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Tristan was maintaining his best efforts not to vomit. It was proving difficult, despite not being drunk. Actually having a few drinks would have probably helped him relax right now. But drinking before a match, let alone the semifinal, would have been... unprofessional.

Tristan looked up at the filthy unwashed bathroom mirror and stared. He should have trimmed his muzzle. A bit at least. Sure a dingo with scruff had a certain appeal, but this was the semifinal. He should have been properly cleaned up. Pristine. Smooth and tight, like a lozenge. As is, the 'I just got out of bed' look would not have been his first choice.

"Tristan? Tristan, it's show time." Clancy, Tristan's ferret manager, had evidently entered the bathroom in search.

"I'm coming." He answered.

"I sure hope not. Jerking-off 48 hours before a bout is immediate grounds for a disqualification."

Tristan cringed. That was too obvious.

"Not what I meant, and you damn well know it."

He gave Clancy a disciplinary flick with his tail as he pasted him at the bathroom door and stepped out into the auditorium. The semifinals this year were to be cage matches. That meant that he audience would be right up close and, in all probability, climbing all over the damn thing. Indeed, you could certainly picture the mesh-like cage in a children's jungle gym...were it not for the bed in the middle and the copious amounts of smut that normally took place in it.

"Well ladies and gentleman, it looks like Tristan Cavalier is making his way towards the ring."

Tristan noticed a few spectators looking past him. The dolts. They were probably expecting bear or wolf. It was rare that anyone below the 80kg weight class to make it this far in the league. But while he may have been smaller than most competitors in the semis, Tristian had definitely earned his spot place. Mainly through good old fashioned grit and determination. The giant cock helped too.

Eventually, the watchers began to clue in as he made a beeline for his corner... semicircle... whatever. The PA announcements listing his previous matches faded to white noise as he caught his first unimpeded glimpse his opponent.

Daniel Joreque, was a seven foot tall 100kg white wolf. Most of that 100kg was muscle, by the way. But it wasn't just the muscles that made the man. In addition, Daniel was also gifted with an inherent charisma and charm, as well as a pair of piercing blue eyes. Again, the giant cock also helped.

Tristan did a quick job of sizing Daniel up as he stepped in. Only a quick one though. Anything more than a cursory glance was largely unnecessary at this point. One of the reasons Tristan supposed he made it this far was because he did most of his match preparation outside of both the ring, and the gym. That's not to say he didn't go to the gym. Practically lived there actually, to the rather embarrassing point that the owner had made arrangements to have his towel laundered between workouts in her own house. It probably helped that she was a fan, too.

Daniel was eyeing him up too. Powerfully. If looks could kill, this look would already have started to undress him and go for the grope. The fact that a surprisingly large number of his opponents seemed to pretty much throw the match, and let him have his wicked way with them, suddenly made a lot more sense. That look. All on its own it set Tristan's pulse racing. Made him want to jump and run, but also to get caught. It was a look that said, "I like what I see and I'm going to have it." It was exciting to be wanted like that, by someone like that.

Daniel progressed from undressing with the eyes to licking his chops. He even has the curtesy to give himself a cupping, which highlighting the fact that his pleasantly plump sheath was already becoming plumper. Tristan gulped. He might be in trouble here.

Tristan knew, and he wagered Daniel knew it too, that matches began long before the bell actually rang. It was a head game. It was why any amount of talk between competitors was generally discouraged once either contestant had entered the ring. Daniel had effectively struck the first blow now, making a reasonably successful effort to get inside Tristan's head. It was...tempting. You didn't get into this game without at least being comfortable with the prospect of being held down and taken for a ride.

Daniel was also already naked, so it would have been a faux pas if nothing else for Tristan to keep his suit on. Besides, undressing meant he could also play head games. And so he did. And he didn't disappoint.

Daniel arched his eyebrows, let his tongue loll out slightly and started to pant in appreciation. For however hard he worked in the gym, and he did work hard, Tristan was also one of those infuriating fucks whose genes affording him a compactly muscular physique. This was also nicely complemented by the bondage harness he had just stripped to reveal. League approved, or course. And did I mention the giant cock?

