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Jonathan sipped his wine and looked doubtfully toward the kitchen. The smell coming from within was wonderful - some kind of Asian dish, spicy yet nuanced. The mink had had no idea his young host could cook.

One look at the fox's home had soured Jonathan's impression of Desmond Lankett. It was not that the home was poor, in fact the opposite was true. The fox owned a large ranch home set back on twenty acres, ten of which were wooded and precluded a view of the freeway. It screamed money - money which no twenty-one-year-old boy should possess.

Of course, Jonathan knew the boy's (really am I so old that twenty-one is a boy to me now?) father. Desmond's father was a wealthy, jolly old raccoon with a stern eye for talent and quality productions. He had signed Jonathan on after seeing his rather meager resume. Fifteen years acting in soap operas, an avant garde yet breathtaking concept music video for a singer by the name of Kahnso, and Shakespearean theater experience. Yes, he had signed Jonathan the second his audition was over, and his claim that Jonathan was more than qualified for the part certainly bolstered the mink's ego.

And then he had said, with a smile on his face and his fingers steepled in a fashion Jonathan found ominous, "My son would like you, I think. Would you care to meet him?"

Jonathan had seen right through it. Fuck my son and I'll make sure this goes through. Jonathan, his abuse by one "Kocaine" Kahnso still evident in his psyche and in the fading bruises on his snout, reluctantly agreed to the meeting. Mr. Lankett had asked, his smile faltering, if Jonathan was sure. The mink affirmed that he was.

And so here he was in the ranch home of Desmond Lankett, sipping vintage wine and waiting for a wonderful dinner, his concerns that he would be mistreated sexually nagging at him.

"Mister Fretcher," called Desmond's southern-sweet voice, "could I trouble ya to come and lend a hand in here?"

The mink downed the last of his wine - actually quite a large drink - and set down the glass. "Coming," he said politely. How helpful it was to be an actor.

Desmond had three pans simmering on the stove. A sweet fragrance the mink had not picked out before now stood out to him. It was the smell of pie.

"What did you need?" Jonathan asked.

The fox beamed him a smile. "Mind takin' the pie out? I got my fingers full here." He lifted a lid off of one of the simmering pots, unleashing a savory smell into the air. Then he stirred the contents with a wooden spoon, freeing more of the fragrance.

Jonathan's stomach growled. He asked tentatively as he slid on the olive-hued oven mitts, "How long do you think it'll be?"

"Oh, uh," the long-haired coonfox murmured as he checked another pot, "ten minutes, ma-a-aybe fifteen."

The pie Jonathan pulled from the convection oven was beautiful. Its crust was golden-brown and the top was a lattice, underneath which caramelized apple filling bubbled molten. The mink's stomach rumbled again as he set the dessert down on the counter atop a pad.

"Did you make this yourself?" Jonathan asked, incredulous. "It looks amazing."

"Aw, yup," Desmond chuckled. "It ain't nothin' too special, same kinda stuff I make at the restaurant all day. You'd be surprised the kinda money folks'll pay for home-cooked grub like this."

Jonathan leaned against the counter and watched Desmond work. A wry smile crossed his lips. "You're a chef?"

"Sure am," Desmond said, and smiled. "Papa wanted me to get into movies with him, but me, I always took after mama in the kitchen - may she rest in peace."

"I'm sorry," the mink said softly.

"S'all right," the fox said brightly. "It was peaceful." He turned down one of the burners and sidled up to Jonathan. Smiling, tail swishing, he laid a black paw on the mink's chest. "Yer awful tall. I like that."

A blush reached Jonathan's cheeks. Some of it was the wine. The rest was Desmond. His paws curled around the boy's hips. "I have to admit something. I was... concerned about doing this."

Desmond's smile lost some of its brightness, like a bulb going out behind a sign. Still bright, still charming, but noticeably less so. "Why's that?"

