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Velvet & Bone – The Hairy Fig

© 2025 Bruno Hirschkoff

*

Part 2

Sequel of “A Father’s Praise”

*

Stillwater Cove, 1420AD

*

Bruno, Sammael & Moth

Bruno Hirschkoff walked swiftly through the darkened and rain-drenched streets of Stillwater Cove. He’d waited for the hailstorm to pass before he left home, and made his way quickly towards the Hairy Fig. The middle-aged elk wasn’t sure what to expect, only that Sammael the fallow buck had slipped him a small scrap of paper with instructions on it, and the invitation had come with a promise. Sammael was a pretty young stag, that alone might have been enough temptation for Bruno, whose proclivities were many and varied. But knowing his son Kristian and Lukyan the wolf would be present as well added an element of the risqué to the evening that appealed to Bruno intensely. It was no secret that he had a closer relationship with his son than was generally considered ‘proper,’ but he did not know the extent to which Sammael was aware of that. As he walked, Bruno thought back fondly to the intimacy he’d shared with his adopted son – biologically his nephew – only the previous evening. Kristian was having mixed feelings about his body, of late, elicited at least in part by Sammael’s thoughtlessly derogatory commentary and singular obsession with his circumcision. The frank openness of Bruno’s relationship with his son at least enabled Kris to express himself, even if for such an intimate topic it took some liquid courage to get him comfortable enough.

Sammael inviting Bruno to the Hairy Fig tonight was curious, the elk thought – Sam had intended for tonight to be his opportunity to repair his friendship with Kristian and make amends, to show the younger elk that he was not so shallow as he appeared. And perhaps, Bruno hoped, an opportunity to treat Kristian’s body in a more affirming way. But the fallow’s intention behind inviting Bruno wasn’t entirely clear.

Bruno was not a regular at the Hairy Fig – not any more, at least. In his youth it had been a regular haunt, so he was at least familiar with it. He arrived at the front entrance, paid his entry fee, removed his dripping oilskin cloak and leather rain-boots, and donned the soft scuffs rented to hooved patrons to save the carpets and floorboards. While the hailstorm had been heavy, it was the middle of summer and the evening was hot, so beneath his oilskin Bruno wore only a simple belted tunic that hung to his knees, with nothing beneath it.

He ducked his great antlers with care beneath the doorway to the tap-room, and cast his eye around the space. It was, as expected, packed with people of a wide variety of taxa, ages, genders and states of dress. Laughter, revelry, music, smoke, and the pungent reek of so many summer-hot bodies hung heavy in the air, and Bruno made his way slowly through the dense crowd towards the bar, to where Sammael’s note had said he’d be.

The fallow stag was nowhere to be seen. That in itself wasn’t unexpected. Bruno got the attention of the barkeep and paid for a tankard of ale. It was dark and strong, and Bruno quaffed it easily, then gestured for a refill. The barkeep was a heavyset Scordomnan cob stallion, and Bruno leaned across to speak to him.

“Have you seen a fallow stag come in?”

The barkeep snorted. “Ye’ll hafta be more specific’n that, mate – could point ya to at least a dozen.”

“Around twenty, little over five fetlocks high, shoulder-length copper hair, lavender eyes, pink nose?”

“Skinny little fella? In here often?”

“Aye, name’s Sammael.”

“Oh, Sammael, why didn’t ya say?” the barkeep laughed. “Aye, I knows him.”

“I should have guessed,” Bruno smirked.

“Not in that way, mind,” the barkeep said. “I’s married wi’ foals. Don’t stop Sam from tryin’ though.”

“Have you seen him here tonight?”

“I ain’t, but the Fig’s a big place. Ha’penny fer the ale, mate.”

Bruno flicked a copper coin to the barkeep and turned to lean on the bar, scanning the tap-room as he drank. Perhaps Sam just hadn’t arrived yet.

*

The main tap-room was far from the only bar at the Hairy Fig. On the eastern side of the Artisans Union Canal, beneath street level overlooking the canal tow path, several tiny drinking holes, cookhouses, wash houses and even an apothecary crowded into the Fig’s underbelly in the shadow of the stone-arched canal bridge over which the Fig was built. They catered mainly to the Fig’s indentured courtesans and provided cheap food, drink, services, and a social space that wasn’t as large or crowded as the more public-facing parts of the establishment.

Sammael sat slumped over the bar with a collection of empty cups around him in one such place, whose single, tiny, grimy window bore the name ‘Gil’s Goblets.’ His tunic was muddy and clung to his wet pelt. Bits of straw and mud streaked his arms and legs, and his russet hair was a tangled mess. He stank and he knew it, and the other patrons of the drinking room – all five of them – gave him as wide a berth as the tiny place could offer. For a change, being alone suited Sammael. His mind swam with the fog of cheap wine and the emotional conflicts he had thus far steadfastly refused to confront.

“Y’smells like ye’ve been dipped in the canal an’ dragged arse-first through an unswept stable,” Gil, the proprietor, had bluntly informed him when he’d arrived.

He looked like it too, and Sam knew it. But Sammael’s coin was good, and takings were usually slim on Ysion’s Day, so Gil did not complain too loudly, despite the tiny size of his establishment.

Bile rose in Sammael’s throat at the memory of the way Lukyan had looked at Kristian. He felt intensely betrayed by that simple look, and the depth of feeling it conveyed. Without him, he reasoned, they would probably never have crossed paths, and Kristian was his friend first – and the object of so much of the fallow stag’s desire. He drained his wine cup again, and nearly fell from his stool as the room spun around him. Sammael was not certain why it had affected him so badly to see just the faintest glimpse of Lukyan and Kristian growing feelings for one another. He felt usurped, overtaken, discarded, and that confused him. It wasn’t as though he had romantic designs on either of them – by his own admission, he was too promiscuous and flighty for that. He poured another cup of wine and drank it rapidly.

Beside him, keeping as much distance as he could, a tall and narrow-faced grey-pelted goat man sipped at his own cup. Sammael caught him pretending not to watch a few times. He’d been in Gil’s Goblets for longer than Sam had been, but he was clearly not drinking anywhere near as hard as the much smaller fallow buck was.

He was attractive, Sammael decided, and his mouth watered.

