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The Goad, the Bat and the Unctuous

**

As soon as he stepped out of his beachside hotel room, Patrick knew he shouldn't have skimped on his rented tuxedo. Instead of patronizing a specialty shop for molting species, which stocked light linens and rayon, he had found the first catchall within Ubering distance and had himself fitted out in half an hour. He knew he'd be regretting his oversight all evening.

Humid Floridian air seeped right through the worsted wool into his thick winter coat; he could feel the sweat practically begging to stain his pleated white shirt. At least the black-and-white combination didn't clash with his pelt. Not even the patchy brown spots on the bridge of his muzzle looked that bad. Long ago he'd given up bleach-matching for the sake of vanity. That, and the at-home treatments he'd bought had burned his skin.

Patrick's phone showed ten-past-eight, somewhere between fashionably late and mildly annoying. Welsby had said eight on the dot, but the Australian cattle dog wasn't driving so he couldn't be shouldered with all the blame. So the ermine fought the urge to go back into his dry, air-conditioned room and moseyed down to the porte-cochére fronting the building.

The Bayside On the Gulf sat on a spit of land with the Tamiami Trail on one side and a marine estuary on the other, and beyond that the Gulf of Mexico. Patrick hadn't chosen the hotel, nor had Welsby. Welsby's friend Lawler had booked it on behalf of an as-yet-mysterious guy named Hunter. Being the hanger-on of a friend of a friend of the host of an apocryphally spectacular shindig, the ermine had little say or control over the evening except to not come along. But then again, free food and booze on what was supposedly a sumptuously-appointed superyacht didn't bear refusal when the alternative was hotel cable and a commanding view of the gulfside condos across the water.

A mockingbird greeted him as he exited through the giant rotating entrance door. "Good evening, sir. Can I call you a car?" His candor seemed genuine, not merely affected as Patrick had seen in many hotels, some much fancier than this one.

"No, thank you. I'm waiting for a friend." Only then the ermine noticed the doorman had nothing on below the waist. Everything south of the cummerbund was feathers and scales. Patrick caught himself staring, not because there was anything on display, but he'd never seen such a thing. Granted, he didn't see many avians anyway, but none bottomless. Feeling the fur on his back prickle, he couldn't help a little pang of jealousy. Going bottomless would be a relief right now.

The bird smiled with his eyes. "Very good, sir. Have fun." He parked himself behind the valet podium and clasped his hands after preening a bit.

At least we're not going to Key West, Patrick thought.

The ermine didn't notice the black Tesla until it stopped right in front of him at seventeen after. Its windows were tinted too dark to even see movement inside. Finally the driver got out and made a swift circuit around the front of the car to open the rear door on Patrick's side, standing stiffly. He moved more gracefully than an alligator ought to.

"Get the fuck in here!" Welsby's voice came from inside, and the ermine just went with the flow. The driver shut the door and got back in, taking them away wordlessly. "Sorry we're late," he explained, not sounding very sorry at all. "My fault. This stupid bowtie; I should've worn a clip-on. Leonard up there broke some laws getting over here, but you can tell he learned to drive at a real chauffeur school. Props, man!" Leonard stared straight ahead and pressed the Tesla's center screen a few times. Cool, dry air washed over them.

"Oh, that's nice," Patrick sighed.

Welsby leaned, cupping his paw over his muzzle. "He's that good. Probably noticed your body heat or something. I'm surprised he didn't hug you to stay awake!"

"Say what?"

"Coldbloods."

"Ohhhhhh."

"See how selfless he is? Sacrificing his energy to keep you cool. Though why Hunter didn't have a divider installed I'll never know." Clearly the Australian cattle dog had had an espresso or six before coming over. "Well, you look nice even if you feel like shit."

"Yeah," Patrick said, leaning back on the soft leather, "apparently I didn't think ahead and went with the budget choice."

"You know Hunter's paying for all this, right?"

Patrick stared at the canine. "Nobody told me, no."

"God dammit, Lawler." Welsby pulled out his phone and fired off a few choice texts. "Well, it's too late now. I'm sure you'll get a voucher or some cash or something. And once we're on the boat it should be cooler without all this heat island shit going on."

The route to I-75 was more or less a straight shot. The Tesla had an extraordinary amount of power, and Leonard exploited it once they reached the interstate. One moment they were zooming up an entrance ramp, the next they were cruising comfortably in the leftmost lane at over ninety miles per hour.

"Isn't he worried about getting pulled over?" the ermine inquired. He looked out the window to see an FHP Ford Explorer fly past...followed by a little old possum lady in a mid-Nineties Cadillac DeVille. "Never mind."

"You get used to it," Welsby said. "You have to, or you suffer."

During the hour-long drive to Cape Coral, Patrick was able to glean three things from the cattle dog: Hunter preferred "reclusivity," a portmanteau for rich hermits, when not throwing extravagant parties; Welsby didn't know their host's species because he hadn't bothered to ask Lawler; and the party organizers had been so tight-lipped about the whole thing, the atmosphere could range from tea time on the Titanic to uttering "fidelio" in Eyes Wide Shut. Eventually the ermine gave up and settled for watching the scenery shoot by in silence.

Leonard wordlessly delivered them to the Cape Coral Yacht Club on time, having somehow made up seventeen minutes in an hour of driving. Welsby thanked the gator, who disappeared back into the dark car and drove off to presumably charge it.

Patrick pulled a few times on his collar to counter the reintroduction of muggy air into his fur, and only succeeded in trapping more than he evacuated. He looked over to see Welsby engrossed in his phone again.

"Slip Z-1," the dog mumbled. "Do you see a row Z, Patrick?"

Seeing a map of the yacht basin, Patrick padded over and studied it. Only four rows wide, the basin wasn't the biggest he'd seen, but he only saw the rows identified A-D with numbers increasing the farther away a particular yacht was moored. "Nope, no Z. If this guy's such a party hound, shouldn't we just look for the brightest, noisiest boat?"

"Nope. Lawler here says to look for the biggest one in the middle. Says you can't miss it. Her name is Bela's Beauty."

"Yeah, okay." With no further instructions from the (apparently lazy) Lawler, Welsby ushered the ermine onto the middle dock and the two walked between two rows of impressive, if silent, boats.

"At least we're on time and don't have to worry about being left on shore," the dog said. "Any luck on the name?"

Patrick shook his head. "No. They're supposed to be on the sterns, right?" He began to think this trip was more trouble than it was worth, meal ticket or no.

"Supposedly. Oh, fuck me."

"What?" The ermine's head shot up, and it was immediately clear why Welsby had uttered the expletive. "Holy wow..."

Moored at slip Z-1, right at the end of the dock, floated a black yacht that stretched at least fifty feet into the basin. Double the size of the next-biggest boat, not only would it not fit into any of the slips but also it likely drew enough water that it couldn't get any closer to shore. Its flat black paint reflected no light--in fact, it reflected nothing at all--so no wonder they hadn't noticed it until they were right on top of it. An equally-dark gangway stretched up directly into the bow, with only the dullest of blueish glows setting the opening apart from the rest of the hull.

"Lawler wasn't kidding," Welsby muttered, clearly in awe. "And to think this is just a runabout."

Patrick stared at his friend. "You mean, this isn't the party boat?"

"Oh no, his main yacht is out in international waters already. This is basically a ferry. C'mon, if we go any slower they will leave without us." Leading the way, the dog trotted up the gangway and into the belly of the big black beast, swallowed immediately by the darkness.

"What have I gotten myself into?" the ermine asked himself as he followed his friend into the unknown.

The dim blue glow turned out to be rows of floor lights, the same kind used in theaters to mark pathways. Several turns and a staircase later, Patrick found himself in a richly appointed open-air living room that gave onto a deck full of all-season furniture arranged around a lighted pool. A dozen or so people of varying sizes and species populated the space, most of them leaning against a waist-high glass barrier. While every single male, without exception, had gone the tux route, their female companions' (including the obvious cross-dressing fox hanging on his date and/or lover) outfits ranged from little black dresses to overdone affairs complete with fascinators tilted between their ears. The fashion was ugly enough to tell the ermine these guests were disgustingly rich.

"I don't know any of these people," Patrick whispered in the dog's ear.

"You don't have to," Welsby whispered back. "Just act aloof and spoiled and don't say anything. In this environment it makes you look intriguing instead of an asshole, since you don't have any apples to eat. Besides, you look like pure driven snow. You're a walking, talking pearl."

Patrick wasn't sure he ever wanted to be this wealthy. Before he could share the sentiment, something pulled at his tail and...started stroking it. He whipped around, startling a lady hippopotamus into fanning herself dramatically. The burnt-umber dress clinging to her ample curves was patterned in a most unflattering way, and had clearly been chosen for its prestige and not its style.

"Young man, some of us have heart conditions," she snapped. Before the ermine could counter with an appropriate level of snark, a male hippo who looked about ready to bust various seams in his tuxedo stepped onto the deck from the stairs and hooked his arm in hers.

"Dearheart, do calm down. You'll give yourself an aneurysm. First of all," he said, turning to face Patrick, "my apologies on behalf of my wife. She has an affinity for soft things. Second of all, when do you start shedding?"

For a few seconds, the ermine couldn't figure out how to respond. He'd never been asked that question in his life and it was so jarring that it took some time to form words. "Uh...early April?"

"Oh George, I can wear him to the spring cotillion! Won't your sister be jealous when she trots out her daughter and sees me in such a stole!"

George nodded without looking at his wife. "Yes, dear," he said with the withered obeisance of a married man whose testicles have been loaned out, though Patrick surmised he could very well have a mistress on the side. Wasn't that how rich people got along in life? When he tried looking to Welsby for support, he spied the dog reclining next to the pool. That was signature Welsby, alright.

"If you could just--" he started, but George cut him off.

"I'm terribly sorry, but my wife Martha has been looking for an ermine for a very long time. She doesn't like faux fur, and she's trying to upstage my sister in some silly little battle of the relatives or somesuch nonsense."

"It's not nonsense," Martha pouted, adding an extra half-degree of cant to her already-precarious hat. "She's never liked me, and never will. The least I can do is make her regret it."

