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"I just don't understand how you can say foxes give better head." The young pronghorn tilted his head to one side. "I mean, herbivores got a running start on any carnivore."

"I didn't say foxes give better head," Martique said, leaning his chair back and letting his bushy red tail swing free. "I said I do."

"Regardless," Victor pressed on, "you got that narrow muzzle, those sharp teeth." He traced the curve of his jaw. "See? Wider, flatter teeth...you can't compete."

Martique shrugged. "Is that what Shannon told you?"

Victor blew a snort. "It's been more than just him. Not that I'm proud of it."

"Course you're not." Martique signaled the waiter for the check. "Because you suck. At sucking."

"Listen," Victor said, leaning forward. "I know I'm better than you?"

"How?" Martique grinned. "Sucked yourself off for comparison?"

"Ha ha." Victor folded his arms. "I can get enough action that I don't need to do that."

Martique looked around the small cafe. "I swear the waiters just hang out in back and smoke. I don't need to do it, either," he said. "I just like to. Keeps me in practice. How can you tell if you're any good if you can't practice on yourself?"

It was rhetorical, of course. Martique and Victor had discovered the joys of a well-applied tongue at about the same age, but barely a year later, the same hormones that gave them such joy also pushed Victor's horns further out of his head. After a certain age, he wasn't able to give himself head without also giving himself a set of painful puncture wounds in the thigh. Martique, on the other paw, had continued his self-servicing ways into adulthood, and he never let Victor forget it.

"You can tell," Victor said, "by the guys who keep asking you to come back and do it again."

"I suppose," Martique said. "If you have to wait for them to come back."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Victor asked, but just then the waiter finally came by, left the check on the table, and strolled back to the kitchen. Martique reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty.

"I got this," he said. "You got last time."

"Seriously," Victor said. "What, you mean you just go around offering to blow people again and again?"

Martique pulled his muzzle back in a sly grin. "I mean that the guys who ask me aren't only coming back." He stood up. "They're just coming."

Victor followed him outside. The antelope threw a scarf around his neck and came up alongside the fox as he was raising his collar. "You do not just have random people coming up to you asking for blow jobs."

The fox raised an eyebrow. "Follow me around some night."

"You are so full of shit," Victor said. He walked down the street with Martique at his side. "So what are you bringing to the party tomorrow night?"

"My retro 80s holiday mix."

"I thought we were supposed to bring snacks."

Martique flipped his ears to the side. "I can't cook. But I can make killer dance CDs."

"How communist of you."

The fox laughed. "Don't you know? Santa Claus is a communist. Wears a red suit."

"What?" Victor waved his hands. "Anyway, just because you're good at something doesn't necessarily mean other people want it."

They stopped at a Salvation Army Santa. Martique dug in his pocket for a dollar. "Is this about your cock-sucking again?" He raised an eyebrow and a corner of his muzzle.

"You are really hung up on that, aren't you?" Victor tried out a smirk of his own, edging away from the Santa, a tall reindeer who was grimacing, clearly trying not to listen to them.

Martique dipped his muzzle, lifting his eyebrow still further. "I'm not the one who's so hung up on whether I'm good or not that I project my insecurities to the entire species." He padded on, Victor following.

"Do you have to do that right in front of them?" Victor asked as they rounded the corner to his apartment.

Martique shrugged. "Course not. But I want to donate and at the same time have fun with the homophobic fuckers. So that's my compromise. They don't want my money, they're free to tell me to fuck off."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Victor snorted. "All right, I'm gonna head up. Feel like playing 'Rock Band' tonight or do you have a full evening of cock-sucking lined up?"

Martique's tail wagged. "The cocks can wait," he said. "I wouldn't let down the band."

The subject didn't die, though, even as they made their way through their usual repertoire. Victor put down the guitar after their favorite Flashlight Corner song. "Nice job. Martique, hundred percent vocals."

"The golden throat," the fox replied with a leer. "And silver tongue."

Gilliam, the black-footed ferret who played drums, snorted. "The amount of advertising you do, you'd think you were in business."

Martique winked. "You accusing me of false advertising?"

The ferret grinned. "Hell, no."

"Wait, wait." Victor had been queuing up their next song. "You blew him?"