Jonathan decided opening up to the foxcoon as if in therapy might be ungainly. He squeezed the boy's hips. Leaned down, kissed him gently. The kiss was taken and returned, just as Jonathan expected it to be. "Just casting couch nonsense," he said brusquely. "I, ah, suppose I read your father the wrong way."

"Suppose ya did," Desmond chuckled. He nuzzled with the mink, then pulled away and went back to his simmering pots and pans. Stirring this, adding a pinch of seasoning to that. "Papa knows I got a thing for men. Guess he's real good at pickin' the queers out, too, seein' how ya just smooched on me."

The mink smiled bashfully. "So... I don't have to sleep with you. I've got the part."

"Yup," Desmond affirmed. "Ya don't have to sleep with me."

Jonathan sidled up to Desmond now. Mindful of the foxcoon's delicate work around boiling liquids, he caressed the boy's chest through the button-down shirt he wore. He nuzzled Desmond's pert ears and kissed one down inside its cup. "I want to," he whispered.

The fox shivered. He pressed back into Jonathan and whispered, "Good, good." The timer on the stove chimed. "Excuse me."

Jonathan pulled back, smiling. He was stiff under his slacks. The boy was so perfect and fine, a beautiful southern belle if he'd ever seen one before. And he had, but only actors. It was amusing to him how different the real accent was compared to the overwrought performances his co-stars drummed up.

"Mind settin' the table?"

Jonathan didn't mind at all.

The dinner was wonderful. The pie in particular was delicious.

The mink sat back in his chair and palmed his belly. He felt chubby after such a meal. Bloated was a better word he supposed.

"You're an incredible cook, Desmond," the mink said. "I can't believe how long it's been since I had such a good meal."

The foxcoon smiled. He stood up with a bit of effort. He had put away as much as Jonathan almost bite for bite. "Quickest way to a man's heart is through his belly," the fox remarked. He started to clean up after the meal. Jonathan was compelled to help him. "Sure worked fer mama. You saw how chubby my papa is."

Before long Jonathan was helping Desmond wash dishes, both of them at the sink with pushed-up sleeves. They talked about nothing in particular but Jonathan so enjoyed the small talk. Desmond was sweet and intelligent. He seemed to know the inner workings of the film industry as much as his own field. He even admitted to having watched a few episodes of that silly old soap opera Jonathan starred in.

Then the dishes were clean and drying out. Jonathan's paws were still wet when he grabbed for Desmond. He kissed the foxcoon hard and wet. Tongues slid together like cuddling snakes, writhing into wild pretzel twists. He fondled Desmond, molested the boy, moaned to him and got moans in return.

The kiss broke loose and Desmond was panting, whimpering with lust, cheeks hot as embers. He fondled Jonathan's erection and did not remark on its average size. He seemed to only want to touch the handsome mink.

"I gotta-, gotta tell you somethin' before we get too heated up," the fox whispered.

"Already too heated up," Jonathan said quietly. But his mind began to reel. It went to dark and fatal places. Was Desmond HIV positive? He suddenly felt afraid to touch and the kiss the foxcoon, and for that he suffered a horrible pang of self-loathing for his selfishness. "What is it?" he asked gently.

"I ain't, uh, pozzed or nothing - if that's what you were thinkin," the foxcoon murmured, his smile small and embarrassed. "Shoulda clarified it ain't nothin' like that."

"No, I wasn't thinking that," Jonathan boldly lied. And don't I lie and pretend for a living?

The foxcoon nuzzled him, kissed him shallowly. "Jonathan, I been havin' a real good night. Yer handsome an' sweet. I wanna make love to ya."

"But?"

Desmond looked away. Like a naughty child, however, he was grinning. Jonathan guessed it was nerves. "I ain't exactly no boy, and I ain't exactly no girl, either. If lady parts ain't your thing, well, at least ya got a nice dinner out of me. But-."

"I want to see," Jonathan whispered, and he felt relief. He felt more relief than Desmond. He didn't want to stop and abandon this sweet creature.

