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A Beastly Night in Prague

The second I close the graveyard gate, I see the flash of fur. I hear the patter of paws. And I smell the traces of adrenaline - excitement - in the animal's scent.

Why is he sneaking into the necropolis?

Three times now, I have seen this blasted critter while I hunt. He is a numbat, I have learned, a creature all the way from Australia. He looks like a chipmunk or a small furry anteater, though he is a marsupial, like many of the animals from his continent. And if he isn't careful, he will end up dying a long way from home.

He must have heard the stories. They are the talk of Prague. Some parts of the stories are true, namely the freshly dug-up graves in cemeteries across the city. Yet, rumours have been rife too. Some even claim that the recently departed are making an unexpected return to the realm of the living. Graverobbers are a more plausible rumour: a few still ply that sordid trade. Indeed, when the recently departed are reinterred, some of their trinkets have been reported missing. Yet a graverobber wouldn't wound the bodies that way. Portions of the cadavers ripped away, sometimes still hanging by grey skin…and the marks. Teeth-marks, claw-marks, the mark of something…wilder?

The authorities have told everyone to stay away. Leave the matter for properly trained and authorised persons to investigate. Myself, I am certainly trained. 'Authorised', though…let's say I have a rather complex relationship with the authorities. Fortunately, a friendly intermediary at the City Watch means I have kept most of the fur on my tail.

But more worryingly, the official decrees have not deterred our numbat. I have seen him sneaking around with a notepad and pen in paw. I suspect he is some kind of journalist, who earns his keep by spinning lurid yarns to lure in the readers and sell newspapers back home. He probably thinks he is being discreet in his long coat and hat, pretending to be some private detective. He needs to realise this isn't a game. A creature has been roaming this graveyard, exhuming its midnight meals. But I have a feeling that, like all animals, it would prefer a fresh kill. If the numbat thinks he can hide in the undergrowth and take notes and not be noticed, he is mistaken. Especially with the creature I suspect.

I need to get him out of here. Without raising a commotion.

I raise my muzzle, scenting the air. Recent cool rain, wet mud, fresh grass, and a scent of meat with a faint hint of rot.

It is close.

A patter of hooves, far softer than an ordinary creature can hear. Softer than the numbat can hear, I'm sure. Even with the sharpness of my own vulpine ears, I only hear the creature because I know what I'm listening for. Or I have some idea, at least.

It is some way off, up a slope, emerging from some bushes before prowling between gravestones, appearing and disappearing from my view. I keep my own paw-steps light, sneaking behind a row of gravestones (never in front: even on a hunt, I would not dream of disturbing the departed while they rest). The numbat is also up ahead, glancing around, oblivious to the stalking fox nearby. And to the other, more dangerous canid lurking by. Though the shadows obscure the beast, the moonlight glinting in its eyes help me lock on, tracking its silent stalk. Now I can see which creature I'm dealing with. A psoglav.

The two-legged beast watches the numbat. It has a scruffy dog's head, and its muzzle is parted, tongue panting without a sound, or any hot breath to cloud the air. It's hunger - take that from a canid.

The creature breaks cover and closes in on the numbat. No time for subtlety. I take my hand crossbow, cocking the string and arming the weapon. From my bolthole, I fire a warning bolt that cuts through the psoglav's line of sight and thuds into a tree. The numbat jumps, uttering some language more suited to an Aussie bar than to hallowed ground.

The shaggy beast realises it's been sighted, by someone who's a greater threat than the marsupial, and it whips its head around. Quick as I can, I cock the bowstring and step into the open, reaching for a bolt which I load and aim at the beast. I snarl.

“Leave."

He circles to face me. I can see the hunger in the dog, the rangy muscle under that fur, the outline of his ribcage, the twitch of claws that were so close to snatching the numbat. His eyes shine, bright and milky and bloodshot around the edges, and he growls, showing all the haphazard teeth in his scarred muzzle. He wants to eat, so badly. The numbat backs off, eyes wide and little claws quivering, before…

No, you daft numbat, don't run! The psoglav and I both see him scurry away. The dog-beast darts its head, to the numbat, to me, back to the numbat. I see that instinct, that hunger to hunt, glimmering in the dog's pale eyes. His hindquarters quiver and his tail whips. He chances a slinking step towards the numbat and I bark at him:

“Ne!"

He freezes, handpaws poised in the air, one milky eye swivelled back to me. Oh, he so wants to chase. I curl my upper lip a little bit more.

“Ne…"

My hackles rise. I clutch my crossbow tighter, making the metal and the mechanism clink. He cranes his head a little more towards me. Something unspoken passes between us, something instinctive and canine, and he takes the suggestion. The ears go back, he snarls his contempt at me, but all the same he turns tail and flees. He will have to find his next meal elsewhere.

The rustle of the rapid numbat grows indistinct. I sniff…sniff…catching the numbat's scent. He reeks of fear: the sharp chemical tint of adrenaline, the salt of sweat…and other fluids. Makes him easy for me to track…and for others. Still, with any luck, he has made it over the wall and out alive.

We can manage a psoglav. Increased patrols should be enough to ward the puppy off. And a strategic sprinkling or two of cocoa powder. But before I inform the proper authorities, I discharge my bolt next to the first, retrieve them both, and give the cemetery a patrol of my own. After a quick circuit (including avoiding a policeman who may have been investigating my bark, or the numbat's colourful language), everything looks in order. Pup got the message.

I return to the city of the living. Under a gas lamplight, I write a note for the City Watch. I deliver the note to a nondescript townhouse, where I drop the note into one of the house letterboxes, ready for my contact to find.