George stepped forward, pulling his wallet from his jacket and fishing in it with thick fingers. Eventually he pulled out a business card, followed by two thousand-dollar bills. Patrick had never seen one in real life, and when the hippo shoved everything into one of his pockets he half-recoiled as if the money were aflame.

"If you could be so kind as to keep whatever you shed, I have a man in Kolkata who does wonders with real fur. It's a bit taboo over there, you know how they are, but it's quite the thing in the Hamptons right now," he said, keeping his tone low, as if unwilling to give away a secret.

Two grand was still two grand, and all he had to do was brush? Aside from being kind of creepy, it wasn't like the ermine was going to keep his winter coat around anyway.

"Can I even take these to a bank?" Patrick asked.

The hippo gave a soft bellow, most of his tuxedo undulating along. "Of course! These are mostly for show, but they're legal tender all the same. Probably worth more than face value by now. What do you say? You make Martha a very happy woman and go out and buy yourself a decent outfit at the same time. Who're you wearing, anyway?" George's prominent nostrils wrinkled.

Thinking quickly, Patrick turned up his nose just slightly and said, "Actually, I'm not allowed to discuss my tailor. He's that exclusive." He tried to look as uppity as possible, hoping the hippo's sense of smell wasn't the best.

George took a closer look, almost to the point of reaching out to poke at the fabric. "Some kind of shabby chic, disguised as horrid fashion to not arouse suspicion..."

"Very expensive," whispered the ermine. "He doesn't even put his collections on the runway. In fact, he doesn't even have collections."

"Like a Ferrari available only to current owners," George said in awe before clearing his throat and standing tall again. "Well, uh, a fine choice, then. So...can I count on you?"

Forcing back a giggle, the ermine said, "By late April I should be done. I'll be in touch." With that, he returned to Welsby, reclining on the chair next to the cattle dog. George went back to Martha, who squealed with delight after her husband whispered in her ear.

"What did you do?" Welsby asked. "Offer to give her a hummer?"

Patrick pulled the bills and card out of his pocket and waved them in front of the dog's muzzle. Welsby squinted, then snatched them and turned them this way and that. "These real? These can't be real."

"Yeah, they're real."

"Ho-ly shit. You give her that good a hummer?" Patrick punched him right in his exquisitely-tailored shoulder.

"His wife wants an ermine stole, so I'm shedding one for them."

Welsby stared at the ermine. Then he stared at the pool. Then he shrugged. "Rich people. The fuck, am I right?"

"Pretty much."

The yacht's skipper announced final boarding, and five minutes later they pushed away from the marina. While Welsby chilled by the pool, Patrick wandered to the stern (where there was yet another pool) to watch the lights of Cape Coral recede. When it had all blended into one bright blob, he padded back up to the bow, passing couple after monied couple along the railings.

He was surprised to find the prow deserted, but pleasantly so. The rest of the guests were likely crowded together in one of the opulent rooms, where the appetizers were, or around the pool just to be seen. Out here, with the gulf breeze billowing coolly through his coat and the water lapping at the hull, it all seemed awfully superficial. Of course it was. It was likely something he'd never achieve in his life, and he felt oddly peaceful about that fact.

Being rich must suck a lot. Like dessert at a fancy restaurant, pretty but unsatisfying.

The _Bela's Beauty_plunged ahead into the darkness for half an hour before a small cluster of lights appeared ahead. Saving his appetite for the real party, Patrick walked the length of the boat several times, checking in with Welsby infrequently but mostly wandering. He found the entire vessel open for exploration, scarcely-populated enough to lie down in the master suite for a bit. It was truly a masterpiece of nautical luxury, which led him to wonder what awaited him on the "real" boat.

He joined up with Welsby for the last ten minutes as the cluster of lights materialized into the biggest boat Patrick had ever seen, that wasn't also a cargo ship. Dwarfing the Bela's Beauty by magnitudes, its white structure melded with panel upon panel of tinted glass, seemingly wrapping around the decks. Antennae, railings, lights and laughter filled the air. Patrick tried hard not to feel intimidated.

As it turned out, the smaller yacht fit snugly into a sort of wet dock built into the stern of the mega yacht, whose name was apparently Stoker's Stunner. Patrick supposed being filthy rich gave one the right to assign horrible names to boats.

"Please make your way to the ballroom," ordered the skipper, a bottlenose dolphin whose uniform looked just like it should, except it was made entirely of neoprene. He could essentially go for a swim and come back aboardship without having to change.

Welsby led the way, though the dog was basically following the rest of the well-offs through the belly of the yacht. These hallways were papered with handmade patterns of palm fronds and birds of paradise, with simple but elegant sconces of brushed metal that cast their shapes up the walls. It looked a little midcentury-modern, an interesting touch on what was clearly a state-of-the-art boat.

They mounted a grand staircase carved out of solid teak. It curved around and gave onto a massive room athwartship, wall-to-wall windows on each end with a dance floor opposite the stairs and several gigantic chandeliers dangling over the space.

"Jesus, you think he wants us to know he's rich?" asked Welsby, looking around.

Patrick didn't answer because he was too busy taking it all in. Circular tables littered the center of the floor, with long ones lined up on either side by the windows, piled high with food. The scents of rare herbs and spices assaulted the ermine from all sides, but all it did was make him drool. The entire yacht, it seemed, had the same midcentury-modern theme, and its clean, Spartan lines lent themselves well to the architecture of the vessel.

Welsby patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to look for our names. They burned our names into the friggin' napkin rings. Oh well, I'm not complaining."

"Okay," Patrick replied, only half-aware.

He came out of his reverie when a zebra with a pompadour and a Thurston Howell voice almost knocked him down.

"Terribly sorry you're in my way," he snooted in the most insincere of apologies, before moving on without so much as a pause in his step, which was high enough to show off his gold-plated horseshoes.

Eventually, Welsby came back to let the ermine know where they were sitting (side by side, along with Lawler) at a table near the dance floor, and that the festivities would be commencing soon. Patrick merely followed the dog's lead and grabbed a plate from the buffet tables, picking a few crudités and some interesting looking pieces of sushi because he didn't want to spoil his dinner.

As soon as they sat down, a thylacine sidled up to the table and bowed. "Good evening, gentlemen. I am Antoni, your personal assistant for this evening."

"Every table has its own waiter!" Welsby said, finally expressing the same giddiness the ermine felt. "Just like at Disney!"

"What can I do for you?"

"Uh," Patrick stuttered, "just water for now."

"Grab me a martini," the dog said. "Very dry, two olives."

Antoni bowed, his tray not faltering one inch, and seemed to float away. Five minutes later he returned with their drinks--plus a tall pilsner of carrot juice. The thylacine set them down and disappeared again. Patrick stared at the bottle of water, clearly foreign, clearly expensive. It pronounced itself as having been harvested from deep within a calved Antarctic iceberg. He hoped they'd at least boiled it before bottling it. Until he downed a third of it, he hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been.

"How does he know what Lawler wants?"

"Well," Welsby started, leaning over and sweeping his paw to encompass the room, "He doesn't, actually. However, the guest list includes everyone's species as well, so they can at least guess. If they strike out, no harm no foul. It's the attention to detail that's impressive."

"I guess so," replied the ermine, thinking it seemed more like wasteful overkill than impeccable service. Then again, these people sat several atmospheres above his wildest dreams, so anything was possible. Spearing a piece of sushi with his gold-plated fork, he studied the room and tried not to look out of place.

After several long minutes resisting the temptation, he reached into his pants pocket for his phone. At least he fit right in with the well-to-dos who couldn't put their devices down for a single second to have actual conversation with eye contact. While they busied themselves with selfies and stock portfolios--several the ermine overheard yelling at subordinates, presumably underlings from their companies--Patrick checked the time and weather, and browsed a couple news sites. Normally he preferred to keep his phone tucked away at social gatherings, but he felt so out of place he needed some electronic shelter.

Paws on his shoulders made him jump and squeak a surprised, "Dook!" A horrible blush immediately followed.

"So, this is the weasel you told me about, Wells?" came a husky voice that seemed too low to belong to a lapine. Welsby's eyes followed the lop-eared rabbit as he circled the table and sat down, sniffed his carrot juice, and took a sip. "Always with the carrot juice. It'd be better as a Bloody Bugs, but I'll make that my next round."

"He's an ermine for a couple more months," the cattle dog corrected. "Be careful; you'll offend him."

"I'm not offended," Patrick said. "Same difference." It really wasn't, but why split hairs when aboard the fanciest yacht on the Gulf of Mexico?

Lawler continued, unperturbed. "How're you guys liking the evening so far?"

"Well, I'm definitely impressed. Patrick's still coming to grips with it all."

"Thanks for inviting us," the ermine said. It's a lot to get used to, but I'm not complaining."

"Oh, complain all you want." The lop lay back in his chair. "I think, in this crowd, it's expected. Like some snooty rite of passage or something. Doesn't make sense to me, but neither do some of the diamonds I see on these ladies' fingers. I'd rather have a BMW, personally." He winked.

"When is our host supposed to arrive?" asked Welsby, dipping a fried shrimp into some cocktail sauce and plopping it into his mouth.

Lawler brought his wrist around and checked his watch, looking particularly anachronistic in a room full of people buried in their phones. "Technically, any minute now. Which means, fashionably late should be right around the corner. He's never on time; punctuality's gauche around here. Means you're actually trying to impress other people, which is the point, but you're not supposed to _look_like it."

"You know," Patrick interrupted, "I'd never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad I'm not rich."

"I think I can drink to that," Welsby said, lifting his glass. The three clinked away and drank, if not to poverty then to a level of income that didn't involve the requisite excesses they were witnessing.

They shot the shit until the lop announced he was going to powder his nose, to which the cattle dog replied that he had to piss as well, and the two had a laugh, leaving Patrick to watch the crowd.

He was about to dive back into his phone when a flurry of affected greetings rose up from behind him. He turned in time to see a cadre of suits and gowns surrounding a central figure much taller than them, almost fawning over it. The men were gladhanding, the women offering their hands and paws as though to a familial patriarch. Not a single one seemed sincere, nor did the central figure, though he made a good show of it. And yet no one seemed to care about all the blatant artifice.