Perhaps it was his wandering eye that kept him unattached. For all that he was a boiling mass of jealous vitriol tonight, Sam hated conflict. But he also hated change. He decided that what angered him was the thought that Kristian and Lukyan would find each other and no longer have any need for him.

Sam frowned. The goat man beside him drained his cup, and sauntered out of the tiny drinking hole to make way for a new patron.

Sammael considered how he might ensure he remained relevant to the wolf and elk, particularly to Kristian. Kris had a twin brother, Sam knew. He’d only met Dieter twice, and he had seemed aloof and uninterested in the fallow’s acquaintance, let alone anything further than that. Becoming a sexual conquest for Dieter seemed out of the question.

The fallow stag’s meandering memory took him back to Kristian’s home, and the elk’s father, the hulking carpenter Bruno. His mouth watered and his loins stirred, causing his clothing to tent in his lap to the thought of the older elk. His nonchalance and casual exhibitionism, the way he’d knowingly flashed himself at Sammael earlier… he knew exactly what he was doing. And Sammael interpreted that as interest. He drained his wine cup. He knew what to do, now.

He’d find Bruno, and seduce the old pervert. That would get Kristian’s attention.

“Another bottle, Gil?” he slurred to the barkeep.

“Normally,” the gnarled old polecat began, “I’d pour it down ya throat meself for your coin, but I think you’ve ‘ad enough.”

“A cup, then.”

“You’ve ‘ad an entire bottle, kid. Thas enough. Place already stinks like ya even without riskin’ ya sickin’ it up again all over me bar.”

Sam swayed on his stool and blinked slowly. He couldn’t focus. Everything was blurry and doubled. Perhaps Gil was right. He was very drunk.

“I need to… find Bruno…”

“What?!”

“Buno.”

“Ye’re makin’ no sense. Time ta go, kid. Go on, git!”

His vision swam, and there was a brief feeling of weightlessness before a warm, dull thud as the floor sailed up to meet him.

“Oh for Ysion’s sake…” came Gil’s grumbling, irritable voice. “Callo! Get back in here, this sop’s done. Git ‘is coinpurse wouldya, he owes me fivepence.”

Gil bent over Sammael. He stank of rotten teeth and too much wine, and the fallow felt hands under his arms, and another pair of arms around his fetlocks, belonging to the goat man who’d been giving him eyes all evening. Then he was hoisted off the floor, carried outside, and pushed face-first against the filthy wall of a tiny, dark squeezeway alongside the drinking hole. Empty bottles clattered noisily around their hooves. Gil retreated, but the goat, presumably Callo, began searching him for his coinpurse, holding him up by the scruff of his neck and fumbling around his waist with his other hand. Sammael could feel the goat’s body against his back and decided he liked it. Especially the way he was holding him in place with one hand on the back of his neck, while the other groped and fondled, searching for his coin.

“C’mon you stinking little fuck, where is it?” the goat growled right against Sammael’s ear.

His voice was husky and hoarse, and Sammael suddenly realised he could feel the goat’s cock through his clothes, warm and hardening against his body. The fallow felt a surge of drunken arousal and reached up to grab one of his horns, pushing his buttocks up into his groin. Callo froze momentarily, then shoved Sam roughly up against the wall with his forearm in the back of his neck, grinding his face into the rough planks. Sam bleated and struggled to draw breath.

“That’s how you like it, huh?” Callo snarled.

“Nnnh… oh c-come on, I’ve… I’ve seen you ssssstaring at me in there…” Sammael slurred, gesticulating vaguely towards the canal. “If you dun like me why’s your cock so hard?”

As he mumbled, Sammael emphatically rolled his hips, grinding back onto the coat. Callo shoved his hips roughly up against Sammael’s buttocks, grunting hotly against his ear, and the fallow felt the goat’s hand resume its invasive search of his body for his coinpurse. He freed one of his hands and gripped Callo’s wrist, guiding the goat’s hand down to his crotch. Callo recoiled when Sam pushed his palm against his hard cock, but in doing so, he found the small leather coinpurse tied to the inside of the fallow’s leggings, a few dewclaws above and to its right. Sam felt the goat’s hand wriggle inside his leggings, only to grip his coinpurse and rip it free. He felt his leggings loosen and drop to his fetlocks, and Callo drew back. Sam peered at the goat over his shoulder. He was not a handsome man but he was clearly aroused, his blood fired and his loins swollen and hard, and in his drunkenness Sam could not stop himself. He gripped the significantly taller goat’s tunic at the sternum and hauled him against himself, shoving his other hand into Callo’s groin.

Callo gripped Sammael’s antler and shoved his head back up against the wall. Sam bleated in shock, but did not stop. And Callo did not pull away. Instead he began to thrust into Sammael’s hand, rapidly wetting his trousers with slimy precum, and used his free hand to yank open the front of his trousers, exposing himself.

A glistening pink, bulbous-headed caprine penis flicked rigidly free, long and slender, protruding from a long, hairy sheath over heavy, lemon-shaped nuts, and Sam eagerly touched it. Callo tugged Sammael’s tunic up to expose the fallow. Then he looked down, flicked his fingers across Sammael’s much smaller penis, and laughed.

“Tiny little prick,” the goat sneered. “No wonder you’re so desperate for it, just to feel a real cock… go on then…”

Sammael groaned at the feeling of Callo’s slender, wet prick in his hand, and palmed awkwardly over its bulbous head. Callo grunted and shuddered at that, and Sammael felt precum dribble plentifully between his fingers. He slid his hand down Callo’s shaft, and bleated suddenly when the goat flipped him around once again to face the wall, pushing him up against those rough planks. Callo moved up behind him, and Sam fumbled for his cock again, lodging its wet, slimy head between his buttocks.

“Ah hah. No, not there. Dunno where you’ve been,” Callo sneered.

The goat pulled back and then pushed forward again, firmly lodging his stiff prick between Sammael’s thighs, and the fallow heard him give a shaky groan of pleasure.