Martique flopped down on the couch, grinning at Gilliam, who at least ducked his head in a semblance of embarrassment. "It was after you left, one night. No big deal."

"No big--you did it here?"

"No, no, at my place." Gilliam shrugged. "No need to get all worked up over it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Martique grinned. "Because we knew you'd get all worked up over it."

Victor put the guitar down. "Okay, I'm done."

"Oh, don't get like that." Gilliam stood from the drum set.

"It's not about that." Victor headed for the kitchen. "It's late, that's all, and I...I'm tired."

"See, now you've done it. You're going to have to let him blow you," Martique said.

Victor turned back, hands on his hips. "I told you, it's not about that."

Gilliam spread his paws. "If it'll make you feel better, sure, you can."

"But you're not asking me to," Victor said.

"He thinks he's better than me, but he's insecure about it," Martique said from the couch, spreading his arms across the back. "I think it's because of Wagner."

"It has nothing to do with Wagner," Victor shot back.

"What happened with Wagner?" Gilliam looked from one of them to the other.

Victor lowered his head and scratched at one horn. "Nothing."

"He told Victor I was better, the silly bunny." Martique yawned. "I told him not to, but you know how he is. He gets a thought so rarely that he has to tell everyone the moment it happens."

"Nobody else has said you were better." Victor took a step into the room.

"Which is why you have to let him blow you," Martique said to Gilliam, waving a paw. "So you can tell him, too."

"Look, I don't wanna get in the middle of this." Gilliam sat down behind the drum set. "Let's just keep playing."

Martique snickered. "Never seen someone so reluctant to get a blow job." He stood up with the microphone and opened his muzzle wide, sticking the mike inside. He closed his eyes. "Om om om."

"Cut that out, you're gonna ruin it!" Victor strode over and grabbed the mike away. He held it awkwardly and then laughed, pushing Martique in the shoulder. "Asshole. Anyway, it goes like this." He opened his mouth and slid the microphone along his tongue.

"Oh, and that's not going to ruin it?" Martique grabbed the mike back. "Don't show off your technique, or Gill won't let you near his cock."

They turned to the ferret, who was watching them with a slight tilt to his muzzle. He coughed and adjusted his pants. "Actually, uh, that's kinda hot."

Martique held up the mike. "Seriously?" He chuckled. "Okay. I'm gonna go grab a coffee down at Starbucks. You boys have fun. I'll be back in twenty."

He dropped the mike on the table and sauntered toward the door, tail waving behind him. Victor started to say, "Don't be an ass," but halfway through, he felt the tingle of possibility and stopped. Gilliam was watching him, waiting for him to say something.

"Look," he said, "if you don't wanna, we can just say we did."

The ferret grinned. "We got twenty minutes."

Victor grinned back. "Okay. Get on the couch."

Within a minute, Gilliam was sprawled back on the couch, his pants open, Victor licking at his sheath. As the ferret had hinted, he was already excited, showing pink at the top of his sheath. It didn't take many licks for the full length to show itself, by which point Victor had to hold down the ferret by the thighs, because he was starting to squirm all over the couch, making cute little squeaking noises. The antelope opened his mouth and took in the ferret's tip, which, oddly, made Gilliam go completely still and gasp.

A moment later, he was twisting harder than before, bucking off the couch and into Victor's mouth. Victor held him, squeezing the warm shaft between his lips and pressing his long tongue against it, wondering if this was the climax. He didn't taste anything, so he kept going, and Gilliam didn't tell him to stop.

As the ferret contorted himself more and more frantically, Victor leaned more of his weight into restraining his motion, still pumping his muzzle up and down. He enjoyed the muscles forced into quivering submission below him, their occasional jerks and spasms, and the movement of the tight, hot shaft against his lips and tongue.

When Gilliam did come, finally, there was no doubt about it. He squeaked, "Ohgodohgodohgod," and his whole body arched into the air, paws straining against the couch to hold himself up. Victor felt the warm spurts in his mouth, tasted musteline musk on his tongue, and sucked as hard as he could.

By the time Martique came back, Gilliam had pulled his pants up and returned to his chair by the drum set. Victor lounged on the couch, pretending to strum the fake guitar. Martique flicked his ears, eyebrows raised. "Well?"

