FSE

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The assistant to the casting director opened the door to the waiting room, looked at her clipboard, and said in an I'd-rather-be-somewhere-else tone of voice, "Mr. Sampson." The girl, a striped hyena, then looked incuriously around to see if any heads had shot up. "You're up."

Jonathan watched without really paying attention as the handsome fox seated across from him got up and headed for the door, tail swishing and silky hair flowing. Jonathan was a bit intimidated by Mr. Sampson just like he was intimidated by misters Brant, Schultz and Carla before him. They'd all been in their late teens to early twenties, all handsome, all charming as hell with theater and artsy films in their portfolios.

By comparison, Jonathan Fretcher had only a handful of roles in daytime dramas, as he liked to call them. Everybody but the most easily-impressed of strangers immediately knew he meant soap operas but the euphemism was usually humored, his ego handled politely. His attempt to break out into what he thought of real entertainment was not unrealistic. He was barely into his thirties, still handsome and charming. This was according to the friends he had and some of his alumni from his daytime dramas.

He folded one long leg over the other and flipped open the glossy magazine-like script again. He had never been in anything but a daytime drama, certainly not an experimental music video like what the glossy script defined, but he could see himself in the role. A Victorian setting, him the meek but gentlemanly researcher attempting to banish an unspeakable evil played by a distasteful singer with whom Jonathan was vaguely familiar. But the money would be good, and more importantly, the role notable. He could imagine it as his big break.

The door opened. "Mr. Fretcher, you're up."

The mink closed the book. He felt like a boy again, being called back to see the doctor. His heart thudded in his temples, making him wish he had brought some ibuprofen with him. He meant to ask the hyena if she had any, his reasoning being that anybody in show business regardless of position must experience headaches, but she was terse and conversation was uninvited.

"Follow me," she said boredly. "Mr. Carol doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Jonathan was familiar with Raleigh Carol, at least in name. He had heard Carol was a bear with a stern eye for talent and a deaf ear for bullshit. The mink was prepared to go in admitting he was in virgin territory. Rumor had it Carol appreciated the honesty, and as good as Jonathan felt, he needed all the help he could get.

The assistant opened a thick oak door and let Jonathan inside. "Thank you," the mink said politely, but the girl had already walked off.

"Mr. Fretcher, is it?" asked the bear behind the desk. He was a polar bear. Jonathan was discombobulated already, having imagined a big, jowly grizzly. Raleigh was still a jowly and plump man but his fur was a pleasant, pure white shade, his face friendly in a grandfatherly fashion. "Let's get right down to brass tacks here." He nodded aside. Jonathan followed his gaze, saw the singer sitting on the couch and looking at his cell phone like a bored teenager. "Mr. Fretcher, meet Kahnso."

"Hello, nice to meet you," Jonathan said. Good impressions meant everything. He shook paws with Mr. Carol - not too firm, not limp-wristed - and strode across the office to Kahnso. Stuck his paw out. Was dismissed by a glance from Kahnso which seemed to place him in the same category as homeless beggars and the smell of flatulence.

"Mr. Carol," he strode back to the bear confidently, his usual charming smile at a respectable fraction of its power, "I'll be honest with you-."

"You'll be in new territory. I'm aware. I did look over your portfolio myself, Mr. Fretcher," the bear noted, politeness ruling his voice despite his interruption of the mink. "Starring in a concept music video isn't exactly a soap opera experience."

The mink stared at Carol, found him unreadable. His eyes drifted over to Kahnso, the tall and muscular singer still playing on his phone. It was bizarre to see. Jonathan was used to seeing him on television and in tabloids, bloody and in handcuffs or being accused of some repulsive sex crime by a blubbering girl. Sitting on a leather couch, playing on his phone, Jonathan imagined Kahnso currently looked the way he did when he was on the toilet.

"Kahnso," Carol said softly. "What do you think?"

Kahnso looked up, red eyes giving the fresh-faced mink only a cursory scan not unlike the earlier mad-dog dismissal. "Looks like a fag," he mumbled. Then he rubbed his forehead and huffed. "God, I gotta stop drinking."

The epithet gave Jonathan no pause. He was used to blunt remarks about his supposed sexuality. They came with the territory on social media, especially for someone of his minor celebrity and fastidiously groomed looks. "Listen - I'm sure I'd be good for the part, Mr. Carol, Kahnso. I'd like to ask for the chance to audition." He swallowed. "I'd say, given all those young men you saw and sent home, that you still haven't found the right one. Well," he smiled, outstretched his arms, "who better to play a gentleman researcher-."