As the crowd neared the dance floor, he shed guests until he emerged alone onto the teakwood. Patrick could now add "vampire bat" to his list of new species he'd seen on this trip. A round of polite applause rose up from the tables and buffet lines, settling down when he motioned with his wings/hands. The membranes flapped gently like miniature parachutes. The ermine had never seen anything like it. At once, the entire room seemed to come to a silent standstill.

"Wonderful, wonderful," said the bat in a buttery-smooth tone. Clearly he was practiced in the art of smarm without coming off as patronizing. "First of all, I would like to thank you, one and all, for making it out here to international waters where we can celebrate in style and relative privacy."

The crowd gave various laughs of knowing sympathy.

"You all have made this evening possible. Without your philanthropy, the poor and disadvantaged of west-central Florida would be suffering in an intolerable way. With your donations we can at least lessen their burden, which benefits everyone. What good is money if you can't share some of it?" Shouts of agreement accompanied more applause.

"This was a fundraiser?" Patrick asked as Lawler and Welsby returned to the table.

"Yeah," said the cattle dog. "Hunter throws these shindigs every once in awhile."

"This one is a mil a plate," added the lop, plopping down and seemingly unaffected by his own words.

Patrick fought to keep his jaw from gaping. "As in...a million dollars? Per person?"

Lawler nodded. "Friends in high places, man. But look at the good they're doing."

The bat continued. "Also, with the money raised tonight, we'll be able to completely fund the halfway-house apartment complex slated for construction in downtown Sarasota. We'll be able to provide much-needed shelter for up to three hundred families on their way to being on their feet, paws and talons." He smiled broadly as the room erupted into kudos and clapping. The ermine almost felt bad for occupying a chair for free.

Now the bat had the room's rapt attention. He wore a tuxedo likely costing more than Patrick's car, made from a black satiny material that adopted a shimmery purple as Hunter moved with careful grace. It had no sleeves because of his big wing-hands, but was finished in a way that looked completely natural. His black head fur was slicked back between large pointy ears that also seemed purple in this light. Patrick found himself oddly mesmerized by a pair of yellow--almost glowing--eyes, to the point of needing to concentrate to hear Hunter's words.

Looking around, though, he noticed he wasn't the only one so entranced. Half the room, both male and female, appeared to hang on the bat's every syllable.

"Now, for those of you who just can't get enough philanthropy, you'll find a nice little silent auction downstairs in the smoking lounge. We have drones, we have trips...check out the yellow-diamond tennis bracelet so generously donated from a friend in South Africa. Non-conflict, of course. I'm also exceedingly pleased to have the first production Bugatti Chiron on board, a body-in-white. Customizable to any standard you wish. Of course, you have to buy the car first." Chuckles from the room. "For now, mangia! Divertiti!" Half the crowd applauded again, a dozen or so stood up to go to the buffet tables, and the rest remained sitting to wait for the main courses.

"You heard the man," Lawler said, pushing off from the table. "Knock yourself out."

Shortly after Hunter took his place at the main table, an army of waiters emerged from all corners of the room with gleaming white plates of appetizers. There followed course after course, from salad to soup to main dishes, with sorbet in between each. Patrick thought the idea kind of silly...until he tried it, and promptly changed his opinion of the palate cleanser and digestif.

Watching the hoity-toity high society types having so much fun allowed the ermine to let down his guard and begin to enjoy himself. With each successive course he became more talkative, smiley, and receptive to Lawler's and Welsby's unique senses of humor. He even joined in a couple times. Every so often he would steal a glance at the vampire bat at the head of the room, more out of curiosity than anything else.

After the third dessert (they were tiny), and before the plate of nuts and cheeses (why anyone would want to go back to regular food after sweet things escaped Patrick), Lawler excused himself to go check out the offerings up for bid one deck below. Not that he could afford any of them, but he still wanted to gawk. Welsby, he of the bladder the size of a walnut, had to powder his snout again, and the ermine found himself alone in a room packed with people he didn't know and didn't care to get to know. He'd never see them again, so why bother?

He gave up halfway through his third dessert and decided to make his way outside for some much-needed air. The temperature difference wasn't much, but the change in humidity reminded him how comfortable he'd become in the cool, dry air inside.

Leaning over the railing, the ermine let out a loud sigh. Were it not for the soft glow from shore miles and miles away, he wouldn't know which direction he was facing. He kind of liked the solitude, though he didn't know if he could get used to the constant motion of the waves.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Patrick turned to the left, only to feel a tap on his right shoulder. When he turned back, he was met with the fang-toothed smile of none other than Hunter himself. How had he not smelled the bat in this still evening? "Oh, y-yes, very much," he stammered, intimidated by the fact this man had an ungodly amount of wealth behind him.

The bat leaned on the railing, at least as much as he could with his unique appendages, and murmured, "Because you didn't look like it at dinner." He still smiled, a closed-lip smile with just his fangs showing. Patrick felt slightly unnerved but oddly calm at the same time. Hunter's eyes seemed to glow in the yacht's lights. "And what kind of host would I be if I didn't make sure each of my guests is having the time of his or her life? Hunter," he said as he offered a wing-hand. Patrick offered his paw and the bat grasped it, shaking lightly.

"Patrick."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He couldn't be sure of it, but the ermine could swear Hunter was giving him a once-over.

"Thank you very much for the invitation," said the ermine, less out of the fact that he didn't know what else to say than the fact that he was grateful for the experience. Which he was, surely, but he'd expected to be a wallflower and remain a wallflower until Welsby herded him back to the hotel, probably after getting stinking drunk.

Hunter's pointy right ear twitched near the tip, his smile unfaltering. His yellow eyes almost glowed. "Thank you for attending. I knew Lawler would choose wisely if I gave him a few plus-ones for the evening."

Patrick couldn't tell whether or not the bat was hitting on him--that would be awfully presumptive--but he felt the stirrings of a blush rising from the collar of his uncomfortable rented tux. "Well, at the risk of sounding redundant, I'm very appreciative. I've never been to something like this. I feel like a foreigner."

"How do you think I feel?" Hunter chuckled, standing up straight, and held him by the shoulders. Vast, purplish-membraned wings enveloped him; if his ears were any bigger they'd be plastered against his skull. "I do a lot of traveling, and I can count the times I've met another bat on my...well...digits. Buuut having few chiropteran comrades has no bearing on my philanthropy. One of the most fun parts of having wealth is giving it away."

Thinking of the times he'd envisioned the mega-rich as so many Scrooges McDuck, swimming in their coin-pools and hoarding their cash, the ermine suddenly felt very ashamed.

Hunter was squinting, his blunt nose seeming to detect something. "You're very hot, aren't you?" Patrick still couldn't tell if he was being flirted with. "Would you like to accompany me to the stern? It's much cooler with the slipstream over the wake. The architecture literally draws it in." The bat stepped back and gestured along the deck railing, and Patrick felt it would be rude to refuse...though he wasn't sure why...so he nodded and followed.

The walk proved longer than expected, wandering toward the stern through several corridors and small flights of steps. The stern wasn't directly accessible from the outside (only by ladders, Hunter informed him) but the recreation room let right onto the deck. Leading the ermine through rows of gleaming equipment--tubes and ropes, kayaks and Ski-Doos--the bat swished his way expertly around and through, sliding apart the hangar-style glass doors.

Patrick stepped out and immediately became thankful he'd taken Hunter up on his offer. The yacht glided along at just a few knots, but the breeze drawn into the teak-decked cove was much more turbulent...and refreshing. He couldn't help allowing a sigh, and soon after he felt pressure on his lower back just above his tail.

"Go on, to the very end. It's even better." Patrick saw how the barren deck just let onto the water, and was about to say as much, when the bat continued. "By the time you get there you'll have something to hold onto." Not familiar enough to trust yet, the ermine found Hunter's voice interestingly soothing, even encouraging. Compelled to step, he made his way forward.

Almost immediately, a soft whirring emanated from the floor under his feet. As he approached the end of the boat, a railing emerged from a channel along the edge and rose a good four feet before stopping. By the time he clutched the stainless steel, the stern was almost fall-proof. Only someone very young or very stupid would be able to slip through the seemingly randomly-angled gaps.

Hunter sidled up behind him immediately, discomfiting yet oddly familiar. Normally this would freak him out a bit, not that he didn't mind the flattery, but he didn't feel the need to move away. When the bat spoke, Patrick's ears tried to angle rearward to hear better, though this was the quietest part of the yacht as far as he knew.

"That seems to work much better," Hunter purred. "I can practically feel the relief washing off of you."

"Yeah, thanks. It was getting bad. Gonna be bad enough, returning it with white fur all over it. I'm pretty sure the guy who rented it to me tacked on the 'excessive shedding' fee after he saw me."

"That's not fair," said Hunter in that same silky voice. "How much is that surcharge, if you don't mind my asking?"

Patrick shrugged. "Two-fifty."

Hunter's wings began to tremble, accompanied by twin pinpricks of pain on each of the ermine's shoulders. The bat's anger--more like rage--was palpable, almost to the point of angering Patrick by proximity. "That's ridiculous," he muttered tremulously. "Highway robbery. You should just keep it and pay the buy price."

"I would, if it weren't wool."

"Oh. No wonder you're so uncomfortable. Why don't you leave it with me? I can have it laundered and returned just as easily."

"That's okay, I need something to wear home, after all." Even though he added a light chuckle, it was starting to sound like a good idea.

Now the bat's nose came over his shoulder into view, his wing-hands like fleshy capes on either side. He shivered, though not because of the breeze.

Hunter breathed, "I may be taller, but I think we can make something work."

And before he knew his lips were moving, Patrick said, "Okay."

Something felt very wrong, but also it didn't. He was warm but no longer sweating, cognizant but brain-foggy. The only thing that seemed to make sense was Hunter's mellifluous voice and everything that came out of it. Part of him felt like running away, back into the boat, but another part---a bigger part--told him he was better served staying put.