"He was very appreciative," Victor said, with a smug smile.

Martique shrugged. "Of course he was. He's a weasel. Every time they come it's like 'OMG BEST THING EVAR'."

Gilliam folded his ears down. "Thanks, guys."

"So," Victor said. "Who was better?"

The weasel shrugged. "They were both good," he said.

"Don't be a nance," Martique said. "Pick a side."

"Well, yours was so long ago..."

The fox laughed. "If you want another one, just ask me flat out."

Gilliam grinned. "Okay, will you?"

"Ha. No."

The weasel rolled his eyes. "Fine. Then Victor was better."

"Oh, please." Martique picked up the mike. "Let's just play."

Victor picked up the guitar, and walked over to stand next to Martique. He bumped the fox. "Told you," he said.

"Oh, bitch," Martique said as Gilliam selected a song, "this ain't over."

The two of them sat around Victor's dining room table after Gilliam had left, sipping coffee. "So what do you propose, if Gilliam isn't good enough to decide? Random person-on-the-street interviews?"

Martique added more sugar to his coffee, and took another sip. "I really don't understand your need to have your inferiority proven in some kind of contest."

Victor leaned forward, grinning. "Then why are you afraid to participate?"

"Afraid?" Martique blew a very pronghorn-like snort. "Sweetheart, the only thing I'm afraid of is bruising your ego to the point that you become a recluse, shunning all intimate contact for fear of not measuring up to your current flame's past flames. You're delicate. I worry about you."

"You're so full of shit I can't believe you're not constantly in the john." Victor sipped his coffee.

"Bathroom humor. How very sixth-grade of you."

"It's not..." Victor scowled. "Don't change the subject. How are we going to settle this?"

Martique shrugged. "We could do each other, and then ourselves. Oh, no, wait, you can't. I forgot."

"Bite me."

The fox grinned. "That would definitely not happen."

"Okay, how about this." Victor leaned over the table. "The party tomorrow. How many people does McMinaver usually have there? Fifty? A hundred?"

"Don't know," Martique said. "How many gay boys are there in Port City? I'd say most of them."

"All right. Most of the guys we've done will probably be there, right? We'll match up at the party. Whoever gets more cocks in his mouth at the party wins."

Martique laughed. "At McMinaver's party? Honey, why not just kneel down at Seventeenth and Chester with your mouth open? You'd get the same action and you wouldn't miss a lovely party."

"Afraid you won't be able to convince many of them to come back for a second round?" Victor lifted the mug to his lips, eyeing the fox.

Martique tapped the table and then grinned. "What the hell. If it'll get you to shut up about it."

Victor extended a hand. Martique took it in his paw and shook. "And ex-boyfriends count," he said.

"You planning to look up Shannon?"

Victor waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe I'll look up at him."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Martique stood up. "If I had any ex-boyfriends, I wouldn't blow them after we broke up. It's just bad taste. But you go ahead and suck off your horsey, and I'll just have to find someone actually attractive to make up for it."

"He was hot," Victor said. "That wasn't the problem."

"The problem? You're narrowing it down to one?"

Victor's smile faded a bit. "It wasn't all him," he mumbled.

Martique walked around the table and brushed Victor's cheek ruff. "Honey, it was mostly him. It's not like your terrible blow jobs drove him away."

"Fuck off," Victor said.

"I'm just preparing you so you don't get let down so hard tomorrow night."

"I'm gonna go down so hard. No, wait. I'm gonna leave you so hard. Something like that." The pronghorn threw up his hands. "It's late. I'm goin' to bed."

"Good idea. You need your rest." Martique pulled a packet of gum out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. "Here. In case you need to warm up."

Victor looked at it. "Juicy Fruit? Seriously? What are you, like, twelve?"

"They don't make it in the only flavor I like." Martique winked. "That stuff loses its flavor fast. Then it's just all about the chewing."

"You just made that up right now."

Martique spread his paws. "Jeffy at work gave it to me. I can't stand the stuff, so I've been carrying it around. But it worked, right?"

Victor laughed. "Get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow."

When Victor arrived at the party at five to seven, Martique greeted him in the living room, or the first living room, anyway. The fox curled his tongue around his lips before saying, "You're late."

