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Several thoughts attempted to be first to express themselves. Anong the contenders were (in no particular order): I am furclad, entwined with Mac (also furclad), with Abram still dressed, albeit with all of his tails on display; what the hell is “willowbank”; what did the kitsune mean, he heard my call; is Mac actually okay after all, especially with this surprise appearance by Abram; have I done something really stupid (okay, force of old habit wanted me to put this one forward first); is there some trick being played on me (more old paranoia); can someone remind me how to use words in such a way as to be able to communicate one or more of these ideas out loud; and why am I being flippant when the situation clearly deserves a more serious approach? Naturally, all thoughts collided in a huge traffic jam to block my ability to speak at all.

“Willowbank,” said Mac once more, reaching a forepaw toward Abram. The fox clasped it gently, and I felt a change come over the hare. Being as close to him as I was, I sensed his entire body relax, his breathing slow, watched his eyes close as if he were going to sleep.

“Hold him,” the fox whispered.

I wasn’t sure who he was speaking to. I was unsurprised by the realization that both Mac and I reached for each other, enfolding ourselves, pressing closely together. His body was warm, still shaking a little, far less than before. I heard a soft whimper from him, more relief than anything else. The emotions in me were difficult to parse; honor-bound by the Question and Response, as well as my own care for my family, there was no question of this closeness leading to anything sexual. I understood, after a few moments, why I felt that urge: It was my own ancient response to the emotions of neediness. I was feeling Mac’s need to be wanted, to feel worthy. This, too, was a response to his emotional rape.

With that realization came another: He wanted to be held. After my own physical, sexual rape, so many years ago, I spent a long time not trusting any sort of touch from anyone. When I finally started to trust touch and (eventually) sexuality, I still was unable to convince myself that I deserved genuine affection through sex; I felt that I had to earn my worthiness through the acts of pleasing another. I had been clumsy enough to push Mac into acknowledging what had happened to him, too much, too quickly. He needed far more grounding, a greater sense of safety…

Safe word.

I relaxed further as understanding dawned. Abram had pledged to me never to use his magic upon me without my explicit permission, that it was his rule that he never used his gift upon anyone who hadn’t given him permission. He had heard Mac call when the hare used his safe word, “willowbank,” making the call stronger each time he said it. His emotion wasn’t panic but certainty. It was as if he were invoking the kitsune’s presence. Inwardly, I smiled and avoided examining that choice of words too closely.

I reached up to caress Mac’s headfur tenderly. “Mac,” I whispered toward his ear, knowing how sensitive hares’ ears could be. “How may I help you?”

He squeezed me gently, slowly. “Make it okay.”

“We will, Mac. Together.” I took the chance of nuzzling his muzzle with mine. “Are you ready for words?”

A pause, and he said, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all any of us can do.”

Several beats more, and he gave me a chaste kiss to my muzzle, which surprised me, although happily. He slid from my embrace with what felt like reluctance, and he sat up with the grace befitting a dancer of his abilities. I managed to sit up, eventually, with the struggle that just about any other old wolf would deal with. Maneuvering to put my back against the bed’s headboard, I had a moment to wonder how I had said or done something to alert Abram (he’d said he’d heard my call). I set the idea aside as Mac looked at the two of us, preparing to tell us what had transpired before our arrival.

Mac snorted very softly. “I hate to be cliché, that whole ‘where do I start’ thing.” He looked at me, asking, “How do you do it?”

I smiled, also softly. “Sometimes, I don’t. I stare at a blank screen, and I have no idea what I’m going to say. Other times, a character comes to me, asking me to tell his story, because there’s something he needs to say. It can come out as a tale that he tells me, or random scenes, or even random-seeming words. The one common denominator, for my characters, is that they have very strong emotions. Their feelings push them to find me, and sometimes the feelings push ahead of the characters, making breath, making sounds, making words, and the first words they form are…” I paused. I didn’t have to wait long.