Nothing obstructed his saddle region, but the straps did lope around his thigh and butt checks forming a kind of crotchless jockstrap situation. The straps converged just above the center of his pelvis before rising up his, "Oh my god you could grind meat off of those," abs to a metal ring at the bottom of the cleft of his pecs. Two more straps branched off from either side of the upper ring, where additional rings rested of the center of his left and right pec, with another set of straps looping over and behind his shoulders. Custom... obviously.

The harness was new enough for Daniel to be legitimately surprised seeing it in spite of any background research he may, or may not, have done. It was a way to give Tristan some of the confidence of being clothed without actually wearing clothes. It was also intimidating in its own way. The black leather offsetting his sand colored fur told suitors, "You can have me, but it's going to be on my terms, you mutt." Daniel, both fortunately and unfortunately, was the kind to interpret that as a challenge. He wouldn't hesitate, but he would also be more likely to get worked up, more heated, more likely to make a mistake. Tristan was counting on that last part.

"Alright folks! Welcome to the second semifinal match of the 2003 Pounce League M&M Division. It looks like the boys are dressed down and ready for the match. T Cavalier appears to be sporting a very chic impermeable. Nice. And since this is a cage match, and I'm sure the competitors are already happy to see your smiling faces, why don't you all take a step so they can see them a little bit closer!"

And fucking hell! It was like he just said the cage contained free money and pudding. Every single one of those 100-150 fuckers practically stampeded over each other just to climb the first few feet of cage bars. Birds-eye view of cage matches were of course the most coveted, and provided they didn't through garbage or projectiles into the ring just about any degree of altitude would be permissible. That was the funny thing about the league, the fans were typically very good at not doing anything that might make the competitors too nervous to perform or get them thrown out.

Daniel started limbering up with some standard stretches. Some of which were actually therapeutic, and some of which were solely to show off his exquisite musculature and get Tristan worked up. Which it did. Very much. His sheath was rapidly filling out and a deep red tip had even began to poke out. This was the standard pre-match state of being for most competitors, however. And Tristan was not too shy to reciprocate the display. His figure allowed him to expose a bit more flexibility, however.

The ref, an admittedly cute pine martin twink, who must practically swim in sensual daydreams for the entirety of his work day, approached the bed in the center of the ring and held a palm towards Tristan's corner.

"Cavalier, are you ready?"

"Yes." Tristan answered, and the pine martin turned to gesture to Daniel's corner.

"Joreque, are you ready?"

"Yes." The wolf answered with a slightly smarmy smile and a deep reverberating baritone.

"Well folks! Judges are ready, the competitors are ready. I'm pretty sure you're all ready, and I for one, am already at half-mast."

There was a civilized chortle, it was this particular presenter's usual and favorite joke. The ref raised a single paw, which paused... then came down decisively.

"Begin!"

And said match began, as so many matches did, with the two opponents doing the non-committal strafe dance around the bed in the center of the ring. Daniel however was not the type to let that shit go on for too long, and indeed was not the type of opponent who really benefited from letting that shit go on for too long. Sooner than Tristan would have liked, Daniel broke the circle and started towards him.

Now Daniels psych history suggested nothing of violent tendencies, but still. Seven feet of broad muscular white wolf advancing on you had a way of making your knees buckle. Time for something drastic. Daniel, predictably, stepped over the bed in two strides and went for a scoop-grab. Tristan was ready for it.

Once the wolf had closed all but a half arms-length between them, his knees bent and arms reached forward. What he was not expecting however, was for Tristan to use Daniel's brief reduction in height to jump up and wrap his legs around Daniel's shoulders and thrust his half erect cock into Daniel's muzzle.

It was spontaneous! It was fearless! It was bold! It was almost fox.

"Oh and Cavalier performs a stunning reversal!" The PA was blaring again, but Tristan was focusing on the wolf muzzle beneath him. The wolf stumbled back a bit, still surprised, but rapidly recomposing himself.

"That should score well with the judges!"

Why yes. Yes it would. What would also score well with the judges was the fact that Daniel wasn't really making much of an effort to get Tristan off him. In fact, he now appeared to be...

Is he... is he smelling my crotch? Yep. Yes he is.

Daniel's nose was making audible sniffing noises as he buried his little black nose in the tuft of Tristan's sheath, his eyes closed in aromatic bliss. Now it was Tristan's turn for surprise as Daniel's hands came up and clasped Tristan's hips down firmly on the wolf's shoulders.

Okay... not good.

