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"What's it good for?" A while ago a friend helped me out, so I wanted to write a story for them. They didn't have any ideas so I asked their partner, who suggested "What about Renamon watching his DICK get ATE" so I was like "okay!" but it turns out that digimon dont exist in that character's universe so it didn't work, so I YCH'd the role and now it's a story about how Jarret convinces Renamon into letting him 'show him what his dick is good for'. DID YOU KNOW that Renamon is HUNG AS FUCK?! I had NO idea until I researched for this story. Renamon and Digimon (c) nintendo or whoever, Jarret belongs to Cpt_Night Jarret had chosen the corner booth for its sightlines. From here, with one lean shoulder propped against the cracked vinyl and a sweating glass of something amber sitting untouched at his elbow, the fox could watch every soul that drifted in through the front door of The Bulging Pouch. He had the night off - his escort had relieved him of his duty so that she could 'explore' the talents of one of the other guards she had hired. That suited Jarret just fine. He had other fish to fry. The pendant lights hung low over each table, casting little pools of orange warmth that left the spaces between in friendly shadow. Glasses clinked at the bar. Charn was working the counter tonight, a flash of striped fur and easy laughter, and the tiger had given Jarret a small, knowing nod when he’d come in. They had an understanding. The bar took its cut. The fox took the rest. He had been watching the door for nearly forty minutes when the ForagR app on his phone finally vibrated against his thigh. A new target was aligning itself with his location. The three buzzes in a row suggested it would be a high-confidence match for his particular interests. Jarret tilted the screen toward himself and felt his whiskers twitch in a slow, involuntary smile. The match parameters were almost laughably perfect. Inexperienced. Unpartnered. Untouched. Walking distance from the bar. The quantum calculations the app ran were rarely this generous, and Jarret had learned, over the long string of careful evenings he’d spent at this booth, that a green pulse this bright meant the universe itself had decided to feed him. The door swung open. Jarret set his phone face-down on the table and lifted his eyes. The figure that ducked under the lintel had to duck because of his height, not the door’s lack. Jarret recognized the yellow-furred digimon immediately, his heart giving an uncharacteristic throb in his chest as he realized just, exactly, how perfect the app had been. Renamon stood, sleek and golden-furred, arms loose at his sides in a way that suggested he didn’t know quite what to do with them. His ears swiveled in small, uncertain arcs, taking in the music, the mirrored walls, the pulsing lights. He moved with the careful, slightly hunched posture of someone who had spent a lifetime trying to take up less space than his body wanted to occupy. Jarret’s thick, floofy tail flicked once against the vinyl. And then, as Renamon scanned the room, and Jarret scanned Renamon, the fox saw it. The digimon’s loose grey shorts did almost nothing to disguise what hung between his thighs. Even from across the room, the bulge was a heavy, swaying weight that pulled the fabric down in an obscene, gravity-loving curve. The shaft, soft and only partially descended, traced a thick line down the inside of one thigh, the fabric stretched taut over its girth so that the fox could make out the broad swell where the flare slept, dormant and waiting. Below it, the knot pressed in a dense, asymmetrical lump, half-visible as a separate mass that bulged the seam of the shorts out, blatantly and thickly. Jarret’s mouth went immediately wet. The digimon didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t tug at his clothing, didn’t shift to hide the line of himself, and he definitely didn’t catch any of the eyes that had turned along his path through the bar. He simply walked, oblivious, a hauler of treasure with no idea what was in his cart. “Jarret?” the digimon asked when he reached the booth, his voice softer and lower than the fox had expected. “From the app?” “That’s me,” Jarret said warmly. “Sit. Please.” Renamon slid into the booth across from him, bending his knees up to fit his long legs underneath. The table bumped twice as he did so, taking on a soft lean as the digimon ended up settling with both knees jammed up against the underside. He rested his hands on the cushion on either side of him, which allowed Jarret to focus directly on the swell between the big guy's thighs. The knot was even more obvious from this angle, a fist-sized bulge his palm couldn’t fully cover. “Thanks for, um.” The digimon’s ears tilted back slightly. “For agreeing to meet. I didn't think anyone would.” “I was very.. glad to see your profile,” Jarret said. He propped his chin on one palm and let his unblinking eyes shift up to settle on the digimon’s face, his clever vulpine pupils as round and patient as full moons. “You said you were new to all of 'this'. I want to make sure I understand what you mean by that. You're new to bars? New to... dating?” “New to all of it,” Renamon said. The tips of his ears flushed a deeper gold. “I’ve never. Um. I haven’t actually been with anyone. I haven’t ever been... um... touched.” Jarret's ear twitched. "Not touched? Like at all?” “Not by anyone else.” The digimon’s voice dropped. “I tried, once or twice, by myself. It was confusing, and weird. I didn’t really know what I was doing.” Jarret made a small, sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. Beneath the table, where Renamon could not see, his tail had begun to thump in slow, hungry arcs against the seat. He took a measured sip of his drink to school his expression into something gentle. “Can I ask you a few things?” the fox said. “Just so I understand. I find that the more I know about my partners, the better I can take care of them.” “Yeah. Yes. Please.” “When you say you tried, by yourself. Did you ever feel the flare respond?