“He’s trying not to hurt him.” Mac looked surprised then, after a moment, he felt able to continue. “He… well, clients don’t often give you a name, but this one did. Not sure if ‘Armstong’ is a real name; that’s the one he used later, when…” Mac nodded. “Thank you, Tristan.” He looked to the fox, then to me, and he drew the first breath of his story.

“Not sure how much of my background you know. I was a gymnast, in my school days. I never thought about dancing until I started wondering about the money. My first night being here was to have a drink and watch, see what it’s about. I watched the routines, got some ideas, practiced… I guess that’s everybody’s story here, pretty much. Servo proved the point of that old song from the musical Gypsy, ‘You Gotta Have a Gimmick.’ I had no idea what that could be, so I went away a while to think about it, and when I came back…” The hare looked guiltily at us, apologizing. “Okay, yeah. I’ll fast forward.

“The important dates are my audition and acceptance as a dancer here, which was… what, Abram, not quite three years ago?” The fox nodded. “Being a companion wasn’t a difficult step for me. I’d had… other experiences before I became a dancer, and Phil made an arrangement with me. He was very strict with the rules, which you probably already know, Tristan. The top rule was that I was to be safe, above all else; he has no tolerance for abuse. The rest was details and quiet bookkeeping. And then, a year ago, the family had space for me and wanted me to move in. That invitation was a no-brainer.”

Smiling softly, I said, “I feel ya.”

He chuckled self-consciously, his nose twitching, before continuing. “I don’t always notice individuals in the audience. He was easier to notice than most if just for his size and attitude. He didn’t yell and scream like everyone else. Interested but not excited. Lean stallion, meaty but not overblown. Sandy coat with a white blaze. Only after I got to know him did I know to call his coloration ‘cremello.’ And I did get to know him, starting with realizing the size of the bills he started putting into the tip jar. Like Abram, when he’s dancing as Servo, it’s in the jar instead of stuck in thongs or such. Fives became tens, sometimes twenty. I do a lot of acrobatic work, and that takes concentration; I still try to notice who’s putting in the bills. Good to know who’s watching.

“Anyway, he passed the word that he wanted to meet me. Phil sized him up, arranged for a talk over a drink. Nobody here lets the silent, quick ones in; we’re companions, not whores. That’s what the intro’s for. We had the solitary table at the back of the bar — you know the one.”

I nodded, interested in this “insider’s view” of the process.

“Phil set us up. I kept my head clear with a virgin Harvey, the horse took a single whiskey, rocks, just the one. We talked. He seemed reasonable, educated, respectable enough. Never ask why they want you; they might tell you, somewhere during or after, or maybe a time or two later, but it’s not what you need to know up front. He described what he wanted, discreetly, not gross or explicit, which was another plus. Seemed worth the time for both of us, so we made the arrangement, and…

“A lot about the first one was, well, introduction. Usually is. That first time with him was good. Not mark-your-calendar good, but he got onto my OE list without any problem. There were a few more times after that one, and he began using some of our time to talk, to open up. That’s what good companions can do. We listen. Like you do, Tristan. Maybe I need to talk…”

Again, he paused, that look of embarrassment or, to be accurate, shame. I knew the symptoms and their causes all too well. Since he had reacted well to touch earlier, I reached out to him again, giving his forearm a gentle squeeze. He patted my forepaw gently, his eyes warming, returning himself to himself.

“Yeah, so the time came when he told me more about his daily life. He’s a volunteer track-and-field coach at a local school, he never said aloud which one. He won events when he was younger, no surprise. Mustang. Good legs. He had me rub them sometimes…” He caught my look before I could stop it, and he smiled. “No, not getting porno here, it’s part of it. He liked having me massage him. I’m not trained in it, and I told him so, but he said he liked the way I hesitated, seemed curious, took instruction well. That’s part of being a good companion, too, another aspect of listening. I didn’t think much of it, at first.