Tristan's plan had been to give a few short dry assertive thrusts into Daniel's face before leaping back down for the next confrontation. If Daniel was able turn this to his favour Tristan may have just gambled his way into a very unfortunate position.

Daniel, however, seemed less concerned about strategy and more about the cock not yet fully erect and out of its sheath in front of him. Apparently that offended him somehow because he unfurled his pink tongue and began lapping up the length of Tristan's partially engorged sheath quite firmly. Tristan managed not to yelp... until Daniel stuck the tip of said tongue down the shaft of exposed dingo dick and into his sheath. Then he yelped. Then he did again and again as a wolf tongue lapped at it.

"It looks like Joreque is taking the opportunity to get to know his opponent a little better. And it sounds like Cavalier is enjoying every moment of it. Could this be the final kiss?"

No! It's not over!

And Daniel appeared too caught up in the task at tongue to realize how vulnerable he was making himself in turn. It was generally a rule of thumb that the one receiving oral sex would lose the match to the one performing. The main exceptions to this were cases when the receiver was in a position of considerable dominance over the giver. And right now, hips perched on top of Daniel's shoulders and angled such that he could literally bend down and fuck his face well... just use your imagination. Provided that involuntary yelp didn't screw him.

Still, worth a try. And give it the good old 'college try' that impetuous well-hung dingo did. Placing his paws on the back of Daniel's head, Tristan arched his back so he could loom over the wolf and begin asserting himself as the First Rider of the Thrustpocalypse.

Daniel moaned. The giant white monster actually moaned! And Tristan knew this was true because he could feel the vibrations around his cock. Big wolf boy might actually have an itch for being the bitch every once in a while. He could use that... if he ever got down from here. Then again he made not need it. Frankly Tristan was quite confident that if things were allowed to proceed as they were he would, just barely, come out on top. Apparently Daniel agreed with him, because he didn't allow it to proceed that way for much longer.

Daniel went into a squat and began to lift Tristan's hips of him. Ever the gentlemen, he gave Tristan enough time to lean back and, with considerable regret dislodge his cock from the wolf muscle by backwards cartwheeling away. Tristan did briefly consider tightening his leg grip and trying to stay on, but that would have ended badly. A choke hold like that was a little too close to the wrestling circle. And this was professional fuckery, dammit!

"It looks like Joreque has chosen to break the hold, and Cavalier has recovered gracefully. The judges are now ringing the bel to end the round, so let's take a look at the stores."

Tristan found his way back to his corner before stealing a quick glance at the red LED's of the scoreboard. 24 to 27, in his favour. It was close. But he was winning. Barely. The average length of a semi-final and final match was usually three. But then averages were flimsy things easily affected by outliers. It wasn't uncommon for a match to end by round two, or even one, if the right play was made and Daniel was a very tough competitor. He would be expecting Tristan to be bold now, and less likely to leave openings.

Stealing precious mouthfuls of Gatorade, Tristan pirouetted to see the wolf doing the same. Those piercing blue eyes gave a slight variant of the look he gave before. This time it said, "I've got a taste of your cock now and before this is over I'll be coming back for more."

"Alright folks the judges are signalling the start of the next round."

Breaks during Pounce League matches were so hilariously brief one almost wondered why they existed at all. You literally had time for a few mouthfuls of light refreshment, and then you were giving yourself a few quick strokes to make sure you re-entered the ring at least as hard as you left it. Intermissions couldn't last too long of course, otherwise it would be too difficult to maintain said erections. The League was still in its infancy, and there was still plenty of time for smoothing out the kinks in the match structure.

Keeping himself aroused wasn't much of a challenge. It was keeping his eyes on the prize was the problem. Seriously, Joreque's cock was pristine enough for Tristan to want frame a picture of it on his bedroom wall for those seldom nights that were actually lonely (which several fans were already presumably planning to do), yet his gaze kept drifting those eyes. There was no other word for it. They were haunting.

"Alright folks it's time for round two. A reminder that throwing trash projectiles of any kind or viscosity into the ring will get you escorted and banned from this and any further Pounce League events for a minimum of two months."

When the bell rang to announce the start of the second match, Tristan expected the start at least to follow the pattern of strafe dance. Joreque however had no such inkling. He just walked straight up. Tristan, momentarily dazed by the sheer bravado of it, just stood there. Like an idiot. He regained composure just in time to try and hop away to the side, but not quite. So of course Joreque grabbed him in a half-bear hug and clamped down on his muzzle with his own in an aggressively tongue heavy kiss.

