass of fiery kitschy...whatever. He picked up the glass and drained it in one draught.

It was spicy and warm and musky and hit like a bear with a sledgehammer. And the bartender had been right--he didn't feel it burn at all. Of course, pretty soon he didn't feel much of anything else either.

---

Darren blinked up at the ceiling.

The pattern of peeling paint didn't seem familiar, but that wasn't really unusual. Since coming to Paradise he'd woken up in a lot of different beds staring up at a lot of different ceilings. Still having his boxers on when he did was new, though.

He raised a hand to his face and a broad tiger paw came into view. He flexed the claws. Definitely his. Which meant the BFP hadn't worn off, and it wasn't morning yet. He let the paw thump back onto the bed. What the hell had he been drinking? Whatever it was had left him floating in a fuzzy pool of warmth.

"You awake?" asked a voice. It was a light tenor, somehow familiar. Darren frowned muzzily and turned his head toward it.

Next to the bed, a chintzy wooden table held an equally chintzy lamp that provided the only illumination in the room. Beyond the lamp was a stuffed chair, scuffed and threadbare. Sitting in the chair was a red fox. He was looking at Darren with a self-satisfied smirk, occasionally sipping something from a ceramic mug.

Oh. It was that bartender. Ricky or Martin or Quentin or whatever. Darren furrowed his brow. At least he thought it was the same one? His apron was the same color, anyway. Darren mentally shrugged and relaxed back against the bed. Whatever. Just call this one Ricky.

"Feeling anything yet?" Ricky asked. "Tingly fur? Dry mouth? Insatiable lust? No?" He sighed. "Maybe I should have put in less tequila."

Darren frowned, a memory tickling at the back of his mind. He turned his head to look at Ricky again.

"Did you...did you drug me?" he asked.

"Yes. A little magic, but mostly drugs."

"Oh." Darren nodded. That did explain things. He settled back onto the bed.

After a moment, another thought swam up into his head. He twisted to the side, propping himself up on an elbow facing the fox.

"Why?" he asked.

Ricky sighed. Then he set his mug on the table and leaned forward, elbows on knees, to stare intently at Darren.

"Because you look fucking amazing," he said.

Darren blinked. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that from someone. But the fox's dead-serious expression made his cheeks and ears burn anyway.

The fox continued, "Now, I'm not above slipping someone a ruffy colada if I'm behind on taxes. But this time..." He shook his head. "I've been watching you come to Pleasure Island for a while now. You've clearly been putting work in. Every week you get a little bigger. Every week you get a little bolder. This week you finally come out really strutting your stuff, and... I just didn't want to watch yet another incredible stud end up going home with Rufus, okay? That bastard gets enough hot fur already. So I struck first. Call it jealousy."

"Oh." Darren considered this. Should he be angry? He felt like he should be angry. He shifted restlessly. After all, he'd been drugged, abducted, and dragged to a thrift-shop sex dungeon. On the other hand, there wasn't actually anything keeping him here--and hadn't he been looking for sex anyway? He shifted again. This weird hot itchy sensation was making it really hard to think, or even stay still. And he was getting seriously horny.

Ricky leaned back in the chair, a wry smile twisting his mouth. "I don't even know why I'm explaining myself to you," he said. "With what you drank you won't remember anything in the morning anyway. The boss doesn't let me do anything that might lose us a customer."

The restless heat grew, and suddenly Darren couldn't take it any more. If the fox wanted a hot stud, then Darren would give him one. It didn't matter how he got here. He'd pound the little jerk ass-and-muzzle until he begged for mercy--and then laugh and do it again.

Darren levered himself up, the bed creaking as his feet thudded to the floor. He fixed Ricky with a commanding stare.

"You don't want to lose a customer?" he said, "Fine. Then you owe me a night at least as good as the one I'd have gotten with that dog." He crooked a claw impatiently. "C'mon. Get over here and take it like a good little puppy."

Ricky's eyes widened and a bark of laughter escaped his lips. Gracefully he rose to his feet, fixing Darren with a wicked grin.

"Oh? Don't you want to inspect the goods first?" he asked.

Darren growled and started to stand up. "No. Now stop stalling and... uh?"