“Anyway, he started asking for more time in our sessions, and we made arrangements for that, too. This sounds like I’ve seen him a hundred times. We can check with Phil, if it’s important, but maybe a dozen, fifteen times or so, total. This was all in the last six months. No idea where he got his money, and I never asked.”

“Pecunia non olet.”

Mac looked at me, confused,

Giving me a wry look, Abram translated. “Money has no smell. It’s something that we tell ourselves.”

“You, maybe.” The hare snorted good-naturedly, took a breath, began again. “He started talking about this hare he knew, another jackrabbit. He admitted that he was ‘kind of obsessed’.” Mac made a familiar gesture with his fingers. “Pardon the air quotes, but they seem necessary, since…”

His voice made a choking sound, and he swallowed hard. It took only a moment for him to reach out a forepaw to me, and I took it firmly. I hesitated giving him instruction; he seemed to know, instinctively, what he needed to do. He looked into my eyes, found whatever he needed there, began again.

“The last few times were different. Not meaning to…” He breathed again, nodded, made a rolling motion with his free forepaw. “He’d had the usual, erm, activities to begin with. He changed to a mutual frot, on top of me, and I could look into his eyes. He wanted me to. That first time, about two weeks ago, I almost didn’t get off for him, because of his eyes. Something there, just behind the gaze, something wrong.”

“Can you describe that?” Abram asked gently.

“Not until… It wasn’t until tonight that I understood it.” The hare suppressed a shudder. “He wasn’t seeing into me. He wasn’t even seeing me. The second time he did that, last week, he was the one who didn’t get off. He spent time grinding against me, then stopped and rolled off me. I tried to pass it off as just ‘taking a break,’ since he had more time left. He’d always been good about settling overtime, so I didn’t press. He tried to make a joke of it, but it felt more serious than that. I just stayed quiet, waiting. That’s always the tough part.

“Eventually, he got up to get dressed. He joked about it, half-heartedly, and he seemed more or less okay. I told him to forget any overtime and, luckily, he took that the right way. Before he left, he kissed the side of my muzzle, thanked me, left very quietly. I wasn’t even sure I’d see him again.”

“Then he showed up tonight,” I said softly.

Mac nodded, his long ears twitching. “He booked me for a long session, like maybe he wanted to talk, or try something else, or…” The hare looked to Abram. “Did you know?”

“I didn’t know, Mac. I had a feeling that something was brewing, the way some can sense changes in the weather. I knew something was disturbing you, and I asked Tristan to help.”

“He’s helped.” Looking to me, Mac squeezed my forepaw and smiled. “If nothing else, he’s not trying to rush me along. It’s time, though, enit?” He swallowed past a click in his throat, nodded quickly.

“Okay. After my dance, Phil let me know about the OE. He asked me if I knew about the furpaints. The horse had a small case with him, and Octavia had stopped him at the door.”

It was my own turn to nod, a half-smile brewing. “We ain’t TSA yet, but packages still get the once-over.”

“Nothing to a little role-play, right?” The hare’s breath caught briefly, and he shuddered again. Determinedly regaining himself, he continued, “He didn’t do much talking; got me furclad, told me that he wanted to give me a ‘little makeover,’ just for fun. Companions are there to be helpful, in various ways, right? He made it so much like a game, like I was at a spa. ‘Just relax and enjoy,’ he said.

“Had me lay face down first, and he brushed my fur for a minute or so before he started painting. It actually tickled a little. It doesn’t go deep, just surface. I thought he might mount me, which would get the paint on his hide too, but it was his fantasy, so…

“After a bit, he had me stand up carefully, and he covered the bed in a white sheet. I thought it was nice of him to want to take care of my linens. Fur paint dries quickly, but it can still leave stains. He guided me carefully onto it, to make as little disturbance of the paint as possible. Once I lay back on the bed, he started in on my face and ears. I let it be what he said, a spa treatment, one way and another. Time passed, and I got restless. He was painting my arms, something on my belly. I tried talking to him, and he didn’t answer much, little mm-hm noises, occasional words. It took maybe twenty minutes, I don’t know, longer maybe, and I got really nervous. I didn’t know why.”