"You didn't start already, did you?"

Martique sipped something blue from a plastic martini glass. "Only drinking. You still want to go through with this?"

"I've been chewing Juicy Fruit all day." Victor grinned wide.

"All right. Meet back here at, what, one a.m.?"

Victor looked around the enormous living room. A weasel in the corner waved to him. "Hi, Cally," he called, and then winked at Maritque. "Six hours. I'm off for number one."

Martique watched the pronghorn march over to the weasel, grinning. "Silly fellow," he murmured to himself. "Cally's got a girlfriend now. It really does pay to keep up with the current gossip." He set his drink down and strolled into the second living room, which was nearly as big as the first, where he'd seen a fox he knew would be the first on his list.

McMinaver's house had belonged to his parents, who'd made their money in textiles during the first wave of synthetics, smooth fabrics that didn't catch on fur. From the front door, you could hear the muted engines of ships pushing from the ocean up the river to the port, occasionally lowing to each other as they passed. From the third story, you could see Rockingham Airport, planes constantly buzzing in and out like glowing mosquitoes. And in between, the mansion that covered nearly ten thousand square feet of prime real estate held four living rooms, an immense dining room, ten to thirteen bedrooms, depending on whether the various dens and TV rooms had the spare beds folded out, seven bathrooms, and four permanent playrooms.

Mr. and Mrs. McMinaver, long since retired, spent their winters in the warmth of Chevali now. Their son, a fixture of Cottage Hill almost since its establishment as the city's gay neighborhood, held a Christmas party at the mansion every year for his friends, and their friends, and anyone else who happened to hear about it and could wrangle a ride or two bucks for the train. And as Martique and Victor knew, the parties were legendary for making full use of every available bedroom. The highlights of the party came when drunk couples, finding every bedroom full, got creative or uninhibited.

Martique dragged the fox upstairs to his favorite of McMinaver's bedrooms, the one on the third floor that looked out over the ocean, with the nautical prints and the life preserver on the wall. The plush royal blue carpet in this room was particularly easy on the knees. He spent an enjoyable ten minutes with his muzzle buried in the fox's groin, sliding his tongue around the other's cock and rubbing the nice canid knot, while downstairs, the Christmas carols started, with "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." McMinaver hadn't put in his CD yet.

He realized that he hadn't clarified with Victor whether all their subjects had to come or not. In this case, it wasn't an issue. The fox was soon gripping the bed and clenching his teeth, moaning as he spurted warmth into Martique's muzzle. But as the evening wore on, more and more people would be drunk. Well, the issue was whether they wanted him to blow them again, not whether they were sober enough to finish.

"No, no, it's fine," he said, when the fox politely offered to return the favor. "Tell you what, though. Is Ilky here? Tell him to come on up when he has a second." And he licked his lips to erase any doubt of what he meant.

The fox did indeed send the hedgehog up in short order, and while Martique was enjoying the short, stubby hedgehog cock, there was a knock at the door. "Wait your turn," he called out, imagining the line in the hall growing. He didn't allow that to affect his style, though; he gave Ilky his full attention, holding the hedgehog's legs down as his tongue played and his lips teased and he finally felt the warm spurt of success in his throat. Contest or not, he had a reputation to maintain.

But he started to worry about Victor, in the middle of his fourth blow job, a twinky panther in a fishnet vest whom he vaguely remembered from last year's party. So when the panther was done, and trying to force Martique's pants down, Martique told him that he and the pronghorn were having a contest. "Does it count if you do me twice?" the panther asked, slurring.

"Honey, I'd love to, I really would," Martique said, "whenever you're ready again. But why don't you go get a drink and then make your way back up here?"

"Right." The panther winked at him and staggered out the door. Martique felt quite confident that he wouldn't see the panther again that night.

Numbers seven, nine, ten, and twelve were old friends. Number thirteen took half an hour, but Martique's pride forced him to keep working on the drunk, giggling ringtail until he finally got his climax. Next one I cut off in twenty minutes, he thought, watching the clock roll over to midnight.