The fox nodded. He kissed Jonathan then walked out of the kitchen. "C'mon. Come on, the bedroom. Wanna do this properly."

The bedroom was spacious and well-decorated, the bed king-sized and dressed in a sensible tartan pattern. Jonathan undressed for Desmond and he stood naked, erection pointed at the fox, uncircumcised penis waiting eagerly for whatever the boy had in store.

"Now you," the mink said gently, smiling. "I'm not going to leave."

Desmond touched Jonathan's penis, strummed it. He took off his shirt first, unveiling a perfect, smooth body. His nipples were pink and stiff, poking cutely through white fur.

Then the big reveal came. He slid down his jeans and bore panties which were muted red in shade, not terribly frilly, yet still fetching on his body. And then those came down too, and Jonathan saw a canine vulva for the first time outside of pornography.

"This is my dirty secret," said Desmond with no small amount of shame. He smiled up at Jonathan tightly, ears splayed, looking so very young. Waiting for judgment.

The mink gently cupped Desmond's chin. He kissed the boy, and his fingers cupped the fox's mound. Its flesh was soft and remarkably hot. A wetness oozed from between its lips into Jonathan's fingers. "You're beautiful," he cooed to the foxcoon. "Lie back. Let me take care of you. I owe you after that big dinner."

Desmond splayed on the tartan into a tableau of sexual desire. Shapely legs parted, matte black vulva glinting, its spade shape equally alluring as fascinating to the mink.

Jonathan knelt by the bedside as if to pray. His eyes studied Desmond's gaze. Warmth was in the mink's smile and a blush in his cheeks. His eyes closed as he brought his snout to the boy's loins. He parted the lips and found they spread the same as any other labia he'd ever touched. Within was a familiar pinkness and he licked it, prodded into it with his tongue, pushed some of his warm drool in and took out of Desmond's moisture.

It was the smell of Desmond's vagina which was new to Jonathan. The musk was thick and earthy, a rich scent for a refined nose. He smelled not overtly but consequently as he ate. His penis throbbed, its glans just peeking from the puckered portal of his foreskin. Small beads of precum dribbled from it, tapping quietly on the varnished floor.

"Ooh. Jonathan," Desmond cooed. His paws petted the mink's head and felt delicately over his sensible, short hair. "Feels good. Real good, sugar."

The mink's blush deepened. He was grinning now, feeling almost self-conscious. He mouthed Desmond's plump dark spade, his teeth putting shallow notches in its spongy flesh. Desmond whimpered, squirmed. His paws sluiced through Jonathan's hair and upset its carefully laid locks.

Jonathan pulled apart the lips with his fingers. He looked into the humid pink channel of Desmond's vagina and smelled the strangely masculine musk wafting from its depths. "I don't know how to say it without coming off as crude," the mink said sheepishly, "but you have a beautiful pussy."

Desmond tittered. He tugged at Jonathan's ears, pulled him up. The mink relented and climbed smoothly onto the bed. Together they moved back, Desmond wriggling on the tartan, Jonathan padding over him until they both were settled. The mink nuzzled with Desmond and kissed him using lips filthy with musk. His penis brushed the foxcoon's spade.

"Do it," Desmond murmured. He kissed Jonathan's neck. Nibbled him.

The mink moaned softly. He guided his penis into Desmond and entered him. Warmth passed between them, the heat of Jonathan's penis grinding into the humid oven that was Desmond's vagina. Foreskin slid back, baring tender flesh to the deep pink channel past black folds.

Then Jonathan lay against Desmond, buried as far as he could go, the foxcoon's spongy mound crushed pleasantly against his loins. He began to move his hips. Strong, flexible muscles let him move quickly, firmly. Beneath him the beautiful sissy fox whined and cooed, speaking no words, only a primal language the mink understood in the baser parts of his brain.