"I bet you research gentlemen all day long," Kahnso said slyly, never looking up from his phone.

"A gentleman researcher," Jonathan repeated and continued, "than someone a bit older than their twenties? I've played a doctor on television before. Smoked a pipe and everything."

"I still think you're a faggot," the large fox on the couch bluntly reiterated. His bloodshot eyes met Jonathan's suddenly diffident gaze. "But I guess we can try you."

"Yes, we can, especially since Mr. Fretcher is the only one you haven't chased off with your remarks," said Carol politely enough. Jonathan was beginning to feel like the bear was used to dealing with Kahnso. What a saint.

Jonathan flipped through the glossy script. Breathtaking concept art showed the meek researcher who he might play. "Shall I read a few lines?"

The bear nodded, reclined, fingers interlacing over his protruding belly. Kahnso said before the mink could even pick a passage, "I'll hire you if you degrade yourself for me."

Reading this script is pretty degrading, thought the mink. He bit his tongue on that. "Degrade myself?" he cautiously asked - but he had an idea of where this was heading. His anus tensed somewhat.

Kahnso finally put his phone in his pocket. He stood up, grinning. "Carol. Go take a dump or something. I wanna interview the weasel."

"Actually, I'm a mink," Jonathan said amicably. "Would you like to know how to tell?"

The bear got up and waddled around his desk. He patted Jonathan on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, "I wouldn't get cute if I were you. Good luck, son." Then Raleigh was gone, and Jonathan suddenly felt very much alone with the monster. Was this how method acting worked? He certainly felt like a powerless dandy, except he didn't even have science and alchemy to rely on.

"Take off your pants, mink," Kahnso said, stressing the word like a slur. "I'm not joking. You want this part? You're gonna get naked and do what I tell you to do."

"I'd venture to guess those tabloid stories hysterically calling you a rapist have some truth to them," the mink remarked, his smile lame and resigned. "May I say one thing?"

"Guess so." Kahnso sat on Carol's mahogany desk. His arms were folded across his chest, his visage the pissy default expression of a spoiled rock star.

As he spoke, Jonathan undressed from the waist down. First his smart khakis, then his briefs. The mink was quite proud of his nude body, particularly his round behind; undressing even for the casting couch was never much of a problem to him. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant. You're a handsome man. I'm into handsome men." He put on his best, most charming smile: full strength radiance. "I think I can make you feel pretty good and we can both have a good time."

The lack of expression on Kahnso's face made Jonathan think the fox would be a menace at poker. He stepped out of his bottoms but kept his shoes on. His penis dangled flaccid, foreskin obscuring the glans completely. "So? What do you think of that?"

"So you're saying you actually are a faggot then?" A hint of a grin tugged at Kahnso's mouth.

"I like women," Jonathan said with a shrug. "But I enjoy the company of men, too." He moved a bit closer, felt both intimidation and exhilaration fluttering in his chest like a pair of crows battling over a scrap of roadkill. He dared to touch Kahnso's groin. Cranking his most charming smile up to unsafe levels (warp power to the shields he thought almost madly, thinking of his favorite television show in this time of need), he asked steadily, "What's your pleasure, handsome?"

Kahnso looked impassively at Jonathan. The unreadable face, that was what disquieted Jonathan most. In general he was a perceptive creature but Kahnso was utterly blank to him. It was like being unable to tell what color he was; that part of him was simply alien.

Finally the singer asked, "You eat ass?"

It wasn't much of a question, Jonathan knew, but he was happy to hear it. It was one he knew the right answer to. With a grin borne more of relief than lust on his face, he affirmed, "You're damn right, I eat ass. Let's have it."

For a moment longer Kahnso stared at Jonathan and the mink began to think he had misstepped. Admitting he was eager to put his lips on another man's anus - was that the last nail in the coffin? Was it all Kahnso needed to hear before commencing a queer-stomping?

But the fox began to undress. Shirt first, baring a ripped upper body. Jonathan felt over the mild paunch of his lanky body with a hint of envy.

Then Kahnso's pants came off and Jonathan saw the fox's naked groin. A plump sheath and a heavy set of testicles all dressed in downy white fluff hung in the cool air of Carol's office.