That, plus he was getting hard, something not easily ignored in his confining, itchy pants.

"There, that's better. We'll just stay out here for a little longer, and then I can take care of you. Don't worry about the other guests; they're too preoccupied and drunk to care at this point."

Care about what?

Instead of asking the question, the ermine merely said, "Okay," while flexing his cock against his boxer-briefs. In his head, he wanted to turn to ask the bat if he could lie down. While not exactly feeling bad, he wasn't at ease either. He hadn't left a drink unattended, and if it were food poisoning it would have happened a couple hours after lunch. "I think I'm getting seasick," he said at last.

"No, you're not," Hunter almost singsonged, breath warm against the ermine's neck. "Perhaps you should loosen your tie. I'd do it for you, but..." He shrugged, shoulders and arms and wings raising as one.

"Yeah, that might work, okay." Suddenly Patrick couldn't wait to get out of the confining collar and bow tie. He brought his paws to his neck and worked feverishly until everything lay undone, unable to stifle his gasping moan when the night air reached his sweat-soaked fur.

Hunter leaned over the ermine's left shoulder, his musk-tinged cologne drawing even more rise from between his legs. A hard protrusion nestled up against his rump, and Patrick curled his tail under despite the non-threat. If it were anyone else, he thought, I'd turn around and punch him. But...

The rest fluttered away on the ocean breeze as the bat's left wing-hand somehow curled around (or was it over?) the railing and landed on the lump between his legs. "Oh my. Is that for me?"

"Yes..." said an ermine that Patrick didn't recognize. As confused as he felt, anything Hunter said to him seemed like the best idea in the world, the most sage advice, and the mere thought of resisting almost made him nauseous. The sting of rising bile caused him to grasp at his pants, clawing at the fly until he hooked the zipper and yanked it down. After a short struggle with his underwear, he pulled himself free, along with his balls to keep his shaft out and exposed. As soon as he dropped his paws, the bat's digits curled around him, stroking lightly and delicately. He dooked softly under his breath, blushing furiously.

"Oh. Oh, but that is nice, so nice," cooed Hunter, full-on pressing Patrick against a convenient gap in the railing. "Slender but long, a good mouthful. Or other places."

The ermine squirmed as his own pre was spread about his member, the bat's exquisitely smooth skin like butter on his sensitive flesh. He wanted to speak, or do anything really, but found that all he was capable of was panting.

"I can smell you from here," Hunter purred. "I wonder if the taste measures up." A light flickering ruffled the fur of Patrick's exposed neck and made him shiver. Shortly thereafter the bat began to nibble along his shoulder, creeping forward until he had the ermine's scruff between his teeth. Patrick had no doubt about whether or not Hunter possessed fangs, because they pricked insistently at him without breaking the skin.

"Ohhhh..." was the extent of his current vocabulary.

Seeming to growl softly, the bat nibbled a bit more. "All that expensive food in there, and none of it appetizing to me. I'm in the mood for a much more personal dining experience. I'm sure you understand." In fact, Patrick did understand, as if the information were suggested simply by intonation rather than locution. A strong sense of compassion suffused him, threatening to overwhelm if he didn't give in. And right now, he might as well have been born for that specific task.

"You need to invite me in, Patrick. It's the hospitable thing to do."

"Yes..." the ermine whispered, no longer in control of his body. The grip on his cock tightened, making him quiver.

"May I?"

Without fully realizing what that meant, Patrick simply stared out into the Gulf of Mexico and said, "Yes."

He hardly felt when the bat sank fangs into his neck. Only a light sting, and then Hunter's mouth clamped down and held him still. A warmth, slightly itchy, bloomed throughout his entire shoulder, but spread no further. His pulse raced in his ears, nearly drowning out the thrum of the yacht's powerful engines and the slap of waves against the hull. And though his vision became slightly hazy, he felt oddly at ease, and completely safe.

Not to mention teetering on the edge of climax. Hunter held him securely, not too tightly, hardly stroking, doing all the right things, until he let go and immediately began licking. A ferrous scent assaulted his nostrils as the bat licked hungrily, tongue flicking wherever the ermine happened to bleed.

Time seemed to stand still and speed up simultaneously. All that existed was his cock and Hunter's tongue. He idly wondered if this was what being on drugs felt like. Putting both paws on the railing, he attempted to hold himself steady, although the bat's arm-wings pretty much surrounded him. Still, he couldn't deny the growing pleasure, somehow ameliorated by Hunter's feeding.

"You're getting close," said the bat between languid licks. "You make the cutest sounds. And you taste delicious."

Patrick hadn't been conscious of making any sounds. He blushed, though it paled in comparison to the heat gathered in other places on his body.

"If you hold on for just a bit more, I'll make it worth your while." Again the bat thrust his hardness against the ermine's backside, and the thought of being mounted both scared and further aroused him. He felt his tail lift of its own accord. "Oh no, nothing like that," Hunter interjected, having read the ermine's body language, and cemented his grip down below.

"Oh, fffffff...fuck!" Hunter had bitten down, hard, on the same place on his neck, fangs right on (and in) the marks. The warmth there turned to a momentary searing heat, throbbing in time with his erection. Stroking with a purpose now, the bat applied steady attention to the frenulum, accentuated by the soft membrane over the top of the shaft. It began to spasm, and it was all Patrick could do to hold his breath.

As if moving through molasses, he managed to look down the length of his uncomfortable tuxedo just in time to see Hunter's digit press him down to horizontal, and watched bemusedly as his cock erupted over the stern. The feeling was as ethereal as it was corporeal, kind of a semi-numb shock as rope after rope flew out of him and into the water. Somewhere far away he was moaning, with Hunter as accompaniment, humming into his bloody fur. The deluge reduced to a dribble, running down the bat's still-rubbing digit as Hunter milked out every last drop.

Hunter released his flagging cock and neck at the same time, leaving Patrick feeling empty and kind of cold. With a few more licks, he stepped back, leaving the ermine clutching the rail with trembling paws.

"You might feel a bit cool, and a bit tired. That's normal. You performed superlatively," said the bat.

Still in dreamland, Patrick struggled to turn around to face Hunter. "You're welcome?" he croaked, right before a black cloak drew across his vision. The last thing he knew was falling forward but not landing.

*

The steady clacking of expansion joints jostled Patrick to wakefulness. In a mild panic, he jerked upright and looked around, disoriented. After studying the muted streetlights glancing off the sculpted surfaces of seats and door handles, he surmised he was back in the mysterious Tesla.

Or had he never left? Aside from some mild grogginess, he was none the worse for wear.

Wear...where...where did his tuxedo go?

"Holy shit!" The ermine frantically patted himself down. Keys, wallet, phone...all present and accounted for, but stored in the silk-lined pockets of some very expensive boating shorts. He now wore a simple polo shirt, but by the look and feel of the material he didn't even want to guess how much it cost. Panting, he settled back into the seat, scooting over to one side so he could buckle up.

A chime emanated from a hidden speaker somewhere. "Sir?"

"Y-yes?"

"Do you require assistance?" asked the deep, reptilian voice.

Did he? Not really, except...

"Where are we going?"

"Your hotel, sir. Bayside."

"Oh. Okay, I'm fine."

"Very good, sir." With that, the ermine settled in for the remainder of the ride, trying to remember what he could about the party.

Patrick recalled the ride to Coral Gables, the ferry, and eating a lot of good food before going outside to get some air. But, try as he might, he couldn't for the life of him recall anything after that. Every time he attempted to dredge up anything past standing on the railing, looking at the distant lights of the Florida coast, it either dissolved into a fuzzy haze or downright hurt his head. Exhausted enough as he was, he eventually gave up and sagged into the seat for the rest of the ride.

The eastern horizon had just started to lighten when the Tesla silently pulled up to the Bayside. Patrick let the alligator open the door and steady him as he stood on wobbly legs.

"Shall I accompany you to your room?" asked the gator.

Patrick took a moment to shake off his initial suspicion of a come-on, disregarding it as a product of his exhaustion. He looked toward the entrance; no valet stood behind the podium. "No, I'm fine. Thank you," he said, fishing around in the foreign pockets for his wallet.

"No gratuity necessary, sir," the gator assured him with flat palms and a wan smile that actually brightened his maw considerably. "Good day." He nodded to Patrick, slid his bulk tail-first into the Tesla, and departed with only a soft whine from the car.

Wandering through the lobby toward the elevators in a daze, the ermine didn't feel his phone vibrating until he'd pressed the "up" button and stopped, paws at his sides. Welsby's face stared at him while the phone buzzed against his claws. Patrick swiped and put it to his ear.

"Hey."

"I told Leonard to let me know when you got back safe. You sound terrible, man."

The elevator doors opened and Patrick boarded, pressing his floor. "I don't feel much better. Everything was going great until I stepped out for air, and then...I dunno, it's not coming to me." He tried not to be annoyed at how chipper the border collie sounded, having obviously had a better time on the yacht.

"Well," grinned the dog through the phone, "I can elucidate if you want. It's pretty boring, though."

"Humor me. I'm wearing clothes straight out of The Birdcage, I can't remember what I did last night, and when I try it's like looking through a kaleidoscope in a fog bank."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have five minutes before I hang up and go to bed."

"Well," Welsby started, "there isn't much to tell. Lawler and I were shakin' our tails on the dance floor when we were summoned to the guest quarters by the rec room. Hunter was there, concerned but cool as a cucumber. Said he found you collapsed on the deck, something about not feeling good, he took you to the room and changed your clothes cuz you were burning up, and then you passed out."

Patrick blinked at his reflection in the elevator's mirrored doors before they opened and he started down the hallway. "Well...that's pretty believable. I still don't remember any of it."

"No doubt."

"How am I supposed to get my tux back?"

"Hunter said he'd take care of it, and he'd be in touch. With you. You're going to get a personal call from the guy. Hafta say, I'm a little jealous."

"Of what?" The ermine waved his key in front of the lock and it clicked open. He pushed through, met a wall of cool air, and sighed. "I'm out two hundred and fifty bucks."