“ Renamon blinked. “The. The flare?” “The widening, at the head. When you get fully hard, it, ah, opens out. It’s very sensitive. There are more nerve endings there than almost anywhere else on your body.” Jarret kept his voice cool and instructional, as if he were teaching from a textbook. “Some species barely have one. Someone like you, from what I’ve researched, is likely to be exceptionally large.” The digimon glanced down at himself. The motion was so unselfconscious, so utterly without vanity, that Jarret nearly laughed. Renamon was peering at the bulge in his shorts the way a child might peer at a peculiar rock. “I didn’t know it had a name,” Renamon admitted. “It's just... It got bigger, after I played with it for a while. I mean, first it all got big, then it got hard. But when the end... swelled up, I stopped. I didn’t really like the feeling at all. It felt like it was going to pop. It was too much.” “Mm. And the knot?” “The what?” “The thicker part. At the base.” Jarret’s eyes flicked, deliberately, to the obvious mass straining the digimon’s shorts. “On either side, there's two bulbs that will fill out at the same time the flare does.” Renamon looked down again, then back up, and the openness of his confusion was so complete that Jarret felt a small, predatory thrill curl all the way out to the tip of his tail. “That's normal?” the digimon said. “I thought it was... I don‘t know. I thought when the tip expanded that it was getting backed up. I got scared." "Well, you're pretty close. Both the flare and the knot are there to make sure that your seed gets 'backed up' inside your partner." "Oh," the digimon said, chewing on one yellow lower lip. "That's weird. I guess I never heard about them before. I mean, if everyone has one, I would think they'd be talking about them." “Well, not everyone does have a knot. Most species don't, actually. Only really cool species, like foxes do." The fox let his voice soften, drop, become something closer to a confidence shared across the table. “It‘s quite valuable, what you’re carrying. I don’t think you realize.” “Oh.” Renamon’s ears flattened against his skull, embarrassment and pleasure tangling visibly across his face. “I, um, well... Thank you. I think.” Jarret set his glass down. He did it carefully, soundlessly, the way one might set down a tool one was about to pick up again in a different configuration. Across the table, the digimon was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes, his thick fingers worrying at the hem of his shorts in a small, unconscious rhythm that did absolutely nothing to hide the heavy swell beneath them. "You know, since me and you both have knots, and I am very comfortable with mine... why don't you let me show you what it’s capable of?” Jarret asked. He didn’t wait for the answer. He flowed down, dipping under the edge of the table in one long, liquid motion, and before Renamon’s mouth had quite finished opening to form a question, the fox was gone. The world beneath the table was a smaller, warmer place, lit only by the dim bleed of pendant light through the gap between the tablecloth and the floor. Jarret folded himself into the cramped wedge of space between Renamon’s heavy thighs with the practiced economy of a fox who had done this in tighter quarters than this, and slid his hands forward, brushing the tablecloth up and over Renamon's bulge, bringing it 'under' the tablecloth as well. Now it was just him and Renamon's bulge, and for one long moment, he took time to simply look. The digimon’s bulge, this close, was not a bulge at all. It was a topography of contours. Pedestrian undergarments were simply not designed to contain such a massive amount of meat, and now, with Jarret’s nose less than a hand’s-width from it, the fox could see the way the cotton had stretched and thinned over each separate feature, the seams pulled white at the stress points, a small dark spot near the broad upper rise where liquid of some sort had already begun to seep through. He lifted a paw and traced the long curving line of the thick shaft beneath the cloth with a single fingerpad. It was warm. It was firmer than it had been at the door, swelling toward attention now in slow, ungovernable pulses, the digimon’s body responding to the mere presence of breath against the fabric. Jarret hooked one claw under the waistband, just to the left of the digimon's big flaccid cock, and drew it down. The shaft, freed, unrolled rather than sprang. It was simply too heavy and too long to leap. It bulged forward and outward into the cramped space beneath the table in a slow, gravity-led arc, and Jarret had to scoot backwards until his back touched his own seat cushion to give it