It was dominant, it was jealous, it was possessive, and it was also really really good. That wolf tongue rubbed itself all over Tristan's gums, his palate, and most importantly his own tongue. God dammit! Even his spit tasted sweet. And, though he didn't realize it at the time, Daniel was doing more than just bathing his mouth with his tongue. He was also cradling Tristan into his lap as he rolled back onto the bed. He realized though, when he felt something hard and warm pressing up under him. But by then it was already too late for a number of things.

Daniel didn't wait for Tristan to appreciate the circumstances in which he now found himself. He wasn't interested in the moment when the opponent realized they're about to be porked. Instead he did the rather ungentlemanly thing of just sticking it in. Not roughly, mind you, just sort of surgically placed it. No muss no fuss, sort of thing. Thank God it was still a requirement for competitors to enter the ring copiously, pre-lubed.

Then it was suddenly a different ball game. Previous strats were no longer an option, which meant having to rely on less explored ground. Tristan's relatively slender build meant he had to be good at being a bottom, and though he was still a better top than he was a bottom, he had managed to cultivate a few tricks in his repertoire. And from the sounds Joreque made said tricks were working quite well. Maybe, just maybe, he still had a shot at this.

From the way portions of the crowd were cheering they certainly thought so. Looking around, mainly to distract himself from the fact that a giant wolf's dick was somehow up in his intestines but still producing nothing but pleasurable sensations, Tristan saw quite a few spectators of both genders and multiple species perched happily among the rungs of the cage unabashedly pleasuring themselves to the spectacle. In addition to offering spiritual and moral support, of course.

A particularly rowdy draft horse, perched a good seven feet off the ground in the north-east corner, had threaded his massive dick through the bars and was jerking himself into the cage. It was borderline grounds for a security escort out of the venue, but not quite. Not as long as he didn't cum on the ring floor. It also had the added benefit of being incredibly hot. Tristan had a particular weakness for horsemeat, even if now was not really the time he could devote much attention to the subject.

And it was in that moment of distraction when Daniel administered the coup de grâce. Using flexibility one wouldn't expect a frame like his to comfortably allow, Daniel curled his spine forward and wrapped his black lips around Tristan's flagging cock. _Now_he was in trouble. He should have practiced. He should have prepared. But how was he supposed to anticipate being reamed in one end and sucked-off on the other? Well, by a night out at the club... obviously. Sadly, it had never occurred to him to ask that of any of his playmates.

Daniel pretty much has this now. But dammit if his wasn't going to make the bastard fight for it. From then on it was paws on head and mad penetrative thrusts up, and self-skewering thrusts down in a mad dash to the finish. Daniel was a good top, maybe even a great one. But Tristan was also a decent bottom. And there were ways a bottom could direct the action even if they weren't also fucking your face. Strategic squeezing, knowing when and how hard to press down just that little bit to press on that knot. For all his bulk Daniel was, surprisingly enough, still the type to enjoy giving oral sex as well as just receiving it. That was clear enough from the enthusiasm.

It was just a matter of making him too enthused. It would be close. It would difficult. It would be very non-traditional, but Tristian may just yet be able to get him off first and take the- OH. OHHH.

Where the hell did that tongue come from?

Now he was really in trouble. He didn't know where that hitherto unknown oral finesse had just come from, but presumably he must have pulled it from his most supple and delicately sculpted of asses.

Tristan attempted to subvert the inevitable by picturing his parents having sex... with which there were several things wrong, not least of which was the fact that picturing his dad like that was a bit of a turn on. He followed this up summoning the visage of his grandparents having sex. Vaginas in general. Tax returns. The Michael Bay transformer movies. Vatican 2. An elective in Biology meant he could clearly picture the horrifying consequences of Mucocutaneous Leishmaniasis. And finally, the last recourse, Andrew Lloyd Weber.

All to try and delay the inevitable realization that for all his self-control, all his discipline, all his scrapping and work to get this far, the dingo just... didn't... cut... it.

He was arching his back, he was crying out, and wave after wave of pleasurable warmth was washing over him. He was cumming. And he could feel the semi-finals slip away from him a little bit more each time he spurted liquid warmth onto Daniel's waiting tongue.

"Don't worry, mate. You'll get him next time." Clancy consoled, before downing another shot.