I wander the streets a while longer, nose to the wind for more trouble, when I catch a familiar scent. Oh, you're not being daft again, I hope, numbat? But no, the trail leads deeper into the city, away from the upmarket houses of the Old Town and into the older, medieval streets of Josefov, a jumble of narrow streets, crooked lodges, and taverns of lesser repute. A rain-shower starts. The water masks the marsupial's scent, which now mingles with the muck of this city. Twice my nose almost leads me astray, before I realise, yes, this is the way the numbat headed.

More animals roam the streets. I walk ahead, neither brisk nor dawdling, just another fox with somewhere to be. I keep scenting the air, but less deeply: too much sniffing would only draw attention. The scent trail leads me to a bar I know well: The Hrebec, or Stallion. The type of place that attracts a, let's say, rougher crowd. If I entered in my finer regalia, what I wear at the university for example, that would be the quickest way to silence the chatter. Tonight, however, I'm not wearing anything too ostentatious, so I won't stand out. Cloaked rogues rarely do. That's the point.

The tavern sign shows a rearing, muscled stallion. It lures me in, as stallions do. Checking that my sheath isn't too firm, and that my weaponry is concealed, I approach the front door. The hound on the door wishes me a dobrý vecer. I catch his eyes and I also wish him a good evening, before I open the door and step inside. Smoke and the din of chatter flood my senses. The bar is crowded, its patrons shoulder to shoulder, blissfully unaware of what lurks in their city. And I don't just mean a hell-puppy. It's best they don't know. As for tracking my numbat, I will have to rely on sight for the final track. The cloying, earthy aromas of tobacco and animal dull any chance of isolating his scent. I push past the animals, looking every which way for the little marsupial.

I find him in a dingy corner: the creature who has stalked me for days now. However, I soon realise, in his current condition, that he is in no state to stalk anyone. He huddles over his table, muttering to himself in slurred speech. A golden mug of beer froths and bubbles beside him, while two empty mugs sit alongside. Most other patrons pay him little heed. If they do glance his way, they soon turn up their whiskers at the strange, foreign, rodent-like critter.

Part of me also says to steer clear of him. He is unlikely to have anything valuable to me. Another part of me dreads to think what fate might befall the little animal, left to his own devices in a foreign land.

And, I must admit, there is something about the little animal that I find intriguing. Not simply because he is cute. Prague is full of handsome men, and if I wanted to leave one limping, I could hunt one down any night. No, the numbat is different.

He is a tenacious little animal, I will give him that. But he is also a journalist. I know his modus operandi. He wants me to spill the carefully curated knowledge of a lifetime of academic pursuit. If I do, it will end up in some cheap pulpy newspaper, and every animal from here to Australia will seek out that information, and the delicate balance I keep will be imperilled.

Still, there is no shame in a little gentlemanly company. And a drunk numbat is hardly going to glean many secrets from me.

So, I order a Becherovka liqueur at the bar, and I slip through the animals, a flow of cloak and auburn fur. When I reach the numbat's table, I clear my throat. He lifts his sleek, striped muzzle, and his eyes light up when he recognizes who has joined him.

“It…it's really you. Professor Liškov."

“Good evening. And please, call me Igor."

“Of course. I'm Syd, by the way. Wow, I can't believe you've come over to speak with me. Right, if you don't mind, I had a few questions I wanted to…"

He twists around while he speaks, fumbling in his coat for a notebook and a fountain pen. He is unsteady, even in his seat, and when he nearly falls off his seat, I take his wrist.

“You will have to interview me another time. For a start, you are hardly in any state to work."

Of course, I have no intention of being interviewed, tonight or at any time. The concern for his welfare is real, however.

The numbat blinks, registering the fox paw holding him. He pushes back and I meet his resistance. We are not playing around. Still, his little chuckle is reassuring.

“Heh. You're really strong."

I nod in agreement. "Thank you. I do what I can to keep in shape."

"I can imagine, mate…um, sir." I help him back up, and he stares at me. “Wow. How many beasts have those paws slain?"

“I have no idea what you're talking about," I reply. Either he buys it, or he realises he should hold his tongue. So I take a drink, and I continue. “I came over here because you look worse for wear. Clearly, proper European lager is stronger than the flavoured water you get in Australia."

Syd rolls his eyes. “Strewth, mate."

“So tell me, is there someone in Prague who's looking out for you?"

The numbat smiles at me. “Why? Who's asking?"

Something about that smile gives me pause. Like some instinct, some desire, has got the numbat curious. Like he wants to get closer to me. And I do think he's cute, with his fuzzy little face, bright eyes, little nose, and rounded ears. I wonder how he would feel to nestle beside…and I push that thought right away before I reply.

“Me, and because you might find it useful. Even to advise you not to get drunk in a strange city, all alone. You should at least have some company while you sober up. Because, let's be honest, you have clearly had more than enough to drink. So I suggest we go somewhere else, away from all this temptation."

A moment of quiet. I see my words ticking through his addled little brain. And to my relief, the numbat agrees. He gets to his feet and gathers his belongings, and while he goes to answer the call of nature, I gulp the rest of my drink. When the numbat returns, I lead him through the busy bar, paw at his back, nodding to some familiar faces and wishing them a good evening. If anyone asks about the strange marsupial, I'll say he's a visiting academic. More acceptable than saying I was chin-wagging with the tabloids.

Out in the street, I head towards my apartment. Until I hear a voice behind me.