“Yeah… that’s it… squeeze em together… fuck…”

Callo held Sam up against the wall, thrusting rapidly and roughly between his legs. His hoarse, guttural grunts and heavy breaths dampened the fallow buck’s ear, and the wet, rhythmic slap of Callo’s thighs against his mingled with the drip and dribble of rainwater and hailstorm melt trickling down the filthy cobbles beneath their hooves into the canal. Callo’s thrusts grew heavy and urgent within moments, lifting Sammael off his hooves and slamming him up against the rough wall. Then the goat’s hips jolted and convulsed, and Sam felt him pulsing rhythmically, that bulbous head mashed into the fallow’s taint. Hot wetness pulsed forth and dribbled down the insides of Sammael’s thighs, and then Callo simply let go of him, before he’d even finished ejaculating, and stepped back.

Sammael fell to the ground in a drunken, crumpled heap, half naked and covered in the goat’s lust. Callo stood over him for a moment, masturbating himself as the last watery spurts of his seed splattered Sammael’s body, and then simply re-tied his trousers, pocketed Sam’s coinpurse, and sauntered out of the squeezeway back into Gil’s Goblets.

Sammael lay there in the mud and filth and empty bottles for a long while. He knew he should feel violated, but he didn’t. He was, as he always had been, powerfully aroused by encounters like that. He slowly fumbled and groped for his leggings, and surveyed the damage. The drawstring, to which his coinpurse had been tied, was ripped out of the garment halfway around its waistband. He’d have to get Lukyan to repair…

His heart sank. He couldn’t. Not now.

“Oh what have I done,” Sam groaned to himself, burying his face in his hands, sitting in the cold muck.

Fresh rain began to fall. Sammael’s momentary despair floated around his mind for a moment, then decided it was in the wrong place. Instead, thoughts of revenge crept in.

Sammael awkwardly, slowly pulled his leggings on over his hooves, and tied them up as best he could. Then he stood, awkwardly and unsteadily, and began to stagger towards the stairway he knew would take him up to street level, and into the Hairy Fig’s back entrance.

He was going to find Bruno.

*

Bruno was on his fourth tankard of rich, dark ale and was beginning to feel merry and uninhibited. A piper, a hurdy-gurdyist and a drummer played lively music, to which small groups of people danced in the tap-room. There was still no sign of Sammael, even several hours later, and the elk had all but given up on meeting Lukyan, Kristian or Sammael here tonight.

He considered it likely that the three boys were probably having their own fun without him, and in the back of his mind, Bruno was happy for that – even as the pervert inside him wanted desperately to be there to see it.

Bruno rose from his stool and took a moment to wait for the tap-room to stop spinning, then slowly made his way through the dense crowd, through a small doorway and down a narrow, steep stone stairway to the public privy. It was a small space, stone-built like the bathhouse, and fed by the same constant flow of springwater that flushed waste into Stillwater Cove’s sewers. In the centre of the narrow room, a stone trough was mounted on stout plinths, into which half a dozen patrons were pissing. There was a short queue for use of the trough, and Bruno patiently waited. The room stank, of course, but even over the smell of piss, Bruno could smell the sulfurous musk of fox, an acrid tang that rose above the general barnyard stink of the majority of Rhocarn’s populace. Bruno could see the obvious distaste on the faces of several other patrons, and more than a few pairs of eyes seeming to land on him!

He was fairly sure he wasn’t a fox.

Bruno stepped up to the trough and simply lifted the front of his tunic, leaning on the edge of the trough with his knees. He was just drunk enough to openly exhibit himself with no attempt at modesty whatsoever. He glanced around, sending his heavy foaming down the urinal trough.

As it happened, the source of the acrid vulpine smell had been right behind him. A silver vixen stepped up to the trough, cast a sideways glance at him, hiked up her dress around her hips, and straddled the trough. She squatted slightly, facing Bruno, and stared unashamedly at his cock.

“Enjoying the view?” Bruno asked her casually.

“Oh aye. If’n I thought ye didn’t want folks t’see it I wouldn’t be starin, antlers. But ye makes no kinda effort ta keep it t’y’self, so…”

“No need to make excuses,” Bruno laughed. “If I didn’t want you to look, I wouldn’t still have it out.”

“Then I shan’t. Ye’re a handsome piece o’ flesh,” the vixen said coarsely.

She clenched off with a squirt and a dribble, stood and rearranged her dress, then hawked and spat into the trough for good measure. Bruno raised an eyebrow at her, as his stream continued unabated. She made no attempt to leave, simply standing beside him watching him piss.

Another patron wandered up to the trough and stared at them. Bruno shrugged at him. The vixen leaned against Bruno, and to the elk’s surprise, reached to hold him, holding eye contact with the patron opposite. He grunted in surprise, but allowed it. His stream faltered, then finished. The vixen waggled his penis to shake the drips out of it.

“I…”

“Well you weren’t ‘oldin’ it, so I thought I’d do it.”

Several people were staring by then, and a very drunk donkey stallion waggled a finger at them. “Think she likes ya, coat-rack.”

Bruno loved this place for exactly these kinds of interactions. Everyone left their inhibitions at the door along with their weapons, and the Fig was therefore a place of fantasy becoming manifest. The vixen stank of fox musk, liquor and arousal, sharp and acrid to Bruno’s nose.

“Fuck me but she stinks though. Rancid!” the donkey added. He sneered at the vixen, and stalked out of the privy.

The vixen snorted. Bruno glanced down at her.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him and flashed him a toothy grin. “S’far from th’worstest I ‘ear, three-antlers. Ooh, are you gettin’ ‘ard for me?”

Her hand slid downward until she cupped his exposed, leathery glans in her palm, tracing her fingertips around its pronounced ridge. Bruno flashed her a wink and a grin, and let his tunic fall over himself, and her hand. Then he slid his arm around her waist, pulled her close to him, and performatively sniffed the dense, dark fur around her neck. She made a strangled little bark and grabbed his hand, shoving it down to her buttocks. Bruno groped her bodily over her dress, and whispered in her ear; “You weren’t holding it, so I thought I’d do it… What’s your rate?”

She let out a yap of surprise and mirth and pushed her buttocks into his hand, squeezing his thickening cock rhythmically behind the ephemeral veil of his tunic, right there in the middle of the privy. “Me rate?!” she said. “Fer a horny arse-gropin cut-dicked fuck like you? I’m_ free use_, if ye can stand the smell o’ fox.”

“Let go of my cock for a moment and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Jus’ a moment more…” the vixen squeezed him firmly once more, then released him. Half-erect by then, Bruno’s tunic was raised as he finally turned from the privy trough and beckoned for the silver vixen to join him back in the tap-room.