Jonathan smiled affably. "Commando, hm? Can't say I do that myself, though-."

"Shut your goddamn mouth for a second," Kahnso groused. He loomed over Jonathan, made him feel like a little boy. It was a rare feeling to Jonathan, whose height often put him head and shoulders above the people he met.

The mink made a gesture of zipping his lip, then pantomimed tossing away an invisible key.

"I'm not a faggot," Kahnso said. The tone brokered no argument, no semantics.

I wouldn't get cute if I were you. Jonathan kept his lips zipped.

"So if I start hearing rumors that I got my asshole tongued by some lame-ass soap opera fag? I'm gonna come find you." His paw clapped down on Jonathan's shoulder, squeezed until the mink winced. "You get it?"

"Hey, hey," Jonathan said in as calming a voice he could muster - he was afraid and it showed. He was afraid like he had never been in all his life, in fact. "What happens between two-," a swallow, and now he forced himself to think of this as just another role, "consenting adults, that's their business. I don't kiss and tell. Or eat ass and tell, in this case."

Kahnso's fingers crept onto Jonathan's neck and the mink thought suddenly and wildly, oh my god he doesn't believe me.

Kahnso held him. Ten seconds. Twenty. Red eyes drilling into Jonathan's diffident gaze like a pair of laser beams.

The fox let go and Jonathan felt relief like he'd never known before. Kahnso walked over to the couch and sat back, hooked a leg over the armrest, said nothing.

Jonathan thought about grabbing his pants and bolting out the door. That fear - he didn't like it, not at all, but he wanted the role. He wanted so dearly to break out of daytime dramas. So he knelt in front of Kahnso, already pushing the paw on his neck from his mind. He lifted the fox's balls. They were sweaty and reeked of musk; god they smelled good. Jonathan smelled them, licked them. He said to Kahnso, "You smell nice. From one perfectly straight man to another."

Thankfully Kahnso smirked. "Sure I do."

Another rush of relief as powerful as the rush of heroin (which Jonathan had never tried, good lord no) washed through the mink's veins. He exhaled. Nuzzled under Kahnso's balls, smelled musk which was thick and fermented. It made him wonder how long the fox had been sitting there playing on his phone for his ass to have such a scent to it. The mink smelled him without really meaning to; it was just a fact of life that you smelled ass when you ate ass. His tongue loped over the rim of Kahnso's pucker, smearing drool across its pink flesh.

Kahnso huffed, closed his eyes, and reclined further into the couch. Jonathan, with balls in his eyes, couldn't see that Kahnso's sheath began to swell a bit. Kahnso said to the mink, "Don't just lick the outside. Get your tongue inside, fucking faggot."

Must you be so hurtful? thought Jonathan.

I wouldn't get cute if I were you repeated Mr. Raleigh Carol in his mind. Things were going smoothly. Deal with the abuse, crush it down, let Kahnso say what he wanted just so long as the role was his.

"Sure thing," Jonathan said cheerfully - what a boon it was to be an actor. He closed his eyes, smelled Kahnso again, pushed his tongue's tip against the rim. A little push, a wiggle, and in his tongue slipped. The musky flavor made him huff, moan. Kahnso's taste was like his musk, earthy and potent. Jonathan's penis stiffened.

"There you go. Eat my ass. Eat me," Kahnso said softly, but there was always the hint of menace in his voice.

Jonathan wondered if this was how he was with those girls. If they felt the same exhilarating fear he felt now, or if it was different with women, if it was just straight abuse, all take no give. The mink dug his tongue in deeper, thinking as he did, can't get cute if my tongue's all tied up, thank god.

"Yeah. Yeah," Kahnso huffed. Now his red penis stuck out of his sheath like lipstick. He fingered it, dug his digit in around his sheath, bulging out its sides and rubbing the pink innards with a blunt claw. "You keep eating that ass. You like that, don't you? Fucking queer."

Matter of fact, I do, thought Jonathan with considerable tartness. He worked his tongue deeper, jaws open wide to facilitate his tonguing. His needle-like teeth prodded into Kahnso's perineum and drool oozed into the fur. He stabbed his tongue deep, slobbered hard, waiting all the time for the singer to fuss about the teeth but he never did.