The ringtail staggered to his feet, pulling his pants up. He didn't fasten them, though, so his sheath and cock were still sticking out, dripping, as he wandered back into the hallway, past the bear who was already undoing his pants as he marched in. Typical McMinaver party, Martique thought, wishing he'd had the foresight to ask someone to bring him up a drink. He'd only had two before retreating to the room, and he was definitely feeling the lack of alcohol.

"Already had Victor," the bear announced, making the bedframe squeak as he sat down. "He's pretty good."

"Just you wait," Martique said. The bear was already hard. Downstairs, he heard his CD start up, and the strains of the Coxton Twins singing, "Jingle All The Way" gave him the energy to keep going. He licked his lips and went to work. It took a while to get the bear off, but Martique ended up with a mouth full. Fourteen for fourteen, drunk or not, he thought with some satisfaction. As he was licking his muzzle clean, he said, "So?"

The bear grinned. "You made it last longer, but maybe that's cause you were number two."

"So who was better?"

The bear shrugged. "You were a little better, I guess. I dunno. Never had a bad blow job."

The bear wasn't the only one who'd already had Victor. So were numbers fifteen and sixteen, both coyotes who wanted to watch each other get blown. Martique put on a show, keeping an eye on the clock, which was creeping toward the deadline. When the second coyote had shot his load (and the first was hard again, holding himself in his paw, tongue lolling as he watched), they told Martique how much better he was, promised a return favor, and left quickly, leaving the fox alone at five to one.

His muzzle tingled. He stretched, working cramps out of his knees and thighs. Sixteen was a personal record for him, far beyond his previous of six. He was sure it had blown Victor out of the water. But when Victor told him how many he'd done, he wouldn't shame him with the larger number. He'd add one or two to Victor's total, maybe. After all, it was Christmas.

Downstairs, the party was still going strong. They were singing, "I'll Be Homo For Christmas," still off his CD, one of McMinaver's favorites. Martique couldn't help hearing the original, though, and it made him nostalgic as he descended the stairs. Maybe he'd tell Victor to forget about the contest altogether, and they could just enjoy the rest of the party. Because when Victor lost, he was sure to sulk.

The pronghorn was singing with a small group in the second living room. When they saw Martique, they cheered and burst into a round of "Santa Paws Is Comin' In Your Mouth" ("You better not chew, you better not cry, you better not bite, I'm tellin' you why...").

"They sang it for me, too," Victor said at Martique's rolled eyes. He seemed quite cheerful.

Martique grabbed an eggnog and downed it, fast, feeling the chill of the cream with the warmth of the rum. He poured another to sip from as he ran his eyes over the group. The bear and the panther waved at him, the latter now barely able to stand. "Hope they all had a nice party," he said. "Shall we settle this?"

"Come on, Marty," the panther said. "Thash... thash funny!"

"Do my standards of humor degrade this far when I'm drunk?" Martique asked Victor.

The pronghorn half-smiled. "Let's see if we can find an empty bedroom."

They couldn't, but there didn't seem to be anyone in the second-floor playroom. "What's up your butt?" Victor asked.

"Nothing," Martique said. "And perhaps that's the problem."

Victor grinned. "You asking?"

"Darling," Martique said, "if I were asking, your pants would be on the floor already." He plopped into the corner of a cushy loveseat, took another gulp of his eggnog. "So did you set a personal record with your number tonight?"

"By a bundle." Victor sat near him on the loveseat. "But you go first."

"Oh, let's see who we both did." The rum was starting to work. "The bear, the coyotes..."

"The hedgehog..."

"Ilky? Really? I will have to have a talk with him."

"He said he liked me better." Victor looked very smug.

"He's a hedgehog. They're almost as bad as weasels when it comes to judging sex. Anyway, the bear liked me better."

"Well, the panther in the fishnet said I had excellent tongue technique." Victor stuck his tongue out.

"He told me the same thing." Martique grinned. "Put that away unless you intend to use it."

"Hmm." Victor arched an eyebrow, but retracted his tongue. "So that's five each. Who else?"

Martique doled out the names, expecting Victor to keep pace with him up to about eight, impressed when the pronghorn matched him up to eleven, surprised at fourteen, and shocked when Victor matched Martique's sixteenth with the name of their host. "You did McMinaver?"

"I figured I owed him for the party." Victor looked anxious. "You got any more?"