“Uh, hey, hold on. My hotel is that way."

I turn to face the numbat. “The idea is for you to come with me."

“Nah, that's okay mate, you can just walk me to my door."

I smile at the numbat, my whiskers a-twitch. “Is that really what you want, Syd? Me to leave you? After you looked so hard to find me?"

Yes, it is an under-paw tactic, and just a little bit foxy. But I do want to keep him safe.

“The fact is, Syd," I continue, “I cannot leave you in this state. And after tonight's encounter, you should know there are dangerous animals in the city."

The little animal huffs and shakes his head. “I really shouldn't follow you. Then again, I shouldn't have been drinking. I'm already past the point of looking after myself. Wouldn't that be just my luck: a strange fox shivving me after one brew too many. Okay, I'll come with you. But don't you try anything."

“I won't," I reply, setting off as I speak.

“I'm serious. I had a kangaroo boxer train me up."

“I believe you."

“You ever fought with a 'roo before?"

I flash a fang. “Brutal beasts, aren't they?"

“Darn right."

The idea of the diminutive animal laying so much as a claw on me is amusing. But I stay tactful, keeping that thought to myself.

The first few minutes of our walk pass without drama. But then the numbat slows his step. Maybe the cold autumnal air doesn't suit the Australian animal. I slow down as well. “Everything all right?"

“You don't have to do this, by the way. I would have been fine on my own."

“In your present condition?"

“I'm fine! I can handle my drink."

Considering Syd's raised voice, his somewhat uneven step on the cobbles, and his near-fall on the cobbles, the facts say otherwise. When I say what's best for an animal, normally I like to be vindicated. This time…the victory is more pyrrhic.

Then again, he is still walking beside me, unaided. So at least there is some sense in his addled mind.

“Besides," he continues, “I only had a couple of peev…peevee…"

“It's pivo. Perhaps you should stick to German. At least Bier sounds the same in English."

“Ah, whatever. You can leave me here, by the way. I'm fine getting back on my own."

He stops in the middle of the cobbled street. So I stop too and I face him. “I am of a different opinion. I am not leaving you to wander, drunk, around a strange city, with all kinds of thieves and dangerous animals around. However confident you feel, there are animals about who will see you as prey. Lone prey at that. Look down the alley to your left."

He does so, and I see his whole body stiffen. Even I only see the gleaming eyes for a second more, before they disappear to the left.

“Do you see what I mean?" I don't wait for the numbat's reply. “And so, you are coming with me, at least until you sober up a little."

Oh sure, he grumbles and weighs whatever disadvantages his brain can come up with. But he does agree to my compromise, and so we walk on. Curious little fellow. But if something happened to him, I would have never forgiven myself.

Gas lights flicker, illuminating our cobbled pathway home. And soon enough, we reach my lodgings, a four-storey building in the Old Town, a few minutes' walk from Charles University. As the numbat steps up close, I take out my keychain and open the street door. Inside the marbled foyer, our footsteps echo. I close the door behind us, locking it in the darkness. The tipsy marsupial keeps quiet, sensibly, and he keeps close to me, trusting me and my nocturnal vision.

We climb two flights of stairs without further drama. We cross the landing to my own front door, where I take another key and unlock the door.

“Now before we go in, I have only one request: don't touch anything."

Syd nods, and I open the door. It swings open noiselessly, and in we go. I breathe in the scent, my own scent, warm and foxy.

“And with that…welcome to my urban den."

I have a complex relationship with my adopted home city. Of course, my employment at Charles University means I must keep a base in the city. I have a few social connections, both in the faculty and further afield. And if you are sniffing out the culinary side of the city, I can recommend a bar or a cantina for any taste, from sweet treats to nose-to-tail dining. However, a fox is happiest and truest to himself when embracing his natural side, which is a challenge at the best of times in a growing city. I don't only say that as a rural fox, with a small but close-knit family a short distance from Plzen. I also say that as an animal.

Then again, as the ancient city breaches its walls and mutates and encroaches further on the land, there will be more conflict between the seen and the unseen. As we witnessed earlier.

Speaking of 'we': the two of us take off our coats and boots, and I invite Syd to take a seat on my sofa. With the moonlight filtering through the window, and my drapes not yet drawn, the numbat can find his way. Then again, he would probably appreciate some extra light. So, I rummage through the apothecary supplies I picked up earlier. I find a match, strike it, and light a candle in a candle holder, which I set on a table near the numbat. In the new light, I see the numbat take in my den: my bookshelves, my furniture, and my desk with its assortment of papers and writing materials and jars and pouches strewn on top. He sits there, respectfully, maybe even impressed. Confident he'll keep his paws to himself, I fetch us both a glass of water from the kitchen. I hand one to the numbat.

“Cheers…um, thank you, I mean. Sorry mate, I never know if you understand what I say."

“Don't worry. English may not be my first language, but I have understood every word so far. Even with the antipodean accent."

He raises his eyebrows. “Now, that ain't a word you hear every day. 'Xcept maybe from lawmakers."

Well, I do like to impress.

I join Syd on the sofa while he sips his water. The glass is three quarters full when he sets it on the table. I ask him: “Do you feel any better yet?"

“I do. Head's starting to clear, at least. 'Spose I should say thanks for looking out for me back there."

“Well, not to sound like a schoolmaster or anything, but you were playing a dangerous game."

“Yeah, sorry, mate. It's just been a rough day, that's all."

“That's an understatement. So, I have to ask, what brings an Australian animal all the way to Prague?"