Kahnso pulled back his sheath. Most of his penis was freed. He tugged on the sheath, pulled it against the bulb of the knot. "That's enough. Quit getting your drool in my ass crack," groused Kahnso.

Jonathan withdrew in time to see Kahnso's knot pop free of the sheath. His heart skipped a beat at the horrible size of that penis. Jonathan had met - and slept with - stallions who weren't so lucky. Again his anus tensed.

Evidently the worry showed on his handsome face. Kahnso grinned down at him with all the wickedness of a demon, all the charm of a sex offender. "How bad you want the role, Jonathan?" asked Kahnso, waggling his cock side to side. A thick bead of precum welling at the tip was cast off onto the carpet. It turned the carpet's cream fibers a dark gray.

"Good lord," whispered Jonathan. He stood slowly, looked at Kahnso's leering face, forced some confidence into his features. "Listen. Look. I'm willing to try that, but-," he swallowed, "we need lube, and I want to ride you. I want to be in control."

"Lube I'll give you." Kahnso fished into the pocket of his lowered jeans and found a few packets of the stuff. He tossed them to Jonathan, said, "Lube me up. I ain't putting my fingers in your asshole, lube yourself up too."

Jonathan looked at the packets of lube and thought they were no more substantial than packets of ketchup from a burger joint. They seemed terribly inadequate with Kahnso's colossal red rocket in view.

"And-, and I want to be on top," Jonathan repeated.

"And-, and-, and-," Kahnso cruelly mocked the mink's fear, "you can eat shit, retard. Well, I guess you already did, kinda." He grinned. "I'm gonna bend you over the desk and if you don't get blood on my dick, then you get the role."

Had the fox not teased him so much, Jonathan might have said no and walked out the door, but his pride had been wounded. He opened a packet of the lube and he began to slather it on the singer's penis, smearing it on thick in defiant gestures. In effect he gave Kahnso something of a handjob as he worked and he hated the tight, pleasured grin on the singer's handsome face. He hated that he still found Kahnso handsome in spite of all this.

When Kahnso's penis was slick, Jonathan tried to open the other packet but his slippery fingers couldn't grip the plastic. Kahnso watched him struggle for a few seconds, then observed, "You can't open it."

"No, I can't," Jonathan huffed. "Would you mind?"

"Yeah, I'd mind," Kahnso said. He stood up quickly and smoothly. Jonathan stood also, startled in a stupidly primal way by the sudden height of the fox. Kahnso pushed the mink towards the desk, shoved him up to it and then over it.

Jonathan cried out in shock as much as humiliation. Nobody had ever manhandled him like this. It came with the height. Kahnso, with his terribly overdeveloped muscles, pushed Jonathan around as if he were a waif. The mink said with hatred in his voice, "Now stop that! Stop it!"

Kahnso's paws clapped down on the mink's ass cheeks so savagely that red prints were branded beneath the fur. Jonathan shrieked in pain and thrashed against the desk, sent Mr. Carol's pens and books crashing to the floor like a child throwing a tantrum. His paws grabbed for Kahnso's wrists and in went his claws, digging into flesh, raking thin channels which began to bleed.

Kahnso smacked Jonathan's paws. He gripped his cock and pushed it between the cheeks. Its tip kissed up to the mink's anal ring and again Jonathan tensed up, his anus becoming so snug as to deny any and all entry. As anybody in prison with a bigger cellmate could tell you, tensing didn't stop them from getting inside. It only made it better for them, worse for you. Kahnso speared open Jonathan with a smooth, implacable push of his hips and Jonathan screamed with pain. The scream had a vaguely musical quality; he was a casual singer as well an actor.

"Stop! Stop it!" Jonathan bleated. He clawed at Kahnso, his slim arms flying desperately at the fox. He bent and twisted his limber mink body to give himself greater reach and he raked his claws into Kahnso's chest, digging bloody furrows into flesh.

The singer groaned but with a strain which was unmistakably lustful. He kept pushing his way into Jonathan, fat canine cock gouging open the soap star's anal passage with only a bit more love than a fist. The mink's anal flesh was dry save for its thin coating of natural mucous. The lubrication on Kahnso's shaft didn't spread far enough to ease much, if any of the pain.