Darren stopped and gaped. Ricky had unsnapped the top of his apron, letting it fall to his waist--and Darren abruptly found himself unable to look away from broad shoulders, a surprisingly meaty chest, and gentle ripples of fur-covered abs that lead down to where the apron was clearly the only thing hiding a very interesting bulge. Ricky swayed and stretched, arms rising above his head in a languid motion that somehow made each taut muscle stand out. Then, he slowly turned around. His tail swayed gently as he lowered his arms and began to untie the apron string.

Some part of Darren knew that the fox was not the A-triple-plus hunk he'd been shooting for. The majority of him didn't care, because this fox was, right now, the hottest fur in all of Paradise, and trying to catch a glimpse of what that fluffy tail was hiding was occupying all of Darren's dazed and drooling attention.

Eventually the knot came undone. Ricky cast a sly glance back over his shoulder, let the apron drop, and turned around.

It was perfect. He was perfect. Darren's own raging hardon was sticking out three inches above his waistband but the only cock he could think of was the fox's, swaying gently as its owner glided toward him. He reached out his paws for it. He wanted to touch it. To lick it all over. To take it in his mouth and feel it grow hard as his tongue--

"Down, kitty." A paw pushed against his forehead, unexpectedly strong, and Darren found himself sitting back on the bed. A sound that might have been a whine escaped his muzzle. He shifted uncomfortably and gazed up into the fox's eyes, just inches from his own. The hot-itchy-horny feeling was almost unbearable now.

Ricky smirked, and reached a paw around Darren's head to scritch at the back of his ears. The tiger shivered in pleasure. "Don't worry, kitty," Ricky murmured. "You'll get that later, if you're good. But first things first."

Darren was panting now. "Don't call me ki--"

His weak protest was cut off as Ricky leaned down and pressed his open muzzle against Darren's, tangling the tiger's tongue in a kiss that tasted like green tea and fox-spice. Darren returned the favor hungrily, broad paws clutching at the fox as he tried his best to taste and devour every part of him.

And then Ricky's other paw was tracing lazy spirals down the tiger's stomach, hot itching turning to lightning shocks of pleasure as it passed. When it finally reached its hard, dribbling destination, all of Darren's thoughts went up like moths in a bonfire.

---

"Kitschy Bee? I'm sorry sir, I've never heard of it." The bartender smiled at Darren dubiously. "Are you sure you got it here?"

Darren growled in frustration. He'd come back to Pleasure Island twice already now, but he couldn't find out anything about either the drink or the bartender who'd served it to him. Not that he remembered much of that evening at all. But to judge from the state he'd found himself in the next morning, it had definitely been one hell of night. He hadn't been able to sit down for two days.

"No, look," he said. "It was a red drink, in a glass about that high." Darren pointed at a tumbler behind the bar. "He lit it on fire. It burned green."

The fox--Victor? Donny? Simba? Who knew which one--furrowed his brow. "On fire?" he asked. "We don't serve any--oh! Just a moment, please." He turned around and stuck his head through a curtained doorway behind the bar. "Ricky!" he called. After a short pause he pushed through the curtain, and Darren heard his slightly muffled voice from the other side. "Hey! Ricky! We still got that specials menu from when Quentin was here?"

After a minute or so, a different fox emerged from behind the curtain. At least, Darren thought it was a different one. He had a different color apron on anyway.

The second fox approached Darren and smiled at him. "Were you the one asking about the flaming cocktail, sir?" he asked. Darren nodded.

"Then I apologize," the fox said, his smile turning sad. "We did have someone who used to serve a drink like you describe, but he left months ago. Regrettably, none of the rest of us know how to make it. Might I suggest something else instead? A shot of our fine bourbon, or perhaps the White Thunder Margarita?"

Darren sighed and scrubbed at his face with his paws. "No. Never mind, I'll just--"

"He'll have a glass of the Chateau du Chien Noir."

Darren looked over toward the smooth voice. A floppy-eared basset hound was sitting at the bar next to him, grinning as he swirled a glass of wine. He was also smoking hot and wearing a fishnet top that left very little to the imagination.

"Best they've got here. My treat," he said, and stuck out a paw. "Name's Rufus."

Darren felt a smile tugging on his lips. He sat down.

"Darren," he said. He took the dog's paw in his own and shook.

By the time they left the club together an hour later, neither was in any state to notice the smirking fox behind the bar blowing them a raspberry.