“Did you want to stop it?” Abram asked, his voice soft, accepting.

Mac looked at him. “Could I? Would it have been okay? It was just a game, right?”

“That’s what he said,” the fox allowed.

I could see the jackrabbit starting to shake again, but he kept going. “That’s what he started saying, when he finally started talking again. ‘Just a game,’ he said as was painting my hindpaws. ‘It’s all just a game, a different game to play.’ He rubbed my pads a little, kissed them, licked them, a deep grunting. He spoke of how much he loved species with hindpaws instead of hooves, how they look so different when we run. He talked of the scent of sweat in the fur and the pads after a run. He was really getting turned on by then; I could smell his own musk building, feel a change in the air, in the way his body moved. He stood up then, and he looked at me, lying there on my back, and he smiled. And that smile…”

Mac took a huge breath, shook through from eartips to toes. “I should have stopped him there. That smile, that look… I couldn’t say anything. I was… my brain had stopped. I wondered if the furpaint had drugs or something, somehow absorbed into the skin. Crazy, right? Paranoid?” His ears shifted, pivoting. “It’s what that smile made me feel. I felt helpless, small, like I was…”

I forced myself not to speak. I had latched onto the word small, and I prayed that I was wrong.

“He took off his tie, slow, staring at my face, not quite my eyes, and he spoke quietly. ‘Cover yourself,’ he said. ‘Use your forepaws.’ And I did. My painted forepaws, the color that he had chosen for them. I felt frightened, powerless, and I kept watching him as he unbuttoned his shirt, so slow, all the way down, and then he dropped his pants. There was… He had more clothes underneath. A school t-shirt, gym shorts, red and gold. Something else around his neck on a strap. He told me to call him ‘Mr. Armstrong,’ and he kept telling me how I was being so good to play this game, this little game, this new little game… and he told me to make my voice higher…”

Abram and I flicked glances at each other; his tails showed the faintest twitch, although I don’t think Mac could have noticed even if he’d been looking. I had joked that the kitsune could read my mind; I hoped desperately now that he could hear me telling him that he knew better what to do than I, that I wanted him to guide Mac, to tell or not to tell anything further. The quiet thickened, and I worked not to choke on it.

“McHenry,” the fox said softly, “can you tell us what you need to?”

“I think so,” the jackrabbit murmured abstractedly, his eyes losing focus. “He only lowered the shorts enough to… his full length, he was so hard… and he kept talking, stroking, and he only wanted to hear, ‘Yes, Mr. Armstrong,’ quiet, high-pitched. ‘Good yowen,’ he said. He called me ‘leveret’ once, chuckling, a joke, young but not that young, are you, Chris?”

The fox and I both caught that one, Abram being far more gentle than I would be in asking the next question. “Can you see the t-shirt, Mac?”

“All over me,” he said, his voice still distracted, uncertain. “When he finally let go, it was… there was so much… he almost fell over, wobbling on his hooves, screaming out… I couldn’t move, I just… stared at him, his chest heaving, and the look in his eyes… froze me there…” The hare swallowed past a click in his throat. “I couldn’t move. Stared at him. No thoughts. Nothing. He put himself together, left, no more words, no more… no… I couldn’t, I just… no… just no…”

I caught the nod from Abram, although I wasn’t precisely sure what to do. Whatever passed for instinct or intuition within me offered its two cents. In my softest whisper, I asked, “Mac… would you share your fur with me?”

For a moment, I was afraid this was the wrong thing to try. He and I were still furclad from our first exchange of Question and Response from earlier. In a few seconds, however, he turned to me, his eyes clear again. He reached his forepaw to me, and I took it gently. With a smile, he gave it a squeeze, then turned his gaze back to Abram.

“If I tell you the name of the school, what will you do?”