The kissing returned hot and harsh. Their tongues were not cooperating but fighting, smearing and grinding together as if for dominance. Lapping, curling, twisting. They sucked, Desmond starting it and Jonathan joining in at once. Wet, vulgar noises from kiss and penetration filled the still room where the only other sound was the whir of the furnace elsewhere in the home.

Jonathan caressed Desmond's head, stroked enviously through long blonde locks, wondering what the boy did to keep them so luxuriantly soft. And Desmond stroked Jonathan's back, over tensing muscles and through short but plush fur, marveling at the wiry strength of the handsome mink, at the smoothness of his sex.

Jonathan's cock throbbed and leaked in the heat of Desmond's canine vagina. The outer folds were strange and wonderful but the inner pink was familiar to him, the pleasure easy to come by. It was the budding love he felt for the pretty fox which made the sex more than adequate. He was not fucking Desmond but making love to him. He felt another stab of guilt for ever having doubted the fox. But he thought he was doing right by him now.

The kiss broke away messily, like loose land coming apart in a downpour. Desmond swabbed his tongue across the mink's short snout, over his nostrils. He mouthed Jonathan's cheek and gnawed him softly. "Ooh-, oohmygawd," he whimpered, his eyes rolled back to the whites as if he were in the grip of a prophecy. His back arched, muscles aching, vulva throbbing. "Ooh shit, ooh gawd."

And Jonathan couldn't help but smile at this, his teeth showing, the color high and hot in his face. He knew the feeling. The ecstasy and exultation of truly good sex was so hard to come by. The healing which good sex could perform after bad, evil sex. He nuzzled with Desmond. He blurted to the fox in a high and eager voice, "I needed this, I needed this so badly."

Desmond nodded. He clung to Jonathan desperately, whining for him and with him, the breath catching in his throat. Deep inside was the heat of climax, building up and getting ready to burst. Jonathan's member was more than adequate to Desmond, it was perfect in fact, and the foxcoon grimaced with pleasure. His legs trembled and toes curled and he squirted, yowling as he came, clinging onto Jonathan as if he had just been rescued from a wreckage by the mink.

Jonathan's blush worsened into nearly a burn when the fox came. He always felt that rush of self-consciousness whenever a lady (close enough) came for him - that question of veracity, wondering if his ego was just being stroked. But with Desmond he could tell that it had happened. He could feel the tightening of the vaginal muscles, he could see from years of watching bad actors that the foxcoon was not acting. And in a burst of delicious vulgarity, he realized he could smell it, the earthy musky reek of the fox's orgasm making him grin and swish his tail with lurid satisfaction.

"Good, good for you," Jonathan whispered, speaking in the dead air between huffs. Still pumping the foxcoon, fucking the boy who writhed and crooned in delirious pleasure turning to afterglow.

"Inside me-e-e," Desmond mewled, pawing all over Jonathan, leaving whorls and lines in his fur. "Please..."

"Yes, yeah," Jonathan agreed, huffing hard and hot over Desmond's neck. Balls getting tight, loins hot and sticky. He kissed Desmond shallowly on the lips then up the cheek, the side of his head, between his eyes and in his hair. He loved the fox then, even if only for the few seconds between that moment and his climax.

"Oh-, ooh yes," Jonathan puffed, and he pushed against Desmond rudely, crushing down the pliant spongy mass of the fox's vulva. He shuddered and he came, his semen gushing deep into the crooning fox. He kissed Desmond deeply, firmly. And his hips moved a few more times, exorcising the last of his sexual demons with those final grinds. He broke the kiss off trembling and feeling like he might cry. But the tears he felt were good ones, tears of joy, not the miserable ones he'd shed after Kahnso, and not the fake ones he soullessly wrung out for the camera.

As they dribbled onto Desmond's neck, the foxcoon asked quietly, "Jonathan? You okay?"

"I'm fine," the mink said, and he nuzzled with Desmond. The tears came heavier and hot. He kissed Desmond. He loved Desmond, even as the climax faded fast into afterglow. "I'm going to be fine."