room. Two feet, the fox judged, drinking in the sight. It would be two feet long, when it was fully hard. Right now it was about a foot and a quarter, from the thickened base to the spatulate, unflared crown. The digimon's cock was already packing a girth at its midpoint that Jarret doubted he could have closed his fingers around. The shaft was a deep, rosy pink against the gold of the thick shaggy thigh fur, glistening with a musky, moist sheen, and along its length ran a thick purplish vein that throbbed in a slow, visible pulse with every beat of the digimon’s heart. The flare, even un-bloomed, had already broadened to a width that would not have fit comfortably down a normal fox’s throat. And the knot. The knot was a separate engine. A dense, packed, fist-and-a-half mass at the base, its surface marked by its own deeper veins, swollen even now in the absence of any direct stimulation, as if the very act of being looked at this hard was enough to make it want to plump. Or, the digimon had hurriedly tucked himself away just before he would have gotten off, and his body is simply primed to continue where it left off. Jarret exhaled, slow and unsteady. His breath streamed along the naked flesh, and above the table, he heard Renamon make a small, startled sound, hands flexing on the wood. The fox set his palms against the insides of those golden thighs, gentling them apart, and leaned in. He started at the knot. He set the flat of his tongue against the base of that engorged ridge and dragged it, slow and unbroken and warm, all the way up the long underside of the shaft, riding every vein, every pulse, every minute irregularity of texture, until his tongue tip met the underlip of the flare and curled up over its edge. The digimon, above, made a noise that the fox felt rather than heard, a sharp cracked inhale that traveled down the body like a struck bell. Jarret’s whiskers twitched in private satisfaction. He had taught a great many men what their own bodies were capable of. None of them, he thought, had been carrying anything like this. He drew his lips back from his teeth. The smooth enamel of the fox’s incisors set themselves against the upper ridge of the shaft, just below the flare, and he drew them, with deliberate, unbroken pressure, all the way down the length to the knot. He was specifically not biting, choosing instead to let the digimon feel, for the first time in his life, how good teeth could feel on a part of him he had never even known had nerves. Above the table, Renamon’s knuckles went white on the wood. Jarret could see them through the gap, the fingers flexing, the claws pricking small dimples into the underside of the table. “Oh,” the digimon whispered. The single word fell down through the space between them, soft and stunned. “Oh.” Jarret did it again. Slower this time. He took the digimon's cock in his paws, holding it smoothly but securely just above the knot, his fingers only barely overlapping each other as he held it between both fingers. He could feel it throb between them, the digimon's penis eager and blindly urgent for what was coming next. He made a study of the ridge just behind the flare, the small lipped seam where the crown joined the shaft, and let his teeth ghost over it with a pressure that was almost not pressure at all, just the suggestion of edge. The shaft jumped in his paws. A bead of pre, fat and clear, welled at the broad slit at the tip and rolled down over the flare’s edge in a glistening rivulet. Jarret caught it with his tongue and dragged it back up along the edge before savoring it in his mouth. Clean. Sweet. A little salt at the back. The fox’s tail whipped once, excitedly, against the booth wall. Then he began the edging game. He took the flare into his mouth, just the broad crown, still fleshy and delightfully spongey, and worked his tongue against the underseam in slow, narrow circles until he felt the shaft start to swell that final degree, the pulsing in the veins quickening, the knot beginning to thicken further just under the grip of his paws. He pulled his mouth cleanly free from the thick shaft, and let the cool air of the under-table touch the wet flare and steal a degree of heat from it. The digimon had no idea what an orgasm was, so he had no idea that his almost certain ascent towards ejaculation was being stymied by the fox's clever break and pauses. Renamon made a small, broken sound. “Sshhh,” Jarret breathed against the shaft, and he heard, above, the wet gulp of the digimon shakily gulping down his ice water. The fox went back to work. Three times. Four. He brought the digimon to the very lip of climax and pulled him back, every cycle a little longer, every plateau a little higher. His teeth grew slower along the sensitive ridge behind the flare each pass, pressing incrementally deeper until he was leaving white scrapes in the wake of each pass, the sharp enamels digging just a hair's breadth away from piercing into the thick, meaty cock. Jarret could feel it as the digimon's thighs began to tremble, a fine sustained tremor that ran from hip to knee and would not stop. He could feel it in the shaft itself, the constant thrumming pulse of an organ being held just below the line it desperately wanted to cross. “What...?” Renamon whispered above. The word came out cracked. “What are you... What are you doing to me?” Jarret hummed, low and warm, around the underside