“What’s your name, by the way?” he asked her when she trotted up the narrow steps ahead of him.

The silver vixen hesitated a moment.

“In here, it matters not a jot. What happens in the Fig stays a secret held within its walls,” Bruno reassured her. “I’ve been coming here for more than thirty years, since I was a wee fawn.”

“Oh aye? ‘Ow wee, antlers? I been comin’ ‘ere near enough a score o’ years, me. Since I were a wee kit, wi’ barely a tit under me nipples. Name’s uh. Modthryth.” Bruno’s eyebrows must have twitched, because she snorted and appeared defensive immediately. “Aye, aye, I knows it be a fuck of a name, but tis my name, aye? Ye can call me Moth. Moth Seacoal.”

“Moth. That’s sweet. I’m Bruno, Bruno Hirschkoff. And to your first question? Since there were a pair of acorns where now lie apricots,” he smirked.

Moth licked her chops and glanced downward, then slid her hand up under his tunic again, in the middle of the tap-room, to cup his balls. “Oh aye, apricots alright. An’ fuck me, I fuckin’ need yer cock, iff’n ye’d oblige a stinkin’ fox.”

“Stinking fox maybe, but your scent does not offend me,” Bruno said, raising his hand to gesture to the barkeep for drinks. “It is a natural scent, not an unclean one. So it does quite the opposite of offending me.”

Bruno found a small table with two stools beneath it, and sat on one of them. Instead of taking the other stool, Moth sat sideways on his lap, draping her dense, black-furred tail around his waist and her arms around his neck. Bruno’s hand came to rest on the vixen’s thigh. Her golden eyes fluttered, and her lips parted just a touch, issuing forth a soft breath that tickled Bruno’s cheek. “Oh aye, that it does, eh? Fox stink makes yer fuckin’ prick ‘ard?”

“Many things achieve that, and yes, the scent of an aroused woman of any taxa will do it… or a man in rut, if he’s so inclined.”

“Ooh, an equal-opportuni’y fucker, is ye? Amel’s fuckin’ tits, that makes me so fuckin ‘orny!”

“Aye, I can tell!” Bruno laughed.

“Most men’ll run a mile the moment they smell me. I won’t be offended, aye?” Moth shifted in Bruno’s lap, and pushed her slender hand down into his lap. “Oh fuck, ye ain’t lyin…”

Bruno flexed and pushed his erect cock into Moth’s touch, and felt her grind her palm roughly around his head over his tunic. One of the tap-room’s tavern girls wandered past, and Bruno took the opportunity to order two tankards of ale. The tavern girl, a slender young doe, cast a disparaging glance at Moth, but took Bruno’s penny and returned shortly thereafter with two foaming tankards of the same rich, dark ale.

Bruno raised his head to thank the tavern girl. At that moment, there was a commotion. Someone had stumbled into someone else, spilling drinks, and the dense crowd parted to spit out the perpetrator. A familiar face, only a few fetlocks away. Bruno met his gaze.

“Sammael?!”

*

Sammael turned to face Bruno and froze, a look of shock on his face.

“Bruno? What are you doing here?”

“You invited me, Sammael!” the elk returned.

The look of surprise was replaced with one of embarrassment, and Sam’s ears flicked backward.

“Ahh, my apologies. Tonight… is not going as I had planned. I’m sorry.”

“Sam, what happened?” Bruno asked.

“Where do I begin?” the fallow slurred dramatically.

“Well, clearly you got caught in the storm. And…” Bruno sniffed the air around him, “you have been working, clearly, and haven’t bathed. But that doesn’t explain everything, does it? Gods, you stink.”

Moth, who was still sitting on Bruno’s lap groping him roughly, looked back and forth between them and finally interjected.

“Who’s this?”

“Ahh, Moth, I apologise. This is Sammael – he’s the one who invited me here tonight. I was expecting to meet him at the bar. Where are Lukyan and Kristian, Sam?”

Sammael’s scowl deepened and he reached for Bruno’s ale. “Don’t care,” he mumbled, taking a deep drink.

Bruno grabbed Sammael by the hem of his filthy tunic and hauled the fallow stag in against his other side. “Yes, you do. This morning you were very excited for the careful plans you laid tonight, and now…?”

“Everything has changed,” Sam mumbled. “I thought… Ugh, I don’t rightly know what I thought, any more. Kristian and Lukyan are probably having a wonderful time together without me. Should’a seen it coming. Left ‘em alone together most of the day and when I came back they were all touchy and starry-eyed for one another. And now I find you and your… your new friend here. I… was expecting to find you alone!”

Bruno’s eyes narrowed. “You asked me only just a moment ago what I was doing here at all!”

Sammael stammered.

“Ahh, a lover jilted by a rival, eh?” Moth interjected drily, taking a long draught of her ale.

“What the fuck would you know, you rotten-fish stinking slut?” Sammael snarled.

Moth narrowed her golden eyes and bared her teeth. “More’n you’d like me to, I should think. Me ‘usband was like ye, always so tender ‘n sensitive if ‘e ever felt less’n th’most important man in th’world.”

Sammael lunged drunkenly at the vixen, bowling her backward off of Bruno’s knee onto the tap-room floor, sending her ale flying. She snarled and grappled the stag with one hand and swiped at him with the other. Her claws missed his face by a hair’s breadth only because of Bruno’s presence of mind to grab Sammael by the scruff and haul him away from Moth.

“That is quite enough!” he said firmly. “Sammael, you’ve no business behaving this way! What is wrong with you?!”

“You wee cunt, you made me spill me ale!” Moth snarled, clambering to her feet and glaring at Sammael.

Sam snorted and huffed, lowered his antlers and scrabbled at the floorboards with his hooves, but Bruno held him firm.

“Moth, here’s another couple of pennies, would you care to buy us all more ale?”

The silver vixen grumbled and rearranged her clothing perfunctorily. “Fer you, antlers? Surely. But not fer this little shit. ‘E’s ‘ad enough.”

Bruno regarded Sammael. He swayed on his hooves and blinked slowly.

“Aye, right you are,” the elk agreed.