Welsby barked. "I don't think so, man. Hunter takes care of things. He said he'd be in touch; just trust him. He's good people."

"Okay," Patrick replied, still guarded. "Now that that mystery's solved, I'm going to collapse. I'll talk to you later."

"See you around, party animal," said the border collie, hanging up before he could be rebuked.

The ermine's head hit the pillow before he could even utter a simple, "Fuck you."

*

The series of strange events began when Patrick tried to check out of his room the next morning, when the clerk informed him that he was to be transported to Miami. When asked, the clerk had no additional information.

When Leonard picked him up, his suspicions about Hunter's involvement were affirmed. The gator delivered him to the municipal airport just south in Venice, pulling up to a black-and-purple helicopter, which whisked him away over the flat swampland of central Florida. He tried calling his boss to apologize for missing work, only to be told he'd had additional paid days off approved by fiat, and to have a nice time.

Patrick began to feel like a kept man.

After forty-five minutes of picture-taking on his cell phone, the chopper deposited him on top of the Four Seasons hotel in the middle of downtown Miami, where he boarded a private elevator one floor down to the penthouse, where he was left in confusion and awe.

Eventually he wandered into the bedroom (one of four), where he found a gift basket from Hunter with instructions to enjoy himself in the city for a few days. Inside the basket, among other things, he found an American Express Centurion card in his name, with no expiration.

When he called the number on the card and inquired about the credit limit, the concierge on the other end of the line broke into laughter, apologizing when Patrick informed him it wasn't a joke. The ermine found out he could request just about anything, and when he tried to stump the concierge by asking for lunch in the fanciest restaurant on Key West in an hour, all he got was lunch in the fanciest restaurant on Key West in an hour.

After that, the ermine finally relaxed, but only a little.

For three days he took advantage of the bat's absentee hospitality. When he was hungry, there was always a table open no matter where he went. When he needed clothes, a personal shopper took him on a whirlwind tour of the Design District. But when he asked questions about Hunter's whereabouts, he was unilaterally told to hurry up and wait, enjoy himself, go to the beach.

Patrick was sunning next to the infinity pool on the terrace facing the Atlantic Ocean when a shadow blocked out the sun. Peeling off his sunglasses, he looked up into the face of Hunter, beaming down, his eyes almost aglow.

"Hello," said the bat. "Enjoying yourself?" He spread his wings, blocking both sun and wind, and a chill ran down Patrick's spine through his tail.

"Uh, yeah, very much so!" exclaimed the ermine, scrambling off the chaise, almost knocking the sunglasses aside in the process. "Phew."

"Phew is right," Hunter said. "Chopard De Rigo, eh? I see my personal shopper spared no expense."

"I can't keep them. They're rented," Patrick mused as he turned them around in his paws. "I have no idea how much they cost, but I'm being very careful."

Hunter stood, bathing the ermine in sunlight again. Patrick squinted and donned the glasses. "I should hope so," he grinned. "They're worth over four hundred thousand dollars."

Patrick suddenly felt sick, wanting to set the glasses down but terrified to do so. He gaped at them, wondering how in the world something so ordinary-looking (actually they looked more garish than anything) could cost so much money. There was a fair amount of gold, but still...

"You didn't think those were real diamonds?"

"I...just knew we couldn't buy them."

"Yet. They're not for sale for another couple of weeks, but I can pull strings here and there." Hunter was so casual about his unimaginable wealth, the ermine couldn't bring himself to deride the bat as much as admire him. "Actually, I wouldn't be caught dead in them. First, you sit on them once and you're out a couple of Bentleys. Second, I prefer a more subdued style. Third, they're women's sunglasses."

As Patrick blushed, Hunter chuckled.

"The guy should've told me."

"When someone wants to pay an ungodly sum to just rent sunglasses from you, you tell them whatever they want to hear. Come on, let's walk." The bat offered a wing and, after donning the glasses for no other reason than his head seemed like the safest place, the ermine got to his feet and was immediately pulled into the most enveloping hug he'd ever had.

Only then did he relax, but only a little.

*

Patrick wanted to ask how the bat had gotten access to the penthouse, but he recalled the access he himself had had the past few days and decided the question would be kind of silly. If Hunter wanted it, Hunter could get it, and that indeed proved to be the case.

"I snatched this penthouse up when it went on the market last year. For the square footage and the views, fifteen million seemed a steal," Hunter said while leading the ermine through the sprawling space. "I had to convince them about the helipad, though, but I wanted the privacy Wasn't hard pulling the proper permits."

"Do you get hounded a lot?" asked Patrick, carefully setting his sunglasses in their case by the patio door, squinting. He just felt better with them off.

Hunter shrugged, a move that actually made a little breeze with his wing-arms. "Not often, but I don't take chances. People change when someone dies, and they change when you get money. It's pretty sad, but that's out of my control. All I can do is react to it. Really, it's not as bad as it seems."

Patrick felt a twinge of sympathy, seeing the bat so mellow in his sleeveless Bermuda shirt and acid-wash charcoal shorts that probably cost more than the ermine made in a week. But every time the temptation to feel put off by the seemingly wasteful spending on some of the most mundane things reared its head, the memory of all that money going to good charity tempered it.

As they walked through the penthouse, Hunter pointed out items of note here and there, like a side table dating to the American Revolution complete with its original upholstery, to a small display case containing figurines of bats carved from white jade during the Ming Dynasty.

"Americans...okay, that's not fair, most of the Western world, really...have this thing against species seen as sinister or arbitrarily bad for some reason. Bats are one of those. You have no idea how many strange looks I get every day. I understand, I look weird, I got giant wings and fangs and I'm not floofy-cute like you. But we're not out to suck your blood," Hunter finished in a horrible fake-Dracula accent. "At least, not all of us."

Patrick couldn't suppress a giggle.

Hunter continued. "Bats, in Chinese mythology, symbolize good fortune. And, what's more, the Chinese have a sense of humor when it comes to phonetics."

"What, like those word puns in anime sometimes?" Patrick studied a particularly intricate carving of two bats facing one another.

"Exactly!" Hunter exclaimed, the eyes of his reflection in the glass case brightening. "The word for 'bat' and 'good fortune' is the same, fu. Sometimes the bat is shown flying upside-down because the character_dao,_ which means both 'upside-down' and 'to have arrived,' is pronounced the same. So, you could basically say, 'The bat is flying upside-down' and the other person could well hear it as 'Happiness has arrived.'"

Patrick stuttered, "I...wow, that's pretty neat."

"Isn't it, though? I find etymology and mythology riveting. I'm insatiable for it."

They moved on, walking in the direction of the bedroom. The ermine was just about to mention he'd already seen everything there was to see, since he'd been sleeping there for days, when he saw the tuxedo hanging on a bellcart in the middle of the room.

At first he assumed the bat had kept it for some reason, perhaps to have it dry-cleaned. But as he approached the bellcart, he noticed first the cut of the material, and then the material itself.

Hunter circled behind the cart, smiling so widely his fangs stuck out. "What do you think? I told you I would take care of it."

Taking a sleeve of the coat in his paw, he ran his pads over the soft, thin material. Not only was it cut differently, it was a completely different suit. It was cool to the touch, much cooler than the rented wool tux. And he hadn't even worn it yet. "I bet this feels great! Wait, are you taking me to another party?"

"Oh, no," said the bat, leaning on the cart and, consequently, making a tent around it. "This is just for you."

Patrick hadn't wanted to believe it, even when that explanation seemed the only plausible one. But hearing the words still made him feel pretty damn nice. "You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, cut it out," Hunter dismissed him. "I told you I'd return the old one and see about a new one, plain and simple."

"Heh," chuckled the ermine, scratching behind his neck. "I don't remember, apparently. My friends said as much, though."

Hunter's face fell a bit. "Yeah..."

"But this is great. Really, really great. Thank you." Patrick came around the cart, ducked under one wing-arm, and hugged the bat from inside his cocoon. Hunter stiffened for a moment before enveloping him. They shared a few quiet seconds before the bat let him go. "You're too nice."

"You're very welcome. Here, why don't you try it on."

Patrick snatched the tux from the cart and padded into the gigantic walk-in closet with its full-length mirror. For a second it seemed like Hunter would follow, but held back, to the ermine's relief. He couldn't put a finger on exactly why, but he brushed it off as quickly as he shucked his clothes.

The moment he put his arms through the sleeves of the crisp white shirt, he knew he was in for a treat. Smooth and cool as silk, somehow it didn't quite look like it. But the ermine felt none of the hot claustrophobia he usually encountered when trying on anything heavier than cotton during the winter months. The pants came next, neatly pressed with a belt included. The hems came down to the floor, but would be perfect with shoes on. Perfect tail flap, perfect inseam...how had Hunter guessed his measurements so closely?

Hunter entered the closet (more like glided, he was so graceful on his feet) just in time for the ermine to shoulder on the jacket with a dook of excitement. After fastening the top two buttons, Patrick just looked in the mirror and beamed at himself.

"I'm not warm at all. In fact, I'm a bit chilly! How is that possible?" He looked to the bat for answers, which were offered without hesitation.

"It's a proprietary blend of fibers, meant to look good while keeping you cool at the same time. The blends are species-specific, so if you feel chilly now, you'll feel perfect in the summer months." Hunter sidled up behind the ermine, a good foot or more taller, and held him about the waist.

Patrick blushed right away, hotly and quickly. His sheath stirred to fullness in a matter of seconds. He reveled in the sensations before his usual shyness stole the moment.

"But it fits so perfectly. How did you know?" Again, the bat's eyes fell, and the ermine felt the slightest hint of a sigh against his back. "What's wrong?"

Hunter sighed again. "Well....do you really want to know?"

"Of course," Patrick replied, a soupcon of worry starting to gnaw at a corner of his stomach.

Grasping his waist tighter, the bat simply said, "Then look at me."

He did, and he was immediately struck by the glowing yellow eyes. They captivated him. They beckoned him. And then they told him all he needed to know. Flashes--of scent, sight and sensation--flooded his little body as previously-locked memories escaped into his conscious. Through it all those eyes never left his, and he gasped and groaned his way through the experience for a second time. When it was over, he stood panting, the bat's wing-arms the only things keeping him from collapsing.