Jonathan's agony left his face an ugly grimace. Tears erupted from his eyes and he realized with some shock that it was the first time he'd cried - genuinely, not for a role - since he'd been a teenager. His eyes were so wet that he did not see the fist coming at his face except as a blur which could have been anything. When it thudded into his snout, he temporarily lost all sensation in his body. He fell slack and crooked on Mr. Carol's desk like a piece of cooked spaghetti tossed haphazardly off a plate. Blood rolled out of his nose which had been busted and bruised.

Kahnso pushed into Jonathan as deep as he could go without his knot. He looked down at the limp form of the mink with barbaric satisfaction. Punching women was never fun - some piggishly chauvinistic part of him thought it was wrong to do so, even if raping them and tormenting them mentally was fair game. Jonathan, and men in general were different. You could punch a man's lights out while raping him and still be an okay guy, Kahnso believed.

Jonathan came back to reality as the shock of the pain wore thin. The pain was still there, of course, and now his nose hurt tremendously as well as his ass. Blood dripped from his nasal passage onto the desk and into his throat. He moaned a burbling little sound and closed his teary eyes.

"Stop, please," he said lamely. "God, I don't want the part. I changed my mind."

"Now see," Kahnso grunted, and he was grinning from one ear to the other, "this is some method acting shit. When it comes time to shoot, you're gonna be so fucking terrified that it's gonna be legit as hell."

The mink's long body heaved with the rock singer's thrusts. The slight amount of fat in his bottom wobbled quite enticingly and Kahnso fondled it, groped it. He whispered to the mink, "You got a nice ass. You got a really nice ass."

Jonathan found his jaws were quaking. He was not cold - and that was the last time he could remember his teeth chattering this way. The fear was sublime. It was amazing how potent it was, how it seemed to walk over the hateful anger and sap away its power. He was only half-listening to Kahnso. Like he was a little boy, he had retreated into his imagination.

He had a great imagination. As well as an actor and a singer, Jonathan at times penned short stories. Ones he did not share with others, but which he thought might be the precursors to screenplays at some point. Right now he imagined Mr. Carol coming back and rescuing him - not by himself, no, even a burly bear like Mr. Carol couldn't fend off Kahnso. But Mr. Carol would call the police and Jonathan would be saved, and he'd probably get a role in something more prestigious than a stupid concept music video.

Kahnso gripped his shoulder and banged him against the desk. "Wake up, you faggot fuck," he snapped. "I said you got a nice ass. I don't tell guys that. How's that make you feel?"

"Thankful," Jonathan said, forcing the uncertainty out of his voice. He blotted at nose with the sleeve of his button-up shirt. It came away red and smeary, blood and snot.

The bulb of Kahnso's knot thudded the mink's anus repetitively. The fox was huffing, softly growling. Jonathan found himself wondering if Kahnso ever did anything consensual or if he was just a rapist. It was unbelievable to think this creature could ever lie with a woman or a man and feel love.

"I'm no fag," Kahnso said, and the tone marked the words as a threat as much of a statement. He pushed his knot against Jonathan, so much force behind the push that the mink began to wince, the tears rushing anew. "I'm not a faggot. You got it?"

"Yes, yes, I get it," Jonathan said promptly. His voice had a nasal timbre he did not care for. He sucked snot, thought of it as only snot and not blood, and he gulped just so he could say in a normal voice, "You're no-, no faggot, I understand completely."

Kahnso snorted. Jonathan felt the rush of heated air on the back of his neck and he pictured rows of enamel knives just waiting to plunge into his flesh, rip him open like a zebra beset by cheetahs, and later hyenas.

The singer's paws cinched around Jonathan's neck and gave a squeeze. It was a pulse, nothing more, but the mink gasped and his fingers flew to Kahnso's. He held the singer's fingers and said in a quavering, again nasal voice, "God, don't. Please. I'll believe anything you want. Tell me the sky is purple, I'll swear it in front of a fucking judge. Please."

His fingers rested on Jonathan's neck. His hips began to move again, moving hard, bucking, pushing the knot against its final destination each time.

The mink trembled. Kahnso's fingers clung to his neck unmoving but snug, like a collar just a size too small. Every time he swallowed, his Adam's apple struggled against the muscular digits.

Kahnso's movements gained an urgent quality not unique to sex, but easily associated with it. His fingers cinched down somewhat and Jonathan wheezed, but he stayed quiet, passive, believing the fox would push his bullying further only if he got something out of it. Jonathan closed his eyes as if to hold in the tears. He thought about the part and how it would certainly boost his career, oh yes it would, and he refused to consider otherwise. This could not be for nothing. It would drive him insane.