“Oh, that's an easy question. I'm looking for the supernatural creatures of the other side." In the numbat's mind, that probably sounds dramatic and theatrical. To a fox who has studied and tracked these beasts for years, and who is still learning about them, it sounds like the numbat is hopelessly out of his depth.

“And you're out here all by yourself? No employer or benefactor?"

“Well, the New South Wales Herald have kindly contributed to my food and board. But their pay would never cover all my expenses. Truth is, I'm something of a freelancer. I get a lot of freedom to seek out creatures. My employers don't mind, as long as I give them something in return. So I started in England, tracking down some local legends. I tell you, those Brits love their black dogs. Black Shuck, the Grim, the Barghest…I swear I saw one, too, in the Fens, wading through the reeds and marshes. But then I caught the scent of the Slavic beasties. Bohemia seemed a good place to start. Prague is a lovely city. And I've managed to get by, finding English speakers, and learning a bit of German. Guten Tag. Ich heisse Syd. Ich komme aus Australien. Czech itself, though…still a little beyond me."

“You will find some Czech useful. Especially in more remote areas."

“Well, that's where I want to go. The forests around here are so wild. You just know they're hiding something."

I cross my arms, stilling the batting of my brush-tail. “So you consider yourself a competent beast tracker?"

“Competent enough."

“So how do we explain that dog in the cemetery?"

“Ah, that was bad luck."

“Bad luck? That animal would have savaged you."

The numbat—Syd—smiles. “Risk of the job, I suppose. You might say a psoglav is an entry-level beast, but that just shows there are no easy beasts out there."

It takes me a second to reply. “What…was that word?"

The numbat smiles wider, an easy inviting smile, and he adds a gentle laugh. “You're yanking my tail. You know all about the psoglavs…the dog-beasts. And don't try to convince me it was just a stray dog. I saw those horse-hoofs, and that third eye. It's the kind of beast I've been fascinated by since I was a joey."

I start to think there might be more to this strange critter. I know what I want to say: something like: 'But it almost killed you'.

But I must hesitate a second too long, because he strikes up the conversation again. “Oh, but those grave-puppies, they're nothing. You might like to see this."

The numbat heads over to his coat. He returns holding a well-worn leather-bound book, which he proffers to me.

“These are my notes. Take a look, if you like."

I take the notebook out of politeness. In truth, I have no interest in reading the lurid sensationalism of some grubby little hack.

Which is just as well. Because the numbat's notes are nothing of the sort. By the window, in the moonlight, I browse the numbat's book. His notes are meticulous, detailed, covering various creatures from wood-sprites to were-beasts, including their appearances and some observations on their behaviour, all accompanied with sketches. And with reference to other works on these creatures, either confirming or embellishing or challenging the observations of others. Scientific, curious…and if I am honest, our approach to note-taking is similar.

I scan his section on the psoglavs; he speculates they may be the ones digging up graves. I leaf forward through a few blank pages…and freeze.

“Syd…you need to be careful around these ones."

He leans over. “Heh, what, the pijavice? They're just classic vampires, aren't they? Garlic and hawthorn stakes and all that?"

“Firstly, there is no such thing as a 'classic vampire', not even in Transylvania. Second, a pijavica is not just a vampire: there's a reason it shares a name with a leech. Third, don't you think it's somewhat convenient that those killing methods are common knowledge? Don't you think that creatures that powerful might have taken some precautions?"

“So…they do exist?"

“Bloodsucking beasts exist, yes. From bats, to leeches, to maybe the chupacabra, to maybe even vampires, they may or may not exist in any given shadow."

“I love the way you talk, by the way. Proper intelligent."

And more grammatically correct than most, I muse. Even in my third language. However, I simply give a small nod. I turn to the back of Syd's journal, which details his trip preparations, sharpening stakes and the like, but also…

“Wait a moment. You carry peanut oil?"

“That's right." He pulls a glass bottle from his waistcoat. The bottle is filled with a golden-brown oil. “I found a letter in the British Library that said certain undead creatures were vulnerable to nut preparations. I figured I may face something undead here in the continent. So I sought out supplies when I was in London. Found a tiny shop hidden in the Docklands, where I bought all I needed."

I close his journal and place it on a table. “My friend, I may have misunderstood you. I thought you were just stumbling around graveyards, looking for a macabre angle for some paper story. I must ask, however, since you're Australian…"

“Yeees, I've seen a bunyip. Gosh, he was a beauty. Big as a horse, waterproof fur like an otter's, leathery skin on his belly like a lizard, webbed paws, gills, and those tusks…huge and yellow they were. Believe me, I did not want to get skewered on those. Luckily, he had a taste for fish that day. I watched him dive into the drink, churning the water as he swam. And then he surfaced, clutching this huge Murray cod as big as me. So while he enjoyed his tucker, I took my leave."

“So, you have some experience of tracking down creatures. Where did you learn that? I know there are mystic men in Australia."

“Ah, that's the thing. I'm more of an…amateur enthusiast."

“Then I will caution you." I rest a paw on the numbat's shoulder. “Before you delve any deeper into these pursuits. Having a psoglav rip your throat out, that's nothing compared to what some beasties can do."

“And what about yourself? You face the same risks, and I don't see anyone helping you. Hey, maybe we can help each other out? Safety in numbers and all that."

“Let us not be too hasty."

He gazes back at me, beady-eyed, still tipsy but sobering up. Something is drawing us together, though I cannot explain what. I am on the sofa, turned towards him, one fore-paw on his shoulder and the other between us for balance, brush-tail loosely draped.