Hunter sat him down on the padded leather dressing bench. "I got a little carried away, Patrick, and I'm sorry. Just...you're so different from all those stuck-up socialites, and it was refreshing. In more than one way. I mean, you enjoyed yourself, yes, but still..."

"Yeah..." Patrick struggled to find words, and feelings. He wanted to feel violated...angry...used...but couldn't for some reason. The bat wasn't trying to buy him off with things and experiences, he knew that much. A fairly good judge of people, the ermine knew when he was being played, and now wasn't one of those times. If Hunter had just wanted some sex, he wouldn't be trying so hard for a second time. He could buy all the sex he wanted.

"I hope you're not too angry with me, Patrick. Though I could completely understand if you were. Just know that I don't choose any random male to feed from. And I wouldn't have done all this if I didn't like you. And I certainly wouldn't take the chance waking up your memories if I didn't think you'd liked it." Hunter's voice kept getting smaller and smaller, and he looked everywhere except at the ermine.

As Patrick fiddled with the buttons on his jacket, he tried to sort out his emotions. The more he thought about it, the less complicated it became. Now that he could remember what he'd felt that night, none of it seemed forced or negative. He'd said yes, albeit in a daze, but Hunter had only jerked him off over the railing...and he shuddered just thinking about it. Of course, Hunter could have altered the memories so that they could be recalled only positively, but...still, too much trouble to go through.

No, he didn't harbor any ill will. Quite the opposite, in fact. So when he stood and hugged the bat even tighter this time, Hunter's squeak of surprise brought a smile to his muzzle. The tall lanky body, at first stiff, relaxed bit by bit as those big membranous wings slowly surrouded him. Soon Patrick found himself in a cocoon...and a little aroused, now that he had some pleasant stuff to remember.

Hunter's digits grasped him around back and pulled the ermine closer, until their A-frame dissolved into full contact. Nuzzling against the bat's collarbone, Patrick could feel the result of their closeness quite easily through several layers of fabric. Without thinking he pressed himself against it.

"Oh, Patrick..." Their hardnesses jumped against each other, and they stayed that way for about a minute, just feeling. "Would you...want to? I wouldn't want to be presumptive, but--"

"Yes," came the ermine's bat-hair-muffled reply. "I think so."

Pulling back a bit, Hunter bumped his blunt nose against the ermine's cheek until Patrick raised his head, and the kiss was as startling as it was sudden. Chaste at first, it quickly grew into an open-mouthed tongue battle. Patrick flushed badly but he didn't care, and he knew Hunter didn't. He tasted nothing but a clean muzzle, perhaps with a light sweetness from fruit or toothpaste. In any case, it was a pleasant taste and he wanted more.

During a lull to catch his breath, the bat panted, "Perhaps we'd be more comfortable without clothes in the way?" It was as much a question as a suggestion; Hunter clearly expected Patrick to call the shots.

"I think that's a good idea."

Hunter beamed as they parted. "As much as I'd love to undress you, it might be easier if you did it for me."

A twinge of pity for the bat quickly faded when he remembered the expert masturbation from last time. If there was a way around it in life, Hunter had already found it and likely mastered it. But Patrick understood the bat's suggestion was based in impatience instead of disability. So he decided to put on a show.

Slowly the ermine shouldered off the tailor-made jacket, plucking its hanger from the bellcart.

"Don't worry about that," Hunter said while massaging his crotch, "those fabrics will never wrinkle." By which he meant Just throw them anywhere and let me look at you.

So Patrick tossed the jacket over the bellcart and went for his shirt, undoing one button at a time. He figured going shirtless first instead of pantless would come off as sexier, and he wasn't wrong. Four buttons down, the bat's eyes widened, seeming to glow even brighter. Hunter now openly groped himself, tongue out, and the ermine had to tamp down a bit of anxiety watching the tube snaking its way across one of the bat's thighs. He didn't know how far they'd go, but if it did go there he wasn't sure how much he could take. But instead of worrying further, he tossed aside the shirt and went for his belt buckle.

"So far so good?" asked the ermine, already knowing the answer.

"Absolutely stunning," Hunter swooned. "So white. So pure."

"You do see the brown patches, right?"

"Oh yes, I do. And I don't mind a bit."

Getting out of the pants proved easy but less sexy, and soon he was left in nothing but a pair of tented-out boxer briefs. He kept having to consciously move his paws away from his groin, he was so used to his own modesty. Eventually he couldn't hold back and stepped out of them. The bat had seen it all before, anyway.

"You're beautiful," Hunter murmured, approaching the ermine to run some membrane along his leaking shaft. "I'm grateful you decided to share this with me."

"What about you?" Patrick asked through a furious blush.

"I think it would also be better if you did the honors. Otherwise it could take ten minutes."

"And it wouldn't feel as good."

It was Hunter's turn to blush. "Yes, that too."

Not until Patrick got his paws on Hunter's brightly-patterned shirt did he notice the ingenious workaround the bat used for dressing. It had a standard collar and buttons down the front, but instead of sleeves the shirt ended in neatly-hemmed edges at the shoulders, attached by Velcro so expertly integrated to match the pattern that it wasn't noticeable until the ermine was right on top of it. This is what money can do, he thought as he released the Velcro and started on the buttons.

His mouth began to water as he slowly revealed the bat's chest and stomach, both perfectly sculpted, both hard as rock under their coating of soft purple-gray hair. "You work out."

"I do. It's kind of an obsession."

"I don't even know how old you are, but you don't look a day over thirty."

"Actually, I turned five hundred a couple months ago."

Patrick stopped mid-unbutton, eyes focused on the washboard in front of him. After being fed upon and hypnotized, hearing this bit of news didn't really surprise him. Besides, he thought while running his claws over the solid muscle, he looks good for half a millennium.

"You'll have to tell me about the Renaissance," said the ermine.

Chuckling, the bat said, "I'm sure I have enough stories to keep you entertained for a lifetime." His shirt fell to the floor and Patrick knelt before him, working his cinch belt and fly. Hunter's boxers left very little to the imagination; the long bulge lying along one thigh ended in a very wet spot near the hem of the leg. Musk hit the ermine like a brick wall, almost hypnotizing in itself. Patrick didn't consider himself a very sexual person, but damn if this guy wasn't driving him crazy. In one fell swoop he yanked the boxers down...and promptly got slapped in the face with bat dick. Thick precum smeared across his snout, making him giggle.

"Sorry about that," Hunter apologized. "It just goes to show how aroused you make me." He held his erection aloft while he stepped out of his clothes, then let it hang perpendicular to his body. A clear droplet formed at the tip and Patrick watched it grow before it fell onto his thigh. He didn't realize he'd been panting and fondling himself all the while.

"Don't be sorry. Uh...may I?" He indicated to the prodigious organ.

"By all means," said the bat with an anticipatory grin.

As Hunter stepped forward, Patrick raised up on his knees. The bat's equipment was like something from a porn story: an eight-inch shaft capped by a blunt head, bobbing out of a sheath a bit darker than the surrounding hair. A pair of quite large testicles didn't hang below as much as flank the base. Upon further inspection, the ermine discovered spines all along the shaft, painful-looking but soft when he touched his pads to them. And, of course, every muscle around the package was hard and shapely and perfect.

"I know, it's big," said Hunter, answering the obvious question. "I'm a bat...plus, I was blessed in the dick department. But don't sell yourself short either. You're very respectable. Probably easier to handle, too."

Patrick smiled. "Not so sure about that," he said, lifting a paw to stroke the bat's sac. "Apparently I'm awfully thick."

"I call that a nice fit. Ooh, that's nice. Your pads are so soft."

The ermine could have said the same about the bat's balls, about the size of chicken eggs. He was tempted to take one in his muzzle, or at least try. It'd be a tight fit for sure. He rolled them about, stroking the lightly-haired skin, making them draw up and fall and repeat the cycle. Then his curiosity got the best of him and he leaned in through the cloud of scent and stuck his tongue out.

The flesh didn't hold as much sensory delight as smelling, at least for the ermine. Not to say the taste wasn't delectable; in fact, the combination of excellent hygiene and natural musk made for some good incentive. However, he didn't expect the bat to start squeaking like crazy, or his knees to buckle a little.

"Sorry," Hunter apologized after catching himself. "It's been a while since anyone's paid attention to those." Patrick thought that hard to believe, but continued to pay due attention anyway. Now in the thick of things, the ermine found himself oddly at ease. Normally it took quite a bit of awkwardness before any fooling around with a guy, and once past that hurdle it was smooth sailing. But with Hunter, not only was he comfortable right away, but also he wanted to do his best to please the bat. It occurred to him that he might be slightly hypnotized again, but he quickly dismissed it as unnecessary worry.

Besides, even if he were, he knew he'd enjoy it.

"Why...why don't we move to the bed before I collapse onto you?" Hunter asked with a chuckle to mask his quavering voice. He hopped onto the bed and scooted up against the pillows, kicking the covers down while Patrick followed. The bat's cock now lay along his belly, pulsating and intimidating. Thinking about fitting that under his tail, the ermine shuddered. At the same time, he wanted to try, and that mere fact made him hotter.

Scooting closer, he grasped the base and squeezed gently, gaining approval in the form of a grunt. Slowly he worked his fingers up the pink flesh, such a contrast to his purplish-black hair, jerking on the tip a bit. As he'd suspected, the spines were merely protrusions meant to stimulate pleasure and not pain; they yielded easily to his touch. The head flared out to an almost-flat tip, and he wondered how that would fit in his tiny hole. Not to mention, how he'd get it to penetrate initially. He'd never had a horse, and those were thick enough as it was.

A pressure on the back of his head signaled Hunter's request, and Patrick gladly complied. Holding the member away from the bat's belly (actually there was no belly about it, being solid muscle), he gingerly licked along the side, smooth tongue on sensitive spines. He watched Hunter's toes curl, felt the shudder and light flapping of wings, and knew he'd hit the right spot.