of the flare. He did not answer in words. He let the vibration of his throat be the answer, let the digimon feel the shape of his amusement through his own skin, and above the table he heard the soft scrape and tear of claws sinking into vinyl. The fox pulled off again. The flare was darker now, almost wine-colored, swollen to a width he doubted Renamon’s own long, slender-fingered paw could have closed around. The knot at the base was a dense purple-pink mass throbbing visibly with each heartbeat, the veins on it standing out like cords. Pre was running freely, glazing the entire upper third of the shaft in a wet, glistening sheen. The digimon’s whole body was strung tight as a bowstring, his thighs trembling, his breath coming in shallow stuttered pulls. Jarret took a moment, just a moment, to admire him. Then he wrapped one paw around the base of the knot, opened his jaw wide and took the broad crown into his mouth, and prepared, with unhurried care, to do what he had come here to do. Jarret . It was a tight fit even for a fox whose throat had been trained, over patient years, to accommodate this exact category of prize, and he had to work the angle of his jaw to get the flare past his teeth without scraping more than he wanted to. The digimon above made a strangled, helpless sound as the wet heat closed around the most sensitive surface of him for the first and, if the fox had calculated correctly, only time. Jarret let his tongue settle along the underside, found the deep central seam of the flare, and pressed. The shaft answered. The first contraction rolled up through it in a long, gathering wave that the fox felt as a tightening of every vein under his paw at the base. The knot pulsed once, hard, and began to swell that final terrible degree, the surface drawing taut, the color deepening from rose to wine to a near-purple that sang with blood pressure. The knot bulged like two ripe, crunchy peppers, ready to be plucked. Renamon was making a sound now that was barely a sound, a thin continuous note pitched too high for words, and his thighs had locked rigid against Jarret’s shoulders. The fox felt the second contraction begin, and that was when he bit down. He set his upper incisors against the soft neck of skin just on top of the flare, where the crown joined the shaft at that lipped, ridge-thin seam, and closed his jaws with slow, firm, unhurried pressure. His teeth were good. He kept them polished and sharp. They parted the tissue not in a snap but in a gradual descent, the way a hot blade went through the tough skin of a crusty loaf of bread, pressing through the layers of skin and the spongy flare-flesh and the slim cord of the inner channel until a mouthful of the digimon's crown came away from the rest in one clean separation. The digimon’s body, which had been climbing toward climax, simply received the new sensation as part of the wave. Renamon had never orgasmed before - and had never been bitten on his cock before - and there was simply no way to know which overwhelming surge of sensation was 'right' and which was wrong. He felt both at the same time, his mind flushed and overwhelmed with both sensations. Jarret felt it happen. The shaft in his paw spasmed, hard, the third contraction firing up through it in a thick rolling pulse, and the digimon above gripped the table edge and gasped, just gasped, a single shaken intake of breath that became a long rolling exhale of pleasure as his body emptied itself out through the wounded crown that had just flared out into perfect fullness only seconds earlier. The bloom of the bite folded into the bloom of the orgasm so completely that there was no edge between them. Renamon could not, the fox understood from the soft, drawn-out noise he was making, tell where the climax stopped and the something-else began. It was all, to him, simply the most extraordinary feeling of his life. Jarret gulped down the mouthful of flare meat, and went back, slowly chewing off another mouthful, trimming off the other half as easily as the first, and Renamon let him. The broad, bulging glans was gone now, save for a few shreds that hadn't quite fit into his mouth with either bite. He had eaten flares before. He had not, in his career, eaten a flare like this. He chewed it methodically, the soft wet sound of his jaw working covered easily by the bar’s ambient music and the murmur of other patrons, and when at last he swallowed, he felt the warm satisfying press of the first portion settle low in his belly. He savored the nugget of flesh, suckling on it wetly, as jizz spurted out of the truncated cock and spilled over his brow and ears and shoulders. He could feel the pulse of the orgasm dying away through the shaft his other paw still held. Three more contractions, weaker each time, the body emptying itself dutifully into a vessel that was no longer there. Above the table, Renamon’s breath gradually slowed. The thin high sound he had been making faded into soft, stunned exhalations. His grip on the wood eased. His thighs went lax and trembling against Jarret’s shoulders. The fox waited for the very last twitch of the shaft to subside. Then, with a quiet hum of appreciation that he could not entirely suppress, he resumed eating his meal. The sensitive flesh just under where the flare had been went first, while it was still warm. He worked it slowly, savoring. The texture was extraordinary, dense