There is something about that easy smile. Handsome. As for his opinion of me…

“You're liking what you see," I observe.

The numbat glances down and laughs. “Well, that's bloody embarrassing. Don't want to be giving you the wrong impression."

“You don't want to pass up an opportunity, either."

He stops laughing. “Now you're the one being hasty, mate."

Au contraire, little one. I have been smelling your precum since I first touched your shoulder.

I realise I am fortunate in my life. Generous research stipends, courtesy of the dons at Charles University. Plus the odd gulden or two from my family. And, as I have the resources, I like to dress the part. My tailored trousers accommodate my sheath perfectly. At least, they do in the normal course of daily activities. But when a fox gets hard, he's on his own.

Or maybe he's not.

The numbat stares. A stare I am all too familiar with. Does he wear a mask with everyone, or is he just shy of me? He decides, correctly, it would be futile to deny his preference. So he tries to find his words.

“That…that looks pretty sizeable."

I lean back on my sofa. My home, my den. “Oh, this is merely for starters. I get more sizeable than this."

The numbat's eyes go wide. “Yeah?"

I tilt my head with a little fox smile. “Would you like to feel?"

“Thought I wasn't allowed to touch anything."

“I'll make an exception."

He swallows. A little tongue-tip flicks from his maw. He sneaks forward, and he rests a ginger paw on me. Goodness, I am hard. I give a growl.

“Go on. Slip a fox loose."

The alcohol may have freed his inhibitions. Regardless, the numbat reaches for my belt, which he unfastens with nimble paws. I catch the little hitch in his breath, the attempt to disguise his eagerness. With my belt loosened, he unfastens my trousers, careful and mindful of the animal within. I give a soft little vulpine bark as the numbat starts to free me. I lift myself a little higher, and he takes the hint, sliding my trousers and underwear over my arousal and my rear. However, I resist the urge to lift my muzzle in pleasure. Because I want to see his reaction. I love seeing how animals react the first time. Oh, certainly, they can tell they have a big animal on their paws, even under all those clothes. But when they actually see my endowment, see a fox already bigger than their handspan, thicker than they can wrap their thumb and forefinger around, with low-hanging white-pouched balls that glow rosy with promise and with kits…

“Fuck me, mate. You're a monster."

“For all the monsters I wrangle, I'm just a fox."

“I bet you wrangle that one a lot. Looks like a proper beast."

He has a beady look in his eye, such as animals get whenever they see something curious or fascinating.

I realised long ago I am remarkably well endowed. Young, curious male foxes do have a tendency to compare. Which isn't a huge challenge when surrounded by other teenage males, slipping from sheaths and showing bones left, right and centre. You tend to notice your fellow male: in school classes, in gymnasia, when sleeping over with friends…and with me being a horny teenage tod, beholden to the same urges, I was no exception. Oh certainly, I thought little of it at first, when it was only me, alone, in my bedroom, discovering how good it felt to touch myself down there. Until I noticed my peers, whose sheaths never seemed quite as large as mine. Then I saw my first fox erection. The tod was unchanging after athletics class, enjoying a few seconds of freedom…if his murrs and the stroke of his paw over sheath and balls and his few inches of vulpine pride were any indication. Un-knotted, of course: those are always awkward to conceal until they soften, so one tries not to pop free, if one can help it. But this youngster was barely a patch on my endowment. And so, the next time I padded into that changing room, I stroked too. With several of my classmates nearby, I rubbed my black-socked paws over my white-furred balls and sheath, before I tugged on that sheath, slipping out my fox-erection. But to truly show off my weaponry, I needed inspiration. I thought of a pretty vixen, my sister's friend who came to visit from time to time. And though the softness of her fur, her cinnamon-spiced foxy scent, and my new-found desire to pounce her and hump her like an animal all had the desired effect, I still needed something more to surpass my fellow tod. Then it struck me. My fellow tod. Of course, buggery in the changing rooms would get you sent to the headmaster faster than you could say “Yiff!". And worse, decimate your social standing. But a horny fox can dream. Dream of pressing that erection to his fellow male, daring them to match you, seeing their blush and their unspoken response. I can't, Igor. You're so much bigger. And certainly, I got some glances, second glances, scowls, silent growls. I simply caught their eyes with my own yellow hues. What? I am only changing. But they saw. Inches of sheer fox-cock, slipped from my sheath. Not to worry, boys. Hard-ons happen. The games animals have to play to succeed in boarding school. And with all of us starting to notice vixens, that mattered. Because, from that point on, whatever the tods did to woo a girl—buy her gifts, write her poetry, or heck, yes, even show her how much dog she could have—that was one area where they couldn't measure up to me.

Good breeding, my father called it. Oh, and he is a fine specimen himself, make no mistake. Not that we have openly compared those prides of the Liškov lineage. But a fox does occasionally glimpse his family in various states of undress: through the crack of a bedroom door left carelessly open, or heading to bathe with the towel carelessly not covering one's sheath. After all, the size of a vulpine's sheath does hint at the size of animal within.

And right now, a numbat is the latest animal to learn what a hung fox I am. He holds me, with two paws. Careful, reverent paws, which begin to stroke and caress my flesh. He remains in the mid-section a while, as though he's unsure if he should stroke my base or my tip. I nudge him on, pressing my hips forward just enough so that his paws slip down. He takes over from there, placing his paws at my sheath. I bare an upper fang and I murr, and the numbat strokes my base, near the opening of my short-furred sheath. I reward him with my final two inches, and his eyes open wide. That's right. I wasn't even fully hard. I stand as erect as I get sans knot, and even that knot is swelling, straining within my sheath. Well, what can I say? Cute animals have that effect on a randy tod.