“Stop him.”

“He hasn’t done anything.”

“Yet.”

“That’s what he came to me for.”

“Mac,” I said softly, “you can’t keep going through this, over and over.”

“If it will protect the yowen…”

“Will it?” Abram asked before I could.

The hare’s long ears pivoted nervously, listening for something beyond hearing. I refrained from trying to touch him further, instead simply holding his forepaw and giving him time to consider.

“We’ll have to bar him from here.” Mac’s voice was flat, but it was his own. “And he might go somewhere else, or he might…” He looked carefully at Abram and, perhaps through the touch of his forepaw to mine, I felt the shift in his emotion. He named the school emblazoned on the mustang’s t-shirt, then cast his eyes down.

Abram rose slowly from the end of the bed, his demeanor one of great calm and, toward us, benevolence. “I’ll make some discreet enquiries. I’ll make sure Phil knows that the stallion is barred. He won’t ask questions. No one will, Mac.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. After a moment, he turned to me. “Stay with me?”

“Of course,” I replied.

Mac reached out to hug the kitsune warmly, sharing a chaste kiss with him. After, the fox hugged and kissed me also. “Come see me before you go tomorrow.” I assured him that I would, and he saw himself out.

Left to ourselves, the hare and I arranged ourselves into a comfortable cuddle and let the silence whisper safety to us for a long while. When Mac raised his head to look at me, his eyes told stories that I didn’t understand. I waited another few moments before whispering, “Tell me what you need.”

“I’m not sure I know.”

“That’s okay, too.”

He shifted a little in our embrace, uncertain. “Is it okay to just…?”

“Of course it is.”

Mac buried his face in my chest fur. I simply held him, waiting. It didn’t take long for the tears to come, and they went on for exactly as long as they needed to.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next day, Mac and I woke together, late in the morning, as was normal for the family. We held each other, talked a little more. He chose to stay in his room for the day and evening. I made sure that he got some breakfast, which was generally available 11am-1pm, on the house’s clock; a rota of family who could cook kept the kitchens open. I brought it to him from the dumb waiter at the end of the hall, set him at his own coffee table to eat, made sure that he had my cell number, and then I managed to defy my tendency toward overprotectiveness and let him have the privacy he had asked for.

I found Abram in his rooms. He sat me on his sofa and went about making tea for us. “How are you feeling, Tristan?”

“Okay, mostly.” I would hide nothing from him, so I continued, before he could ask the follow-up questions. “Mac and I slept well. He seemed reasonably interested in his breakfast, and he knows how to get in touch with me, if he wants me.” I drew another breath. “I was not fully prepared for what had been done to him.”

While the tea steeped, I told Abram about what went on before Mac had called to him. I volunteered easily my worries and wish to help the hare, admitting that I would be worried until I was sure he’d be okay.

“You were strong, not to hover over him.” The kitsune prepared the tea for us, each cup carefully tended, forepaws steady. “You have shared the experience.”

I accepted my cup graciously. “I’m afraid that I handled it badly; I pushed the truth at him too quickly.”

“And after he got help with that initial shock, you balanced your nearness with his need to be untouched, at least for a while.”

“He welcomed me, when he was ready. Not everyone wants to hear too much truth at once.”

We each sampled the tea, I again appreciating his use of steamed milk and a touch of vanilla to make the bergamot-laced Earl Grey become a London Fog. Setting the cup down, I caught his eye and held it.

“You prefer it.”

Abram paused for just a moment, more for effect than anything else. “What do you perceive, dear wolf?”

“I sense your weariness. You’ve been up all night, which isn’t common for you, but neither is it unknown. I’m not surprised, given how calmly you left us, earlier. I imagine you’ve spent time researching the net and, I’m willing to wager, you’ve made a plan already.”

“What gave me away?”

“Only the merest hunch, but thank you for confirming that I was right.”

Abram chuckled good-naturedly, saluting me with his cup. “I have taught you too well.”