"Oh, but that's nice," Hunter said softly, moving his digits down the ermine's back, almost all the way to Patrick's twitching tail. "You're very good."

"Thanks." Patrick didn't hear that often, and he was genuinely pleased with himself. He was trying hard, after all, and being rewarded made the effort worth it. To further his point, he curled his lips over his fangs and gingerly slid the end of the bat's cock between them. He'd underestimated the amount of pre pooled near the tip and it immediately coated his tongue plus some. Like Hunter's breath, it carried hints of fruit and even something like mint, though without the cooling effect. It was odd but complemented the bat's musk.

Hunter's digits remained where they were, softly grooming the fur of Patrick's lower back, neither encouraging nor discouraging but very nice anyway. The ermine didn't need any incentive; he had it right in front of his face. About ten inches of it. So he decided he wanted to try to see how much he could get in his muzzle. Once past the rim, it slid fairly easily, having been slickened quite a bit already. The bat swallowed deep in his throat and made a strangled sound, his member twitching against Patrick's palate.

From his reclined position, feeding more of Hunter's cock into his muzzle was as easy as bending his neck, but about four inches in he met resistance in the form of his own throat, clearly not trained enough to take such a thick piece of meat. The shape was new and foreign, without even the benefit of a tapered tip, so when he bottomed out that was it. But the bat wasn't indicating a readiness to quit, so the ermine did the best he could, making up for the rest with his fist and fingers. Hunter's thumb made tiny circles above his tail, the second digit curling around as if to explore between his cheeks, but the bony limb just slid over the valley, dragging its membrane along for the ride.

"I'm a hard nut to crack, but that feels exquisite," said the bat. "Don't wear out your jaw on my account." And then he swore under his breath as Patrick made his tongue do indescribable things. Hunter gripped the ermine's rump so hard it almost hurt. Clearly the bat wanted more than a simple blowjob, and while Patrick nursed more fluid onto his tongue, he mulled over the possibility.

It had been a long time since anyone had topped him, and though it might be worth a try he doubted they'd succeed. Almost as wide as a beer can, Hunter's cock simply possessed too much girth to penetrate without either damage, pain, or practice. On the other paw, with as much as the bat leaked, they wouldn't have to worry about going in dry. He'd just milk it until he was sufficiently lubed, and go from there.

Patrick reached down further to cup the prodigious balls. Hunter crooned at the touch, and downright moaned when the ermine ventured a finger down south to graze the hole there.

"You're awful, absolutely awful," the bat groaned. "Never change." Bottoming out, Patrick loosened Hunter's hole enough to get in to the first knuckle. The passage felt searingly hot, twitching at random intervals around the ermine's twisting claw.

"Mmm?" he asked.

"Keep that up and you'll have a stomachful."

"Maybe not," said Patrick as he pulled off and took a deep breath. "I have a feeling I know what you want." And, without waiting for confirmation, the ermine swiped a couple fingers across Hunter's tip and reached back under his tail. He opened up easier than expected, with no discomfort. Bat juice was very slick.

Hunter started a bit. "Are you sure? I mean, yes please, but I'm big."

"Nothing ventured, right?" The ermine gave the bat a brave smile.

"At least let me...uh...hypnotize you a little. You'd still be in total control, just relaxed. If you're tense and tight I may hurt you."

Patrick thought for a moment as he gathered more lube and applied it. Two fingers wasn't even half the bat's girth, and the last thing either of them wanted was the ermine to be in pain or bleeding. But the more he considered it, the more he found himself wanting that big thing in him.

"Total control?" he ventured.

"You have my word," Hunter assured him. Patrick gave a nod and lifted his head when prompted. "Go ahead and get on all fours." Nothing had changed in the bat's eyes or voice, but somehow he found the words more than suggestive; not an order but more like a great idea. The best idea in the world at that moment. Immediately he rolled over onto his paws and knees, tail arched high over his back, even wagging a little. It was like he'd come under the influence of some wonderful drug.

"You weren't kidding," said the ermine, hearing his own voice from a distance. "How do you do that?"

The bed shifted as Hunter crawled up behind, a digit spreading open each cheek. "Hard to explain," said the bat. "It's merely something I choose to turn on and off as I see fit. It'd be as difficult as telling you how dragons breathe fire." And though part of Patrick wanted to press the issue a bit further, something in Hunter's tone indicated the end to that particular discussion, merely as a matter of fact instead of a suggestion.

"Just don't hurt me."

"Patrick," lilted the bat, "far from it. In fact, you won't feel a thing other than pleasure." The next moment, Patrick felt one of Hunter's slickened digits probing his hole, easily sinking in. "Oh my, you_are_ prepared!"

"Yeah," blushed the ermine, detecting a shift in their respective musks. More tangy, certainly more aroused. Gripping Patrick's hips, the bat pushed him down and pulled back slightly until cock met ass, heat against heat.

"You're going to have to sit on it, more or less. I can't grip it to push, but I can keep it stiff."

"Jeez, how do you jerk off?" Patrick was finding his words easier, if not apropos.

Hunter chuckled. "Very carefully, and I'll leave it at that." He capped his sentence by pushing forward, nudging insistently. The ermine took the hint and squatted a bit, both males gasping when the bat just popped inside, much more easily than either had anticipated. As promised, aside from some pressure and pleasant sensations, Patrick felt no discomfort or pain. He blushed again, backing up lewdly, sinking a couple more inches in with a groan. And that was merely a taste of what was to come.

"It's still big," the ermine panted, "but whatever you're doing, don't stop."

"That would be cruel," said Hunter. "And unfair. I have no intention of doing so until we've safely disengaged."

"Phew."

After a few seconds allowing the ermine to acclimate, Hunter started thrusting. Not much, merely testing the waters. With only a few inches in, Patrick had both enough length and girth to accommodate the bat. They both knew there was no way that whole thing was going into that little hole, unless Patrick was a fan of belly bulges. The ermine braced his arms so Hunter wouldn't have to push so hard, Hunter eventually leaning forward and shrouding their coupling in gossamer membranes.

It was simultaneously comforting and claustrophobic.

"Are you okay?" asked the bat after speeding up slightly. With each inward thrust the ermine felt himself stretching along the odd contours, the sensation nothing but positive as he fought to control the noises he made.

"Mhm," Patrick moaned toward the end, giving himself away.

"Thought so."

Hunter sped up again, with increased urgency this time. Every thrust produced a flap of wings, the flap producing a ghost of breeze that served to ease the closed-in feeling of being mounted and encapsulated.

With nothing to do but focus on the pleasant fullness, the ermine lay his head on his forearms and basked in his own thoughts. Moments of incredible clarity mixed with muddled obscurity, but Patrick was more amused than concerned, which would've concerned him if he weren't so entranced. Hunter bumped up against resistance, spurred on by the challenge, mumbling various sweet nothings in what sounded like Romanian, with odd accents and diacriticals galore.

The more Patrick tried to decipher it all, the harder it was to keep track of his thoughts beyond getting the bat over the edge to consummate their coupling. Something was happening, and that something was wrong, but...

...but Hunter gave a hard shove, something down deep gave out, and the rest slid home.

"Ah!" gasped the ermine, tamping down a wave of light nausea. A paw went to his stomach by pure reaction, felt the bulge rhythmically filling his fingers, and traveled back to grasp his own erection. It was a mistake as soon as he did it though; that touch, light and feathery, set him off with no going back. The tingle that normally took several seconds to build shot immediately to critical, and he was spasming and squirting into the sheets before he could think to clamp down. Normally not vocal in bed, he felt grateful to be alone with this virile male in the big private space. What came out of him was long, loud and uncontrolled.

"There you go, my boy," Hunter growled. "Let it all out. Let it consume you like I have consumed you." His tone, which would have concerned Patrick in any other situation, seemed only to prolong the orgasm. The bat stayed deep, slowly swelling. "You like that, don't you?"

"Yes..." the ermine whispered, still loosing his load. He thrust one paw back between his legs, marveling at Hunter's balls touching his own, realized how much dick had impaled him, and could manage nothing more than a strained panting with a few breathless dooks.

"You want it."

"Yes."

"You never want to be without it."

"Yes! I mean, no!" But Hunter knew what Patrick meant.

"Good boy. I knew putting you under the first time was a good idea. I have a feeling you're going to like it here."

Even as the ermine wondered what the hell that meant, his muzzle snapped up and he shouted, "Yes!" It was a great idea and a horrible one all at once. Try as he might to be worried about his job and his home and his life, when he thought about being here with Hunter he calmed down.

"You see," continued the bat as if reading Patrick's mind, "when I bit you on the yacht I planted a seed. That seed has been growing in you all this time, the choice to come back fully yours. But all it needs to grow is...germination."

The ermine knew exactly what that meant. And he was powerless to stop it. Then again, he didn't want to. He was happy. He was content. He was complacent. And soon, he was about to be complicit. As his spasms died down, Hunter started up again with purpose. The usual hypersensitivity that accompanied post-climax fucking never reared its ugly head; everything below the waist was numb. Seeming to know this, the bat withdrew at least six inches and slammed back in. It was all Patrick could do to keep himself braced.

"And do you know how to germinate a seed?"

Patrick didn't need to answer; he was the answer.

"You water it," Hunter continued. "You love it and you water it." With that, Hunter gave a guttural grunt. Teeth sank into Patrick's shoulder, pain cutting through the haze and sharpening his senses for a few seconds before he fell under again. The patter of dripping fluid accompanied the heady scent of blood before the bat began to feed, tongue lashing this way and that over the wound. The claws on his back had done the same, piercing twin stigmata into the back of his ribcage. Each one throbbed with his heartbeat, three miniature orgasms per second.

"Do it," begged the ermine. "Please..."

Hunter snarled around his sanguine snack, hunching home. After several more frenzied thrusts he froze, hips quivering, before unleashing a torrent of seed deep in the ermine's bowels. It was then that Patrick realized this was what he'd wanted ever since that night on the yacht. And if his thoughts weren't quite his own, then too bad. He was beginning to like not being in control.