Tristan was drowning his sorrows in a pint of larger, but Clancy had this thing about using shots to get commiseratingly drunk as efficiently as possible. "The thing is, for you at least, matches against guys like Joreque are always going to be an uphill struggle, because he's got the weight advantage."

He was right of course, but though Clancy understood the industry well, he wasn't a former competitor. It wasn't just that Joreque was larger that made it an uphill battle, it was the fact that that size and stature afforded a degree of confidence that made subjugating opponents so effortless for him.

"You just need practice punching above your own weight." Clancy continued, downing another shot. "Anyway, don't worry too much, your still in the Top 50 go-getters according to Knot Magazine."

"Yeah, sure." Tristan offered. He did like Knot Magazine, but he also knew it was mainly for hobbyists.

"Anyway, I've got a date tonight. Hopefully next time I'll be able to tell her we won. We'll talk more later." They traded the usual handshake as Clancy pushed back his stool and made for the door. Tristan returned to his drink pensively. He'd done the sportsman like thing after the match and congratulated Daniel, who was affable and jocular and even able to cordially do Tristan the ultimate curtesy of this profession by asking for his number. On the one hand, it was nice to be a professional competitor in a field where it was really hard to hold grudges. But on the other hand it denied the cathartic therapy of being able to despise the one who made you lose for being a tosspot.

Tristan had lost matches before. He'd even lost qualifiers before. And the thing that kind of stuck with him the most is that none of his friends could really understand that it was possible to be a competitive fucksmith and still be having a bad day at your job. So his consolatory beers were almost always drunk in solitude. Clancy never stayed round for long, having to run what he called damage control. Or in this case go on a date. That still tickled Trisan. The fact that a diametrically straight ferret was manager for a competitor in the M&M Division.

Not that many of his friends knew his profession anyway. Most of those that did know had found out on their own by stumbling on and following the League itself. Usually from being either very vague or very specific in Google searches.

Having to let his parents know just what the hell he was doing for a living had been...awkward. For several reasons. Not least of which was that his parents were a little too supportive of their Pounce League whore of a son. On reflection, with parents like that, he probably didn't have much chance of being well adjusted to begin with.

"Hey." A voice quavered quietly from behind, like it was afraid of offending. Tristan turned. It was a horse. A draft horse. The very same draft horse, in fact, whom had been jerking himself off over Tristan's head not two hours beforehand. "G-Good match." The equine offered solemnly.

Tristan was guarded. It was either a pretty big coincidence that someone from the match had innocently stumbled upon his favourite watering hole, or he'd been followed. He'd heard many stories about fans approaching Pouncer's ending badly, and had even experienced a few of the more mild examples.

"I...I'm sorry if I distracted you." The horse continued. "I-I just got caught up in the match, y'know."

Had Tristan been staring been staring? Shit. Tristan placed his beer down and regarded the horse critically. His not quite yet sated libido return a favourable evaluation.

He was built, that was for sure. Tristan knew he was packing, the view from the match more than confirmed that, even if his species didn't. Judging from how shy he was acting Tristan guessed he was also harboured a little crush on the dingo. So what he had here was an adoring fan, with a bod you could bounce marbles off, and a cock that could skewer a pig spit roast. He was also much larger than Tristan.

Why not? Like Clancy said, he could use the practice.

"Name?" Tristan said.

"W-What?"

"What's your name?"

"Oh! T-Ted." He answered, the confidence at the match completely absent without the comforting barrier of a sex cage between them. Or, perhaps, because he wanted to think up a fake name very quickly. Tristan didn't mind if it was the latter.

"Care to join me," he smiled and kicked out a stool.

Ted hesitated. "S-sure." He said, climbing atop the offered stool. "What are you drinking?"

"Fosters, against my better judgement."

"Ah, Australian. Remind you of home?"

"No. By Australian standards it's piss, which is why we export it here. But I don't quite have the heart to explain that to the bartender."

Ted cracked a smile. "I guess confession that it's one of my favourites would give away my lack of breeding then."

Tristan's chortled. The night might just be salvaged after all. Yes, he had lost. But for now, he'd drown his sorrow in maybe just one more beer and, a little later, some acquiescent horse meat. It would be good to... stretch out after the demands of competition.

But he'd be back next year, oh yes. Faster, smarter, better, and above all, harder.