Syd dips his head, nudges me with his nose. Then he opens his maw…and out slips the longest tongue I have ever seen on an animal. While I watch with wide eyes, he wraps the long slender length around my fox-cock, one-and-a-half loops of his tongue. He strokes my balls with one paw, before reaching underneath, teasing the fur of my taint, but not daring to stroke my tailhole. His tongue tightens, making me throb and thicken some more. He uncoils a little, letting me harden, but he still keeps me entwined. There's a stickiness to his tongue, letting him keep a firm grip, and after another twitch or three, I am adding my own liquid stickiness. Syd notices, opens his muzzle wider, and repositions himself, lowering his muzzle over my length. Like most animals short of a horse, he can only take my tip first go, but I still reward him with a purr, and a few casual shots of vulpine pre.

He eases off, and that tongue retreats. “Hmm. I usually manage at least two loops. So that just proves I'm dealing with a big fox."

“Not the only big animal around here. I was not expecting a tongue that size."

“Any more than I was expecting your big prick. But hey, I thought I'd surprise you. Usually, I tell the guy I'm with before I blow him. One time, I didn't, and the guy went crazy. He practically nobbled me! But, I figured I'd play to your curiosity. I know you like discovering different animals. In all our forms."

I lean back on my sofa, my erection as hard as dragon-hide. “Indeed I do. So play on."

He does, and I close my eyes and murr. The attentive critter…he tends to my foxhood like an idol, kneeling before my spread legs, indulging his oral fetish. That long, prehensile, sticky tongue teases me like nothing before, and I feel a nasal harshness at the fringes of my breath. My muzzle curls, and I show him a fang. He notices it…and instinct makes the prey quiver. I figured he was prey: dentition and muzzle-shape are usually reliable indicators. And now the animal beneath me on his knees and beneath me on the food chain has an extra incentive to pleasure a fox. He nudges with his nose, tracing snout and tongue-tip up the ridge of my underside, coaxing out more precum, which he laps away, almost dutifully. He works me some more with his tongue, taking it low.

I growl once more. “You know what you're doing there. Have you sucked off the odd dingo in your time?"

I am rewarded with the numbat, whose head is still buried in my crotch, giving me the middle finger. Followed by him pulling back and catching my eye. “But also, yeah."

He licks his own face, no doubt enjoying the fox-musk that has to be covering it. I know how much musk concentrates under my balls. Then, he's back to work, teasing me like the dog I am, tongue-tip teasing my base, pressing into my sheath by mere millimetres and just taunting my knot to slip free. I feel myself harden, feel a sudden pleasurable liquid surge, and I tap the numbat on his muzzle-bridge.

“Mm?" he says.

“You're getting me rather close there."

“Oh." A delighted little grin. “Wanna paint me, then?"

“Oh, I'll paint you somewhere."

The confusion, the realisation, and the fear play out in succession across the numbat's face. I speak before he can. “Come on, mate. You've been thinking about it ever since you first unleashed me." I am right. Of course I am. “But don't worry. I know how big I am, and how much other animals struggle to take me. We'll work to your capabilities. As much of me as you can take."

Maybe he'll take that as a challenge. And judging by that hungry little grin, he will. Good prey.

He rises to his feet. His waistcoat is already opened, and he slips it off and tosses it to the sofa. He unfastens his tie, placing that atop his waistcoat. Next is his white shirt, and once that's discarded, he stands before me bare-chested. He moves right onto his trousers, opening his belt…before he pauses with a smile.

“Don't expect anything as impressive as yours."

And with that, he bares his lower half, unhooking a modest erection from his waistband which springs to attention. If anything's impressive, it's the hardness of the animal. He moves to kneel again, and I raise a paw.

“Before you settle down, I say we head somewhere more comfortable."

He gives a questioning tilt of the head. Yes, numbat, I mean my bed.

“But first," I state, “I am far too dressed."

I rise to my paws, similarly bare-bottomed, but so much more endowed. I take off my shirt and discard it on the sofa. Now, we are in a similar state of undress. I pick up the candle holder, and I smile at the numbat.

“Follow me."

I see the darting of the numbat's eyes. I imagine that the flicker of the flame, dancing off my carnivorous skull and thick dog-erection, would send a chill through any prey. All the same, when I turn tail and head for my bedchamber, I know the numbat will follow. And indeed, I hear his paw-steps and his breath, just behind me in the half-darkness. Part of me wants to pounce him, there and then. But after his previous canine pouncing, we will take a more civil approach. At least until I penetrate him.

In my bedroom, I set the candle onto my nightstand and I leap onto my bed, long-bodied, padding around, pure fox. I give a vulpine yip, let my tail sway, and gesture for the numbat to join me. He gives a nervous laugh, and he sits on the edge of the bed, stealing some not-so-subtle glances at my half-mast. I sneak up beside him, purring, nudging his side, before I place a paw on his chest and guide him back. He smiles and lets me press him back, then he moves up the bed by himself, resting his head on the pillows and getting more comfortable.

“Playful fox, aren't ya?'

I am on him in seconds, showing him exactly how I plan to play. I smile a foxy smile, yip a cute foxy yip, and I wend my body and lower my crotch to his…just like a fox. He is firm, his own sheath straining beside mine…but nowhere near my size. We rub together, firm, male. He breathes in huffs, emerging again from his burrow, while I spill inch after thick inch of fox, outmatching the little numbat more and more. And the scent between us…it's full of warmth, liquor, and meaty musk. I see the rise and fall of his chest, feel his bristly fur against my fox-fluff, and I take both of his legs, lifting them into the air.