Kahnso huffed and growled but he seemed to be out of words. His grinds deepened and worsened for Jonathan, but his paws slipped away and gripped the desk. He held so tightly onto the edge that the wood creaked. Jonathan had a mad vision of the bestial fox breaking the great desk in half. Failing that, Jonathan was sure the fox could have broken his spine.

"Gonna cum," Kahnso grunted. He sounded almost irritated. "You're getting the knot."

I wish you wouldn't thought Jonathan. His mouth said, "All right. Okay." And then he tensed, knowing he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself.

The great, muscular fox raked his claws along the desk. The points were surprisingly blunt and the noise sounded like marbles rolling across a table. Eventually his paws found Jonathan's hips and he held fast to them, started to pull the mink back into his savage thrusts. Jonathan's anus gleamed with lubrication. Its rim was a blushlike red, flesh raw. Every time the knot pushed into its bud, it was eclipsed, hidden briefly from view until the singer pulled back.

Jonathan now gripped the desk the way Kahnso had. His cock dangled, not flaccid yet not entirely erect. Amazing, he thought, how he could be anything more than completely limp right now. There was queer, unwanted pleasure in the penetration; Kahnso's cock was good at hitting the right spots. Under different circumstances, perhaps a mutually beneficial night together after wine and a nice lobster dinner, this could have been fun. He blotted his nose with his sleeve again.

"Motherfucker, you're tight," huffed the fox, still pushing, struggling. His fingers cinched down onto Jonathan's hips, the claws denting the skin in spite of their bluntness. In a way that was even more painful than if the claws had been sharp as razors. It was one more pain on top of so many others, but by then Jonathan barely noticed it.

"You're killing me," groaned Jonathan, and he thought that he really sold it. The audience was lapping this one up, best ratings we've ever seen. He put his head down and his bloody, snotty face left abstract smears on Mr. Carol's blotter. "Oh, fuck, this going to be the death of me. Oh god."

Kahnso cackled a laugh. "Hey, you'll be dead like your career then, right?"

And to his surprise, Jonathan found the strength to lash out, snarling and clawing. "Fuck you!" He was quicker than Kahnso gave him credit for, a speedy combatant in spite of a little dough around the middle. His claws slashed at the hunched fox's face and Kahnso wailed with pain, pulled back, and cupped his eyes.

"Oh, fuck!" Kahnso shouted, only his hips now pinning Jonathan to the desk.

Jonathan grinned with savage pleasure. He grinned in spite of the fact that he had just sealed his fate. He hoped he had clawed out an eyeball. He looked at the blood on his claws and felt that grim, primal satisfaction again welling up like a buzz.

Then the fox's paws came down on Jonathan, groping blindly, and the mink wondered if he really had struck the fox blind in one eye. His delight turned to fear when the fox got him. Jonathan flinched and thrashed but Kahnso grabbed him, first the shoulders and then the neck. He wrenched down like he was trying to physically remove Jonathan's head. The mink gagged, clawed wildly at Kahnso's wrists and arms but the fox was implacable. He wrenched down and Jonathan felt the vertebrae in his neck popping, not actually an unpleasant sensation, but his arteries were pinched and his airway crushed down. His eyes felt like they would burst from their sockets and the vision in them doubled, tripled, and began to gray out.

Kahnso tried to blink his wounded eye, the act giving the impression of an exaggerated, jaunty wink. Blood trailed from the corner of his eye down his snout, following the rough trail of a ragged and deep slash through his skin and fur. Jonathan's claws had barely missed the eyeball but snagged beneath it and raked downward. All Kahnso could feel was blood in his eye and a deluge of tears which accompanied the pain. He squeezed the mink's neck with everything he had. He snarled in a breaking, hateful voice, "You trying to fucking blind me, that it? You want to fucking blind me?"

Jonathan gurgled and wheezed. Bloody bubbles formed on his nostrils. His paws fell away and swiped senselessly at the desk. The few belongings of Mr. Carol's still on its surface clattered noisily to the floor.

The fox's eye was throbbing. He was sure he was blind in it, absolutely positive. He finally let go of Jonathan's neck so he could touch his eye, but with a hiss of pain he withdrew his fingers. Beneath him, Jonathan sputtered back into life. His breath was now halting and wheezing. All of the fight had been wrung from him. He curled somewhat, and he waited like prey for Kahnso to kill him. Here lies Jonathan Fretcher. Go for the eyes.