Martique shook his head. "If you had any more than that, you deserve to win. My hat is off to you."

"What about your pants?"

The fox grinned, draining his eggnog. "If you sucked off seventeen guys tonight, you may fuck me."

Victor's face fell. "Dammit."

"You got sixteen?" Victor nodded. Martique laughed. "I might almost think they'd planned this."

"So it's a tie?"

"No, darling," Martique said, "that would be if I fucked you."

"You can do that if you want."

Martique set down his glass and drew his legs up, sitting cross-legged in the corner. "How much have you had to drink?"

Victor shrugged. "Not that much. Enough, I guess. So what now?"

"Well," Martique said, "I suppose there's only one way left to settle this." He leaned forward and pushed the pronghorn's shoulders to the side. Victor made a surprised noise but let Martique push him over until he was lying on his side on the loveseat.

"Are you..." Victor's question trailed off as Martique flipped himself around, head to Victor's groin.

He brought his paws up to undo the pronghorn's pants. "Wasting valuable sucking time," he said, sliding a paw inside the fabric to find a rather swollen member there. "Though it looks like we won't need much of it."

"Nor on this end," Victor said, his paws finding Martique's arousal through his pants. "How long's it been since we did this?"

"Mmmf." Martique slid his fingers along Victor's cock. "It was before you were dating Shannon. I guess you didn't find him tonight?"

Victor's paw paused. "He came by. I didn't blow him."

Martique lapped gently at the other's shaft, tasting the sticky tip. "Why not?"

Victor freed the fox's cock, running a finger along it, his breath warm and moist on the skin. "I don't know. It's Christmas and all."

"What's that got to do with it? It's okay to blow strangers, but not your ex?" Martique slid his lips over Victor's tip, draping one arm across the pronghorn's hip to feel his shivers.

"Mmm." Victor brushed the soft fur of his muzzle up and down Martique's shaft. "Spirit of giving. But with Shannon, it'd feel like...like I was trying to start things up again."

Martique pulled his muzzle free long enough to say, "That's what I was trying to tell you, sweets."

"I know. I didn't feel it before now, though." Victor ended that sentence with a lick, then added another.

"I'm sure nobody's yet written a poem about Christmas blow jobs," Martique murmured, without letting Victor's hardness slip completely out of his muzzle. "It'd go over fabulously down at your coffee shop."

Victor giggled softly, starting to pant. "Will you come see me read it?"

"Honey," Martique said, "I'll kneel down in the front row."

Victor didn't respond, except by taking Martique all the way into his muzzle and wrapping his paws around the fox's rear. Martique closed his eyes and pulled the pronghorn into his mouth, rubbing his tongue along the shaft, tail wagging slowly as he tasted the musk. By now the motions were rote, though the shaft was different: sliding up and down, curls of the tongue, rubbing until he found the spot that made the recipient's hips shiver. In this case, though, it was Victor, so he knew what the pronghorn liked, at least in theory. It wasn't too long before his theory was borne out, the pronghorn shuddering against his muzzle.

At the same time, Martique had to admit he was impressed at how much better Victor was than he'd been the last time they'd played around. Last time he'd had to give the pronghorn some help, but whether it was the rum, or the fact that he'd blown sixteen guys without getting off himself, or, just possibly, Victor's tongue and lips, he found it difficult to control his own hips. Each little stroke and movement of the pronghorn's muzzle sent ever-increasing shivers through him. Damn, he thought. I'm gonna come. And if I'm not careful...

He redoubled his own efforts, sliding his paw around behind the pronghorn's balls, cupping them warmly. His initial idea to 69 with Victor had been mostly the quickest, most socially acceptable way to get himself off after an evening of pleasuring others. He certainly hadn't expected his muzzle to be enjoying it nearly as much as his sheath, nor for his whole body to be tingling the way it was. He was giddy, in a way he hadn't felt in years, not since he was a skinny teenager sucking off his reluctant gym teacher in the coach's office.