Moth held eye contact with Sammael and performatively groped Bruno, then sauntered off through the crowd to the bar. Slowly, Sammael calmed, and Bruno loosened his grip on the nape of his neck to instead slide his arm around his waist and pull him close. The elk sat down on his stool once again, and Sammael leaned heavily against him. Then he sniffed, and cuffed his eyes frustratedly. His performance was laughably transparent, Bruno thought.

“Sam, what has actually happened to you? You reek of… is that Caprin?”

The fallow bleated dejectedly. “I am such a bad friend,” he mumbled, collapsing into Bruno’s lap and burying his muzzle in the elk’s dense mane. “I couldn’t help it. The fox is right. I can’t stand not being important to them, and I snapped…”

“So you saw Luk and Kris being affectionate, got jealous, and stormed off. Alright. But that does little to explain your current state!”

“Got caught in the storm… took shelter in one o’ those filthy drinking hovels over the canal and just… stayed there…”

“Drinking alone, all evening?”

Sammael nodded, burped and swallowed heavily.

“Gil kicked me out, and had one of his hired goons claim his dues from me. Took my whole coinpurse and… he got hard, so I… let him…”

“You let him fuck you?”

“Would’ve. He didn’t. Did it between my legs.”

As if on cue, Sammael’s ruined leggings chose that moment to fall gracelessly down the fallow’s legs. Bruno tried his hardest not to laugh, but it was a losing battle.

“Oh Sam, you utter mess. Tomorrow you’ll see the humour in it. You got so drunk you got kicked out, got roughed up and… uh… evidently a little more, by a Caprin, lost your coin and your pants… and picked a fight with a vixen. Over me of all people.”

Sammael groaned loudly into Bruno’s neck. “I’m so humiliated.”

“So ye should be, stinky,” came Moth’s coarse voice, as she returned with two more ale tankards and very deliberately positioned herself on Bruno’s lap once again.

Sammael hissed through his teeth.

“Ah ah, be nice, Sam. Come here.”

Bruno corralled Sammael in until the fallow was sitting on his other knee, and the elk had an arm around both him and Moth.

“There, Sam. See? There’s enough of me for two of you to share, you don’t have to be so possessive. The same is true of my son.”

Moth’s eyes widened. “Ye’ve got a fawn?”

“Two of them,” Bruno confirmed. “Twins. Kristian, who I mentioned earlier, is my son. Sam here is a close friend of his, they’ve known one another since they were fawns.”

“An’ likely been playin’ sausage-tuggers since their balls dropped, aye?” Moth smirked filthily at Sammael, and dropped her eyes to the fallow’s now bare lower half.

“Course they have,” Bruno said, winking to Sammael. “Oh don’t look so surprised, not much escapes me, you know.”

Moth cackled. “And ‘ere ‘e is, meetin’ up ta fuck ‘is boyfriend’s father!”

“Who said we were fucking?” Bruno said.

Sammael very slowly blinked at him, and then tried to kiss him. Bruno dodged the poorly aimed lunge, and Sammael fell against his chest instead.

“Think ‘e wants ya to, antlers,” Moth smirked, nodding downwards.

Bruno glanced down. Sammael was growing erect, and his tunic, which was split at the front, had no hope of concealing it.

“Well, there is no chance of anything like that happening with you in your current state, Sammael. You smell like a dungheap, and you’re far too drunk.”

“But ‘e don’t mind the stink o’ fox musk,” Moth added, with a victorious smirk. “’E’d fuck me jus’ ‘ow I am.”

“Like I said, Moth, yours isn’t an unclean smell!” Bruno laughed. “And you’re not so pissed you can’t blink both eyes at once. Now come, Sammael. You need to bathe. It’ll make you feel better. And I’m not letting you in there alone, you’re so drunk you could drown.”

“No great loss,” Moth muttered.

Sammael glared at her balefully. Bruno eyeballed her.

“I’s only teasin ya, princess.”

Moth stood, plucked and adjusted the crotch of her undergarments under her dress, and drained the last of her ale. Bruno nudged Sammael until he rose unsteadily to his hooves once more. His cock jutted rigidly out from beneath his tunic, and he nearly tripped on his leggings, which were still tangled around his fetlocks.

“Are you going to put those back on?” Bruno asked.

Sammael lifted his hooves awkwardly and kicked the garment off. “N-no. Only going to take them off again anyhow.”

He twisted and tugged his tunic downward until he could tuck himself up under its belt, and began to sway and stagger his way towards the back of the tap-room, following Moth towards the bathhouse. Bruno muttered to himself, and bent to pick up Sam’s filthy, discarded leggings. Then he drained his own tankard, and hurried a few paces to catch up to the inebriated fallow. He guided Sam with a hand on his shoulder, until the fallow suddenly diverted.

“Gotta piss…” he mumbled.

Bruno was intending to wait for him at the top of the stairs, but with a squealing bleat and a scrabble of hooves, Sammael fell, landing heavily on the privy floor. Bruno excused himself past a couple of other patrons, and hurried down to pick him up.

“Knew you’d come,” Sammael mumbled. “You jus’ wanna hold it, dontcha?”

“Come on, get up,” Bruno said.

Sammael grinned up at him gormlessly. Bruno hooked his hands under Sam’s armpits and hauled him upright, then steered him towards the privy trough. Sammael leaned back into Bruno and pushed his soft arse back into the elk’s groin. Bruno grunted. Sammael, still mostly erect, began to piss, a messy, broken stream that sprayed through his foreskin.

“Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that!” said another patron, who was standing opposite Sammael and Bruno.

Without a second thought, Bruno reached for it and pushed it downward, and half-retracted the fallow buck’s foreskin. The patron opposite shook off and tucked himself away, and muttered something unintelligible on his way back up the stairs.

“Your fingers are s-so thick…” Sammael mumbled, rolling his hips to push his cock through Bruno’s gentle grip.

“Focus, Sam.”

Sammael’s hand fumbled behind him, until it located Bruno’s cock under his tunic. He laughed.

“Yooouuuuu’re not wearing pants.”

“A keen observation.”

“You could fuck me right now…”

“Could, but I won’t.”

“Come onnnn…”

“Would you hurry up and finish pissing?”

Sammael pouted, but dutifully pushed out the last of his bladder’s contents.

“Incredibly attractive, Sammael,” Bruno said sarcastically. “Done?”