and spongy and silken in turns, the inner tissue of the crown packed with the kind of rich subtle flavor that the fox had learned to recognize as the mark of a truly exceptional specimen. He took the shaft down in sections. He worked from the severed end downward, biting cleanly through the long body of the organ in measured intervals, lifting each section free with his sharp, surgical fangs, chewing, swallowing, moving on. He loved the thick, firm flesh, and the way the urethra would 'pop' each time his teeth sank through it. Gulp after gulp of Renamon cock slid down to his belly, joining the hunks of flare meat, and before he realized it, he found his nose nestled in between the bulges of the digimon's fat knot. He lapped over it, the hard flesh still swollen, trying to keep a dick that no longer existed wedged deep into whatever breeding tunnel the digimon was supposed to be using it on. His paws slid down past it, wrapping thumb and pointer fingers around the thin root just behind it. He pulled upwards, tugging the entirety of the knot free of Renamon's groin, and began to feast. It required a careful angle of his jaws to fit the huge left bulb into his mouth, but when he finally bit down into that glossy hard knot of swollen cock flesh, he found it to be the densest and richest mouthful of the entire meal. So far. The fox closed his eyes, worrying the huge bulb free and sinking fangs into it, over and over to get more of the flavor into his maw. The taste was almost embarrassing, it was so good. He almost moaned, but had the propriety to remember that he was in a public place. He didn't want to attract any attention to himself. Above the table, Renamon sat with his chest still rising and falling in long, slow swells. The digimon’s eyes were half-closed, his head tipped slightly back against the booth, a small dazed smile resting on his muzzle. Once or twice he glanced down, vaguely, in the direction of his own lap, but his gaze never quite focused. He was, Jarret guessed, still experiencing a 'canine orgasm', riding the long, recurring waves of pleasure, his body warm and humming with the afterglow of the most intense sensation it had ever been asked to process. Renamon was not thinking about absence. He was not thinking about anatomy. He was simply, blissfully, present. The bar carried on around them. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed at the counter. Charn called out a drink order. No one looked at the booth. Why would they? Jarret moved on to the second knot bulge. There was a smooth, slender white bone jutting out from it, similar to a stick in a candied apple. His paws, having nothing really to hold on to now, gripped Renamon's thighs, pushing them slightly further apart. Jarret's lips kissed against that single throbbing remaining piece of Renamon's big beefy dick, and then he sank his teeth into it. He didn't even need to bite through it, he merely gripped, latching into the thick flesh with his fangs, and then pulled back. The bulk of the knot meat just came free, tore loose from the remaining root like it was supposed to. Jarrett enjoyed this last bite just as much as he enjoyed the first. He suckled on it wetly, slurping up the juices that seeped from the flesh. He compressed it between his jaws, enjoying the press of it against the roof of his mouth. And then, he swallowed. It felt good, feeling it slide down his throat, the same way every other bite of his meal had. It was fantastic. Jarret ran his tongue carefully around the inside of his mouth, gathering the last traces of Renamon's masculinity and swallowing them down. He slid out from beneath the table, and resumed his seat across from Renamon with the same liquid economy with which he had left it. He drew the back of one paw across his lips. He pressed the palm of the other against the warm, taut, satisfied curve of his belly, which had filled out into a small, unmistakable swell beneath his shirt, and felt the slow heavy weight of the meal settling. It was, he thought with quiet professional pride, one of the cleanest takes he had ever made. He picked up his glass, took a sip of the amber drink, and set it down again. He wiped, with one finger, a small bead of moisture from the corner of his mouth. “That was. That was incredible.” Renamon’s voice came out low and breathless and full of wonder. The digimon’s eyes had cleared a little, but only a little. He was looking at the fox with an open, dazed gratitude that bordered on reverence. “I had no idea that my body could feel like that. Thank you. Thank you." He glanced down to his lap. "I mean, I-” The grey shorts hung flat against his thighs, the great topography of an hour ago vanished, the fabric puddling emptily where it had so recently been strained. The digimon blinked at it, vaguely, as if registering some small change he could not quite name, and then his gaze drifted back up to the fox’s face, soft and unfocused. Jarret said nothing. He merely pressed his palm flat against his pleasantly distended belly, exhaled slowly through his nostrils, and let his eyes drift past Renamon’s shoulder to the chalkboard menu mounted above the bar. The dessert specials were written in Charn’s looping hand. He considered them with the calm, idle interest of a diner who had finished a very good main course and was wondering, without urgency, whether there was room for anything sweet to follow.