“Whoa, whoa, dunno if you can take me without, you know…"

But my nose is already under his tail. Oh, we'll see who can take whom. I take in the scent under his tail, all sand and salt. With a broad canid tongue, I slather him with long, broad, upward strokes, over his twitching little tailhole until I lift his tight numbat balls. This draws a murr and a chitter from the little animal, who closes his eyes and lets a good four inches of tongue flop from his muzzle. I hold his legs tighter with socked and clawed paws, and I press my nose to that numbat nub, focusing my licks on the little critter's entrance. My strong dog-fox tongue slips past his defences, making him moan, and I growl while I prepare him with tongue and drool. I drool elsewhere too: from my big fox-erection, no doubt dripping to…yes, with a quick downward glance I see my vulpine precum dripping to the bedspread, a long clear string of fox fluid. And goodness, we smell good together: aniseed and herbs from my earlier tipple, fragrant hops from his, and of course that fresh animal musk from us both. My stomach even gives an errant rumble that sends a shudder down the numbat's spine. But I have eaten all the numbat I want, for the time being. Now, I want to take my fill of prey another way.

I lift my muzzle, and I rise up, mantling over the prone and sprawled critter beneath me. I feel my heavy and hanging erection, of course: when you pack an erection my size, believe me, you feel it. I also feel my fur, thick and fluffy and bristling in anticipation. I feel my chest, rising and falling in time with the long mrowling breaths I utter from my slender and open muzzle, wet tongue hanging over meat-eating teeth. A shuffle of the hips lowers my erection back to his, and I outmatch him utterly, even with my knot still sheathed. I shift back, and I bring my tapered length to his entrance. He gasps at the pressure, so subtle and so laden with meaning. He pushes back. I hold him steady, chuckling at his eagerness. I murr at the wink of his tailhole, and at the second wink too. And then, I press forward. The barest hint of liquid has formed at the very apex of my erection—fresh precum—easing my conquest of the numbat. He resists me, as so many do: even if they match my height, few match my size short of stallions. Some gentle bucks, gentle despite the yowl of my instincts to thrust forward the instant I feel his tailhole yield, the instant he feels it and gasps. Instead, I ease him open, little by little, penetrating the numbat, claiming the little animal with my big fox cock.

It's too much for him. I can tell by the way an animal shudders, grits their teeth, and grips on my endowment even as I ream them open. This numbat is the same, even though I only have maybe two or three inches inside him. I start to pull back.

But the numbat grabs my paw. “No."

“No?"

The numbat winces. “We…got this far. We're doing this."

I nod, and I start to work what I've already got inside him, giving a growling grunt with each shallow buck. Gradually, I feel the shudder and the tension in the numbat's body ease.

“Pain…_nngh…_pain's wearing off," he informs me. “All right, all right. I think I'm ready. Give me what you've got, fox."

My arousal throbs, animal, inside and outside of the numbat. And I answer the numbat's wishes, driving myself forward and driving into the numbat raw. Marsupial tail yields to vulpine cock, so much thick swollen vulpine cock. He stretches around me even as I spear him deep, maybe only half my erection but already as deep as this numbat could thrust, and far, far thicker. He's breathing heavily, and we feel resistance, so I buck him hard, rustling him in my bedsheets and growling to silence his moans. A few more bucks confirm that I'm not going to break him. And so, I pin the little critter to my bed, and I rut.

The bed, and the numbat, shake with every sharp buck. Yes, there is a size difference, and yes I am conscious of it. But within the bounds of what the little marsupial can take, I ravage him, work him hard and long with that big fox cock of mine. And sure, I could stud him face-to-face, watch every gasp as I ejaculate inside him. But tonight, I am in the mood for something more feral. I pull back, further and further back, until my veined shaft slips free. He yelps in surprise, and I answer with a happy yip and lie by his side. We face each other, my erection slick on the bedspread. I cannot help but chuckle.

“What?" he asks.

“I must admit, I misjudged you."

“Huh?"

“Turns out you can handle a big beast after all."

He bats at my chest. “Aww, put a sock in it, mate."

I simply laugh. I have the numbat on his front paws and knees, and I tell him to lift his tail. With my heartbeat strong and my boned erection hard as ever, I kneel behind the numbat, stroking down his back and eliciting a pleasured shiver from the animal.

“I love your stripes," I tell him. “Even in the dark, they look gorgeous. Eight of them, yes?"

Syd nods.

“I wonder how many of them I can thrust past."

The numbat freezes beneath me. I splay my paw up his spine, estimating the distance.

“Yes. I reckon I can get all eight."

He says nothing. I trail my claws to the side, combing through his short fur. I take hold of both sides, before I mount him, my hind paws on the bed, nudging myself under his long bushy tail, buck-bucking and yip-yipping as loud as I dare—I have neighbours, after all. We were talking about forests before, and I know a forest or two where I would love to go wild on this numbat…

I growl at the thought, my arousal sprays a shot of precum, and I lower myself, bucking a few more times and feeling the heavy sway of my fox-balls, before I steady myself, press, press, and ease myself in. Inches of hard fox make the numbat shudder and call out. I rut him hard, feeling myself harden inside the numbat even as I thrust, picturing myself slipping past those back-stripes. Four, five, six… come on, fox, claim your prey. I close my eyes, lifting my muzzle, baring my fangs and growling. I feel the numbat shiver under my claw tips. His scent changes then: blending with the greasy scent of adrenaline is the rich meaty spice of a happy musky critter, and of course the cloying musk of a fox in rut.