Kahnso ripped back his cock. Its flesh was shockingly still hard and its exit spurred Jonathan to cry with pain, but Kahnso snapped at him to be silent. "You get your faggot ass pounded all the time. Me, I'm gonna lose a fucking eye thanks to you!"

He rifled through Mr. Carol's desk until he found a box of tissues. Jonathan watched, eyes beady with fear, as Kahnso patted his wounded eye.

"Fuck. Fucking shit," Kahnso hissed. "I'm gonna fucking kill you if I lose my eye. I'll fucking murder you."

"Your-, your eye looks-."

"Shut up," Kahnso warned. "And get the fuck out of here. Get out now! Put your clothes on and get lost!"

Jonathan, his breath still wheezing, looked at the fox uncertainly. All his wicked satisfaction had dried up. He now felt only a keen terror for Kahnso, and he found himself wanting to look at the fox's eye for himself, to look and see that it was okay just so he could know that he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder for a seven-foot-tall stranger in an eyepatch waiting to crack his skull open.

He said haltingly, "Let me-, let me just look. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-..."

Kahnso peered at him with his one good eye. The other was hidden behind a wad of bloody tissues.

To the mink's surprise, Kahnso pulled away the tissue and let the mink come closer. Before Jonathan could touch him, Kahnso grabbed his wrist and warned, "You try anything. Anything. And I'm going to kill you."

Jonathan nodded slowly. He thought about just going for broke then and there. Drive both his thumbs into Kahnso's eye sockets and run for the hills. He still hated the fox, oh yes he did, he had the sore anus and the bloody nose to attest to that.

But the mink only looked over Kahnso's wounded eye cautiously. The sheer amount of blood streaked into the fur was nauseating but the wound was thin, the eyeball undamaged. He said with relief in his voice, "You're not going to lose your eye. But-, but, well, you might want to disinfect this... I don't know what was on my claws."

Kahnso huffed. The mink began to drift back but Kahnso snatched the collar of his shirt and pulled him down.

"You and me, we're not done."

Jonathan stared at him, more shocked than worried. "You almost lost an eye and you want to fuck?"

The fox pulled him closer, pulled him down to the floor, made him kneel before the sofa. His cock still stood erect, still halfway slick with lube, now smelling quite strongly of Jonathan's anal musk. The mink recoiled. In his husky voice he said, "No, oh god no, come on. Not ass to mouth."

"Yeah, ass to mouth," Kahnso lowly said. "And listen. This ain't for the job now. This is for me. You do this and I won't put you in the hospital."

The mink stiffened and he found himself thinking should have just left when he said to, eh? No good deed goes unpunished these days, now does it?

Kahnso's paws grappled with Jonathan's head and he pulled the mink closer. Jonathan uttered a little cry as his nose and lips brushed the musky length of Kahnso's penis. Rimming was fine, but rimming was something else entirely. This had been inside of him, almost all the way. Jonathan was prideful of his hygiene but certain lines were never to be crossed.

"Open the fuck up. Don't bite if you know what's good for you." And Jonathan obeyed him, opening his mouth wide to permit the defilement. In went Kahnso, entering Jonathan for the second time. He emitted a low moan, and for the first time since his eye had been scratched, he smiled. "If it's any consolation, I was close when you decided-," his voice took on a hateful note, "when you decided you were gonna blind me."

The earthy smell and flavor of his own ass musk caused Jonathan's stomach to turn and he thought bleakly, oh no, please no, not now. Stay down, please stay down.

Kahnso pulled him deeper. The pointed tip of his penis bumped Jonathan's throat. The mink gagged and his stomach did a few more flip-flops. The threat of vomit became a certainty. His paws held tightly onto the fox's kneecaps and his eyes shut as tightly as they could. He tried to imagine himself somewhere else, somewhere nicer. A beach on Maui perhaps.

Deeper. Kahnso's penis speared open the mink's throat. Jonathan gagged then, sharp and wet and desperate. His fingers grappled Kahnso's wrists and he tried to push the fox off but Kahnso was adamant. He said to the mink almost pleasantly, a rational and warm kind of voice, "Just swallow on my cock, lemme use you. Won't be long."