The fallow frowned in concentration, then nodded. Bruno wiped his fingers off on Sammael’s tunic, and steered him back up the stairs, and turned him to his right, through a stone arch towards the Hairy Fig’s bathhouse.

*

The bathhouse was moderately crowded. Bruno cast his eye around the noisy, steamy room, until he located in the far corner a small in-ground bath which was, at that very moment, being vacated by… Lukyan and Kristian! Bruno was about to raise his hand to get their attention, but then saw them come together intimately, and hurry off like forbidden lovers, all furtive glances and playful body language. The middle-aged elk’s mind entertained the thought of the rush of anticipation and excitement that would accompany such a union. He was very familiar with Kristian’s proclivities, of course, and was openly supportive of his and Dieter’s sexual escapades.

Clearly, Lukyan and Kristian had found a new closeness that very day, since he’d seen them that morning, even. Abruptly, it all fell into place in the elk’s mind. Sammael was a jealous lover, even as he was not the type to seek a committed relationship with anyone. It was quite probable that Sam was attempting to seduce him out of some misguided desire for revenge. He clearly felt inadequate, Bruno reasoned. As if he needed to maintain control over the relationship.

Sammael staggered in front of Bruno between the larger, raised baths, then turned back towards Bruno looking lost, as if he’d forgotten why he came here. Bruno moved to him and propelled him towards the in-ground bath, once Kristian and Lukyan were well out of sight. As he walked with one hand on Sammael’s shoulder, he grabbed a pouch of soap flakes and a couple of washcloths from one of the Hairy Fig’s bath attendants on their way past, and hung them from his antlers. Then he moved up alongside the fallow buck as they arrived at the in-ground bath, and reached for the belt of Sammael’s tunic. Sammael’s tail flagged up automatically and the buck pushed his soft hand into Bruno’s crotch. The elk laughed.

“Come on, stinky. Let’s get you clean,” he rumbled in Sammael’s ear.

Bruno hooked his fingers into his belt, loosened the knot, pulled it off, and tossed it to one side along with the fallow’s filthy leggings. Sammael tugged and yanked at the lacings of his tunic, swaying on his hooves, and eventually loosened it enough to tug it off over his antlers. That left him naked before the elk.

Sammael was finely built and undeniably handsome, almost pretty—even in his current state of filth. He stank of sweat, piss, cheap wine and soil, and the dust in his pelt had been turned into streaks of mud by the rain, even before he became so caked in muck over the course of the evening. The ivory white of his fetlocks and forearms was stained brown, and his pelt beneath his clothing was matted and tangled.

“Shtop… stop staring and… get your cock out, Bruno,” Sammael slurred, reaching to pick and tug at the elk’s wide leather belt.

Bruno laughed, unbuckled it, unlaced his tunic and shrugged it off his shoulders. Sammael’s hands were on his broad chest in an instant, and he gravitated towards the thick silver rings that pierced both of the elk’s nipples.

“When did you get these?” Sammael demanded.

“After I saw yours for the first time, and discovered how much they elevated your sensitivity,” Bruno grinned, flicking a thumb over Sammael’s similarly pierced nipple.

The fallow groaned and his hips jolted. His hands fell to Bruno’s crotch. He seemed about to fall to his knees, but Bruno caught him and held him up.

“Easy, easy. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen my cock, Sam,” Bruno reminded him. “Remember when you introduced me to that girl from your temple? Ginger?”

“Ooh yes,” Sam gurgled. “You liked her, didn’t you? Ugh, she would not shut up about that for months afterward, you know. Bet you still tug yourself off over her…”

“She… struck a chord, yes. And I know she didn’t. We kept fucking for months afterward. She used to sneak out at night to come and find me, even after her heat passed.”

Sammael’s mouth opened, then closed. He snorted as if Bruno had just confirmed something he’d suspected.

“At least she stopped tryin’ to get me to fuck her,” he conceded.

“You’re welcome. But…”

“But what?”

“I bet you still tug yourself over that, for a different reason,” Bruno suggested, flashing Sammael a filthy grin.

The fallow was too drunk to deny it. His hand fumbled unceremoniously with Bruno’s genitals, cupping the end of the elk’s penis in his palm, then lifting it and hefting the elk’s heavy, low-hanging nuts in his other hand. His thumb moved up along the underside of Bruno’s cock as it slowly thickened and hardened, along his frenulum and then over his leathery glans.

“Y-yes, I have… thought of it once or twice… Dytaea’s hooves, it’s so big… I want every inch of it…”

Bruno glanced down to where Sammael’s cock was now hard as iron and staring him right in the face. The elk grinned, then grabbed Sammael’s waist and hoisted the fallow buck into the bath. He landed with a splash and a bleat and came up spluttering, his russet hair plastered across his face. Then Bruno sat on the edge and slid in as well, displacing a substantial volume of water which sloshed over the edge of the bath and ran into the gutter system. The bath water barely reached to Bruno’s waist, but it came almost to Sammael’s sternum.

In a gesture he probably thought was deeply seductive, Sammael sultrily leaned back with his elbows on the edge of the bath, and gyrated his hips to make the tip of his cock break the surface of the bath water.

“Come… come on then… you know you want to touch me…” he said, then belched.

Bruno snorted and unhooked the small linen pouch of soap flakes from his antler tine. He moved in close to Sammael, close enough that the fallow’s erection prodded his thigh. Sammael leaned in and pushed his mouth against Bruno’s chest. He was evidently aiming for a nipple, but missed by several dewclaws.

“Close your eyes,” Bruno said.

Sammael ground his hips along Bruno’s thigh and complied. Bruno placed his hand on Sammael’s head, and shoved the fallow under the water again. He bleated loudly in shock on his way down, and Bruno released him to allow him to take a breath before ducking under again. Immediately, Bruno felt the drunken fallow buck’s exhaled bubbles against his cock, and hands on his buttocks. Bruno brought the soap down and began to scrub Sammael’s hair, then his ears, and his face. Sammael came up for air. Bruno noticed he was openly stroking his cock under the water, and laughed.

“You’d better not spill yourself just from me washing your hair,” Bruno teased him.