A deeper thrust. Seven stripes, surely. Come on, come on…

A pleasure surges forth, from the very depths of my animal self. As a young tod, I found it a revelation, the first time my sheath slipped back to reveal that extra-sensitive bulb of flesh. Of course, the boys talked about it, how good it felt to stroke. But to actually feel your own…the pleasure could melt a young fox's mind.

I snarl, hungry. I want to tie him. I want nothing more than to plough my bone and my knot under this animal's tail and fill him full of fox. And yet, even before I sink my final two unknotted inches into him, I feel the hardness of my erection meet the resistance and physical limits of a small animal. Something has to yield. And when I spear just a quarter-inch deeper and freeze, it's my composure that yields first. Pleasure overwhelms me, less intense than the full-body, full-soul bliss of an animal locking behind your knot, but pleasure nonetheless. I shudder, pleasure crackling through my fur, my claws tense and poised. I latch on, letting the pleasure build as long as I can. But it's too much, and I yowl, throaty and scratchy and fox. The numbat trembles underneath me, and gasps when he feels a spill of vulpine cum inside him. And when I shoot…oh, I would have loved to measure the length of that cumshot. But then, I wouldn't be firing into the numbat, that tight little marsupial. I bite his neck scruff, and he shudders beneath me, tense and trying to resist a rough and horny animal. I hold him tight, backwards and upwards against me, and I buck and buck, feeling my tight canid balls twitch on each shot, filling the small slender critter with a huge volley of fox cum. Beneath me, I feel the little animal paw frantically, tense and growling, until he barks out an expletive, and he relaxes, fighting to catch his breath. So he doesn't come with me, but he isn't far behind.

It's fine, Syd. You're hardly the first animal to spill his cum in this bed.

The afterglow claims me quickly. I release my drooling, hot-breathed bite, and I lower us both to the bed, avoiding the patch of marsupial satisfaction I know he has left. I keep myself embedded in the little guy, my breathing and my heartbeat heavy. I take in the scents of post-rut animal: numbat cum has a thick, cream-like scent, with a peculiar mix of sweetness and bitterness. Something in the diet? But before I can fathom it out, I feel myself still and settle down. And besides the occasional and very ungentlemanly word from Syd, neither of us speaks. Instead we nestle together, in the bedsheets, enjoying the residual jolts of pleasure.

Sunlight rouses me from my sleep. With my eyes closed, I focus on the feel of the soft bedclothes, and on the male vulpine scent impregnated in them. I am also aware of another animal in my bed, from his subtle and dusty scent (and the sweet-bitterness of his seed), and from the feel of him, right in front of me. One fox-ear twitches as I hear him groan.

“Mmmmm…where am I?"

Still half-asleep, I open one eye. There is the numbat, still in my bed. I can feel I am fully aroused, which is hardly unusual for a morning, considering I am male and I am a fox. But then I feel a clench around me, around most of my length except for the knot.

The numbat goes stiff. “Oh fuck…"

I reply with a full-body shiver and a twitch of my cock. “And good morning to you too." Yes, that clench wakes me up. I nestle into the numbat's back, testing our connection with a slow roll of the haunches, and giving a little fox chuckle. “We appear to still be in flagrante."

“Yeah." The numbat clenches again. “Got to admit it feels good."

I twinge my erection inside him, waiting with a grin for the half-second before the numbat shivers. As I move up the bed and rest higher on the pillows, I see his paws slide down, until he clutches his abdomen. I felt him press on my cock-tip.

“Whoa."

Big fox.

“Is that…?"

I drive deeper, bare millimetres, answering the numbat without words. He is still breathing, just, and the look of wonder in his wide beady eyes…

“Holy hell, you really are a beast. I can feel you from the outside."

I give a long happy purring mrowl, and a frisky writhe at the numbat's back, making sure to keep my erection inside him. “And just so you know…" I yawn sharp-toothed and whiskered, finishing with a foxy mew, “…I am usually good for another round in the morning. So, how about some hair of the fox?"

The numbat gasps. “That sounds amazing. If you've got the stamina for it."

I am rutting him within seconds, showing him exactly how much stamina a monster hunter needs. I clutch him tight, driving into him as we lie on our sides. Within moments, I feel a surge of fox kits within me, and as the pleasure also rises, I buck harder, faster, driving as much fox cock into Syd as he can take and then some more until a final sharp thrust makes him call out, makes me quiver my muzzle and yowl out a bark, followed by another, before I settle in and ride the jolts of pleasure, each of which is accompanied by a shot of freshly-brewed morning fox-pups.

We lie there for a few moments, our breaths stilling, me clutching the numbat, our union slick and musky and animal. I realise we will both need a sponge bath: an animal with half a sense of smell would notice him wearing the scent of fox. But after that, well, what then? Do I send the numbat on his way? I have a suspicion he will sniff me out again, especially after those two thorough matings.

And more to the point…I also want more.

I nudge the numbat. He replies with a sleepy, “Yes?"

“Syd, I have errands to run this afternoon. However, I am free this evening. So how would you like to meet up again?"

He clutches one of my paws. “I would like that very much."

“Excellent. Let's meet at the Hrebec at six. We can go for dinner afterwards."

The numbat's reply is quiet, but happy. “Dinner sounds great, mate."

A date with a mate. I am going to enjoy getting to know this marsupial.