It didn't matter how long Kahnso took. Jonathan's stomach was churning. He tried to hold it back but it was like holding back a bursting dam. Then the throat fucking started, compounding his issues. The knot, that big red mass smacked his lips and his sore nose - and his nose was still dripping blood into his throat, adding to his misery. He held his stomach as if he were starving and he shuddered. The beach fantasy wasn't cutting it.

"Yeah. Nice throat. Real nice," Kahnso huffed. Pulling Jonathan in harder and faster, moving his hips to meet the mink. He thought it was a shame his knot wouldn't fit between those jaws. Not even if he broke them open, and that sure sounded like a fun idea, but no - he did need this failure of an actor and it wouldn't do to have him appear with his jaws wired shut.

"Mm, hey, between shoots, you and me, we can just share a dressing room. I can finally put my knot up your faggot ass."

Jonathan moaned uneasily. He hated Kahnso so much. He wished he had blinded the fox now, once and for all. He wished he had left that eye just a smear of slime and gore on the end of his finger. He wished-

The mink began to vomit. His stomach and throat contracted. Kahnso moaned noisily and pulled Jonathan down into his lap just as far as he could go. He groaned about how amazing that felt and a second later he was cumming, he came so hard that between the semen going down and the vomit coming up, Jonathan felt like his throat was an eddy. The vomit swirled around Kahnso's cock and gushed from his throat. It splattered the fox's loins, the couch, the floor.

"Dude, what in the fuck?" Kahnso asked, his warm orgasmic voice undermined by confusion and disgust. "You're fucking puking on me!"

Jonathan thought no shit Sherlock, you sure do catch on quickly, don't you? His stomach emptied itself, the well-digested slurry of a light breakfast slopping around Kahnso's genitals with a warmth which was curiously pleasant. Kahnso cried out and pushed Jonathan. The mink flopped onto his back, twisted onto his side, spraying vomit as he went. By the time he was on his side the spray had died back to a heavy dribble but then another heave came. Semen, undigested and mixed into bile, gushed past Jonathan's lips. The sheer volume of Kahnso's orgasm was stunning. Jonathan thought might have been nice if he weren't fucking raping me and then he laid his cheek in the mess, unmindful of his dignity or his ruined clothes. Quietly, he began to weep.

"What the fuck, dumbass," Kahnso blurted. His voice had an oddly smooth quality due to his afterglow. He stood sharply and indicated his vomit-streaked crotch. "Jesus Christ! I've had women OD while they're going down on me, but look at this fucking mess."

"I'm-, I'm sorry," Jonathan bleated, and he was. Defeated and wrung out, he was wholly apologetic.

Kahnso huffed. He looked around and finally went into Mr. Carol's private restroom.

By the time Kahnso emerged from the restroom fairly clean, Jonathan had sat up and attempted to mop up some of the vomit using the tissues from the desk drawer. Immediately he stared at Kahnso, regarded him the way a rabbit would a wolf.

"No more," Jonathan said weakly. "Please. No more."

"No more," Kahnso quietly agreed. He pulled on his pants. "Go clean up and get the fuck out of here."

The mink looked doubtfully at the ruined rug and sofa. Kahnso reiterated, "Clean up. Go."

Jonathan did. In the bathroom he washed his face with the handsoap, his behind, his chest where the vomit had soaked in. The shirt was a lost cause. He ducked down by the faucet and rinsed his mouth with a few mouthfuls of water. Still tasting vomit and something else he wished not to think of, he touched the soap to his wet tongue, resisted the horrid flavor and rinsed until he could taste only fake lavender.

So sorry you're not around to see me voluntarily wash my mouth out with soap, mom, thought Jonathan, and grinned at his reflection. He looked so bruised, so tired. He missed his soap opera now. Nobody ever raped him except when it was time to renegotiate contracts.

When Jonathan came out of the bathroom, Kahnso was gone. Jonathan assumed he had gone to the hospital for his eye. He didn't really care about Kahnso, or anything else for that matter. He put on his pants and he left.

A week later, a call came from Mr. Carol. The bear told him he had the part and that the script was on its way to him via private courier. No mention was made of the mess.

Jonathan then sat back on his sofa, a drink in his grip. He wore his finest bathrobe, the yellowish one which was slightly starchy but still comfortable. He put on one of his old soaps and he thought about better times.