Gradually, Bruno washed Sammael from head to hoof. By the time he reached the fallow buck’s lower half, Sammael was openly edging himself right in Bruno’s face, sitting on the rim of the bath while Bruno scrubbed his fetlocks. His foreskin was gooey and wet with his foamy precum, and Bruno couldn’t deny that seeing it up close made him hard..

“Come here… I missed some spots…” Bruno said to him, beckoning him back into the water.

Sammael splashed back in, and waved his legs about to clear the soap from his pelt. Then his eye fell to Bruno’s erection. The fallow buck made a horny gurgling noise and let go of himself only to grip Bruno’s instead, and groaned heatedly when Bruno slid his hands firmly down over the small of his back to grip his buttocks. He perked his hips, pushing his buttocks back, and leaned heavily on Bruno’s chest, firmly stroking the elk’s cock and gazing sultrily up at him. Bruno swiped the remnants of the soap along Sammael’s cleft, and pressed his fingers between his cheeks to wash the remnants of Callo the goat out of his fur. The fallow made a quiet whimpering moan when Bruno’s fingers circled around his hole, and his tail flagged high under the water. With his other hand, Bruno reached between their bodies and took hold of Sam’s cock. He gently pressed the fallow’s thick, soft foreskin back with his fingertips steepled over its tip, until his palm bumped Sammael’s glans. The fallow gasped.

“Gentle, remember I’m not cut like you are, my head’s very sensitive…” Sammael mumbled into Bruno’s chest.

The fallow’s teeth clacked over Bruno’s nipple ring, and his lips clamped over it, sucking firmly. Bruno grunted, and Sammael must have felt his cock flex and pulse in his hands, because he started to squeeze and roughly palm the elk’s glans.

Bruno pushed Sammael back against the edge of the bath, and moved back from him. “Alright, you’re all done,” the elk rumbled into his ear. “Time to get out.”

“Ugh! No,” Sammael whimpered. “You can’t leave me hanging…!”

“I can, and I will. Sam, you’re far too drunk to be able to fully consent, and I am not going to be your fall-back when you can’t have my son.”

Sammael protested and bleated loudly, but Bruno was not to be swayed. Eventually, Sam slumped against the edge of the bath, and started looking very sorry for himself.

Then abruptly he burped and swallowed heavily.

His hooves scrabbled on the wet stone and he bolted for the nearest door – which happily was only a few paces away, and opened onto a narrow walkway over the canal bridge. Bruno heard him vomit profusely, cough and spit, vomit again, and then groan loudly.

Slowly, Bruno, still naked and dripping wet as well, stepped out to stand next to Sammael, who was bent double over the stone railing. He looked and sounded like misery incarnate.

“As I was saying…” Bruno said.

Sammael coughed and spat again, sniffed wetly, and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled thickly. “For everything.”

“Oh?”

“You’re right. I was trying to seduce you to get back at Kris and Luk.”

“I know. It wasn’t subtle.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sammael moaned.

“Well what do you want?”

“Kristian. Lukyan. You. The fucking goat who fucked my legs earlier. All of you. And also none of you. I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’d be better off if I went to Sparrowforge and got my fucking foreskin and my balls cut off, maybe it would cool me down…”

“As someone who’s been circumcised for forty-seven years, Sam, being cut does precisely nothing to cool your ardour.”

Sam made a characteristically horny noise, very slowly straightened up, and turned to face Bruno. Then he slumped, and shook his head.

“I think you should go home, Sammael. Back to the temple. I think tonight is over, yes?” Bruno said gently.

Sammael sniffed, and looked like he was about to cry. On a whim, Bruno enfolded him in his arms, hugging him close. Their wet bodies met with a splat, and Sammael buried his muzzle in Bruno’s chest again. Bruno felt him harden against him, and laughed.

“It just doesn’t know when to stop, does it?” Bruno teased him.

“I have been so aroused, so many times today…”

“The goat man didn’t even have the decency to tug you off?” Bruno laughed.

“He didn’t even finish ejaculating before he put it away and left me!”

“Very inconsiderate of him.”

“Ugh… Bruno, please…” Sam whispered, gripping handfuls of the elk’s dripping wet fur and pushing his hips firmly along his thigh. “Please touch me…”

“Will you go home if I do?”

Sammael nodded. “I need this…”

“You feel rejected and betrayed, you’ve had a rough night. Alright, come here.”

Bruno slipped his right hand between their bodies, and gently encircled Sammael’s rigid, uncircumcised penis with his thick, callused fingers. The fallow buck tensed and muffled a bleat into the elk’s chest, and slowly, rhythmically drove his hips against Bruno’s touch.

“Turn around,” Bruno said. “Lean on the railing for me. Don’t give me that look, I’m not going to fuck you.”

Sammael pouted, but he complied. Bruno stood behind him, and reached around to take Sam’s cock in his hand and stroke him with slow, tender motions, rolling his slick, wet foreskin back and forth over his glans. He held the buck against him with his other hand on Sammael’s belly, gently stroking his fingertips through the fallow’s wet fur. Sammael shuddered and reached up to grab a handful of Bruno’s mane, arching his back to grind his buttocks into the elk’s groin. Bruno chuckled softly and swayed his hips until his firm cock was lodged between the fallow’s cheeks. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed and his mouth fell open in an expression of pleasure. Bruno’s hand began to make soft, wet clicking noises, and he squeezed, milking precum into Sammael’s foreskin to lubricate him still further.

“See? This is nice… you don’t have to be confrontational,” Bruno murmured.

“Aye now, thas ‘ow ya treat a lil princess like ‘im!” came a familiar, coarse voice from behind them.

Bruno turned his head, and saw Moth leaning in the doorway a few fetlocks away.

“Enjoying the show?” Bruno asked her calmly, with a wink.

“Thought ye’d run off on me. What ‘appened?” she smirked.

Sammael bleated in what might have been protest. Bruno laughed.

“We bathed Sam, but all that wine made a comeback. Thought we’d finish his night off with something slow and gentle,” the elk said to her.

“Aye, well, jackin’ ‘im off in front o’ the whole city’s certainly something!” Moth cackled. “Need another ‘and?”

She stepped forward, and leaned nonchalantly on the railing beside them.

“He likes his nipples played with. Gently, though.”