Then he'd been all full of the novelty of it, the danger of discovery, the sheer naughtiness of sucking off a teacher. Now it was something different, something unexpected. Since that gym teacher, Martique had had his muzzle around (at a conservative estimate) a hundred or so different sheaths, and he knew the intricacies of blow jobs well. What was most arousing and fur-tingling about Victor's attentions to him was the familiarity and the care with which the pronghorn went about it. It wasn't anything he could have pinpointed from a technique perspective, but he could definitely tell that Victor not only wanted to impress him, he wanted to have Martique come in his muzzle, was eager for that spray of fox on his tongue.

Martique, in his turn, found himself lapping still more eagerly at Victor, the pronghorn's musk reinforcing his faint memory of what Victor tasted like. His body squirmed against Victor's, he heard himself making soft whining noises through his nose, and his tail twitched against the sofa. Victor, though hard, wasn't close, not as close as Martique realized he was. He whimpered more loudly, pressing his foot against a sofa cushion, and tried to focus on the shaft in his muzzle to distract himself, but it wasn't any use, not now.

He gasped, squeezing Victor's hips as he forced the pronghorn's shaft all the way into his muzzle, rubbing with the base of his tongue along the tip. His body's shudders kept forcing louder and louder moans out of him, until he jerked against Victor's mouth and felt the bright hot waves of climax roll through his hips. He emptied his seed onto Victor's tongue, heard the pronghorn's satisfied grunt mingled with his own gasps of pleasure, and whined softly as the pleasure lingered and, slowly, began to fade.

It took him several seconds to regain his composure enough to finish the job on Victor, which proved to be a matter of minutes. The pronghorn had clearly been holding back to finish last. Martique squeezed him, listening to the ever-more-intense moans as well as feeling them around his shaft, and he was ready when Victor exhaled sharply and then thrust hard into his muzzle, spraying the back of his throat with his seed.

They held each other afterwards, slowly releasing each others' cocks. Victor propped himself up on his elbow, looking rather smug. Martique sat all the way up on the couch, leaning back against Victor's waist.

"Well," Victor said, "I guess we know--mmmf!"

Before he could finish, Martique leaned over to kiss him full on the mouth. Victor's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't pull away. He turned his muzzle slightly to meet Martique's, then his hands settled on the fox's back, pulling him closer. Martique teased Victor's lips with his tongue, felt the pronghorn's tongue slide out to meet his. The kiss deepened. Martique tasted himself in the pronghorn's mouth, but that was only part of the sensations that were jockeying for supremacy in him. He reached up a claw to brush the pronghorn's horn, then traced down along the back of his head and his neck.

Sighing, he sat up. Victor's brown eyes looked up, wide but smiling. Martique waited for him to comment on the kiss, but he just said, "I taste good. The taste of victory."

"Congratulations," Martique said, trying not to let his disappointment at Victor's failure to be as moved as he was by the blow job, and the subsequent kiss, become too obvious. "You win."

Victor looked away. "You were pretty good too."

"Even with my sharp teeth?" Martique leaned back and looked around the playroom, casting around for something else to talk about.

"I liked the kiss."

Martique turned back. Victor was still looking away, down at the floor. "Then that means I'm doing that right."

"I mean..."

In the hesitation, Martique's ears slowly came up. Victor didn't look at him until Martique put a paw across the pronghorn's wet sheath. "What?" The fox met Victor's eyes with his most encouraging smile.

"Something was different about it."

"We've never kissed with each other's come in our mouths before."

"Yeah." Victor's smile was still uncertain. "Was that all?"

Martique squeezed. Victor jumped slightly, his smile wider. "No. Not for me."

"Me neither." Victor looked at the ceiling. "Is there mistletoe?"

"Maybe upstairs. McMinaver usually puts it in all the bedrooms. He thinks it's cute."

"Not the playrooms?"

Martique rubbed gently, enjoying the feel of the pronghorn's sheath under his paw. "We got along just fine without it."

"What happened there? Why didn't we ever..."

"Oh, honey," Martique said, "let's not ask questions. I'm just happy you felt the same thing."

"It's a Christmas miracle." Victor laughed.

"Sucking off seventeen people in a night without throwing up is a Christmas miracle," Martique said. "This is just good timing."

"Yeah, so...how about we call a tie?"

Martique laughed. "I told you, you win."

Victor slid a hand down to Martique's sheath and held it. His smile widened. "That's not what I meant."

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!