Warmth filled him, putting pressure on his organs until something gave again and Hunter's cum came rushing out, soaking the ermine's balls and the bed. An especially lewd thought occurred to him then, and after bearing back again he took his paw and began to masturbate the bat through his own pelt and skin. A fresh wave momentarily bloated him before rushing out from under his tail.

"Bad boy," Hunter said breathlessly from around Patrick's injured shoulder. "I didn't take you for being horribly kinky, but I've never been so glad to have been wrong." The compliment warmed Patrick to his core, made him smile. It made him feel useful. Purposeful. Like his only goal was Hunter's pleasure...

Yes, his mind definitely belonged to the bat. Yet it felt like home.

For a good five minutes they stayed that way, joined in mutual warm fuzzies, one a little less in control of his faculties than the other, both relieved, at least for now.

Patrick fell onto his forearms, suddenly exhausted. The bat's tongue followed, keeping the wound in his shoulder clean and flowing. Each clench brought another small volley from Hunter's cock, but by this time the ermine's hole was so loose everything just dripped right back out.

"My, my. Wasn't that stunning," Hunter cooed, rubbing along Patrick's sides. "You're a trooper."

"Mmm, thanks. I didn't know I had it in me."

"Well, I should hope you did."

Patrick giggled and waggled his rump, not quite so full with the bat's erection flagging. He was feeling deliriously lightheaded, energized and enamored all at once. Some of these conflicted with the others, but mostly he was content, well and truly content. Almost as if nothing had existed before Hunter had come into his life. It was all rubbish, of course, but the bat had a way of rose-tinting even the deepest of doubts.

"Don't worry about the bed," said Hunter just before he slipped out, leaving the ermine gaping and unable to stop leaking. Eventually he rolled onto his back, sticky and exhausted, and when the bat leaned in for a kiss he dove in tongue-first. "We should probably clean up. It's almost as fun as the sex when you have a partner."

"I know a kangaroo who thinks that sex is how you get clean."

"Sounds like my kind of guy."

Hunter extended a wing for the ermine to take, and pulled him shakily to his feet. He spoke a command to the bedroom, and the sound of running water could be heard in the bathroom.

"It knows my preferences. I like it a bit on the cool side."

"I'm okay with that," Patrick mumbled, still well under the effects of Hunter's...well...germination.

Not until they were in the shower did Patrick realize why it was so big: not only because the bat was rich, but also because it enabled Hunter to fully extend his limbs to wash every little bit. Even better, for the ostensible sake of "efficiency," the bat asked the ermine to do the honors, to which Patrick readily agreed. It gave him a chance to get to know every square inch of the chiropteran's well-built body, not to mention some more attention to that big dick with a makeout session thrown in for good measure.

Sydney, his kangaroo friend, would have been proud of how "clean" they got each other.

Hunter had ordered some lunch from the restaurant downstairs before their shower, and by the time the two emerged onto one of the rooftop terraces, a table had been set for them, complete with a skunk server whose tuxedo was striped to match his tail.

After a cup of coffee and two courses, Patrick felt almost back to his old self. Once Hunter stopped doing...whatever it was that had mesmerized the ermine in the first place...the effect had begun to wear off.

As if telepathic, the bat said through a mouthful of fruit, "Are you doing okay, Patrick?" The ermine looked up from the spinach salad he'd been stirring with his fork and realized he'd been zoned out.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, sounding less sure of himself than he thought.

"Are you thinking about what I said earlier?"

"You meant that, huh? It wasn't the throes of passion talking?"

Hunter chuckled and took a sip of his mimosa through a long, convenient straw. "I very rarely give up control. I'm the one who likes it, remember?"

"I do remember, this time." At that the bat lowered his eyes a bit, and the ermine decided he might as well ask a question that had cropped up shortly after the sex. "How many times have you done this? I mean, the mind-control thing, on other people?"

A pointy ear twitched as Hunter studied his plate. The skunk came silently out of nowhere and topped off his coupe de champagne with a dripless twist, receding like a specter. He chuckled again, to himself. "I don't remember, in all honesty. Five hundred years...well, slightly less I suppose...is a long time for one brain." And when the bat met his gaze, Patrick saw those years reflected back at him. It was then he realized that nearly everyone Hunter had known was long dead, including those lovers, and couldn't imagine what that might feel like.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said the bat, reaching out a digit to stroke along the ermine's paw. "It comes with the territory. After the first couple centuries you learn to live with it. You don't quite get used to it, but you live with it."

"You can't make other people immortal?"

"Oh, I can. But I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemies. I mean, it's not as bad as I'm probably making it sound, but there are downsides."

Patrick pushed around the food on his plate, still hungry but not quite ready to keep eating. Suddenly things felt very serious, as if he were on the precipice of a major life decision. This offer, posed to a person more risk-averse than most, in confidence...Hunter had shown him more attention in the past weeks than almost anyone else in his life. But, like the bat had said, there were downsides. Too much remained unanswered; it would be years, perhaps, before those things might rear their ugly heads.

Life was never easy, was it?

"It's perfectly fine if you can't make up your mind right now," Hunter said, seeming to anticipate the ermine's thoughts. "I don't have a contract shoved in your face or anything." Patrick heard neither flippance nor desperation and was glad for it.

"And what if I said yes, right now?"

"I would have your life cleaned up within a week. Job, home, insurance, everything. You'd never have to worry about anything ever again. You wouldn't be a kept man, in terms of freedom, but...I guess the term might still apply."

Staring at his plate, the ermine attempted to work everything around in his head. The concept was huge, and everything pragmatic in him protested the idea. At least Hunter wasn't trying to tweak his thoughts about it; that much he could tell. He looked up when he felt the bat's digit on his paw again, and met the glistening eyes.

"You don't have to even think about it," said Hunter. "Just know that the offer still stands."

"I will think about it," Patrick assured him, scratching an itch on the side of his neck, reminding himself of the bite there. It had dulled to little more than a warm throb.

"I know you will," the bat smiled toothily. "And I'll respect whatever decision you come to. I am a gentleman before I am a lover." With that, Hunter deftly switched the subject and suddenly they were talking about his other properties, such as his vacation castle on Lake Como. As one topic melted into another, the ermine got the distinct feeling he wasn't the only one grateful to move on.

Once the meal ended, the skunk cleared the table and poured a pair of Irish coffees, leaving a box of fancy desserts for the two to nibble on as the sun set in an unusually clear sky over the Gulf of Mexico a hundred miles to the west. As soon as it touched the horizon, time seemed to speed up until it was gone less than a minute later, leaving the greater Miami area in streetlamp-studded twilight.

When they could stuff their bellies no more, Hunter gave a great overemphatic yawn and stretched out his wings. "I don't know about you, but it's been a day. Let's put the rest of these sweets in the fridge." He stood and motioned for the ermine to pick up the box and their cups, making Patrick wonder again exactly how the bat managed by himself.

Now, as he followed his host into the massive penthouse, a sense of sadness was beginning to cast a pall over them. On Hunter, for having to let his guest go, and for Patrick, who didn't want to leave just yet. As he placed the box in the refrigerator, he kept searching for the right words. If he said he wanted to stay, he'd have to go on about it not being a permanent decision. If he said he wanted to go, he risked it sounding like a rejection.

He kept searching right up until they were back in the master bedroom, with Hunter asking him to fold up the fancy tuxedo they'd discarded in their hurry to get naked. And, despite all his planning to the contrary, he ended up blurting out something stupid. Or so he thought.

"It's much easier when you do it, and faster," Hunter was saying. "I have an assistant, but I don't pay him to do menial tasks like that. Not that you're menial too, but...you know what I mean."

"I don't want to sleep alone tonight," Patrick said in a hurried stream of words, clothes draped over both arms.

The bat stared at him for what seemed like a long time, when in fact it was just a few agonizing seconds. Then he rushed forward, wings extended, and wrapped his entire span around the ermine. Instead of becoming claustrophobic as usual, feeling Hunter's heartbeat through the thin flesh was quite comforting.

"I'm so glad you said that," Hunter whispered. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do," Patrick replied. "Your gladness is squishing the life outta me."

"Sorry." The bat unwrapped his guest and they shared grateful smiles.

"I'm not committing, but this tuxedo isn't going to hang itself. Your clothes aren't going to put themselves on, and your body isn't going to wash itself either. Seems to me like you need a more personal assistant. Or, just some help for a bit." Patrick attempted a wink, but only managed an awkward half-blink before giving up. "And," he continued in a small voice, "I kinda liked the mind control. It made me feel safe."

Hunter stared, forked tongue flicking curiously at the air. "You...want to be put under again? On purpose?"

"Why not?" the ermine shrugged. "It was like taking a vacation from common sense for awhile. Besides, I know you're not going to take advantage now. You can even bite me again if you want. I didn't know I liked that either, until you lay into me that first time."

Clearing his throat, the bat said, "Careful what you wish for. I thought I was full, but I suppose I could snack." Along with the words came a massive wave of suggestion, crashing over Patrick's consciousness until taking Hunter to bed seemed like the only good idea in the world at that moment. He swooned, falling into the bat's embrace, his head gloriously muddled, his worries fading fast.

"I think I could get used to this...sir."

"You're making me shudder, you flatterer," said Hunter, increasing his mesmeric onslaught while trailing a claw down the ermine's side and along his hip. "You think you're up for sucking me hard and then playing cowboy?"

Patrick normally would've said anything but the "Giddyup" that came out of his mouth, but he was once again comfortably tucked into the warm blankets of someone else's power.

"Well, we can't use the master until it's cleaned. Which bedroom appeals most to you, boy?"

Patrick nearly died shivering. "Lead on, I have no preference as long as it gets the job done."

"That's basically a promise around here," said the bat, leading the way with renewed lightness in his step and a flutter to his wing-arms that just about brightened up the whole place.

Falling deeper and deeper into the marshmallow-comfiness of Hunter's will, all the ermine needed to do was follow orders, and everything would turn out okay. Somehow he knew it, and no amount of prestidigitation could dissuade him.

How many beds in the penthouse? In any case, it was going to be a long night.

FIN

2/17/16-7/18/16