Sammael protested weakly, but he did not object when Moth breathed over his ear, and reached one slender, black-furred hand up to tease and pluck his nipple. Simultaneously, Bruno paused his gentle masturbation, and felt the fallow thrust weakly and throb. He held him steady with the other hand on his belly, and looked over his shoulder to see a dribble of opaque fluid pulse lazily from Sammael’s cock over his fingers.

“Oh that were a close’n,” Moth purred huskily. “Thassit princess, ‘old it in… ye’ve nae earned yer release yet, after bein’ such a wee cunt ta me before…”

Sammael turned to glare at Moth, but appeared unable to bring himself to snipe at her. Especially when she once again teased her clawtip expertly around his nipples, a soft and featherlight circle around the pierced peak. Bruno smirked at her, and then recommenced his treatment of Sammael’s cock, and once again paused when Sam tensed up and began to breathe hoarsely. The fallow groaned loudly, and his hips jolted. Bruno held back his foreskin, and delicately caressed his thumb around Sam’s glans. Sam gasped and convulsed.

Bruno, by this time, was erect, and Sammael reached behind him, curling his hand around it and shifting so it pointed forward past his hip. He awkwardly stroked the elk, gazing up at him and running his other hand along Bruno’s arm.

Moth shifted and squirmed alongside them, and Bruno flashed her a knowing smirk. The scent of her arousal was powerful, even out in the open air.

Slowly, the elk slid Sammael’s foreskin over his tip again, and continued to stroke him. Moth transferred her touch to his other nipple, which conveniently brought her closer to the two men. Bruno felt her other hand on his lower back, then felt it slide down over his arse. She squeezed firmly. Slowly, Bruno slid his free hand up Sammael’s torso, splaying his fingers across his chest, and finding his other nipple. He toyed with its ring, capturing it between his fingertips, and plucked gently on it. Sammael tensed and gasped and his hips jolted. This time, Bruno didn’t stop. Instead, he began to stroke the fallow buck faster, squeezing a little more firmly. Sam’s breath hitched in his throat and he moaned loudly.

“Keep going!” he gasped.

Bruno complied.

A gurgling moan rose in Sammael’s throat, and Bruno felt his cock begin to twitch and pulse. At the moment of climax, Bruno drew back his foreskin, and firmly milked the skin up against the back of his glans. He and Moth both watched as Sammael ejaculated, sending a couple of thin streaks of seed through the stone railing and down to the canal below, followed by a thick ooze over Bruno’s fingers, which strung messily down to the stone between his hooves.

“How was that?” Bruno asked him after a long moment.

Sammael melted against Bruno, still holding the elk’s erect cock, and turned into him to hug around his waist. He mumbled something unintelligible, and promptly fell asleep.

Bruno and Moth exchanged a look.

“Right mess ‘e is. ‘Ow far’s ‘ome, fer ‘im?” Moth asked, turning to spit over the railing.

“The temple of Dytaea north of town,” Bruno said doubtfully.

“Well ‘e ain’t gettin’ there tonight, unless yer gonna carry ‘im, and that don’t work ‘cos then I don’t get ya!”

Moth was eyeing Bruno’s cock again, erect now, and licked her lips.

“I’ll rent him a room upstairs,” Bruno said.

“Aye, good.” The vixen pushed away from the railing and shook out the folds of her skirt. Then she plucked and tugged at her unders, and reached out a hand to Bruno. “I need ta wipe meself up…”

Bruno still had a washcloth hanging from an antler tine. He tossed it to her. She wrung it out over the railing, then shoved it unceremoniously up her skirt. She wiped and cleaned her crotch, then casually hung it on Bruno’s erect cock, taking the opportunity to touch and squeeze his hardness. He could feel the tremble in her touch, and plucked the suddenly slimy washcloth off his penis to performatively sniff it. Moth made a soft sound of arousal and pulled her grip firmly upward along Bruno’s cock, milking his shaft skin against the back of his leathery head. Precum bloomed at his urethra and strung messily downward.

“What’s in yer ‘ead, antlers? Rentin’ us a room too, while yer at it?” Moth asked him sensually, brushing her thumb over the slickness of Bruno’s precum and circling it around his thick, domed head.

“Oh I’ve got a plan, don’t you worry, Moth,” Bruno said.

Sammael moaned and snored. The elk caught him with an arm under his shoulders, and between them, they gently manoeuvred the inebriated, naked fallow stag back inside the Hairy Fig.

Moth gathered up the men’s discarded clothing, then fumbled through Bruno’s clothing until she found his coinpurse. With no mind for their nudity, Bruno hauled Sammael up a staircase at the back of the bathhouse, which led up into the Fig’s rooms-for-rent. He purchased a cheap single room for Sammael, and carefully laid the fallow buck onto the narrow bed. As an afterthought, he left a few pennies on the side table, laid a blanket over his damp naked body, and extinguished the candle.

“There, he should be alright now,” Bruno said.

“Ye does care fer the wee cunt, aye?” Moth said bemusedly.

“Aye, I do. He’s my son’s closest friend. A hot-headed and capricious little slut, but a friend. He’s got a good heart. I don’t wish any ill on him. He just needs… some guidance, I think. He’s an orphan, never did find out who his parents were. The temple raised him.”

As he spoke, Bruno closed and latched Sammael’s door, and then gave Moth a slow, filthy grin.

“Just us now, Moth Seacoal,” he said in a low voice.

Moth nearly collapsed. She growled and shoved Bruno up against the whitewashed wall. He leaned down, capturing both of her buttocks in his enormous hands over her dress, and she leapt up onto his hips, clamping her legs around his waist. Then she grabbed his antlers and kissed him, urgently and heatedly. Her tongue pressed into his mouth, and he kneaded her soft cheeks.

“Ysion’s balls, you smell good…” Bruno growled.

Moth chittered and yapped quietly and ground her hips, breathing shakily over Bruno’s lips.

“Then stop yer teasin’ and yer yappin’ an’ get us someplace I can get this fucking dress off so I can shove me cunt in yer mouth, ye fuckin’ coatrack!”

Bruno laughed, and playfully slung Moth over his shoulder. She barked in playful protest and kicked her paws, while Bruno carried her through the maze of corridors and stairways in the Fig, until they arrived at one of the establishment’s most well-regarded public spaces; Dytaea’s Harem.

*