“You have loved me far better, senpai,” I teased him gently. “Should I ask what you’ve found?”

Stopping short of sighing, the kitsune admitted, “The name and description, with the school name, led me to the stallion. The school is private, small, with grades one to eight under the same roof; the track-and-field competitions are for the upper three grades, so yowens range from as young as 11 for gifted, up to 15 for some who may have started later.”

I wasn’t sure that I trusted my gently trembling forepaw to pick up my cup. Trying to keep my voice level, I asked, “Were there any photos of the teams online?”

“Yes.” Abram waited a moment, perhaps to make sure if I really wanted to hear what he’d found. I nodded, and he continued. “There are two young jackrabbits among the photos. You saw what Mac’s transformation looked like, so perhaps you’d know which is the correct one.”

“Ages?”

“Fourteen and twelve.”

“Mahogany forepaws, all a solid color.”

“The younger.”

“Of course,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “Neither is of age, but even that’s not the worst part.”

I felt Abram’s forepaw to my shoulder, asking me to continue.

“He’s in a position of trust. I wouldn’t wish an assault on any yowen, regardless who it is, but the power aspect, the coercion, the control…” I paused, breathing. “Do you think he’d do it?”

“Not yet. He will probably try to see Mac again, if his urges get the better of him. It would be safer for him to try another engagement.”

Looking to the fox, I asked, “And when he finds that he’s barred? Would that tip him over the edge?”

A single twitch of one ear was all he would allow himself to betray his feelings on the matter. “I think it will be taken care of.”

I looked into his eyes, unafraid. He was never violent toward me, toward anyone, unless forced to defend against violence. What I saw there, what I felt from him, was simple certainty. “I will be here for you, Abram; tell me whatever you wish, whenever you are ready.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mac was dancing again (although just dancing) within two days. He and I talked more, and he began seeing one particular client again within a week. The older senbernaras was a gentle, cuddly, low-pressure sort of male who appreciated the hare’s talents in many areas, particularly that of listening. Sometimes, sharing fur with an attentive audience is exactly the intimacy that’s needed.

The stallion tried to return nine days after that night. Phil took the first salvo; as previously arranged, escalation went to Abram (the owner of the establishment). I wasn’t privy to the conversation, and all that the kitsune told me later was that the mustang tried to argue with reason and insistence, keeping his anger in check but unable to conceal its presence. Ultimately, he left the bar unescorted and without violence. I told Abram that I wouldn’t ask about his plans, in case he needed to keep them quiet. He offered a cheshire smile and promised me that he would tell what he could, if something happened.

Something did. I will relay what I’m told is within the limits of lawful discretion.

About a month after the night that he abused Mac, the mustang left town, suddenly. The general public, meaning those who would have noticed, did not know why. He was unmarried, apparently had a day job that was well-paying yet not critical to his company, and he lived in modest rented accommodations that he more or less abandoned. There is no reason to think that he will return.

It would seem, I was told by a particularly reliable source, that the horse did finally break down and try to seduce the young hare, Chris. It was all very dramatic: the veiled hints, the extra practice sessions, some private strength training and, finally, the afternoon when the mustang had the yowen alone in a locked room, beginning to do what he had done to Mac. The incident was captured on video, with a lurid audio track. The sum of the hints, as they were revealed to me, is that the pederast was confronted with the video and told that he could either turn himself in or run for his life. Either way, he was told, the videos would be available to the authorities, as an incentive never to try this again with another yowen.

This particular horse ran. He clearly was interested in saving his own hide, and he will need all his resources to try creating a new identity. That’s his own lookout. I suspect that he really didn’t care what happened to the yowen. Truth is, however, that young Chris is fine, quite hale and hearty, since nothing at all had been done to him; he had no idea why “Mr. Armstrong” (not his real name, for the purposes of this story) had left.

One of the most amazing things about a kitsune is his ability to create so complete and convincing a glamour.